28 IN THE FLAT-WOODS. 
never seen in bloom before, although I had 
once admired a Cape Cod “hollow” full of 
the rank tropical leaves. St. Peter’s-wort, 
a low shrub, thrives everywhere in the pine 
barrens, and, without being especially attrac- 
tive, its rather sparse yellow flowers — not 
unlike the St. John’s-wort — do something to 
enliven the general waste. The butterworts 
are beauties, and true children of the spring. 
I picked my first ones, which by chance were 
of the smaller purple species (Pinguicula 
pumila), on my way down from the woods, 
ona moist bank. At that moment a white 
man came up the road. ‘* What do you call 
this ower?” said I. ‘ Valentine’s flower,” 
he answered at once. “Ah,” sard I, ‘ be- 
cause it is in bloom on St. Valentine’s Day, 
I suppose?” “No, sir,” he said. ‘ Do you 
speak Spanish?” I had to shake my head. 
‘“‘ Because I could explain it better in Span- 
ish,” he continued, as if by way of apology ; 
but he went on in perfectly good English: 
“Tf you put one of them under your pillow, 
and think of some one you would like very 
much to see, —some one who has been déad 
a long time, — you will be likely to dream of 
him. It is a very pretty flower,” he added. 
