Ci 





F I have been asked 



once I have been 



asked fifty times to explain 



the secret of that frothy, 



bubbly mass which clings 



to the stems of grasses 



and weeds in the sum- 

 mer meadows. Surely 

 no one of our readers 

 who has spent a June 

 or July in the country 

 can have failed to ob- 

 serve it. Even as I 

 write, having just returned to my studio 

 by a short cut across a meadow near by, 

 my nether garments plainly show that I 

 must have come in contact with five hun- 



