IX 

 ORCHID-HUNTING 



MY path led down the side of the lonely Barrack, 

 as the coffin-shaped hill had been named. There 

 I had been exploring a little mountain stream, which 

 I had fondly and mistakenly hoped might prove to 

 be a trout-brook. The winding wood-road passed 

 through dim aisles of whispering pine trees. At a 

 steep place, a bent green stem stretched half across 

 the path, and from it swayed a rose-red flower 

 like a hollow sea-shell carved out of jacinth. For 

 the first time I looked down on the moccasin flower 

 or pink lady-slipper (Cypripedium acaule), the lar- 

 gest of our native orchids. 



For a long time I hung over the flower. Its dis- 

 covery was a great moment, one of those that stand 

 out among the thirty-six-odd million of minutes that 

 go to make up a long life. For the first time my eyes 

 were opened to see what a lovely thing a flower could 

 be. In the half-light I knelt on the soft pine-needles 

 and studied long the hollow purple-pink shell, 

 veined with crimson, set between two other tapering 

 petals of greenish-purple, while a sepal of the same 

 color curved overhead. The whole flower swayed 

 between two large curved, grooved leaves. 



Leaving the path, I began to hunt for others under 

 the great trees, and at last came upon a whole 



