A TROPIC GARDEN 239 



If we had unearthed a new codex of some ancient 

 ritual. 



And so, initiated by such precedent, I have 

 found it a worthy thing to spend hours in de- 

 crepit cabs loitering along side roads in the Bot- 

 anical Gardens, watching herons and crocodiles, 

 lilies and manatees, from the rusty leather seats. 

 At first the driver looked at me in astonishment 

 as I photographed or watched or wrote; but later 

 he attended to his horse, whispering strange 

 things into its ears, and finally deserted me. My 

 writing was punctuated by graceful flourishes, 

 resulting from an occasional lurch of the vehicle 

 as the horse stepped from one to another patch 

 of luscious grass. 



Like Fujiyama, the Victoria Regia changes 

 from hour to hour, color-shifted, wind-swung* 

 and the mechanism of the blossoms never ceas- 

 ing. In northern greenhouses it is nursed by 

 skilled gardeners, kept in indifferent vitality by 

 artificial heat and ventilation, with gaged light 

 and selected water; here it was a rank growth, in 

 its natural home, and here we knew of its an- 

 tiquity from birds whose toes had been molded 

 through scores of centuries to tread its great 

 leaves. 



