24 THE HAMILTON ASSOCIATION. 
ment, it remains constant to type, merely becoming of shorter and 
stouter growth as it approaches the north, a prevalent geographical 
character of plants. It is a root parasite, and not, as has long been 
supposed, a saprophyte. This unique child of the floral race is a 
paradox to the human race. In youth its head is bowed to the 
earth, in age it stands erect. When at perfection, the entire plant 
is colorless, the stalk, leaves and petals are all waxy white. After 
maturity it takes on a pinkish coat, and finally blackens. All pre- 
served specimens of this plarit are black, which is characteristic of 
most, if not all, parasites. (The beech-drops and Hypopitis form an 
exception to this rule; they retain their tawny color, as in life). 
At our recent Horticultural Exhibition, in one of the wild- 
flower collections, was a carefully selected specimen of the Indian 
Pipe, showing the mycelium of the fungus host permeating the root 
ball. It is not known whether it should be classed as an annual or as 
a perennial. Their is evidence to support both characters. Here 
is a convenient field for research, worthy the attention and study of 
some of our younger botanists. 
As the season advances, still another view of the ever shifting 
panorama of nature is presented to the spectator. Summer, with 
her magnificent train, is past ; the first month of Autumn has woven 
her threads of color in the many-hued garment of nature, dropped 
her empty shuttle and fled. Now blushing October, garlanded with 
a wealth of fruits and flowers, sweeps with queenly grace across the 
land. Her brow is decked with asters, purple, and rose and white ; 
her arms are filled with sheaves of golden rods; her robe is pieced 
of painted forest leaves ; her girdle is of trailing vines dyed crimson 
in the life blood of the year; her face is veiled with purple haze ; 
her feet are sandalled with glistening frosts: for the flowers her 
song is the dirge of death, and when, with outstretched arms, she 
rises to take her farewell, we write the “ finis” to this floral biography 
and close the volumes as her lessening pinions rise and fall in the 
distance. 
““ And yet, there is not lost 
One of Earth’s charms: upon her brow, 
After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall lie.” 
