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. 
