10 SUMMER IN A BOG. 



<( (1 



'Ribbon!' " be muttered, balf aloud, as be 

 drove away. He may have tbougbt I bad dis- 

 covered a possible bargain counter in tbe mazes 

 of tbe weeds. 



I may as well confess tbat be bas very little 

 sympathy for these excursions into woods and 

 swamps. He bas visions of snakes and otber 

 possible terrors wbicb, I am glad to say, rarely 

 enter my mind. His care and forethought are 

 appreciated, but sometimes disregarded. 



Crawling through a wide space in tbe barred 

 fence, I found myself in a wilderness of weeds 

 almost as high as myself. Beating these to 

 right and left, an open spot was soon attained 

 where the decorations of tbe "ribbon" came to 

 view. 



How the spirits rise at sight of new acqui- 

 sitions for a botanical collection ! The crimson 

 swamp milk-weed is an old acquaintance, 

 worthy to adorn a garden. It marks the line 

 of moisture oozing from a hidden spring. 



The hot August sun was half-way down the 

 Western sky and the light was excellent for 

 revealing the smaller undergrowth, which, in 

 subsequent morning visits, I found it bard to 

 discover. However, this is a favorite trick of 

 Nature, tbe apparent caprice of inexorable 

 laws. The moment was favorable. 



The soil was black and, on tbe upper slopes. 



