68 SUMMER IN A BOG. 



Once upon a time I found a dear little three- 

 year-old child playing beside a bank of tall, 

 luxuriant ferns. "I 's calling on Lady Moss- 

 Green, ' ' she explained. When I had taken my- 

 self off, she proceeded with her prattling con- 

 fidences intended only for the lady of the green- 

 wood. 



Even so in the childhood of the race we 

 peopled the trees with Dryads and Hama- 

 dryads. 



"Still 

 Doth the old instinct bring back the old names." 



Have you ever met Lady Moss-Green? A 

 most charming hostess, ever ready to extend 

 a welcoming hand and the entire hospitality of 

 her establishment. No excuses are made on 

 your arrival for possible unreadiness, as no 

 such condition ever exists within her borders. 

 Winter, summer, autumn, spring, it is all the 

 same ; for even when her summer fripperies are 

 laid aside you are absorbed in admiration of 

 the austere beauty of her furnishings. The 

 winter trees are fascinating. 



Last June it was that I met Geranium macu- 

 latum in her parlor, holding her seed vessels 

 aloft in a graceful cluster from the point of a 

 prolonged receptacle. Her five one-seeded pods 

 extended from the tips of their slender, curving 



