252 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



Reluctantly leaving the beech-tree, about which clus- 

 ter so many pleasant memories, and of which I have 

 heard so many pleasant things told me in former years 

 by graybeards no longer with us, I wandered to a sunny 

 nook where orange-yellow touch-me-not filled the entire 

 space, to the exclusion of every other plant. A walk 

 through the little thicket was quite amusing. On every 

 side the petty musketry of their exploding seed -pods 

 filled the air. The little seeds fairly stung when they 

 struck me in the face. I remained for several minutes 

 in the midst of these plants, to determine how far the 

 countless bees and butterflies provoked the seed-vessels 

 to burst. They would seem to be too gentle in their 

 movements generally. One burly humblebee did indeed 

 appear to receive a broadside on his " ribs," as he turned 

 over in mid-air, buzzed a loud guffaw at the fun, and sped 

 off to more hospitable quarters. 



As the day drew to a close, I again sought my boat 

 upon the sandy beach, and met, while journeying thither, 

 an employe of the United States Geological Survey. 

 He had been mapping Crosswicks Creek, and kindly 

 gave me some interesting information. The corner- 

 stone at the blacksmith's shop is ninety-nine feet eleven 

 and one -half inches above high -water mark at Sandy 

 Hook. My neighbor's big brick house stands ninety- 

 seven feet six inches above the same level, but where 

 my house stands there is only seventy-seven feet eleva- 

 tion of which to boast. (I had always been told before 

 that it was eighty feet.) 



Perhaps I ought to feel unhappy because the black- 



