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178 STARLIGHT AND SUNSHINE. 
“corpse plant” of the dark woods a degenerate penitent which, 
for some unpardonable lapse from grace in the past, has immo- 
lated itself to the sombre life of an anchorite. I half suspect 
that the “ ghost-flower” might even yet be reclaimed; that a few 
successive generations reared against their will, in the light of 
day, might once more restore the ruddy pulse, and revive the 
bloom and crimson flush of health. I sought the open woods in 
which my crimson pipe was found, but it had evidently bloomed 
alone amid hundreds of its pallid kindred. 
As with the lapsing flowers, so with the verdure. I think I 
could go this day to a small hickory-tree one-half of the foliage 
of which is creamy white. I innocently brought a specimen of it 
once to a noted botanist, and he half proposed to confer upon me 
the questionable distinction of propagating it under the title of 
“Variety Gibsoni!” I will venture the guess that the squirrel 
wastes little time on its shell-barks. There is a parallel case of a 
certain bramble (Rudus Canadensis), a “sport” whose shady haunt 
I well know. I always see him hanging around the same corner. 
The leaves of the plant are cut into a deep-toothed fringe almost 
to the midrib—a charm which the eye of the typical gardener 
would covet as an instance of where Nature had taken a hand 
in self-improvement, and outdone herself; but, of course, as might 
have been expected, the degeneracy is further proved by the few 
though showy double flowers, that as yet have yielded no fruit 
that I could discern. I fancy the poor thing is rather pitied than 
otherwise by the companions in its neighborhood. 
Look well to your wild flower, O poet or botanist, ere you 
claim to know it. How has that little fringed polygala laughed 
in its purple sleeve as you described its beauties to your friend! 
Most wild-flower hunters are familiar with this lovely blossom, 
with its close cluster of leaves suggesting those of the checker- 
berry, and its singular orchid-like purple-winged flower inevitably 
suggesting a tiny butterfly with a long fringed tail. It is always 
a prize, but the real nugget is below. A search down there among 
the moss at its root discloses a singular secret not generally given 
away in the nosegay. For this vain purple banneret signals the 
