1 1 8 Next to the Ground 



so did Indian turnip, which the black people 

 call " devil-in-a-pulpit." Patsy bore a con- 

 science toward most wild flowers — she did 

 not care to pick them only to see them wither 

 in her hand, but the Indian pipe tempted her. 

 She did not break the uncanny wax-white 

 things, but lifted them bodily with a ball of 

 earth underneath, took them home, and set 

 them in a platter, with moss all around, and 

 yellow leaves and gay red berries flecking the 

 green of it. She chose the Indian turnip's 

 glowing cones oftener than any other. They 

 were not the prettiest, she said — indeed, the 

 big huddled lump of them was sometimes 

 awkward, but they held color so well, glowing 

 for weeks as they lay on the ground after the 

 stalk had faded. More than that, nothing ever 

 fed on them. Patsy did not taste them — she 

 had promised her mother never to taste any 

 of the wild things she picked — but she fancied 

 the berries might be as pungent and peppery 

 as the root, which blisters the mouth and 

 puckers it in spite of all you can do. 



Sometimes with delicate caution she shook 

 off the earth and tried to see roots to the Indian 

 pipe. If there were roots they were invisible 

 or else suckers at the base of the stems. Patsy 

 made up her mind that the plant was an un- 

 derground parasite, feeding upon oak roots, as 

 mistletoe feeds upon the branches. This was 



