The Sleeping of the Fields 371 
mer is ended, have attained full growth, blossomed, 
and set and ripened their seed. They are fading, 
not because frost has nipped them, but because old 
age has come upon them and their life-work is 
done. Dying, they bequeath their goods to their 
descendants and natural heirs. The materials 
drawn out of their leaves go into the ripening seeds, 
to be used, next spring, in the nurture of the seed- 
lings. These annuals, after their seeds are ripe, 
are little else than an empty network of dry dead 
cells. The sweet alyssum and mignonette are meta- 
morphosed into what he who clears up the garden 
calls ‘‘ straw,’’ their juices having gone to fill out 
the seeds, which are now ripe and ready, in innum- 
erable little pockets, green or brown. 
In scientific botany the little pockets of the fruit, 
which hold the ripened seed, are known as “ lo- 
culi.’’ If we cut an apple across we will see five 
of these loculi arranged in the form of a star. 
They have transparent, horny, brownish walls and 
in each is a seed or two. 
Another use of the term loculi is familiar to the 
classicist and to the antiquarian. In the catacombs 
of Rome there are wall-spaces all honeycombed 
with niches designed to hold the bodies of the 
dead, or the urns containing their ashes. And each 
of these is called a ‘‘ loculus.”’ 
