ON THE TRAIL OF THE FUSARIUM SPORE 



npHE great red sun was slowly sinking into the 

 golden sea of a waving field of wheat, that 

 stretched to the west as far as the eye could reach. 

 The lazy wind of that gorgeous June evening was rip- 

 pling the surface of the great field of grain, as a beau- 

 tiful lake shimmers in the sunlight when caressed by 

 the mountain breezes, as they play hide and seek 

 amid the rushes and reeds which border its mirror- 

 like surface, hidden away in a forest wilderness. The 

 vivid green of the growing wheat was slowly and 

 gradually changing to a brilliant yellow, which at a 

 distance impressed the imaginative mind as a sea 

 of molten gold. To the casual observer it was a 

 perfect product — a satisfactory consummation of 

 intelligent seed selection, soil management, soil fer- 

 tilization, and scientific farming. The big farm had 

 had many such prospects in the years gone by, and 

 invariably something seemed to happen just at this 

 stage of the crop which injured the grain in various 

 ways, causing disappointment to the farmer, who 

 had made a supreme effort for a great production. 



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