THE ORCHIDS OF NEW ENGLAND, 31 
One true-born blossom, native to our skies, 
We dare not claim as kin, 
Nor frankly seek, for all that in it lies, 
The Indian’s Moccasin. 
Graceful and tall the slender drooping stem, 
With two broad leaves below, 
Shapely the flower so lightly poised between, 
And warm her rosy glow. 
Yet loneliest rock-strewn haunts are all her bent, 
She heeds no soft appeal, 
And they alone who dare a rude ascent 
Her equal charm may feel. 
We long with her to leave the beaten road, 
The paths that cramp our feet, 
And follow upward thro’ the tangled wood, 
By highways cool and sweet; 
From dewy glade to bold and rugged steep 
Pass fleet as winds and showers, 
With careless joy we thread the woodland ways 
And reach her broad domain. 
Thro’ sense of strength and beauty free as air, 
We feel our savage kin ; 
And thus alone, with conscious meaning, wear 
The Indian’s Moccasin! ” * 
I was once on the point of throwing away some Pink Lady’s 
Slippers I had gathered, they had become so wilted by the sun, 
when it occurred to me to try a means of restoration that had 
been successful in the case of other flowers, and, selecting the 
most discouraged one of the bunch, I put it in a glass of almost 
boiling water. The pouch was a shapeless mass, and part of 
the scape shrivelled and black, but in the course of an hour 
I returned to behold the scape stiff and green and the pouch 
swelled out to its original size. 
The Downy, or Yellow Lady’s Slipper, C. pubescens, which 
has a pretty local name, “ Whip-poor-Will Shoe,” and comes 
en 
* In Berkshire with the Wild Flowers 
