CAPE FLOWERS AT HOME 
45 
the Cape leadwort, the Plumbago capensis, she calls the “ delicate 
creeper of our green-houses.” What it may be in its degenerate 
captivity I do not know. With us it is a sturdy hedge, or a 
large, bold and independent shrub. It is true it has a habit of 
boisterously swarming up a convenient background, but even 
then it would scorn the word “delicate,” and would indignantly 
deny that it creeps. We love the plant here as a hedge because 
of the cheerful way in which it defies the red dust of our south- 
easters. Towards the end of summer, all the strangers, like 
oaks, pines and hakeas, are disreputably smirched with a thick 
coating which any odd shower of rain turns into streaks of mud. 
The plumbago alone smiles with its glossy leaves and clusters 
of blue flowers, as if it and the south-easter were old friends. 
Amongst the characteristic plants of the Cape, many have 
fleshy leaves or stems, and amongst the crassulas, stapelias and 
euphorbias, Mrs. Durrant, not unnaturally but erroneously 
includes cacti. Of course the prickly pear, some species of 
Opuntia , has established itself all over the land and has become 
an ineradicable nuisance, but it does not belong to us any more 
than it does to the shores of the Mediterranean, where also it is 
found in intrusive profusion. There are also many cacti which 
grow with perfect ease in our gardens, but as a matter of fact 
there is only one native cactus in the whole of South Africa, and 
that is a miserable little Aliform arrangement, a degenerate poor- 
relation sort of thing that grows up in Natal, and is not abundant 
even there. This, I suppose, ought to be one of the mysteries 
of botanical science. If no cactus at all had ever been found 
here, we could attribute their absence to the accidental non- 
transmission of seed. But how in a country so eminently 
adapted to cactus life there should be just this one degenerate 
little specimen, belongs to Lord Dundreary’s class of things 
which “ no feller can understand.” 
With regard to the Tvitonia, I should like to put a query to 
Mrs. Durrant’s statement that the name “comes from the Greek 
for weather-cock, as the stamens hang out from the cups in 
most inconstant directions.” It may be ignorance on my part, 
but I do not know any such use of the word in Greek. In any 
case, the derivation seems to me very far-fetched, nor is it even 
in any way special, for so many flowers do the same sort of thing. 
Could we not suppose from the shape and beauty of the flower 
that some poetical and classical botanist thought, when he came 
across it, that he heard “ old Triton blow his wreathed horn ” ? 
Yet another remark, which is neither botanical nor etymo- 
logical. Mrs. Durrant says that for many years “ the native 
tribes and the jealousy of the Dutch Boers prevented the march 
of exploration.” Must we trample on our foes even in the calm 
region of botanical science ? The Dutch-descended folk of South 
Africa have brought with them their traditions and are enthu- 
siastic lovers of flowers. Every farmer’s wife regards as the 
pride and glory of her little domain the fenced-in “ bloem-tuin ” 
