A Window in Arcady 
branch ends—often of a red so deep as to make one almost 
think the flame of a new Pentecost has come upon the 
bushes. 
The woods would seem to be taking other notice of 
Whitsuntide, too. There is, for instance, another preacher 
there now besides our familiar friend Jack-in-the-pulpit. 
The newcomer is a strange little orchid which loves to in¬ 
habit the loamy banks and hollows along woodland 
streams. Its flower at a short distance appears for all the 
world like the head of a cowled monk with a long, flow¬ 
ing white beard; or, looked at more closely, the upper 
part of the blossom is seen to be formed like a miniature 
purple hood or sounding board, and the pistil beneath it 
is not unlike the face of one speaking within. So the plant 
has come to be popularly known as the preacher-in-the- 
pulpit. No sight of the spring woods is more charming 
than one’s first glimpse of this little gnome-like flower 
looking shyly up from the mossy ground, with a face so 
nearly human that it seems as though it should have a hu¬ 
man message to deliver. 
Perhaps it would remind us by the shadowing forth of 
humanity in its outlines that the qualities of the rightly 
developed human life have prototypes in the flowers. In 
one, as in the other, there are sweetness and purity and 
simplicity; open-heartedness and a cheery brightness in fair 
weather and foul, shed with equal favor upon all creatures; 
and there is in each an equal dependence upon the divine 
largess for the wherewithal of the daily life. How 
great is the mystery of a flower! Before it the whole 
wisdom of this world stands baffled, impotent to ex- 
[48] 
