324 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
row opening of which is surmounted by an ample green 
auricle threaded with scarlet veins, to which this species 
owes its name. These cups are filled with pure and de¬ 
licious water for the benefit of the traveller, and for 
which he is all the more grateful as he is encircled by 
morasses, the water of which is lukewarm and nau¬ 
seous. 
The vegetable marvel in transpiration is the Weeping 
Tree of the Canary Islands, whose tufted foliage distils 
water like rain. But the Bain Tree with which botan¬ 
ists are most familiar is the Tamia-Caspi of the eastern 
Peruvian ,4ndes. Professor Ernst, the director of the 
Botanic Gardens at Caraccas, states : “ In the month of 
April the young leaves are still delicate and transpar¬ 
ent ; during the whole day a fine spray of rain is to be 
noticed under the tree, even in the driest air, so that 
the strongly tinted iron clay soil is distinctly moist. The 
phenomenon diminishes with the growth of the leaves, 
and ceases when they are fully grown.” He attributes 
the rain to secretions from glands on the footstalk of 
the leaf on which drops of liquid are fouud which are 
rapidly renewed on being removed with blotting paper. 
The gigantic gum trees, Eucalyptus globulus, so valu¬ 
able to destroy malaria, emit camphoraceous antiseptic 
vapors from their leaves that counteract the poisons of 
the atmosphere.— Exchange. 
IN A SWAMP. 
‘•-Come from the dim woods, come from the sea, 
Come to the meadows and laugh with me ; 
Great hoary trees are gloomy things. 
And dismally ever old Neptune sings ; 
Come to the meadows bright, 
Where, in the sunny light, 
Over the blades of grass 
Soft-winged zephyrs pass ; 
Come with me there. 
Come from the uplands high, 
Where the rich cornfields lie 
Golden and rare. 
Come from the shady woods, 
Come from the roaring floods, 
Come where the meadows lie fragrant and fair.” 
So we will begin our rambles in a swamp. It might 
be fairy land instead, or a bit from an Arcadian land¬ 
scape, with all sorts of memories and pleasant associa¬ 
tions, sweet and enchanting as one’s recollections of the 
Arabian Nights. In its shady places and by its lazy, 
tranquil waters might have sported some Dolphin of 
the olden time, and here Tityrus, stretched at ease un¬ 
der the beechen boughs, might have “taught the woods 
to re-echo beautiful Amaryllis.” 
How the old dwellers on the earth loved the soil! 
Greek, Roman, Hebrew and Egyptian, Celt and Teuton. 
All had that natural, true instinct for our dear old 
Mother Earth, for the trees, the wild flowers and the 
birds, for the sunshine and the rain, and even for the 
country smells, that, like the ambrosia of the gods, 
permeates every nook and corner in the long harvest 
time. We, their descendants in more senses than one, 
have the same great love for out-of-doors, and those of 
us who were so fortunate as to have grown up in the 
country, how we like to go back to our childhood’s 
haunts where we wandered knee deep in the grassy 
fells, followed the cows from pasture up the shaded 
lanes, or picked berries in the meadows while the sun¬ 
shine glistened in the morning dew ! 
The swamp that I remember was a part of the “ old 
pasture ” that stretched out east and south of the big 
barn and the red farm-house on the hillside. It was a 
broad area of land extending, in a rambling sort of way^ 
back of the fields till it met the tracts of other proprie¬ 
tors. Some few acres were timber land, where grandfather 
procured his supply of winter fuel, and there were open 
spaces of level sward, furnishing juicy pasturage for 
the three cows, Brindle, Los and Fawn, and their young 
calves and yearlings that, nightly through the long 
summer months, were driven up the winding lane to 
the old barnyard. But there was a wide extent of moist, 
sedge land, bisected by a sluggish little stream, and 
dotted by several small bogs in which Flags and Bul¬ 
rushes flourished, and yellow Water Lilies grew, and 
lizards and frogs made their home in the deep, dark 
water. For trees there were clumps and clumps of 
Hemlocks and Spruces ; Willows and Birches grew by 
the winding brook, and there were solitary Oaks and 
Maples, huge and branchy enough to shelter another 
“ Royal Charlie,” or toss its boughs over a Saxon Wit- 
enagemot. 
The trees, the long reaches of bog and peaty hillock, 
were not all, however, that made the swamp of my 
childish recollections. It was full of all wonderful and 
hidden things that grew rank and wild there, a perfect 
Oriental bazaar of curious riches that were an unceasing 
wonder and delight to me. It had knolls fragrant with 
Sweet Fern ; its surface was broken by boulders, bossed 
with gray-green lichens. There was sphagnum moss so 
rank that one sank into it ankle deep. In one part of 
the swamp was a patch of checkerberry vines, and on 
the sunny hillside beyond ripened the earliest and 
largest strawberries. Near the strawberries was an old 
ruined cellar, where once had been the home of an early 
settler, and a row of Apple trees stood by the filled up 
well. 
The swamp was secluded, but to us never lonesome. 
We knew its inmost recesses as familiarly as our own 
dooryard. We haunted it at all times and seasons, 
morning and noon and night, hunting birds’ nests there 
in summer, and following the wood path amid the win¬ 
ter snows behind the yoke of patient, plodding oxen 
that we had broken when they were wild, rollicking 
calves. It was dear to us as it was to the solitude-seek¬ 
ing thrushes whose notes of melody used to float through 
its open patches and shady glens at close of day. How 
many summer afternoons we spent on the rude log 
bridge that spanned the dreamy brook 1 What crisp, 
bonny October mornings we hunted for Beechnuts 
among the falling leaves and frost flowers ! How many 
spring twilights we passed picking the red checkberries 
from their green nests, or playing Indians among the 
Hemlocks and Spruces that lined the path. 
All sorts of large-leaved, juicy plants grew on the 
edges of this great pasture field. The banks of the 
brook and all the low, marshy spots were lined with 
Marsh Marigolds, with their splendid golden blossoms, 
every cup a chalice fit for a woodland nymph to drink 
