ldren instinctively recognize this, and are apt to omit them when gathering the more delicate native blossoms of the woods.
There is something touching in the gradual retirement before civilization of these fragile aborigines.
They do not wait for the actual brute contact of red bricks and curbstones, but they feel the danger miles away.
The Indians called the low plantain the white man's footstep; and these shy creatures gradually disappear the moment the red man gets beyond hearing.
Bigelow's delightful book Florula Bostoniensis is becoming a series of epitaphs.
Too well we know it,—those of us who in happy Cambridge childhood often gathered, almost within a stone's-throw of Professor Agassiz's new museum, the arethusa and the gentian, the cardinal-flower and the gaudy rhexia,—we who remember the last secret hiding-place of the rhodora in West Cambridge, of the yellow violet and the Viola debilis in Watertown, of the Convallaria trifolia near Fresh Pond, of the Hottonia beyon