"But is the peach a calyx, too?" asked Davy. "It belongs to the same family." [Illustration: A RASPBERRY IS A CLUSTER OF PISTILS WITHOUT THE CORE. A BLACKBERRY IS THE END OF A FLOWER-STEM WITH A CLUSTER OF PISTILS AROUND IT.] "No, the peach is just the pistil, and it is the same with the plum and apricot and cherry. In the pear and quince it is the calyx, like the apple; in the raspberry each little part is a separate pistil with one seed, as I believe I showed you once, last summer." "How about the strawberries?" asked Prue. "I like those best." "I think I showed you that, too, but perhaps you have forgotten. The strawberry is still different. It is neither a calyx nor a pistil, but just the pulpy top of the stem that the flowers rest upon. It is covered with tiny pistils, though, of one seed each." "That is why strawberry seeds are on the outside," said Davy. "Yes, and the little pistils are called akenes, though you need not try to remember that now." "It is strange," said big Prue, "how many things become fruits." "Yes," said the Chief Gardener. "A fig, for instance, is simply a hollow stalk which grows thick and pulpy, and has a lot of little flowers inside that turn to seed when the fig ripens. A pineapple is a cluster of flower-leaves. A strawberry is the end of a flower-stem. A blackberry is the same, with a little cluster of pulpy pistils on the outside. A raspberry is the little cluster of pistils without the core; so that the blackberry is really the connecting-link between the strawberry and the raspberry. In gooseberries, grapes, cranberries, and huckleberries we eat the entire pistil, seeds and all. In peaches, plums, and cherries we eat only the outer part, and in apples, pears, and quinces we eat only the calyx, unless we eat the core." "Well," interrupted Davy, "I am going to eat a nice big red calyx, now, core and all, and I'm going to eat some hickory-nut and pop-corn pistils, all but the shells and cob, and I feel hungry enough to eat those, too." So then they drew closer around the bright blaze as evening gathered on the little faded garden outside. NOVEMBER NOVEMBER I THERE ARE ANNUALS, BIENNIALS, AND PERENNIALS BUT November was not all brown and dry. The warm days lingered. The lawn kept green, and suddenly about the house there was the most wonderful glory of yellow and rose and white and crimson, for the radiant flower of autumn, the chrysanthemum, was in full bloom. How beautiful the flowers were when the sun was bright, and when it was cloudy they seemed to have kept some of the sunlight and cheer to make the dooryard glad. "I don't remember when you planted the chrysanthemums," said Prue, one bright morning to the Chief Gardener. "No, it was when you were a very little girl--about four years ago." "I remember," said Davy. "I helped you." "Why don't you have to plant them every year?" asked Prue. "Because they are perennials--they live on, year after year."