“‘Yes, they grows dishrags on ’em,’ he answered. Then, pulling off one of the funny gourds, he cut it in two and showed me the matted fibers inside. It seems when these halves are dried in the sun, that they become something like a tough sponge. “He seemed very proud of the fact that his wife had used one for a whole year, and asked, in a tone half of pity and half of disgust, ‘Does you all hab ter use er rag?’ He was pitying me just as I was sorry for him! It was too funny to see him hobble off, shaking his head and laughing at a white woman who ‘neber knowed nothin’ ’bout dishrag vines!’” “Will you bring me one next winter, aunt?” Margie asked. “Do you want to wash my dishes with it?” “N-no. I’d rather hem cloths, I b’lieve: but I’d like to try it on my doll dishes.” Lee McCrae. A SNOW-FLAKE. Once he sang of summer, Nothing but the summer; Now he sings of winter, Of winter bleak and drear: Just because there’s fallen A snow-flake on his forehead, He must go and fancy ’Tis winter all the year! —Thomas Bailey Aldrich. NEIGHBORING WITH NATURE. We were at breakfast one morning, when a loitering breeze from the woods filled the room with delicious aroma. The graceful spring flowers and the wild fruit trees were just beginning a life of promise. “There’s sweet smelling fern in that,” exclaimed Charley, sniffing critically. “I think it’s from the crab-apple trees by the chalybeate spring,” said grandma. “No, it’s the chicksaw plums by the creek,” cried Margaret. “It ’mells ’ike ’bacco moss to me,” murmured Pearl, touching the tip of her nose with her dainty forefinger. “I know what it is,” asserted Grace; “it’s the wild cherry tree; it’s full of blossoms.” “There’s Ginseng in it somewhere,” laughingly commented papa. “Ginseng?” cried the children. “What’s that?” “The name of a plant in the wood. The word is supposed to be of Chinese origin. The Iroquois called the root garentoqucu, literally, legs and thighs separated. The plant belongs to the genus Pauax, and it is a great medicine with the Chinese. We export it in large quantities, but northern Asia grows it as well as we.” “And there is some in our wood?” “Yes, I saw some yesterday near the tobacco-plant bed.” “Can we go for some as soon as we have finished breakfast?” “Yes, and I will go with you. A walk through the wood will be good for us; I feel like I had slept a hundred years and been one of Tennyson’s characters in The Day Dream.” “And I,” said the artist, “will take my pencil and sketching block.” Six plants were found, all having good long roots. “What you have now would cost you a quarter of a dollar if you were buying it,” said papa. “One could live very well then, by gathering Ginseng to sell,” commented practical Charley.