Nowhere sweeter walk or rarer Than my path beside the stream. There I love to stroll in autumn, There to loiter and to dream. —Frank Farrington. [Illustration: EGG PLANT FRUIT. (Solanum esculentum).] EGG PLANT. (_Solanum esculentum_ L.) The Egg-plant, also known as bringal, aubergine, egg-apple and mad-apple, is an herbaceous plant belonging to the Nightshade family (Solananæ), therefore kin to the potato and tomato. It is a tender annual, readily killed by the early frosts. It has rather large, simple, somewhat incised leaves. The fruits are large, egg-shaped, tomato-like in structure, hence berries. It is quite extensively cultivated in gardens. The seeds are sown in hot beds early in April but transplanting is not done until about the first of June, when all danger of frost is past. The soil should be very rich and the plants set about three feet apart. Like most transplanted plants they require shading and watering for a few days. Careful cultivation is required during the entire season. Propping may be necessary to keep the large, heavy fruits from the ground. The Colorado beetle is a very annoying enemy of the growing plants and must be effectually fought to insure a crop. There are several varieties of Egg-plant. The purple variety is by long odds the greatest favorite. There are also white and yellow varieties. Most people consider the properly prepared fruit of the Egg-plant a delicacy. In some tropical countries it forms an important article of diet. The ripe fruit is prepared for the table by peeling and boiling. After boiling the fruit is sliced, seasoned and fried until well browned, in rolled crackers or bread crusts and a liberal supply of butter. When well prepared it is a very palatable article of diet but when insufficiently cooked or fried it is indigestible. It does not seem to be prepared in other ways nor does it seem to have any noteworthy medicinal properties. Albert Schneider. There comes, from yonder height, A soft repining sound, Where forest leaves are bright, And fall, like flakes of light, To the ground. It is the autumn breeze, That, lightly floating on, Just skims the weedy leas, Just stirs the glowing trees, And is gone. —William Cullen Bryant, “The Voice of Autumn.” A MYSTERY. I saw the wheat in billows roll, A verdant ocean, stirred with joy, It set a-throbbing in my soul The madcap freedom of a boy:— The blue sky bended far above, A stagnant sea from pole to pole, Clouds, like aerial ice-bergs, drove On that still ocean, without shoal:—