“Not much of anything--yet. I mentioned the ants. And the weather; I suppose they’ll be pleased to know what sort of weather we had two days before they get my letter! I’ve got almost a page about the weather.” “Gee! I wish I could write like that. I told ’em it was a fine day, but it only took a line. Wish I could string it out like you can! I guess I’ll just say that I’m well, and that it’s time for dinner, so no more at present.” “Time for dinner! Why, it’s only half past nine!” “Oh, you’re too fussy,” answered Tom, drumming on the table with his pen. “Besides, it’s always time for dinner!” “Have you told them about your aunt?” “Great Scott, no! I forgot all about her. Say, you’re a true friend, Nel!” And Tom, after scowling fiercely at the tip of his pen for a moment, took a firmer hold of the camp-stool with his leg and began to write vigorously, so vigorously that Nelson feared he would break his pen. Ten minutes passed, during which Nelson finished his own letter, and Tom, having told of Aunt Louisa’s visit in a scant half-dozen lines, informed his parents somewhat unnecessarily that “the weather continues fine,” and that “I will tell you more in my next,” and signed himself “Your loving son, Thomas Courtenay Ferris.” Then, having hastily sealed and stamped their letters, they dropped them into the mail-box with sighs of relief and hastened out-of-doors. “Let’s go up to the tennis-court and be lazy until time for church,” suggested Tom. So they climbed the hill, found a place where the grass offered comfort and the overhanging branches promised shade, and stretched themselves out. Above them was a wide-spreading oak, behind them a little settlement of young birch carpeted with trailing evergreen and partridge-berries. Bordering the path were blueberry and raspberry bushes and goldenrod, the latter already beginning to glow, although August was but just at hand. Thereabouts grew wild strawberries, if Tom was to be believed, although they had long since ceased fruiting. Rocks outcropped on every side, and tall ferns grew abundantly. It was Tom who presently wiggled forward and plucked from a tiny covert of evergreen and grass three oddly shaped blossoms, pallid and translucent. “What the dickens are these things?” he asked perplexedly. He viewed them suspiciously as though he feared they might poison him. “Indian-pipe,” answered Nelson. “_Monotropa uniflora._ Let’s see one.” “Are they poisonous?” “No, indeed, but they do look a bit unhealthy, don’t they? Corpse-plant they’re called, too.” “They sure do; look like mushrooms gone wrong. Indian-pipe, eh? Gee, I guess nobody but an Indian would want to smoke such a thing! Say, they smell nice, don’t they?” “Nice?” repeated Nelson suspiciously. “Smell pretty bad, I suppose. By jove, they don’t though. Say, they’re real sweet! I never knew that they had any odor before. If it was stronger it would be mighty sweet, wouldn’t it? It’s--it’s what you might call illusive.”