But now everything that craves or loves the rain is coming on. I should not be so proud of my potato-vine; I did not plant it, but somebody probably, who looked down from here and saw the flame of the mutiny light up the land. He has my thanks; he has left for himself a steadfast memorial. So eager is it to do him credit that every hot weather shower a twig will clothe itself in white; and now, when the time is fully come it trembles everywhere over the paling against the sky and heaps up its blossoms among its glossy leaves like snow. That is not idle simile; it takes blue shadows and fills up chinks, it is exactly like snow. The verandah is odorous with lilies, from the tall curling Japanese kind, as opulent as a lily can be to the simple and delicate day lilies that love this world so little. All the lilies live in the verandah except the strenuous peppered orange kind which Tiglath-Pileser declares is not the tiger-lily and which bears itself most gallantly under the rain, standing like a street lamp in the darkest corners, and those strange crimson and yellow Tigridæ (I am sorry I do not know their Christian name) that roll up so unexpectedly with us in the middle of the morning. I must say I like a flower that you can depend upon. Mr. Johnson speaks contemptuously of the Tigridæ, so I suppose they are common enough, but to me they were new and very remarkable, and when they began to come out I asked Thalia to lunch to see them. When she arrived, at two o’clock, every one of them had gone into the likeness of a duck’s head, with a satirical red and yellow eye that almost winked at us. I was prepared to ask Thalia to admire the Tigridæ, but such conduct puts one off. I am still willing to concede that it is wonderful; but you do not want a flower to astonish you; its functions are quite different. I have taken occasion to point out this to Thisbe, when she complains that she is not original.