“There! that’s about as big a dose as even your friendship can stand, and so I’ll come around to my autograph and give you a rest--No--not yet either! I wonder if you can’t do me a little favor, just for the sake of old times and in spite of my sins. In addition to all my other work I have been for years preparing a botany on a new plan, and nearly all the bloomin’ things that grow in these parts have been victimized in my enthusiasm. “There is one plant, perhaps two, which I remember to have seen and gathered on the sand at Lovell’s pond, but which I never identified, which perhaps you could now help me to secure. A little low thing with a few yellow (or pink) blossoms growing on its extremity, and which I saw in profusion the last time I visited the spot with you. I am afraid that the season is too late, or will be when I could receive them from you, but if you can, after about twelve days, or rather about the date of the third of September gather the plants for me, enclose them in a tin spice box, no water, and mail them to me here at Washington, Conn., you will earn my thanks anew. Plants enclosed in tin boxes, with air-tight covers, will keep fresh for days--indeed for many days longer than the same plant would keep in a vase of water. “And now, my dear friend, au revoir! I sincerely wish that we might meet again if only to clasp hands and exchange greeting, but until another year at least it seems improbable. To-morrow I leave to visit friends in the Adirondacks for two weeks returning here to keep my nose to the grindstone until November when I return to Brooklyn, “Good bye, regards to all. W. H. G.” In season for the holidays in 1890 “Strolls by Starlight and Sunshine” was ready; and Gibson had another surprise for the nature-lovers in the chapters on “A Midnight Ramble,” and “Night Witchery.” All he had done was to take his lantern and wander among the grasses and the wild-flowers as they slept, and to tell the story of what he saw and heard. But when he had done with them, his readers all felt, at second-hand, indeed, but keenly enough, as he himself had done, “We have explored a new world--a realm which we can look in the face on the morrow, with an exchange of recognition impossible yesterday.” Edmund Clarence Stedman, suggesting possible choice of material for the “Library of American Literature,” said of this article,” I scarcely believe that you or any one has of late written anything more novel or more poetic than your espionage in the camp of the flowers at midnight.”