2. Of an orchid, Gastrodia leucopetala, Col. In another part of the same wood I was much pleased on finding no less than eleven specimens of this (now rare) terrestrial orchid, all growing together within a small semi-enclosed spot of about 2ft. in diameter; and just beyond were two more. This was at the end of January, and of course they were all past flowering, as this curious plant flowers about Christmas; their upright reed-like stems were nearly alike in size, each being about 2½ft. high, and full-flowered. The eleven specimens were growing close to the base of a large living rimu tree (Dacrydium cupressinum), and nearly surrounded by its high and naked roots, projecting like ridges from its trunk, which no doubt had been the means of preserving the roots of these plants, which are tolerably large and fleshy, and are edible both by man (the old Maoris) and pigs. In fact, I have long been of opinion that the main cause of this orchid now being so rarely met with in its forest habitat is owing to its root being eagerly sought after and eaten by the wild pigs. For a full description of this fine species see Transactions N.Z. Institute, vol. xviii., p. 268. I may further remark that those specimens there described were also obtained from another part of this same wood.

While mentioning a species of the order Orchideœ, I may further observe that several of the indigenous epiphytal ones are well represented in the forests here—viz., Dendrobium lessonii, Col.; Earina autumnalis, Hook.; E. mucronata, Lindl.; E. quadrilobata, Col.; E. alba, Col.; also, but more sparingly, that curious and rare one Sarcochilus breviscapa, Col.: all these usually grow high up on the larger timber-trees, in the forks of their main upper branches, which makes it to be so difficult to get good specimens of them; but now that those trees are being felled for timber, specimens of those orchids are more easily obtainable.

These plants certainly add largely to the beauty of our New Zealand forests in their flowering-season, about midsummer, when gracefully pendent producing their numerous flowers at the tips of their long lithe branchlets swinging in the wind. Indeed, the curiously-marked long woody polished ringed stems of the Dendrobium are a pleasant object of contemplation and study, as such are sure to remind the beholder of the regularly-ringed and shining stems of the malacca and other walking-canes.

3. A fungus, Ileodictyon cibarium, Tulasne, var. giganteum, Col. Of this highly-curious fungus I have met with a remarkable fine specimen, which I have (for the present) termed a variety, but which may prove to be another species of that strange and singular genus. It is not only twice or three times the size of the largest I have ever yet seen, but it

has other peculiarities. Unfortunately, the description of I. cibarium in Hooker's “Flora of New Zealand” is very insufficient. This species is pure-white, of an oblong shape, somewhat resembling that of a large inflated bladder of open network, being 14in. long and 9in. wide, possessing twenty-two large pentangular irregular-size meshes, the largest being about 4in. by 2in.; their ribs very wide, 6–8 lines, and much corrugated and pitted, with peculiar triangular holes in the middle of the rib at each outer angle: its volva, originally before bursting about the size of a pigeon's egg, is thickish, gelatinous, and strongly marked internally with white cross-lines corresponding with the more prominent net-like ribs of the pileus when closely compressed within.

But its curious history has yet to be told. It was late in the autumn (May), when I was in a grassy spot on the confines of a small retired wood (whither I had often been in former years), when on seating myself on a dead prostrate tree I noticed two or three common specimens of I. cibarium showing themselves among the low herbage; I collected them. On looking more closely I saw an olive-coloured egg-shaped fungoid substance peering up from the ground underneath a thick branch of the tree on which I was sitting, apparently as if it were pressed down by the branch. I broke the branch off carefully, when the egg-like substance rapidly burst open, and up sprang this fine specimen as if forcibly ejected by a spring, unfolding itself immediately to its full size. Its sudden and unexpected movement startled me; but after admiring this wondrous production of Nature, and its astonishing internal powers,—seeing, too, it was but a weak and flimsy tender substance without nerves,—I brought it carefully away in my handkerchief, and, after washing it with a feather in repeated waters (to remove its copious brownish slime of a most disagreeable odour, which is common to them all, including the closely-allied and handsome genus Aseroe), I dried it, and its volva or case, as a good specimen.

In former years (in the forties), before the introduction of cattle, specimens of I. cibarium were not unfrequently to be met with in open fern-lands, and generally fully expanded, usually from 3in. to 4in. diameter, and nearly globular; but I never before witnessed the bursting of a volva. The apparent strength, or power, shown by this small, soft, and tender fungus reminded me strongly of what we have read as recorded of some of the mushroom-like genus (Agaricus) in their displacing and forcing up the flat stones in city pavements.

As before stated by me in former papers read here, these fungi while in their young, unbroken egg-like condition were formerly eaten by the Maoris; in that state they have none of that offensive ill-odour that pertains only to the fully-expanded

pileus, and which is confined to the thick brownish slime with which it is covered: the difference is just that between a fresh-laid and an addled egg.

4. Gentiana montana, Forst. Another plant which I think should be included in this group as being both very rare and strange in this low wooded district is a species of Gentiana, and, as I believe, G. montana.

The natural home of this pretty little flowering-plant is on the open grassy tops of the neighbouring high Ruahine mountain-range, where it embellishes the small herbage of its sub-alpine locality with its numerous pale and neat flowers, which are large for such a small plant. I have only met with it in one small open spot on Tahoraiti Plain, where several plants of it grew; but I do not think it is to be found anywhere else in all the lower and wooded grounds. My detecting it there very much surprised me; indeed, as it was so long back since I last saw it growing on the mountains (in 1852), at first sight I supposed it to be a new species. Now, seeing that the seeds of the Gentiana are neither minute nor light (feathery), the question arises, How should it be found here on the plains so far away from its natural mountain-home?

5. Another fern, Lomaria elongata, Blume (L. colensoi, Hook.; L. heterophylla, Col.). The same reason which led me to bring forward the preceding plant causes me also to note here this fine and peculiar fern. Its original habitat, where I first detected it (in 1842), was on the banks of a brawling mountain-stream in the deep forests in the interior to the north-west of Lake Waikare, in the celebrated Urewera country, where, on those alluvial flats, it formed large and continuous strange-looking beds, through which it was difficult to force one's way, there being no path or track: this, however, was partly owing to the small driftwood and trees carried thither by heavy floods being concealed among its thickly-growing large fronds, so that one stumbled at every step, often getting ugly and painful knocks on one's shins. And here I may remark that, in travelling in those early times, and always on foot, in those places along the sides of streams in the wooded interior, the plan was to cross and recross the stream continually to the more open bank, there being no track whatever, the only guide for direction of one's course being the stream itself.

Here, however, in this Hawke's Bay bush district, I only know of one small isolated spot on the side of a mountain streamlet where it is found, and it grows there luxuriantly. I have never before met with it save in the interior. A few years ago, however, a settler at Woodville (an old Hawke's Bay resident), in clearing his section of land, found this fern there growing, and, being much surprised on seeing it, from its

(Litobrochia) pendula, Col.,^* and this I also notice because I have detected it in two other localities in this neighbourhood, but, as before (originally), hanging thickly down from shaded cliffy spots, sides of streamlets difficult of access. Some of the plants were very fine, of most luxurious growth, and looking tempting, so healthy and charming.

In three dry spots in particular, far apart from each other, in the deep forests between Dannevirke and the River Manawatu, I have often gazed with delight on thick-growing patches or beds of that extremely neat and graceful tender fern Asplenium flabellifolium, Cav., one of the most elegant of its genus. This wood variety (as I deem it) has much smaller pinnæ than this fern commonly has when growing in open places, and they are more finely and sharply cut, and its narrow linear fronds, being also much longer, give it a still more graceful appearance; its colour, too, is that of a most refreshing light emerald-green. All this, however, may naturally arise from its moist shady home in the forests. It forms compact and healthy beds by overlying itself considerably (stratum super stratum), the long and delicate fronds emitting at their extreme circinnate tips minute rootlets, which adhere to the soil when they touch it, when they again send out fresh stems, and so form new plants. This fern, however, is well known among us, and that deservedly, from its beauty as a living fern - decoration when suspended in a light wire basket, as well as from its being so easy of culture; and therefore I should not care to mention it here were it not that it is rapidly becoming very scarce, and those three spots in the dry and ancient woods were so exceedingly lovely that they have left their natural and truthful images deeply impressed on my mind; so true it is, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.”

Having briefly noticed some of our smaller handsome local and rarer ferns, I will now say a few words respecting the bigger ones—the giants of the fern order—although many of them are generally very commonly distributed throughout the colony, and more particularly in the wooded districts.

Come on then, my hearers! Come with me into a secluded calm and quiet dell, in a deep-shaded forest, far away from the haunts of man! Let us go to a sacred spot well known to me, and still remaining free from the incursions of the ruthless invader, both quadruped and biped! May such concealment long continue!

Here, at the level bottom of this dell, down whose stony sides we have been scrambling, through which a small purling streamlet of clear water winds its tortuous way, stand a

one sure to evoke feelings of an opposite character in the bosom of the beholder, for, if the former were of the “Penseroso” class, these would as surely pertain to the converse or the “Allegro” one.

Here, then, in another umbrageous solitude, is a similar lot or small natural secluded grove of tall tree-ferns, generally of the genus Cyathea; but their stout stems are entirely without that solemn-looking dead grey-brown wrapping, and, instead, they possess a most beautiful and elegant closely-compacted light-green and glossy dress, composed of very small living creeping ferns, pendulous and thickly imbricated like tiles on the roof of a house, often delightfully glistening when visited by a passing ray of sunshine. These small ferns are mostly composed of two species only—Trichomanes venosum, Br., and Hymenophyllum flabellatum, Labill.—and they do dwell together apparently in the most pleasing harmony, as if enjoying life. They often completely enwrap the whole large and tall trunk of the tree-fern from base to apex, all green and flourishing, without showing the smallest spot of intervening open space, evidently the perennial and steady growth of many years. These little ferns are something more than of epiphytal development, pertaining rather to that of quasi-parasitical, for their creeping rhizomes and roots penetrate deeply into or among the outer dead matted stipites and fibres of the tree-ferns on which they flourish.

Perhaps I had better end here respecting the tree-ferns. But then you, my audience, “dwellers at home at ease,” would only know half,—and that of my woodland joys: so it is but fair you should also know a little of my sorrows, otherwise you would remain in happy ignorance of them. These, however, I shall only briefly touch on, owing to the extreme disagreeableness of the theme.

And first of my majestic venerable-looking group. On my return on one occasion to one of those dear old haunts, I found, to my horror, that some Goth or churl had recently been there, and had set fire, separately, to each one of those eight or ten big tree-ferns! just to burn off their thick dry wrappings, the undisturbed growth of many years, and so to make a blaze; and there their blackened and half-charred stems stood, with their once lovely elastic crowns of fronds sadly scorched and stiffened above them—a piteous sight! I could fancy they even reproved me, and I could have wept.

I had long had good reasons for believing that my visits to that unfrequented part of that old forest, so difficult of access, were watched by one or more of the underlings or stockmen of the neighbouring sheep-station, who, I suppose, on his going thither after me, and not discovering what it was that could have induced me so frequently to visit that place (for the old

belief was that in such spots I was fossicking for gold), vented his disappointment in that way—by striking a match or matches and setting fire to those tree-ferns out of mere wantonness. Several such instances had occurred in former years during my sojournings at Norsewood, some of them having been caused by so-called “picnic” parties, and some by teetotallers—judging from the labels on the bottles left behind!

Before, however, that I quit this pre-eminently pleasing and loved subject of our New Zealand ferns, I would call your attention, and especially that of the young-lady portion of my audience, to an interesting, novel, and elegant sight I have several times seen and admired while residing in the bush; this, too, being an artificial and neat method of preserving them. To me, indeed, it was unique, never having before noticed anything of the kind.

A bunch or small bundle (I might almost term it a bouquet-de-plumes) of an assorted few of our larger ferns—viz., Polypodium pennigerum, Lomuria fluviatilis, Asplenium lucidum, Adiantum cunninghamii (the handsome species of maidenhair), Hymenophyllum dilatatum and H. demissum, and Pteris (Litobrochia) pendula (my new fern)—were loosely bound together much after the fashion of a sheaf of wheat, with the tips of the longer specimens gracefully drooping, and placed so as to stand erect on a black stand under a tall cylindrical glass with closed dome-shaped top. These were all perfect, pure-white—dead or frosted white like silver or tissue-paper, with every tiny leaflet fully expanded, and with the veins and seed-receptacles and capsules clearly and beautifully shown. The leaves, moreover, of some of them are thickish and obscure in their living state (as of Asplenium lucidum), but now they were equally thin and semi-transparent like those of the others.

I saw this elegant and peculiar specimen of art-decoration—so chaste and simple and yet so strikingly lovely—at the Club Hotel, in Woodville, in the larger parlour upstairs; I often admired it. There it stood, conspicuous among other ornaments, on the top of a high dark-coloured piano. I do not know how the remarkable change, which seems to be permanent, was effected; I made inquiries of the proprietor, but he being newly entered did not know. I am aware that very great alteration can be caused by bleaching vegetable fabrics with the fumes of burning sulphur, and this may have been so effected. Be that as it may, it seemed to me to be a new and easy mode of admirably and more completely displaying the hidden natural beauties of our lovely New Zealand ferns, and so I bring it to your notice.

One other little-known plant must, not be omitted from

this list—namely, Metrosideros tenuifolia, Col.,^* and this from its very peculiar manner of growth, its pleasing colour, and its strange homes. I only first detected this plant about a year ago, and then (like many others) it was confined to one spot, where, however, it grew abundantly. Since then I have noticed it growing in several places, but all similar—that is, on the sides of steep cliffs, all the better if somewhat concave. In such spots it revels, repeatedly overrunning itself, flourishing luxuriantly. It adheres very closely to the soil, like small-leaved ivy, in England, to trees. The great regularity of its little round and glossy leaves, and its numerous slender red branchlets, afford a charming picture. What an elegant plant for rock-work, and for a permanent stone or clay alcove or bower! But words fail to describe this lowly-living ever-green beauty.

There are yet some other peculiar plants, which, though small singly in themselves, and of no striking beauty to arrest the eye of the beholder, should not be overlooked, as they often impart, from their curious appearance and situation on the dead and dry overhanging branches of trees, additional solemnity to the shaded and secluded woodland scenery.

Of these are some of our larger and foliaceous tree-lichens, such as several species of the genus Sticta, viz.: S. fossulata, Dufour; S. freycinetii, Delise; S. argyracea and S. carpoloma, Delise; and Usnea barbata, Fries (“old-man's beard”), several varieties.

It is well known that lichens live to a very great age; they retain their vegetative and productive powers uninjured throughout the hottest and driest seasons on the highest and most exposed dead branches: although, on gathering them at such times, they crumble to fine powder in the act, yet, on their becoming wetted from rain or dew, they are soft and flaccid, and may be folded up without breakage or injury.

I have seen very large specimens of the above-mentioned lichens, some specimens of the Usnea (fitly termed “old-man's beard,” being thread-like, bushy, and pendent), 1ft.–2ft. long; and some specimens of Sticta extending from 1ft. to 18in. in diameter, and very fully and complexedly branched, their branches flat and bearing much fruit, which is often curiously and regularly placed like little shields or saucers on their margins.

They are all very numerous, and grow to perfection in damp gullies, especially on overhanging trees and shrubs in their sides in sheltered declivities; and often, when they are of a large size, and sombre lurid leathery appearance, hanging from the bare and dead branches, they give an uncanny,

is almost sure to arise from some one observant person in the carriage, “Why is it so? Why are these two plants alone so salamander-like as to live through the terrible ordeal of raging fire?” And mark, this inquiry arises from only one, who may be laughed at for it by the company—the many,

With the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

For to the many there is nothing to be seen, nothing to be noticed, nothing worthy of observation in the whole scenery through which we are passing on both sides, whether botanical in charming variety and profusion, or geological as revealed by the varied horizontal strata in the sides of the deep cuttings through which we frequently thread our way. Such unobservant travellers and tourists too often remind one of Words-worth's “Peter Bell”:—

A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.

Of course, the answer to that question is an easy one, though the cause may not be known to all: these two plants belong to the endogenous class, whose living woody system is internal and central, and not on the outside, under the external bark, like those others of the exogenous class around, that have at the same time been burnt and so perished. Large tree-ferns 20ft. to 25ft. high are frequently to be seen on the edge of or a little way within a burnt forest—that is, their blackened burnt stems standing like charred and sooty pillars, while from their tops large crowns of young bright-green fronds are springing and spreading, and so presenting a curious and strange contrast. At the same time, not a single tree or shrub of that forest has escaped the ravages of the fire; all besides is dreary desolation, vegetable death.

There is yet another plant that is very common in the woods near the railway-lines which, from the great singularity of its appearance, deserves notice. It grows only on the upper large branches of trees, where it forms round ragged bunches of rather long grass or leek-like leaves, and sometimes several of such bunches are together, forming quite a big mass. It shows itself more conspicuously and strangely when growing on dead burnt and still standing trees, which is very frequently the case, and has often astonished me from its tenacity of life. How those small and feeble and exposed plants escaped the fiery doom which destroyed the big and stout trees root and branch on which they are still living and flourishing is a mystery to me. Further, the bark of many of those burnt trees has peeled off, leaving only their pale, bleached, denuded limbs, on which those plants still adhere