dians, while gathering the seed-vessels, place their young
children on the leaves;--_yrupe_, or water-platter, they call the
accommodating plant. But even these expanding leaves are not the glory
of the Victoria; the glory is in the opening of the flower.

We have sometimes looked in, for a passing moment, at the green-house,
its dwelling-place, during the period of flowering,--and then stayed
for more than an hour, unable to leave the fascinating scene. After
the strange flower-bud has reared its dark head from the placid tank,
moving it a little, uneasily, like some imprisoned water-creature, it
pauses for a moment in a sort of dumb despair. Then trembling again,
and collecting all its powers, it thrusts open, with an indignant
jerk, the rough calyx-leaves, and the beautiful disrobing begins. The
firm, white, central cone, first so closely infolded, quivers a
little, and swiftly, before your eyes, the first of the hundred petals
detaches its delicate edges, and springs back, opening towards the
water, while its white reflection opens to meet it from below. Many
moments of repose follow,--you watch,--another petal trembles,
detaches, springs open, and is still. Then another, and another, and
another. Each movement is so quiet, yet so decided, so living, so
human, that the radiant creature seems a Musidora of the water, and
you almost blush with a sense of guilt, in gazing on that peerless
privacy. As petal by petal slowly opens, there still stands the
central cone of snow, a glacier, an alp, a jungfrau, while each
avalanche of whiteness seems the last. Meanwhile, a strange rich odor
fills the air, and Nature seems to concentrate all fascinations and
claim all senses for this jubilee of her darling.

So pass the enchanted moments of the evening, till the fair thing
pauses at last, and remains for hours unchanged. In the morning, one
by one, those white petals close again, shutting all their beauty in,
and you watch through the short sleep for the period of waking. Can
this bright transfigured creature appear again, in the same chaste
beauty? Your fancy can scarcely trust it, fearing some disastrous
change; and your fancy is too true a prophet. Come again, after the
second day's opening, and you start at the transformation which one
hour has secretly produced. Can this be the virgin Victoria,--this
thing of crimson passion, this pile of pink and yellow, relaxed,
expanded, voluptuous, lolling languidly upon the water, ne