a few kinds have any leaves of the conventional, ordinary sort; what we carelessly call "leaves" are oftenest only flattened or enlarged stems, increasing by sections and joints. Flowers, if produced at all, appear along the edges of these flattened stems or dotted irregularly over the eccentric

surface of the stems.

And yet, these queer plants are not leafless. Botanists, trained and experienced in intimate understanding of plant habits, say that the spines and

thorns with which most cacti are provided are really of the same nature as leaves-leaves turned cynic, if we may say so, not performing the usual leaf functions of doing the plant's breathing, but merely scowling at the rest of creation and warning off impertinent outsiders.

It is by virtue of its strange manner of growth that the cactus can and does live in many an arid region where. ordinary vegetation dies for lack of water. On certain South American

plateaus just west of the Andes mountains the prevailing winds are from the east; moisture-laden clouds, sweeping across the continent, are literally held up by lofty peaks, and made to give up their burden in the form of snow; once past the barrier there is little or no rain left to drop on the thirsty ground. Most plants, shrubs and trees need a good deal of water because they are so generous with it, taking it in from the soil by their roots, and giving it out again by

evaporation from the pores of their leaves. The cactus, as already said, cuts off almost entirely the task of giving out water to the air, and sets its leaves-thorns-to a different occupation. Being thus miserly and disagreeable, it succeeds in accumulating extraordinary quantities of moisture in even the most unpromising location. If a man earns even a little, and never spends a cent, his savings are bound to astonish more happy-go-lucky neighbors.

The thrifty family owning the cactus name includes several main groups, and these include something over a thousand scientifically recognized species and varieties. Of these, all but

one thus far known to botanists seem to have originated on this western continent. Early European explorers of tropical and semi-tropical America carried home specimens of the strange plants as curios, and, sometimes by accident, sometimes by design, they have been permitted or encouraged to

spread until they are now completely naturalized, growing wild, just as if Sicily, where they gained a foothold they were indigenous to the soil. In only a few hundred years ago, their peculiar structure and habits fit them for living comfortably on hills otherwise almost barren. Poor Sicily is a living object-lesson in the fatal extravagance of cutting off all a country's timber. Once the richest agricultural land known to the European world, her country folk now lead

a wretched, half-starved existence. Herdsmen carefully trim off the spines from a cactus and cut the succulent stems in slices to feed the goats. The pulpy, egg-shaped fruit of one common species-known colloquially as "Indian figs" is eaten by the people themselves, sometimes fresh and sometimes cooked. Indeed, the same sort of fruit in several varieties, usually called by the name of "prickly pears," is a recognized food resource for the peons of Mexico and sold in the markets. Both poverty and religion cut off meat from the Mexican dietary a good part of the year, and so it comes about that the cactus-hedges which line so many of the roadways are a fortunate resource. "Fish of the fence" they call the juicy morsels, in the musical Spanish patois.

Some leafy kinds of cactus furnish a tolerable sort of fuel supply in tropical America. The big, spiky sheets, when dried, make a good, hot fire.

But the most important promise of this reformed plant-if indeed the cynical vegetable can be trained to more docility-is in the line of forage. At present the hungriest burro knows better than to attack an armored specimen, just as hungry carnivorae respect a hedgehog's right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. No doubt, if spineless cacti were made to replace the self-protecting kinds in any forlorn region frequented by muletrains, the tendency would be for them to be eaten promptly off the face of the earth. But there would seem to be no conclusive reason why such edible crops should not be systematically replaced in a reasonable length of time, if intelligent co-operation could be secured among those enjoying the benefits. Burbank's Santa Rosa experiment has not indeed wholly solved the problem, but he has pressed the wizard's button and other people must do the rest.

-COLERIDGF.