And he knows all shapes of flowers:  the heath, the fox-glove with
its bells,
The palmy fern’s green elegance, fanned in soft woodland smells;
The milkwort on the mossy turf his nice touch fingers trace,
And the eye-bright, though he sees it not, he finds it in its place.”

“A blind botanist, and in the Old Country, too; well that’s strange!  True, a blind man could know the lovely wallflowers and hyacinths and violets and all these sweet-scented things by their smell.  But to know the little blue milkwort and the Euphrasia by touch, bangs me.  If it was our fine, big pitcher plant, or the ladies’ slipper, or the giant-fringed orchis, or the May apple, I could understand it; but perhaps he knew the flowers before he got to be blind.  I think I could find my way blindfolded to some spots about Toronto where special plants grow.  I believe, Wilks, that a man couldn’t name a subject you wouldn’t have a quotation for; you’re wonderful!”

Wilkinson was delighted.  This flattery was meat and drink to him.  Holding the arm of his admiring friend, he poured out his soul in verse, allowing his companion, from time to time, the opportunity of contributing a little to the poetic feast.  The two virtually forgot to notice the level, sandy road and tame scenery, the clouded sun, the troublesome flies.  For the time being, they were everything, the one to the other.  By their own spirits were they deified, or thought they were, at the moment.

Though the schoolmaster was revelling in the appreciation of his friend, he could not fail to perceive that he limped a little.  “You have hurt your foot, Corry, my dear fellow, and never told me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” replied the light-hearted lawyer; “I trod on a stick in that pond where I got the Brasenia and things, and my big toe’s a bit sore, that’s all.”

“Corry, we have forgotten the blackthorns.  Now, in this calm hour, sacred to friendship, let us present each other with nature’s staff, a walking-stick cut from the bush, humble tokens of our mutual esteem.”

Coristine agreed, and the result was a separation and careful scrutiny of the underbrush on both sides of the road, which ended in the finding of a dogwood by the lawyer, and of a striped maple by the dominie—­both straight above and curled at the root.  These, having removed from the bush, they brought into shape with their pocket-knives.  Then Coristine carved “F.W.” on the handle of his, while Wilkinson engraved “E.C.” on the one he carried.  This being done, each presented his fellow with “this utterly inadequate expression of sincere friendship,” which was accepted “not for its intrinsic worth, but because of the generous spirit which prompted the gift.”  “Whenever my eye rests on these letters by friendship traced,” said the dominie, “my pleasant companion of this happy day will be held in remembrance.”

“And when my fingers feel ‘E.C.’ on the handle,” retorted the lawyer, “I’ll be wishing that my dear friend’s lot, that gave it me, may be easy too.  Faith but that’s a hard pun on an Irishman.”