[CREAM-CUPS—Platystemon Californicus.]

The cream-cups are delicate, hairy plants of the early springtime, which often grow in masses and take possession of whole fields. They seem to be more vigorous in the south, and produce larger flowers there than in the north, often having as many as nine petals. The delicate, nodding green buds (like miniature poppy-buds) soon throw off their outer wrappings, and, emerging from captivity, gradually assume an erect position and unfurl their lovely, pure, straw-colored petals to their widest extent. These blossoms open for several successive days.

The genus takes its name from the flat filaments. The numerous slender pistils are so cleverly joined together into a cylinder, that they appear like a hollow, one-celled ovary. But a cross-section will show the separate ovaries under a glass.

Some people like the odor of these flowers; but I must confess to a lack of appreciation of it. I suspect its charm must exist in some pleasant association.

COPA DE ORO. CALIFORNIA POPPY. TOROSA.

Eschscholtzia Californica, Cham. Poppy Family.

Stems.—Twelve to eighteen inches high; branching. Leaves.—Alternate; finely dissected; glaucous. Flowers.—Two or three inches across; usually orange; but ranging from that to white. Summit of the peduncle enlarging into a cup-shaped torus or disk, upon the upper inner surface of which are borne the calyx, corolla, and stamens. Calyx.—A pointed green cap, falling early. Petals.—Four. Stamens.—Numerous, in four groups, in front of the petals. Anthers linear. Ovary.—One-celled. Style short. Stigmas four to six; unequal. Capsule.—Cylindrical; ten-nerved; two or three inches long. Hab.—Throughout California.

Thy satin vesture richer is than looms Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings! Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious things Regathered from the long-forgotten tombs Of buried empires, not the iris plumes That wave upon the tropics' myriad wings, Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms. For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veins Of this fair land; thy golden rootlets sup Her sands of gold—of gold thy petals spun. Her golden glory, thou! On hills and plains, Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.

—Ina D. Coolbrith