is for each of us, individually, an exception to evolution; it
is a special creation, like all the rainbows seen in one's life--a
thing to be reverently absorbed by sight, by scent, by touch, absorbed
and realized without precedent or limit. Only ultimately do we find it
necessary to adulterate this fine perception with definitive words and
phrases, and so attempt to register it for ourselves or others.

I have seen many wonderful sights from an automobile,--such as my
first Boche barrage and the tree ferns of Martinique,--but none to
compare with the joys of vision from prehistoric _tikka gharries_,
ancient victorias, and aged hacks. It was from the low curves of these
equine rickshaws that I first learned to love Paris and Calcutta and
the water-lilies of Georgetown. One of the first rites which I perform
upon returning to New York is to go to the Lafayette and, after
dinner, brush aside the taxi men and hail a victoria. The last time I
did this, my driver was so old that two fellow drivers, younger than
he and yet grandfatherly, assisted him, one holding the horse and the
other helping him to his seat. Slowly ascending Fifth Avenue close to
the curb and on through Central Park is like no other experience. The
vehicle is so low and open that all resemblance to bus or taxi is
lost. Everything is seen from a new angle. One learns incidentally
that there is a guild of cab-drivers--proud, restrained, jealous. A
hundred cars rush by without notice. Suddenly we see the whip brought
up in salute to the dingy green top-hat, and across the avenue we
perceive another victoria. And we are thrilled at the discovery, as
if we had unearthed a new codex of some ancient ritual.

And so, initiated by such precedent, I have found it a worthy thing to
spend hours in decrepit cabs loitering along side roads in the
Botanical Gardens, watching herons and crocodiles, lilies and
manatees, from the rusty leather seats. At first the driver looked at
me in astonishment as I photographed or watched or wrote; but later he
attended to his horse, whispering strange things into its ears, and
finally deserted me. My writing was punctuated by graceful flourishes,
resulting from an occasional lurch of the vehicle as the horse stepped
from one to another patch of luscious grass.

Like Fujiyama, the Victoria Regia changes from hour to hour,
color-shifted, wind-swung, and the mechanism of the blossoms never
ceasing. In northern greenhouses it is nursed