basket and was shown the seedlings which were intended to stock the new beds. Telling him to dig them up she moved to another part of the compound. Fifteen minutes later she returned, and discovered that he had not only removed all the seedlings but was digging up half the contents of the established beds. Sorely against his will he was made to replant them before he was allowed to depart.
Another friend promised a few rooted cuttings of crotons. The gardener was again despatched with a basket. This time he carried a letter as well. The pith of a lady's letter is said to lie in the postscript. At the bottom of this was the P.S.: Do not trust my man alone in your garden; and examine his basket before he leaves.' He brought back more than a hundred beautiful young plants, over which he grinned delightedly. When thanking the generous donor for his bountiful gift he smiled and made reply:
‘Fact of the matter, I was called away in the middle of the digging up of the plants and did not attend to your warning. Keep them and you will have a fine show of crotons.'
Indian gardeners have many strange superstitions besides the belief in a lucky hand. To ensure the prosperity of the plants they make a marriage of a copralite to some tulsi (sweet basil). The copralite is an emblem of Siva, just as the ammonite is an emblem of Vishnu. Tulsi (Ocymum sanctum) grows everywhere. It has small purple flowers, and is not unlike the wild basil of England or the common calamint. When the leaves are crushed they have an aromatic scent. As I walked about the compound I often trod it underfoot, and the air was filled with the sweet smell.
There is a legend which ascribes its origin to the Hindu deity Vishnu. A demon named Jalandhara ob-
