Do you know the Trumpet-moss, with its red cups each holding its own little
dewdrop? Perhaps not, for it is a rare treasure, and needs to be sought
for in its own haunts; but there are many green mosses which are very
beautiful, and so common that we see them upon every garden wall. There
is the Hair-moss, the seeds of which are eaten by the birds, while its
delicate tendrils serve as soft lining for their nests: it grows
plentifully beside our streams; but far away in Lapland, during the short
summer when the flowers all at once burst into bloom, it may be seen in
full beauty. The Laps cut this moss in layers and dry it in the sun, to
form a soft rug for them to sleep under during their cold nights. Then
there is the velvety moss which, like the many-coloured lichen, loves to
creep over old buildings, and make the ruined and desolate places bright
with a beauty not their own.
Speaking of mosses reminds me of a story which is told us by a doctor named
Mungo Park, who was nearly lost in an African desert about a hundred years
ago. Day after day he had toiled on, under the burning sun, until he was
almost in despair; for he had been robbed and deserted, and felt as if
there was nothing left for him but to lie down and die in the wilderness,
or become a prey to the savage animals which ranged over the country; and
the remembrance of those at home in Scotland who would never know what had
become of him, made him sick at heart.
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