THIS story, which has just come to us from Germany, is not only a little literary masterpiece, but is a scientific gem as well. Of course, stories of man-eating plants are nothing new in literature, but we believe that this one is so unusual, and so excellent, that it deserves your particular attention. And lest you think that a man-eating plant is an impossibility, your attention is called to the illustrations which we are printing elsewhere, being actual photographs of flowers as tall as, and taller than, human beings. The story of man-eating plants has persisted for many years and there is no good reason why such a plant should not, or could not, exist. Flesh-eating plants are well known to science. There are many flowers and plants that catch not only flies and other insects, but small mammals as well. There is, therefore, no reason to doubt the existence of such plants. It is quite possible that even if no such plants are in existence today—which is a possibility—there might have been many of them in remote ages.
ALA Daulat Ras had finished his story. For a while he stood there, stiff and as straight a statue in front of the Englishman who was immersed in deep thought. He measured him with a glance in which the mysticism of ancient wisdom of his native home and enigmatic cruelty were mingled. Then he left slowly with measured steps.
Sir George William Armstrong started up from his dreaming and gulped down a glass of whiskey. It was perfect lunacy what the Hindoo had told him, and yet, and yet one had to believe him word for word, for Baulat Ras was a Yoghi, and a Yoghi never lies. But he wanted to, and had to settle for himself whether occult powers abided in these strange men, who hate the European and very seldom bring to light the "nature secrets" of their land. Sir George was well off and without any ties. No sport was strange to him. He could certainly start the undertaking, but he needed a reliable as well as taciturn companion. The native servant familiar with the ways of the land, to whom he disclosed his plan, said he would sooner be thrown alive to a tiger or be buried in an ant-hill. So he had to turn to his faithful old John Bannister.
In the long full years of their connection, he had become more than a mere valet. Indeed, he was a sort of confidential friend. True and watchful as a dog, tenacious and indefatigable in hardships, courageous in danger. His skin was like parchment, no red blood seemed to flow beneath it, but in spite of his 65 years he was muscular and had a constitution like iron and steel. And Sir George took him into his confidence. But this it was which Daulat Ras had related:
Some ten days journey from here, in an accurately-indicated little valley of the Himalayas, which is about 200 yards long, there is a curious little bit of earth, a ravine hedged in by three high perpendicular walls. The only access is on one of the four sides, over a sort of quagmire or pond, out of which poisonous vapors rise. You had to row closely along the edge of it in a boat in order to avoid the poisonous gases. The ravine itself, completely overgrown with flowers, is the home for demons, mischievous satanic forms, mixtures of man and woman, against whom all the weapons of civilization are useless. In spring and in fall they reveal their mysterious power. Woe to him who treads upon their reservation. Death and insanity is his fate. If he escapes the destruction alive, he remains dead,—as far as earthly love is concerned. Mark this,—death for all earthly love.
John Bannister smiled sneeringly. His master stood immersed in deep thought. He thought of the blonde fiancée, whom in this very month he was to take to her future home. Near Calcutta, in a picturesque suburb, is a charming bungalow, which was even then being erected in feverish haste according to his directions. Then he would be at an end, once for all, as a restless globe-trotter and adventurer. But till then, Harriet Richards was to suspect nothing of the goal of the journey, was not to be given one second of worry or of anxiety. He would pretend a business trip. And he laid out his plan. The railroad went part of the way. He would buy reliable maps of the country, would get provisions and a little row-boat, would use porters until he would get to the entrance of the ravine. In the bright mid-day he would enter it, while this last bit of the journey, he and his valued John Bannister should conquer alone. John rubbed hands in satisfaction. He was satisfied with the party . . . . . . . .
THE Hindoo had spoken the truth. The ravine was there. Behind dusky black marshlands was a bright tropical carpet of flowers in the most gorgeous colors of the young autumn. The goal was reached. The porters pushed the boat into the swamp and lay down trembling in a little hollow. Three hours of waiting was assigned them, enough time for the adventurers to go all over the little valley which was to be explored.
Countless little bubbles rose. The air was filled with strong biting vapors as the two discoverers glided along the edge of the turbid and scum-covered river. On each side the bare cliffs were in curious contrast to the blooming the flora which awaited them in the valley. A quantity of withered thorn bushes, with dried and crooked branches, rose on the edge of the stream, which thickened steadily. The sun poured down obliquely. No wind stirred in this silent afternoon siesta of nature. As they got out of the boat, a heavy veil of vapor stretched over the upper valley. The atmosphere seemed to brew sultry over all and purple lightning jerked over the landscape. A hedgehog sprang up before them. Fearless and confident, he sized up the unusual visitors, trotted alongside of them for a while, then sat upon his hind legs and nibbled at an artichoke. Their shadows fell before them, dumb, trembling companions, while the adventurers, between bare cliffs, dropped down into the valley of the flowers, which stood in their second most exquisite bloom. Sir George forged ahead, carefully watching every step. Directly be-
