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wrapped Tid and me in veils for protection against the dust--and what dust!"--and we were off.

On the way, jolting over country roads at all of twenty miles an hour, we played a game in which Father kept score. He had started during one of these trips and I am sure his purpose went beyond merely amusing us. He would point to a tree, a flower or a shrub in the distance and say, "Now who knows what that is?" "A linden," one of us would shout. "It is not. It's an elm." Father would say, "Freddy is right. It's an elm. That puts him ahead." At the end of the drive, he gave a prize, ten cents, for the best score.

With this little game and in other ways, he taught us to appreciate the beauty of Nature. One day, he took me to see the garden of Luther Burbank, the great horti culturalist. Burbank's main laboratory was in Sebastapol, a town not far from ours, but he had a smaller garden on the grounds of his home in Santa Rose.

He had a strange, sensitive, enigmatic face and beautiful white hair. That day, he led us around the grounds,