_Mossiaes_ have replaced them
generally, and from beds three feet in diameter their great blooms start
by the score, in every shade of pink and crimson and rosy purple. There
is _Loelia elegans_, exterminated in its native home, of such bulk and
such luxuriance of growth that the islanders left forlorn might almost
find consolation in regarding it here. Over all, climbing up the
spandrils of the roof in full blaze of sunshine, is _Vanda teres_, round
as a pencil both leaves and stalk, which will drape those bare iron rods
presently with crimson and pink and gold.[8] The way to our farmyard is
not like others. It traverses a corner of fairyland.
We find a door masked by such a rock as that faintly and vaguely
pictured, which opens on a broad corridor. Through all its length, four
hundred feet, it is ceilinged with baskets of Mexican orchid, as close
as they will fit. Upon the left hand lie a series of glass structures;
upon the right, below the level of the corridor, the workshops; at the
end--why, to be frank, the end is blocked by a ponderous screen of
matting just now. But this dingy barrier is significant of a work in
hand which will not be the least curious nor the least charming of the
strange sights here. The farmer has already a "siding" of course, for
the removal of his produce; he finds it necessary to have a station of
his own also for the convenience of clients.
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