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By John Trott
The Virginia Naturalist
good food, good talk and an entrenched friendship. The mystery of the ribbons of ice stayed with me, begging for explanation. The enigma nagged at me like a persistent child tugging at my sleeve for attention.
As I often do, 1 plucked Donald Culross Peattie's An Almanac for Modems from its place on the shelf beside my bed. Why did I turn to his essay for December second which began with, "So frost is on the land at last...?" Toward the end, 1 read, "sickles and spirals and curls like a carpenter’s shavings are shooting out of the stems of the frostweed, that modest little member of the rock-rose family, and from the dittany, which has the same odd property of extruding the water in its stem."
So! The beginning of the answer. I went to sleep with plans to check
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