The low wood-paths are strewn with toadstools now, and I begin to perceive their musty scent,—great tumbae, or, as R. W. E. says, tuguria,—crowding one another by the path-side when there was not a fellow in sight; great towers that have fallen and made the plain shake; ponderous wheels that have lost their fellows, broken their axles, abandoned by the toady or swampy teamsters. Some whose eaves have been nibbled apparently by turtles. Ricketson says he saw a turtle eating a toadstool once. Some great dull-yellow towers,—towers of strength, to judge from their mighty columns . . .