open the innermost recesses of plants; travellers have brought home new, generalizing views, and an insight has at last been gained into the life of the vegetable world. Great, startling discoveries have there been made, new truths and new beauties have been revealed to us, and natural science has unfolded the most delicate resources and most curious relations in the vegetable kingdom. Thus we have learned, that it is a fallacy-to be sure as old as botany itselfthat plants have no motion. Old Aristotle, it is true, had a curious idea, that they were buried in deep slumber, out of which nothing could awake them, and that thus by a kind of enchantment, they were spellbound, until the great word should be spoken, that was to restore to them life. and motion. Modern science also teaches that the characteristic of organic bodies is independent motion, that of inorganic, rest. But plants have both life and motion; we dare not as yet say whether it be the effect of a mere dream, of a mechanical pressure from without, or of instinctive life within. For what do we as yet know of the simplest functions of the inner life of plants? Who has not, however, observed how the pale sap courses through the colossal stems of gigantic trees and the delicate veins of a frail leaf, as rapidly and marvellously as through the body of man? Take a microscope and you will see the plant full of life and motion. All its minute cells are filled with countless little currents, now rotary and now up and down, often even apparently lawless, but always distinctly marked by tiny grains which are seen to turn in them or to rise without ceasing. In this world nothing is motionless, says a modern philosopher. Let the air be so still, that not a breath shall be felt to creep through it, and yet the forest leaves will seem stirred as if in silent prayer. The earth moves small things and great, all obey the same law, and the little blade of grass goes around the sun as swiftly as the tallest pinc. The very shadow dances, as if in idle mockery, around the immovable flower, and marks the passing hours of sunshine. But plants move not only where they stand-they travel also. They migrate from land to land, sometimes slowly, inch by inch, then again on the wings of the storm. Botanists tell us of actual migrations of plants, and a successive extension of the domain of particular floras, just as we speak of the migration of idioms and races. Individual plants, however, travel only as man ought to travel, when they are young. If they have once found a home, they settle quietly down, grow, blossom, and bear fruit. Therefore it is, that plants travel only in the seed. For this purpose, seeds possess often special organs for a long journey through the air. Sometimes they are put, like small bombshells, into little mortars, and fired off with great precision. Thus arise the wellknown emerald rings on our greenswards, and on the vast prairies of the West, which some ascribe to electricity, whilst the poet loves to see in them traces of the moonlight revels of fairies. The truth is scarcely less poetical. A small circular fungus squats down on a nice bit of turf. It prospers and fills with ripening seed. When it matures, it discharges the tiny balls, already mentioned, in a circle all around, and then sinks quietly in the ground and dies. Another season, and its place is marked by an abundance of luxuriant grass, feeding upon its remains, whilst around it a whole ring of young fungi have begun to flourish. They die in their turn, and so the circle goes on enlarging and enlarging, shifting rapidly, because fungi exhaust the soil soon of all matter necessary for their growth, and closely followed by the rich grass, that fills up their place, and prevents them from ever retracing their steps. A similar irritability enables other plants also to scatter their seeds far and near, by means of springs bent back, until a breath of wind, a falling leaf, or the wing of an insect, causes them to rebound, and thus to send the pollen with which they are loaded often to a great distance. The so-called Touch-me-not balsam scatters its ripe seeds, by such a contrivance, in all directions, and the squirting cucumber is furnished, for the same purpose, with a complete fire-engine. Some of the geraniums, also, of our greenhouses have their fruit-vessels so curiously constructed, that the mere contact with another object, and frequently the heat of the sun alone, suffices to detach the carpels, one by one, with a snapping sound, and so suddenly as to cause a considerable jerk, which sends the seeds far away. Other fruit-vessels again, have, as is well known, contrivances the most curious and ingenious, by which they press every living thing that comes near them into their service, and make it convey them whithersoever they please. Every body is familiar with the bearded varieties of wheat and other grain; they are provided with little hooks which they cunningly insert into the wool or hair of grazing cattle, and thus they are carried about until they find a pleasant place for their future home. Some who do not like to obtain services thus by hook and crook, succeed by pretended friendship, sticking closely to their self-chosen companions. They cover their little seeds with a most adhesive glue, and when the busy bee comes to gather honey from their sweet blossoms, which they jauntily hang out to catch the unwary insect, the seeds adhere to its body, and travel thus on four fine wings through the wide, wide world. Bee fanciers know very well the common disease of their sweet friends, when so much pollen adheres to their head that they cannot fly; and must miserably perish, one by one, under the heavy burden which these innocent-looking plants have compelled them to carry. We have but little knowledge as yet of the activity of life in the vegetable world, and of its momentous influence on the welfare of our own race. Few only know that the gall-fly of Asia Minor decides on the existence of ten thousands of human beings. As our clippers and steamers carry the produce of the land from continent to continent, so these tiny sailors of the air perform, under the direction of Divine Providence, the important duty of carrying pollen, or fertilizing dust, from figtree to fig-tree. Without pollen, there come no figs, and, consequently, on their activity and number depends the productiveness of these trees; they, therefore, regulate in fact the extensive and profitable fig trade of Smyrna. A little, ugly beetle of Kamschatka has, in like manner, more than once saved the entire population of the most barren part of Greenland from apparently unavoidable starvation. He is a great thief in his way, and a most fastidious gourmand, moreover. Nothing will satisfy him on a long winter evening and we must charitably bear in mind that these evenings sometimes last five months without interruption-but a constant supply of lily bulbs. The lilies are well content with this arrangement, for the being eaten is as natural to them as to a Feejee-islander; and they are, as compensation, saved from being crowded to death in a narrow space, whilst those that escape the little glutton, shoot up merrily, next summer, in rich pastures. Still better content are the Greenlanders; for, when their last mouthful of meat, and their last drop of trainoil are gone, they dig and rob the little, provident beetle of his carefully hoarded treasure, and, by its aid, manage to live until another season. It is thus that we see every where the beautiful and close bonds of love connecting even those parts of creation, that seem to be without sense or voluntary motion, humble subjects of the dominion of the elements, and which yet respond to the action of those mysterious powers, that rule, under God, in nature. The flower opens its gorgeous chalice, filled with rich honey, to the tiny insect; the insect, in return, carries the fructifying pollen to the flower's distant mate, and thus propagates it anew. The herbs of the field send forth their luxuriant tufts of leaves for the browsing cattle, and sheep and oxen carry the seed in their hides from meadow to meadow. The trees themselves, planted by stones that birds have dropped, grow and flourish until "they are strong, and the height thereof reaches unto heaven, and the beasts of the field have shadow under it, and the fowls of heaven dwell in the boughs thereof." When neither quadruped nor insect can be coaxed or forced to transport the young seeds that wish to see the world, they sometimes launch forth on their own account, and trust to a gentle breeze or a light current of air, rising from the heated surface of the earth. It is true, nature has given them wings to fly with, such as man never yet was skilful enough to devise for his own use. The maple-our maple, I mean has genuine little wings, with which it flies merrily about in its early days; others, like the dandelion and the anemone, have light downy appendages, or little feathery tufts and crowns, by which they are floated along on the lightest breath of air, and enjoy, to their heart's content, long autumnal wanderings. These airy appendages are marvellously well adapted for the special purpose of each plant: some but just large enough to waft the tiny grain up the height of a molehill, others strong enough to carry the seed of the cedar from the low valley to the summit of Mount LebThe proudest princes of the vegetable kingdom often depend for their continuance on these little feathery tufts, which but few observers are apt to notice. A recent writer tells us that, a few years ago, the only palm-tree the city of Paris could then boast of, suddenly blossomed. Botanists were at a loss how to explain the apparent miracle, and skeptics began to sneer, and declared that the laws of nature had failed. An advertisement appeared in the papers, inquiring for the unknown mate of the solitary tree. And behold, in an obscure court-yard away off, there had lived, unknown and unnoticed, another small palm; it also had blossom anon. ed apparently alone, and in vain-but a gentle breeze had come, and carried its flower-dust to its distant companion, and the first palm-flowers ever seen in France were the result of this silent mediation. Reckless wanderers, also, there are among the plants, who waste their substance, and wildly rove about in the world. The rose of Jericho, which we have already noticed, and a club moss of Peru, are such erratic idlers that wander from land to land. When they have blossomed and borne fruit, and when the dry season comes, they wither, fold their leaves together, and draw up their roots, so as to form a light, little ball. In this form they are driven hither and thither on the wings of the wind, rolling along the plains in spiritlike dance, now whirling in great circles about, now caught by an eddy and rising suddenly high into the air. It is not until they reach a moist place that they care to rest a while, but then they settle down at once, send down their roots, unfold their leaves, assume a bright green, and become quiet, useful citizens in their own great kingdom of plants. There are, however, thousands of plants that have neither servants nor wings to gratify their wishes, and who seem condemned to see their offspring die at their feet. But here again we see how the resources of nature are always far superior to the apparent difficulty. These very seeds which seemed so hopelessly lost, often travel fastest of all; they travel on the wings of birds. The latter steal our fruit, our cherries and grapes; they carry them off to some convenient place, eat the pulpy part, and drop the stone with the seed in it, where it is most likely to find a genial soil and a sheltered home. Even their evil propensities must thus serve the purposes of nature. Jays and pies, it is well known, are fond of hiding grains and acorns among grass or moss and in the ground, and then, poor things, forget the hiding place, and lose all their treasure. Squirrels, also marmots and mice, bury nuts under ground, and often so deep that neither light nor warmth can reach the hidden grain. But then comes man, and cuts down the pinewood, and lo! to the astonishment of all, a young coppice of oaks shoots up, and the wonder is, where all the acorns have so suddenly come from. It is not without its ludicrous side, to see even the ingenuity of men baffled by these unconscious but faithful servants of nature. We are told that the Dutch, with a sublime kind of political wisdom, destroy the plants which produce our nutmeg, for the purpose of keeping up their monopoly, and high prices into the bargain, by the limited amount of the annual produce, which is entirely in their own hands. With this view, they cut down every tree of the kind in the Molucca Islands, where it was originally indigenous, and punish, to this day, with the severest penalties the mere possession of a nut. But it so happens that a little bird of the same Moluccas also is fond of these nuts; and as the air cannot very well be guarded and watched, even by Dutch ingenuity, he insists upon eating them, and carries the seed to distant islands of the ocean, causing the stupid Hollanders infinite trouble and annoyance. Seeds that have not learned to fly with their own or other people's wings, it seems are taught to swim. Trees and bushes which bear nuts, love low grounds and river banks. Why? Because their fruit is shaped like a small boat, and the rivulet playing with its tiny riples over silvery sands, as well as the broad wave of the Pacific, carry their seed alike, safely and swiftly, to new homes. Rivers float down the fruits of mountain regions, into deep valleys and to far off coasts, and the Gulf Stream of our own Atlantic carries annually the rich products of the torrid zone of America to the distant shores of Iceland and Norway. Seeds of plants growing in Jamaica and Cuba have been gathered in the quiet coves of the Hebrides. The fruit of the red bay has the form of a pirogue; at first it sinks to the bottom, but nature has given it a small hole in the upper part; a little air-bubble forms there, and causes it to rise again. The gigantic cocoa-nut itself, weighing not rarely more than five pounds, but air-tight in its close shell, and buoyant by its light, fibrous coat, is thus drifted from island to island, and rides safely on the surges of the ocean from the Seychelles to the distant coast of Malabar. There it lodges, and germinates in the light moist sand, so that the Indians of old fancied that they grew under water, and called them sea cocoas. A still more striking provision of nature is this, that there are some seeds of this kind so exquisitely adjusted to their future destination, as to sink in salt water, while they swim with safety in sweet water. Large vegetable masses even travel on the great waters of the ocean. Compact fields of marine plants are occasionally met with in the Southern seas, and on the coast of Florida, large enough to impede the progress of vessels, and filled with millions of crustacea. They are not unfrequently so firm and so extensive as to afford a building place for the nests of aquatic birds and for quadrupeds, who thus float at the mercy of wind and waves to their new, unknown home. Amid the Philippine Islands, also, after a typhoon, floating islands are fallen in with, consisting of matted plants and wood, with tall, old trees, growing on them. These strange, insular rafts, are carried along by swift currents, or wafted onward by the slightest breath of air which fans the foliage of their dense woods, until, after a passage of weeks or months, they land, like a new ark, on some distant shore. But we need not go to far-off countries to see plants wandering about in the world: our own gardens afford us, though on a smaller scale, many an instance of the recklessness of these very plants that are so much commiserated because they cannot move about and choose their own home. Every casual observer even knows that many bulbs, like those of crocus, tulips or narcissus, rise or sink by forming new bulbs above or below, until they have reached the proper depth of soil which best suits their constitution-or perhaps their fancy. Some orchids have a regular locomotion: the old root dies, the new one forms invariably in one and the same direction, and thus they proceed onwards year after year, though at a very modest, stage-coach rate. Strawberries, on the contrary, put on seven-league boots, and often escape from the rich man's garden to refresh the weary traveller by the wayside. Raspberries, again, mine their way stealthily under ground, by a subterranean, molelike process; blind, but not unguided, for they are sure to turn up in the brightest, sunniest spot they could have chosen, had their eyes been wide open, and their proceedings above ground. As if in return for the manifold services which plants require and receive from their fellow creatures, they show kindness of their own to animal life, and shelter and feed the most timid as well as the noblest of beings, with the hospitality of their generous life. In early childhood already we are taught, that even the smallest of seeds, the mustard seed, grows up to be a tree, "in whose branches the fowls of the heavens have their habitation," that "both Judah and Israel dwelt safely, every man under his vine and under his fig-tree, all the days of Solomon," and that Deborah, the prophetess, "dwelt under a palm-tree." Modern science has furnished us numerous striking and detailed instances of the great variety of life, which is thus intimately connected with the vegetable kingdom. It is not only that the plaintive nightingale sings in the murmuring poplar, whilst the gay butterfly loves the sweet-scented rose, that the sombre yew hides the owl's nest, and the dark northern pine harbors the fur-clad squirrel. Animals, invisible to the naked eye, have been found to float in the sap of trees, and even the smallest moss has its own tiny insect, which it boards and lodges. Aphides and gall insects live, in every sense of the word, on the leaves of plants, flies and butterflies on their flowers, and ants and worms crowd upon them, after death, in countless multitudes. Every plant, moreover, is inhabited by some insect, to which it affords an exclusive home. Many caterpillars are born and die with the leaf on which they live, whilst, on the other hand, the proud monarch-oak alone supports seventy different kinds of insects-a swarm, which sets all measurement at defiance, and. moreover, replaces by numbers and the enormous voracity with which they are endowed, what they want in bodily magnitude. Already Pliny was surprised to see small ants run up the tall cypress, and devour its rich fruit with surprising avidity; he wondered that so insignificant an insect should be allowed to destroy the seed of the largest tree of his country. But plants have to support guests of every size and shape. The butterfly and its less gaudy relations, drink with their long trunks sweet honey out of gorgeously colored flower-cups; four-winged bees carry away the precious dust of anthers in large spoons, fastened to their thighs; gall insects pierce with sharp daggers the tender leaf, drink its refreshing juice, and deposit their eggs in the delicate texture; beetles gnaw and saw with a hundred curiously shaped instruments through the hardest wood of noble trees; naked, helpless-looking worms make the very trunk their cover and their home, and with sharp augers often destroy whole forests. ingenious ant of South America has its winter residence in the warm ground, and its cool summer house on tall plants. For there grows on the banks of the Amazon River a gigantic reed, nearly thirty feet high, which is frequently crowned with a large ball of earth, like the golden globe on the utmost end of a lofty church steeple. This is the comfortable home of myriads of The ants, which retire to these safe dwellings, high and dry, at the time of rains and during the period of inundation, rising and descending in the hollow of the reed, and living on what they find swimming on the surface of the water. Another curious lodger of a South American plant is the famous cochineal bug, well known from the precious red color, that bears its name, and which it draws from a certain cactus until its body becomes impregnated with the brilliant scarlet. It is probably the most sedentary of all insects, making but one short journey in early life, and then settling down for ever upon one and the same spot. As soon, namely, as the young insect leaves its egg, it manifests great activity and a restless desire to travel. But alas! it finds itself upon a prickly, thorny stem, hanging high in the air, and in contact with no other. But nature soon comes to its aid, and sends a small spider to spin a silken thread from branch to branch. Upon this slender, trembling bridge, the young cochineal wanders boldly out to a new world, seeks a promising spot, deliberately sinks its fragile trunk into the juicy leaf-and never draws it back again, drinking, drinking, like a toper as he is, through his whole existence. Even larger inhabitants are often found on quite small plants. Thus England produces a slight but well-supported thistle, which is frequently found to have little elaborate nests hanging down, at an elevation of a few inches from the ground. These contain not insects, but mice, though of the smallest variety known, and are occasionally large enough to hold as many as nine young ones, carefully stowed away and well secured against all enemies and dangers. Birds seem, of course, the most natural lodgers of plants; they find there abundance of nourishment, all the material for building their nests, and a well-protected home. The eagle gathers the knotted branches of oaks or pines, to bring up his fierce brood upon the hard, uncushioned couch; the thorn tears a handful of wool from the passing sheep, for its tiny inhabitants, and the despised mullein covers its broad leaves with the softest of downs, to line the bed of the delicate children of the humming bird. There is probably no bush and no tree, that has not its own, particular bird; every where do the fowl of the air find a foliage, thicker or thinner, to shelter them against rain, heat and cold; a hollow trunk affords safe and warm lodgings; soft moss carpets their dwellings, and insects and worms swarm around, to offer, at the same time, food in abundance. They give, in return, life and sound to the immovable plant. Song birds of many kinds perch and sing their beautiful anthems on every spray; locusts thrill their monotonous and yet pleasing note among a world of leaves through long summer noons, and the katy-did utters its shrill cry during sultry nights. They all love their home, making it their dwelling by night and by day, and many are the instances in which birds, that had long lived in certain trees, have died from home-sickness, when they were felled. Monkeys also, it is well known, are frugiverous animals, and by their food as well as by the peculiar structure of their body. so closely bound to trees that they but seldom leave them. The tree-frog clings to the rugged trunk, mingling its faded colors with those of the bark, and feasting upon the insects hid in each crevice. The unsightly sloth fastens its enormous claws to the branches, and passes thus, head downward, with astounding alacrity, from tree to tree; whilst even the black tiger of South America, finding the undergrowth too dense and impenetrable, lives on trees, and coursing on his bloody race, leaps from branch to branch, until he has hunted down his exhausted prey. Nor has man himself neglected to avail himself of trees, as a dwelling or a home. Already Lucinius Mutianus, an ex-Consul of Lycia, took special pleasure in feasting twenty-one guests in a hollow plane-tree; and modern travellers tell us of a gigantic Boabal in Senegambia, the interior of which is used as a public hall for national meetings, whilst its portals are ornamented with rude, quaint sculptures, cut out of the still living wood. The sacred fig-tree of India, which, as Milton says, "Branching so broad along, that in the ground is worshipped as sacred, and the lazy, helpless priest, the Bonre, builds himself a hut, not unlike a bird's cage, in its branches, where he spends his life, dreaming in contemplative indolence, under its cool, pleasant shade. Nay, whole nations live in the branches of trees. There is a race of natives of South America, west of the mouth of the Orinoco, the Guaranis, who have never yet been completely subdued, thanks mainly to their curious habitations. The great Humboldt tells us, that they twine most skilfully the leafstalks of the Mauritius palm into cords, and weave them with great care into mats. These they suspend high in the air from branch to branch, and cover them with clay; here they dwell, and in a dark night the amazed and bewildered traveller may see the fires of their dwellings high in the tops of lofty trees. |