Birds and Nature, Vol. VIII, No. 2, September 1900

One of the most remarkable cases of insect-pollination is that shown by the ordinary Yucca, which is pollinated by a small moth, the plant and the moth being very dependent upon one another. The flowers of Yucca occur in very large prominent clusters, and hang like bells. In each bell-shaped flower there are six hanging stamens, and a central ovary ribbed lengthwise like a melon. At the tip of the ovary is a funnel-shaped opening, which is the stigma. During the day the moth hides quietly in the recesses of the flower, but at dusk she becomes very active. She travels down the stamens, and, resting on the open anthers, scrapes out the somewhat sticky pollen with her front legs. Holding the little mass of pollen she runs up on the ovary, stands astride of one of the furrows, pierces through the wall with her ovipositor, and deposits an egg in an ovule. After depositing several eggs, she runs to the apex of the ovary and begins to crowd the mass of pollen she has collected into the funnel-like stigma. These actions are repeated several times, until many eggs are deposited and repeated pollination has been effected. As a result of all this, the flower is pollinated and seeds are formed, which develop abundant nourishment for the moth larvae, whose eggs had been laid in the ovule. Just how the insect learned that this behavior on her part would secure food for her young is hard to imagine.

In studying any flower there are three questions that should be asked: (1) How does it hinder self-pollination?; (2) How does it secure cross-pollination?; (3) How does it discourage the visits of unsuitable insects?

John Merle Coulter.

THE ASTERS

The mythical origin of the Asters is set forth in an old Greek story, which states that after the gods had abandoned the earth, because of the crimes and dissensions that came with the Brazen Age, Astraea, the goddess of innocence and purity, alone remained, endeavoring to redeem the degenerate race of mortals. She, too, finally left, and became known among the stars as the constellation Virgo, or the Virgin. After the wrath of Jupiter had been appeased by the destruction of the earth by water, Virgo, noticing that the summit of Mount Parnassus had alone escaped the flood, planted there a seed, whose flowers should reflect the azure hue of her new home and whose heart should typify the Golden Age that some day will come again to mankind. This plant, Virgo destined as a symbol of her mission of purity and so she gave it her early name, Astraea or Aster. That the plants might bloom for all races of men, Zephyrus, the lover of Flora, queen of the flowers, took the seeds and distributed them throughout the earth from polar snows to the sun-kissed lands of the equator. Hence it is that the Aster, in some of its varied forms, is found in all countries, over two hundred and fifty species being known to botanists. Although the plant is cosmopolitan, it is essentially an American form, one hundred and fifty of the total known species belonging to North America. Of the balance, Russia claims twenty, Europe ten and Canada sixty or seventy.

It seems as though Nature, after the first blush of spring, relaxed her efforts for a supreme endeavor towards the close of the floral season. Then she assumes her festal robes and the woodlands and fields become gorgeous with the purple of the Asters, the gold of the sunflowers and golden-rod, with here and there the cardinal and blue of the lobelias.

Among all this symphony of color, no plant is more lavish of its charms than the New England Aster (Aster Novae Anglae). Botanically considered, the Asters belong to the Compositae, a family of plants including from ten to twelve thousand species and characterized by large numbers of flowers, crowded together into single heads, each of which gives the impression of a single flower. What appear to be petals, are known as ray flowers and give the characteristic color, as the purple, blue or white of the Aster or the yellow of the Sunflower. These rays consist of flowers, whose petals have been joined together and spread out flat, the points of the petals usually appearing on the end of the ray. In the case of the Asters, the ray flowers, which occur in a single row, are pistillate or have a pistil and no stamens and hence are capable of producing seeds. The center or disk flowers are tubular, yellow in color and perfect, containing both stamens and pistils. The heads are surrounded by an involucre, having leaf-like tips and are variously massed or branched along the stems of the plant.

With few exceptions, the Asters are perennial, coming up each year from the old underground portions and flowering in autumn. They vary in height from a few inches to eight feet or more, but in the case of the New England Aster, the completed growth is generally from two to seven or eight feet. This species has a stout and somewhat hairy stem clothed with many leaves which are pointed, have entire edges and a clasping base. The ray flowers in the common form are purple, but in the two varieties of the species, they are rose-purple or white.

The plant derives its name from the fact that its general distribution in the Eastern States together with the beauty of its flowers gained it an early recognition among the pioneers of New England, where it soon became a favorite. The statement is made that it was the chosen flower of John Alden and Priscilla and, on many occasions, old books, handed down from revolutionary days, have been found to contain dried specimens of the flowers.

The Late Purple Aster (Aster patens) while not an uncommon form, is one of the most beautiful of all the Asters. The rays are long and showy, in color purplish-blue or deep violet. The plants attain a height of from one to three feet, the stems having rigid, bristly hairs and the leaves, which are entire, have a clasping base.

The Asters have been highly considered from very early times. Virgil states that the flowers were used to decorate the altars of the gods and the ancients placed great faith in the efficacy of the leaves as a charm against serpents. The American Indians have always prized these plants as a cure for skin diseases, calling them the bee flower, as they supposed that the frequent visits of honey bees, concentrated in the Asters the virtues of many other forms of flowers.

Charles S. Raddin.

SCHOOL GARDENS

There is nothing more desolate than the average surroundings of the public school, and it would be cheerful news to learn that the recent pamphlet brought out by the United States Department of Agriculture upon the School Gardens of the Rhine might bring about a reform in this direction. Attention is called to the matter by a writer in the Outlook, who finds the pamphlet highly suggestive. Says the writer: "It is a common experience to enter from an absolutely barren schoolyard into a schoolroom decorated with botanical and natural history charts, and to find these charts and text-books are the only mediums used for teaching these branches of the natural sciences. The pamphlet above named shows the practical application of the schoolroom work. The grounds are cultivated entirely by the pupils, two hours' work per week being compulsory. The result is that the community life is affected. The farms and gardens are cultivated with new knowledge; the boys and girls work in the home grounds with greatly increased interest. Destructive insects and disease are watched for. The products of the farms and gardens in this district bring the best prices, because they are handled with care and intelligence. The first requisite for such work is such practical knowledge as will make success possible. The introduction of the school garden into this country is entirely feasible. It would create a new avenue of employment for the students in our agricultural colleges and experiment stations; it will make another avenue for the use of the knowledge collected by our Department of Agriculture. Our township system would make a practical division for the control of one agricultural supervisor and instructor." – The Western Journal of Education.

THE FLICKER'S MISTAKE

"My dear," said Mrs. Flicker, one bright day, as Mr. Flicker came flying home in high feather, "we have made a mistake – a horrible mistake."

Now, Mr. Flicker was a very polite bird, but he was so used to his wife's little peccadilloes that, though sometimes he listened patiently to her tale of woe, at other times he just tossed his head, absolutely without fear of what man might do to him. On this particular day the warblers were whistling and flashing in and out of willow trees across the stream, the wild grape and strawberry and the sweet clover made the air fragrant, the sun shone out gaily from a cloudless sky, far and wide on the earth lay greens upon greens, and overhead stretched heaven's blue – a June day – why should Mr. Flicker fear? With Mrs. Flicker it was different; she had laid the eggs, she had patiently kept them warm; she was now watching her little baby Flickers jealously; what wonder that she grew morbid and fearful, and exaggerated every small annoyance! Mr. Flicker saw now that she was trembling with excitement, as she said again, "We have made a horrible mistake."

"What about?" asked he.

"Do you know," she said, solemnly, "what kind of a tree this is in which we have put our nest?"

"A very good tree, indeed," said Mr. Flicker, bristling, for he had selected the tree; "a remarkably fine tree, with this hollow limb in the midst of so much foliage."

"But, my dear, it is a cherry tree."

"So much the better," said the gay Mr. Flicker; "most birds like cherry trees."

"Yes, and boys like cherry trees!"

"Well, and what of that?"

It will plainly be seen that Mr. Flicker was no logician, but then, he could fly far, far away toward the heavenly blue, while logicians – the very wisest of them – "on their feet must go plodding and walking."

"What of that!" mocked Mrs. Flicker, nervously. "Well, there have been boys in this tree this very morning, picking cherries, and I am worn out with fluttering and fussing and calling, to attract their attention from the nest."

Mr. Flicker thought he knew boys, and while he might be considered a fair and generous-minded bird in most things, it is a lamentable fact that he never could quite understand why Nature in her infinite wisdom had thought it necessary to produce anything so incongruous as a boy. But, as has been said, Mr. Flicker's reasoning powers were limited. He was sober now – boys always sobered him. But after all, he had the spirit and digestion of a bird, and even the fussy Mrs. Flicker fussed only in a bird-like manner. So they talked it over and hoped for the best, especially as the babies showed signs of the greatest precocity and bade fair to fly away in a few days and be safe from harm.

The next day as Mr. Flicker was returning from his favorite ant-hill, he was startled by the frightened screams of his wife, and for some time after he reached the nest she could do nothing but scream and cry and hop distractedly from branch to branch. Mr. Flicker followed her about and tried to comfort her, though he felt that this was no imaginary grievance.

"What is it, my love; what is it?" he begged softly.

"Go look in the nest," said she.

He flew to the nest, and then his cries and shrieks rose above hers, and they hopped from branch to branch like demented bird-folk. Mr. Flicker, when quite himself, was gay and trustful and debonair, but he was, besides all this, a proud and natural parent, and when he found that one of his precious babies was missing, his grief, though loud, was sincere. Mrs. Flicker told him how a dreadful, hideous boy, with frightful sprawling legs and arms had climbed the tree to pick cherries – how he had found the nest in spite of all that she could do – how he had pushed his long arm down into the hollow limb and taken out and examined one baby after another, and had then run off with one, putting the others back in the nest.

"Oh, help! help!" suddenly cried poor Mrs. Flicker, "here they come again! They will take all the others. What shall we do?"

Mr. Flicker looked, and, true enough, there they were, coming over the hill through the orchard – two boys, and another. The agonized cries sounded through all the trees, coming not so much from the Flickers themselves as from the friendly cat-birds and robins and cedar waxwings and sparrows who, forgetting the slights they had received from the Flickers, joined in a noble effort to attract the attention of the intruders and keep them away from the cherry tree. On they came, however, paying not the slightest heed to the medley of cries about them – two boys and a gray insignificant person who seemed to be directing the cruel expedition. Straight to the cherry tree they made their way, up went the sprawling boy, and before the crazy birds could tell what had happened, the three were making their way back through the orchard again. The cat-birds followed them and the others kept up their cries for some time afterward.

At first Mrs. Flicker refused to return to her empty nest, but as night came on she grew calmer and decided not to abandon her home. She knew she could lay more eggs and raise another family, but she would not believe that there could ever again be such brave and beautiful babies as her stolen ones. As she at last came to the nest, she heard a soft little familiar call, and peeping in – lo! there were the babies just as she had left them except that the stolen one had been returned and lay cuddled safe and warm beside the others! There was a happy Flicker family in the old cherry tree that night.

Not long after this the cherries disappeared, and the baby Flickers, one by one, took their flying lessons and flew away on their own strong wings. Then the nest was molested no more. And when the banks of the creek were bright with golden-rod and asters, and the milkweed pods were bursting, the Flickers started on their southern journey. Of course the next summer is a long way off, and no one can tell what may happen. But it might be that even if the Flickers cannot forgive, they can forget – which is the better, after all, if you can do but one. And when the April days come round again, remembering only the fragrant air and the fat ant-hills of the orchard, they may return again to the cherry tree. Who knows?

Nell Kimberly McElhone.

TIGER-LILIES

I like not lady-slippers,Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,Nor yet the flaky roses,Red, or white as snow;I like the chaliced lilies,The heavy Eastern lilies,The gorgeous tiger-lilies,That in our gardens grow.For they are tall and slender;Their mouths are dashed with carmine;And when the wind sweeps by them,On their emerald stalksThey bend so proud and graceful —They are Circassian women,The favorites of the Sultan,Adown our garden walks!And when the rain is falling,I sit beside the windowAnd watch them glow and glisten,How they burn and glow!O, for the burning lilies,The tender Eastern lilies,The gorgeous tiger-lilies,That in our garden grow!Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

FLOWERS IN THE CRANNIED WALL

Flower in the crannied wall,I pluck you out of the crannies;Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,Little flower – but if I could understandWhat you are, root and all, and all in all,I should know what God and man is.Alfred Tennyson.

THE WILD YELLOW LILY

Among our common wild flowers, that quickly attract the attention of the observer is the Yellow Lily (Lilium canadense). Its home is in the swamps, the wet meadows and fields of Canada and the United States, east of the Missouri river. It is also called the Canada, the Field and the Meadow Lily.

This plant, with about forty-five sister species – all beautiful, belongs to the genus Lilium. All are natives of the Northern Hemisphere and are found distributed around the world. About sixteen species are natives of the United States. The flowers vary in color. Some are red, others white or yellow and some are more or less mottled.

No plants are more frequently mentioned in Ancient Myths and by the classical poets. Though the white lily (Lilium candidum) was, even before the time of Homer, known as a garden flower, yet the earliest descriptions of the lilies found in cultivation were written by Gerard in the year 1597.

It is thought by some that the "lilies of the field," spoken of in the seventh chapter of Matthew, are the red lily described by Pliny. The white lilies have long been considered the symbol of purity and were often used by the great masters in the pictures of the Annunciation, in which they were represented as held by the Angel Gabriel. How appropriate is the white lily, with its glossy and pure white petals for the decoration of Easter time!

The slender stalk of the Yellow Lily arises from a scaly bulbous and thickened underground stem, growing to a height of from two to five feet. The leaves are narrow and lance-shaped, from two to six inches in length and usually attached in whorls of from three to eight. Each stalk bears from one to fifteen flowers, the ground color of which is yellow or reddish with brownish spots toward the base of each division, which are six in number and are spreading and gracefully arched. The flowers, appearing in June, July and August, are nodding and vary in length from two to four inches. The fruit pods are oblong, large, and bear numerous seeds.

Closely related to the plant of our illustration, and at times closely resembling it, is the beautiful Turk's Cap Lily (Lilium superbum). This species is wonderfully prolific in the production of flowers, sometimes bearing forty or more on a single stalk. It is one of the tallest of the lilies, and frequently the marshes of the eastern states are transformed by its presence into striking masses of color, orange, orange-yellow or red.

WHAT DO WE OWE THE BIRDS?

The answer to this question needs to be presented from two distinctly different points of view – the commercial and the esthetic. In presenting the commercial point of view it will be necessary to ignore the use of any bird as an article of food, because we are now speaking of the living bird. Likewise it will be necessary to ignore the side which might be presented by the millinery trade, because that, too, has to do with the dead bird. We shall have occasion to present the general subject of the demands of fashion at a later time. This paper, then, is concerned only with our debt to the living bird.

In the of Birds and Nature some general remarks were made about what the birds eat. In this paper it will be necessary to go more into particulars in order to get clearly before us just wherein our debt lies.

First of all, we owe our physical comfort to the birds, because they check the increase in insect life. The mosquito and gnat, the horse fly and common housefly would soon rival the plagues of Egypt were the birds to disappear. If anyone doubts this let him go into the Cascade mountains where the scarcity of the birds gives great liberties to the "deer flies." And they take all liberties without so much as a "thank you, I guess I will!"

We owe our fruits largely to the birds. This statement anyone may prove by simple experiment. First drive the birds from your garden because you think they are eating the buds and blossoms, instead of the insects which sting the buds. You will be rewarded with a scanty and stunted fruit crop. Next conclude that you won't get fruit anyway, and so let the birds do as they please. You will be pretty sure to harvest a fairly good crop at least. Lastly, encourage the birds to visit your garden and orchard in their northward passage, as well as during the summer season. Build nesting boxes for the swallows, wrens and martins. Plant a mulberry tree for the fruit-loving robins and cat-birds. Now your fruit and garden are returning an abundant yield of the best grade. If the birds take a little for themselves have they not earned it? There is enough and to spare.

We owe corn and other grains largely to the birds, because they help to keep in check the insects which attack the cereals. During the grasshopper plagues very many birds feed upon the grasshoppers which do not usually touch grasshoppers. Probably chief among our grain field helpers is the Bronzed Grackle, who is so much in disfavor for the ravages he makes upon those same fields when the corn is in the roasting-ear stage. But he earns far more than he eats. The birds of prey destroy vast numbers of the little rodents which help themselves too freely to the planted grains.

We owe the preservation of the remnant of our forests, and all our trees and bushes largely to the birds who eat the insects which attack the trees and bushes. The woodpeckers are after the insect which is destroying the tree, not after the life of the tree.

Space would fail us to speak of the debt we owe to all the birds. There are the scavenger water-birds – gulls, terns and the like – the scavenger land birds – the vultures – the ducks, geese and swans, who check the encroachments of vegetable life upon our streams, ponds and lakes; the herons, cranes, rails, coots, gallinules and shore-birds, which feed upon the water and mud-inhabiting insects and other small animals; the sparrows and grouse, which destroy vast quantities of the seeds of harmful plants. In short, the only birds about whose usefulness there is any doubt are the English Sparrow, Crow, Blue Jay and four of the hawks. These are far too few for us to condemn all birds.

We cannot afford to overlook the esthetic side of this question. How much of our pleasure and happiness do we owe the birds directly for their intensely busy lives, the neatness and beauty of their dress, the perpetual joy of their songs? Can you imagine a world without birds? Are the returned warmth and the green vegetation all that make the summer months more pleasant than the winter season? Rob the tropics of their birds and you rob them of their heart. Pasadena, California, is a bird paradise, but take away its mocking birds, its orioles, its towhees, its gorgeous humming birds, and the many other birds which enliven every lawn, and you have taken away one of its chief charms.

But it is not simply that we are entertained by the birds, nor even that we are pleased with their neatness and beauty. Where their lives touch ours we feel an uplifting influence. We are better fitted for the service which it is our privilege to render to the world by the touch of the bird life. Our horizon is broadened beyond the self-interest, the egoistic, to the altruistic conception of life. We cannot live in the presence of these creatures so full of life without being spurred to more earnest effort ourselves. When we fail to see in the world of nature about us what it is our privilege to see we are losing that much of life. Let us open our eyes to all the influences that may shape our lives toward best living.

Lynds Jones.

TO THE VESPER BIRD

Sweet bird of twilight wake in meBright memories of melodyOutpoured from every nesting-treeAt early morning gray.O sing that I may ponder onThe songs away with noontide gone,Ere shadows troop across the lawnAnd voices die away.Long have I waited wistfully;And lest thy gift unheeded be,Lo, now my gardens are for thee,Thou truant all the day!Frank English.

THE VESPER SPARROW

In the fields, the pastures and along the roadsides of the Eastern United States and the British Provinces may be found the unobtrusive Vesper Sparrow (Poocaetes gramineus). It is also known by other names such as the Bay-winged Bunting or Sparrow, the Grass-Finch and sometimes, though incorrectly, it is called the Field Sparrow. The latter name should only be applied to one of the Chipping Sparrows (Spizella pusilla).

The characteristics of the male and the female are the same. The exposed part of the outer and the tip of the second tail feathers are white. This character is very marked as the bird alights. The feathers of the underside of the body are usually yellowish-white and the tops of the wings are a light chestnut-brown. It does not seem to shun one's presence, but will run along the side of the road, a short distance ahead, occasionally stopping for observation.

The Vesper Sparrow builds its nest on the ground without reference to any special plant protection except that of grass and other low herbage. The eggs are usually four in number, the general color of which is light gray marked, in a variable manner, by dull reddish-brown spots or blotches.