BIRDS AND NATURE
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.

Vol. VIII.

No. 2.

SEPTEMBER, 1900.

CONTENTS.

SEPTEMBER.

The golden-rod is yellow;

The corn is turning brown;

The trees in apple orchards

With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes

Are curling in the sun;

In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,

In every meadow nook;

And asters by the brook-side

Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning

The grapes' sweet odors rise;

At noon the roads all flutter

With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens

September days are here,

With summer's best of weather,

And autumn's best of cheer.

Helen Hunt Jackson.

Copyright, 1900, by A. W. Mumford.

THE MALLOWS.

A number of interesting plants are found grouped under the name of the Mallow Family (Malvaceae). They are the common Mallow, a weed of waysides and cultivated grounds; the Indian Mallow or Velvet-leaf, with its large velvety leaves and yellow flowers, a visitor from India which has escaped from cultivation and become a pest in corn and grain fields and waste places; the Musk Mallow, which has also escaped from our gardens; the Marsh-Mallow, the root of which abounds in a mucilage that is extensively used in the manufacture of confections; the Hollyhock of our gardens, which was originally a native of China and the beautiful Rose-Mallow of our illustration.

The Mallow Family includes about eight hundred species which are widely distributed in the temperate and tropical countries. The technical name is from a Greek word having reference to the soothing effect produced by many of the species, when applied to wounded surfaces.

All are herbs. Most of those found in the United States have been introduced from Europe and Asia. Only a very few are native, and no one of these is very common.

The flowers and fruits are all similar in structure to that of the common hollyhock.

The disk-like fruits of the common round leafed Mallow of our dooryards are often called "cheeses" by the children and are frequently gathered and eaten by them. The cotton plant, one of our most important economic plants, is also closely related to the Mallow. The Cotton of commerce is the woolly hair of the seeds of this plant which is a native of nearly all tropical countries and is cultivated in temperate regions.

The beautiful Rose-Mallow has its home in the brackish marshes of the Atlantic sea coast. It is also occasionally found on the marshy borders of lakes and rivers of the interior.

The plants grow to the height of from three to eight feet. The leaves are egg-shaped and the lower ones are three-lobed. The under side of the leaves is covered with fine and soft whitish hairs.

The flowers, produced in August and September, are large, varying from four to eight inches in diameter, and may be solitary or clustered at the top of the stem. The color of the petals is usually a light rose-pink, but occasionally white, with or without crimson at their bases.

Neltje Blanchan in "Nature's Garden" speaks of this beautiful plant as follows:

"Stately ranks of these magnificent flowers, growing among the tall sedges and 'cat-tails' of the marshes, make the most insensate traveler exclaim at their amazing loveliness. To reach them one must don rubber boots and risk sudden seats in the slippery ooze; nevertheless, with spade in hand to give one support, it is well worth while to seek them out and dig up some roots to transplant to the garden. Here, strange to say, without salt soil or more water than the average garden receives from showers and hose, this handsomest of our wild flowers soon makes itself delightfully at home under cultivation."

EAGLE LORE.

CURIOUS STORIES OF THE OLD-TIME FAITH IN THE "KING OF THE FEATHERED TRIBES."

Birds were trusted, honored and made the symbols of wisdom and power in the old time, and they have not, at least in their emblematical signification, been neglected in modern times. The eagle, in particular, is exalted to a high and potential distinction. On the banner of a hundred States he is displayed as a conquering symbol and floats to-day over many a fair realm where Rome's imperial standard never penetrated.

The eagle has always been considered a royal bird, and was a favorite with the poets. They called him king of the air and made him bear the thunderbolts of Jove. Euripides tells us that "the birds in general are the messengers of the gods, but the eagle is king, and interpreter of the great deity Jupiter."

The eagle figures in the early legends of all people. When the ancient Aztecs, the mound-builders of the Mississippi Valley, were moving southward under Mexi, their king, their god, Vitziputzli, whose image was borne in a tabernacle made of reeds and placed in the center of the encampment whenever they halted, directed them to settle where they should find an eagle sitting on a fig-tree growing out of a rock in a lake. After a series of wanderings and adventures that do not shrink from comparison with the most extravagant legends of the heroic ages of antiquity, they at last beheld perched on a shrub in the midst of the lake of Tenochtitlan a royal eagle with a serpent in his talons and his broad wings opened to the rising sun. They hailed the auspicious omen and laid the foundation of their capital by sinking piles into the shallows. This legend is commemorated by the device of the eagle and the cactus, which forms the arms of the modern Mexican Republic.

A goose, it is said, saved Rome once upon a time, but it was an eagle that directed the selection of the ancient Byzantium—now Constantinople—as the capital of the Eastern Empire. The site of ancient Troy had been settled upon by Constantine, and the engineers were engaged in surveying the plan of the city, when an eagle swooped down, seized the measuring line, flew away with it and dropped it at Byzantium. At any rate, this was the story told to the soldiers and marines, in order to reconcile them to the change of plan, which they might otherwise have deemed an unfavorable omen, though the splendid situation of the new capital and its long prosperity, prove how admirably sagacious was the choice of its founder.

In the reign of Ancus Martius, King of Rome, a wealthy man, whose name was Tarquin, came to that city from one of the Etruscan States. Sitting beside his wife in his chariot, as he approached the gates of Rome, an eagle, it is said, plucked his cap from his head, flew up in the air, and then, returning, placed it on his head again. Not a few suspect that the eagle was a tame one and had been taught to perform this trick. If so, however, the apparent prodigy lost none of its effect in the popular belief, and Tarquin succeeded Ancus as King of Rome. The eagle's head on the Roman sceptre, and later on its standard, took its origin from this occurrence.

Plutarch, in his life of Theseus, relates that when Cymon was sent by the Athenians to procure the bones of that hero, who had long before been buried in Scyros, to reinter them in his former capital, he found great difficulty in ascertaining the burial place of the ancient monarch. While prosecuting his search, however, he chanced to observe an eagle that had alighted on a small elevation and was trying with his beak and claws to break the sod. Considering this a fortunate omen, they explored the place and discovered the coffin of a man of extraordinary size, with a lance of brass and a sword lying by it. These relics were conveyed to Athens amid great rejoicing, where they found a resting place in the famous temple of Theseus, whose ruins are still in existence.

The old historians state that the Greek poet Aeschylus lost his life through an eagle's mistaking his bald head for a rock and dropping a tortoise upon it in order to break the shell of his amphibious prey, but which broke, instead, the poet's skull. That an eagle, proverbially the keenest-sighted of created things, should mistake a man's head for a stone is absurd beyond the necessity of comment. The story is probably intended for an allegory, showing how stupidity can overwhelm genius, or a dull criticism smash a lively poet.

In A. D. 431 there was war between the Emperor Theodosius II. and Genseric the Vandal, and Marcian, the general of the former, was taken prisoner. The unfortunate captive was doomed to death. At the place of execution an eagle alighted on his head and sat there some time undismayed by the tumult around it. Upon seeing this, and believing that the captive was destined for some exalted fortune, Genseric pardoned him and sent him home. About eighteen years afterwards Theodosius died, and, as his sister had married Marcian, the latter became Emperor of Constantinople.

During the wars between the Christians and the Moors, of Spain, a Spanish knight engaged in combat with a gigantic Moslem. The conflict remained undecided for a long time, but at last the Spaniard began to lose ground. At this juncture an eagle, swooping from above, flew into the face of the Moorish giant, and, taking advantage of this sudden and miraculous intervention, the Spanish champion plunged his sword into the heart of his antagonist, thus winning the battle.

Rudolph, count of Hapsburg, one morning was looking out of his castle window upon the surrounding country, and while thus engaged noticed an eagle circling strangely above a certain place in the forest. Taking some men at arms he proceeded to the spot, where he found a beautiful and high-born lady held captive by a band of robbers. He rescued her and afterwards married her. When a new emperor was wanted in Germany he obtained the election through the influence of his wife's relatives. In this romantic fashion began the glory of the present reigning house of Austria.

I have alluded to the prominence of eagles in the arms of nations and individuals. The famous ensign of the Roman legions verified the text of Scripture when, in referring to the eagle, Job says: "Where the slain are there is she," for the Roman bird flew over nearly the whole known world and delighted in destruction and in threatening it. The Byzantine Caesars sported a double-headed eagle to indicate that they were lords of both the Eastern and the Western world. The Russians adopted the symbol from those princes. About four hundred years ago a lady, who claimed to be the heir of the Byzantine Emperor, married Ivan III., Czar of Russia, who, therefore, assumed the Greek arms, which may possibly be restored again to Constantinople by Russian arms.

The United States chose for her emblem the same imperial and triumphant bird. Some have considered it as not altogether an appropriate device for our republican government. Students of natural history have observed that the eagle is mean and cowardly. He lives, moreover, a life of rapine, plundering birds that are bolder and more industrious than himself. This is rather a bad character for our national bird.

The ancients would probably be horrified at such a criticism of their royal bird, and, after all, it is not surprising that they held him in such reverence. These people of the long ago had no books nor newspapers, but they were proficient students in the book of nature. By them the birds were accounted prophets, and by their varied flights they foretold future events and regulated the movements and enterprises of nations.

We call the wisdom of birds instinct, but they considered it divine intelligence. Nor was it strange that they should take them for the interpreters of fate, seeing that in many things the birds were wiser than themselves, for they seemed to have a knowledge of the future that was denied to man.

We have some idea of how these people regarded the movements of the birds from one of the ancient Greek writers, who, in a play entitled "The Birds," makes them give the following account of themselves: "We point out to man the work of each season. When the crow takes his flight across the Mediterranean it is seed-time—time for the pilot to season his timber. The kite tells you when you ought to shear your sheep; the swallow shows you when you ought to sell your watch-coats, and buy light dresses for the summer. We birds are the hinge of everything you do. We regulate your merchandise, your eating and drinking, and your marriages."

This Greek play-writer probably voiced the sentiments of the majority of the people, who had implicit faith in what they called "the prophecies of the birds;" and it is not surprising that they endowed the eagle—the king of the feathered tribes—with almost supernatural wisdom.

Phebe Westcott Humphrey.

THE SNOWDROP'S PHILOSOPHY.

"I should think you'd lose heart in this frosty air,"

Said a sparrow one day to a snowdrop fair.

"You're almost hidden down there in the snow,

And I see you shiver whene'er the winds blow.

If I were you I wouldn't bloom

If I couldn't grow with the roses in June.

What right have they any more than you,

To live in the summer when skies are blue

And bright with sunshine the whole long day?

They have it easy enough, I must say;

But you're so meekly quiet and white,

You're afraid to speak up when you have the right."

"But, my dear," said the snowdrop, "can't you see

That summer can do very well without me?

My place is to blossom right here in the snow,

No matter where the roses grow.

It's lovely to be a summer flower,

But I am content to do all in my power

To sweeten the gloom of this wintry day,

And be brave if the sky is so cold and gray.

I cannot be helpful by being sad;

I have my work and that makes me glad

To bloom my fairest and grow my best,

And let kind nature do all the rest."

Wildea Wood.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our mother Nature laughs around,

When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,

And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;

The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,

And the wilding-bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,

And here they stretch to frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower;

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree;

There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,

And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles

On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray;

On the leaping waters and gay young isles—

Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away!

William Cullen Bryant.

FLOWERS AND THEIR INVITED GUESTS.

It must be taken for granted in this paper that the reader has such knowledge of the parts of the flower as could be obtained from the paper on "A Typical Flower," printed in the June number.

When flowers first appeared it became necessary to secure the transfer of the pollen grains to the stigmas. This was necessary in order that the ovule might be developed into a seed containing a young plant or embryo. At first the currents of air were selected as the agents of this pollen transfer, and the flowers were adapted to what is known as wind-pollination. As the wind is an inanimate agent any transfer by it is largely a matter of chance. In order to increase the chances of successful pollination it was necessary for pollen to be developed in enormous quantities, so that it might fall like rain. In this way stigmas would be reached, but at the same time an enormous amount of pollen would be wasted. The evergreens are good illustrations of wind-pollinated plants, and their showers of pollen are very familiar to those who live near pine forests. When these showers come down in unaccustomed regions they are often spoken of as "showers of sulphur," and the local newspapers are full of accounts of the mysterious substance.

In wind-pollinated plants not only must the pollen be excessively abundant, but it must also be very light and dry. Sometimes the buoyancy is increased by the development of wings on the pollen grains, as in the case of pines. This habit of pollination is found not only among the evergreens, but also among many important families of the higher plants, as in the ordinary forest trees, the grasses, etc.

When the higher forms appeared, however, flowers of a different character gave evidence that a new type of pollination was being devised. Instead of the old wasteful method, insects were called in to act as agents of the transfer. By securing an animate agent there is a definiteness in the pollination and a saving in pollen production which is quite in contrast with the wind method. It must not be supposed that all flowers have learned to use insects with equal skill, for many of them may be said to be clumsy in their arrangements. On the other hand, certain families have reached a high degree of organization in this regard, and arrange for insect visits with a skill and completeness of organization which is astonishing.

In order to secure visits from insects, so that pollination may be effected, flowers have been compelled to do several things. In the first place, they must provide an attractive food. This has taken two prominent forms, namely, nectar and pollen. There are insects, such as butterflies, which are not only attracted by the nectar, but whose mouth parts have only been adapted for sucking up a liquid. There are other insects, however, like the bees, wasps, etc., which are able to take the more substantial pollen as food. Accordingly insects which visit flowers may be roughly divided into the two classes, nectar-feeders and pollen-feeders.

In the second place, the flower must notify the insect in some way that the food is present. This is done primarily by the odors which flowers give off. It must not be supposed that odors which are sensible to us are the only ones sensible to insects, for in general their sense of smell is far keener than ours. It is also probably true that the display of color, which is so conspicuously associated with flowers, is an attraction to insects, although this has become somewhat doubtful lately by the discovery that certain insects which were thought to be attracted by color have proved to be color blind. At present, however, we have no reason to suppose that color is not associated in some prominent way with the visits of insects.

It should be noticed, also, that two kinds of pollination are possible. The pollen may be transferred to the stigma of its own flower, or it may be carried to the stigma in some other flower, and this other flower may be some distance away. The former method may be called self-pollination, the latter cross-pollination. It seems evident that flowers in general have made every effort to secure cross-pollination. This would seem to imply that it is a better method for some reason, although we may not be able to explain why. Apparently, however, while flowers in general have tried to secure cross-pollination, they have not entirely abandoned the chances of self-pollination, so that if one should fail the other may be used. In this way it will be found that a great many plants have two kinds of flowers, the ordinary showy kind, and in addition to them inconspicuous flowers which are never seen except by those acquainted with their presence. For example, in the common violet, in addition to those flowers with which everyone is familiar, others are developed which are concealed by the cluster of leaves, which never open, but which are able to produce very well developed seeds.

With nectar and pollen provided as food, and with odor and color notifying the insects of their presence, it remains to be noted that the suitable insects are those which fly. A creeping insect is of no avail in the work of pollination, since the pollen will be rubbed from its body as it crawls from one flower to the next. How the flowers ward off the visits of creeping insects, which are attracted as well as the flying ones to the food provided, will be described in a subsequent paper.

A good illustration of the workings of insect pollination may be found in the sweet pea, or in any member of the pea family. The flower has a rough resemblance to a butterfly, whose projecting body is represented by a structure like the keel of a boat. In this keel is a cluster of stamens, and also the pistil with its stigma at the top. While lying in this keel the stamens shed their pollen upon the style, which usually has hairs or some sticky surface to receive it. Accordingly the style bears the stigma on top and masses of pollen stuck to its sides below. An insect being attracted to such a flower naturally lands upon the keel as upon a shelf, with its head toward the center of the flower, where the nectar is deposited. If the insect is heavy enough the weight of its body pushes down the keel, but the contained style is anchored, so that it seems to dart out, and strikes the insect's body, first with the stigma at the tip, and then glancing along rubs its side against the body of the insect. The insect flies away with pollen rubbed upon its body, and when it goes through the same performance at another flower, the new stigma strikes it first and gets some of the pollen, and then some more pollen is smeared on, and so the pollen is carried from one flower to the stigma of another flower. It is easy to see the effect of the weight of a heavy insect by pressing down the keel with a pencil, when the style will be seen to dart forth at the tip.

Perhaps one of the most common ways of securing pollination is that in which the pollen and stigma are not ready at the same time in the same flower. The pollen may be ready to shed, but the stigma is not ready to receive, or the reverse may be true. This would seem very effective in preventing self-pollination. Illustrations of this kind are exceedingly numerous, but perhaps as common a one as any is furnished by the great fireweed, Epilobium. It has a conspicuous purple flower, and if a patch of the plants be examined the flowers will be found in two conditions. In one set the cluster of stamens will be found projecting straight out from the flower, while the style with its stigma is turned back out of the way under the flower. In the other set the stamens, having shed their pollen, are turned back behind the flower, while the style has straightened up, and the mature stigma holds the same position that the anthers did the day before. An insect, in visiting such a group, therefore, may fly straight towards a flower whose stamens are projecting and shedding, and its body will be dusted with the pollen. If it now flies to a flower which is a little older, whose stamens are out of the way, but whose style is projecting, its body carrying the pollen will strike the stigma. In this way the pollen is very effectively transferred from one flower to another.

It would be impossible to give any adequate account of the subject of insect-pollination in general, as it is an immense subject with an ever-increasing literature. Every kind of flower has its own particular way of solving the problem, so that the subject will never be completed until all flowers have been questioned and their answers obtained.

Any account, however brief, should not omit mention of the orchids, which in the matter of insect-pollination have reached the highest degree of organization. So detailed are their adaptations that each kind of flower is adapted to a particular kind of insect. The accounts given of the various ways in which orchids attract insects and secure pollination really surpass belief, until one has actually observed some of the plants and their insects at work. Any greenhouse furnishes abundant examples of orchids, and our illustration represents one of the most common of our native orchids, the ordinary yellow Lady-slipper. In most orchid flowers there is a long tubular spur, at the bottom of which the nectar is found, which is to be reached by long probosces, such as can be found only in moths and butterflies. In Lady-slippers, however, there is a different arrangement. The flowers have a conspicuous pouch in which the nectar is secreted, and a flap overhangs the opening of the pouch. Behind the flap are the two pollen masses, between which is the stigmatic surface. A bee crowds itself away into the pouch and becomes imprisoned, and may frequently be found buzzing about uneasily. The nectar is in the bottom of the pouch, and after feeding the bee moves toward the opening overhung by the flap, and rubs itself against the stigma and then against the anthers, receiving the pollen on its back. A visit to another flower will result in rubbing some of the pollen upon the stigma, and in receiving more pollen for another flower.

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 stalks

They 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 window

And 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 understand

What 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 [ June number] 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 me

Bright memories of melody

Outpoured from every nesting-tree

At early morning gray.

O sing that I may ponder on

The songs away with noontide gone,

Ere shadows troop across the lawn

And 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.

When frightened from her nest the mother-bird will endeavor to attract the attention of the intruder by slowly flying away and occasionally feigning injury by falling.

Mr. John Burroughs, in his little book, "Wake Robin," writes in an admirable manner of the song and habits of this little bird. He says: "Have you heard the song of the Field-Sparrow? If you have lived in a pastoral country, with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have missed him. Wilson, I believe, calls him the Grass-Finch, and was evidently unacquainted with his powers of song. The two white lateral quills of his tail, and his habit of running and skulking a few yards in advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to identify him. Not in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy pasture grounds, will you look for him. His song is most noticeable after sundown, when other birds are silent, for which reason he has been aptly called the Vesper Sparrow. The farmer following his team from the field at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not so brisk and varied as that of the Song-Sparrow, being softer and wilder, sweeter and more plaintive. Add the best parts of the lay of the latter to the sweet vibrating chant of the Wood Sparrow (Spizella pusilla), and you have the evening hymn of the Vesper-bird—the poet of the plain unadorned pastures. Go to those broad, smooth, uplying fields, where the cattle and sheep are grazing, and sit down on one of the warm, clean stones, and listen to this song. On every side, near and remote, from out the short grass which the herds are cropping, the strain rises. Two or three long, silver notes of rest and peace, ending in some subdued trills or quavers, constitute each separate song. Often you will catch only one or two of the bars, the breeze having blown the minor part away. Such unambitious, unconscious melody! It is one of the most characteristic sounds in Nature. The grass, the stones, the stubble, the furrow, the quiet herds, and the warm twilight among the hills, are all subtly expressed in this song; this is what they are at least capable of."

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The ocean looketh up to heaven

As 'twere a living thing;

The homage of its waves is given

In ceaseless worshiping.

They kneel upon the sloping sand,

As bends the human knee,

A beautiful and tireless band,

The priesthood of the sea!

They pour the glittering treasures out

Which in the deep have birth,

And chant their awful hymns about

The watching hills of earth.

The green earth sends its incense up

From every mountain-shrine,

From every flower and dewy cup

That greeteth the sunshine.

The mists are lifted from the rills,

Like the white wing of prayer:

They lean above the ancient hills

As doing homage there.

The forest-tops are lowly cast

O'er breezy hill and glen,

As if a prayerful spirit pass'd

On nature as on men.

The clouds weep o'er the fallen world,

E'en as repentant love;

Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl'd,

They fade in light above.

The sky is as a temple's arch,

The blue and wavy air

Is glorious with the spirit-march

Of messengers at prayer.

The gentle moon, the kindling sun,

The many stars are given,