Knowing the Wild Flowers MARY ROGERS MILLER (The illustrations in this article are used by courtesy of Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, holders of copyright.) D (All rights reserved) O you remember that ingenuous young person who is supposed to have said, "It was so clever of Adam to call it a pig; it's so like a pig!" The person or persons who named the wild flowers did not always choose so well. Could anything be less appropriate for that charmingly delicate and lady-like favorite than its popular name, "Dutchman's breeches "? How daintily its white, heart-shaped blossoms hang on its slender flowerstalks, bowing rather apprehensively at the passing breeze! Its finely cut, light green leaves suit the flower exactly. There is nothing coarse about it except this name. Perhaps you may prefer to call it by one of its other common names; though they may seem a bit sentimental, "white-hearts" and " eardrops" are not inappropriate. We shall have to admit that the shape of the flower does suggest the masculine nether garment, but how much more poetical is Mrs. Mabel Osgood Wright's allusion to the blossom-" pairs of elfin trousers hung out to bleach." Young ferns Few of our wild flowers range over a greater territory than this one. If you live in the eastern half of North America you must have seen it. Wherever there are woods to supply its needs in the way of shade, moisture, and richness of soil, there it thrives. In the dark corner of your garden under the lilac bushes it may grow well if the spot is moist enough. But on a wooded slope it is at its best, and to enjoy its delicate beauty to the utmost we must visit it at home where the "atmosphere" is just right and the setting perfect. Naturalists who often go a-visiting their friends in woods and fields are likely to find that little winged visitors have been there before. These have evidently been there on business and it is, said that they often leave the Dutchman's breeches in sad need of patches. Only by keeping a sharp lookout can one discover who these visitors are and what their business really is. Their errand is a selfish one, I'll be bound, for people who enter not in by the door but choose some other way even though they have to cut through the walls, are usually thieves and robbers. To discover these pilferers and to learn what they are there for is to know one of the secrets of the woods! It is a nature study lesson that may be learned by children but not taught to them. We do not ordinarily get very well acquainted with our human neighbors without knowing some of their relatives and finding resemblances and family traits. When as a child I visited my aunts in a distant city they analyzed me almost as the botanist does a flower. Fortunately they did not pick me to pieces literally and scatter my parts. The idea of family resemblances was thus early impressed upon my notice. There is no more fascinating field for the student of human nature than this study of family likenesses and differences. We find the same field for investigation in the plant world. We know all the maples by their keys just as we know all the Carters by their noses! Many of their other characteristics may vary, but there are links that bind them together into families, and orders, and genera, and species. What these terms mean and which groups include the others are subjects for scientists to worry over. ine facts on which their classifications are based are matters of commonest knowledge and may be seen by little children. I like to find out which of the woodland flowers have relatives in the garden. It is like discovering that Molly 'Brown's city cousin whose name isn't brown at all, looks for all the world like Molly. Dress them both in Molly's blue gingham dresses and you can hardly tell them apart; the freckles, the tilted noses, the roguish eyes! It's a wonder they don't get mixed! If it wasn't for their hair I believe they would. Molly's is red and wavy. Her cousin's is light and straight. Come to look at them again, I see their mouths are not alike. -and-well, I think I would know them apart after all. Well, it is just like that with flowers and their relatives. You can't count on color at all. Lilies of the valley and lated. daisies are both white, but you would never think them reOne might as well consider the Browns and the Johnsons are cousins because they all have fair complexions! It would never do to depend on color. It is too variable. One must look for the family characteristics and look hard. Has little "white-hearts" any "city cousin" amongst the garden favorites? Set the children hunting and keep them at it. If you yourself know only by hearsay, get you to the garden and make your own comparisons. You will not have to search far. Your first clue will be likeness of foliage, then similarity of the arching flower sprays with their lightly hung pendants. How like old-fashioned "ear-bobs" are the bright flowers of precious old bleeding-heart! Children' love it. It refuses to be bound into the tight bouquet with straight stemmed border flag and flowering almond branches, brought from country homes to "the teacher" in early spring. It is better when combined with its own foliage in loose, graceful bunches. Bleeding-heart grows wild in China and we owe a debt of gratitude to Robert Fortune, a noted traveller, who sent the first plant to the new world in 1846. We can best pay our share of this debt by dividing the clump that grows in the home garden, with some neighbor who has none and by saving a good-sized piece for the school garden. Another of the relatives of the Dutchman's breeches is a charming vine, trailing its delicate leaves and fine tendrils over the low shrubs in the woods. It may be harder to identify this with the other two because its habit is so different. But in the leaves and in the flower you will see the family resemblances. This vine has many names, for it is found all the way from New England to the far west. It is often 'cultivated in gardens and is more worthy of a place there than many a rare, imported thing. Some call it Allegheny vine, others mountain fringe, while those who like more "botanical" names know it as the climbing fumitory or adlumia. Saxifrage There is endless interest in searching out these plant relationships and to find them all one must know the plants intimately all the year round.. Violets In April in the same woods that shelter the Dutchman's breeches there are violets. Nobody has to be told to love violets. It comes natural. And violets don't need formal descriptions. We know violets as the forester knows the oaks or the pines "by the looks of 'em." Yet do we know all that is worth knowing about them when we see that there are blue, white, and yellow ones; that some are delicately sweet-scented and others just smell green and spring-y? When do violets go to seed? How do they look in June? Do they depend on their seeds alone for making new generations of violet plants or are there root-stocks or runners? I tell you violets will bear watching through all of April and May. Nor will they reveal all their cunning contrivances except to the patient watcher. After the seed vessels have popped open (there! I almost told) you will think the show is over unless, you get a hint from some one to go deeper, or unless you are of an inquiring turn of mind. Push aside the broad leaves and look among the stems near the ground for the short runners or flower stalks which bear the apetalous (where's your dictionary?) flowers. What a day it will be for you when you discover these. They are there. If you don't find them first some sharp-eyed baby will be asking you what they are and how they came there. Read all you can find about violets in the Century Dictionary or some other available reference book, and then encourage questions. With the plant to help you, a good Blue violets $1 many questions will be answered before the term closes. Write down the questions for future use and don't tell all you know. If I thought you were going to give the children a lecture on violets and tell them everything interesting about them in one lesson so that they would never want to hear about violets again, I wouldn't have told you a thing! If your boys and girls look bored and wag their heads and say, "We've had violets," there is something wrong with the method. There must be too much "teaching" and to little "finding out." I wouldn't study violets every day in a primary school. Though I should hardly decline a fresh bunch of them every day. The violet belongs to a large family. If you put a violet plant with one of bleeding-heart, one of blue flag, and one of pansy, even a child would see that violet and pansy were first cousins. Children in the upper primary grades delight in this sort of study. But how are they alike? Is it the flowers, the leaves, the seeds, or the ways of doing things? How are they different? What becomes of the violets after the spring passes? Do they migrate like the birds in autumn, or have they, like butterflies, a chrysalis state in which to hibernate? Blood Root "Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower its bloom is shed." So runs it in my mind. If I have misquoted, I am sorry and ask the poet's pardon and the reader's. Poor Burns! He knew the ways of poppies and alas! of pleasures too. I wonder if he knew our blood-root, a member of the poppy tribe, one of April's choicest gifts to the woods. It has the family habit of "shedding its bloom." The best way to have it near at hand both for private gloating and for school study is to transplant some plants this year to the garden. I put some under a big tree along a fence row where the soil was rich and they did extremely well. The blood-root works all summer, rests all winter, and reigns for a short period in the spring. To-day the wind may be icy and the ground damp and unpromising. But let the sun come out to-morrow and as if by magic the ground is starred with white and gold. They are always a surprise. You have difficulty in "catching them at it." Daily visits will reveal their eccentric habits, if one may so speak. Blood-root is so aptly described in "Nature's Garden" that I will quote from it: "Snugly protected in a papery sheath enfolding a silvery-green leaf-cloak, the solitary erect bud rises from its embrace, sheds its sepals, expands into an immaculate golden-centered blossom that offers but a glimpse of its fleeting loveliness ere it drops its snow-white petals and is gone. . . . After its charms have been displayed, up rises the circular leaf-cloak on its smooth, reddish petiole, unrolls, and at length overtops the narrow, oblong seed-vessel." Another puts the description in poetical language: "While timid April smiles and weeps by fits, To sit and listen to the gurgling brook, And rouse herself from her long, winter nap. Soon she will throw her leafy cloak aside, And stand in shining raiment like a bride. .. Whiter than snow will seem Her spotless robe, the moss-grown rocks beside, And bright as morn her golden crown will gleam." We have so long identified the rather sanguinary name with this spotless flower that it no longer jars upon us. We have only to follow the suggestion in the name itself for the clue to its origin, then straightway test for ourselves the root of the plant and see the ruddy stain it makes on our fingers. It was undoubtedly used by Indians as war-paint, and gets another common name from this - Indian paint. If you gather these flowers in the ordinary way for a bouquet, you are almost sure to be disappointed. I, therefore, suggest that unless you can "pluck them gently, both root and flower," you leave them where they are, visiting their haunts as often as possible, and finding out their life history little by little, year by year. Trilliums On your way to the home of violets, Dutchman's breeches, and blood-root--and they live together in harmonious, neighborly fashion, apparently—you may have seen many a clump of fiddle-heads pushing through the leaf-mold, only waiting for warmer weather to transform them into fern fronds. You have brushed against anemones, and trampled on carpets of adder's-tongue. Maybe you have not noticed these smaller things; but you cannot have overlooked the wake-robins, or trilliums. You may begin now, before the blossoms are out in ordinary seasons, and continue their study until September. There are trilliums white and pink, and trilliums red. There are trilliums short and trilliums tall. There is one which is early enough to really wake the robins if they ventured to hide their heads under their wings till the last snowdrift had disappeared. There are trilliums which blossom so late that, if they wake any robins at all, it must be the first brood of nestlings. And they say there is one member of the family that has been cast out of the best society (among humans, at least), because it uses a perfumery of a most disagreeable kind; not quite so bad as skunk cabbage, perhaps, but quite bad enough. The trillium, wake-robin, or wood-lily, varies in height from the dwarfs of two inches to the giants which stand at least a foot and a half high. The parts are conspicuously ir threes or multiples of three: three leaves at top of the stem, three big green sepals spreading close under the three white or colored petals. In the very center are three slender styles surrounded by six anthers. It is not easy to mistake this plant for any other. After the flowers wither, the work of the plant goes on, if no accident befalls. Next summer, the result of all this array of snowy blossoms will be seen in the ruddy seed vessels, which one is sure to discover and wonder over some hot August day. Jack-in-the-Pulpit All this time, Jack-in-the-pulpit has been standing right under foot, and we should have passed him by if a sunbeam had not suddenly alighted upon him, making a perfect halo about his head. He really looks so jaunty and "fetching" in his dark, though handsome, suit, that you'd never suspect him of hiding a most villainous, hard, white root, called by some an "acrid corm," by others "Indian turnip." Neither of these terms is sufficiently expressive of the reality. If Indians habitually ate turnips of this variety. they should be pitied, not blamed, for their atrocious tempers! It is one of my favorite ideas that nature experiences should be at first hand. But, really, when it comes to tasting Indian turnip, I withdraw the obligation. I have tasted it! You may take my word for it, it doesn't kill; but it makes you feel like killing the person who urged you to taste it. If these flowers are gathered for study by the class, children may find insects, either alive or dead, within the open space below the pulpit. What they are there for, is their own business; we can easily guess their errand. But why the flower entices them there and then provides no easy way for them to escape, is unaccountable. Since Jack-in-the-pulpit has no use for any but live insects — and these serve him best when they carry pollen from flower to flower it seems a mysterious and short-sighted policy to provide no exit. The whole idea of cross-fertilization is too difficult for children, and should not, in my opinion, be thrust upon them, even in "words-of-one-syllable." It will come in good time, along with other wonders of the grammar school. It is a pity to spoil it by trying to teach primary pupils a subject which is so far removed from them psychologically. Who are the Jack-in-the-pulpit's relatives? Who but skunk cabbage, of unsavory odor, and calla lily- the very symbol of purity. Can you trace the resemblances? Down by the sluggish stream, where the frogs croak resonantly, and the blue flags thrust their broad, flat swords aloft, what are the pussy willows doing in April? Sometimes the branches have green knobs on the ends. Have you noticed these? They are but that is quite another story. Have the maples in the school-yard developed any keys yet, and are the hepaticas showing their seed-cases, or young leaves, soft like kittens' ears? not lose sight, from month to month, of the plants studied earlier. Only by consecutive observation shall we come to know them well. Song-sparrow twitters in singing, Peep from your leaf-hidden nest, Sweetly salute us, darling Arbutus, Baby on April's breast!" Do -George S. Burleigh I find the gayest castles in the air that were ever piled far better for comfort and for use than the dungeons in the air that are daily dug and caverned out by grumbling, discontented people.-Emerson J Six April Birds JULIA E. ROGERS (All rights reserved) "There's a good time coming and it's almost here, It's been long, long on the way." UNE is coming that is April's promise; but why say of June, "Then, if ever, come perfect days"? We may have such days without waiting; even now, when winter has scarcely disappeared around the corner. June spreads her bounties before us without reservation. Give me a day that offers much, but leaves something to the imagination. An April landscape teems with a fulness of promise that fairly takes you off your feet. June cannot give you a thrill to match it. It is easy for teachers to get to doing things mechanically. We must be born again, and the new birth comes to those who go out into the fields and woods. The life that throbs in budding trees and springing grass blades and feathered breasts the sun and the wind of April days - all these must get into our blood and set it racing. Winter thoughts melt away as does the ice gorge in the river under the warmth of the sun. We have six newcomers to meet and know among the many birds which reach us from the South this month. Here is our special errand. Put on suitable clothing, and never mind the weather. Rise superior to it. The better you know these birds the better you can teach them, and the more you will like to. We have been talking about the personality of birds, and their behavior as neighbors and friends. We have set about attracting them to our trees and bushes in hopes that we may come to know them better. Possibly we have been too strenuous in our attempts to interest our pupils in "the dear birds," and some boy is inclined to shy a stone at a robin just to show the girls that he is not soft-hearted. If you talk now about the cruelty of robbing birds' nests, and enlarge upon the sorrows of the mother bird, you will probably overdo the matter. It is a critical time. Why not leave the beaten path, and start on a new track? It is human nature to feel like doing the thing suggested by the most emphatic "Don't." Abandon the negative method. Adopt the positive. Substitute an urgent "Do" for each " Don't." Boys are often repelled by appeals to their emotions. They scorn sentiment. But sense, utility, etc., they are drawn to. The birds chosen for this month are all insecteaters, and a few observations on their feeding habits gives them a place as friends of man. Most of the insect hosts that appear with the opening of the leaves are our enemies, and without the birds to help, man would sadly fail in his efforts to keep them down. Just when some boy has watched the swallows catching gnats and mosquitoes in the barn yard, or a house wren foraging for bugs in the garden, bring in "The Birds of Killingworth," Longfellow's poem, and read it aloud to the school. Talk it over with the children. Write on the blackboard that glorious thought: ""Tis always morning somewhere, and above By writing to the Division of Publications, Department of Agriculture, Washington, D. C., and asking for the bulletins on "Food of Our Song Birds" and "Insects of Garden and Orchard," you can have the latest knowledge on these subjects very valuable pamphlets to lay on your desk as reference books. This practical point of view will appeal to the boys, and it will keep the girls from sentimentality. It will put virility into the study for you all. Bring in a branch and show how insects are despoiling the foliage. It is a more eloquent argument for the protection of insect-eating birds, and will do more to make your boys protect their nests and young than all your warnings and appeals could do. Understand me, this economic side taken alone is narrow; it must not overshadow, but rather supplement, the broader study of birds as our fellow-creatures. It has a pedagogical value it keeps the subject from being stigmatized by boys as "a girls' study." "The Barn Swallows are here!" is the word that calls us all out of doors. There they are, wheeling in wonderful circles, or skimming the ground with long, low sweeps. So fast they fly we can at first make out only that they are small birds, scarcely larger than English sparrows with slim bodies, long, gracefully forked tails, and wings of unusual length and spread. Evidently these birds are built for long flights. Now they perch in a row on the telegraph wire, balancing themselves by dropping their tails, and crossing their pointed wings behind their backs. But the one thing we shall know the bird by is its "swallow tail," for no other bird wears so pronounced a style of coat. Off they go like arrows, each intent on a breakfast of insects caught on the wing-mosquitoes, midges, and gnats are dainty morsels for their fare, and it takes industry to gather a meal of them. And when the young ones cry in the mud-and-straw nests up among the rafters of the barn roof, the mortality among insects is greatly increased. The cows are tormented in the barn yards at night if there are no swallows. These birds twitter; they do not sing. Yet the cheery tones of the swallow-talk is always music to the ear. They are busy and active, and their talk keeps time with their work, whatever it is. The Eave Swallow builds in colonies under the eaves of buildings and against the faces of cliffs. The nests are inverted gourd-shaped structures, built entirely of mud. The Bank Swallow digs far into the earthen wall of some stream or clay bank, and makes her nest in the dark pocket. But neither of these birds is as beautiful or as interesting as the barn swallow, though in some ways they are very much like him. The Chimney Swallow is really no swallow at all, but a Swift, related to the night hawks and whippoorwills. The nests hung in the chimneys are made of twigs and not at all of mud. The Brown Thrasher Before the month is half out some boy or girl is sure to hurry in and say that a brown bird with speckled breast is flying in and out of the shrubbery and evergreens in the school-yard. That is surely a newcomer, and you send Susie and Mary and George out to find out all they can about the new bird in five minutes. When you tap on the window sash they come in, their eyes sparkling, and the cross-questioning begins. "How big is it?" "About as big as a robin, but longer and slimmer." "It's got a 'nawful- a very long tail." "Its back is like a robin's breast - cinnamon brown, only lighter colored." "The breast is almost white and all spotted close together with big brown spots." "What kind of bill?". "It's long and curves down." "The eyes are yellow." "Did it fly or walk?" "It hopped like a robin at first, and then flew to the top of the arbor vitæ tree, and all the while it flapped its tail up and down. A robin never does that." "Did it sing?" |