St. Nicholas/Volume 32/Number 1/Nature and Science/Know
Feathers of wounded doves.
Dear St. Nicholas: Will you tell me why doves shed their feathers when wounded?
Doves or pigeons do not shed their plumage when wounded. The feathers cut by the shot, and those in the injured skin (not very strongly attached) near the wound, would of course drop out; hence the incorrect belief, common in many places, on which your question is based.
Upper and lower sides of a leaf.
Dear St. Nicholas: Please tell me why a leaf is of lighter color on the under than on the upper side. I have noticed this especially on grape-leaves.
If a leaf, especially one thin and somewhat translucent, is examined by the aid of a compound microscope, it will be seen that the green pulp has the appearance somewhat of a honeycomb. Ihere is an immense number of cells, some in rows and some irregularly arranged. A few of these cells are colorless and others contain more or less of the green coloring matter of the plant formed by the action of sunlight, Botanists call this green matter chlorophyl. The cells on the upper part of the leaf that are especially exposed to sunlight are well filled with chlorophyl, and are long and narrow, packed side by side closely together. These are called “palisade” cells.
A leaf of the grape-vine.
The lower green cells do not contain so much coloring matter, differ from one another in shape and size, and are laid together loosely, often with very minute air-spaces between them. This makes the under side of the leaf a lighter shade of green. Sometimes the light may be so reflected from these air-spaces as to give the leaf even a silvery or grayish appearance.
Sections of a leaf
A “lizard” in the ground.
Dear St. Nicholas: Last August I found a curious thing up in Chocorus, New Hampshire. I was with some men who were digging a ditch behind our house, when they found a lizard about two feet below the surface. It was about six inches long, and was green, It crawled a little; but they killed it, thinking it must he poisonous. Could you tell me what it was?
Your interested reader,
This was probably our common newt of an olive-brownish color, going through some underground spring. I know of no animal of that size and lizard-shaped that would be likely to burrow as much as two feet in the ground.
The beauty and interest of weeds.
Dear St. Nicholas: Across the commons from us there stands a little brown house where nothing thrives but poverty and weeds and happiness. Year after year the garden fails and the flowers die, but the weeds grow tall and straight and strong, and bring joy to the
“Lo! There stands an
ancient dame in green
kirtle and crumpled
yellow petticoats.”
This is the fruiting of the Indian mallow (Abutilon.)Little Girl, The Little Girl is a strange little girl. All the drowsy summer afternoons she lies in the shade of the great ragweeds, and dreams and plays. To her the ragweeds are
“This, inverted, the
little girl uses as a
potato-masher for her
pebble potatoes.” not ragweeds: they are tall, glorious trees wherein dwell wondrous songsters; a ladybug is a redbird, and a wandering fly a nightingale. At her head in a break in the ragweeds grows a tall buttonweed, ‘Lo the Little Girl its rich, golden lossom is as beautiful as the choicest rose. In the center is a wonderful bed of stamens—and the sepals
“The green-golden berries
furnish oranges for the dolly’s
table.” and petals are a gaily painted fence. Or, sometimes, the Little Girl turns them upside down, and lo! there stands ancient dame in green kirtle and crumpled yellow petticoats. The seed-pod is no less wonderful to her, Many a time she has pondered over its wondrous molding, and the blending shades of green, light at the top and shading down into dark, almost black. This, inverted, the Little Girl uses as a potato-masher for her pebble potatoes—but in her heart there is no lack of reverence.
At her feet, in company with the “tickle-grass,” the bull-nettle and nightshade grow side by side. To the Little Girl the berries of the latter two are the most beautiful of all the weeds. Big brothers have forbidden her to touch them, but she does not understand, and the green-golden berries of the bullweed furnish orangess daily for the dolly’s table. The strange structure of the nightshade berries she cannot understand; the thin transparent green walls through which the tiny seeds can be seen puzzle her.
“I guess they were made that way so that they could look up and see the stars,” she confided to me, one day. She meant the pure white, star-shaped blossoms with their protruding little yellow eyes, and I could but agree.
A vigorous growth of smartweed with the delicate pink and red and white blossoms fringes her playhouse—some of she plants at least two feet high, “These the Little Girl does not value so much; she plucks them to pieces, part by part, to see how many different colors of pink she can find, and then, in a fit of contrition, drops the poor mangled blossoms into the pan of cool water placed in the weeds for the chickens.
Tickle-grass, or wild rye.But far in the heart of the great weed patch there is a rich growth of goldenrod, and this, unsullied by the name of weed, is dearest of all the blossoms in the Little Girl‘s eyes. This she never plucks, but often, from my window, I see her bend over and press its sprays
to her cheeks, Here big brothers have never penetrated, even in their wildest games of hide-and-go-seek; only the Little Girl, seeing with finer eyes, knows the heart of gold in the refuse. And so an interest, subtle and strange as the fragrance of the goldenrod, hangs
over the Little Girl and her treasures.
Weeds in the West.
Dear St. Nicholas: If any of your readers are interested in weeds they should come to Kansas. We can furnish them with weeds of every conceiva-ble description from March to November. To the child from the pavements they would be a source of never-ending delight; but to the farmer lad who has to hoe them they are just weeds—rank, ugly weeds, to be cut and beaten out of existence. The queen of Kansas weeds is, of course, the sunflower. It begins early, and, if left alone, it grows and grows, until in July the stalk, as big as my wrist, sends out the gold-and-brown faces nodding above my head. The sunflower grows mostly along the roadsides, for if a field is properly cultivated they are not hard to destroy.
The berries of the nightshade
The jimson is an energetic weed which is not at all particular as to its location. If it happens to be in a rich garden spot, it is not at all backward in making itself conspicuous. But a dry, hard feedlot or barnyard is where it feels most at home, There, if unmolested, they will grow so closely together and in such proportions that, trying (o pass through them, one might think he had discovered a miniature forest. The plant has a white trumpet-shaped flower several inches long; and the seed-pod is about the size and shape of a good-sized plum, but covered with prickles. One of the most brilliant of weeds is the morning-glory. There is no lack of variety in color—sky-blue, deep purple, pink, or all these in one. When allowed to run riot they turn a thrifty (?) farmer’s field into as beautiful a flower-garden as you ever saw. Imagine a field of Kaffir corn with stalks bending over with the weight of hundreds of glories, Bur the morning-glory which causes most sorrow for the farmer is the “white” morning-glory, called by some the “wild sweet potato.” This is a perennial and has a fleshy root, It does no goud to plow it up, for every joint of root or vine which touches the ground straightway sends out another plant,
There is the cockle-bur, which can be described only as a bur, just a little bunch of prickles. This is one of the most troublesome of weeds, It generally grows after the corn is “laid by,” and if the farmer is to thoroughly remove it he must go over the field and pull it by hand, In a field of fifty to one hundred and fifty acres this is no small task, There is also the stick-tight, or devil’s bootjack, As the seeds grow on the stalk, they form a sort of ball; but let this brush against one’s dress, it instantly flies to pieces, and each little seed or “boot-jack” turns upside down and fastens by its prongs.
Of the thistles, the most innocent-looking is the Russian thistle, When young, it looks like a handful of green hair. But as it grows the little hairs become stiff bushing stalks, changing the pretty little plant to an ugly thing almost as large as a wagon-wheel. When the wind loosens it from the earth it goes rolling and tumbling over the prairies until stopped by a fence or grove. For such a harmless weed, it caused quite a commotion on its advent to us country. Congress came very nearly appropriating a surprisingly large amount of money for its extermination.
Your constant reader,
The weeds of the fields.
Dear St. Nicholas: Imagine a waste field, where the hand of man is not felt, a side-hill field bounded by a stone wall. Along the edge of the woods the blackberry bushes have grown tall and have mingled with the sumac that flaunts its glossy leaves in the bright
sunshine, The late wild-roses and early goldenrod are here, but it is with the weeds that we are con--
The wild morning-glory.
The wild carrot grows in profusion all around, and we must stop and look at a plant. The feathery leaves, almost the prettiest part of the plant, grow in a bunch upon the sand and from them rise the rough green stalks. How delicate the flowers are! The little brown speck in the center of each flower seems to accentuate the delicacy, and a pleasant carroty odor lingers around the plant, and grows stronger as we break the stems.
The “weedy” sunflowers by the roadside.
If we should take a look at this same field in winter we would sce the dried flowers, known as bird’s-nests, standing stiffly above the snow. A flock of chickadees, balancing on them, eat the sharp-pronged seeds, which seem to us hardly palatable.
Queen Anne’s Lace in a corner of a field.
The pest of the farmer, the delight of the naturalist.
It is only when we desire to cultivate certain plants that others become weeds—for “a weed is a plant that persists in growing where it is not wanted,” Hence the farmer is troubled with many weeds, for many kinds of plants struggle against the few kinds he wishes to have grow. Even the daisies in the mowing-lot and the goldenrod along by the pasture wall he regards as weeds. Aside from any desire to cultivate certain plants, our young folk regard all plants as does the grown-up botanist. All are beautiful and interesting, and none more so than those called weeds merely because they are very persistent in living and growing. And how interesting are the many forms and the zeal in the struggle for life! John Burroughs has well described them:
One is tempted to say that the most human plants, after all, are the weeds. How they cling to man and follow him around the world, and spring up wherever he sets his foot! How they crowd around his barns and dwellings, and throng is garden and jostle and override each other in their strife to be near him! Some of them are so domestic and familiar, and so harmless withal, that one comes to regard them with positive affection. . . . Knot-grass, that carpets every old dooryard, and fringes every walk, and softens every path that knows the feet of children, or that leads to the spring, or to the garden, or to the barn, how kindly one comes to look upon it!
The Wild Carrot in Winter.