SOMETIMES I THINK PLANTS CAN SEE AND HEAR
It was about a week after this that Davy and Prue came to the Chief Gardener with their hands filled with leaves.
"We want you to tell us about them," they said. "There is a lot of kinds and shapes, and some we can't tell whether they are simple or compound, or anything."
The Chief Gardener looked over their collection.
"Well," he said, "I am afraid you are getting ahead too fast. It would take a real sure-enough botanist to tell all about these leaves."
Davy picked up a daisy leaf.
"Is that simple or compound?" he asked.
"It's mostly ribs," laughed the Chief Gardener. "There really isn't much leaf about a daisy leaf, but what there is of it is simple, only it is so cut and sprangly that it might almost be called a compound leaf."
They looked at many others in the collection, and the Chief Gardener explained as far as he could.
"You will learn all the names of the different shapes some day," he said, "but it is too much for little folks. I suppose, though, you might remember the parts of a leaf. They are the blade, the stem, and the stipules."
"This is the blade, and this is the stem," said Davy, "but what are stipules?"
The Chief Gardener picked up a red clover leaf, and pointed to a little thin pale-green husk where the stem joined the main stalk.
"Those are stipules," he said. "In the clover they grow together, as one. The stipules are a part of the outside of the leaf-bud. When the bud opens, and the leaf goes out into the world, the stipules stay behind. Sometimes they are like little leaves, and take up air for the plant, just as the leaves do. Sometimes they almost take the place of leaves, and are quite large. Sometimes they are very tiny, and some plants have no stipules at all."
"THERE IS A LOT OF KINDS AND SHAPES"
"But leaves have veins, too," said Davy.
"Those are parts of the blade. The blade has ribs—they make a framework which holds it together; also veins—the fine threads which help to carry the sap. You see, plants are a good deal like ourselves, and live much in the same way. Some leaves have only one strong rib through the center—a sort of a backbone. Some have as many as six or seven."
They talked about these things, and looked at the different leaves and stems. Then they spoke of the stalks of different plants, and the Chief Gardener explained how the tender stalk of the lowliest plant, that of the tall twining vine, and the trunk of the giant oak, were all one and the same, only different in kind. Each came at some time from a tiny seed. Each put forth buds and leaves and branches. Each was made to withstand the storm—the oak by its strength, the vine by its fast hold on the wall or lattice, the tender plant through its lowliness.
"Oh," said Davy suddenly, "that makes me think of something. Our Virginia creeper on the front lattice has three ways to climb."
"What are they, Davy?"
"Why, it twists, for one way."
"Twines, you mean."
"Yes, twines, and then it has little curlers, like a grape-vine."
"Tendrils, they are called, Davy."
"And little clingers, like an ivy."
"Feet, you should say. Yes, I have noticed that. A lattice is not very well suited to a Virginia creeper, and ours has to try every way known to vines, to hold on. I have never known all three ways on one vine before. But vines are very curious things. Sometimes I think they can see and hear. I know they can feel, for a honeysuckle shoot will grow perfectly straight until it touches something that can be climbed. Then it will begin to twist so fast you can almost see it."
"But why do you think they can see and hear?" asked little Prue.
"I don't know that I do really think so, but I have tried every way I can think of to keep those morning-glories of yours from running up my little pear-tree. I have pushed them away, and tied them away, and I have even cut some of them away. But if I turn my back for a day, or even a half a day, there is one of them starting up the stalk, or, at least, reaching out for it as hard as ever it can."
Little Prue laughed, and ran over to see. Yes, there it was—a fuzzy green shoot half-way up the little pear-tree, and three more reaching out in the same direction.
"A vine will grow in the direction of a tree or shrub, if it is half way across the garden from it. Whether it hears or sees, or, perhaps, smells it, I do not know. Some vines will turn out of their way for a drink."
"For a drink! Oh, Papa!"
"Yes, certain melon vines. In dry weather they will turn to find a pan of water set several feet away. I suppose they can sense the moisture from it."
The children talked the rest of the afternoon about these curious things. They found where a scarlet runner had traveled several feet through the grass to reach a peach-tree, and had climbed far up into its branches. Then Davy happened to remember the story about the vines which the Chief Gardener had told them during the winter, and told it all over to little Prue—how the honeysuckle had laughed at the scarlet runner and the morning-glory, and had been punished by being made to twine to the left, away from the sun, instead of to the right, toward it, like the morning-glory and the bean. So the happy summer day passed, and in the cool of the evening big Prue came out to watch the sun go down, and in the pleasant arbor they all had tea together.
III