[to be continued.]
[THE THIRSTY FLOWERS.]
BY MRS. SOPHIE B. HERRICK.
Fill a glass with water, and let a piece of common tape or a strip of muslin hang so that its lower end shall dip into the water, and then notice it: the liquid creeps slowly but surely up the strip. If the end which you have in your hand is dropped on the table beside the glass, the goblet may be entirely emptied, the water running up over the edge of the glass before it runs down again. This behavior of water would seem very queer if we had not noticed something of the kind all our lives. It is caused by what is called capillary attraction. Whenever one part of a material full of fine openings which lead through it is dipped into a liquid, the fluid runs through the whole stuff, even if it has to run upward. Try a lump of sugar: put one corner into your cup of tea or hot milk, and watch it soak the lump through. The burning of a lamp is upon the same principle. The wick serves to carry the oil from the globe of the lamp to feed the flame. As soon as the oil gives out, the light fades and dies away.
Fig. 1.—Cells. A, Leaf of Geranium Flower; B, Leaf of Sorrel.
Every part of a plant needs water: it must be close around every little cell. These cells are the tiny queer-shaped bags full of liquid that are packed close together, and make up the leaves, stems, and flowers of plants. In Fig. 1 you see the cells of a leaf of geranium flower, and one of sorrel or sour grass, which, if you are like the children I know, you have many a time eaten to get the pleasant sour taste. Well, every one of these tiny cells must be kept wet all the time, or the plant will die. The only way we can think of that water could get up into the leaves and flowers from the earth is by capillary attraction, as it runs up the slip of muslin. And if it were not for this singular behavior of water, the only plants in the world would be those that grow in the seas and rivers and lakes. The land would be as barren as the desert of Sahara.
Now try to think of some plant with all the earth away—a tree, for instance—and you will see that it is a sort of double growth; that there is an upside-down tree in the ground, with its trunk and branches and twigs, as well as one above the ground. The under-ground twigs do not bear leaves, but each one of them wears on its head a little cap or helmet to protect the tender growing part from being injured as it pushes its way through the hard earth. The most important parts of a tree are those that seem of least consequence, the rootlets and the leaves. These are to the tree what our mouths and stomachs and our lungs are to us: the roots are the feeders and the leaves the breathing apparatus of plants.
Fig. 2.—Corn Stalk cut across.
As the under-ground tree grows, the tender little roots push their way down into the darkness and cold of the deep soil; they find their way around stones and through great clods of earth, anywhere and everywhere, until they get their little noses into water or damp earth, and then they begin to suck. Sometimes it is only pure water that they take up from the earth, but generally it is a sort of broth—water with plant food dissolved in it.
The roots and stems and leaves are all full of little passageways running upward and branching and dividing until they reach the leaves. Fig. 2 shows a corn stalk cut across. You see some roundish holes, marked a; these are the ends of tubes that run through the stalk. When the corn begins to grow, take a stalk about two feet high, and cut it across; you will see little white spots all over the cut place. This figure is one of those white dots magnified.
Fig. 3.—Plant Mouths.
A, Corn Leaf: B, Bean Leaf, with Mouth: C, Mouth seen Sidewise.
When these tubes come into the leaves, they open into little spaces just under the outside skin of the leaf. These spaces are like the hollow of a mouth, and each one has generally two lips, that are sometimes open and sometimes shut. Through these tiny mouths (Fig. 3) the plant breathes. It draws in air, and it sends out, as you do, a mixture of air and water. If you want to know how much water there is in your own breath, try holding a piece of cold glass before your mouth.
Plants are not wasteful of the water so necessary to their lives. What they do not use they give back to the air from which it was received, as we make our thank-offerings to God of what He has given us. The roots suck up the water, and each little cell takes a drink as the water passes it, and hands on the rest to the cell just above it. And so the water takes its course, supplying each thirsty cell with drink as it passes, spreading through every part of the plant until it reaches the little mouths. And there all that is left is breathed out in a fine steam which you can not see until it touches some cold substances, and is turned into water again.
Some one who wanted to know exactly how much water was given back to the air by growing plants carefully examined a number of them, and found that a single sunflower gave off in twelve hours a pound and a quarter—enough to fill nearly to the brim three common table goblets. Another plant, the wild cornel, was found to breathe but more than twice its own weight of water in a day and a night.
Fig. 4.—Water-carrying Plants.
In order to find out what parts of the flowers were the principal water-carriers, a deutzia, one of our most delicate and beautiful spring flowers, which you probably know by sight if not by name, was put into some very blue water, colored with a mixture of what is called aniline, and in a little while every vein of the flower was a beautiful dark blue. The poor little blossom was, however, poisoned with its dose, and wilted away in a few minutes (Fig. 4).
The quantity of water that plants breathe off is so great that it makes an entire change in the climate when forests are cut down. Plants, like grasses and small weeds that grow on the surface, of course do not make the same difference, for their roots only go down a little way. But trees are very important: unless the air is kept damp by the sea or some large body of water, it depends very much upon trees for its moisture. Where there are no trees, the rain that does fall sinks into the earth, and runs away in little under-ground currents, and is lost. There are no deep roots to stop this waste, to suck up the water, and restore a large part of it to the air.
Fig. 5.—Cactus.
In places where the rain-fall is frequent, and the air is always kept soft, plants may be as lavish of their water as we are in the great cities where the supply never fails. Plants growing in such places very often keep their mouths open all the time. If this were the habit of those which grow in very dry places, they would soon perish of thirst. On the high Western plains beyond the Mississippi only a few things are able to live. Among these are some kinds of cactus plants, which you have probably seen in greenhouses or as window plants (Fig. 5). The reason why they manage to grow such bulgy leaves and fat stems where there is so little moisture, is because this plant is so very stingy of its water. It hoards it up as the travellers over the great African deserts do, knowing how hard it will be to get more. The roots of the cactus suck up every drop of water they can find, and the leaves keep their millions of little mouths tight shut so as to hold it all. Only such plants can grow on these plains as are able to do with very little water, or else are wise enough to hoard up all they can get. This water we have been talking about is not sap—that is the blood of the plant—but it is like the water we drink, and which not only helps to make the blood, but keeps all of the parts soft and moist so that it may live. The largest part of every living thing is water. It is not without good reason that the Bible so often speaks of the Water of Life, for without water no life could exist for a single hour.
[THESE MY LITTLE ONES.]
BY MONA NOEL PATON.
I.
One very, very wet evening a forlorn little pigeon, with rumpled feathers and weary wings, came knocking at the door of a nursery in which were two children.
They heard the knock, and going to the window, saw to their astonishment, the poor unhappy bird. It was not long before the sash was thrown up, and the rain-soaked wanderer brought in, and fed and petted to its heart's content.
"I wonder what brought the darling here?" said Donald, the elder of the two children.
"It just were a darlin'; 'at's why it camed," remarked Miss Baby.
"But I am sure it must have had some reason for coming. Baby," Donald insisted. "It came for something."
"For its tea," suggested Baby, doubtfully.
"Oh, Baby, Baby, you're always thinking about your tea," said Donald, with contempt.
"No, Donnie, me isn't. But you said it had camed for somesin."
"I meant, to tell us something."
"Do pigeons talk, Donnie?" Baby's eyes opened very wide.
"Yes, but we can't understand them. I feel that this pigeon wants to speak to us. I wonder where it came from? I wonder whether mother will let us keep it? Come down to the drawing-room, and we'll ask her."
Hand in hand the two proceeded to the drawing-room, Baby a little anxious lest their elder brother should wish to "'sect" the treasure. But Donald told her that only dead birds were dissected, not living ones. The grown-up members of the family were as much surprised at and pleased with the little stranger as the children had been. For the next week it was warmly loved and tenderly taken care of, and at the end of that time they found out all about it.
On Sunday, Auntie, who had been lunching with her nieces and nephews, said: "Children, I am not going to church this afternoon. I shall stay here and tell you a story I heard while visiting among my poor people yesterday. Shall you like that?"
"Oh yes!" cried the children, rapturously.
"Will it be big?" inquired Baby.
"Yes; but you may go to sleep if you get tired."
"All right," said Baby, and Auntie began:
In one of the dreariest parts of our old town there lived, not long ago, a widow with three little children, two girls and a boy. She had to work very hard to keep them in food and clothing. Every morning before it was light she had to go away to her work. She would creep softly out of bed, dress very quietly, tidy up the room, build the fire, and set out the children's breakfast, and then, with a kiss on each sleeping face, she would go away out into the cold.
By-and-by the sun would find its way into the room, and the oldest girl would open her eyes, jump briskly up like a brave little woman, light the fire, and set on the kettle. Though only nine years old, she knew how to work, and believed, as very few seem to do, that whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well.
When breakfast was almost ready, Nellie would call her brother, and then, stooping over the little sister, would kiss her pretty parted lips. Presently the dark lashes would rise, and a pair of deep gray eyes, very solemn for a moment, would stare into the loving face. And then the dimples would come, the dark eyes would twinkle, and the baby would be wide awake.
The great trial of the day came after breakfast, for Nellie and Bill must go to school, and for three or four hours poor Bab, barely three years old, must stay all alone. Her mother and sister were very sorry to leave her by herself, but it could not be helped. The sweet child was so good about it that it comforted them.
"What do you do when we are away?" said her mother one day.
"Me fink you is comin' back," she answered, smiling, as usual.
Before going to school Nellie always took the coals off the fire, and put them on the side to cool, set a tin cup of water and a little bit of bread on a chair for Bab, and with a final hug hurried off with her brother to the school at the bottom of the court.
BAB AT THE WINDOW.
As the door closed, Bab always gave a very little sigh, and set to work to find some amusement. Sometimes she played for a long time with a wooden footstool which she called her boy; and sometimes, if she felt cold, she crept into bed and fell asleep. But she loved best to stand by the window. The top of her head just came to the lowest pane, and she could not see into the street, but only up into the sky and gaze at the clouds. How Bab loved those clouds! especially the great shining ones that lay still, like huge mountains far away on the horizon. She was a little afraid of the black clouds, but she would stretch out her arms to the bright ones and whisper, "Oh, you booful country! Bab would like to be in you, for always and always!"
Sometimes she had not even the clouds to keep her company, for the whole sky would be one gray mass, and then Bab had hard work to keep from crying, and she wished and wished that her brother and sister would come home. The moment she heard them on the stairs she forgot her troubles, and when Nell looked in at the door she found a laughing face, and the jolly voice soon rang out louder than ever. The happy afternoon quite made up for the long weary morning.
As soon as Nellie had cleared away their dinners she wrapped Bab up in a warm shawl, and the three took a walk to the big street which ran near by. At the corner of this street was a candy shop, which the children thought splendid. Sometimes they would spend nearly an hour peering in at the window, and telling each other what they would buy "when they were rich."
Something else besides candy drew them to this corner. A nurse and two children, a boy and a girl, often passed up and down the street. The little boy wore a sailor suit, with bright buttons, and the little girl, just the age of Bab, had a lovely dress, trimmed with lace, and a Leghorn hat. Such a hat! Nellie used to think that if she could once see Bab dressed like that she would be perfectly happy.
The poor children liked looking at the pretty clothes of their more fortunate brother and sister, but still more did they enjoy looking at their faces. They were so kind and bright, and often they smiled cheerily at their little admirers. Little did they know what a ray of sunshine these smiles shed into the lives of these little ones. A day seemed quite empty to Nellie and her charges when they did not catch a glimpse of their "little gentry."
Sometimes Bill, Nellie, and Bab ventured farther than the candy shop. They liked to look at the grand windows, especially those of one wonderful toy shop. Nellie and Bab never complained because they could not possess the treasures displayed. It did not occur to them to desire them. They were perfectly contented just to look at them. But Bill's face was sometimes dark, and once he said to Nellie, with a frown:
"Doesn't it seem hard that we get nothing, that even dear Bab can not have anything? I should like to give her something to play with when we are away."
The grief that Bab had nothing to play with was an old one. Nellie and Bill had often tried to contrive some way of getting a plaything for Bab, and once they had enticed a stray dog into their room, but it soon escaped, and Bab was lonelier than ever. A cat, too, had been tried, but one fine night took her departure to the roof, never to return.
"Never mind, Billy," answered Nellie, "we can look at the lovely things, and that is nearly as good as having them."
Bill did not reply. His face was long. His eyes looked as if tears were not far off.
"Nell," he said, "I don't see why it is that we can never have any of the beautiful things that other children have. I am sure we try to be good."
"Oh, hush, Bill! here are the little gentry," whispered Nellie.
"The little gentry" were standing gazing in at the window too, or at least the baby was. The boy was looking at Bill with a questioning expression.
"Well," asked Nurse, "have you made up your minds what you are going to spend your money upon?"
"Es," answered the baby.
The little boy stood still, turning his shilling over and over in his hand.
"Come along, Master Dreamer," cried Nurse, as she entered the shop. "Have you not made up your mind what to spend your shilling upon?"
"Yes," answered the little fellow, with a sort of sigh.
Nurse had disappeared. Blushing furiously, the boy pressed his bright shilling into Bill's rough little hand.
"No, no," said Bill.
"I would rather," stammered the little gentleman, not waiting for thanks. He ran into the store, and stood quietly by while the baby spent her shilling, and when Nurse asked why he did not spend his, he climbed on a chair and whispered something in her ear.