Inquisitive Jack.
CHAPTER VI.
It is time to fulfil our promise in respect to Inquisitive Jack. We have but two or three chapters more to give, in respect to his life and adventures, and here is one of them. We have told how Jack had become acquainted with insects, birds, quadrupeds, and other living things. We have now to give some account of the manner in which he became interested in botany, which means the science of plants, trees and flowers. Of course, everybody is fond of pretty flowers, roses, and lilacs, and lilies, and peonies, and pinks, and sweet peas, and other pretty blossoms. And everybody must be interested in trees, which furnish us with fruit, and fuel, and shade; and they must be interested in shrubs, which yield us so many berries. But there is something more in the history of these things, than what at first meets the eye; and I am now going to tell you something about them.
Jack happened one day to go down into the cellar, and he there saw a potato which had been left upon the ground, and which had now begun to put forth several shoots. These were perfectly white, and Jack asked himself why the stalks of a potato in the cellar should be white, while the stalks in the open air were green. He watched the potato for several days, and perceived that it was growing quite rapidly. At length, one thing greatly excited his curiosity. The potato itself was lying behind a barrel, and the stalk had grown around this, and was now pointing its head upward toward a low, narrow window, which permitted a little light to enter the cellar. The vine of the potato seemed to be actually directing its course toward this window, as if it really wanted to see the light, and breathe the fresh air.
Greatly excited by these observations, Jack continued to watch the potato from day to day, at the same time musing with himself as to what it could mean. “Has this potato,” said he, thoughtfully, “got sense and feeling? does it feel itself to be a prisoner, and want to go out to see the light and breathe the air? Who has taught this plant to bend its way toward the light, and lift up its head and point its leaves toward that which it seems to require?” Not being able to satisfy these inquiries, the boy at last went to his Aunt Betsey, and opened the subject to her. This led to explanations, the substance of which was as follows.
Plants or vegetables are organized substances, which live and grow by the aid of light, air, and moisture. They need to be fed as much as animals, and will as soon die without food, as an insect, bird, or quadruped. Instead of taking in their sustenance by means of a mouth, they suck it up by means of roots. These draw from the soil the particular nutriment that is required in the form of sap, and this is distributed to the branches and leaves of the plant. Heat and moisture are necessary in order to set the sap in motion. Air and light are imbibed by the leaves of the plants. The various colors of plants are drawn from the rays of the sun.
All plants are propagated by seeds. These, however minute, contain all the members of the parent plant—stalk, leaf and flower. These are so nicely folded up as not to be distinguished; but when the plant begins to grow, you can see, with the microscope, the several parts unfolding, one by one, until at last they assume the form of the plant from which they sprung. It is said that the acorn, which is the seed of the oak, contains all the members of the future tree.
Jack was exceedingly delighted with these curious facts, and, according to his custom, he pursued the investigation of the subject by his own observations, by reading books, and by inquiries of his intelligent and obliging aunt. In the progress of his studies, he learned many other curious facts, some of which we must relate, for they are quite amusing.
Although plants have no sense or thought, yet nature seems to have made provision which supplies all their wants. To prevent chestnuts and walnuts from being devoured before they are ripe, the former are covered with a prickly burr, and the latter with an exceedingly bitter rind. When these are ripe, the outer coating bursts open, and lets out the imprisoned fruit or seed. Similar contrivances are observed in respect to a multitude of other plants.
Some seeds, as those of apples, peaches, plums, pears, cherries, currants, &c., are covered up in a fleshy or pulpy substance, which we call fruit. Here a double purpose is answered. The seeds are nicely taken care of, while mankind, with many other creatures, are provided with an ample store of delicious food. But lest the seed should be destroyed before it is brought to maturity, the fruit is very sour or bitter, until the seeds are quite ripe.
Thus we see that God, who has taken such kind care of animals, by giving them the power and skill to acquire their food and perpetuate their existence, has also taken care even of the life and prosperity of plants. As these depend entirely upon seeds for their propagation, he has provided that these seeds shall be wrapped up, protected, and nursed, almost as carefully as little children. Nor is this all. We might suppose that a seed would fall from the tree, and finding no other soil than that beneath the shadow of its parent, it would shoot up and perish for the want of light, and heat, and air. But as children are able to go from the parent roof and find homes for themselves, so God has provided that seeds shall emigrate from their homes, and, scattering themselves abroad, cover the face of nature with diversified vegetation.
You will be curious to know how this emigration of the seeds is brought about. I will tell you. You have seen the thistle down, in the autumn, rise upon the air and go sailing along to a great distance. That down has got a thistle-seed attached to it, and it is carrying it along to some place where it may rest, and being imbedded by the rain in the soil, it will shoot up into a thistle. Thus you see the little seed is supplied with wings, upon which it flies away from home, and sets up for itself. One thistle will throw off many thousands of these downy seeds, and thus the race is multiplied.
There are many other plants that have winged seeds, which are distributed in the same way. Perhaps you think the rough winds of autumn are unpleasant and mischievous, but remember that they shake myriads of seeds from the plants and trees, and scatter them abroad over the land. Nor is this the only way in which seeds are disseminated. Birds carry the stones of cherries, and the seeds of various kinds of berries, from the place where they are produced, to other distant points.
Quadrupeds disperse the seeds of various grasses and grains, by carrying them from one point to another. The burdock and the cockle seeds attach themselves to the woolly fleece of animals, and are thus dispersed. Rains carry seeds down the slopes of hills and mountains, and rivers bear them from one region to another.
Some seeds scatter themselves by means of springs in their covering, furnished by the plant itself. If you slightly pinch the ripe seed-case of the pretty flower of the gardens called the balsam, it will burst asunder, and scatter the seed in all directions. The pouch which contains the seeds of the wood-sorrel, also bursts and scatters them around on all sides. The capsules of ferns open with a spring. The seeds of some species of this plant, when viewed through a microscope, upon paper, seem to be endowed with a kind of leaping movement.
These and many other curious particulars Jack learned about plants; but he was not yet able to answer some of the questions which had been suggested by the potato in the cellar. How did this plant know that it wanted light and air? and what made it bend round the barrel, and move forward toward the window? Are plants endowed with feeling and knowledge, which teaches them their wants, and points out the means by which these are to be satisfied? These inquiries were pursued, and Jack at last became acquainted with what is thought by learned men upon these interesting topics.
Animals are endowed with what is called instinct, which is inherent or implanted by God. The purpose of this is to make them act in a manner to secure food, to protect themselves from injury, and in general to promote their happiness. This instinct is sometimes distinct from intelligence, and sometimes mixed with it. In its simplest form, it seems to be as involuntary as the beating of the heart, or the circulation of the blood. Thus a hen sits upon her eggs, but the reason she does not know. She is guided by some power as distinct from her own knowledge, as is the beating of her heart.
Now, we know nothing of this instinct, except that it is a principle implanted by God to promote the benefit of the species to which it belongs; and that, at the same time, it is totally different from that intelligence which springs from knowledge, and leads its possessor to act in a particular manner, from its own reflections. A species of instinct of a lower grade is doubtless imparted to plants. If seeds are cast into the soil in the shade, as they require light, this instinct impels them to creep, bend, and rise, as the case may be, where it may receive the light and air it requires. Such was the conclusion to which our young botanist arrived; and here we must leave him for the present.
Bonaparte’s Ways.—The great roads constructed by Napoleon over the Alps, are, that over Cenis, 30 miles long and 18 yards wide; that over Semplon, 36 miles long and 25 yards broad; one partly through galleries hewn in the rocks, 683 feet; that over Genevre, 6,000 feet high; that from Nice to Monaco; and that over St. Gothard, 8,264 feet high. They are altogether the most gigantic efforts of labor since the pyramids of Egypt.