"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."