“No accounting for tastes,” whispered Walter to Paul, in a voice too low to be heard by their host.
“Do you keep them in a cage?” asked Jack.
Mr. Morley looked up in surprise.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Why,” replied Jack, “you spoke of vampires, and I thought you meant vampire bats. They’re the only kind of vampires I know anything about.”
“I was referring to the plant this leaf was taken from,” smiled their host, as he held it up for them to see.
It was a long, rounded leaf that seemed to be covered with tiny hairs, on which glistened something that resembled honey and gave forth a fragrant odor. On looking more closely they saw what appeared to be fragments of small insects.
“We call it the sun-dew,” explained Mr. Morley. “It’s common enough, and you’ve seen it in the fields many a time. But instead of living on elements drawn from the soil, it feeds on flies and other insects. They are attracted by the honey that it spreads out temptingly to bring them within its reach. But as soon as they light on it, the leaf tightens around them and crushes them to death. Then it eats them at leisure. That’s why it’s called a ‘vampire.’”
“But,” objected Cora, “any one would think from that that the plant had intelligence and knew just what it was doing, just as an animal does when it hunts for prey.”
“Exactly,” agreed Mr. Morley. “Who are we to say that plants don’t have intelligence? What proof is there in nature that they don’t suffer and enjoy, feel and plan, as men and animals do, only on a lower plane? We humans are too conceited. We assume that we possess intelligence almost exclusively. We grant some to animals, though we slur even that by calling it only instinct. But we’ve been inclined to deny it altogether to plants.