Botany: The Science of Plant Life

by Norman Taylor

Light not only affects leaves in their habits of growth but it actually causes movements in some leaves which are as regular as clockwork. The best known cases are those in the pea family and wood sorrels, all of which bear compound leaves. During the day these leaflets are spread out in the ordinary way and catch the light, but at sundown, as though this were a quite useless exertion for the night, they fold up and the leaf “goes to sleep.” On cloudy days they partly fold up, as if in recognition of the fact that for their business of getting light it is an off day; but also if the sun comes out they hurriedly expand their leaflets. It is not yet certain whether these apparently intelligent movements of leaves in relation to light are of any real advantage to the plant as a whole or not. They are surely one of the most interesting things to watch and may be seen in locust trees and wood sorrel any night.

Just as we can have too much of a good thing, it is possible for plants to have too much direct sunlight. In open spaces, where the struggle for life centers not about the fight for light but over other matters, we find leaves actually protecting themselves against too much exposure, and by a variety of ingenious ways. The texture of the upper or lower side, the kind of hair growing on their surface, and the number and size of their pores, are the most usual ways of leaves arming themselves against an oversupply of the one thing that their neighbors in the cool forest fight to the death to obtain. There seems to be a fatality against which plants, like ourselves, are nearly helpless. Their attempts to overcome it, again like our own struggles against an apparently overmastering fate, develop those characteristics that insure survival to the fittest, death to the puny or unaccommodating.

We could hardly leave the subject of light and plants’ relation to it without mentioning, perhaps, the most remarkable case of adaptation to peculiar light conditions. All those aquatic plants that grow beneath the surface of the water need and get much less light than ordinary land plants. But from the island of Madagascar comes the lace leaf or water yam, which grows in quiet pools that are mostly in the depths of the tropical forest. Add to the dense shade cast upon the gloomy surface of such ponds the amount of light naturally lost in its passage through the water, and we get some notion of the singularly secluded home of this aquatic plant. What, now, is nature’s response to these peculiar conditions? How do the leaves of this well-shaded inhabitant of quiet pools behave? Their leaves are about a foot long and three or four inches wide, quite unnecessarily large for a submersed aquatic, but they consist wholly of veins. There is no “meat” to the leaf, none of that soft, green tissue so familiar in ordinary leaves. The conditions under which it is doomed to live almost seem as if it recognized the futility of having a broad expanse of the usually constituted leaf blade to expose to a light which is not there. It is significant that this skeletonized condition is permanent, the leaf functions much as ordinary aquatic leaves do, but its network of quite naked veins almost seems a mute protest against its fate. The delicate, lacelike “foliage” of this aquatic adds a touch of beauty to one of the most curious plants in the world.

2. How Plants Get Their Food and Water From the Earth

If we could stretch an apparently impervious membrane, like the inner white skin just inside an eggshell, or a piece of parchment, and so form a wall through the middle of a glass box, and then pour into one of the compartments pure water and in the other a mixture of water and molasses, a very curious result would follow within a comparatively short period. We should find that presently there would be a gentle filtering of the water through the membrane toward the molasses water, and similar gentle current in the other direction. In other words, fluids of different density, if separated by a membrane, tend to equalize each other. This equalization may not be very rapid, and at first it will be more speedy from the less dense to the more dense, but eventually it will make the different fluids of a common density. This purely mechanical property of the equalization of fluids separated by a membrane is known as osmosis, and it is upon the possession of the equipment necessary for this that roots depend for getting food and water from the soil.

In our discussion of roots in Chapter I, we found that they end in very fine subdivisions, which are themselves split up into practically invisible root hairs. These root hairs are the only way that roots can absorb the food and water in the soil, and they are able to do this because they are provided with a membrane which permits osmosis to act between the solution inside the root hair and the water in the soil. The solution in the root hair is mostly a sugary liquid, some of that surplus sugar made in the leaves, and it is denser than the soil water, so there is apparently nothing to prevent an equalization of the liquids on different sides of the membrane. If this actually happened, as it would in the case of the simple experiment noted above, then roots would exchange a fairly rich sugary liquid for a much more watery one, and we should find that plants did not get their food from the soil, but really have it drained away from them by osmosis. But nature has a cunning device for stopping such robbery, which is prevented by the membranes of root hairs being only permeable to the extent of letting water in, not permeable enough to allow sugar to escape. As we have seen, osmosis is a purely mechanical process which, if left to operate without interference, would not aid but injure the plant. Surely, nothing with which plants are provided is so important to them as this delicate membrane of the root hairs which, while allowing osmosis to act in a one-sided fashion, preserves to the plant the sugary liquid that alone makes the absorption of soil water possible.

As root hairs are very much alive and work constantly, they must be provided with air, without which no living thing can exist. And here, again, it seems as though nature, with almost uncanny foresight, had deliberately planned for this requirement of roots. And, in this case, not by interfering with a physical process by an adjustment of plant structure, but by the arrangement of soil particles and the way in which water is found in all soils. Soil particles, even in the most compact clay, do not fill all the space occupied by the soil as a whole. There are tiny air spaces all through the soil, which insures a constant supply of fresh air. That is one reason why gardens are cultivated, to see to it that plenty of fresh air is allowed to permeate the soil. Around the finest soil particles there is always an almost incredibly thin film of water, which is renewed as soon as it is lost by its absorption by the root hairs or by evaporation. This renewal of the water film is itself a mechanical process, called capillarity, best illustrated by putting a few drops of water on a plate and placing on them a lump of sugar. The water will spread all through the lump of sugar in a few seconds and the capillarity that forces it up through the lump is the same as sees to it that the tiny film of water surrounding the finest soil particles is constantly renewed from the lower levels of the soil.

Little do we dream, as we walk over the commonest weed, that buried at its roots are these delicate arrangements for securing food and water. Osmosis allowed to act so that the “exchange” of liquids is all to the advantage of the plant, capillarity providing a constant water supply, and the very piling together of the soil so contrived that the life-giving air filters all through it—does it not seem as if all this were, if not a deliberate plan, certainly a more perfect one than mere man could have devised?

If you will turn back for a moment to the beginning of the description of how plants get their food, you will find that in osmosis the weaker liquid tends to permeate the denser one more rapidly than the denser one does the weaker. As we have just seen, the sugary liquid in the root hairs is denser than the soil water outside, and, furthermore, none of it is allowed to escape. This comparatively greedy process of taking everything and giving nothing results in a constant flow of soil water into the root hairs. When the flow of liquids in osmosis is not at once equalized, a gentle pressure is brought to bear to make them so. This is what is called osmotic pressure, and it is this pressure that forces the absorbed liquid through the roots and part way up the trunk of even the tallest trees. While we have just said it is a gentle pressure, that is true only in the case where the osmosis has free play, and the pressure is stopped with the perfect mixing of the two liquids. But what if they can never mix? What may not the accumulated osmotic pressure amount to in such a one-sided process as goes on in root hairs with everything coming in and nothing going out. Cut-off stems, with a pressure gauge attached to them, indicate that in some plants the pressure is from 60 up to 170 pounds!

Another result of this pressure is that it keeps leaves and the fleshy stems of plants in their ordinary position. The actual solid part of nearly all leaves is scarcely 5 per cent of their bulk and all the rest is water. The constant pressure of this water from the roots is sufficient to keep leaves comparatively stiff and rigid, how stiff is quickly realized if the pressure stops and the leaf wilts or withers. Sometimes this osmotic pressure, particularly during rainy weather, becomes so great as to cause injury to the plant, the splitting of tomatoes and occasionally of plums, being due to it. This osmotic pressure, together with the extra pull given by the leaves, is sufficient to account for the rise of water to the tops of the tallest trees. The tallest trees in the world are certain kinds of blue gum in Australia which frequently reach a height exceeding 300 feet. What the combined osmotic pressure and leaf pull must be to carry such a heavy thing as water to such a great height is easier to imagine than to calculate.