Personality of plants

by Royal Dixon; Franklyn Everett Fitch

The trees are not altogether dependent upon their leaves for their music. The barren branches of fall and winter sing in a most attractive way. Their dry and discarded leaves litter the ground and carry on crackly songs of their own, or sing as they play tag in whirls of wind. The Elm is a pleasing autumn singer and the Willows, when covered with ice, rattle their twigs like a minstrel’s bones. As the winter wind hums around the Cottonwood Trees, it rocks the seed balls in their natural cradles with a sighing, crooning sound. This is the way the Tree sings to her babies! When the wind soughs through a hollow tree, it produces a ghostly sound suggestive of a mourning or dying person. A current of air rubbing two boughs together causes a scrunching sound which sends the shivers up one’s back.

It is reasonable to believe that every tree and plant has its own individual voice as set in motion by the wind. A Nature-lover does not have much difficulty in distinguishing a great many. The desert Sage whistles in the wind; the Cedar laughs in the storm; the air rustles through a Wheat field; an agitated Sugar Cane or Corn field gives forth a sound like tinkling glass. The noise produced by a high wind in the Southern Smilax has been likened to a harp struck at random.

The bursting pods of the Witch Hazel pop gently and the seeds fall among the dead leaves like so many buck shot; the Oxalis sends forth its seed-babies with the crack of a pistol shot. Members of the Bean family moan in the breeze like plaintive violins. The Squirting Cucumber gurgles not unlike certain frogs. The Sunflower is a professional drummer who rattles his seeds about in his pods. The Rattlesnake Iris holds its seed-capsule in such a way that it gives an excellent imitation of the warning noise of the reptile for which it is named. Catalpa pods snap like horse-whips, but Cat-Tails sigh like small reed instruments.

Early man gained more inspiration and pleasure from the music of the plants than his wiser but more worldly successors. It is said that the idea for the first flute was obtained by listening to the wind sigh through the Reeds on the shore of a lake. The first stringed instrument was probably a fibre accidentally stretched across a hollow shell. The classic Aeolian harp consisted of a wooden frame containing a thin sounding-board over which were stretched a number of strips of cat-gut. If placed before a half-open window so that an air current strikes it sideways, it gives forth a great volume of harmonious notes in several octaves. This is a clear case of catching the music of the wind. In a cruder, less harmonious way, the Japanese glass tinklers of our day do the same thing. The humming of telegraph wires and the strange chirping of a wireless instrument are also a kind of singing.

All the plants are not expert musicians, which explains why they often seek to make up for their own deficiencies by hiring numerous birds and insects to make melody for them. These musicians are employed in the truest sense of the word and receive their pay in food, shelter and protection. In the air and on the ground, by day and by night, they sing and fiddle for their hosts. The broad leaves of the Water Lily (Victoria Regia) are veritable music schools of Frog practice. Every voice from croaking bass to youthful tenor is heard! Every tree has its Frogs and Birds—every bush and shrub innumerable insect warblers.

The birds are the plants’ vocalists. Their songs and delightful twitterings are among the most familiar things in Nature. The music of the large body of insect-instrumentalists is carried on in such obscure places, and often so far down among the very roots of the plants, that a considerable investigation of their methods may not be amiss. They are especially active after sundown.

The common Grasshoppers form a great corps of violinists. A large vein on the inside of their thighs makes an ideal bow. It is roughened not with resin but by a hundred minute spines. When this vein is rubbed to and fro on the serrated veins of the insect’s wing-cover, a shrill tone is produced. Sitting on its haunches, the Grasshopper saws away with both hind legs at a great rate. The interesting discovery has been made that the velocity of the strokes increases with the temperature. Grasshoppers in large swarms emit a low roar.

The Locust is a near relative of the Grasshopper. His music is produced by scraping one wing across the other. The Cricket uses the same method. When he is a house species, he fiddles in a higher tone. The gold-green Muskback Beetle is an exquisite violinist. His instrumental methods are most peculiar. His sharp breast acts as a bow which he draws across a small group of veins on his wing covers. The resulting music is so faint as to be almost inaudible.

To Bees, Wasps, Hornets, Flies and Mosquitoes we may ascribe reed instruments. They depend upon the rapid vibration of their tiny wings to get their effects. The respiration openings distributed over the body of a Bee, by giving resonance to the tone, aid in the process and turn the whole insect’s body into a small clarionet. The drowsy buzz of the honey-gatherer is only attained by swinging its wings at the rate of four hundred vibrations a minute. People who have good ears for music have observed that the ordinary Bee drones his song out on G sharp. The House-Fly is credited with singing at F with a preliminary grace note on E. Everyone is familiar with the high thin plaint of the Mosquito.

There are many drummers in the insect orchestra. The Cicada operates a small kettle drum. On the front of its body, a tough membrane is stretched over a small cavity. When set in motion by a special muscle, it gives out a surprisingly agreeable sound. The Greeks enjoyed this music so well that they often caged the Cicada much as they would a bird. In the hatching time of the seventeen-year variety, the energetic drumming of thousands of the insects rises into a scream which is far from melodious. Under such conditions, the noise can be heard for half a mile. Travelers tell of a giant South American species which produces a drumming which is as loud as a locomotive whistle. An uncanny drummer is the “Death Watch Beetle.” It uses its head for drumsticks and when in the wood of furniture often plays a tattoo with considerable skill. Superstitious people, for no apparent good reason, sometimes insist this is a warning of impending death. Even the pretty little Butterfly on occasion is a drummer. With hooks on its wings, it makes a sharp crackle, not unlike one of the weird noises sometimes used by human “traps.” Beetles play the bones.