The editorial note appended to my short article in the April issue of The Bulletin rather takes my breath away, as I never imagined that an answer to my query could “depend somewhat upon whether we admire ferns for pure leaves or whether we collect them for study.” No true fern lover in either case would knowingly destroy one of Nature’s own novelties in the way I described by denuding it repeatedly of its fronds for herbarium purposes in situ, when by removing and cultivating it he could also, in either case, not only gratify his own special taste more fully, but could afford much gratification to a host of other fern lovers of either class. That “students of ferns know that many fern forms are due to varying conditions of soil, light, moisture, etc., and are inclined to pay very little attention to them” I accept at once, ranking myself with them; but advanced students also know that many forms are not demonstrably due to such influences, and amongst these forms are all those which claim so much attention in this side of the ocean. The former are, as the editor puts it, “variants,” the latter true varieties, and so far as they are of Nature’s own shaping, i. e., wild finds, as distinct from improved selected types from the spores, they have at least as much right to recognition in fern literature as the normals. Hence it is to be regretted that a unique form of the Christmas fern (Polystichum acrostichoides) should exist in the possession of a member of the Fern Chapter for ten years, and, yet, never be described. What have the other members done that such interesting data to some of them should be withheld?
The reference to seven-toed kittens and two-headed rabbits, as fair parallels to the finest fern varieties in the mind of the average student, is a poor compliment to the student who would certainly benefit by a better acquaintance with the plumose section of varieties at any rate. With the many botanists stated to exist in the States who “prefer a wild rose to all the gardeners’ many-petalled creations” I have more sympathy, but here comes in the old botanical mistake embodied in the term “garden forms” of ferns as applied to all varieties, with the wild finds of which the gardeners have had nothing whatever to do. What would such a botanist do if in his rambles among the wild roses he came across a Marechal Niel as a wild sport? That is a fair parallel to some of our best wild finds as compared with the normal types, and he would be a singular man, I opine, in more senses than one, if he turned up his nose at it as a mere variant and held his tongue for ten years without describing it. I am gratified to the editor for holding all his abnormal specimens at my disposal, but, reading between the lines, I fear they would embrace no acquisitions from my point of view, or he would not be so ready to part with them. I hope sooner or later he will come across a thoroughbred and become thereby a convert to my theory, that constant and symmetrical variations are fully as much, if not more, entitled to both lay and scientific attention than the normal specific forms from which, by some occult process, they arise under natural conditions.
[It is doubtless as difficult for Mr. Druery to understand our position in this matter as it is to understand his. How a student of ferns can care for what might be termed abnormal variations is beyond our comprehension. The student is always interested in normal variations, if we may so describe the common, slight variations in form and texture due principally to ecological factors; in fact, it is necessary that we take all such into account in order to get a correct average of the species; but to give serious attention to forked, crested, plumed, tasselled and befrizzled specimens of ferns, which are manifestly due to the slipping of a cog somewhere in Nature’s machinery, is quite out of the question. We grant that some of these attain forms that merit admiration for their beauty, or oddity, as showing what Nature can do in the way of leaves, but we maintain that were these forms animal, instead of vegetable, they would excite only feelings of repulsion. Now, the student of fern species is quite inclined to think of these “freaks,” as he calls them, much as others would if they were animal. The botanist may admire the form, hue and perfume of the gardener’s rose, but this is not the rose he cares to study. In the early numbers of The Fern Bulletin, upward of sixty American ferns have been put on record as bearing forked or tasselled fronds, and so far as the editor is aware, not one of these has been taken into cultivation and only a very few have been given names. This fact will probably explain our position to some extent. When the editor has leisure, he is going to dig up every one of these variants in his own locality and send them to Mr. Druery, in anticipation of which it would be well for the latter to consult his gardener and glazier about an extension to his ferneries.—Ed.]
FERNS IN BOTTLES.
A correspondent sends us the following clipping from the Westminster Gazette. We are unable to vouch for its accuracy, but as it may give some cultivator a hint we reprint it in full.
In a beautiful garden at Crouch End, belonging to one of the few old world bowers which have withstood the tempting offers of the building speculator, may be seen one of the queerest freaks that Nature has ever played in park or garden. About three years ago a long row of glass ginger bottles were placed neck downward in the ground, with a few inches of the other end projecting to form a border for the kitchen garden paths. Each of these bottles now contains a fairy-like resident in the shape of a dainty little fern, perfect in form and color, and of many varieties, the ribbon fern and hart’s-tongue predominating. As no ferns had at any time been planted in that part of the garden it is amazing how they got there. Perhaps Nature thought it foolish to waste so many little natural hothouses, and put in each a pinch of the stuff she makes ferns of. If so, she must view with much pride the result of her experiment.
Miss Angie M. Ryon, Niantic, Conn., reports finding fine plants of Ophioglossum vulgatum upon a very rocky hillside, the roots crowding themselves between the bits of rock that had been broken up by loads of heavy timber passing over them the previous year. The plants were exposed to the full rays of the sun for most of the day.
WILLIAM RALPH MAXON.
William Ralph Maxon, whose portrait is presented this month, first saw the light at Oneida, N.Y., on Feb. 27, 1877, where his parents reside. He graduated at Oneida High School in the class of 1894. From there he went to Syracuse University, where he took the degree of Ph. B. in 1898. The bent of his mind was toward botany and almost immediately after graduating he went to New York and was employed for a few months in the herbarium of the Botanical Garden at Bronx Park. From there he went to Washington and took a temporary position in the U.S. National Museum. But in August, 1899, as the result of a Civil Service examination, he received the appointment of Aid in Cryptogamic Botany in that institution, and still retains that position.