apples I told you of. Roses belong to the same family, you know, and
they are grafted much in the same way. Then the seeds are planted, and
from these, fine new kinds are likely to come. Rose-growers are always
trying hard to make new kinds by mixing the pollen. The pollen, you
remember, is the yellow powder on the little tips of the stamens. These
tips, as I believe I told you, are called anthers, and the slender
part of the stamen is the filament. It is the pollen falling from the
anthers upon the single green stem or pistil in the center of the
flower that produces the seed. The pistil is divided in parts, too.
The little top piece is called the stigma, and the slender green stem
is called the style. The pollen falls on the stigma and is drawn down
through the style to give life to the seed-pod below."
[Illustration: THE ROSE STAMENS AND PISTIL WHICH PRODUCE THE SEED]
The Chief Gardener picked the bloom of a single bramble rose and pulled
it apart to show the children all these things.
"Now," he went on, "gardeners often take a rose of one kind and color
and shake it gently over a rose of another kind and color, so that the
pollen will fall from the anthers of one upon the stigma of the other.
In this way the seeds are mixed and it may happen that wonderful new
roses come from those seeds. Sometimes, instead of shaking the rose,
the gardener carefully takes up the pollen on a tiny soft brush and
lays it gently on the stigma of the other rose, all of which has to be
done as soon as the bloom is open. Of course, such roses are kept to
themselves, and labeled, and the seeds are carefully labeled also."
Davy and Prue were both interested.
"Oh, can I make some new kinds of roses," asked little Prue, greatly
excited. "Can I, Mamma?"
"You may try, but I am afraid you will not be very successful where all
the roses are out here in the open air. Still, it will do no harm to
see what will happen, and you might get something very wonderful."
"I am already trying for a new kind of peach," said Davy.
"And if you get a good one we will call it the 'Early David,'" laughed
the Chief Gardener.
"And what will you call my rose?"
"Why, 'the Princess Prue,' of course."
"Do seeds from the same bush make the different roses?" asked Davy.
"Yes, and from the same pod."
"But are the seeds just alike?"
"They are so far as anybody can see, but when they come to grow and
bloom, one may be a white rose, another pink, and another red. Some may
be dwarfs in size, and others giants. All may have the same sun, the
same water, the same air, and the same soil. It is only the tiny little
difference which we cannot see that makes the great difference in the
plant, by and by."
Davy was thinking very hard. Soon he said:
"And where do sweet and sour and all the pepper and mustard and
horseradish tastes come from? The air and the water don't taste. I
never tasted much dirt, but I don't believe any of it would bite like a
red pepper."
[Illustration: "GARDENERS OFTEN TAKE A ROSE OF ONE KIND AND SHAKE IT
GENTLY OVER A ROSE OF ANOTHER KIND"]
The Chief Gardener laughed.
"No, Davy, I don't believe it would," he said. "And I think the sun is
the only one who could answer your question. It is a chemistry which no
one of this world has been able to explain. Chemistry is a magic which
you will understand by and by, and you will know then that the sun is
the greatest of all chemists. Suppose we go down into your gardens and
see what he is doing there."
[Illustration: "SOMETIMES THE GARDENER TAKES UP THE POLLEN ON A SOFT
BRUSH AND LAYS IT GENTLY ON THE STIGMA OF ANOTHER ROSE"]
They all went down the little steps that led to the Chief Gardener's
enclosure, where Prue and Davy had their gardens, side by side with
his. There just as they entered was a great mass of morning-glory vines
that every morning were covered with a splendor of purple, and pink,
and white, and blue, and just beyond these was a mass of dianthus
pinks of every hue and shade. Bachelor-buttons, petunias, and verbenas
were all there, too, besides Prue's sweet-pease by the fence, and her
alyssum and mignonette. Then came Davy's things, all fresh and growing,
and beyond these the Chief Gardener had ever so many things, from beets
to beans, from parsley to parsnips, from carrots to corn. In one small
corner by the strawberry-bed there grew a little bed of pepper plants,
and near-by a row of tomatoes. The Chief Gardener stopped in the midst
of all these things.
"Here is the sun's chemistry," he said. "We put some tiny bits of life
in the ground. The same earth holds them, the same rain wets them,
the same air is above them. Then the sun shines, and with that earth
and water and air and that tiny seed, it makes something different of
its own. Of one it makes a flower, of another a fruit, and of another
a vegetable. Of the flowers it makes many kinds and colors--of the
fruits and vegetables it makes many shapes and flavors. The sweet red
strawberry and the fiery red pepper grow side by side. It makes food of
the roots of the beet, and the parsnip, and carrot, and of the seed of
the bean, and of the corn. It fills the mustard, and the horseradish,
and the pepper, with a flavor so that we may season our meats and
soups, and it gives to thyme, and marjoram, and fennel, a sweet savor
that is like an odor of by-gone days. Into the flowers it pours the
color and perfume that make them delicious and beautiful, and into the
fruit and vegetables the starch and phosphates that make them pleasant
to the taste and nourishing to our bodies. Where do all these things
come from? We do not see the colors, or smell the perfumes, or taste
the sweet and the sour and the bitter in the air and water, and we
could not see, or smell, or taste, them in the earth. Yet they must be
there, and only the sun knows just how and where to find them, and how
to make the best use of them for the world's good, and comfort, and
happiness. Without the sun the earth would be bare and cold, and there
would be no life--at least, not such life as we know. Every breath we
draw, every bite we eat, every step we take, every article of clothing
we wear, comes to us through the sun."
"Papa, we _can_ see the sun's colors," said Davy. "When it shines
through the cut-glass berry-dish it makes all its colors on the
table-cloth."
"So it does, Davy, I didn't remember that. A glass prism shows us all
the colors in the sunlight, and these are the colors that it puts into
the flowers and fruit--just how, I am afraid we shall never know,
though like all great wonders, I suppose, it is really a very simple
thing. When plants grow without sunlight, they grow without color, and
it is the same with little boys and girls. Open air, sunlight, fresh
water, and good food--these are what make plants and people strong and
happy and beautiful."
And so June passed and half the year was gone. Prue and Davy were brown
from working and playing out of doors, and were growing so fast that
Davy said it was hard for his corn to keep up with him. They took great
pride in the flowers and vegetables that came to the table from their
gardens and always wanted them in separate dishes from those that came
from the larger garden. When any of their friends came to dine with
them, it was Prue's flowers that were to be worn and Davy's vegetables
that were first to be served. By the end of June some of the early
things were gone, and had been replanted. Other things had grown so big
that they were beginning to crowd in their rows and beds, so that by
the first of July, the little gardens that grew side by side, and could
be seen like a picture through the windows where the winter gardens had
been, reminding little Prue of Alice's garden in Wonderland, had become
almost a wonderland jungle.
JULY
JULY
I
A PLANT IS DIVIDED INTO THREE PRINCIPAL PARTS
"CLASS in botany will please rise."
Davy and Prue looked up quickly from their little corner by the
peach-tree. It was a warm day, and they were resting in what they
called their "house," because it was a shut-in nook behind the corn,
and with tall sunflowers on the other side. Just now when the Chief
Gardener came upon them they were pulling some flowers to pieces and
talking about them very earnestly.
"Class in botany please rise," he said again, taking a seat himself on
a bench close by.
"But I can't--it's too warm," said little Prue, "and besides I've got
my lap full of flowers."
"Can't the class in botany sit by the teacher?" asked Davy.
The teacher moved over. Prue gathered her dress into an apron, and
presently the children were perched one on each side of the Chief
Gardener, who fanned himself with his straw hat, for it was a real July
day.
"We've been seeing how many of the parts of a plant we knew," said
Davy. "We know all the parts, I guess, but of some plants we can't tell
which are which."
"Suppose you name the parts for me," said the Chief Gardener.
"Oh, let me! Let me!" began Prue. "I asked first!"
Davy looked a little disappointed, but waited.
"Very well, suppose you try, Prue."
The little maid was excited.
"Why--why, there's the c'roller and the calyx and the pistil and the
panthers, and--"
The Chief Gardener laughed in spite of himself, and Davy looked rather
shocked.
"She always calls the anthers 'panthers,'" he said, sorrowfully, "and
she never will say 'corolla' right."
"And those are not the parts of a plant either," added the Chief
Gardener, "but the parts of a flower. A plant is divided into three
principal parts. Now, Davy, it's your turn. See if you can tell me what
they are."
"Well," began Davy, "the root is one."
"The root is one, Davy; quite right. Now for the others."
"The leaves are another."
"The leaves, yes, the leaves are another."
"And the flower makes three, doesn't it? But then there's the stalk,
too. That makes four. There must be four parts."
"There are a great many parts," nodded the Chief Gardener, "but there
are only three principal parts--the root, the stem, and the leaf. To a
botanist--one who studies plants and how they grow--the flower is only
a branch of the stem, and its parts are leaves."
"I suppose that is why rose-petals are called leaves," said little Prue.
"I think it is."
"But--but don't you think a flower _ought_ to be a principal part?"
asked Davy.
"Well, it is in a way. It is a particular kind of a principal part,
made for a special purpose. But after all, it is really a branch, for
it comes from a bud, just as other branches do, and it comes just where
any branch would come. Many times you cannot tell whether a bud is
going to make a flower or just leaves until it opens. And there are a
few queer flowers in the world that can hardly be told from leaves even
after they do open."
II
THERE ARE EXOGENS AND ENDOGENS
"NOW let us tell the parts of a flower. That was what we were doing
when you came up," said Davy.
"And let me tell again," said little Prue. "I know I can get them
right, this time."
So little Prue told again, and got it almost right, though she did call
anthers "panthers" again, just as the first time.
"Now, Davy, it's your turn," said the Chief Gardener.
Davy picked up a little pink flower which he had found in the grass.
It was oxalis, or sorrel, and sometimes the children nibbled the sour
leaves, calling it sour-grass. Of course, you must not forget that Davy
was older than Prue, and perhaps a little more thoughtful.
"This," he began, picking off the little green flower-casing, "is the
calyx, and each little piece is called a sepal. This flower has five
sepals in its calyx, and five petals in its corolla. These are the
petals," and he pulled out the little pink flower-leaves, and laid them
by the green sepals. Then he held it up for the Chief Gardener and
little Prue to see.
"Look at the stamens," he said. "They all grow together at the bottom."
"That's because your sorrel is a Monadelphian," said the Chief Gardener.
Davy looked puzzled.
[Illustration: THE PISTIL AND STAMENS OF THE LILY]
"I know what a Philadelphian is," said Prue.
Davy laughed.
"The words are very much alike," smiled the Chief Gardener. "They both
mean brotherhood, and come from some old Greek words. Philadelphia
means brotherly love, and Monadelphia means brotherly union. You see
those stamens are all brothers and are joined together as one. All
plants with such stamens are called Monadelphians."
"A stamen has three parts," Davy went on, "its filament, its anther,
and its pollen. The filament is the stem, the anther is its cap, and
the pollen is the dust which falls on the pistil and helps to make the
seed."
[Illustration: A PISTIL AND CALYX AND A COMPLETE FLOWER]
Very carefully Davy took away the ring of stamens, and left only the
little yellowish-green center of the sorrel flower.
"This is where we get the seed," he said, as gravely as an old college
professor lecturing to a class. "This is the pistil, and it has three
parts, too: the pod, the style, and the stigma. The stigma is the
little piece at the top which catches the pollen from the anthers. The
style is the stem, and the pod is the big part below which holds the
seeds."
He held up the little stripped flower again. "This pistil has five
styles and five stigmas," he went on. "A good many flowers have more
than one. It has ten stamens, too--two stamens for each style, and five
petals and five sepals. You can divide it by five all the way through."
"Even to the seed-pod," added the Chief Gardener. "It has five
divisions," and he cut the tiny green pulp and showed them with his
magnifying-glass. "The little sorrel flower is one of the most perfect
of flowers--one of the most perfect in a great class of flowers called
Ex-o-gens. There is one other class called End-o-gens. Those words
are from the Greek, too. Exogen means outward-growing. Endogen means
inward-growing. The stem of an Exogen grows by layers, as most trees
grow."
"Oh, yes," said Prue, "I know. We counted the rings on that big oak
that was cut down over by the lake last year. It had one ring for each
year."
[Illustration: A GROUP OF ENDOGENS--THE LILY, HYACINTH, AND DAFFODIL]
"That's right, Prue, and the stem of the Endogen grows inside a shell,
and is often just a soft pith, like the inside of a cornstalk.
These are the two great classes of all flowering plants and trees.
You can always tell the difference by their stems; nearly always
from their leaves; always from their seeds, if you have a strong
magnifying-glass, for the little germ of the Exogen has two leaves like
the morning-glory, and the germ of the Endogen has but one like the
lily, or corn. But the easiest way for you to tell is by the flowers.
An Exogen flower nearly always goes by fives, like the little sorrel
bloom, sometimes by fours, but hardly ever by threes. The Endogen
flower is nearly always divided in threes, like the lily, which has six
petals. It very seldom has four parts, and never five. So, you see, we
know right away that the sorrel and the rose and buttercup are Exogens,
and that the lily and the hyacinth and the daffodil are Endogens. Of
course, there are many flowers not so easy to place as these, and I am
afraid I am giving you too hard a lesson for one time, especially for
such a hot day."
"But I'm not hot now," said Davy. "There's a fine breeze, and I like to
sit here and talk." So they talked on about the different kinds and
classes of plants, and by and by when big Prue found them, little Prue
had much to tell her about all the new things she had learned. And she
was careful not to pronounce anything wrong, and to explain that an
Exogen was a plant that grew on the outside, and that an Endogen was
another plant that grew on the inside, and big Prue said that Davy must
be an Exogen, because he was getting so fat, and that little Prue must
be an Endogen, because she was growing so smart. Then everything had to
be told over, and then it was tea-time, with a dainty table all spread
under the arbor, and delicious raspberries, and very, very delicious
ice-cream.
III
I DON'T SEE WHAT WEEDS ARE FOR, ANYWAY
AND the very next day was Fourth of July, with all the fire-crackers
and torpedoes and sky-rockets that always come on that day.
But there was something else. For when big Prue and the Chief Gardener
come to the breakfast-table, they found that Davy and little Prue had
arranged what Prue called a "susprise." The room was all red, white,
and blue--not with flags or bunting, but with flowers.
There were bowls of red and white and blue morning-glories on the
sideboard, and in the center of the table there was a very large bowl
of red, white, and blue sweet-pease, so nicely arranged that each color
was separate, and the whole looked like a cake of flowers cut in three
equal parts. And there were other red and white and blue flowers, too,
but the sweet-pea bowl in the center was the finest of all.
There was not much gardening that day, of course, for there were
parades to see and music to hear, and fireworks in the evening. The
Chief Gardener had brought home the fireworks, and when all the rockets
had been fired and the Roman candles, he brought out something larger
than the rest, and when it was lighted, it all at once turned into
a great flower-pot and sent out hundreds of the most beautiful fiery
flowers, such as no garden would grow, no matter how hot it was.
"That is to pay for the sus-prise you gave us this morning," said the
Chief Gardener, when little Prue was through dancing and squealing and
jumping up and down with delight. "They grew in that hot sun yesterday."
But little Prue didn't believe it, though she did ask if some of the
stars which came out of the rockets didn't stay in the sky with the
other stars. She was quite certain she had never seen so many in the
sky before.
July was a great month in the little gardens. Almost everything bloomed
and bore. The pinks, the pansies, the alyssum, the sweet-williams and
the morning-glories--they grew and then bloomed and crowded each other
in their beds until some of them had to be moved into new places, while
as for Davy's things, his corn grew taller and taller, until it shaded
his tomato vines, and he was afraid they would not do well for want of
sun. But the sun was up so high, and was so hot in July, that perhaps
they got enough anyway, for they grew so big they had to be tied up,
and the tomatoes on them were so large that Davy thought one was almost
enough for a whole family. As for his beans--well, Davy will plant
fewer beans next year. They began to bear just a little at first, and
then, all at once, there were beans enough on his few hills, not only
for himself and Prue, but for the rest of the family, and then for the
neighbors, too. Davy picked nearly all one hot afternoon to keep up
with his bean crop, and then nearly trotted his fat legs off carrying
little baskets to the different people that he knew, explaining to each
that these were really from his own garden--his own beans that he had
planted and tended himself. Then he and Prue carried some vegetables
and flowers to a little hospital not far away, where there were some
sick children, and some who were just getting well. And it was a
happy, happy time for the little boy and girl when they took the things
they had planted and cared for to the other little boys and girls who
seemed so glad to have them come.
But as the weather grew warmer and summer showers came the weeds got
worse and worse. Sometimes when Davy and Prue had tried very hard to
get them all out and found that new ones had come almost over night,
while some of the old ones they had cut down had taken root again, they
were almost discouraged.
"I don't see what weeds are for anyway," Davy said one warm morning,
almost crying, and little Prue, whose face was very red and hot, flung
herself down in the shady peach-tree house, too tired to talk. "Now,
there's that old pursley, I pull and pull and cut, and unless I carry
every bit of it away, it all takes root again and grows right along as
if I hadn't touched it."
"Yes," said the Chief Gardener, "it is a nuisance. I suppose its pretty
sister is very much ashamed of it."
"Its sister! Why, who is its sister?" asked Davy, while little Prue sat
up and forgot she was tired.
"Miss Portulaca Purslane, of course, sometimes called Rose-moss,
because her flower is something like a wild rose and her stem and
leaves a little like overgrown moss."
"Oh, is my sweet rose-moss just old pursley weed?" whimpered little
Prue, who was very proud of a little bunch of portulaca that was just
in full bloom. She had chosen the pretty flower from a catalogue, and
it had been one of her best growers.
"Why, no, Prue, your rose-moss is not a weed at all, but she belongs
to the Purslane family, and like a good many other families it has a
member who has run wild and become a disgrace to its relatives and a
trouble to everybody. There is another wild purslane, but it is not a
weed. It is just a little wild-wood cousin of Portulaca. Her name is
Claytonia, and she lives in pleasant places in the woods, and hides
under the leaves in winter-time. Most people call her Spring-beauty."
"Oh, Spring-beauty! Oh, I know! Just bushels of them--Davy and I found
over by the lake last spring! Little white flowers with pink lines in
them, and smell--just a little tiny smell--so--so springy and wild.
Oh, I just love Spring-beauties! But I'm sorry my nice rose-moss is
pursley. Is it, Papa? Is it really a sister to that ugly weed?"
"Suppose you bring a branch of each over to the bench here--one with
flowers on it."
Prue brought a sprig of her precious rose-moss, and Davy a large piece
of the pursley from the pile he had just cut down. The Chief Gardener
took them and put them together.
"You see, they are a good deal alike," he said, "though the leaves are
different--Miss Portulaca's being the finer."
Then he took one of the tiny pursley flowers and put it under the
magnifying-glass, and let the children look. Yes, it was almost
exactly like the beautiful flower of the rose-moss, only smaller. Each
flower had two green sepals and five colored petals, also five stamens,
so they knew it was an exogen, though it would have been harder to tell
this from the thick, pulpy leaves and stem. The little seed-pod of each
had a tiny cap which lifted off when the seeds were ripe, leaving a
perfect cup, heaping full.
"You see, children," said the Chief Gardener, "weeds do not care to be
either useful or ornamental. So they become rank and common, and lose
their beautiful flowers. But somehow they never have any less seed.
They want to grow just as thickly as they can, and however small their
flowers are, the seed-pods are always full to the brim."
"Well," said Prue, "I'm sure there can't be any of my flowers relation
to chickweed. I never can get that out of my beds."
The Chief Gardener thought a minute.
"Why, yes, Prue," he said, "that's Cousin Stella; I suppose she came
to see the beautiful Dian and to make her all the trouble she can."
"Oh, Papa! what do you mean by Stella and Dian?"
"Well, Stellaria is chickweed, and she's a cousin to Dianthus, your
lovely pinks. I suppose you might call them Stella and Dian, for
short. They are not very nearly related, but they do belong to the
same family, and perhaps they were once more alike. I don't suppose
beautiful Dian would own Stella, but Stella (or perhaps her weed
friends call her Chick), is a great nuisance and makes Dian and _her_
friends all the trouble she can."
"Papa," said Davy, who had been silent all this time, "are there really
any plant families that don't have wild members who behave badly and
become just weeds?"
"I don't remember any real weeds in the Lily family, Davy, though
almost any plant will become a weed if allowed to run wild and live
in fence corners, like a tramp. They become prodigals then, like the
man's son in the Bible. And sometimes they come back to the garden,
as the prodigal son did, to become well-behaved and useful flowers
again. Of course, there are many others that have always lived wild in
the woods and fields, and are not called weeds, because they do not
spread and destroy other plants. These are our wild flowers, and the
world would be poor, indeed, without them. Sometimes we bring them into
the garden, and make them grow larger and call them by a new name.
And sometimes, I am sorry to say, a sweet wild flower will suddenly
spread and overrun the fields and become almost a weed. I am afraid our
beautiful daisies are becoming a weed to a good many farmers. Those
fields that are like banks of snow, and so beautiful to us, must worry
the man who owns them and cannot get rid of the millions of 'rare
Marguerites!'"
Little Prue sighed.