With the exception of the rose, no other plant is so widely distributed
and at the same time so universally admired as the Violet. Not alone is
it esteemed because of its beauty and fragrance, but a wealth of
romance, of historical associations and mythical lore have clustered
around the purple blossoms, endearing them to the poet and scientist
alike.
The Violet was formally baptized with the ancient Latin name Viola in
1737. Since that time, by some strange oversight, botanists have allowed
the name to remain unchanged. Two hundred and fifty species of the
Violet have been described, although a more careful study of the genus
has reduced the number to one hundred or more species. Three-fourths of
these forms are found in the temperate Northern Hemisphere and the
balance in the Southern. Under these diverse conditions of growth the
plants assume many seemingly unnatural characteristics. Thus, in Brazil
a species of Violet is eaten like spinach, while others found in Peru
are violent purgatives. Among certain Gaelic tribes the plants are
highly esteemed as a cosmetic, and the ancients largely used the flowers
to flavor wines.
Whatever other attributes a plant may possess, it is predestined in
large measure to waste its fragrance on the desert air, unless it
catches the fancy of the minstrel or tips the bolts that fly from
Cupid’s bow. In fact, the Violets were originally white, until they were
accidentally struck by Cupid’s dart, which was hurled at Diana, and
since then the petals have been “purple with love’s wounds.” Hence
Shakespeare calls the Violet “Cupid’s flower of purple dye.” Another
reason for the change from white to purple is found in the jealousy of
Venus, who, envious of Cupid’s admiration of the purity of the flowers,
changed them all to blue.
The Greek myth, however, would certainly not be content if it could not
more fully account for the origin of the Violet, and so it appears from
the classic legend that Ianthea, the most beautiful of Diana’s nymphs,
while dancing in the woodlands, was pursued by the sun god, and in order
to save her favorite the immortal huntress changed her into a Violet.
The name Ion was given to the plants by the Greeks after the nymphs of
Ionia presented the flowers to Jupiter. The Thunderer evidently saw
something more than a mere blossom in the dainty flowers, for it appears
that the Violet became a beautiful priestess in Juno’s temple, known as
Io. In order to protect her from the jealousy of his consort, Jupiter
was forced to change the young goddess into a heifer, and whenever she
lowers her head to feed, the white violet springs from her perfumed
breath as it comes in contact with the soil.
Among the ancients the Violet was the flower of honor. It was the sacred
flower of the Acropolis, and the “Athenian crowned with Violets” was a
distinction much sought after. Pindar writes of “Violet-crowned Athens,”
and in the “Cyprea” it is said that Violets were among the perfumes
employed by Venus to win from Paris the prize of beauty.
No less esteemed were the purple blossoms among the more rugged people
of the North, for a Saxon legend tells how Czernebogh, god of the
Vandals, lived with his beautiful daughter in a stately castle. When
Christianity swept through Saxony, destroying all evidences of the
heathen faiths, the god and his castle were turned into rocks, and the
lovely daughter became a Violet, nestling among the crags. Whoever is
fortunate enough to discover the hidden flower will restore the maiden
and the castle to their original form and may claim this Saxon Flora as
his bride.
[Illustration: COMMON PURPLE VIOLET.
(Viola obliqua.)
LIVERWORT.
(Hepatica hepatica.)
FROM “NATURE’S GARDEN.”
COPYRIGHT 1900, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY.]
In Norse mythology the Violet is called Tyr’s flower, and this is the
first instance in which the modest plant became disassociated from the
realm of love and assumed the guise of war. Tyr’s violet mantle,
however, in later years, fell upon the great Napoleon, who adopted the
flower as his emblem. He was, in fact, called by his followers Pere de
la Violette, and upon going into exile Napoleon assured his friends that
he would return with the Violets. Hence the flower became the sacred
symbol by which his followers recognized each other. When asked, “Do you
like the Violet?” if the reply was “Oui” the answerer was not a
confederate. If, however, the reply came, “Eh, bien,” they recognized a
brother conspirator and completed the sentence, “It will appear again in
the spring.”
During the middle ages the Violet became the chosen symbol to the
minstrel and troubadour, of loyalty and faithful love. A blue Violet was
the first love token passed by Clemence Isaure through a hole in the
wall of her convent garden to her noble lover, Count Raymond, of
Toulouse, and in its association as a bridal flower Milton used it to
carpet Eve’s bower in Paradise.
Charles S. Raddin.
THE ROUND-LOBED LIVERWORT.
(_Hepatica hepatica._)
All the woodland path is broken
By warm tints along the way,
And the low and sunny slope
Is alive with sudden hope,
When there comes the silent token
Of an April day—
Blue hepatica.
—Dora Read Goodale.
There are many plants that are closely related to the mythology and
folklore of nations. This is even true of many that are native only in
our own young country. The Liverwort, or Hepatica, as it is more often
called, though it is not entirely free from mythical association among
the Indian tribes, does not enter largely into their folklore.
This beautiful plant has, however, been the inspiration of many poets.
Helen Chase calls the Hepaticas
“Hooded darlings of the spring,
Rarest tints of purple wearing.”
The delicate blue of the flowers is mentioned by William Cullen Bryant:
“The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms
Of faintest blue.”
The life of this plant is poetical. During the summer months a luxuriant
growth of leaves is produced. As cold weather approaches these lie down
upon the ground and are soon covered by the falling leaves, which have
been nipped from the trees by bite of the frost king. Soon, too, they
are covered with snow. In this warm cradle they sleep through the
winter, yet, as it were, with open eyes for the dawn of spring. Had the
Hepatica the power of reason we would say that it longed for spring, for
after the first few warm days that herald the approach of that season
there is activity in every part of the plant. It does not wait to
produce new leaves, but in an incredibly short time sends up its flower
stalk and spreads its blue, purple or white petals to the warm rays of
the sun. The Hepatica is truly a harbinger of spring, and in Eastern
North America, from Southern British America to the Gulf of Mexico, its
appearance introduces the new season. In the northern portion of its
habitat its flowers are among the first to grace the dreary, leafless
forests. This Hepatica is also found in Europe and Asia. It is not only
a flower of the forests of lower altitudes, but is also found in
mountainous regions at an elevation of nearly three thousand feet.
This plant was first described by Linnæus in 1753, who gave it the name
Hepatica, as he saw in the shape of the leaf a resemblance to the form
of the liver.
Of the four known species of Hepaticas but one other is found in North
America. This species has the lobes of the leaves pointed instead of
round. In some localities it is quite as common as the plant of our
illustration, and by many it is considered merely a variety of that
form.
Bishop Coxe has said:
Flowers are words
Which even a babe may understand.
The word expressed by the beautiful and hardy Hepatica is confidence.
THE SPRING MIGRATION.
I. THE WARBLERS.
In two former papers I told you of some of the birds that spend their
winters in the Gulf States. It is my purpose in the present article to
tell some of the features of the great spring migration as viewed from a
Mississippi standpoint; how myriads of the little fellows in yellow,
black, white, and olive-green stop in these forests to rest and feed for
a day or two, then under the impulse of a little-understood instinct
continue their journey to the region of their birth. The migration takes
place in successive waves, till the last one breaks upon us and spring
is over.
In early March the first wave rolls in upon us; happy little creatures
hop about and chatter among the opening buds and feast on the insect
life awakened by the returning sun. On successive days or, perhaps, at
intervals of a few days other waves roll in from the far lands of the
Gulf and the Caribbean Sea, till the final one beats against these hills
and we awake about the first of May to realize that summer, fervid,
tropical, is here. For the months of March and April all is bustle among
the feathered traveling public; after that the summer residents have
things all their own way till the fall migration begins.
As the sun draws near the line you notice that up in the tops of the gum
trees are little birds about the size of a savanna sparrow, and, viewed
hastily, of much the same coloring. You know they are not savannas,
because the savanna never frequents such places. Some of them have
probably spent their winter in this latitude; but just now by their
restless activity they tell us that the sap has begun to stir and that
the great migration is about to begin. Closer inspection with a good
glass will show four spots or patches of yellow, one on the crown, one
under each wing, and another on the rump, hence the bird’s name, the
yellow rumped warbler, sometimes known as the myrtle warbler. A month
later you will scarcely recognize the males of this species, the dull
brown of the winter coat being replaced by the shiny black of his
bridegroom’s suit.
When the beech buds swell and the jessamine puts forth its little yellow
trumpets to announce that spring has actually come, the first great wave
comes flooding into the awakening woods. Here come the first arrivals,
both sexes in coats of grayish blue, with shirtwaists of brilliant
yellow, the male distinguished by a patch of rufous of an irregular
crescent shape across the lower part of the throat and upper part of the
breast. On fine sunshiny days the parula warbler, for that is his name,
loves the topmost branches of the tallest trees; if the day is gloomy he
comes down to the lower branches, affording a better opportunity to
study him. His only note at these times is an insect-like buzz much in
keeping with his diminutive size.
In the lowlands the Halesia or silver bell is putting out its graceful
pendulous racemes of purest white, and it is time to look for the next
migrant, the hooded warbler, one of the largest and finest of his race.
A V of brilliant yellow coming down to the bill, covering the forehead
and running backwards past the eye, bordered by a well defined band of
intense black, and a back and tail of green slightly tinted with olive
make him a marked bird. Unlike the parula, he cares nothing for treetops
or sunshine; a perch on a swinging rattan vine or in a shrub in the dark
woods hard by a canebrake is good enough for him.
As soon as the hooded warbler appears we will see the black and white
creeping warbler, the connecting link (so to speak) between the creepers
and warblers in both appearance and habits. Like our common brown
creeper, he loves the dense woods, but unlike him seems to prefer the
tops and higher branches. Alternate patches and streaks of white and
black without a suggestion of the yellow or olive green so
characteristic of his genus make his identification easy. His note is
simple and short; in fact the sounds that he emits in his journeys are
scarcely worth being called a song.
The flood tide comes about the first of April and lasts two weeks.
Prominent among the multitude of visitors you may see a warbler slightly
smaller than the hooded but of the same general coloring, yellow, black
and green, only in this bird the black is in three patches, one on the
top of the head, the others running from the bill back and down. This is
the Kentucky warbler, a lover of the ground and of the low growths.
There is another that the hasty observer might mistake for the hooded or
the Kentucky, and that is the Maryland yellowthroat. The black on the
latter is confined to broad bands of rich velvety black below the eyes;
the yellow is more of a sulphur than a chrome shade, and the green is
more nearly olive than in the two just mentioned. Many of this species
make their summer home in this latitude, making their nests and rearing
their broods in the mat of vines and weeds along the fence rows. The
usual song is wichety, wichety, wichety, uttered with the cheerful vigor
that makes the Carolina wren so attractive. During the months of April
and May, 1900, I had frequent opportunities to observe two pairs of
yellow throats that had built just inside the fence that parallels the
railroad; the males, as they caught sight of me coming down the track,
would mount the highest weed within reach and sing with all their might,
but as I came opposite their perch would drop suddenly down into the
weeds and remain there till I was well past, then resume their perch and
song as long as I was in hearing.
Another of this family conspicuous for its brilliant coloring is the
prothonotary warbler. Yellow breast, head, neck and shoulders, yellowish
olive wings and back and darker olive tail render him conspicuous
against any woodland background. If you want to see him during these
busy April days we must go where he is, i. e., in the cypress or willow
swamps. The dark gray festoons of Spanish moss (Tillandsia usneoides)
and the tender young green of the cypress leaves afford both contrast
for his bright colors and provisions for his larder. Some of this
species also nest here, choosing for their homes oftentimes the holes
made by some of our smaller woodpeckers in dead willow stubs. I remember
one morning seeing a cheerful flock of prothonotary and parula warblers
and noticing one of the former leave his companions and fly to a clump
of willows where another less brilliantly colored, presumably the
female, joined him. Together they inspected the willow stubs, running in
and out and up and down the trunks, peering into every cavity. Finally
they found one that met their requirements, then, after a short but
earnest discussion, flew away through the swamp.
Inhabiting the marshes and swamps is the Louisiana water thrush, a
slender brown bird shaped much like the brown thrasher, only much
smaller, being about six inches in length as compared with the
thrasher’s eleven or twelve. A gifted singer, he is very wild and shy,
always resenting the intrusion of the lords of creation upon his quiet
haunts, flitting quietly on before you in the shadows, evincing his
distrust of your motives by an occasional angry “clink.” He well
illustrates the principle of compensation: though denied the brilliant
yellows and greens of his warbler brethren, he surpasses them all in the
quality of his song, as free, as beautiful, as wild as the bird himself.
All the individuals of this species that I saw in three years’
observation were either in the water beeches (Carpinus caroliniana) that
grew so thickly along the creek or in the sweet gums and cypress along
the borders of an immense swamp.
As the Louisiana water thrush is the star soloist of the warbler
contingent, so the yellow breasted chat is the clown of our woodland
troupe. His coloring is vivid but simple, being green with a wash of
olive above, lores black, breast bright chrome yellow, other under parts
white or whitish. Under most circumstances this bird is shy and
difficult to approach, as I learned by personal experience; but when one
of his strange moods comes upon him—perhaps it is the approach of the
nuptial season that so affects him—he doffs much of his shyness and
becomes a veritable clown, making such a profusion and variety of noises
that one would fain believe that there is a whole score of birds in the
bush or thicket from which the medley proceeds. He darts out of his
retreat and flies away over the shrubbery, twisting and turning his
body, raising and dropping his tail as if all his joints were of the
ball and socket pattern, making as many ridiculous contortions and as
many varieties of squeaks and squalls as an old-time elocutionist.
Besides numerous individuals of the species of warblers already named,
in the two weeks between April 9 and 23 I saw one or more of each of the
following: Yellow or summer, bluewinged, worm-eating, magnolia, golden
winged, chestnut sided, prairie, and the redstart. As I write these
names they call up mornings spent in the land of the ’possum and
persimmon while yet the steamy breath of the dew was going up to meet
the fervor of an April sun, and all the air was heavy with the perfume
of the blooming holly, mornings of music from a thousand throats
inspired by “the new wine of the year.” At such times one realizes the
force of these two lines from Richard Hovey:
Make me over, Mother April,
When the sap begins to stir.
James Stephen Compton.