intimate knowledge of this subject. The exquisite beauty of
autumn-tinted leaves attracts the attention of the most unobservant. One
longs to preserve them, and for years I used to try various methods of
pressing and drying them with but very partial success. Now, however, I
have devised a plan by which their fleeting colours are so exactly
imitated that my friends constantly mistake the painted leaf for the
real one. As it may afford pleasurable occupation for some of my
readers, I will briefly describe the process.
The materials required are but few: a common slate, some fine drawing
paper, a cyclostyle[4] roller, and a bottle of the ink which is sold
with it. A small quantity of the ink should be placed on the slate, and
the roller passed to and fro until it is slightly and evenly inked. The
leaf should then be placed on a flat, hard surface, and the roller
passed firmly over it so as to leave a little ink on the under side of
the leaf to mark the veins. The leaf should then be reversed, with the
ink side downwards, on a piece of drawing paper, and the roller firmly
passed over it once or twice. The result will be an exquisite faint
imprint of the exact shape of the leaf with all its veins. After a few
minutes it will be ready to be tinted in water colours, so as to exactly
resemble the various hues in the real leaf. The colours should be very
moist, and rather floated into each other, as in this way one can most
readily attain the delicate gradations of tone. When finished the leaf
should be neatly cut out with fine scissors, carefully following the
outline of the notches, which vary so much in different trees, and give
character to each species. When such painted leaves are gummed into a
blank book the effect will be found to be wonderfully real. The album
should be large enough to allow of four or five leaves, each
representing a different stage in the coloration—yellow, pink, crimson,
and all other tints which belong to each special tree. A page should of
course be reserved for each set of specimens, and the English and Latin
name, the date, and any other particulars written at the bottom of the
page will add to the scientific value of the collection.
The various galls which are found on each species of tree will alone
furnish a wide field for study. The ink with which I am now writing is
the product of an oak-gall which is imported in large quantities from
Asia Minor; many kinds are of great value in dyeing; and the
life-history of the numerous gall-flies is most curious and interesting.
Careful drawings of the buds of trees as they open in spring will reveal
the delicate plaiting of the tiny leafage within. We can then discern
how some leaves are folded lengthways or in half, others curled up
spirally or fluted; we shall see how the embryo leaves are protected by
more than a dozen scales, often lined with silky down, and then, as in
the case of the horse-chestnut, still further guarded from the winter’s
cold by an outer coating of resin.
Again, the fruits and seeds of trees would prove an interesting subject.
I wonder how many young people know the difference between the English
sycamore, which is a true maple, and the sycomore of Palestine, which is
a fig-tree; and yet they are totally unlike each other—the first
producing a dry seed vessel, and the other an eatable fruit; the
sycamore usually having a stem twenty or thirty feet high before it
branches, and the sycomore dividing near the ground, so that Zaccheus
found no difficulty in climbing its ample stems.
There are some birds which frequent special trees, and are named after
them, such as the hawfinch, the whinchat, which is found on its
favourite furze-bushes (called whins in Scotland), the pine and fir
grosbeak, and the nuthatch. The student should know something of these
birds and their habits, as being linked with the trees they frequent.
There are innumerable insects also found upon the leaves and stems of
trees. It has been calculated that about two thousand different species
of caterpillars and larvæ of various kinds prey upon the oak alone.
We thus see vistas which open out before the young student, any one of
which, when followed up with thoughtful perseverance, will add immensely
to the pleasure of walks abroad and quiet hours at home.
As this chapter aims to be a suggestive one, I would mention the
possibility of making a dried collection of the trees of Scripture. This
may seem at first sight very difficult of attainment, but we often hear
of friends going abroad (even if we cannot go ourselves), and a request
to gather and dry a spray of olive or carob-tree will hardly be refused,
and thus in time, by the help of others, our collection will be formed,
and will become of much value to us in teaching our Bible classes, as
well as from the associations the book will have with the kind
travellers who remembered us when far away.
I greatly treasure my own specimens of oleander gathered on the shores
of the Lake of Galilee, the carob-leaves from Bethlehem, sycomore fig
from Jericho, pomegranate from Jerusalem, and olive-sprays from the
Garden of Gethsemane. Pleasant hours have been spent in reading about
each tree, and the passages in Scripture where they are mentioned are
invested with a deeper interest from one’s knowledge of many facts
connected with each which otherwise would have passed unnoticed.
For instance, the fruit of the carob or locust-tree may have been the
food of John the Baptist; it is known to this day by the name of “St.
John’s Bread,” and the sweet, nutritious pods are still eaten by the
poorer inhabitants of Palestine. It is also more than probable that “the
husks that the swine did eat,” mentioned in the parable of the Prodigal
Son, were the long curved pods produced by this tree[5]; and it is also
well known that the equal-sized, hard-shelled seeds of the carob were
the original “carat” weights of the jeweller.
Thus we see how many interesting facts cluster around the name of a
single Scripture tree. If a spray or leaf of any of the kinds mentioned
is placed in the centre of a page, with some neatly written texts
referring to interesting facts about its history and uses, we shall then
have always at hand a delightful book, which will prove useful for many
purposes. It will afford plenty of subjects for conversation when we
wish to make Sunday afternoon a bright and happy time for some young
people, kept indoors, it may be, by wet weather. Many a sick person’s
weary hours might be cheered by such a book being lent, and in endless
ways it will well repay the trouble of putting it together.
A collection of seedling trees, carefully dried between sheets of
blotting paper in a press or under a weight, then fastened into a blank
book with strips of gummed paper, with the English and Latin names to
each, and a note of the age of the seedling, will form a pleasant
memento of our forest rambles, and probably may lead on to further study
of the same kind.
Lemon and orange pips will grow readily in damp moss under a glass, and
can be transplanted into pots of earth, so that seedling plants are
attainable even by those who live in towns. I was much surprised to find
that tamarind seeds taken out of the jam would grow very quickly in
cocoanut fibre if kept moist and placed near a hall stove. The secret
appears to be that although the tamarinds are packed in barrels, and hot
sugar is poured over them, yet owing to the thickness of the seed-coat
the life principle is not destroyed.
To make our collection complete there should be seedlings of the other
great division of plants, namely, those with only one seed-leaf, such as
palms, cannas, bulbs, grasses, &c. A few date-stones kept in moist
earth, and placed where they will have a slight degree of regular heat,
will supply one of these specimens, and Canna seed, Indian corn, and
other plants of the kind, grown in the same way, will supply other
examples.
Whatever branch of nature-study we select, or whatever collections we
may decide to make, the invariable result is that our interest in that
special thing becomes immensely deepened; we begin to notice points that
never struck us before, our power of observing becomes quickened, we
really begin to think we must have been almost blind hitherto not to
have been aware of the new and curious things we are daily finding out,
we learn that the natural world around us is a storehouse ready to yield
endless treasure to those who are willing to seek it, and thus I have
often noticed that when once young people can be induced to begin a
collection of some sort it is the first step to their becoming true
nature-students.
Mothers often long for some simple occupation for the little busy
fingers, that get into mischief if unemployed, and what can be more
innocent than collecting and pressing wild flowers and leaves, and, when
dried, arranging them in a book, so that mother can write the name to
each specimen and talk about them, telling the uses to which some plants
are applied? In this way children grow up to be ardent botanists, and
may learn a great deal about the science without any of its dry details
being presented to them in the shape of long unpronounceable terms,
until they are old enough to see for themselves the necessity for them.
I have tried to indicate a few of the ways in which young people may
study Nature, but the avenues into her domain are endless; let us at
least endeavour to traverse such of them as may be within our reach
whilst we are young, and so make our lives all the brighter and happier
for knowing something of the wonders of this marvellous world in which
it has pleased God to place us.
INSECT OBSERVATION.
“In this enchanted leisure
The only restless thing
Is one loose ray of azure,
A dragon-fly on wing;
The rustling of its flight
Is like the sound of light.”
EDMUND GOSSE.
“Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam
That waked them into life.”
W. C. BRYANT.
INSECT OBSERVATION.
THERE are many by-paths into the delightful realm of Nature, not so
often traversed as the broad avenues which are known to every one, but
equally full of interest, and not less stored with instruction of
various kinds. One of these paths I follow almost daily, and with
ever-increasing delight. It happens that there exists, close to the
garden-room where I usually sit and write, a valley, with winding grassy
paths and banks of azaleas and rhododendrons. It is a quiet and secluded
spot, and has been so for the last twenty years.
Generations of birds have nested in its shrubberies year after year;
bees know well that the spot is rich in honey-laden flowers; insects
that they will be undisturbed there save by the blue-tits and other
fly-hunting birds. Mosses and lichens carpet the moist, shady banks on
one side, whilst bright sunshine glistens on the opposite side through
the greater part of the day. There could not be a more favourable spot
for insect observation, and this is the special by-path to which I would
direct the reader’s attention to-day. One frequently hears the remark,
“I should like to know more about the habits of insects,” and the
question often follows, “How can I best study them?” To this I would
reply by describing what is to be seen and learned in my valley.
This will not pretend to be a scientific description of insect life, but
simply a quiet glimpse at the habits of several kinds of winged
creatures disporting themselves with such native ease as one can never
see when they are caught and caged and brought indoors. Having placed a
chair in the shade, facing a sunlighted bank of evergreens, laurels or
rhododendrons, we must keep absolutely still, closely on the watch with
a small field-glass in our hands for at least half an hour if we desire
to see and study the insects that will visit the flowers and leaves. As
we walk casually round a garden not very much can be seen except the
bees upon the blossoms or an occasional dragon-fly. Almost every species
of fly darts away at the approach of man; their eyes are so marvellously
observant of any moving object that we can learn hardly anything of the
life-history of the various species unless we remain perfectly quiescent
long enough for confidence to be restored, or, in other words, until the
insects forget our presence and are again at their ease.
Hot sunshine seems to afford perfect bliss to almost every kind of fly,
and in that condition we see them basking on leaves in great profusion.
Bluebottles, the golden greenbottle, the drone-fly, all the highly
coloured, swift-darting sunflies—these are constantly to be found poised
on the laurels, although only for a few moments’ rest between their
aerial games. It gives one a sense of pleasure to watch anything so
absolutely happy as these creatures seem. Three or four will start off
at once for a frolic, whizzing through the air, performing a sort of
“ladies’ chain” evolution, each seizing the other for a rapid whirl or
two, then, exchanging partners, faster than the eye can follow them they
skim through the air, and finally return to their leaves to rest. Each
species has its own style of flight. The sunflies have the power of
remaining motionless, poised in air for a considerable time, whilst they
watch any object that interests them. Their wings vibrate so rapidly as
to be invisible, but if you attempt to catch one with a net, away, with
a dart, the fly is off into space only to return in a moment as if to
mock your clumsy attempt to capture it.
Now your attention is arrested by the quivering antennæ of a long-bodied
fly that is stealthily prying into leafy crevices, seeking for some
living object, a caterpillar or chrysalis, into which it may insert its
egg. The grub when hatched will feed upon the living substance of the
caterpillar, which survives for a time, until eventually the grub
attacks some vital part. This kills the caterpillar, but not before the
grub has changed into a chrysalis, out of which will emerge in due time
an ichneumon fly, ready to victimise other insects in the same way.
On the broad leaves of a low-growing plant some female wolf-spiders have
placed themselves, each carrying her bag of eggs beneath her body. There
they will bask for hours; possibly the warmth of the sun tends to mature
the eggs, the treasure for which they seem to live. These spiders will
allow themselves to be killed rather than part with that little
cream-coloured ball. Truly the spider offers a marvellous instance of
maternal love! After a time the eggs are hatched, and then the mother
may be seen with her whole progeny clustered upon her back enjoying
their sun-bath. The first time I saw this family event I could not
understand why the back of the spider had suddenly become grey and
furry, until I brought a magnifying glass, and then I could plainly
discern the minute offspring covering the mother’s body.
Now a glittering dragon-fly darts down the grassy alley seeking its
prey. It, too, rejoices in the sunshine and poises lightly on the tip of
a leaf between its flights to enjoy the welcome beams. These huge flies
adopt a particular haunt, and will remain there hawking up and down day
after day. I often become acquainted with individual dragon-flies from
seeing them so often: I know where to find them on sunny days. If they
are unmolested and you move gently enough they will allow you to
approach them closely, and I believe in time they would take a fly from
your fingers. There is hardly a more beautiful insect than _Æshna
grandis_, one of the largest of our native dragon-flies. In life its
eyes glisten like opals with changing colours, its long body is a marvel
of bluish green and black mosaic markings, and its four lace-like wings
are fit to adorn the Queen of the Fairies.[6] It is hard to convince
people that this is a perfectly harmless creature; yet it does not bite,
it has no sting or venom of any kind, and the long body which writhes
about as we hold it can hurt neither men nor horses, although it is
vulgarly known as a horse-stinger. Possibly we may be favoured with a
glimpse of a dragon-fly’s toilet if we keep still and motionless. The
brilliant eyes are softly brushed with one of the forelegs, so as to
clear away any speck of dust; the wonderful head, which seems attached
to the body by the merest thread, turns this way and that as the insect
plies the combs or short, stiff fringes with which its legs are
furnished, brushing its finery as carefully as any human dandy could,
till body, head, and wings are all in perfect order. Then it will sail
away with a scarcely perceptible movement of its broad wings to pursue
its living prey, a veritable pirate of the air.
The various seasons bring, of course, a succession of insect visitors to
my valley. In early spring the solitary bees are a great delight to me;
they are the species which exist in pairs, not often in communities, as
the honey-bee does. Great masses of lungwort (_pulmonaria_) being out in
flower in April and May, all kinds of insects are then to be found upon
it, seeking honey or pollen among the blossoms. By closely watching and
comparing the specimens I see with plates in the books on bees I have
learned to distinguish many of the different species. It is one thing,
however, to see a bee figured in a book, or to look through a dried
collection of them; it is far more delightful to see the bright,
beautiful creature itself, instinct with life, busily at work or play.
These solitary bees evidently enjoy flirting in the gayest manner, and
their soft, downy bodies and brilliant colours only show to real
advantage whilst alive and lighted up by sunshine. It is a great puzzle
to make out the different species, especially when, as in some cases,
the sexes differ much in appearance. A jet black bee was often to be
seen in early spring hovering over the pulmonaria, more intent on his
companions than on the flowers, and every now and then he would seize a
yellow-bodied fellow-worker, and off the two would go for a frolic in
the air. I became enlightened when I found they were husband and wife,
and merely beguiling the tedium of work by an occasional excursion
together to the other side of the valley.
Some years ago I was greatly puzzled by an insect which seemed to appear
and disappear in a strange manner; it flashed across a shady path like a
minute firefly—an intermittent fleck of snow—it never seemed to settle
anywhere, and was altogether incomprehensible. At last I succeeded in
catching some specimens and solved the mystery. The little creature
proved to be a slender fly with a tapering, pointed body clothed with
fine silky scales, which in some positions were white as snow with the
changing iridescence of mother-of-pearl; thus in its ever-varying flight
the insect appeared and disappeared according as the rays of light fell
upon it at different angles. In size the creature is but small, less
than a house-fly, but when magnified its beauty is exquisite—the wings
decked with rainbow colours, the thorax rich emerald green, and in life
the eyes also greenish and opalescent.
I might go on endlessly describing visitants to my favourite haunt and
yet always have something interesting to say about them, but I hope
enough has been noted to prove that insect observation has its keen
delights. To a wearied brain it is a quiet mode of refreshment which
will commend itself to all who give it a trial on a summer day in some
sheltered garden; but the observers must possess the requisite
qualities, namely, patience, gentleness, and a true love of natural
history.
SOLITARY BEES AND WASPS.
“Hide me from day’s garish eye,
While the bee with honey’d thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring
With such concert as they keep
Entice the dewy-feather’d sleep.”
MILTON.
“The wild bee’s note that on the wing
Booms like embodied voice along the gale.”
HOGG.
SOLITARY BEES AND WASPS.
MY attention has been drawn during the past few years to the remarkably
interesting family of insects known as solitary bees and wasps. They are
so called because they exist, not, as a rule, in colonies like the
honey-bee and common wasps, but singly or in pairs.
These insects may often be seen in our gardens feasting on the flowers,
boring tunnels into our gravel walks, making curious little nests in
holes or angles in the brickwork of our houses, and yet comparatively
few people know much about them and their habits, partly because they
may often be taken for honey-bees, and without very close observation it
is difficult to learn the characteristics of the different species.
I will endeavour to give a few details about some of the solitary bees
and wasps which have come under my own observation; but it is a large
subject, and as my variable health will not allow me to travel or even
drive far from home, I can only speak of those specimens I have met with
in my own grounds, and of which I have made a small collection for
reference.
_COLLETES._
(ONE THAT PLASTERS.)
This species forms a tunnel in the ground from eight to ten inches deep,
and this space is divided off into about seven cells. The wonderful
thing is the way in which the cells are lined with a strong membrane
like gold-beater’s skin, yet exquisitely fine, and lustrous as a piece
of beautiful satin. The bee has a forked tongue which she uses like a
trowel, smoothing down each layer of the silk which she deposits on the
walls of the cells, plastering three or four layers one over the other
till her children’s nursery is upholstered quite to her mind. She then
goes off to the flowers and labours diligently until she has made up a
little ball of pollen and honey; one of these balls she puts in each
cell and lays an egg in it, out of which a tiny grub will be hatched in
due time. Finding its food all ready, the grub eats and grows until it
is full-sized, then it turns into a chrysalis, and at length comes out a
perfect bee like its mother.
The Colletes are smaller than the honey-bee, but at first sight are very
like it in colour and shape. The males are smaller than the females;
they do nothing towards founding the family; they flit from flower to
flower and fertilise the blossoms, so that in this way they are of great
use by enabling plants to produce seed; they also bask on leaves in the
sun, and seem to have a happy though very idle time. This seems to be
the case with the males of all species of bees. The females are the hard
workers; they make the home, lay the eggs, collect the pollen and mix it
with honey for the food of the young when hatched, and then they
hibernate through the winter so as to be ready to begin their work again
the following spring.
There are five species of this bee, and they choose different places for
their nests according to their species. Some like a sunny aspect, some
choose shady places, some bore into the face of sandy rocks, others into
the mortar in old walls, but wherever it may be, there are generally
multitudes of them to be found in the same place, each one having its
separate hole, but dwelling in large colonies.
This bee has three great enemies: two of them are a bright-coloured bee,
called Epeolus, and a fly, Miltogramma, either of which will go down the
hole in the absence of the bee and lay its egg in place of the rightful
owner. These usurpers turn to grubs and eat up the food which has been
prepared for the Colletes. The third enemy is the earwig, if _it_ once
gets in, it will eat up the egg, the food supply, and the bee itself. In
this way the bee is kept in check, else we may suppose it would multiply
far too abundantly.
_ANTHOPHORA._
(FLOWER-RIFLER.)
This is a name that would apply to most bees, but certainly this one
seems unusually energetic in obtaining honey, visiting each flower in
succession, and then whisking off to the next flower-bed as if it had
not a minute to lose.