Under one guise or another the fickle goddess Fortuna would seem to
have established her infallible interpreters or mediators. The
lovelorn maiden with the daisy, its petals falling beneath her
questioning finger-tips to the alternate refrain, "He loves me. He
loves me not," is a sacrificial episode in the life of the daisy
wherever it grows.
The still younger maiden with her dandelion ball, whose feathered
parachutes must be dislodged upon the breeze with three puffs from her
little puckered mouth, with all sorts of fate depending upon the odd
or even number of the remnant seeds, is as universal as the dandelion
itself, while the more homely symbols of wish-bone, horseshoe, or
horsechestnut, as we all know, are proverbially potent as personal or
household charms against ill luck. I once knew a shrewd countryman who
gave all the credit of his success in "tradin'" to the "hoss-chestnut"
which he carried in his pocket, and would as soon think of throwing
his money away as to "drive a trade" without it. More than one old
"down-East" dame "sets gre't store" by the horseshoe hung above her
doorway, always secured ends up, "so's the luck can't run out." Then
there was old Aunt Huldy, who, while she claimed to locate springs and
wells the country round by her witch-hazel divining-rod, never
ventured upon these expeditions without the concealed necklace of
dried star puff-balls hung about her neck.
But perhaps the most universal of all these natural symbols of
good-fortune is to be found in the four-leaved clover, almost a
world-wide superstition, and traced back to the ancient astrologers.
"If a man, walking the fields," writes one of them, "finds any
four-leaved grasse, he shall in a short while after finde some good
thing."
The clover was considered as being especially "noisome to witches,"
and the "holy trefoil charm" was a powerful spell against their
harm; the "trefoil" being the most widely used title of the
clover--_Trifolium_, as it is in the botany--three leaved. And such it
_should_ be, to be true to its christening. But it frequently takes
exception to the botany and gives us an extra leaf, and thus we have
our "four-leaved clover," a rarity which many of us, seek as we will,
have never yet been able to discover in its native haunt, even though
a whole handful of them are plucked here and there before our eyes by
our more favored companions. Indeed, there are some lucky folk who
seem literally to stumble upon "four-leaved grasse" wherever they
go--who, having found one leaf, will sit down quietly in the grass and
ere long accumulate a bouquet.
Yes, here's the secret: It is not your eager gadding quest that gets
your four-leaved clover. Nor is it all a matter of "sharp eyes." There
is a "knack" about finding four-leaved clover, and this very knack of
the so-called "lucky ones," implying as it does the operation of
quest, observation, and common-sense, would logically argue a
corresponding fulfilment of success in the affairs of daily life. For
the observant clover-hunter, if his mind and eye work together, soon
learns that the "four-leaved" variety is fond of company, and that the
whim of the plant which thus produces one such leaf is very apt to be
humored in several others. Thus, having discerned _one_ four-leaved
clover, we assume a _tendency_ in the parent plant, which further
search often discloses, sometimes to our great surprise, and, if we
are as superstitious as our antique philosopher above quoted, to our
unbounded satisfaction. If, for instance, this one extra leaflet
brings such assurance of "good things" to come, what shall be said of
a leaf with five or six leaflets--yes, seven, or perhaps eight--I
might even add nine--a veritable little green rose of clover leaves,
all on one stem, a stem which is sometimes plainly composite, of two
or three adherent stems? All of these exuberant forms are to be found
with diligent search, and often in the same close vicinity. Nor are
these all the varied freaks which the plant will disclose for the
seeking. Perhaps you may chance upon that four-leaved variety in which
the extra leaflet stands upright in the midst of the three, and is
transformed into a tapering cup. These elfin goblets are not
exceedingly rare. Occasionally we may chance to find two of these
supported by one or two perfect leaflets at the base. Or, if we are
especially fortunate, our "good health" may be offered in three of the
tiny beakers, not mere _apparent_ cups, but with the edges of the
goblets completely united, and which might be filled to the brim with
dew.
A collection of the natural whims of the clover, both red and white,
would make an interesting leaflet in our herbarium. In the hands of
the floriculturist who should cultivate these eccentricities most
remarkable varieties of clover might ensue. Fancy a clover plant with
every leaf a cluster of tiny cups, or of leaves so doubled as to
appear like green roses! Here is a chance for our boys and girls to
experiment, and without much real labor, too. Both the red and white
clovers are perennial--that is, they come up year after year from the
same root. A plant which this year favors the "four-leaf" will
doubtless follow the same example next year, and the seed from its
flowers might also inherit and transmit the same peculiarity,
possibly in an exaggerated degree; and careful selection from year to
year, keeping the plants in a corner by themselves, might lead to some
interesting results, especially if the tendency were further
stimulated by enrichment of soil, to which the clover responds
vigorously.
My experience with "clover luck" has been considerable. I believe I
have found almost every possible eccentric combination of which the
plant is naturally capable, a few of which I have here pictured.
My best success has been met in the "rowen" fields, or the growth
after mowing, the energy of the plant, thus pruned as it were in its
prime, finding immediate expression in an exuberance of luxuriant
foliage, which, I think, inclines to a multiplication of leaves. I
once sat down beside such a clump upon which I had discovered a single
"four-leaf," and by dint of plucking and examining every leaf in the
cluster, succeeded in obtaining thirty-nine specimens. "Why not make
it forty while you are about it?" a friend of mine recently remarked,
with evident incredulity. Well, I _tried_ to, but after grubbing up
the last embryo leaf at the ground, thirty-nine was my limit--all from
one plant. The collection might be subdivided as follows: Four leaves,
22; five leaves, 7; six leaves, 3; seven leaves, 1; nine leaves, 1;
cups and leaves, various, 5.
At another time I spied a single five-leaved in a dense bed of rowen
clover at the road-side, and seating myself close beside it,
calculating on this habit of the plant, I vowed I would not get up
until I had collected forty multiple leaves. I soon obtained more than
this number.
The clover-leaf quest is a good eye-sharpener. Which of our boys can
show us the best record?
I wonder if any of my young readers have ever seen how the clover says
its prayers and goes to sleep, with its two side leaflets folded
together like reverent palms, and the terminal leaflet bowed above
them? So the normal leaf spends the night in the dews. I often wonder
what arrangement of adjustment is arrived at when so many leaflets
conspire to confuse.
My clover-hunting has been confined to the red and white clovers, both
species having common tendencies. In the red, the leaves being
larger, the freaks are more conspicuous, but the cup forms seem more
commonly identified with the white clover.