Lazily flyingOver the flower-decked prairies, West;Basking in sunshine till daylight is dying,And resting all night on Asclepias’ breast;Joyously dancing,Merrily prancing,Chasing his lady-love high in the air,Fluttering gaily,Frolicking daily.Free from anxiety, sorrow, and care!—C. V. Riley.
Lazily flying
Over the flower-decked prairies, West;
Basking in sunshine till daylight is dying,
And resting all night on Asclepias’ breast;
Joyously dancing,
Merrily prancing,
Chasing his lady-love high in the air,
Fluttering gaily,
Frolicking daily.
Free from anxiety, sorrow, and care!
—C. V. Riley.
ATLAS MOTH (INDIA).(Attacus atlas).About ½ Life-size.SPECIMEN LOANED BY W. E. LONGLEY.
ATLAS MOTH (INDIA).(Attacus atlas).About ½ Life-size.SPECIMEN LOANED BY W. E. LONGLEY.
Billie is the handsomest Flicker that comes to the grove of oaks on the north campus of the college and that is saying a great deal. For several years he has occupied a splendid house hollowed out with much labor in the great oak by the power house. Just above the portico of his house Billie has his xylophone. This remarkable instrument is just seasoned enough and has just the correct spring in its splinters. Here every morning, at this season, he beats a series of tunes, monotonous perhaps, but rather pleasing to Billie and me. After beating a tune, he screams at the top of his voice, “Get up; get up.” He is an alarm clock and a great nuisance to those who love their morning nap, but I would not allow him to be disturbed, he seems so business-like and earnest. My wife was disposed to disparage his musical attainments, but when she saw the marvelous rapidity of his strokes and the beauty of his red crest flashing in the slanting sunlight she became a partisan.
It should be said, of course, that after the brief season of courtship is over and Billie’s wife is busy about her housekeeping, he is less musical and we do not have our reveille so regularly.
Early last spring a pair of English sparrows took possession of Billie’s house and worked with a diligence worthy a better cause to fill it with sticks and bits of straw. I was interested at once and waited eagerly to see what Billie would do when he should return. I did not have many days to wait. One fine day I heard Billie hammering a gay tune. I watched and was soon rewarded. Billie seemed taken aback, but soon recovered from his surprise and proceeded to clean house at a great rate. Meantime the sparrows could do nothing but scold, and I confess to a degree of satisfaction in their discomfiture. For once the speckled little Ishmaelites were impotent.
Finally the last straw was thrown out and Billie perched upon the limb that served as a portico for his house, screamed with defiance and satisfaction. Soon he flew to a distant part of the grove in search of the future Mrs. Flicker, I suppose, and was gone for perhaps an hour. The sparrows worked desperately and had nearly all of the material replaced when Billie, disappointed in his quest and in no very good humor, returned. This time Billie’s patience was entirely gone and he threw sticks right and left, stopping occasionally to scream with anger. He seemed to know there would be little use in chasing the pesky sparrows. He did not go far from home after that, so that the sparrows were compelled to go house hunting elsewhere.
Billie mounted guard over his fireside and his altars for several days, treating us to a quantity if not a variety of drum solos, and the seductive notes of his cross cut saw of a voice were in constant evidence. He never knew the sorrow of the human performer of like merit when his best friends are willing for him to rest.
One fine day a demure looking female, attracted by his music, came and critically examined the house. I knew she was already won, but Billie did not, and it was amusing to watch his antics. Did you ever see a Flicker desperately in love? It was evidently love at first sight with Billie. He spread his wings, showed the jet black crescent on his vest, displayed the crimson glory of his crest, played his most catchy tune on the xylophone and sang his most melodious song. Meantime the coy female, already decided, still appeared to be unable to make up her mind. She made as if to go on, and Billie was in despair, and redoubled his persuasion. She had never heard such a tattoo, nor seen such axylophone, nor yet so fine a fellow as Billie. Soon she stopped her pretended search for larvae under the loose bark and made another inspection of the house. She exemplified the maxim, “To hesitate is to be lost,” and soon she and Billie were busy with their housekeeping. The sparrows got no further chance to occupy Billie’s summer home. A happy family was reared and educated and in the autumn disappeared.
As I write Billie has returned and is beating a merry tune, while six or more sparrows sit around listening as if to learn how. Mrs. Flicker has not yet returned, but I believe the sparrows have given up the idea of taking his house. I am in doubt about Mrs. Flicker, but I know Billie. He is larger and handsomer than ever. I have studied his every beautiful feather. Sometimes I think he jumps behind a limb just to tease me, but I am fond of him and I hope he may return for many years.
Rowland Watts.
A vine of great beauty in our autumn woods, with its great masses of scarlet berries, is the Celastrus scandens—Climbing Bittersweet or Wax-work.
It belongs to the order Celastraceae—Staff tree family—to which family belongs the wahoo or burning-bush, with which we are all familiar, from seeing its abundant red berries in the autumn woods and in the parks.
The flowers of the Celastrus or Bittersweet are small, greenish and regular, growing in clusters at the end of the branchlets, the staminate and pistillate forms usually on separate plants, which accounts for the fact that we often see a beautiful vine that has bloomed profusely bearing no flowers; the flowers have five distinct spreading petals, inserted with the alternate stamens on the edge of the disk that lines the base of the calyx. Its five united sepals form a cup-shaped calyx. It has five stamens, one thick style and a three-celled ovary, with three to six seeds. It can be found in full blossom about the first of June.
The leaves of the Bittersweet are from two to three and a half inches in length, simple alternate, slightly fine-toothed, and are found from egg shaped and oblong to the reversed of egg shaped, the apex always pointed, while the base is sometimes pointed and sometimes rounded. The fruit of the Bittersweet is about one-third of an inch in diameter, round and a deep orange color, three-celled with two seeds in each cell; when it is ripe, it opens into three parts, showing six bright scarlet berries within.
The Celastrus is a strong, woody climber, twining upon itself in coils and swirls, over fences and walls and bushes to great distances, often to the top of immensely high trees.
It is immensely showy and beautiful in the very late fall when its leaves are all fallen off and its woody branches are left thickly studded with its orange and scarlet fruit. I remember especially one Christmas eve, in Kentucky, that we gathered great bunches of it; we found it growing over an old stone ruin in great masses and gathering it, with large bunches of mistletoe, it made ideal decorations for our Christmas festivities.
J. O. Cochran.
When winter, with its blasting, icy hand, has touched every green thing exposed to its wantonness, and Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s and other feast days call loudly for the festive greenery with which to adorn churches, halls and dwellings, longing eyes are turned towards the Southland, where King Winter’s scepter is unknown and green things flourish the year around.
A walk through the dark hummuck woods—so dark that owls overhead hoot at one in the daytime—holds the naturalist and the florist spell-bound.
The numerous varieties of chirping and twittering birds, the many-hued spiders, lizards, bugs and beetles, and, yes, the wriggling snakes, with now and then the sounds of snarling ’coons or ’possums, the scream of a wild-cat, or the dashing by of the deer suddenly aroused from his noon siesta—all this makes the naturalist feel as though he had entered into an enchanted land; but he who loves “the green things growing” more than the things flying, creeping or snarling will feast his eyes on the ever varying verdure.
Tall palmettos, wide-spreading oaks, orchids, trailing vines and festooning mosses sweeping the greener mosses beneath, ferns, lilies!—but, ’twould fill a volume to enumerate the many beauties which meet the eye at even a single glance, each plant and flower in itself being worthy of a chapter.
There is one plant which especially attracts our attention and admiration; and this plant is one of the prettiest and most useful of the greeneries used for decorations in the far north in winter. It is called, variously, “Comptie,” “Coontie,” “Starch-root,” or “Indian-bread.” The two latter names are due to its large, bulbous root, which, when grated, makes a good starch, and which was also made, by the primitive Indians, into ash-cake, or bread—as Indians knew bread.
It is fern-like; but, unlike most ferns, it is of a sturdy, independent growth, bearing handling as well as cedar, yet with all the graceful pliancy of the more tender ferns. Its stems grow two or three feet long; the fronds on each side of the stem being three or four inches in length, and of a glossy dark green color. From one to two dozen such stems put out from a single stalk, growing up into the most graceful curves.
Seeds, deep crimson in color, and of the size of a chestnut, form in the center of the plant, and so compactly as to present one continuous bulbous form, the size and shape of a round quart bottle with part of its neck broken off. This crimson seed-form, surrounded by the dark green foliage, is, of itself, a pretty curiosity, more novel than a flower.
The reason why it is especially valued for decorations is, because it can be had at all seasons of the year, and retains its verdure for several weeks, even after it has been shipped long distances. Many of these plants, cut close to the ground, have been shipped from Florida to Canada, and have retained their fresh, glossy appearance for two months. Even without placing the stems in water, using them for motto work, they will last two or three weeks.
And this is but one of Florida’s novelties in plant life.
Mary Stratner.
There’s a path beside the river,Winding through the willow copseWhere I love to walk in autumnEre the season’s curtain drops.
There’s a path beside the river,
Winding through the willow copse
Where I love to walk in autumn
Ere the season’s curtain drops.
On far hillsides beech and maple,Touched by early nipping frost,Have their brown and crimson jacketsTo the boisterous breezes tossed.
On far hillsides beech and maple,
Touched by early nipping frost,
Have their brown and crimson jackets
To the boisterous breezes tossed.
Still the willow leaves are clinging,Latest foliage of fall,Shading yet my river pathwayUnderneath the osiers tall.
Still the willow leaves are clinging,
Latest foliage of fall,
Shading yet my river pathway
Underneath the osiers tall.
On the wimpling water’s surfaceDrift a million truant leaves,Stolen from the woodland reachesBy the wind, the prince of thieves.
On the wimpling water’s surface
Drift a million truant leaves,
Stolen from the woodland reaches
By the wind, the prince of thieves.
All along the river edgesVerdure’s turned to brown and gray,Rustling through the dying sedgesAutumn’s low voiced breezes play.
All along the river edges
Verdure’s turned to brown and gray,
Rustling through the dying sedges
Autumn’s low voiced breezes play.
Nowhere sweeter walk or rarerThan my path beside the stream.There I love to stroll in autumn,There to loiter and to dream.—Frank Farrington.
Nowhere sweeter walk or rarer
Than my path beside the stream.
There I love to stroll in autumn,
There to loiter and to dream.
—Frank Farrington.
EGG PLANT FRUIT.(Solanum esculentum).
EGG PLANT FRUIT.(Solanum esculentum).
The Egg-plant, also known as bringal, aubergine, egg-apple and mad-apple, is an herbaceous plant belonging to the Nightshade family (Solananæ), therefore kin to the potato and tomato. It is a tender annual, readily killed by the early frosts. It has rather large, simple, somewhat incised leaves. The fruits are large, egg-shaped, tomato-like in structure, hence berries.
It is quite extensively cultivated in gardens. The seeds are sown in hot beds early in April but transplanting is not done until about the first of June, when all danger of frost is past. The soil should be very rich and the plants set about three feet apart. Like most transplanted plants they require shading and watering for a few days. Careful cultivation is required during the entire season. Propping may be necessary to keep the large, heavy fruits from the ground. The Colorado beetle is a very annoying enemy of the growing plants and must be effectually fought to insure a crop.
There are several varieties of Egg-plant. The purple variety is by long odds the greatest favorite. There are also white and yellow varieties.
Most people consider the properly prepared fruit of the Egg-plant a delicacy. In some tropical countries it forms an important article of diet. The ripe fruit is prepared for the table by peeling and boiling. After boiling the fruit is sliced, seasoned and fried until well browned, in rolled crackers or bread crusts and a liberal supply of butter. When well prepared it is a very palatable article of diet but when insufficiently cooked or fried it is indigestible. It does not seem to be prepared in other ways nor does it seem to have any noteworthy medicinal properties.
Albert Schneider.
There comes, from yonder height,A soft repining sound,Where forest leaves are bright,And fall, like flakes of light,To the ground.
There comes, from yonder height,
A soft repining sound,
Where forest leaves are bright,
And fall, like flakes of light,
To the ground.
It is the autumn breeze,That, lightly floating on,Just skims the weedy leas,Just stirs the glowing trees,And is gone.—William Cullen Bryant, “The Voice of Autumn.”
It is the autumn breeze,
That, lightly floating on,
Just skims the weedy leas,
Just stirs the glowing trees,
And is gone.
—William Cullen Bryant, “The Voice of Autumn.”
I saw the wheat in billows roll,A verdant ocean, stirred with joy,It set a-throbbing in my soulThe madcap freedom of a boy:—The blue sky bended far above,A stagnant sea from pole to pole,Clouds, like aerial ice-bergs, droveOn that still ocean, without shoal:—
I saw the wheat in billows roll,
A verdant ocean, stirred with joy,
It set a-throbbing in my soul
The madcap freedom of a boy:—
The blue sky bended far above,
A stagnant sea from pole to pole,
Clouds, like aerial ice-bergs, drove
On that still ocean, without shoal:—
The subtle spirit of the sky,Alastor of my solitude,Thrilled all my working pulses highWith visions of life’s magnitude—(The wondrous vision of the whole!)At once upon my startled eye,Stood naked the primeval law,Life’s noiseless currents eddied by,The universal heart I saw,Swayed by the cosmic oversoul.—
The subtle spirit of the sky,
Alastor of my solitude,
Thrilled all my working pulses high
With visions of life’s magnitude—
(The wondrous vision of the whole!)
At once upon my startled eye,
Stood naked the primeval law,
Life’s noiseless currents eddied by,
The universal heart I saw,
Swayed by the cosmic oversoul.—
I trembled but I did not fall,I ceased, and yet I did not die,But from my eyes there fell the pall,My soul no longer wondered why:I knew the secret of the world,Of night and day, of life and death,For one brief instant, onward whirled,My being breathed with godlike breath:The sky spun like a mighty bowl,I saw the wheat in billows roll.Edward O. Jackson.
I trembled but I did not fall,
I ceased, and yet I did not die,
But from my eyes there fell the pall,
My soul no longer wondered why:
I knew the secret of the world,
Of night and day, of life and death,
For one brief instant, onward whirled,
My being breathed with godlike breath:
The sky spun like a mighty bowl,
I saw the wheat in billows roll.
Edward O. Jackson.