A soldier of the Legion, lay dying in Algiers;There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears;But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand,And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land;Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done,Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.And ’mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars—The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;But some were young, and suddenly beheld life’s morn decline;And one had come from Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.“Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age;And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s sword;And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used to shine,On the cottage wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine!“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine),For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine!“There’s another—not a sister;—in the happy days gone by,You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,—O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!Tell her the last night of my life,—for ere this moon be risen,My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison—I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shineOn the vine-clad hills of Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—But we’ll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine!”His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grasp was childish weak;His eyes put on a dying look; he sighed, and ceased to speak.His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land—was dead!And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked downOn the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn;Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine,As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
A soldier of the Legion, lay dying in Algiers;There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears;But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand,And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land;Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done,Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.And ’mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars—The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;But some were young, and suddenly beheld life’s morn decline;And one had come from Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.“Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age;And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s sword;And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used to shine,On the cottage wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine!“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine),For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine!“There’s another—not a sister;—in the happy days gone by,You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,—O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!Tell her the last night of my life,—for ere this moon be risen,My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison—I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shineOn the vine-clad hills of Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—But we’ll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine!”His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grasp was childish weak;His eyes put on a dying look; he sighed, and ceased to speak.His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land—was dead!And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked downOn the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn;Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine,As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
A soldier of the Legion, lay dying in Algiers;There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears;But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand,And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land;Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.
A soldier of the Legion, lay dying in Algiers;
There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand,
And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.
“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done,Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.And ’mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars—The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;But some were young, and suddenly beheld life’s morn decline;And one had come from Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.
“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done,
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.
And ’mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars—
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;
But some were young, and suddenly beheld life’s morn decline;
And one had come from Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.
“Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age;And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s sword;And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used to shine,On the cottage wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age;
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;
For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father’s sword;
And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine),For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine),
For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine!
“There’s another—not a sister;—in the happy days gone by,You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,—O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!Tell her the last night of my life,—for ere this moon be risen,My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison—I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shineOn the vine-clad hills of Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
“There’s another—not a sister;—in the happy days gone by,
You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,—
O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!
Tell her the last night of my life,—for ere this moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison—
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—But we’ll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine!”
“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—
But we’ll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine!”
His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grasp was childish weak;His eyes put on a dying look; he sighed, and ceased to speak.His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land—was dead!And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked downOn the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn;Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine,As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grasp was childish weak;
His eyes put on a dying look; he sighed, and ceased to speak.
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land—was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
Word Exercise.aye (ā)strewn (strōne)vĭne´yard (vĭn-)Le´gion (lee´jun)Rhine (rīn)dearth (derth)Al-giers´ (-jeers´)co-quĕt´ry (-kĕt´-) (orko´kĕt-ry)Bing´enGer´man
aye (ā)strewn (strōne)vĭne´yard (vĭn-)Le´gion (lee´jun)Rhine (rīn)dearth (derth)Al-giers´ (-jeers´)co-quĕt´ry (-kĕt´-) (orko´kĕt-ry)Bing´enGer´man
Phrase Exercise.1.—A soldier of theLegion.—2. Pitying glances.—3. Take atoken.—4. Ghastly pale.—5. Beheld life’s morn decline.—6. Aye a truant bird.—7. To divide his scanty hoard.—8. Gallant tread.—9. A path beloved of yore.—10.Softmoon.
1.—A soldier of theLegion.—2. Pitying glances.—3. Take atoken.—4. Ghastly pale.—5. Beheld life’s morn decline.—6. Aye a truant bird.—7. To divide his scanty hoard.—8. Gallant tread.—9. A path beloved of yore.—10.Softmoon.
James Brown, LL.D.
Let us now briefly describe the principal varieties of our Canadian trees which lose their leaves every autumn, and are therefore calledDeciduous Trees; and first we shall begin with the Oak. There are at least thirty different species of Oaks found in our Canadian forests, all growing to a size that makes them valuable as timber. Most of them form noble specimens of ornamental trees, when they stand out free, and separate from each other. The White Oak, when so found, is one of the grandest objects in the vegetable kingdom. The seeds of the Oak, which are called acorns, are found ripe on the trees in October and November.
There are about ten different species of Maples found in our woods, all beautiful and ornamental trees. The Sugar Maple is a tree of especial beauty, and in the autumn months is remarkable for the brilliant color of its leaves. The seeds of the Maple are what is calledwinged. They may be found lying under the old trees in autumn.
The Ash is another valuable Canadian tree; and of this genus about twenty species are found in our forests. All are more or less valuable, both for their timber and for their ornamental qualities. Several of the species, especially those called theWhiteand theBlackAsh, are found upwards of 100 feet in height, with diameters, close to the ground, of three to four feet through. The timberis much prized for its toughness and strength, and is used in the manufacture of implements, barrel hoops, and the wood-work of machinery. The Ash is always found on deep land, having a rather damp and cool bottom. The seeds are ripe in November, and may then be gathered from the trees.
Of the Beech, there is only one species found in Canada, but here and there varieties of it are to be met with, caused by difference of soil and aspect. It grows to a large size, when not closely surrounded by other trees. Its timber is held in high esteem; but as it does not last long when exposed to the weather, it should therefore be used for indoor purposes only. The Beech is not a long-lived tree, as it becomes matured within 150 years. It succeeds best on dry, gravelly soils. The seeds are callednuts, and are ripe in October, as every country schoolboy knows.
The Sweet Chestnut is another of our timber trees deserving of notice. There is only one species of it to be found in Canada, and it is in all respects the same as the European Sweet Chestnut. It is a majestic tree, where found standing alone, and its timber is of a very durable nature, much sought after for many purposes, especially for posts and fence-rails. This tree grows best on deep, dry, and strong land, where it often reaches a height of 100 feet, with a proportionate trunk. The seeds are callednuts, and may be used as food.
The Hornbeam (orIronwood, as it is generally called in Canada,) is a tree of moderate size, and is plentiful on the dry parts of our forest-land. It has much the sameappearance as the Beech, but it is easily distinguished from that tree by the curled edges of its leaves, and by its darker and rougher bark. The timber is very hard, of a close and compact texture, and is much used for farm purposes, where strength is required. The seeds of this tree are callednuts, and each is enclosed in a peculiar leafy substance, called by botanists aperianth.
The Walnut is found plentifully in most bushes in the southern parts of Ontario. It includes nine or ten species, all growing to considerable size, and forming very handsome trees, as for example, theBlack Walnut,Butternut,Pecan Nut,Hickory,Bitter Nut, andHog Nut: each having beautiful foliage. The Hickory is especially known for the toughness and other valuable qualities of its timber; and every boy is familiar with the delicious nuts which this tree produces. All these trees grow best on a deep, rich soil.
The Plane is another member of our Canadian forests deserving of notice, and is a tree of peculiar beauty. Its wide-spreading branches, clothed with large leaves, make it well adapted for shelter or shade. In Canada it is best known by the name ofCotton-wood, orButton-wood, and is also familiar as theSycamore. The British name for it is the Plane Tree. It is found on deep, loamy lands, by the sides of our rivers and lakes, forming a tall, massive-headed tree, often upwards of 130 feet in height, with a trunk of from three to five feet in diameter. The timber is not held in high estimation, though sometimes used for furniture-making, and for some parts of the inner work of house-building. The tree can be grownfrom cuttings of the young wood.
The Elm in our woods is a stately tree, and often rises to the height of 140 feet, with a stem of six feet in diameter. There are several species of Elm, but the most important is theWhite, which, on deep and cool-bottomed land, attains the dimensions stated. Where individuals of this species stand alone, with all their limbs fully developed, they form grand and imposing objects. The timber of the various species is used in house-building and in the manufacture of agricultural implements. The seeds ripen in the early part of summer when they may be gathered and sown at once.
Of the Birch there are several species found in our woods, but theTall Birchand thePaper Birchare the most important and best known. Both species are of graceful habit and foliage. ThePaper Birchis particularly remarkable on account of its cream-colored, paper-like bark. Both kinds attain large dimensions in favorable soil, being often found from 90 to 100 feet high, with stems of two or three feet in diameter. It is from the bark of the Paper Birch that the Indians construct their canoes; hence it is often called theCanoe Birch. The timber of this tree enters largely into the manufacture of furniture, and for this purpose it is exported to Europe. The seeds are contained incatkins, which hang from the points of the branches, and ripen in October.
The Tulip may be easily known by its leaves, which are quite unlike those of almost any other tree, and much resemble a riding saddle. It grows to a large size, and is highly ornamental; its luxuriant foliage, together withits numerous greenish-yellow, tulip-shaped flowers, giving it a fine appearance. The timber is soft, and of no especial value. There is only one species.
Of the Lime we have four different species in our woods, namely: theBroad-leaved, theDowny-leaved, theThin-leaved, and theVariable-leaved. This tree is more generally known to Canadians by the name ofBasswood. All the species are graceful trees, with sweet-smelling flowers. Many of them grow to a large size on rich, deep lands, often attaining the height of 120 feet, with stems ranging from three to five feet in diameter. The timber is white and soft, when newly cut up, but, as it becomes seasoned, it acquires firmness of texture, and when kept dry, lasts well in house-building. It is employed by shoemakers and saddlers for cutting-boards, and is well-suited for carving purposes.
Charles Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero we buried.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning;By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,And we far away on the billow!
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,—But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,
And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
Phrase Exercise.1. We buried himdarkly.—2. At dead of night.—3. Misty light.—4.Uselesscoffin.—5.Martialcloak.—6.Bitterlythought.—7.Lightlythey’ll talk.—8. Little he’llreck.—9.Randomgun.—10.Sullenlyfiring.—11. Field of his fame.
1. We buried himdarkly.—2. At dead of night.—3. Misty light.—4.Uselesscoffin.—5.Martialcloak.—6.Bitterlythought.—7.Lightlythey’ll talk.—8. Little he’llreck.—9.Randomgun.—10.Sullenlyfiring.—11. Field of his fame.
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Midas in his treasury, looking up at the visitor
Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her Marygold.
This King Midas was fonder of gold than of any thing else in the world. He valued his royal crown chiefly becauseit was composed of that precious metal. If he loved any thing better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father’s footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the largest pile of glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made.
Thus he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, “Pooh, pooh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!”
At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser) Midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole—for it was little better than a dungeon—Midas betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy.
Here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into theone bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help.
And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to himself, “O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!”
Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking up, he beheld the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face.
Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge over every thing, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden brightness in it. Certainly, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire.
As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal.
Midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger’s aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent,that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far more probable that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?
The stranger gazed about the room; and, when his lustrous smile had glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to Midas.
“You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!” he observed. “I doubt whether any other four walls on earth contain so much gold as you have contrived to pile up in this room.”
“I have done pretty well,—pretty well,” answered Midas, in a discontented tone. “But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my whole lifetime to get it together. If one could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!”
“What!” exclaimed the stranger. “Then you are not satisfied?”
Midas shook his head.
“And pray, what would satisfy you?” asked the stranger. “Merely for the curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know.”
Midas paused and meditated. He felt sure that this stranger, with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come into his head to ask. So he thought and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able toimagine them big enough.
At last a bright idea occurred to King Midas.
Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.
“Well, Midas,” observed his visitor, “I see that you have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish.”
“It is only this,” replied Midas. “I am weary of collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after I have done my best. I wish every thing that I touch to be changed to gold!”
The stranger’s smile grew so bright and radiant, that it seemed to fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell, where the yellow autumnal leaves—for so looked the lumps and particles of gold—lie strewn in the glow of light.
“The Golden Touch!” exclaimed he. “You certainly deserve credit, friend Midas, for striking out so brilliant a fancy. But are you quite sure that this will satisfy you?”
“How could it fail?” said Midas.
“And will you never regret the possession of it?”
“What could induce me?” asked Midas. “I ask nothing else, to render me perfectly happy.”
“Be it as you wish, then,” replied the stranger, waving his hand in token of farewell. “To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the Golden Touch.”
The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of theprecious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.
Lushington.
Five soldiers in winter gear, struggling onwards
“Leave me, comrades, here I drop,—No, sir, take them on,All are wanted, none should stop,Duty must be done;Those whose guard you take will find meAs they pass below.”So the soldier spoke, and staggering,Fell amid the snow;And ever on the dreary heights,Down came the snow.“Men, it must be as he asks;Duty must be done;Far too few for half our tasks,We can spare not one.Wrap him in this; I need it less;Fear not, they shall know;Mark the place, yon stunted larch,—Forward,”—on they go;And silent on their silent march,Down sank the snow.O’er his features as he lies,Calms the wrench of pain:Close faint eyes, pass cruel skies,Freezing mountain plain;With far, soft sound, the stillness teems,Church bells—voices low,Passing into English dreamsThere amid the snow;And darkening, thickening o’er the heights,Down fell the snow.Looking, looking for the mark,Down the others came,Struggling through the snowdrifts stark,Calling out his name;“Here,—or there; the drifts are deep;Have we passed him?”—No!Look, a little growing heap,Snow above the snow;Where heavy on his heavy sleep,Down fell the snow.Strong hands raised him, voices strongSpoke within his ears;Ah! his dreams had softer tongue,Neither now he hears.One more gone for England’s sake,Where so many go,Lying down without complaint,Dying in the snow;Starving, striving for her sake,Dying in the snow.Simply done his soldier’s part,Through long months of woe;All endured with soldier heart,Battle, famine, snow.Noble, nameless, English heart,Snow cold, in snow!
“Leave me, comrades, here I drop,—No, sir, take them on,All are wanted, none should stop,Duty must be done;Those whose guard you take will find meAs they pass below.”So the soldier spoke, and staggering,Fell amid the snow;And ever on the dreary heights,Down came the snow.“Men, it must be as he asks;Duty must be done;Far too few for half our tasks,We can spare not one.Wrap him in this; I need it less;Fear not, they shall know;Mark the place, yon stunted larch,—Forward,”—on they go;And silent on their silent march,Down sank the snow.O’er his features as he lies,Calms the wrench of pain:Close faint eyes, pass cruel skies,Freezing mountain plain;With far, soft sound, the stillness teems,Church bells—voices low,Passing into English dreamsThere amid the snow;And darkening, thickening o’er the heights,Down fell the snow.Looking, looking for the mark,Down the others came,Struggling through the snowdrifts stark,Calling out his name;“Here,—or there; the drifts are deep;Have we passed him?”—No!Look, a little growing heap,Snow above the snow;Where heavy on his heavy sleep,Down fell the snow.Strong hands raised him, voices strongSpoke within his ears;Ah! his dreams had softer tongue,Neither now he hears.One more gone for England’s sake,Where so many go,Lying down without complaint,Dying in the snow;Starving, striving for her sake,Dying in the snow.Simply done his soldier’s part,Through long months of woe;All endured with soldier heart,Battle, famine, snow.Noble, nameless, English heart,Snow cold, in snow!
“Leave me, comrades, here I drop,—No, sir, take them on,All are wanted, none should stop,Duty must be done;Those whose guard you take will find meAs they pass below.”So the soldier spoke, and staggering,Fell amid the snow;And ever on the dreary heights,Down came the snow.
“Leave me, comrades, here I drop,—
No, sir, take them on,
All are wanted, none should stop,
Duty must be done;
Those whose guard you take will find me
As they pass below.”
So the soldier spoke, and staggering,
Fell amid the snow;
And ever on the dreary heights,
Down came the snow.
“Men, it must be as he asks;Duty must be done;Far too few for half our tasks,We can spare not one.Wrap him in this; I need it less;Fear not, they shall know;Mark the place, yon stunted larch,—Forward,”—on they go;And silent on their silent march,Down sank the snow.
“Men, it must be as he asks;
Duty must be done;
Far too few for half our tasks,
We can spare not one.
Wrap him in this; I need it less;
Fear not, they shall know;
Mark the place, yon stunted larch,—
Forward,”—on they go;
And silent on their silent march,
Down sank the snow.
O’er his features as he lies,Calms the wrench of pain:Close faint eyes, pass cruel skies,Freezing mountain plain;With far, soft sound, the stillness teems,Church bells—voices low,Passing into English dreamsThere amid the snow;And darkening, thickening o’er the heights,Down fell the snow.
O’er his features as he lies,
Calms the wrench of pain:
Close faint eyes, pass cruel skies,
Freezing mountain plain;
With far, soft sound, the stillness teems,
Church bells—voices low,
Passing into English dreams
There amid the snow;
And darkening, thickening o’er the heights,
Down fell the snow.
Looking, looking for the mark,Down the others came,Struggling through the snowdrifts stark,Calling out his name;“Here,—or there; the drifts are deep;Have we passed him?”—No!Look, a little growing heap,Snow above the snow;Where heavy on his heavy sleep,Down fell the snow.
Looking, looking for the mark,
Down the others came,
Struggling through the snowdrifts stark,
Calling out his name;
“Here,—or there; the drifts are deep;
Have we passed him?”—No!
Look, a little growing heap,
Snow above the snow;
Where heavy on his heavy sleep,
Down fell the snow.
Strong hands raised him, voices strongSpoke within his ears;Ah! his dreams had softer tongue,Neither now he hears.One more gone for England’s sake,Where so many go,Lying down without complaint,Dying in the snow;Starving, striving for her sake,Dying in the snow.
Strong hands raised him, voices strong
Spoke within his ears;
Ah! his dreams had softer tongue,
Neither now he hears.
One more gone for England’s sake,
Where so many go,
Lying down without complaint,
Dying in the snow;
Starving, striving for her sake,
Dying in the snow.
Simply done his soldier’s part,Through long months of woe;All endured with soldier heart,Battle, famine, snow.Noble, nameless, English heart,Snow cold, in snow!
Simply done his soldier’s part,
Through long months of woe;
All endured with soldier heart,
Battle, famine, snow.
Noble, nameless, English heart,
Snow cold, in snow!
Figuier.
Commit a seed to the earth; plant, for example, a Lima bean, at the depth of two inches in moist vegetable soil. The seed will not be slow to germinate; first swelling, and then bursting its outer skin, a vegetable in miniature will, after a time, slowly reveal itself to the observer. In the meantime two very distinct parts make their appearance; one, yellowish in color, already throwing out slender fibrous shoots, sinks farther into the soil,—this is theradicle, or root; the other of a pale greenish color, takes the opposite direction, ascends to the surface, and rises above the ground,—this is the stem.
This root and stem are the essential organs of vegetation,without which, when we have excepted certain vegetables of an inferior order, plants adorned with leaves and flowers cannot exist. How vast the difference between the verdant top of a tree, which rises graceful and elegant into mid-air,—not to speak of the flower it bears—and the coarse, tangled mass of its roots and rootlets, without harmony, without symmetry! These organs, so little favored in their appearance, have, however, very important functions in the order of vegetable action.
The chief offices of the root are two: in the first place, it attaches the plant to the soil, holds it in its place, and prevents it from being overwhelmed by the elements. In the second, it feeds the plant by absorbing from the earth the sap necessary to its growth. How is this done?
The root branches again and again as it grows, throwing out numerous smaller branches. These hollow, thread-like rootlets suck up, from the soil, the water and other things, which are to go, through the stem or trunk and the branches, to all the leaves. Here these are made into the perfect sap, which, being distributed, causes the plant to grow, to blossom, and to bear fruit.
The manner in which roots succeed in overcoming obstacles, has always been a subject of surprise to the observer. The roots of trees and shrubs, when cramped or hindered in their progress, have been observed to exhibit considerable mechanical force, throwing down walls or splitting rocks; in other cases, clinging together in bunches, or spreading out their fibres over a prodigious space, in order to follow the course of a rivulet with its friendly moisture.
A celebrated botanist of the last century relates that, wishing to preserve a field of rich soil from the roots of a row of elms, which would soon have exhausted it, he had a ditch dug between the field and the trees in order to cut the roots off from it. But he saw with surprise that those roots, which had not been severed in the operation, had made their way down the slope so as to avoid meeting the light, had passed under the ditch, and were again spreading themselves over the field.
There are some roots which are developed along the stem itself. These supplementary organs come as helps to the roots properly so called, and replace them when by any cause they have been destroyed. In the primrose, for example, both the principal and the secondary roots springing from it, perish after some years of growth, but the supplementary roots, springing from the lower part of the stalk, prevent the plant from dying.
In the tropical forests of America and Asia, the vanilla, whose fruit is so sought after for its sweet aroma, twines its slender stem round the neighboring trees, forming an elegant, flexible, and aerial garland, an ornament in these vast solitudes, at once grateful and pleasing. The underground roots of the vanilla would not be sufficient for the nutriment of the plant, and the rising of the nourishing sap would take place too slowly. But Nature makes up for this inconvenience by the air roots which the plant throws out at intervals along its stem. Living in the warm and humid atmosphere of tropical forests, the stronger shoots soon reach the ground and root themselves in the soil. Others float freely in the atmosphere, inhalingthe moisture and conveying it to the parent stem.
A grand tree—the banyan, or the pagoda fig-tree—adorns the landscape of India, and presents the most remarkable development of aerial roots. When the parent stem has attained the height of some fifty or sixty feet, it throws out side branches in every direction, and each branch in its turn throws out supplementary roots, which descend perpendicularly in long slender shoots till they reach the ground. When they have rooted themselves in the soil, they increase rapidly in diameter, and soon form around the parent stem thousands of columns, each throwing out new lateral branches and new roots.
“The bended twigs take root, and daughters growAbout the mother tree, a pillared shade.”
“The bended twigs take root, and daughters growAbout the mother tree, a pillared shade.”
“The bended twigs take root, and daughters growAbout the mother tree, a pillared shade.”
“The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow
About the mother tree, a pillared shade.”
The natives love to build their temples in the intervals left between these roots of the wild fig-tree. A famous banyan tree on the Nerbuddah is said by Professor Forbes to have three hundred large and three thousand smaller aerial roots; it is capable of sheltering thousands of men, and thus forms one of the marvels of the vegetable world; it is, in short, a forest within a forest.
Roots constantly endeavor to bury themselves in the earth. They seem to shun the light of day; and this tendency is to be seen from the very first moment when the root shows itself in the seed. The tendency is so decided, and appears so inherent in the life of all vegetables, that if we reverse a germinating seed, placing it with the root upwards, the root and the stem will twist round of themselves,—the stem will stretch upward, andthe root will bury itself in the ground.
Bryant.
A countryside scene: fields, trees, river
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy sheltered nest.Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart:He, who from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy sheltered nest.Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart:He, who from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.
Vainly the fowler’s eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?
Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,—
The desert and illimitable air,—
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy sheltered nest.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o’er thy sheltered nest.
Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart:
Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart:
He, who from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
He, who from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
Phrase Exercise.1.Glowthe heavens.—2. The last steps of day.—3. Rosy depths.—4. Pursue thy solitary way.—5. Mightmarkthydistant flight.—6. Darkly painted.—7. Plashy brink.—8.Margeof river.—9. Rocking billows.—10.Chafedside.—11. Pathless coast.—12. Thedesertandillimitableair.—13. Lone wandering.—14. Thy wings havefanned the atmosphere.—15.Welcomeland.—16.Shelterednest.—17. Theabyssof heaven.—18.Boundlesssky.—19. Certain flight.
1.Glowthe heavens.—2. The last steps of day.—3. Rosy depths.—4. Pursue thy solitary way.—5. Mightmarkthydistant flight.—6. Darkly painted.—7. Plashy brink.—8.Margeof river.—9. Rocking billows.—10.Chafedside.—11. Pathless coast.—12. Thedesertandillimitableair.—13. Lone wandering.—14. Thy wings havefanned the atmosphere.—15.Welcomeland.—16.Shelterednest.—17. Theabyssof heaven.—18.Boundlesssky.—19. Certain flight.
Gustavus Frankenstein.
By far the greater number of plants have leaves of an oval shape, and we have only to go through our forests and gardens to see them on every hand. Exceedingly varied are they indeed, from very narrow to very broad oval, some with toothed, some with smooth edges, and some even deeply notched; and yet to such an extent does this tendency toward a rounded form prevail, that there seems scarcely a plant in whose leaves a trace of the oval may not be found.
The apple tree gives us a good specimen of an oval leaf; and an immense number of plants have leaves resembling it in shape. In many plants, the leaves are almost the very counterpart of those of the apple-tree; in some, they are narrower, and in others, still narrower, till we come to very slender blades like those of the grasses; and then, beyond still, to the needle-like leaves of the pines. On the other hand, plants are to be found with leaves broader than the apple-leaf; and so on, rounder and rounder, until we come to such plants as the nasturtium and the water-lily, whose leaves are almost as round as circles.
Leaf of Apple.
Leaf of Apple.
There are certainly to be met with most remarkable departures from the oval shape, and we need but refer to such leaves as those of the buckwheat, to find that roundness seems to be entirely absent.
Buckwheat Leaf.
Buckwheat Leaf.
This style of leaf, of which there are many variations, is apparently built on the model of the heart-shaped leaf, of which the morning-glory affords a familiar example. It will be noted, however, that instead of the curvilinear flow of outline, in which a tendency to oval roundness is plainly visible, the hastate leaf of the buckwheat is angular throughout.
Morning-Glory Leaf.
Morning-Glory Leaf.
Another marked characteristic of most leaves is, that they terminate in a point, either sharp to extreme slenderness, or blunt to broad roundness; for even in a circular leaf there is one point which is its extremity, and to which the margin from either side approaches by a convexity. To this pointedness of leaves the exceptions are exceedingly rare. A plant found in some parts of our own country—the magnificent tulip-tree—presents, perhaps, the most extraordinary of all.
Leaf of Tulip-Tree.
Leaf of Tulip-Tree.
Now this leaf comes out of a bud-case which is actually oval. The young leaf is folded double inside of its bud-case; and, besides, its small stalk is bent over so as to bring the little leaf to hold its end downwards. Wecan see this curious arrangement very well, just after the bud has opened, and the young leaf has come out. However, it soon straightens up, holds its little head aloft, and looks like a pretty little flag. After this it spreads apart into the full leaf, and stands up like a banner. If the bud be held up to the light, the young leaf can be seen nicely folded up inside, with its head snugly bent down. There is nothing prettier, or more curious, to be seen in the woods, than the young buds of the tulip-trees, when they are about to open, or after they have unfurled their little flags; and all summer long, even from earliest spring, the tulip-trees are continually unfolding their buds.
Opening Leaf-Bud of Tulip-Tree.Early Leaf-Bud of Tulip-Tree.
Opening Leaf-Bud of Tulip-Tree.
Opening Leaf-Bud of Tulip-Tree.
Early Leaf-Bud of Tulip-Tree.
Early Leaf-Bud of Tulip-Tree.
There are leaves broader above than below, and some, instead of ending in a point, have a notch or indentation of some sort. Oak-trees give us many fine and varied samples of notched and lobed leaves. And yet the leaf of the chestnut-oak is not at all notched, being simply ovate, pointed, and toothed. The leaves of the bur and the pin oaks, on the contrary, are lobed and notched, and are therefore characteristic oak-leaves, while those of the chestnut-oak are not so, because almost all oaks have leaves more or less scalloped or deeply indented.
Great as is the variety in the shapes of oak leaves, any one of them would almost surely be at once recognized as belonging to an oak-tree by its peculiar scallopings. But suppose a person had never seen or heard of a chestnut-oak leaf, would he be likely to recognize such a leaf simply by its outline? There is still another oak with simple leaves; and they are not even toothed, but entirely smooth all around the edge. Looking at that tree, which is called the willow-oak, scarcely anyone would suppose it to be an oak unless he could see its flowers or its fruit, the acorns.
Chestnut-Oak Leaf.Bur-Oak Leaf.Pin-Oak Leaf.
Chestnut-Oak Leaf.
Chestnut-Oak Leaf.
Bur-Oak Leaf.
Bur-Oak Leaf.
Pin-Oak Leaf.
Pin-Oak Leaf.
This fact brings us to consider a very important point in the study of a plant. It is not the leaf which tells us what kind of plant it is: it is the flower and the fruit. Whatever be the shape of the leaf, if the plant bears acorns it is an oak. If a tree has cherries and cherry blossoms, it is a cherry.
It is true that, in many families of plants, leaves, by their shape alone, announce at once the kind of plant to which they belong; at the same time there is a large number of plants that cannot be known by their leaves, but only by their flowers and fruits. It is by flowers and fruits that plants are classified; and the more nearly alike these are in two plants, the more closely are those plants related. The flower and the fruit proclaim thenature of the plant. “A tree is known by its fruit.”
Tennyson.
Bridge over a brook
I come from haunts of coots and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Phillip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on for ever.
I come from haunts of coots and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Phillip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on for ever.
I come from haunts of coots and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.
I come from haunts of coots and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Phillip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
Till last by Phillip’s farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel.
And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on for ever.
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
Gustavus Frankenstein.
Although the flower and its fruit tell us what the plant is, and leaves do not with any certainty, there is yet a strong similarity, as well in texture as in shape, in the leaves of most of the plants comprised within any one family. Especially in texture is this marked similarity observable; and, perhaps, in most cases the peculiar structure of the leaf, aside from its shape, is indicative ofthe order to which the plant belongs. The leaves of the grasses are very much alike; so are the leaves of the sedges;—and though it is true, also, that in some instances a sedge-leaf might be mistaken for a grass-leaf, it must be remembered that the sedge family and the grass family have some points of similarity.
Again, if we should come upon a plant belonging to the common potato or nightshade family, we should be almost sure to recognize the family resemblance at the very first glance, provided we were already familiar with a number of plants included in that order. Yet the leaves of the nightshade family vary considerably in shape, and it is therefore decisively the texture and peculiar appearance of the leaves, that announce the kinship of the plant. And thus we are led back to the consideration of the willow-oak and chestnut-oak leaves, which, entirely unlike the typical oak-leaf in shape, are yet very much like all other oak leaves in texture and other essential structure.