By Julia McNair Wright
THE production of seed is the chief object of plant life. Upon this depends the continuance of the vegetable world, and therefore all animal existence. From the elephant to the mouse, from the whale to the minnow, from the eagle to the humming-bird, life is conditioned upon the constant return of “the herb-bearing fruit whose seed is in itself.”
In every minute particular the flower is constructed to insure the production of sound seed. The first form of this seed is the tiny ovule in the germ. Ovules cannot grow into seeds, unless they are brought in contact with the pollen, which must arrive at them by way of the stigma.
The pollen of flowers is a most fine, delicate dust. It must be conveyed without injury in the most delicate manner. Many flowers are exceedingly high up, as on climbing vines, or growing on tree-tops, peaks, or house-tops. Many other plants are very low down, lying close to the ground, as the bluets, chickweed, arbutus, partridge-berry, and others. A large number of plants are in positions inaccessible to man or the larger animals.
Man excepted, the larger animals seem generally to have a destructive mission to plants, devouring, breaking, or trampling down. Men themselves are often ruthless destroyers of beautiful plants, and seem to care for and conserve only what concerns human convenience.
Here, then, we have the problem of plants fixed in their places, needing carriers for their pollen to distant plants of their own kind, at the exact period of maturity. The carriers must be able to go high or low, into all manner of different localities; they must be delicately made, so that they will not injure the plants which they visit, capable of carrying the frail pollen grains unharmed, and they must have some object of their own in these visitations, which shall infallibly secure their doing of the work required. Finally, let us remember that the pollen of flowers is but seldom spread where it is easy to secure it. The buttercup lavishly expends a golden saucer of pollen; the lily has a wide-open door, near which hangs the antlers, like so many ready bells. On the other hand, how long and narrow are the throats of the morning-glories and honeysuckles; how tiny are the tubes of mint, thyme, and clover; how fast-closed is the mouth of the snap-dragon; how narrow the fox-glove’s throat. Pollen-carriers must be able to secure the dust so jealously kept, and must be afforded a reward for their trouble.
What form of animal life meets all these conditions? But one—the insect. It is generally light and delicate in structure, active, winged; its life is conterminous with that of flowers; they are spring and summer guests. The slender shape and the long, slim mouth organs of the insect can penetrate and gently force open flower tubes and the fast-shut lips of corollas; the velvet coats and fine, waving antennæ will receive and carry uninjured the precious dust, and the insect habit of constant roaming from bloom to bloom assures the accomplishment of its important errand.
Not all insects, but a few widely-distributed families, are the chosen partners of the flowers; these are the various tribes of bees, moths, and butterflies, with some help from a few others.
“Nothing for nothing” seems to be a law of nature. What does the flower offer to the insect for its services as pollen distributer? Honey, which is the chief food of flying insects, also wax, and pollen for its private use at home. The miller, we know, takes toll from the flour he grinds.
To secure insect visitants, the flower provides honey; almost all flowers secrete some dainty juices. As shopkeepers set up signs to inform the public of their wares, so the flowers hang forth signs; these are the brilliant corollas, or parts highly colored which take the place of corollas.
Another bid for visits is made by perfume, which attracts insects as being generally associated with honey. Many flowers have inconspicuous corollas, or are hidden under foliage, or so placed as to risk being neglected; these call attention by fragrance, as the mignonette, the violet, or arbutus. Others, as the lilies, have large and attractive corollas, yet add perfume to size and color, to insure the securing of insect attention and help.
Flowers with insects flying around them.PLANTS AND THEIR PARTNERS
PLANTS AND THEIR PARTNERS
PLANTS AND THEIR PARTNERS
Plants which depend upon moths, or any night-flying insects, have usually strong perfume and pale color, as white or light lemon color, which can easily be seen in twilight. The odor attracts the insect in its direction; and on a nearer approach the flower is seen.
Most flowers have peculiarly bright streaks, spots, or other markings, in the direction of the honey, and the honey is placed at the bottom of the stamens, thus the insect is attracted just where he should go. The tiger lily has its startling red spots; the arum its lines of red and green; the morning-glory its vivid stripes, the jonquil its ruffled bi-colored crown, and the beauty-of-the-night its bright purple centre.
When the pollen is ripe for carrying, all the parts of the flower are at their best: the perfume is the strongest, the coloring the brightest, the nectar most abundant.
On these hot July days, when the sun draws out the richest fragrance and lights up the most brilliant colors, watch the bees and butterflies. The bee seeks the clover on one trip, mignonette on another, lilies on a third. The butterflies have no hive returning to mark their work, but you can count their visits, a dozen or more to flowers of one kind before they investigate the sweets of flowers of some other kind.
So, the plant’s partners, while gathering honey for their daily needs, toil unthinkingly to perpetuate the very flowers upon which their existence depends.