Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

A flock of fieldfares from the leafless trees
Flew chattering mournfully, while here and there
A single redwing flung upon the breeze
A sigh that seem’d the utterance of despair.

But on the burn, scarce half a mile below,
The bluff white-breasted ouzel from a rock
Pour’d his bold song—a huddling overflow
Of mirth, those faint-heart winter-fowl to mock.
—Henry Johnstone.

THE CARNATION.

Most of the names by which we are accustomed to designate familiar forms of the vegetable kingdom have descended to us from remote times and from ancient associations. The old terms are for the most part founded either on the medicinal values of the plants or on some mythological fancy that accounted for their creation or form.

The Carnation derived its generic name from the latter source. The term Dianthus is derived from two Greek words, signifying flower of Jupiter, while the specific name, caryophyllus, is obtained from words meaning nut and leaf, originally applied to the clove tree, but later given to the Carnation, because of its spicy fragrance. Again, the word Carnation is from the Latin, meaning flesh, and was deemed appropriate because of the pink and white color of the petals.

The name Dianthus, or flower of Jupiter, originates in a Greek myth, that had to do with the establishment of Olympus. Jupiter had escaped the unpleasant fate that befell his brothers, namely, of being swallowed by their unnatural parent, Saturn. Jupiter married Metis (Prudence), who straightway demonstrated the fitness of her name by bestowing on Saturn a draught which caused him to disgorge his domestic bill of fare, and the sons, banding together, imprisoned their father and his brother Titans and divided their empire among themselves. Jupiter inherited the heavens and became king of gods and men. When the Thunderer came into possession of his kingdom Vulcan, the celestial artist, crowned him with a chaplet of beautiful flowers, whose white petals Iris had marked with the colors of the rainbow, their edges being bright with the plumage of the peacock, which was the favorite bird of Juno, as was Iris, her chosen attendant, after she espoused Jupiter and became queen of the gods. Hence the Dianthus became the flower of Jupiter.

The Carnation has been under cultivation for more than two thousand years. Theophrastus, who gave the plant its technical name, states that “the Greeks cultivated roses, gillie flowers, violets, narcissi and iris,” gillie flower being the old English name for the Carnation, having been bestowed upon it for the reason that it bloomed in July. It was also called the Coronarium because it was the coronation flower of a queen of Italy during whose reign in the sixteenth century the plants were introduced into England.

From their first appearance in England Carnations took a firm hold on the popular fancy, varieties began to be formed, the original flesh color being broken up into red and white. The remarkable susceptibility of the plants to cultivation, their beauty and fragrance, so appealed to the florists of Italy, France, Germany and Holland that in 1597 Gerard wrote that “to describe each new variety of Carnation were to roll Sisyphus’ stone or number the sands.”

The Carnations of to-day originated about 1840, as a distinct race. Special attention was given in Europe to the elaboration of the plants by M. Dalmais and M. Schmitt, and the varieties created by them were imported to America in 1868. Bench cultivation was started in the United States in 1875 and became so popular that in 1892 the specialist or “Carnationalist” first became known. At that time there were about five hundred distinct varieties, all of American origin.

The Carnation is a native of Central and Southern Europe. Since its introduction into England it is said to have escaped cultivation and to have become fixed in several localities. In its cultivation three general classes have been established by English specialists. The selfs are plants whose flowers have a uniform color. The flakes possess a pure ground of white or yellow, flaked or striped with one color, the stripes running longitudinally through the petals. The bizarres are such as have a pure ground, marked as in the flakes, but with two or three colors; this form possesses the most fragrance, especially when there is a frequent recurrence of the stripes. Lastly there are the picotees, having a pure ground, each petal being bordered with a band of color. This last form includes many of the rarest varieties and the yellow picotee is famous in several royal establishments.

It is a peculiar fact that rain will injure the colors of the more delicate varieties, and the florist must shield the opening flowers from direct sunlight if he would obtain the best results.

In the perfect flower the pod and calyx should be long, the flower circular, not less than three inches in diameter, rising gradually towards the center, so as to form a sort of crown. The outer petals should be large and few in number, rising slightly above the calyx and spreading horizontally, the other petals being regularly disposed above them, nearly flat, diminishing in size towards the center. The ground should be a pure color and the petals wax-like.

The Carnation is allied to the pink family, and consequently is related to the modest Indian pink, the Chinese pink and the Sweet William. These lowly forms doubtless nourish a secret pride in their relationship to the illustrious head of the house, concerning which Shakespeare said, “The fairest flowers of the season are our Carnations.”

Charles S. Raddin.

WINTER SONG.

Sing ho! for the hilltop bold and bare,
Where the bracing breezes blow!
There’s a frosty edge on the wintry air,
Exhilaration keen and rare
That sets the heart aglow.

Over the crest the snow lies deep,
Over the brow of the hill.
Down below the woodlands sleep,
Blanketed well on the sloping steep
’Neath a snow sheet white and chill.

Sing ho, sing ho, for the galloping gale
That sweeps the summit clear,
And drives the mass of icy shale
Into the pines, whose eery wail
Fills timid souls with fear!

There’s that in the winter’s whistling wind
That stirs dead hearts to life,
And energy and health you’ll find
In the breath of the breeze that’s rough yet kind,
That’s keen as a surgeon’s knife.
—Frank Farrington.

BUDS OF PROMISE.
COLD WEATHER NOTES FROM NATURE.

It has become a conventional habit with us to look upon the winter season as unproductive of artistic interest so far as Nature’s decorations are concerned. And we note it as a period of rest from the exhaustion of seed time and harvest. But to the initiated and observant, it is now that the change worketh fast, and barely has the network of fretted branches, looming up so purple against an autumnal sky, become a realization, before the winter progress of the budding forest has changed the dreamy violet to a rich ruddy brown, in promise of a future fulfillment of a rich verdure of living greens.

In winter, we are, as it were, behind the scenes in the green-room of some vast forest auditorium, and the closely locked buds are become the dressing rooms of thousands upon thousands of gaily decked flower-folk, who are preparing their multi-colored wardrobe of gorgeous petals, with which to entrance and delight our mortal eyes when the golden key of the sun shall have unlocked their doors, and are melted the barriers of ice and snow that now reign supreme in the great foyers of the forest. But if at present we are barred from the scene, the work of preparation is being rushed forward, and on every swelling twig there is evidence of a glorious drama of delight which shall be uncurtained at the clarion voice of Spring. How many shades and colors are outlined against the wintry sky! The bronze points of the oaks, in contrast with the gray of the pale ash buds, whose color indicates the advent of some demure debutant in Quaker costume, while the ruddy buds of the whitewood or tulip tree, which steal their rich color from the furrowed red of its bark, give promise of some gorgeous result that is later realized in the magnolia-like bloom of rich, creamy green, girdled with a crimson sash, and which within the last few years has become such a fad among nature’s devotees. But all of our fads are but a continuing in the universal circle from which, according to Lord Beaconsfield, we never evolve beyond, and it is written that the tulip tree was so esteemed by the ancients that they poured libations of wine about its roots. We put our wine to other uses in these twentieth century days, but we worship at the same tree, pro tempore.

The highly polished buds of the June berry or shad bush shine forth in evidence of a future of bewildering bloom that shall envelop its now dull branches in a robe of fairy whiteness when “the shad come down.” Break open the tightly sealed, varnished bud of the lilac tree, and out pours that incomparable fragrance of Spring, an odor that challenges all of the arts and sciences or alchemy to produce. One of the most notable trees in winter is the plane-tree or buttonwood, wrongly called sycamore, a term which can only be applied correctly to the Ficus sycamorus, or true sycamore, a tree closely allied to the fig, and a native of the far East. It is the ragged appearance of the buttonwood that makes it so conspicuous a tree in winter, the white trunk gleaming so distinctly through its shattered habiliments of bark. It is said that this disastrous state of its covering is due to the inelasticity of the bark, which does not expand to meet the requirements of the tree’s growth, as does the bark of other trees, hence the impoverished condition of its outer garment. But when we see this sad state of conditions repeated on its human prototype, we feel that we have more cause for sympathy than ridicule, so why not accord the tree the same commiseration? But I am sure there is some legendary tale extant to the effect that in mythological days the tree was a derelict from duty in some line or another, and for this was condemned to pass the rest of its days in a tattered coat, for so was sentenced the white Birch, who arrived late at an important wedding of the gods, hence doomed to wear her wedding garment of snowy bark throughout all ages in penance for her dilatoriness. But if the buttonwood wears the coat of poverty, it is more than abundantly supplied with buttons, which are so tightly sewed on that it is no easy task to secure a bunch of these drooping balls for decorative purposes, and for which they are so effective when hung among clusters of the scarlet berries of the bitter-sweet. Their secure hold on the parent stem has thus aroused the interest of John Burroughs:

“Why has Nature taken such particular pains to keep these balls hanging to the parent tree intact till spring? What secret of hers has she buttoned in so securely? for these buttons will not come off. The wind can not twist them off, nor warm nor wet hasten or retard them. The stem, or penduncle, by which the ball is held in the fall and winter, breaks up into a dozen or more threads or strands, that are stronger than those of hemp. When twisted tightly they make a little cord that I find it impossible to break with my hands. Had they been longer the Indian would surely have used them to make his bow strings and all other strings he required. One could hang himself with a small cord of them. Nature has determined that these buttons should stay on. In order that the needs of this tree may germinate, it is probably necessary that they be kept dry during the winter, and reach the ground after the season of warmth and moisture is fully established. In May, just as the leaves and the new balls are emerging, at the touch of a warm, moist south wind, these spherical packages suddenly go to pieces—explode, in fact, like tiny bombshells that were fused to carry to this point—and scatter their seeds to the four winds. They yield at the same time a fine pollen-like dust that one would suspect played some part in fertilizing the new balls, did not botany teach him otherwise. At any rate, it is the only deciduous tree I know of that does not let go the old seed till the new is well on the way.”

Next to the cedar tree, this tree is the strongest power in mythology and was, by the ancients, consecrated to Genius, and who knows what mighty stores of intelligence is buttoned under its tattered coat? and I myself can bear witness to its strong will and determination under adverse circumstances, for a huge tree that has fallen from a high bank into the river below, has floated down stream to a lodgment, and there put forth a vigorous growth of foliage, and is thriving well under these abnormal conditions. The maple bloom is now closely housed, with but little show of promise, but if one were favored with a specially alert ear, I am sure that he could hear the rush of the ascending sap blood, hurrying upward in answer to the call of the quickening Spirit of Spring. In many of the creepers, the lilies and the gourd, a kind of fever heat is perceptible at the time of inflorescence, and the heat has been observed to increase daily from sixty to one hundred and ten or even one hundred and twenty degrees, and without doubt the forest temperament rises accordingly.

As yet the birds have not taken all of the scarlet berries of the bitter-sweet vine, which clings lovingly, but with a somewhat parasitical clasp about the hospitable boles of the great trees. In color rivalry looms up the dark red panicles of the sumach, whose acrid fruit, which is a last resort for hungry birds, must prove a pungent pill to the feathered folk. But it is a line of beauty across the hillside:

Like glowing lava streams the sumach crawls
Upon the mountain’s granite walls.

Peeping out from the sheltered crannies are numerous long, slender fronds of the Christmas fern, Polystichum acrostichoides, gleaming like emerald bars against the white of the snow bank. Outlining against the sky are the aristocratic hemlocks which belong to the regal pine family, and which have established a social precedence by wearing their holiday clothes all the year round, in opposition to their more humble, deciduous kin, who are now in working habiliments, and they flaunt their heads haughtily, but their thickly clothed branches form a warm shelter for snow bound birds, so that their distinction is not without its advantages. In a sheltered nook still flourish a few plants of “Life Everlastin’,” so dear to the hearts of Mary Wilkin’s quaint New England characters as an allayer of rheumatic ills, and it still exhales its aromatic fragrance in the air. Here and there a witch-hazel waves its scraggy branches, still laden with their velvety seed capsules, which have but now bursted open and shot forth their glistening seeds, and whose inconsequent yellow bloom has only just shed its slender petals to the winds. A few lingering wild rose haws are withering upon the parent stem, yet glowing like cherries against the wintry sky, but break off a tiny branch and a whiff of Richard Jefferies’ “sweet briar wind” is wafted across one’s nostrils, filling one’s brain with visions of the gladdening spring time. A gaily plumaged jay dashes his brilliant blue through the branches of a thickly needled pine, and a scarlet crowned “downie” taps diligently up and around the worm-infested trunk of an old apple tree, in search of an unwary morsel, and one comes to the conclusion that after all, winter is not all gloom and grayness, but filled with bits of glowing color and vitality, if only one’s eye is set for its beauty, instead of its bleakness.

Alberta Field.

HOW A CAT SAVED THE LIFE OF A CANARY.

In a small town in Minnesota, noted for its several state institutions of learning, lives a widow whose success in the training of a cat has made her quite noted in her locality.

Tiger, the cat, is not famous for his long hair nor for his long pedigree. He is simply a creature who has been loved and petted into a wonderful amount of sympathy for his mistress and he seems to know instinctively many of her likes and dislikes, and he would no more harm Dick, the canary, who lives in the same room, than he would attack the hand which places the saucer of milk before him each day.

One morning, Mrs. Rogers (as we will call his mistress, though that is not her true name), allowed Dick to take his bath in his tiny tub upon the dining-room floor, while she rearranged and dusted the furniture of the room, leaving the door wide open during the time. A neighbor sat by the doorway watching Dick bathe and, not having the faith in Tiger which his mistress held, exclaimed, “That cat of yours will kill your bird sometime. I know he will.”

Mrs. Rogers smiled very quietly as she stopped to give Tiger an assuring pat on the head and a word of praise for his good behavior, for she believed he understood the neighbor’s unkind remark.

“Tiger is a good cat and I’ll trust him any time with Dick,” said his mistress, turning away from him to attend to her duties.

A prolonged “Oh!” like a stifled scream came from the neighbor’s lips the next minute for Tiger had sprung at Dick and held him tightly in his cruel jaws.

“See Tige! See Tige!” exclaimed the visitor.

But Dick never fluttered a bit and Mrs. Rogers patted Tiger again as she caught sight of a vanishing stranger cat disappearing through an open window.

“Brave old Tiger! Good little Dickie!” said their mistress, as she took the bird, unharmed, from Tiger’s teeth, which had held the bird safely away from real danger.

Dick flew back to his open cage, Tiger went back to his nap in the sunshine, and the lady visitor learned the lesson that love works wonders in even the creatures that do not speak as we do.

Mary Catherine Judd.

THE POCKET RATS.

Rats and mice seem to enjoy living in localities that are frequented by but few other animals. They are also adepts at seeking food supplies and travel long distances when hunger demands and a supply of food is not at hand. The Pocket Rats are no exception to this rule and some of the species live in dry, arid regions where but little vegetation grows, aside from a few species of cactus. The rat of our illustration was found by Mr. Frank M. Woodruff in such a locality, where it had hidden under the sheltering branches of a cactus.

The marked characteristic that gives these little animals their name is the pockets or cheek pouches. These are external openings outside of the mouth and are lined with a furry skin. They are ample in size and the two will hold, in some instances, a heaping tablespoonful of grain. “The filling is done so rapidly that, where a hard grain like wheat is used, a continuous rattling sound is made. The ejecting of the grain from the pockets is aided by a forward, squeezing motion of the fore feet, each foot making two or three quick forward passes. Some of the species seem to thrive in captivity, and after a few days do not fill their pouches, apparently having learned that it is a useless labor. When obtainable, their natural food consists of various plant seeds, but when in the neighborhood of cultivated fields and the vicinity of houses, they feed also upon grain and the vegetable waste from camps and houses. Mr. F. Stephens says that some of the species, whose habits he has studied, will eat about a heaping tablespoonful each of wheat or barley in twenty-four hours and one or two square inches of beet or cabbage leaves.” As they are often found in regions practically devoid of water, a large part of the year, it is highly probable that they obtain the necessary moisture from succulent leaves. In captivity they drink but little water. Mr. Stephens writes of one that he trapped that was evidently very hungry. Placing it in a cage he gave it grain. He says: “It was amusing to see the eagerness with which it immediately went to filling its pockets. It stuffed them so full that it must have been positively painful, and then it would not stop to eat, but hunted about for some exit; not finding one, it ejected the contents of its pockets in a corner out of the firelight and went back for more. This time it ate a little, but soon gathered the remainder and deposited it with the first. After eating a little more, it refilled its pockets and hunted about for a better place to make a cache, seeming to think its first choice insecure. These actions plainly show that they are in the habit of storing away their supplies.” In some fields where they are common it is said that more than a pint of grain is ploughed up in a single cache.

The elongated hind legs, well pictured in our illustration, give these rats a wonderful power of locomotion. As they leap rather than run, they are often called Kangaroo Rats. Mr. Woodruff states that the specimen, which we have used, when trying to escape started with short leaps, but as it gained headway the spans were about four feet in length and at the highest point about eighteen inches from the ground. He found them quite common in the vicinity of San Diego, California. They are nocturnal in their habits, seeking their food through the twilight and night hours, and resting during the day in their burrows or in shaded places near the openings to them.

When resting the position of the feet and the arched back give them the appearance of a hairy ball. The tail is laid straight out from the body, if space will permit, or when the quarters are cramped it may be curled alongside the body. The tail is quite useful, as it is used as a sort of brace when the animal raises on its hind feet to view its surroundings.

There are a number of species of these interesting rats. The first one was discovered and named in 1839. The species we illustrate was first found near San Diego and named Dipodomys similis in 1893.

WINTER VISITORS.

For several years I have been interested in birds. I have watched them through the glad nesting time of spring, have sought their quiet retreats in summer and have heard their faraway calls as they moved southward in the dark, cold, misty evenings of autumn; but for the first time I have succeeded in bringing them near enough to study them in winter.

On the ledge of a second story window, out of the reach of cats, a wide shelf is fastened, and above it the branch of a dead cherry tree is securely wired to a shutter. On the shelf I scatter scraps from the table and shelled corn. To the branch, a long piece of suet is always bound with a cord. This is my free lunch table, spread for all my bird friends who wish to come. They have accepted the invitation beyond my expectation, and have fully repaid me for all the trouble it has been to prepare for them, in the pleasure their company gives me. I sit just inside the window and they appear not to notice me, so that I have an excellent opportunity to note their peculiarities.

The one that comes every day and all day, is the tufted titmouse. He comes down with a whir, looks sharply about with his bright, black eyes, then takes a taste of the suet or marrow, and sometimes carries a crumb away. It is hard to tell how many of them come, as they all look so much alike. Not more than two or three ever come at once.

A pair of downy woodpeckers are constant visitors at the meat table. They seldom come together, but sometimes it is the male with his bright red head spot, sometimes the female, in her plain black and white stripe. She is very plain, indeed, and somewhat more shy than her mate. If an English sparrow comes to the shelf while either of them is on the branch, it quickly drops down beside him as if to say, “See here, you are out of place,” and the sparrow leaves without a taste of the good things.

Occasionally a winter wren, with his comical tail and delicate manners, calls on his way somewhere, and makes a pleasing variety in the appearance of the visitors. He eats all he needs of the bread crumbs before leaving, unless some sudden movement within startles him.

The blue jays are the most persistent and least welcome of all. Their plumage is beautiful, viewed at such close range, but their actions are not pleasing. They flop down near the window and look in, turning the head from side to side, as if suspecting some enemy there. The slightest sound sends them back to the trees, but they soon return, and eat as if they were starved, driving their bills into the meat with quick hard strokes, or grabbing at the corn in a nervous, famishing way. After eating a few grains, they fill their mouths and carry it away to hide for future emergencies. I have seen them hide it in an old gatepost or drive it down in the crevices of trees. They carry away more than they eat and probably never find half of it again, for they have no special hiding place, but they tuck it in wherever they see a convenient place. It is somewhat provoking to have the table cleared in this way, unless it is always watched, for the corn is spread especially for the cardinals whose brilliant color is such a delight to the eye amid the sombre colors of winter. There is one blue jay with a drooping wing. We call him our “Bird with the broken pinion.” He appears to have no difficulty in getting to the table, and his appetite is not impaired, but possibly, as Butterworth says, “He will never soar so high again.”

A pair of cardinals come and partake of the corn with a grace and dignity befitting their royal apparel. They do not hurry nor worry, but eat slowly and stay until they have enough. They are very quiet now, but their spring song will repay me for all the corn they will eat.

But of all that come, none are more interesting than the chickadee. He surely merits all the bright sweet things that have been said or written about him. He is the only one that utters a note of thanksgiving for his daily bread before he begins to eat. Then he has such gentle, confiding ways. Today the ground is covered with a deep, sleet-encrusted snow; the trees are all icebound, and it must be one of the most disheartening days the bird world ever knows, yet just now, at four o’clock, two chickadees are singing their good night song outside my window. In a few minutes they will be snugly tucked away in some wayside inn, some sheltered nook prepared by Mother Nature, where they will sleep away one more cold night, to awaken one day nearer the joyous springtime.

Caroline H. Parker.

BEAUTIFUL VINES TO BE FOUND IN OUR WILD WOODS
III.

Another beautiful vine that grows wild in most of our states is the Trumpet Flower, a popular name for various species of Bignonia and Tecoma, which belong to the other Bignoniaaceæ or Bignonia family, all of which are either shrubs or woody vines. There are two or three species of this family native to the United States, chief among them being the Tecoma radicans, or what is generally known as the Trumpet Flower. In some parts of the country it is also called Trumpet Creeper.

The word Tecoma is of Mexican origin and means trumpet, the only known difference between the Tecoma radicans and the Bignonia is a structural difference in their pods.

We have several imported varieties of both, that come from South Africa and Japan, but none prettier than the Tecoma radicans or Trumpet Flower, which any of us can find along almost any roadside or in rich, moist woods, blooming in the greatest profusion in August and September.

It is a woody vine, climbing to great heights by abundant rootlets, produced along the stems. Its pinnate leaves have from five to eleven ovate, toothed pointed leaflets. Its deep orange-red flowers come in midsummer and later and grow in corymbs or clusters; its tubular corolla is funnel-shaped, two or three inches long, with five somewhat irregular lobes, within which the four stamens are enclosed; its fruit is a two-celled pod, containing numerous winged seed.

The Trumpet Flower is found in a wild state from Pennsylvania to Illinois, and southward, and is very common in cultivation, being vigorous and perfectly hardy, soon covering a large space and reaching to a height of sixty feet. Blooming as it does in late summer, and early fall when flowers are scarce, the abundance of its great orange and scarlet flowers make a very showy spot in a dull landscape, and an especially attractive bit of color, if you happen to find a vine around which the ruby-throated hummingbirds are hovering, they being very partial to the nectar from its flowers.

It is a beautiful vine to drape a tree that is in itself not very pleasing, or to cover brick or stone outbuildings.

Its faults, and it is a shame to discover faults in anything so beautiful, are a tendency to become naked below, which can be remedied by cutting back, an over abundant production of suckers, and its immensely long roots.

Bignonia capreolata, named for the Abbe Bignon, who first found it, is a closely related species, of a more southern range than the Tecoma, being found in Tennessee, Virginia and Georgia. Its leaves consist of but two leaflets and a terminal tendril. Its flowers, similar to those of the preceding, are orange. In the southern states it is called cross-vine, as the wood if cut transversely shows a cross.

One species of the Trumpet Flower, the Tecoma stans, is a non-climbing shrub of southern Florida and northern Mexico. It grows about four feet high and bears large clusters of lemon-yellow flowers. It is hardy at Washington in the Botanical Gardens and there were fine plants exhibited at the Buffalo Exposition.

J. O. Cochran.

THE PERSIMMON.
(_Diospyros virginiana._)

Have you ever,
On your travels
Through the queer, uncertain South,
Had a ’simmon—
Green Persimmon—
Make a sortie on your mouth?
—Frank H. Sweet.

The Persimmon, or Virginian Date Plum, is a North American tree, growing wild in nearly all of the Southern United States, and will thrive and ripen its fruits as far north as the state of Connecticut and the great lakes. It is one of about one hundred and eighty species belonging to the genus Diospyros. These are all hardy trees or shrubs. Representatives of the genus are found in nearly all regions that have a tropical or a temperate climate. The name Diospyros is of interest, for it is from a Greek name used by Theophrastus, and is derived from two words, one meaning Jove’s and the other wheat or grain. This name of Theophrastus has reference to the edible fruit and literally translated means divine or celestial food.

Only a few of the species are cultivated. These are highly ornamental trees with a beautiful foliage, which is rarely attacked by insects. The common Persimmon of America is the only species that is at all hardy in the north. This and the Japanese species (Diospyros kaki) are the only trees that produce the edible fruit commonly found in the market. The wood of nearly all the species of Diospyros is hard and close-grained. The trees that yield the beautiful ebony of commerce belong to this genus, and the species that is said to yield the best quality of this wood (Diospyros ebenum) is a native of the East Indies and Ceylon. It is also cultivated to some extent in hothouses and in tropical climates.

The common Persimmon of the United States (Diospyros virginiana) is a tree, usually growing to a height of about fifty or sixty feet, and rarely reaching one hundred feet. This is a beautiful round-topped tree with more or less spreading branches. The name Persimmon is of Indian origin and of unknown meaning. The fruit of this species is but lightly appreciated except by those who visit the forest regions in which it is native, for it is only cultivated to a very limited extent. The fruit is globular in form and quite plum-like. It varies both in size, color and flavor. When green the fruit is astringent and has a very disagreeable taste. This, however, disappears when the fruit becomes fully matured.

It is generally thought that the fruit of the Persimmon is not palatable until there has been a frost. Regarding this supposition Dr. L. H. Bailey says: “The old notion of early botanists that this fruit must be subjected to the action of frost before it becomes edible is erroneous. Many of the very best varieties ripen long before the appearance of frost, while others never become edible, being so exceedingly astringent that neither sun nor frost has any appreciable effect on them.” This fruit, so popular in the localities where it grows, was not unknown to the natives who traversed the wild woods before the time of the early explorations and conquests of America. A narrative of De Soto’s travels relates that his men, who were camping at a native town “halfe a league from Rio Grande” (Mississippi River) found the river “almost halfe a league broad and of great depth,” and that the natives brought to them “loaves made of the substance of prunes, like unto brickes.” These loaves were made of dried Persimmons, possibly, mixed with some pulverized grain. At the present time, in some southern localities, the fruit is not infrequently kneaded with bran or ground cereals, molded and baked.

AS TO ALLIGATORS.

The alligator generally impresses the mind as a reptile so dangerous that he should be given a wide berth on any and all occasions, yet it is really peaceable and harmless unless aroused to the defensive.

Anywhere south of the Mason and Dixon line, among the rivers, lakes and marshes, are found the alligators, but Florida, because of its great area of such places which the alligator delights in, may almost be termed the home of the alligator.

In traveling through the dense hammocks, where for miles and miles the sun scarcely penetrates through the heavy timber and the rank vegetation beneath, one may often meet with the huge saurian as he travels from one cave or mud hole to another. Tease or wound him, and he will show fight, and woe to him who then comes within reach of his vengeance. And it matters little to him with which end he must fight. He can crush equally well with his tail as with his jaws—or, to end the matter more speedily, he may use both. But if you go on about your business his ’gator-ship will do the same, and not notice you so much as ever to wink. Come upon him as he is lying asleep or sunning himself on a mud bank, if he is aroused and finds you between himself and the river he will sweep you aside as you yourself would a fly from the sugar bowl, and then slide into his native element, and he does this so quickly as to allow you little time to explain that you just happened there and had no designs on him whatever.

At other times you might think you are stepping out onto a sunken log imbedded in the mud, but find that the log suddenly gets very much alive, for under that slimy mud and grass an alligator was taking a sitz bath. You might have walked all around him with impunity, but walking on him is an indignity he resents quickly—so quickly that it is a question whether you get back to safety or are served up for the alligator’s dinner. Sometimes you may see an alligator lying motionless just under the surface of the water, with his long snout protruding. His jaws are open far enough to allow the flow of the current through them, and when a stray fish or other tid-bit comes along with that flow, the jaws snap down on it. He can be seen keeping his trap thus set for hours at a time. Should you row near in order to watch him, he will not seem to pay the least attention to you if you behave yourself; but if you drop an oar or shout at him he will drop down out of sight and lie low waiting to see what you are really up to. Now, if you will remain perfectly quiet as to motion, but will imitate the barking of a puppy, the squealing of a pig, or the caw of a crow, although there was not an alligator in sight, you will soon see several snouts appear, and gradually, if you keep up the call, the alligators will come near and nearer, in curiosity as to what the call means. A half dozen or more will be nosing about the boat, and you have a good chance to observe them closely—if your nerves can stand it. This sport is exceedingly dangerous, for if the boat should bump an alligator on the nose, straightway all would make common cause and reduce the offending boat into splinters; and that the occupant of the boat should escape would be next to impossible.

When the female alligator wishes to build her nest, she selects a dry place, open to the rays of the sun, yet near to water. She commences her nest by scraping together a lot of dry leaves, grass or other trash, until she has a round, compact bed as large as a cartwheel. On this she deposits her eggs. This done, she proceeds to cover them up by going round and round the nest and, with her body pushing more leaves and trash over the eggs. A well made nest is of the shape of a hay-cock, and very nearly so large. The nest completed, the alligator goes off to the nearby water, and leaves the sun to do the hatching. Many differ as to the time it takes for the eggs to hatch, as much depends on the construction of the nest, and also on the heat of the sun. So, also, many differ as to the number of eggs a female will lay in one season. Some aver that eighty is the average number, but the writer has never found more than forty in one nest.

Alligator eggs are white, oblong in shape, about three inches and a half in length, and have a ring around the middle. When first hatched the little fellows are red and black spotted and striped. They are exceedingly lively, and, as soon as hatched, make straight for the water—apparently in search of the protecting care of their mammy—but they often come back to sun themselves about the old nest.

The male alligator is a cannibal, and will eat his own young if he finds them. For this reason the female selects a place far from the usual haunts of her spouse when she prepares for maternal cares by building her nest. And she stays with her babies until she thinks they are capable of wiggling away from dangers themselves.

When in Florida many of the winter tourists secure these little alligators and take them North to keep them as pets. As they are exceedingly slow in growing, they make “little” and “cunning” pets for many years. When they get to be “big fellows,” they had best be dispensed with.

Although the alligator has long been considered one of the despised species of animals, or reptiles, it is far from being a useless one—though its use is only practical after it has been killed. One may say that there is no good alligator but a dead one, but one may qualify the remark by adding that the dead one is very good, indeed, for commercial purposes.

There is a great demand for alligator hides, and good prices are being paid for them. Consequently the hunting of alligators for the sake of their hides, and the preparing of them for shipment is a profitable industry. Then the tanning of these hides and, finally, the making of the leather into trunks, valises, purses, etc., makes three distinct industries due to the alligators.

Those making a business of hunting alligators generally take the night time for it, and the darker the night, the better.

Two men, provided with a light, easy-going skiff, a good rifle, an ax, and a bull’s eye lantern fastened to the forehead of one of the hunters, start out together. One man—the one with the lantern—sits in the bow of the boat; it is his business to “shine the eyes” of any alligator who might come within the radius of the light. The eyes of the game will shine like two balls of fire, and if the man is careful to make no unnecessary movements, and his partner is careful to scull the boat steadily and silently, they can get so near the game as to almost touch it.

The man in the bow holds, from the very start, the rifle ready for a quick shot. This shot comes so suddenly and so unexpectedly to the alligator, that, quick as he generally is, he falls a prey to his prolonged curiosity as to the nature of that approaching light.

The hunters must be so expert at their trade that as soon as the shot has been fired the man who did the shooting must lean over and grasp the alligator by the tail, pull him half way over the gunnel of the boat and hold him there for the quick cut with the ax in the back, which his partner must be, by this time, prepared to strike. All this is done far quicker than it can be told; so quickly is it done that often the alligator is killed by the ax only, and it is found that the bullet had never struck him, and he had only been either stunned, or so demoralized as to forget his own power.

This cut in the back, severing the vertebrae, places the alligator entirely hors de combat. There is even no flopping about in the bottom of the boat where he is then thrown. Now the hunters are ready to proceed on to their next capture.

The morning generally finds the hunters with their boat loaded, and they are glad of a short rest and—breakfast. There then remains but the task of skinning their game and salting the hides down in barrels, ready for shipment.

Leo L. Stratner.

DANDELION.
(_Taraxacum taraxacum_ Karst.)

You are bilious, my good man. Go and pay a guinea to one of the
doctors in those houses.... He will prescribe taraxacum for you, or
pil. hydrarg.—Thackeray, Philip, ii.

Dandelion is a perennial herb thoroughly familiar to everyone, as it is found almost everywhere throughout all temperate and north temperate countries. It has a basal tuft of rather large, spatulate to lanceolate, deeply incised leaves. There are several slender, cylindrical, hollow stalks, six to twelve inches long, each one ending in a bright yellow flower head with numerous small flowers. The fully matured fruits form a white, fluffy head and are easily removed and scattered by air currents. Each fruit is a miniature parachute and every child has blown upon the fruit head and watched the individual fruits sail for great distances, suspended in air by the parachute-like expansion of the pappus. Roots are quite large, branching, rather fleshy. The plant contains a milky juice, having a bitter taste.

The Dandelion is said to be a native of Greece, southern Europe and Asia Minor. It has spread very rapidly and widely via the commercial routes. It has become thoroughly naturalized in the United States and Canada, forming the most conspicuous plant in farmyards, along roadsides, meadows, pastures and in orchards. Flowers are matured throughout the entire season, but chiefly in the spring and again in the late summer or early autumn. The plant belongs to the same family as the sunflower, daisy, goldenrod and iron weed.

Dandelion has been used medicinally for many centuries, and the name is derived from the Latin dens leonis, meaning lion’s tooth, referring to the incised leaves. Theophrastus described the plant and lauded it very highly in the treatment of liver complaints and for freckles. Later (980-1037 A. D.) Arabian physicians employed it very extensively, principally in jaundice and other liver complaints. During the middle ages the milky juice of this plant was highly recommended in the treatment of diseases of the eye. During the sixteenth century European physicians found it useful as a quieting and sleep-producing remedy.

The poor of nearly all countries collect the young, crisp leaves in the early spring and prepare therefrom a salad, resembling lettuce salad. The poor in large cities visit vacant lots, in which the plants usually grow abundantly, and collect the leaves for home consumption, or fill large, often dirty, sacks, and vend it among the poor tenement dwellers. This is certainly a dangerous procedure, as all manner of dirt and disease germs are found on the leaves, to say nothing of dirty hands, utensils and containers of the collectors. No doubt many a case of typhoid fever or other germ disease among the poor could be traced to this source. In country districts there is little danger connected with eating Dandelion leaves, and they really form a good, palatable salad when properly prepared.

The leaves are also cooked, usually with leaves of other plants (species of chenopodium), forming “greens,” highly relished by the poor. The American Indians as well as savages of other countries eat large quantities of the leaves raw, more rarely cooked. In Germany and other European countries the roots are collected, dried, roasted and used as a substitute for coffee.

The principal use of this plant has thus far been medicinal, but its value as a curative agent has certainly been overrated. It has been used in dropsy, pulmonary diseases, in stomach derangements, in hepatic or liver disorders, in icterus, blotchy skin and other skin diseases, for biliary calculi, in hypochondriasis, etc. It has no marked curative properties in any disorder. Beyond mildly laxative and tonic properties it has no effect whatever. Using taraxacum preparations for a considerable length of time causes digestive disorders, mental excitement, vertigo, coated tongue and nausea.

In lawns the plant proves a great nuisance, as it displaces the grass, and it is difficult to exterminate. The plants must be dug up, roots and all, carted away and burned. This should be done early, before the seeds are sufficiently mature to germinate. For medicinal use the roots are gathered in March, July and November, cleaned, the larger roots cut longitudinally, dried and packed to be shipped to points of consumption. The juice expressed from the fresh roots is also used.

Albert Schneider.

FROM SPRING TO RIVULET.

Still dances the brook with its murmurs gay,
Down through the woods and under the way,
Splashing o’er rocks,—through meadow agleam,
To lose itself in the larger stream.
It passes a laugh with ferns that peer
To see their forms in its waters clear;
It meets a rock, and dashes spray
At moss and lichens that light its gray;
And yet, as it nears where violets hide
’Neath soughing pines, its waters glide
With hardly a sound, lest the tender flower
Should feel, in its haste, too hard a shower.
But ever it sings, be it night or day,
Year after year, in the selfsame way,
“Here I tinkle, and there I dash,
I ripple, I murmur, I gaily splash;
Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I,
Singing along ’neath a summer sky!”

But just as gay as it is in June
Is the brook as it sings its winter tune.
Jack Frost makes his call,—and droop the ferns;
Again and again the sprite returns,
Till over the pool beneath the pines
A magical covering gleams and shines.
Now hide and seek does the brooklet play,
For it dashes forth once more on its way,
Again to be hidden beneath the snow,
That gives no hint of the songster below.
But the grand old trees that love it well,
And the winter bird,—they both can tell
That ever it sings, as it sang of old,
When winds are bleak and days are cold,
“Here I tinkle, and there I dash,
I ripple, I murmur, I gaily splash;
Such a mad, such a glad little brook am I,
Singing along when snowflakes fly!”
—Grace E. Harlow.

INDEX
Volume XII—June, 1902, to December, 1902, inclusive.

PAGE

A
Alligators, As to, Leo L. Stratner, 231
Animal’s Fair, The, Mary McCrae Culter, 65, 101
Amber. (Illustration) Oliver Cummings Farrington, 125
Argynis, A New, (Illustration) Wilmatte Porter Cockerell, 83
Autumn, The, (Poem) Grace Wickham Curran, 132

B
Bat, My, Martha R. Fitch, 181
Billie Came Back, When, (The Story of a Flicker) Rowland Watts,
185
Bird and the Mouse, The, Katharine Pope, 68
Bird Life, Tragedy in, George Klingle, 161
Bird of Peace, The, Belle Paxson Drury, 109
Bird of Superstition, The, Belle Paxson Drury, 91
Bird Tenants, Building for, Lee McCrae, 152
Bird, The Celestial, Belle Paxson Drury, 164
Bird Wonders, Some, L. Philo Venen, 168
Birdland, A Bit of Fiction From, Sara Elizabeth Graves, 12
Birds, Character in, Louise Claude, 113
Birds, Incidents About, E. E. Lockwood, 198
Birds of Promise. Alberta Field, 220
Birds, To the, (Poem) Henry Johnstone, 5
Bread, Peculiar Mexican, Louise Jamison, 121
Brook, The, (Poem) Alfred Tennyson, 144
Butterfly. (Poem) C. V. Riley, 182
Butterfly. (Poem) M. D. Tolman, 38
Butterfly, The Leaf, (Illustration), 114