Chapter VI: Part 6

1.--A soldier of the _Legion_.--2. Pitying glances.--3. Take a
_token_.--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. _Soft_ moon.

LXXVI.--CANADIAN TREES.

JAMES BROWN, LL.D.

_SECOND READING.--HARD WOODS._

Let us now briefly describe the principal varieties of our Canadian trees which lose their leaves every autumn, and are therefore called _Deciduous 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 called _winged_. 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 the _White_ and the _Black_ Ash, are found upwards of 100 feet in height, with diameters, close to the ground, of three to four feet through. The timber is 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 called _nuts_, 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 called _nuts_, and may be used as food.

The Hornbeam (or _Ironwood_, 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 same appearance 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 called _nuts_, and each is enclosed in a peculiar leafy substance, called by botanists a _perianth_.

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, the _Black Walnut_, _Butternut_, _Pecan Nut_, _Hickory_, _Bitter Nut_, and _Hog 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 of _Cotton-wood_, or _Button-wood_, and is also familiar as the _Sycamore_. 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 grown from 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 the _White_, 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 the _Tall Birch_ and the _Paper Birch_ are the most important and best known. Both species are of graceful habit and foliage. The _Paper Birch_ is 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 the _Canoe 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 in _catkins_, 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 with its 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: the _Broad-leaved_, the _Downy-leaved_, the _Thin-leaved_, and the _Variable-leaved_. This tree is more generally known to Canadians by the name of _Basswood_. 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.

LXXVII.--BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

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 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.

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 on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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.

_Phrase Exercise._

1. We buried him _darkly_.--2. At dead of night.--3. Misty
light.--4. _Useless_ coffin.--5. _Martial_ cloak.--6.
_Bitterly_ thought.--7. _Lightly_ they’ll talk.--8. Little
he’ll _reck_.--9. _Random_ gun.--10. _Sullenly_ firing.--11.
Field of his fame.

LXXVIII.--THE GOLDEN TOUCH.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

_FIRST READING._

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 because it 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 the one 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 to imagine 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 the precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.

LXXIX.--THE ROAD TO THE TRENCHES.

LUSHINGTON.

“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.

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.

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!

LXXX.--THE ROOT.

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 the _radicle_, 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, inhaling the 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 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, and the root will bury itself in the ground.

LXXXI.--THE WATER FOWL.

BRYANT.

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 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 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 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.

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 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.

_Phrase Exercise._

1. _Glow_ the heavens.--2. The last steps of day.--3. Rosy
depths.--4. Pursue thy solitary way.--5. Might _mark_ thy
_distant flight_.--6. Darkly painted.--7. Plashy brink.--8.
_Marge_ of river.--9. Rocking billows.--10. _Chafed_
side.--11. Pathless coast.--12. The _desert_ and _illimitable_
air.--13. Lone wandering.--14. Thy wings have _fanned the
atmosphere_.--15. _Welcome_ land.--16. _Sheltered_ nest.--17.
The _abyss_ of heaven.--18. _Boundless_ sky.--19. Certain
flight.

LXXXII.--SHAPES OF LEAVES.

GUSTAVUS FRANKENSTEIN.

_FIRST READING._

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. We can 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.

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.

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 the nature of the plant. “A tree is known by its fruit.”

LXXXIII.--THE BROOK.

TENNYSON.

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 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.

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 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,

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 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-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

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 stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

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.

LXXXIV.--SHAPES OF LEAVES.

GUSTAVUS FRANKENSTEIN.

_SECOND READING._

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 of the 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.

Still more widely divided than oak leaves, are such as are called pinnate, in which the separated parts are actually distinct leaflets, some even provided with stalks. Such compound leaves may be seen in almost every garden by looking at a rose-bush. In the cut, we see what appears to be five distinct leaves attached to one twig; but the fact is that they are only leaflets, and, together with the stalk which bears them all, constitute but one complete leaf. Each of these leaflets has a short stalk, connecting it with the main stem, which passes between the pairs, and has an odd leaflet at the end. A rose-bush may have leaves of seven or nine leaflets.

Among our forest trees, hickory, walnut, butternut, locust, and ash have pinnate leaves; and on the honey-locust not only are the leaves pinnate, but on the same tree, may also be found leaves doubly pinnate, and even tripinnate. Compound leaves may be seen also in the pea-vine, which is simply pinnate; but here the place of the absent terminal leaflet is supplied by a tendril.

But if we examine a bean-plant, we do find an odd leaf, together with a pair of leaflets; that is, each leaf is composed of three leaflets. The many varieties of bean-plants are all thus three-leaved. Besides, the woods are full of three-leaved plants, belonging to other kinds of the bean or pulse order of plants. In addition to these and some others, we must not overlook a most extraordinary three-leaved plant, plentiful in almost every forest, and on almost every stone-fence in the country; only too well known by persons who have been poisoned by it, and yet not so well known by most people as it ought to be, for it is often confounded with a plant having digitate leaves.

Here, side by side, the forms of the two leaves can be compared. On the right is the digitate leaf of the beautiful Virginia creeper, entirely harmless; on the left is the pinnate leaf of the poison-vine. The innocent plant is _five_-leaved; the noxious plant is _three_-leaved. But we should also notice particularly that the arrangement of the leaflets is quite different in the two plants. In the poison-vine, we see a pair of leaflets and a terminal odd one; whereas in the Virginia creeper, there is no pairing of leaflets whatever, but the five parts radiate from a centre. All the leaflets come out together from one point at the tip of the leaf-stalk.

Plants there are with digitate leaves, having three, five, seven, nine, or more leaflets. Clover has digitate leaves of three leaflets, while the leaves of the buck-eye and horse-chestnut have five, seven, and nine leaflets. The pretty little wood-sorrel plant of small yellow flowers, has three most beautiful, inverted, heart-shaped leaflets, radiating from the tip of the little leaf-stalk.

In leaves like those of the maple we see the main veins radiating from a point at the top of the stalk. Such leaves are therefore much like the digitate kind, only they are not completely divided into separate leaflets.

Sassafras leaves offer forms something different. On the same tree may be seen oval, two-lobed, and three-lobed leaves. Thus on one and the same plant, we see leaves strikingly different in form; yet the texture, the color, and the veining are exactly after the same pattern in them all, so that a sassafras leaf, whether oval or cleft, can at once be easily known.

Recalling to mind the leaf of the apple, buckwheat, morning-glory, oak, rose, Virginia creeper, maple, and sassafras, we have pretty good models after which nearly all leaves are built, approximating to one or other of these, with certain variations peculiar to the species.

Another important matter regarding the leaves of plants, is their relative position on the stems. There are two principal and very marked arrangements of leaves. Leaves are either opposite one another on the stem, or they are alternate or not opposite. There are whole orders of plants with none but opposite leaves, as the mint family. In other orders, the leaves of every plant are alternate. And again, in some orders, and even on the same plants, are found both opposite and alternate leaves, as in the composite or sunflower family; and a single wild sunflower plant itself has opposite leaves below, and alternate leaves above.

Of our forest trees, there are very few species with opposite leaves. If you see that the branches and leaves of a tree do not stand one opposite another on the stem, you can at once be sure that it is not an ash, a maple, or a buck-eye, because all these trees do have opposite leaves. On the other hand, there are many trees having alternate branches and leaves, such as the oak, chestnut, elm, hickory, walnut, butternut, tulip-tree, alder, beech, birch, poplar, willow, mulberry, linden, locust, and others.

LXXXV.--THE BURIAL OF MOSES

MRS. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

By Nebo’s lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan’s wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave.
And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e’er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth;--
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes when the night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek
Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves:
So, without sound of music,
Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain’s crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-peor’s height,
Out of his lonely eyrie
Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking,
Still shuns that hallowed spot;
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum,
Follow his funeral car;
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land,
We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth’s philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage,
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor,--
The hill-side for his pall;
To lie in state, while angels wait,
With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier to wave;
And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave;--

In that strange grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again--O wondrous thought!--
Before the Judgment-day,
And stand with glory wrapped around
On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the Incarnate Son of God?

O lonely grave in Moab’s land!
O dark Beth-peor’s hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,--
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep,
Of him He loved so well!

LXXXVI.--THE GOLDEN TOUCH.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

_SECOND READING._

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. But when the earliest sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head, it seemed to him that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! The Golden Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!

Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room, grasping at every thing that happened to be in his way. He seized one of the bedposts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He pulled aside a window-curtain in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing, and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,--a mass of gold. He took up a book from the table; at his first touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets with now-a-days; but on running his fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible.

He hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which little Marygold had hemmed for him; that was likewise gold, with the dear child’s neat and pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread!

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King Midas. He would rather that his little daughter’s handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand.

But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas took his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days, spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings; else, how could Midas have had any? To his great perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly see through them. But this was the most natural thing in the world; for, on taking them off, the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as gold. It struck Midas as rather inconvenient, that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.

“It is no great matter, nevertheless,” said he to himself, Very philosophically. “We can not expect any great good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles at least, if not of one’s very eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me.” Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went down stairs, and smiled on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in his descent. He lifted the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet soothing, did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most untiringly; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.

What was usually a king’s breakfast in the days of Midas, I really do not know, and can not stop now to investigate. To the best of my knowledge, however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold.

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her to be called, and seating himself at table, awaited the child’s coming, in order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a great while before he heard her coming along the passage, crying bitterly. This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the most cheerful little people whom you would see in a summer’s day, and hardly shed a tear in a twelvemonth.

When Midas heard her sobs, he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his daughter’s bowl (which was a china one, with pretty figures all around it), and changed it into gleaming gold.

Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and sadly opened the door, and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would break.

“How now, my little lady!” cried Midas. “Pray, what is the matter with you, this bright morning?”

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently changed into gold.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed her father. “And what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?”

“Ah, dear father!” answered the child, between her sobs, “it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as I was dressed, I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because I know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter. But oh, dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such a sad thing! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly, and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellowy as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?”

“Pooh, my dear little girl,--pray don’t cry about it!” said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. “Sit down, and eat your bread and milk. You will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds of years), for an ordinary one which would wither in a day.”

“I don’t care for such roses as this!” cried Marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. “It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!”

The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful change in her china bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures and strange trees and houses that were painted on the outside of the bowl; and those ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee; and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself that it was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and golden coffee-pots.

Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump!

“Ha!” exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.

“What is the matter, father?” asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes.

“Nothing, child, nothing!” said Midas. “Take your milk before it gets quite cold.”

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was immediately changed from a brook-trout into a gold fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal.

“I don’t quite see,” thought he to himself, “how I am to get any breakfast!”

He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when, to his cruel mortification, though a moment before, it had been of the whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. Its solidity and increased weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to that of the trout and the cake.

“Well, this is terrible!” thought he, leaning back in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread and milk with great satisfaction. “Such a costly breakfast before me, and nothing that can be eaten!”

Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the room, both with pain and affright.

“Father, dear father!” cried little Marygold, who was a very affectionate child, “pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your mouth?”

“Ah, dear child,” groaned Midas, dolefully, “I don’t know what is to become of your poor father!”

* * * * *

_Oh, many a shaft at random sent,_
_Finds mark, the archer little meant!_
_And many a word at random spoken,_
_May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s broken._

--_Sir Walter Scott._

LXXXVII.--THE MAY QUEEN.

TENNYSON.

_FIRST READING._