Part 3

Hairs.--One of the most common obstacles to ants is a barrier of hair. For some reason, ants dislike to cross such a barrier. Travellers in tropical countries, where ants abound, tell us that a hair rope laid around a tent is a very effective barrier against the invasion of armies of ants. Hair is very commonly found upon plants, and it may be noticed that it is apt to increase in amount and prominence towards or within the flower cluster. Sometimes the flowers themselves are hairy outside, and in the case of the trailing arbutus, whose flowers close to the ground are in special danger from creeping insects, the flowers are filled with a fluffy mass of hairs. In our illustrations, the wild columbine, the Oswego tea, the sunflower, and the ox-eye daisy are all hairy plants, and difficult for ants to climb. In the September number are illustrations of the mallow, the lady's slipper, and the New England aster, all of which are hairy and discouraging to ants.

An interesting fact in connection with the wild columbine may be noted. The nectar is deposited in the knob-like bottom of the long tubular spurs, and the entrance is so carefully guarded that only a long and slender proboscis, like that of a moth or a butterfly can reach the nectar. The bumblebees, however, have learned this fact, and bite through the tips of the spurs and steal the nectar. As a consequence, the wild columbine is said to be little visited by the proboscis-bearing insects, and its pollination is seriously interfered with.

Sticky excretions.--Some plants have the power of excreting upon their surface a sticky substance like mucilage. This mucilage may be produced by hairs, which are then called "glandular hairs," or it may appear directly on the surface of the plant. When ants or other insects try to cross such a barrier they are not merely stopped but caught. Upon "glandular" plants it is very common to see small insects stuck fast, and it is more than probable that the nourishing material of their bodies is digested and absorbed by the plant. In this way the plant not merely stops the insect, but catches and devours it.

A very common illustration of such a plant is the "catchfly," whose name suggests its power. The joints of its stem are long, and near the upper end of each joint is a band of mucilage. This series of sticky bands forms a very effective barrier to any insect trying to crawl up the stem.

Isolation.--In some cases plants or their flowers are isolated from creeping insects by water, which forms a most efficient barrier. This has been demonstrated by housekeepers, who in the days of "safes" were accustomed to set the legs of the safe in cans of water to ward off the invasion of ants. Of course, plants standing in the water are well isolated, and usually show no further device for warding off creeping insects. There is an interesting fact connected with one of our water smartweeds, which has to do with our subject. Ordinarily it stands in shallow water, and is perfectly smooth; but when occasionally the water dries up the plant becomes hairy. That this has anything to do with the danger from creeping insects is unlikely, but the hairy covering certainly appears at a very opportune time.

The teasel was once extensively cultivated as a fuller's plant, and one or two species of it have become common as wild plants, their dense and prickly flowering spikes looking like swabs for cleaning lamp chimneys. The plant is tall and coarse, and is peculiar in that its large opposite leaves unite by their bases about the stem to form a cup. In this way a series of cups is developed on the stem, and in each cup there is water. When a creeping insect crawls over the edge of the cup he sees the stem rising from a pool of water which must be crossed. As there is a series of such pools it is very unlikely that any such insect reaches the showy cluster of flowers.

The so-called "travelers' tree" of the tropics is a teasel upon a larger scale. The enormous flower cluster is at the top of the plant, and between it and the ground is a series of very large water-containing cups formed by the leaves. The popular name has been given by travelers who have been represented as reaching a cup with a spear and piercing it, thus obtaining a supply of water. The story is very doubtful, and the water, usually full of the macerating bodies of insects, is still more doubtful.

Latex.--By this term is meant the milky juice which some plants possess. When such a plant is punctured or torn the latex flows out, and as soon as it is exposed to the air it becomes more and more sticky until it hardens. It is from the latex of certain trees that India rubber is obtained, but it may be observed in many plants, notably the milkweeds, which have received their popular name on account of it.

The milkweed may be used to illustrate how latex may be of service in warding off creeping insects. In many cases the plant is entirely smooth, and the stems of the flower cluster are even slippery. When an ant reaches these slippery surfaces it clutches for a hold and its sharp claws pierce the tender skin of the plant. Immediately a drop of latex oozes out and becomes sticky, and when the ant seeks to lift its feet there is resistance, and in the struggle the claws clutch deeper, more latex oozes out and becomes more and more sticky, until finally the insect is stuck fast. The flower clusters of certain milkweeds are often found plentifully covered with small captured insects.

Protective shapes.--Many flowers secrete their nectar so that a creeping insect cannot reach it, but the suitable insect can. Illustrations are numerous, but the following will suffice.

The wild columbine, represented in one of our illustrations, secretes its nectar at the bottom of long tubular spurs, which can be traversed by slender probosces, but are impassable to creeping insects. Spurs are developed in many flowers, notably the orchids, and they are always associated with nectar secretion and the visits of proboscis-bearing insects.

In the Pentstemon, a plant whose flowers have two lips, as in the Oswego Tea in our illustration, but not so prominent, the nectar is secreted in a little pit. Across the mouth of this pit one of the stamens, modified for this purpose, is placed like a drop-bar, leaving but a thin crevice leading to the nectar pit. Through this crevice a thread-like proboscis may be thrust, but a creeping insect cannot pass.

In the snapdragon the two lips of the flower are tightly closed, the lower one decidedly projecting. Any small insect reaching this lower lip as a natural landing place finds no entrance. When the bumble-bee alights upon the lower lip, however, his weight depresses it and he forces his way in, and in passing to another flower effects pollination. It is interesting to note that after this first and important visit the lips remain open and other insects pass in freely, "being invited," as some one has said, "to eat at the second table."

In most of the orchids there is a very complete adaptation of the flower to its insect, by which almost every insect excepting one special kind obtains nothing for its visit. The nectar is usually in the end of a long spur, and to obtain it the head of the insect must just fit between two sticky buttons to which the pollen-masses are attached. The length of the spur is nicely adjusted to the length of the proboscis of the visiting insect, but his head must also be of a certain breadth. If an insect visits the flower with a proboscis too short or too long, or a head too broad or too narrow, its visit is unavailing. The danger of such narrow specialization is apparent in the case of the orchids, for each plant is so dependent upon a special insect that the disappearance of the latter seriously endangers the continued existence of the former.

Protective closure.--It has long been noticed that certain flowers open only in the evening, the evening primrose being a conspicuous example. These flowers are adapted to the visits of the night-fliers, the moths, and about clusters of evening primroses numerous large hawk-moths may be seen after sunset. During the day the flowers are closed and safe from the visits of any insect, but by opening in the evening they are not only ready for the visits of the night-fliers, but they avoid the visits of most creeping insects, notably the ants, who are not abroad after "the dew falls."

Protection against grazing animals.--Although we are considering the ways by which creeping insects are checked in their efforts to visit flowers, it seems pertinent to mention the more universal danger which comes from grazing animals. If flowers were as attractive to grazing animals as they are to insects they would be in danger of wholesale destruction. It can be observed, however, that these animals as a rule avoid the flowers of a plant, although they may strip off its leaves. It is believed that this avoidance is due to the fact that in or about the flower cluster there are usually secreted bitter, sour, or nauseous substances, which grazing animals have learned to avoid. It should not be imagined that these substances are there for that purpose, but being there the result is that the flowers are avoided. It is unknown how generally true this is, and the effectiveness of this method of protection may have been exaggerated. Those who can observe cattle, however, are in a position to test them with the flowers of the various plants they are known to eat, and determine how far they avoid them.

In conclusion, it may be of interest to call attention to the great complexity of relations existing among plants and animals by repeating Darwin's famous illustration known as "Cats and Clover." In a certain district in England he observed that the clover was pollinated by the bumblebees, which had their nests in the fields. It followed, therefore, that the more the bumblebees, the more the clover. He also observed that the field mice preyed upon the young broods of the bumblebees, and, therefore, the more the field mice, the fewer the bumblebees and the less the clover. When cats were plenty and preyed upon the field mice it followed that the more the cats, the fewer the mice, the more the bumblebees, and the more the clover. Therefore, the crop of clover depended upon the presence of cats in the neighborhood. John Merle Coulter.

HOW WE MAY BEST PAY THE DEBT.

In the last number of Birds and Nature we saw that the debt we owe the birds is by no means a small one, but is really greater than we can hope ever to fully repay. It is a debt of gratitude for the good work the birds do in keeping checked the increase of insect life which would surely become a great pest if very numerous; it is a debt of money value for the fruits and grains and other products of the earth which the birds make possible by eating the insects which eat the plants; it is a debt of love for the pleasure and inspiration which they bring with each returning springtide, for the courage which their cheerful endurance of all sorts of bad weather inspires. There is one best way to pay the debt, and that way is to take such a lively interest in the birds that we shall want to know all about their lives and as much as we can learn about the language they speak and the thoughts they have. When we have such an interest in them we shall not want to kill them, but we shall do what we can to make them love us and trust us so they will no longer want to fly away when we come near them.

We shall be paying the debt we owe to the birds when we try to make friends with them, for there is nothing greater or better than true friendship, nothing that counts for more where friends are so greatly needed. Our first effort at making friends with the birds is usually to give them something to eat, forgetting or not knowing that what is best for us may not be good for them. After we have watched them getting their own meals we shall know what each bird likes best, and then, instead of frightening them away with food that they cannot eat, we shall draw them to us by offering them what they like best.

We may think that we shall be able to learn all about the birds if we can get them into a cage and study them there. But birds are not free to do what they want to do when they are caged up, and there are many interesting things about them that we shall never know if we study only the caged ones. What we want to know is the bird just as he is as a free bird in the fields and woods. We shall not be paying much of the debt if we cage him up even to study his habits.

What we need the most is the most valuable to us. What the birds need most is a place where they can live and raise their young with the least danger. All birds are surrounded by their natural enemies, which are sure to kill a great many of them, but with the addition of cats, rats and human beings intent upon killing them they seem to have a poor chance of life. Then if we can provide a place or places where these enemies will be less sure to get them and their eggs or young, we shall be paying the debt we owe in the greatest measure possible. Can we provide any such safe retreats? I think we can. Your own door yard may be made such a retreat. Banish all cats and dogs who love bird flesh. See to it that stray cats and dogs are in danger of their lives on your lawn or in your yard. Let every boy know that the birds on your premises must not be disturbed in any way. Instead of carefully trimming out all the tangles of the vines and branches remember that such places are where the birds delight to build their nests. Put up bird boxes and houses for the martins, wrens, swallows and bluebirds and keep the English sparrows out of them. Make it easy for the birds while they are feeding their young. In short, give the birds which prefer your yard a little attention and you will soon be on friendly terms with them and they will many times repay any trouble you may put yourself to for their sakes. Any study of the birds is not wasted time, but time profitably spent. Lynds Jones.

A FEW OF THE BIRD FAMILY.

The old bob white, and chipbird; The flicker and chee-wink, And little hopty-skip bird Along the river brink.

The blackbird and snowbird, The chicken-hawk and crane; The glossy old black crow-bird, And buzzard, down the lane.

The yellowbird and redbird, The tom-tit and the cat; The thrush and that redhead bird The rest's all pickin' at!

The jay-bird and the bluebird, The sap-suck and the wren-- The cockadoodle-doo bird, And our old settin' hen! James Whitcomb Riley.

THE DOMESTIC FOWL.

The writers of antiquity used the term fowl to include all the members of the bird tribe and, in some cases, the young of other animals. Feathered creatures, no matter what their habits, were not called birds, neither were they separated into classes other than the "Fowls of the Air," "Fowls of the Sea," "Fowls of the Earth," and similar descriptive divisions.

In the seventeenth and the earlier part of the eighteenth century, the word fowl was applied to any large feathered animal and the term bird to those of less size. In early times the word bird was used in the sense of brood and included the young of all animals. In an early act of the Parliament of Scotland we find the expression "Wolf-birdis," referring to the very young wolf.

At the present time the term fowl in its wider sense is generally used to include all the forms of farm poultry, both when living and when prepared for food. More specifically it is applied to the domestic cock and hen, or, as they are more familiarly called, chickens (Gallus domesticus). The word chicken appropriately belongs to the common fowl when under one year of age, yet it is used to indicate those of any breed and of any age between birth and maturity. In this connection it is of interest to note that in the English language the common fowl has no distinctive name. The term hen, frequently used, should be applied only to the female of this and other domestic fowls.

The progenitor of the common fowl is generally conceded to be the Red Jungle Fowl (Gallus ferrugineus or bankiva), though there are three other wild species, all oriental. This species is a native of India, a part of China, the adjacent islands and the Philippines. Its habits are diversified, for we are told it may "be found in lofty forests and in the dense thickets, as well as in bamboo-jungles, and when cultivated land is near its haunts, it may be seen in the fields, after the crops are cut, in straggling parties of from ten to twenty."

This wild species closely resembles the breed of poultry fanciers called the "Black-breasted Game," but the crow of the wild cock is not as loud or prolonged as that of the tame one.

All the evidence that we possess seems to indicate that this wild fowl was first domesticated in Burmah. The Chinese, as indicated by tradition, received their poultry from Burmah as early as 1400 B. C. Records show that about 1200 or 800 B. C., as some authorities hold, the eating of the tame fowl was forbidden, though the use of the wild fowl as food was permitted.

It seems evident that the fowl reached Europe, after domestication, about the sixth century before the time of Christ. It continued westward, for Julius Caesar found it in Britain at the time of his conquests. Both the wild and the tame fowls are mentioned by the early Latin and Greek writers. Homer writing about 900 B. C. does not refer to the fowl, but it is mentioned by Aristophanes at a date near 500 B. C. It is of interest to know that the domesticated form is not mentioned in the Old Testament.

It is said that some of the pagan tribes living at the present time on the east coast of Africa have a marked aversion to the domestic fowl. This may account for the absence of any representation of the fowl on the ancient Egyptian monuments, though it was represented on the Babylonian cylinders about the sixth or seventh century before Christ. In this connection it should be mentioned that many other people, notably the natives of the islands adjacent to the Australian continent and some of the Indian tribes of South America, show a strong dislike to this domestic bird as a food.

By selection, both natural and by man, many breeds have been produced. Dr. Charles Darwin says: "Sufficient materials do not exist for tracing the history of the separate breeds. About the commencement of the Christian era, Columella mentions a five-toed fighting breed, and provincial breeds; but we know nothing about them. He also alludes to dwarf fowls; but these cannot have been the same with our Bantams, which were imported from Japan into Bantam in Java. A dwarf fowl, probably the true Bantam, is referred to in an old Japanese Encyclopedia, as I am informed. In the Chinese Encyclopedia published in 1596, but compiled from various sources, some of high antiquity, seven breeds are mentioned."

The number of breeds is very indefinite. Darwin enumerates thirteen, including many sub-breeds. The American Poultry Association recognizes more than thirty, with several varieties of some of them. The game or fighting breed more closely resembles the wild form of India than do any of the others.

The Japanese, so noted for their wonderful development of dwarfed trees, are also the originators of the smallest fowls--the Bantams. Another interesting breed is called "Jumpers" or "Creepers." Their legs are so short that they are compelled to move by jumping.

The wild hen lays from eight to twelve white eggs in nests, seldom of better construction than a few dried leaves or grass scratched together in a secluded spot. It is said that "to every hen belongs an individual peculiarity in the form, color, and size of her egg, which never changes during her life-time, so long as she remains in health, and which is as well known to those who are in the habit of taking her produce, as the hand-writing of their nearest acquaintance." We are told that the tame hen raises a brood of physically stronger offspring when allowed to select her own nesting place in some locality with natural surroundings.

The wild and the tame fowl alike eat a variety of foods, both animal and vegetable, but prefer the latter.

With reference to the habits and characteristics of this interesting domestic bird of our farm yards and orchards no words can describe them more aptly than those so delightfully written by Gail Hamilton, when she says:

"A chicken is beautiful and round and full of cunning ways, but he has no resources for an emergency. He will lose his reckoning and be quite out at sea, though only ten steps from home. He never knows enough to turn a corner. All his intelligence is like light, moving only in straight lines. He is impetuous and timid, and has not the smallest presence of mind or sagacity to discern between friend and foe. He has no confidence in any earthly power that does not reside in an old hen. Her cluck will be followed to the last ditch, and to nothing else will he give heed.

I am afraid that the Interpreter was putting almost too fine a point upon it, when he had Christiana and her children into another room where was a hen and chickens, and bid them observe awhile. So one of the chickens went to a trough to drink, and every time she drank she lifted up her head and her eyes toward heaven. 'See,' said he, 'what this little chick doth, and learn of her to acknowledge whence your mercies come, by receiving them with looking up.'

Doubtless the chick lifts her eyes toward heaven, but a close acquaintance with the race would put anything but acknowledgment in the act. A gratitude that thanks heaven for favors received, and then runs into a hole to prevent any other person from sharing the benefit of these favors, is a very questionable kind of gratitude, and certainly should be confined to the bipeds that wear feathers.

Yet if you take away selfishness from a chicken's moral make-up, and fatuity from his intellectual, you have a very charming creature left. For, apart from their excessive greed, chickens seem to be affectionate. They have sweet, social ways.

They huddle together with fond, caressing chatter, and chirp soft lullabies. Their toilet performances are full of interest. They trim each other's bills with great thoroughness and dexterity, much better, indeed, than they dress their own heads, for their bungling, awkward little claws make sad work of it.

It is as much as they can do to stand on two feet, and they naturally make several revolutions when they attempt to stand on one. Nothing can be more ludicrous than their early efforts to walk. They do not really walk. They sight their object, waver, balance, decide, and then tumble forward, stopping all in a heap as soon as the original impetus is lost--generally some way ahead of the place to which they wished to go.