Part 13

“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.