Part 14

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._

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

There’s many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline: But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,-- But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be: They say his heart is breaking, mother--what is that to me? There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen: For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

LXXXVIII.--THE FLOWER.

Why comes the flower upon the plant? That fruit may come. And why the fruit? That it may hold, protect, and cherish the seed. And why the seed? That the plant may have offspring--that other plants may grow up and be as near like itself as one living thing can well be like another.

The flower is the beginning of the seed, the first step toward reproduction, and the fruit is the flower completed. If it does throw aside its floral ornaments,--its petals or other adorning or useful parts of its blooming period,--it still retains the maturing seed and ends in the ripened fruit.

Look inside of almost any flower and you will see embosomed in its petals the thread-like organs called stamens with little yellow knobs at their ends. Shake them; if they are ripe, they will give up the fine dust or pollen, so light that the breeze will blow it away.

Some flowers have few stamens, some have many, and of the latter the apple and cherry blossoms afford examples. Most of the different grasses have three stamens to each of their little flowers. For example, a head of timothy-grass has a long thick bunch of flowers, crowded together at the top of the slender stem. Early in the summer, about June, you may see the little stamens peeping out all around, three of them together, and their little golden knobs dangling in the breeze. Some plants have only two stamens on a flower, and there is a water plant, called the mare’s-tail, with only one stamen. A few flowers, indeed, are wholly destitute of this organ.

Besides the stamens, there are also in most flowers, other threads, stems, or knobs, somewhat like the stamens, but generally of a different color. These pistils, as they are called, have their place in the centre of the flower, whilst the stamens stand around them. Unlike the stamens, the pistils have no pollen; but it is on the latter that the pollen must fall, in order that the plant may bear seed. It is in the bottom of the pistils, that the seeds grow, but there will be no seed, unless the dust or pollen from the stamens, falls on the pistils.

Most plants bear flowers that have both stamens and pistils. Such flowers are called _perfect_ flowers. But there are also plants that have two kinds of flowers, in some of which are stamens only, and in the others pistils only. Again, there are plants, some of which have flowers with stamens only, and others of which have flowers with pistils only. The willow-trees are such plants.

Of the five senses, flowers address themselves most feelingly to two. In delighting the sense of smell they stand pre-eminent--almost alone. Does true fragrance ever come from anything but a plant? and are not flowers especially the generous dispensers of grateful odors? And to the eye what wealth of beauty do they unfold!

We need think of no more than the lily, the pink, and the rose. Was _anything_ ever arrayed like one of these? When we look upon them they fill the heart with joy. We smell of them, and exclaim that their fragrance exceeds even their beauty. Again we look upon them, and now we aver that their beauty surpasses their perfume.

_Word Exercise._

pĕt´als slĕn´der cher´ish dangling (_dang´gling_) pŏl´len re-tains´ ar-rayed´ pĭs´tils stā´mens blos´soms ma-tūr´ing per´fume ad-drĕss´ a-dorn´ing frā´grance

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Floral ornaments.--2. Blooming period.--3. Afford examples.--4. Golden knobs.--5. Wholly destitute.--6. _Perfect_ flowers.--7. They stand pre-eminent.--8. True fragrance.--9. Generous dispensers.--10. Grateful odors.

LXXXIX.--THE MAY QUEEN.--NEW YEAR’S EVE.

TENNYSON.

_SECOND READING._

If you’re waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again: I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook ’ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow ’ill come back again with summer o’er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now; You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.