r of the Moon and like the human soul expanding at
the touch of the beloved, the lily opens out her heart at the touch of
the moon beam, and keeps watch all night long; she shrinks affrighted by
the rude touch of the Sun, and closes her petals during the day. The
outer floral leaves of the lily are green, and in the day time the
closed flowers are hardly distinguishable from the broad green leaves
which float on the water. The scene is transformed in the evening as if
by magic, and myriads of glistening white flowers cover the dark water.

"The recurrent daily phenomenon has not only been observed by the poets,
but an explanation offered for it. It is the moonlight then that causes
the opening of the lily, and the sunlight the movement of closure. Had
the poet taken out a lantern in a dark night; he would have noticed that
the lily opened at night in total absence of the moon; but a poet is not
expected to carry a lantern and peep out in the dark; that inordinate
curiosity is characteristic only of the man of science. Again the lily
does not close with the appearance of the sun; for the flower often
remains awake up to eleven in the forenoon. A French dictionary maker
saw Cuvier, the Zoologist about the definition of the crab as 'a little
red fish which walks backwards.' 'Admirable,' said Cuvier. 'But the crab
is not necessarily little, nor is it red till boiled; it is not a fish,
and it cannot walk backwards. But with these exceptions your definition
is perfect.' And so also with the poet's description of the movement of
the lily, which does not open to moonlight, nor yet close to the sun."

THE 'SLEEP' AND 'WAKING' OF JHINGA FLOWER

The waking and sleeping of the water lily is by no means an isolated
instance. My attention was first drawn to another remarkable floral
display by the folk song which begins with:

"Our day of work is over
Like life's span, but an hour!
For now behold the gold-starred fields
Of opening 'Jhinga' flowers!"

Since then I witness every afternoon a glorious transformation in my
experimental garden at Sijbaria on the Ganges. The gardener has planted
a large field with Jhinga (Luffa acutangula). The flowers when closed at
day time are very inconspicuous, the lowest whorl of the sepals being
dull green: in my afternoon walk I can hardly recognise the old familiar
field, which is now covered with masses of flower in their golden glory.
Here also the flowers remain open t