it; where
all these are lacking, their absence is kept out of mind by raiment in
itself worthy to be admired. If dress artificial has told for much in
the history of human-kind, dress natural has told for yet more in the
lesser world of plant and insect life. In some degree the tiny folk that
reign in the air, like ourselves, are drawn by grace of form, by charm
of colour; of elaborate display of their attractions moths, butterflies
and beetles are just as fond as any belles of the ball-room. Now let us
bear in mind that of all the creatures that share the earth with man,
the one that stands next to him in intelligence is neither a biped nor
a quadruped, but that king of the insect tribe, the ant, which can be a
herdsman and warehouse-keeper, an engineer and builder, an explorer and
a general. With all his varied powers the ant lacks a peculiarity in his
costume which has denied him enlistment in a task of revolution in which
creatures far his inferiors have been able to change the face of the
earth. And the marvel of this peculiarity of garb which has meant so
much, is that it consists in no detail of graceful outline, or beauty of
tint, but solely in the minor matter of texture. The ant, warrior that
he is, wears smooth and shining armour; the bee, the moth and the
butterfly are clad in downy vesture, and simply because thus enabled to
catch dust on their clothes these insects, as weavers of the web of
life, have counted for immensely more than the ant with all his brains
and character. To understand the mighty train of consequences set in
motion by this mere shagginess of coat, let us remember that, like a
human babe, every flowering plant has two parents. These two parents,
though a county's breadth divide them, are wedded the instant that
pollen from the anther of one of them meets the stigma of the other.
Many flowers find their mates upon their own stem; but, as in the races
of animals, too close intermarriage is hurtful, and union with a distant
stock promotes both health and vigor. Hence the great gain which has
come to plants by engaging the wind as their matchmaker--as every
summer shows us in its pollen-laden air, the oaks, the pines, the
cottonwoods, and a host of other plants commit to the breeze the winged
atoms charged with the continuance of their kind. Nevertheless, long as
the wind has been employed at this work, it has not yet learned to do it
well; nearly all the pollen entrusted to it is wasted, and