ainst the
stigma. The effect of this inward pressure, as will be seen, only serves
to force the anther more firmly within its pocket; but as the insect,
having drained the nectar, now backs out, note the result. The lip of
the anther catches upon the back, swings outward on its hinge, and
deposits its sticky pollen all over the insect's back, returning to its
original position after his departure. In another moment he is seen upon
another blossom, as at D again, his pollen-laden back now coming in
contact with the stigma, and the intention of the blossom is
accomplished; for without this assistance from the insect the little
lid remains close within its pocket, and the pollen is thus retained.

[Illustration: Fig. 15]

What startling disclosures are revealed to the inward eye within the
hearts of all these strange orchidaceous flowers! Blossoms whose
functions, through long eras of adaptation, have gradually shaped
themselves to the forms of certain chosen insect sponsors; blossoms
whose chalices are literally fashioned to bees or butterflies; blossoms
whose slender, prolonged nectaries invite and reward the murmuring
sphinx-moth alone, the floral throat closely embracing his head while it
attaches its pollen masses to the bulging eyes, or perchance to the
capillary tongue! And thus in endless modifications, evidences all of
the same deep vital purpose.

Let us then content ourselves no longer with being mere
"botanists"--historians of structural facts. The flowers are not mere
comely or curious vegetable creations, with colors, odors, petals,
stamens, and innumerable technical attributes. The wonted insight alike
of scientist, philosopher, theologian, and dreamer is now repudiated in
the new revelation. Beauty is not "its own excuse for being," nor was
fragrance ever "wasted on the desert air." The seer has at last heard
and interpreted the voice in the wilderness. The flower is no longer a
simple passive victim in the busy bee's sweet pillage, but rather a
conscious being, with hopes, aspirations, and companionships. The insect
is its counterpart. Its fragrance is but a perfumed whisper of welcome,
its color is as the wooing blush and rosy lip, its portals are decked
for his coming, and its sweet hospitalities humored to his tarrying; and
as it finally speeds its parting affinity rests content that its life's
consummation has been fulfilled.

_A HONEY-DEW PICNIC_

[Illustration]

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