always been a subject of wonder. Checked in
their course, they exert mechanical power,
splitting rocks and demolishing masonry. Roots
are the great destroyers of Indian ruins. A
seedling inserts the small end of the wedge;
and, in a few years, massive walls are rent
asunder. They will follow a run of water for
extraordinary distances; they will monopolise
the whole cavity of a drain-pipe. They will
worm out the soil that suits them best, according
as it is wet or dry, light or heavy, sandy
or stony. Verily, the selections made by roots
manifest the presence of a vital instinct.

Duhamel, a botanist of the last century,
relates that, wishing to preserve a field from being
exhausted by the roots of an alley of bordering
elms, he cut a ditch to intercept the roots. But
he found that the roots which escaped the
operation descended the slope, burrowed under
the bottom of the ditch, and then spread
themselves over the field afresh. The Swiss
naturalist, Bonnet, went so far as to say that
it is sometimes difficult to point out the difference
between a cat and a rose-bush. They are
alike—at least in their fondness for bones.

The fundamental property of roots is to strike
into the soil persistently downwards. They seem
to fly from the light of day. The tendency is
apparent the moment a germinating seed
protrudes its radicle. This is so inherent in the
life of every vegetable, that if we try to thwart
it—if, for instance, we turn a germinating seed
topsy-turvy—the root and the stem will
spontaneously change their direction, the one
tending downward, the other upward.

What is the cause of all roots thus seeking
the centre of the earth? Nobody knows.
The force of gravity has had the credit of
it; but that force has no sensible influence
on bodies reposing in a solid bed like earth.
Our great horticulturist, Knight, tried to fathom
the secret; but his experiment, to us, is
anything but conclusive. He caused kidney beans
to sprout, after fastening them to the
circumference of a vertical wheel, which was kept
continually revolving. He then found that the
rootlets were directed outwards, while the
young stems tended to the circumference of
the wheel, and attributed the circumstance,
without doubt rightly, to the action of centrifugal
force, assuming, questionably, that the
plants had mistaken that force for gravity. But
it is evident that the more rapid the revolution
of the wheel, the more the position of anything
attached to it would be due to mere violence.
Plants not broken by a hurricane bend their
stems, although their natural position is to
stand upright. This, and Dutrochet's subsequent
experiment with a horizontal wheel, leave
our knowledge much as it was before. All we
can do is to admit, as Figuier's translator,
W. S. O., has well rendered it, "that all is not
mechanical in this tendency of roots to bury
themselves in the earth. There exists beyond
any doubt a real organic faculty belonging to the
living plant."

If the root is the beginning and the means,
the fruit is the consummation and the end.
Flowers, and sometimes leaves, have only an
ephemeral existence. After the fruit is set,
they disappear. Their withered and discoloured
petals are scattered on the ground or swept
away by the winds. In many cases, the plant
itself has lost none of its attractions by changing
its ornaments. An apple-tree in blossom is a
lovely sight in spring; an orchard laden with
brilliant fruit is a glorious spectacle in autumn.
The modest, unobtrusive flowers of the vine
charm us by their mignonette-like perfume; the
vineyard, with its purple clusters, deliciously
allays our thirst and cheers our hearts with
anticipated pleasures. Mowers awake a
sentiment of joy and delight: fruits are a pledge of
wealth and plenty.

The excess of fruits produced beyond those
required for the reproduction of the species, is
a proof of the Great Creator's bounty. Fruit
affords inexhaustible supplies of food to all His
creatures. It would suffice to perpetuate a
tree, which lived on an average for a thousand
years, if a single seed were produced once in
a thousand years, supposing that this seed
were never destroyed and could be ensured
to germinate in a fitting place. But Linnæus
has calculated that if an annual plant produced
only two seeds—and there is no plant so
unproductive as this—and their seedlings next year
produced two, and so on, then in twenty years
there would be a million plants. Compare the
results of this scanty and underrated increase
with the actual yield of our harvests, and it
will be evident what an inexhaustible store our
Father has provided for us in the produce of
the earth.

Nor is it the fruits themselves alone that are
nutritive; they often yield, in this respect, to
their appendages. We are in the habit of
styling "fruit-trees" those only which bear
fleshy fruit. Others besides the apricot, the
apple, and the peach, have a perfectly
legitimate right to that title. All plants, in fact,
bear fruit, although many are propagated by
other means than by their fruit.

In some fruits, the parts we like best, and for
which we value it, is not the fruit at all. What
constitutes the strawberry? Is it the fleshy,
succulent portion, essentially constituting it,
which is the fruit? Certainly not. The true
fruits of the strawberry—and they are very
numerous—are the little brownish, dry, insipid
grains, crunching between the teeth, which
remain at the bottom of your plate, mixed with
small dark threads, when you mash up
strawberries with wine. Sow them in a pan, in
light soil, and they will give you multitudes of
little strawberry plants. It is thus that new
varieties are obtained. The little brownish
grains are seeds, hard-named achænia because
they do not open [W. S. 0. properly gives the
explanation and etymology of these learned
words]; the small dark threads are the styles of
the withered flower. What we eat, then, in
the strawberry is the receptacle, which, as it
grows, gradually fills with juice. It increases