; there are more
flowers. Over by the wire fence the tick-trefoil, desmodium, is in its
glory. Its lower petal stands out like a doorstep, and on it the
humble-bee alights. Two little yellow spots, bordered with deep red,
show him where lies the nectar. Here he thrusts his head, forcing open
the wing petals from the standard. Instantly the keel snaps down as if
a steel spring had been released. The bee is dusted with pollen, which
he carries with him to fertilize another flower. How did the flower
learn to fashion that mechanism, to construct those highly colored
nectar-guides? How many centuries of accumulated intelligence or
instinct,--call it what the scientists please,--are there behind that
action of the bee, thrusting his head just where those nectar-guides
are placed? Is the bee more sentient than the flower? Or, is the
flower which provided the nectar and placed the nectar-guides just at
the right place on the bright blossoms, as special allurements for the
senses of the bee, the more to be admired for its intelligence? One by
one the bee opens the flowers, which were so fresh and beautiful at
sunrise. When he goes to his nest in the grass at evening, they will
all have been drained of their nectar, and the petals will be wilted
by the sun. But they have achieved their object, the ovules have been
fertilized. Tomorrow morning there will be many bright, new blossoms,
their nectar crying to the bees, like the voice in Omar Khayyam's
tavern to those outside the door:

_"When all the temple is prepared within,
Why lags the drowsy worshiper outside?"_

Now there comes sidling, gliding along the barbed wire fence, the
Baltimore oriole, always a charming fellow because of his flaming
plumage, which has won for him the name of the golden robin
and firebird. He walks along the wire fence in a gliding,
one-leg-at-a-time fashion, as he often does on the twig of a tree. His
head is down, he is on the lookout for caterpillars. Now he reaches
the tick-trefoil, and nips out some stamens from its purple blossoms,
which he eats with relish.

* * * * *

The work of the year will soon be done. Most of the trees have
completed the growth for the year and nothing remains but to complete
the filling of the buds which already have formed for next year. Pull
down a twig of the white-oak and you find a cluster of terminal buds
at the end, marking the close of this year's growth, each of them