ON ADAPTATION 
Where are those who, a century ago, said that 
railroads could never be? Where are the Tories 
of revolutionary times? And where are those 
barbers of ancient days with their cupping glasses 
and their lancets and their leeches? 
Ah, where are the pear trees of Eurasia that 
failed to fit into the scheme of adaptation—where 
are the geraniums that did not learn to advertise 
to the bee—and where are the desert cactus plants 
that could not protect themselves with thorns? 
On and on we go, one step backward some- 
times, then two steps forward—marking time 
awhile, then onward with a spurt—the pear tree, 
the geraniums, the cactus plants, and we—each 
individual among us a little different from the 
rest, each with a separate combination of old 
environment stored within us, finding always 
an infinity of new environment to bring it out; 
growing up together, the pear trees, the geraniums, 
the cactus plants and we, all of us depending on 
the others, and each of us playing his separate part 
in the forward march of adaptation. 
On and on we go, because of Infinite Variation. 
And so, from whatever viewpoint we approach 
the study of plants—whether with an eager eye 
to the future and the past, or whether with an 
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