September, 1909 
each half of the “trap” stand three delicate, almost invisible, 
spines. Should a fly alight upon a leaf, and so much as touch 
one of these, its doom is sealed. [he two jaws come to- 
gether with surprising rapidity, and the fly is a captive. So 
long as it struggles the trap remains closed, but when it is 
quite dead, and the leaf has sucked its juices, the trap slowly 
opens and is reset for another victim—although each leaf is 
capable of digesting at most only three insects. 
The Sarracenias of the Florida marshes represent another 
group of carnivorous plants. Their method is to drown their 
victims in pots of water, thus forming a kind of nitrogenous 
soup. The “‘pitchers,’’ as the strangely modified leaves are 
called, somewhat resemble graceful flowers; and doubtless 
this likeness is not a chance one, for, like flowers, these 
leaves exist to attract insects. he difference is that whereas 
true flowers send away their visitors with a present of honey 
and a load of yellow pollen grains to be carried to a distant 
bloom, the Sarracenia lures its victims down into the pitchers 
from which there is no escape. The murderous leaves trade, 
as it were, upon the perfectly legitimate trafic which has 
existed between flowers and insects from time immemorial. 
In the Old World the place of the Sarracenias is taken 
by the Nepenthes genus, whose leaves produce elaborate 
pitchers, often very beautifully colored. But in every case 
the method of capture is identical. The insect bustles in- 
nocently into what it takes to be a flower, little knowing that 
it has entered a death-trap. So ingeniously are these pitchers 
in their structure that it is well nigh impossible for an insect 
which has once entered to make its escape. If it attempts 
to crawl upward it finds that it is unable to do so, because 
the inner walls of the pitcher are beset with stiff, downward- 
pointing hairs. Flight, too, is out of the question, for our 
insect is in cramped quarters, while if he does succeed in 
soaring to the neck of the pitcher, he is almost certain to 
blunder against the kind of cover which partially closes it, 
and to be hurled back. So the fly generally ends his days 
in the water which the lower part of the pitcher contains. 
And its juices are slowly absorbed and digested by the numer- 
ous tiny stomachs which beset this part of the walls of the 
pitcher. 
Let us now consider plants as climbers. 
We all know 
Venus’s fly-trap, the lower leaf has 
captured a fly 
how necessary to vegetable life is a liberal supply of sun- 
light and fresh air; and when we realize how herbs and 
grasses, shrubs and trees, jostle each other, as it were, for 
room in which to spread their foliage, we are not surprised 
to find that many of them have acquired the habit of climb- 
AMERICAN HOMES AND GARDENS 
AM). 
ing upward, thus escaping the worst of the struggle. The 
methods of climbing may be classified in four groups: Firstly, 
the twisting of the whole plant round the support; secondly, 
the twining of the leaf stalks round the support; thirdly, the 
use of true tendrils, such as we see in the passion flower; 
Microphotograph of lower internal wall of Nepenthes 
pitcher ; showing the “ stomachs” 
lastly, the use of hooks or rootlets, as we find in the rose and 
the ivy. The wonderful efficiency of many climbing plants 
is little short of amazing. Darwin speaks of a climbing 
bigonia which ascended an upright smooth stick by spirally 
twisting round it and “‘seizing it alternately by two tendrils, 
like a sailor pulling himself up a rope hand over hand.” 
Again, many of these arm-like tendrils and shoots have an 
extraordinary revolving motion in search of support. Some, 
such as the hop, turn with the sun’s course; others, as those 
of the garden pea, revolve against it; and this fact shows us 
conclusively that the plants have, so to speak, a will of their 
own. Otherwise, they would all follow the common vege- 
table custom of turning toward the light. Darwin had under 
observation a tropical pea plant, the terminal shoot of which 
was thirty-one inches long; and this great arm revolved 
through space in a circle, searching for a support, making a 
circle of five feet in diameter and sixteen in circumference 
in a time varying from five hours and a quarter to six hours 
and three-quarters—thus traveling at the rate of thirty-two 
to thirty-three inches each hour. The familiar Virginia 
creeper is well worth observation. ‘The tendrils of the plant 
bear each a number of tiny branches, like fingers, with hooked 
tips. These search everywhere for support. Some are 
thrust into cracks, while others grasp stems. Then, when 
the fingers have taken a hold, they swell out—wedging them- 
selves into the crack or stiffening round the stem—until their 
weight-supporting power is increased to the utmost possible 
limit. Recently the writer selected a small tendril which had 
worked itself into a crack between the boards of a garden 
shed. The tendril selected was dry and withered—had prob- 
ably been dead at least two years; yet it proved capable of 
supporting a weight of two pounds, as the annexed photo- 
graph bears witness. ‘hus, it is plain that the tendrils of 
this plant make deliberate preparation for the support of its 
long runners. Notice, moreover, that there is not merely 
resistance enough to uphold the plant under normal condi- 
tions, but a considerable reserve power to cope with adverse 
circumstances, such as rough, windy weather. 
Certain plants answer directly to stimuli by movement, 
thus seeming to evidence their perception of what is going 
on around them. The best-known example is the sensitive 
