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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
122
Two
months
hence
an
occasional
silky
messenger
will
float
away
from
the
glistening
clouds
about
the
open
milkweed
pods,
but
who
ever
thanks
the
bees
of
June
for
them?
The
flower
is
but
a
bright
anticipation--an
expression
of
hope
in
the
being
of
the
parent
plant.
It
has
but
one
mission.
All
its
fragrance,
all
its
nectar,
all
its
beauty
of
form
and
hue
are
but
means
towards
the
consummation
of
the
eternal
edict
of
creation--"Increase
and
multiply."
To
that
end
we
owe
all
the
infinite
forms,
designs,
tints,
decorations,
perfumes,
mechanisms,
and
other
seemingly
inexplicable
attributes.
Its
threshold
must
bear
its
own
peculiar
welcome
to
its
insect,
or
perhaps
to
its
humming-bird
friend,
or
counterpart;
its
nectaries
must
both
tempt
and
reward
his
coming,
and
its
petals
assist
his
comfortable
tarrying.
Next
to
the
floral
orchids,
the
mechanism
of
our
milkweed
blossom
is
perhaps
the
most
complex
and
remarkable,
and
illustrates
as
perfectly
as
any
of
the
orchid
examples
given
in
Darwin's
noble
work
the
absolute
divine
intention
of
the
dependence
of
a
plant
species
upon
the
visits
of
an
insect.
Our
milkweed
flower
is
a
deeply
planned
contrivance
to
insure
such
an
end.
It
fills
the
air
with
enticing
fragrance.
Its
nectaries
are
stored
with
sweets,
and
I
fancy
each
opening
bud
keenly
alert
with
conscious
solicitude
for
its
affinity.
Though
many
other
flowers
manage
imperfectly
to
perpetuate
their
kind
in
the
default
of
insect
intervention,
the
milkweed,
like
most
of
the
orchids,
is
helpless
and
incapable
of
such
resource.
Inclose
this
budded
umbel
in
tarlatan
gauze
and
it
will
bloom
days
after
its
fellow-blooms
have
fallen,
anticipating
its
consummation,
but
no
pods
will
be
seen
upon
this
cluster.
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