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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
93
The
flower
of
to-day!
What
an
inspiration
to
our
reverential
study!
What
a
new
revelation
is
borne
upon
its
perfume!
Its
forms
and
hues,
what
invitations
to
our
devotion!
This
spot
upon
the
petal;
this
peculiar
quality
of
perfume
or
odor;
this
fringe
within
the
throat;
this
curving
stamen;
this
slender
tube!
What
a
catechism
to
one
who
knows
that
each
and
all
represent
an
affinity
to
some
insect,
towards
whose
vital
companionship
the
flower
has
been
adapting
itself
through
the
ages,
looking
to
its
own
more
certain
perpetuation!
The
great
Linnaeus
would
doubtless
have
claimed
to
"know"
the
"orchid,"
which
perhaps
he
named.
Indeed,
did
he
not
"know"
it
to
the
core
of
its
physical,
if
not
of
its
physiological,
being?
But
could
he
have
solved
the
riddle
of
the
orchid's
persistent
refusal
to
set
a
pod
in
the
conservatory?
Could
he
have
divined
why
the
orchid
blossom
continues
in
bloom
for
weeks
and
weeks
in
this
artificial
glazed
tropic--perhaps
weeks
longer
than
its
more
fortunate
fellows
left
behind
in
their
native
haunts--and
then
only
to
wither
and
perish
without
requital?
Know
the
orchid?--without
the
faintest
idea
of
the
veritable
divorce
which
its
kidnapping
had
involved!
Thanks
to
the
new
dispensation,
we
may
indeed
claim
a
deeper
sympathy
with
the
flower
than
is
implied
in
a
mere
recognition
of
its
pretty
face.
We
know
that
this
orchid
is
but
the
half
of
itself,
as
it
were;
that
its
color,
its
form,
however
eccentric
and
incomprehensible,
its
twisted
inverted
position
on
its
individual
stalk-like
ovary,
its
slender
nectary,
its
carefully
concealed
pollen--all
are
anticipations
of
an
insect
complement,
a
long-tongued
night-moth
perhaps,
with
whose
life
its
own
is
mysteriously
linked
through
the
sweet
bond
of
perfume
and
nectar,
and
in
the
sole
hope
of
posterity.
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