Part 27

Davy looked puzzled.

"I know what a Philadelphian is," said Prue.

Davy laughed.

"The words are very much alike," smiled the Chief Gardener. "They both mean brotherhood, and come from some old Greek words. Philadelphia means brotherly love, and Monadelphia means brotherly union. You see those stamens are all brothers and are joined together as one. All plants with such stamens are called Monadelphians."

"A stamen has three parts," Davy went on, "its filament, its anther, and its pollen. The filament is the stem, the anther is its cap, and the pollen is the dust which falls on the pistil and helps to make the seed."

Very carefully Davy took away the ring of stamens, and left only the little yellowish-green center of the sorrel flower.

"This is where we get the seed," he said, as gravely as an old college professor lecturing to a class. "This is the pistil, and it has three parts, too: the pod, the style, and the stigma. The stigma is the little piece at the top which catches the pollen from the anthers. The style is the stem, and the pod is the big part below which holds the seeds."

He held up the little stripped flower again. "This pistil has five styles and five stigmas," he went on. "A good many flowers have more than one. It has ten stamens, too--two stamens for each style, and five petals and five sepals. You can divide it by five all the way through."

"Even to the seed-pod," added the Chief Gardener. "It has five divisions," and he cut the tiny green pulp and showed them with his magnifying-glass. "The little sorrel flower is one of the most perfect of flowers--one of the most perfect in a great class of flowers called Ex-o-gens. There is one other class called End-o-gens. Those words are from the Greek, too. Exogen means outward-growing. Endogen means inward-growing. The stem of an Exogen grows by layers, as most trees grow."

"Oh, yes," said Prue, "I know. We counted the rings on that big oak that was cut down over by the lake last year. It had one ring for each year."

"That's right, Prue, and the stem of the Endogen grows inside a shell, and is often just a soft pith, like the inside of a cornstalk. These are the two great classes of all flowering plants and trees. You can always tell the difference by their stems; nearly always from their leaves; always from their seeds, if you have a strong magnifying-glass, for the little germ of the Exogen has two leaves like the morning-glory, and the germ of the Endogen has but one like the lily, or corn. But the easiest way for you to tell is by the flowers. An Exogen flower nearly always goes by fives, like the little sorrel bloom, sometimes by fours, but hardly ever by threes. The Endogen flower is nearly always divided in threes, like the lily, which has six petals. It very seldom has four parts, and never five. So, you see, we know right away that the sorrel and the rose and buttercup are Exogens, and that the lily and the hyacinth and the daffodil are Endogens. Of course, there are many flowers not so easy to place as these, and I am afraid I am giving you too hard a lesson for one time, especially for such a hot day."

"But I'm not hot now," said Davy. "There's a fine breeze, and I like to sit here and talk." So they talked on about the different kinds and classes of plants, and by and by when big Prue found them, little Prue had much to tell her about all the new things she had learned. And she was careful not to pronounce anything wrong, and to explain that an Exogen was a plant that grew on the outside, and that an Endogen was another plant that grew on the inside, and big Prue said that Davy must be an Exogen, because he was getting so fat, and that little Prue must be an Endogen, because she was growing so smart. Then everything had to be told over, and then it was tea-time, with a dainty table all spread under the arbor, and delicious raspberries, and very, very delicious ice-cream.

III

I DON'T SEE WHAT WEEDS ARE FOR, ANYWAY

AND the very next day was Fourth of July, with all the fire-crackers and torpedoes and sky-rockets that always come on that day.

But there was something else. For when big Prue and the Chief Gardener come to the breakfast-table, they found that Davy and little Prue had arranged what Prue called a "susprise." The room was all red, white, and blue--not with flags or bunting, but with flowers.

There were bowls of red and white and blue morning-glories on the sideboard, and in the center of the table there was a very large bowl of red, white, and blue sweet-pease, so nicely arranged that each color was separate, and the whole looked like a cake of flowers cut in three equal parts. And there were other red and white and blue flowers, too, but the sweet-pea bowl in the center was the finest of all.

There was not much gardening that day, of course, for there were parades to see and music to hear, and fireworks in the evening. The Chief Gardener had brought home the fireworks, and when all the rockets had been fired and the Roman candles, he brought out something larger than the rest, and when it was lighted, it all at once turned into a great flower-pot and sent out hundreds of the most beautiful fiery flowers, such as no garden would grow, no matter how hot it was.

"That is to pay for the sus-prise you gave us this morning," said the Chief Gardener, when little Prue was through dancing and squealing and jumping up and down with delight. "They grew in that hot sun yesterday."

But little Prue didn't believe it, though she did ask if some of the stars which came out of the rockets didn't stay in the sky with the other stars. She was quite certain she had never seen so many in the sky before.

July was a great month in the little gardens. Almost everything bloomed and bore. The pinks, the pansies, the alyssum, the sweet-williams and the morning-glories--they grew and then bloomed and crowded each other in their beds until some of them had to be moved into new places, while as for Davy's things, his corn grew taller and taller, until it shaded his tomato vines, and he was afraid they would not do well for want of sun. But the sun was up so high, and was so hot in July, that perhaps they got enough anyway, for they grew so big they had to be tied up, and the tomatoes on them were so large that Davy thought one was almost enough for a whole family. As for his beans--well, Davy will plant fewer beans next year. They began to bear just a little at first, and then, all at once, there were beans enough on his few hills, not only for himself and Prue, but for the rest of the family, and then for the neighbors, too. Davy picked nearly all one hot afternoon to keep up with his bean crop, and then nearly trotted his fat legs off carrying little baskets to the different people that he knew, explaining to each that these were really from his own garden--his own beans that he had planted and tended himself. Then he and Prue carried some vegetables and flowers to a little hospital not far away, where there were some sick children, and some who were just getting well. And it was a happy, happy time for the little boy and girl when they took the things they had planted and cared for to the other little boys and girls who seemed so glad to have them come.

But as the weather grew warmer and summer showers came the weeds got worse and worse. Sometimes when Davy and Prue had tried very hard to get them all out and found that new ones had come almost over night, while some of the old ones they had cut down had taken root again, they were almost discouraged.

"I don't see what weeds are for anyway," Davy said one warm morning, almost crying, and little Prue, whose face was very red and hot, flung herself down in the shady peach-tree house, too tired to talk. "Now, there's that old pursley, I pull and pull and cut, and unless I carry every bit of it away, it all takes root again and grows right along as if I hadn't touched it."

"Yes," said the Chief Gardener, "it is a nuisance. I suppose its pretty sister is very much ashamed of it."

"Its sister! Why, who is its sister?" asked Davy, while little Prue sat up and forgot she was tired.

"Miss Portulaca Purslane, of course, sometimes called Rose-moss, because her flower is something like a wild rose and her stem and leaves a little like overgrown moss."

"Oh, is my sweet rose-moss just old pursley weed?" whimpered little Prue, who was very proud of a little bunch of portulaca that was just in full bloom. She had chosen the pretty flower from a catalogue, and it had been one of her best growers.

"Why, no, Prue, your rose-moss is not a weed at all, but she belongs to the Purslane family, and like a good many other families it has a member who has run wild and become a disgrace to its relatives and a trouble to everybody. There is another wild purslane, but it is not a weed. It is just a little wild-wood cousin of Portulaca. Her name is Claytonia, and she lives in pleasant places in the woods, and hides under the leaves in winter-time. Most people call her Spring-beauty."