The Romance of Plant Life. Elliot George Francis Scott
So that 100 square yards of leaves working in sunshine for five hours might make one pound of starch. But one can estimate the activity of plants in another way. Look at the amount of work done by the Grass, etc., on an acre of pasture land in one year. This might entirely support a cow and calf during the summer; all the work done by these animals, as well as all the work which can be done on the beef which they put on, is due to the activity of the grasses on that acre. Moreover it is not only these large animals that are supported, but every mouse, every bird, every insect, and every worm which lives on that piece of ground, derives all its energy from the activity of the plants thereon.
All work which we do with our brains or muscles involves the consumption of food which has been formed by plants under the warm rays of the sun.
So that man's thoughts and labour, as well as that of every living creature, is in the first instance rendered possible by sunshine.
But the sunlight, besides this all-important function, affects plants in other ways.
One of the most interesting of the early spring flowers is the Coltsfoot. On bare blackish and unsightly heaps of shale one may see quantities of its golden blossoms. Now if one looks at them on a fine sunny day, every single blossom will be widely opened and each will turn towards the sun.
In wet cold weather every blossom will hang its head and be tightly closed up. Exactly the same may be observed with the Dandelion, which is, indeed, still more sensitive than the Coltsfoot. In cold wet weather it is so tightly closed that it is barely possible to make out the yellow colour of the flower, but on warm sunny days it opens wide: every one of its florets drinks in as much as possible of the genial sunshine. Both opening and closing are produced by the warmth and light of the sun's rays.
It is also the same with Pansies. On a fine day they spread out widely, but in cold wet weather the heads hang over and the whole flower shrinks together.
Perhaps the most interesting of them all are the little Woodsorrel and the Crocus.
Both are exceedingly sensitive to sunlight, or rather to the cold. A mere cloud passing over the sun on a fine spring morning will close up the flowers of the Crocus. In cold weather, if you bring one of its flowers indoors and put it near a bright light it will open widely, sometimes in a few minutes.
What produces these changes? It is very difficult to say, but every change helps towards the general good of the plant. In warm sunny weather insects are flying about, and they can enter the flower if it is open. These insects help in setting the seed (as we shall see in another chapter). In cold wet weather the flowers are best closed, as the rain might injure the florets and because also no insects are abroad.
Both the Foxglove and the Blue Vetch (Vicia Cracca) are specially ingenious in their way of obtaining light. For the stalk of every separate blossom bends so that its head turns to the best lighted or sunniest side. Thus, if you have Foxgloves planted against a wall, every flower will turn away from it; if you plant them in a circular bed, every one turns to the outside, so that every flower can get the sunlight.
Every one who has kept plants in a window knows that the stems turn towards the light. This has the effect of placing the leaves where they can get as much sunshine as possible. The leaves themselves are also affected by sunlight. They seem to stretch out in such a way that they absorb as much of it as they can.
That, of course, is what they ought to do, for they want to obtain as much as possible of the sunlight to carry on the work of forming sugar and starch inside the leaf.
Not only each leaf by itself endeavours to place itself in the best light-position, but all the leaves on the same spray of, for instance, Elm, Lime, or Horsechestnut, arrange themselves so that they interfere with one another as little as possible.1 Very little light is lost by escaping between the leaves, and very few of the leaves are overshaded by their neighbours on the same branch.
Thus all co-operate in sunlight-catching. But, when a number of different plants are competing together to catch the light on one square yard of ground, their leaves try to overreach and get beyond their neighbours.
On such a square yard of ground, it is just the competition amongst the plants, that makes it certain that every gleam of light is used by one or other of them.
Every one of all those plants of itself alters the slope of its leaves and turns its stems so as to get as much light as possible.
This light, as we have seen, is taken in by the plant. It is used to make the gas, carbonic acid,2 unite with water: when these are made to join together, they form sugar; if the sugar is burnt the heat and light appear again.
By changing the amount and arrangement of the molecules in sugar, starch or vegetable fats, and many other substances can be formed. But it is the sunlight that makes all this possible.
Thus the sun not merely supplies the motive power for all animal and vegetable activity but, by its influence, flowers, leaves, and stems move and turn in such ways that they are in the most convenient position to intercept its light.
The sunlight, though all-important in the life of most plants, kills many kinds of bacteria and bacilli which love the darkness. The well-known radium rays are also destructive to bacteria, and hinder the growth of certain fungi (Becquerel's rays have a similar effect). The X-rays are not so well understood, but one can close the leaflets of the Sensitive Plant by means of them.
Carbonic acid gas forms but a small proportion of the atmosphere which surrounds a growing plant. Yet there is no lack of it, for when the leaf is at work forming sugar the particles of gas are rushing into the leaf, and other particles come from elsewhere to take their place. Every fire and every breath given off by an animal yields up carbonic acid, so that it is constantly in circulation.
This is more easily seen by tracing the probable history of an atom of carbon. We will suppose that it enters a grass leaf as carbonic acid gas and becomes starch: next evening it will become sugar and may pass from cell to cell up the stem to where the fruit or grain is ripening. It will be stored up as starch in the grain. This grass will become hay and in due course be eaten by a bullock. The starch is changed and may be stored up in the fat of the animal's body. When this is eaten at somebody's dinner, the fat will most probably be consumed or broken up; this breaking up may be compared to a fire, for heat is given off, and the heat in this case will keep up the body-temperature of the person. The carbon atom will again become carbonic acid gas, for it will take part of the oxygen breathed in, and be returned to the atmosphere as carbonic acid gas when the person is breathing.
Another atom of carbon might enter the leaves of a tree: it will be sent down as sugar into the trunk and perhaps stored up as vegetable fat for the winter. Next spring the vegetable fat becomes starch and then sugar: as sugar it will go to assist in forming woody material. It may remain as wood for a very long time, possibly 150 to 200 years: then the tree falls and its wood begins to decay.
The bark begins to break and split because beetles and woodlice and centipedes are burrowing between the bark and the wood. Soon a very minute spore of a fungus will somehow be carried inside the bark, very likely sticking to the legs of a beetle. This will germinate and begin to give out dissolving ferments which, with the aid of bacteria, attack the wood. Our carbon atom is probably absorbed into the fungus. Very soon the mushroom-like heads of this fungus begin to swell and elongate; they burst through the bark and form a clump of reddish-yellow Paddock-stools. A fly comes to the fungus and lays an egg in it. This egg becomes a fat, unpleasant little maggot which eats the fungus, and amongst others devours our carbon atom, which again becomes fat in its body. Then a tomtit or other small bird comes along and eats the maggot. That bird stays out too late one evening and is eaten by an owl. The owl, satisfied with a good meal, allows itself to be surprised and shot by a keeper. When its body is nailed to a door and decays away, the carbon atom again takes up oxygen and becomes carbonic acid gas, which escapes into the atmosphere, and is ready for a fresh series of adventures.
We must now consider the water which with carbonic acid gas makes up sugar, etc. All plants contain a large percentage of water. This may be as much as 95 to 98 per cent in water plants, and 50 to 70 per cent. in ordinary tissues; it is contained in every sort of
Kerner,
The gas Carbonic acid consists of one part of Carbon and two of Oxygen. It is invisible, just as are the gaseous states of many liquids and solids. Water-vapour is not visible, though water (liquid) and ice can of course be seen. Starch, sugar, cell wall substance, etc., all contain Carbon, Oxygen, and Hydrogen. Vegetable fat is not well understood, but starch helps to form it.