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Twilight And Dawn by Caroline Pridham

C >> Caroline Pridham >> Twilight And Dawn




"Then the spores are the same as seeds, after all"--you say. No; if they
were seeds, each would at once grow into a fern. This is what happens, as
far as I can explain it to you: from the spore springs a tiny leaf, which
roots itself, and it is from this green leaf that the young fern actually
grows, until it, as it were, begins life on its own account. The leaf dies
down, and the first frond of the new fern peeps above ground, closely
coiled up, as you have often seen, if you have been through the woods in
spring-time. The earliest forms of vegetable life, then, brought forth by
the earth at the word of God were the plants which have no seeds: botanists
have divided such plants into groups--the seaweeds and lichens, the mosses,
and the ferns.

Of the seaweeds, the lowest of all groups of plants, we were speaking some
time ago. The lichens, though such lowly plants, are very interesting, for
I have read that every form of lichen is composed of two distinct plants--a
seaweed and a fungus--so closely interwoven that you cannot tell where the
one ends and the other begins. The lichens range in colour from white to
yellow, red, green, brown--and some are as black as that rare black pansy
of which I told you. Each kind has its own peculiar way of growing, and
these hardy little plants can live where no other plant can--on the hard
black lava, on naked rocks, and even upon the highest snow-mountain.

Next time you pass an old gateway or ruined wall, and notice stains of
yellow and brown and grey upon it, remember that there the lichens grow;
tiny plants indeed, whose beauties are revealed only by the microscope, but
each one of them made by God, and given the means of living by Him, just
as much as those giants of the forest of which travellers tell us such
wonderful tales. You may sometimes find a rock, or the trunk of a tree,
encrusted with dry lichen, and it is interesting to know that these plants
when they decay form the first mould for mosses and ferns, plants which
botanists think of as higher in the scale of vegetable life than the lowly
lichens themselves are.

The great family of mosses is found not only near home, but even far away
amid the icefields and the snow, where the reindeer searches with its horns
for the white moss which is its food, and where Sir John Franklin and his
devoted men gathered the black _Tripe de Roche_ upon which they tried to
live during those dark months when their ship lay fast wedged between

"... those icebergs vast,
With heads all crowned with snow,
Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep,
Two hundred fathoms low."

But prettier than these Arctic mosses are those nearer home. Talking about
them makes me think of a place where I wish you and I could go together
some beautiful afternoon in winter. It is a lovely little pine-wood near
Bournemouth, to which some boys, with whose friends I was staying during
the Christmas holidays, wished to take me to see their favourite walk.

[Illustration: ICE-BOUND]

Once when we were starting for our run, on a bright frosty morning, and I
was rather hoping I should be taken to the sea, I heard them say to each
other, "The Pincushion Wood; that's it; do let us go there." I wondered
what kind of place this could be but when we had scrambled through some
heather and come to this pine-wood, I saw at once why they had given it its
name. Overhead, with their needles against the blue sky, were the pines in
their dark solemn green, but under our feet the ground was bright with moss
which grew, not on stones or trunks of trees, but all by itself in round
balls, soft and firm and cushiony. You may be sure I was delighted with the
green pincushions: we gathered a quantity of them, and I took one home with
me, but though I watered it carefully, it soon lost its beauty.

These moss-balls lay at the roots of the pines, and we could pick up as
many as we pleased; but generally even the most delicate mosses grasp the
soil, and clasp their soft tendrils round the stones so firmly that you
need a knife or a sharp stone to make them loose their hold. One of the
uses of moss is to protect the rocks from the frost, and from the heavy
rains which wash them away by degrees. The roots of trees, too, are
cherished and warmed by the closely clinging mosses; and by holding the
moisture from dew and rain, they form where they grow a little bed of soft
mould, and so prepare the way for plants of larger growth.

Do you know the Trumpet-moss, with its red cups each holding its own little
dewdrop? Perhaps not, for it is a rare treasure, and needs to be sought
for in its own haunts; but there are many green mosses which are very
beautiful, and so common that we see them upon every garden wall. There
is the Hair-moss, the seeds of which are eaten by the birds, while its
delicate tendrils serve as soft lining for their nests: it grows
plentifully beside our streams; but far away in Lapland, during the short
summer when the flowers all at once burst into bloom, it may be seen in
full beauty. The Laps cut this moss in layers and dry it in the sun, to
form a soft rug for them to sleep under during their cold nights. Then
there is the velvety moss which, like the many-coloured lichen, loves to
creep over old buildings, and make the ruined and desolate places bright
with a beauty not their own.

Speaking of mosses reminds me of a story which is told us by a doctor named
Mungo Park, who was nearly lost in an African desert about a hundred years
ago. Day after day he had toiled on, under the burning sun, until he was
almost in despair; for he had been robbed and deserted, and felt as if
there was nothing left for him but to lie down and die in the wilderness,
or become a prey to the savage animals which ranged over the country; and
the remembrance of those at home in Scotland who would never know what had
become of him, made him sick at heart. As these sad thoughts filled the
traveller's mind and took away all his courage, his tired eye lighted upon
a tiny tuft of moss, showing green and fair even in the parched soil of the
desert. It was the Lesser Fork-moss which grows in our shady woods, and
beside our ponds and ditches. We should perhaps hardly notice it unless we
were shown its beauty by a microscope, for it is one of the smallest and
humblest of things that grow; but as he looked at it, tears of joy came
to his eyes. Silently springing up in that thirsty land, the tiny moss
spoke to the lonely exile of the care of God for the very smallest of His
creatures, whether the restless brown bird of which the Lord Jesus spoke
when He bade His disciples not to fear, saying, "Ye are of more value than
many sparrows," or the creeping moss which spreads from stone to stone.

In a moment all was changed for the weary traveller. He felt that he was
not alone in that great solitude, for God who had cared for that tuft of
moss, and kept it green and fresh by means of some hidden spring, surely
cared for him, His own child, and would show him the right way out of
that desolate place. Thus the burden and the heat were forgotten in happy
thoughts of the faithfulness of God; and he went on his way with new
courage, and soon found the path which he had lost; but he never forgot
the message which the little moss had brought him. Though the whole plant
was not larger than the tip of his finger, he managed to keep it safely
through all his journeys by land and sea, and had the pleasure of seeing
it flourish under our cold skies just as well as it had done beneath the
burning sun of Africa. If you are fond of poetry, you may like to read some
lines written by the poet McCheyne about this incident.

"Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand
Our traveller sat him down; his hand
Covered his burning head;
Above, beneath, behind, around,
No resting for the eye he found--
All nature seemed as dead.

"One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Mantling with freshest green a stone,
Fixed his delighted gaze;
Through bursting tears of joy he smiled,
And while he raised the tendril wild,
His lips o'erflowed with praise.

"'Oh, shall not He who keeps thee green
Here in the waste, unknown, unseen,
Thy fellow-exile save?
He who commands the dew to feed
Thy gentle flower, can surely lead
Me from a scorching grave.'"

The poem has many more verses, but I think these the prettiest. Moss has
been spoken of by a poet as the "nest of time"; it has also been called
"nature's livery," because the earth is clothed with it; and I have read
that Mungo Park's little teacher may be found upon many a wall near London,
and also clinging to those great stones which were once part of the walls
of far away Jerusalem. It is nice to think that the little green plants,
which we have such reason to love--because they are brightest and best in
the winter-time, when all our

"Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay."

have faded--grow all the world over; even down in the mines of Sweden the
shining Feather-moss is said to light up the darkness with a tiny glimmer
of its own.

When we were speaking of the fossil animals which are found hidden deep in
the "crust" of the earth, you may remember that I told you that upon the
hard grey-coloured clay which forms the roof of coal-mines beautifully
traced patterns of ferns are sometimes found. I have heard that half the
plants the remains of which are found buried in the coal-measures are
ferns, but ferns which are now known to us as but three feet in height,
appear in those early times of our earth's history to have been grand trees
with trunks three feet through, and fronds of great length.

If you want to see tree-ferns growing wild now, you must go to New Zealand
or Australia, or to the south of India: but you may perhaps some day have
an opportunity of looking at pictures of some of the giant mare's-tails,
and other plants with beautifully sculptured stems, of which traces have
been found in our own English coal-fields; meantime, look at the vivid
word-picture which Dr. Buckland has given of what he saw in a Bohemian
mine. He says: "The most elaborate imitation of living foliage upon the
painted ceilings of Italian palaces bears no comparison with the beauteous
proportions of extinct vegetable forms with which the galleries of these
instructive coal-mines are overhung.... The effect is heightened by the
contrast of the coal-black colour of these vegetables with the light
groundwork of the rock to which they are attached"--for you must not forget
that it is upon the roof of the mine that the impressions of the plants
which have been turned into coal are found, not upon the coal itself,
though even there they may be discovered by a microscope.

And now leaving the mosses and lichens, ferns and mushrooms, we will turn
to the "herb yielding seed," and speak of the great family of grasses; and
to begin with I will quote for you two verses which were brought to me by
the children when I had asked for texts about grass.

This is one: "If God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and
to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of
little faith?"

And the other is: "The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth
away: but the word of the Lord endureth for ever."

When we were speaking about the former of these verses, I told them
that by "the grass of the field" we must understand not only grass, but
the wild flowers which grow upon the green slopes of Palestine in the
spring-time, when God

"Lets His own love-whispers creep
Over hills and craggies steep."

They bloom but for a short time--from February to April; for in May a
burning wind from the desert sweeps over the flowery meadows, and in one
short day the grass has withered and its flower has faded. All "the grace
of the fashion of it perishes," and there is no more beauty in the fields
till the return of spring makes them bloom again.

In a country where wood is as scarce as it is in the Holy Land grass and
flowers are all cut down together, and burnt to heat the ovens in which
bread is baked. The flowers of the field may live but a day, and then
wither on their stalks under the hot breath of the desert-blast; or they
may be cut down and "cast into the oven." But the Lord spoke of them that
He might teach His disciples that they must not be anxious about how they
were to live in this world, because God their Father who "so clothed the
grass," cared for them much more than for the birds, and all the helpless
living things which are never forgotten by Him.

The flowers have no care. Those crimson lilies, which shine like stars
among the grass in Palestine in the spring-time, do nothing to make their
own rich dress. But God has thought it worth while to clothe them, as well
as the daisies of our English meadows, in grace and beauty; and fair and
sweet as they are, not for themselves, but as the overflowings of God's
brimming cup of love, From His own word we learn to "consider the lilies
how they grow," and receive through them the same lesson which the
Fork-moss taught the lost traveller.

"For who but He that arched the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all He tries,
Could rear the daisy's purple bud?

"Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin,
And cut the gold-embossed gem,
That, set in silver, gleams within?

"Then fling it, unrestrained and free,
O'er hill and dale and desert sod,
That man where'er he walks may see,
In every step, the stamp of God."

The verse which speaks of the "withering" of the grass, becomes even more
striking if we remember that grass in Eastern lands often grows so tall as
to reach to the saddle, as a horseman rides through it. But this tall grass
withers away as soon as it is smitten by the burning heat of the sun.
The apostle Peter speaks of all the glory of man as like grass which has
withered; and then, in contrast with what so quickly perishes, he reminds
of what can never grow old or pass away--"the word of the Lord," which
"endureth for ever."

While we were speaking of the verse in Genesis which tells us that "every
herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth" was to be food
for man, I asked the question: "What are the grain-bearing plants?"

Every voice at once replied, "Corn"; and certainly corn is one of the most
beautiful, and the plant which has in a special manner given "bread to the
eater." "But," I continued, "are there not other grasses whose seeds supply
food for us?"

The children thought awhile, and then said, "Barley," "rye," "oats"; and
presently, thinking of other countries besides England and Scotland,
someone ventured, "rice"; and Chris, remembering the tall Indian corn which
grows so abundantly in America, suggested "maize."

So we went on to notice (Genesis 1. 29, 30) that corn and grain of various
kinds are the food specially prepared by God for man. There was the "green
herb" for the animals and birds and creeping things; and for us, the "herb
yielding seed." How beautiful it is to see that at the very outset food
was provided for man, even before God had made him; and that all through
the long years which have passed from that time till now, it has never
been wanting. It is true there have been terrible famine years, when the
wheat-harvest has perished, or when the rice-crop, upon which the lives
of thousands of people in India and China depend, has failed from want of
water; and the hand of God in judgment may at times be seen in these years
of drought; but through His goodness in giving "rain from heaven, and
fruitful seasons," the earth still brings forth food, and will do so, for
God's own word assures us that "while the earth remaineth, seedtime and
harvest ... shall not cease." It is cheering to think of this when we pass
through a corn-field, and admire the red poppies shining here and there
among the wheat, and the full ears of corn waving in the sunshine, until
the field looks like a sea of gold.

Interesting too it is to see, as Ernest and his friend did the other day,
all that must be done ere those waving ears of corn become a loaf such as
you see on the table every morning: for in this country we do not feed on
"parched corn," as it is described in that lovely story of Ruth the Moabite
woman, from whose line descended our Lord Jesus Christ, "Son of David, Son
of Abraham."

As they were walking along the road, the boy noticed a large piece of bread
which someone had thrown away.

"How wrong to throw away such a nice piece as that!" he remarked to a
friend at his side.

"Indeed it was," she replied. "Whoever threw it away never thought how much
it cost to make that piece of bread." And she began to tell how the hard
ground must be broken by the plough, and smoothed by the harrow, to make
it ready for the seed; then, after the seed has been sown and covered up,
water, air, and sunlight are all needful, that the roots may sink down deep
into the earth, and the green stalks shoot up into the light; so that where
there was once only the bare brown field may be seen "first the blade, then
the ear, after that the full corn in the ear"--the harvest-field in all its
glory. As the "Sower's Song" says:

"Fall gently and still, good corn;
Lie warm in thy earthly bed,
And stand so yellow some morn,
For man and beast must be fed."

Then come the reaping and the threshing, and the winnowing and crushing of
the grain, and the making of the flour into bread, and its baking. All this
must be done before our tables can be furnished with "our daily bread."

[Illustration: WITH THE REAPERS.]

For the birds, which "neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse
nor barn," God makes the grass to grow of itself; but all those
seed-bearing plants, which He has given to man, must now be cultivated.
Rice needs a great deal of water that it may grow; and corn, if no care
is given to its cultivation, soon becomes but a poor and useless sort of
grass. It must be sown fresh every year in ground which has been made ready
for it. Did you ever pluck one of the golden ears from a field of corn, and
sit down and count how many grains there were upon one slender stalk? And
then did you think that every little grain in that ear was itself a seed
which, just as the egg contains the bird that is one day to fly and sing,
wraps up within itself a young wheat-stalk with all the golden ears which
may wave and rustle when next year's harvest time has come? No longer then
the one lonely seed dropped by the hand of the sower into the good soil
prepared for it, but many, many grains instead. So true is it that

"A grain of corn an infant's hand
May plant upon an inch of land,
Whence twenty stalks may spring and yield,
Enough to stock a little field.

"The harvest of that field may then
Be multiplied to ten times ten,
Which, sown thrice more, would furnish bread
Wherewith an army might be fed."

And such life is there in seed, that even grains of corn which had been
hidden away for thousands of years--wrapped up in an Egyptian tomb within
a mummy like those you saw at the Museum the other day--when sown still
brought forth fruit; not in Egypt where they first grew, but in England.
But those grains which had slept the sleep of ages would never have thus
wakened into life and fruitfulness unless they had been sown in the earth;
for before we can see the "full corn in the ear," the one grain from which
so many were to come, must "fall into the ground and die": in darkness and
silence and death the plant is born, and begins to show signs of life. Did
you ever think of this?

The Lord Jesus once spoke of it to two of His disciples, Andrew and Philip.
I do not know whether they understood then that He was speaking of Himself
when He said the words, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn
of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die,
it bringeth forth much fruit." "Much fruit"--even that great multitude
redeemed by His blood, who shall be with Him and praise Him for ever, as
they remember how He died that they might live.

I hope that you belong to the happy company who shall sing that new song in
heaven. If you have known and believed the love of God in giving His own
beloved Son to die instead of you, and the love of Christ in coming into
the world and laying down His life for you, you can say of the Lord Jesus
the very words which the great apostle Paul said, when he spoke of Him as
"the Son of God, who loved me, and gave Himself for me."

How much there is for us to learn, and how much to admire, in the wonderful
works of God! Far, far more than we have been speaking of to-day in the
lichens, covering the bare rocks with "cloth of gold," and in the leafy
mosses which the birds weave into soft lining for their nests; the palms,
pines, reeds, and grasses, and the beautiful waving corn, which is God's
special gift to man. But we must now turn to the third division of plants,
which is described as "the fruit tree yielding fruit after its kind, whose
seed is in itself."

There is a pretty poem which Sharley learnt the other day, beginning--

"I praised the earth, in beauty seen,
With garlands gay of various green."

When she had repeated it to me, I asked, "What are the 'gay garlands,'
Sharley--flowers?"

But no, they could not be, because the flowers are not "green"; so Sharley
answered that she thought they must be beautiful trees with which the earth
is covered; for their brightly coloured leaves, especially in autumn, are
as gay as wreaths of flowers, with their many shades of red and brown, as
well as "various green."

The more we notice the trees and flowers, the more we wonder at their
loveliness; for God has "made everything beautiful in his time," whether
the rich trees of autumn or the tender green of the spring-time, when all
the earth seems young again.

Beautiful indeed this earth must have been; still so fair, even in its
ruins; when it came fresh from the hand of God, prepared by Him to be the
dwelling place of His creatures; but who can tell how fair it will be when
every trace of sin and its sad work shall be gone for ever, and the Lord
Jesus, the Prince of Peace, shall reign over it?

And although it is all done so quietly and secretly, and seems so natural
to us that we hardly give it a thought, even still more wonderful than
their beauty is the way in which these trees, yielding fruit after their
kind, "whose seed is in itself," go on constantly, not only living, but
producing other living plants, which increase and multiply, each in its
turn again producing more and more "after its kind."

Perhaps you save up your pennies, as I did long ago, until you have enough
to buy a packet of flowerseeds. As you unfold the packet, and see the
pictures of the flowers that are to be, on the little papers inside--the
scarlet poppy, the yellow marigold, the blue lupin, and the many-coloured
sweet peas--you almost feel as if you already saw these bright flowers
blooming in your garden. But open the little parcels one after the other,
and what do you find? Nothing bright or sweet or beautiful; only little
brown seeds, tiny as grains of March dust, or so light and feathery that
your breath would blow them away.

Do you then throw them into the fire, and say they are no good? Not so. You
take the greatest care of these little grains. You prepare the earth, and
make a soft bed for them, then cover them up, carefully marking the spot
with the name of the flower whose seed you have sown there. You water that
bare place, and wait to see green leaves push themselves up through the
dark soil; for well you know that within each tiny brown seed the flower
that is to be, lies hidden.

To see your seed grow, and your plant live and bloom, does not surprise you
at all. But how astonished you would be if, in the spot where you had sown
white candytuft, you were to find yellow tulips!

Such a thing can never be; for the mother-plant from which the seed came
must always produce plants of its own kind. You never saw a bean grow into
a cherry-tree, or a pink change into a rose, did you? God gives the seed a
body "as it hath pleased Him, and to every seed its own body."

It is true that what are called "varieties" can be produced among
cultivated plants, as among birds and animals, by change of food and
climate, and by care and training. The same plant will soon look very
different if taken from a dry, sunny spot, and placed in a damp, shady
corner. I have heard that if plants are moved from their home on the
seashore, and placed in a dry, hot place, their thick, fleshy leaves will
in time quite change their character, becoming thin and hairy. In the same
way a tree, if given room, will spread its branches wide, but will shoot
upwards if hemmed in on all sides. It is important, however, to remember
that man has never been able by his skill to produce a new kind of either
plant or animal. But we were speaking of your seeds, so tiny, yet so unlike
each other. These differences become much more apparent if the seeds are
looked at through a microscope, and the varieties in their way of growing
are endless.

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