XXXII. THE HAREBELL.

Few English flowers are better known than the harebell; yet I wonder what proportion of all those who love it well in its summer beauty would be able to account for its botanical name of Round-leaved Campanula. “Round-leaved!” most people would say; “why, its leaves are slender and narrow and grass-like.” And so they are, indeed, in the later state in which you pick in July the graceful pensile blossoms. But the flowering stage of every plant is, after all, but its momentary reproductive period; it represents, so to speak, the golden prime of the full-grown individual. Before that stage is attained, the plant itself has to grow and prepare for flowering; it has to pass through its adolescence and its formative epoch. Now, the harebell is a herb whose two ages of life are singularly different; if you saw it in its green youth, when it is devoting itself wholly to feeding and storage, you would never imagine it was the self-same plant as that whose tall and very slender stem supports in later life the scattered group of drooping blue bell-flowers with which you are familiar.

Here on the dry sandbank, beside the path that runs obliquely across the moor, I see half a dozen harebell-worts in the first, or caterpillar, stage of their existence. The metaphor is less violent by far than you would at first imagine, for in its earlier days the harebell, like the caterpillar, does nothing but eat and lay by for the future; while in its second or flowering stage it does nothing but put forth its tender blue blossoms, which answer to the butterfly both in their attractive beauty and in the fact that they serve to produce the seeds (which are the analogues of eggs) for the coming generation. In the purely preparatory, or hard-eating, stage, the harebell has no stem or branches to speak of; it consists of a rosette of large orb-like leaves, often heart-shaped towards the stalk, and pressed close to the ground in a spreading circle. Each such rosette springs in April from a buried rootstock, which, in loose loamy soil, like that of these Surrey moors, is often intricate; it burrows in and out with strange instinct among the dry sand and stones, in search of such rare moisture as it can manage to find for itself. But though water is scarce, access to light and air is easy; so the large round leaves, lying close on the bare ground, get sunshine in abundance, and feed to their hearts’ content upon their proper food—the carbon in the atmosphere—while vegetation around is still low and backward. In this stage they may be compared to the rosettes of London-pride, which are similarly clustered, but which do not die down as the flower-stem advances.

About June, however, the harebell plant has eaten and drunk enough to venture upon leaving its caterpillar stage behind, and sending up the loose cluster of waving blue flowers which represent its butterfly. In order to do this, and overtop the tall grasses which have sprouted meanwhile, it withdraws the whole of the living green-stuff from its heart-shaped root-leaves, and uses up the active material they contain in building its flower-stem. Thus, as the stem lengthens, and the buds begin to swell, the lower leaves die away altogether; only a few quite dissimilar and very narrow blades on the ascending branches now represent the original foliage. After the flowers have set, even these last disappear, or dry up on the stem, their living material being withdrawn in turn to supply food for the developing seeds. This may seem odd at first, but it is a common incident in many life-histories of plants and animals. As a rule, indeed, the butterfly or winged stage of most insect lives is wholly devoted to a marriage flight; and there are several winged insects which never feed at all in the perfect state; they use themselves up in the formation of eggs, and then die of inanition.

Most of the sister campanulas, like Canterbury bells, are stiff and coarse and hairy plants, without grace or elegance; but that is because they haunt woods and copses, or overgrown hedgerows, where they are sheltered from the wind, and enabled to grow large and rampant. The harebell, on the contrary—the oread of its race—is a denizen of the open, wind-swept uplands; it loves the moors and heaths, the bare hilly pastures; and it has learnt in consequence to bend lightly before the breeze, springing up again as those invisible feet pass on, which gives it its familiar slenderness and elegance. The hanging domes of the flowers are entered from below by bumble-bees, which are strong enough to push aside the fringed and close-set teeth that edge the base of the stamens, put there on purpose to baffle less useful honey-thieving visitors. Equally strange is the egg-shaped capsule which, later on, contains the seeds; it opens by five short clefts near the top. The actual reason for this arrangement is itself a somewhat odd one. The seeds can only drop out through the pores or clefts when a high wind blows and sways the waving stem violently. At such times the little grains get carried by the breeze to considerable distances; and this serves not only to disseminate the kind, but also to carry the majority of the seeds to unoccupied spots, where rotation of crops can thus be secured by letting the young plants sprout at a distance from the soil exhausted by their mother. Similar devices for securing rotation are common in nature; they often occur in species like this, whose seeds seem at first sight wholly unprovided with wings, or floats, or other means of locomotion.