As soon as the pollen is gone the anther lies down again out of the way. The stamens do not crowd the doorway of the spur; they lie down out of the way until they ripen, then they stand in front of the spur, and when their pollen is shed they lie down again. They do not obstruct the way to the nectary because they wish the bees and birds to find an easy entrance. Why does one anther ripen at a time? Why do not all shed pollen together, as is the habit of the morning-glory, and finish in one day? Perhaps the tropæolum fears the rain may ruin the chances of the seeds to get pollen. We know that water spoils the pollen, and though the tropæolum has fringes to keep it from the nectary, and a roof to protect it, more or less would doubtless beat in during a hard shower. Does the tropæolum bloom, then, in the rainy season in its own hot home—in the rainy season when the showers are terrific? We should like to know that. If it did, that would be a good reason for ripening the anthers one at a time. If one were spoiled, another might succeed. We may be sure there is a good reason for this habit of the tropæolum, though we may not have discovered it. When at last the pollen is gone and the anthers are empty and shriveled, the spur is still full of honey. In front of it has risen, not a stamen this time, but a dainty five-rayed stigma. It is held in place by the style, and is ripe and ready for pollen. It has unfolded its five rays that it may catch and hold the pollen grains. But all its pollen is gone! The bees and the birds have carried it away. The bees ate some and carried some home to their hives. None remains for the five-rayed stigma. But here comes a bee, a large, yellow-banded bumblebee. She has a ball of red pollen in each of her two baskets. She gathered it in another tropæolum blossom, and intends to take it home to feed the young bees; but as she enters our pollenless flower for nectar, lo! she brushes aside the five-rayed stigma. A few grains of pollen from her legs cling to the stigma, for it is sticky and holds them. The bee hurries away. She does not know what she has done; she does not know that in brushing aside the stigma that stood in her way she has given life to the seeds and provided for a new generation of tropæolum vines. The flower gave pollen to its neighbors, and now in its need they have sent pollen to it. Soon the bright corolla fades and falls. Its work is done. It expressed its joy in life; it called the bees, and by them sent pollen to its neighbors, and took pollen from them in return. For many days it kept its long red horn full of sweet nectar, until its stigma rose and took the pollen, when the flower faded and fell. But the five-rayed stigma did not fall. It remained attached to the green little fruit that lay hid in the heart of the flower. It is not easy to see this fruit when the flower first opens, for it is small and hidden by the stamens.