And the flower had been stolen from its haunt while its consort slept, and had awakened in a glazed prison--doubtless sufficiently comfortable, save for the absence of that one indispensable counterpart, towards whom we behold in the blossom's very being the embodied expression of welcome. Blooming day after day in anticipation of his coming, and week after week still hoping against hope, we see the flower fade upon its stalk, and with what one might verily believe to be evidences of disconsolation, were it not that the ultra-scientist objects to such a sentimental assumption with regard to a flower, which is unfortunate enough to show no sign of nerves or gray matter in its composition. Who shall claim to _know_ his orchid who knows not its insect sponsor? To take one of our own wild species. Here is the _Arethusa bulbosa_ of Linnaeus, for instance. Its pollen must reach its stigma--so he supposed--in order for the flower to become fruitful. But this is clearly impossible, as the pollen never leaves its tightly closed box unless removed by outside aid, which aid must also be required to place it upon the stigma. This problem, which confronted him in practically every orchid he met, Linnaeus, nor none of his contemporaries, nor indeed his followers for many years, ever solved. Not until the time of Christian Conrad Sprengel (1735) did this and other similar riddles begin to be cleared up, that distinguished observer having been the first to discover in the honey-sipping insect the key to the omnipresent mystery. Many flowers, he discovered, were so constructed or so planned that their pollen could _not_ reach their own stigmas, as previously believed. The insect, according to Sprengel, enjoyed the anomalous distinction of having been called in, in the emergency, to fulfil this apparent default in the plain intentions of nature, as shown in the flower. Attracted by the color and fragrance of the blossom, with their implied invitation to the assured feast of nectar, the insect visited the flower, and thus became dusted with the pollen, and in creeping or flying out from it conveyed the fecundating grains to the receptive stigma, which they could not otherwise reach. Such was Sprengel's belief, which he endeavored to substantiate in an exhaustive volume containing the result of his observations pursuant to this theory. But Sprengel had divined but half the truth. The insect _was necessary_, it was true, but the Sprengel idea was concerned only with the _individual_ flower, and the great botanist was soon perplexed and confounded by an opposing array of facts which completely destroyed the authority of his work--facts which showed conclusively that the insect could _not_ thus convey the pollen as described, because the stigma in the flower was either not yet ready to receive it--perhaps tightly closed against it--or was past its receptive period, even decidedly withered. [Illustration]