A remarkable instance is afforded by a beautiful south European grass, Stipa pennata, the structure of which has been described by Vaucher, and more recently, as well as more completely, by Frank Darwin. The actual seed is small, with a sharp point, and stiff, short hairs pointing backward. The upper end of the seed is produced into a fine twisted cork-screw-like rod, which is followed by a plain cylindrical portion, attached at an angle to the corkscrew, and ending in a long and beautiful feather, the whole being more than a foot in length. The long feather, no doubt, facilitates the dispersion of the seeds by wind; eventually, however, they sink to the ground, which they tend to reach, the seed being the heaviest portion, point downward. So the seed remains as long as it is dry, but if a shower comes on, or when the dew falls, the spiral unwinds, and if, as is most probable, the surrounding herbage or any other obstacle prevents the feathers from rising, the seed itself is forced down and so driven by degrees into the ground. LEAVES --R. Lloyd Praeger The stems of plants are the framework on which the leaves and flowers are spread out to catch the light and air, and we find definite relations existing between the form, position, and strength of stems, and the shape, weight, and function of the organs which the stems support. The branches of an apple or pear tree have to be sufficiently strong not only to withstand the stress of winter gales, and the burden, of the wealth of blossom and foliage of early summer, but also the weight of the abundant fruit of autumn. It is interesting to note that among our cultivated fruits strength of stem has not kept pace with the increase in weight of fruit due to artificial selection, so that in gardens our artificial fruits must needs, in a season of abundance, be supported by artificial stems--by props and crutches--lest, like the legs of the prize turkey in the _Christmas Carol_, the branches might snap like sticks of sealing-wax. In evergreen trees, the weight of snow is a serious contingency that must not be neglected. Nor must the chance of accident owing to wandering animals be left out of account. The young ash saplings, a few feet in height, are as pliable as willow-wands, and spring back into their places as we force our way through them; but the knobby twigs of an old ash tree, which swing clear in the air high overhead, are brittle, and snap across if we attempt to bend them; the elasticity of the whole bough is sufficient to bring them safely through the heaviest storm.