When nature has perfected her seeds, her next care is to disperse them. The seed cannot answer its purpose, while it remains confined in the capsule. After the seeds therefore are ripened, the pericarpium opens to let them out, and the opening is not like an accidental bursting, but for the most part, is according to a certain rule in each plant. What I have always thought very extraordinary; nuts and shells, which we can hardly crack with our teeth, divide and make way for the little tender sprout which proceeds from the kernel. Handling the nut, I could hardly conceive how the plantule was ever to get out of it. There are cases, it is said, in which the seed-vessel, by an elastic jerk, at the moment of its explosion, casts the seeds to a distance. We all, however, know, that many seeds (those of most composite flowers, as of the thistle, dandelion, &c.) are endowed with what are not improperly called _wings_; that is, downy appendages, by which they are enabled to float in the air, and are carried oftentimes by the wind to great distances from the plant which produces them. It is the swelling also of this downy tuft within the seed-vessel that seems to overcome the resistance of its coats, and to open a passage for the seed to escape. But the _constitution_ of seeds is still more admirable than either their preservation or their dispersion. In the body of the seed of every species of plant, or nearly of every one, provision is made for two grand purposes: first, for the safety of the _germ_; secondly, for the temporary support of the future plant. The sprout, as folded up in the seed, is delicate and brittle beyond any other substance. It cannot be touched without being broken.