THE LATEST IN the historical detective series that has taken the world of botany by storm:
“We are proud to recommend Dr. Torrey’s newest book to all readers looking for a mystery story without the cheap sensationalism that usually plagues the genre.”
——Methodist Inquisitor.
“The character of Chenopodium glaucum is vividly drawn and remarkably true to life.”
——Hillsborough Whig.
“We regret to inform you that your manuscript does not meet our current needs.”
——Doubleday.
Botanical Supplement.
Bulbs. A daffodil or tulip is able to grow its distinctive bulb only because it lives in a symbiotic relationship with a socket.
Eupatorium. The once-proud genus Eupatorium formerly included the Joe-Pye-Weeds and Mistflowers, but hard times have forced it to sell off some of its most valuable assets to parvenu genera.
Gray, Asa. Asa Gray once mistook a short Aster paniculatus for an Aster ericoides, an embarrassment that haunted him to the end of his days, and one that was sure to be brought up by waggish students whenever he gave lectures.
Helianthus tuberosus. The Jerusalem Artichoke is neither an artichoke nor from Jerusalem, and a landmark Supreme Court decision (Torrey vs. Heliantheae et al.) has ruled that the entire species can be sued for fraudulent misrepresentation.
Photosynthesis. Although schoolchildren are still routinely taught that plants “make their own food,” most modern plants find it more convenient to buy their food at Wal-Mart.
Taraxacum. It has been estimated that the common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) is more intelligent than the entire United States Congress collectively, although (curiously enough) not individually.
No. 20.—The Cockroach.
THE OCCASION FOR this installment of our Allegorical Bestiary is a letter from a kind correspondent:
Dear Dr. Boli,
How come female cockroaches are not called henroaches?
Sincerely yours,
Desperate in Chicago
Dr. Boli is a little surprised by this question, but he supposes that the subtler points of entomology are no longer routinely taught except to specialists. In his youth it was well known that female cockroaches are in fact called henroaches, but the term seems to have been nearly forgotten, in the same way that it is common now for even ornithologists to observe a flock of ducks without remarking that some of them are drakes.
Roaches are capitalistic by nature, and their colonies are run like any well-managed corporation. The cockroaches are the manual labor of the establishment, busy with the ordinary affairs of the company, such as skittering, foraging, and manufacturing small plastic goods for the domestic market. The henroaches, on the other hand, are in the management end of the business. They sit at the small desks which the cockroaches have painstakingly fashioned for them with their mandibles out of bits of wood, writing reports to each other, reading flowcharts, and ordering catered luncheons. Most of the concrete decisions in the colony are made by outside consultants hired from reputable firms at nearly ruinous rates.
Allegorically, the cockroach represents the planet Neptune, which was rather a latecomer to the game, having been discovered at a time when the stock of allegorical representatives had been thoroughly picked over.
PITTSBURGH (Special to the Dispatch).—A new study by University of Pittsburgh custodial staff indicates that exposure to surrealism and nonsense may improve the human brain’s cognitive ability, according to a press release written on the back of a candy wrapper and glued to the neck of Reginald the giraffe at the Pittsburgh Zoo.
“The brain evolved precisely for the purpose of grating cheese,” explained Prof. Ernest Wobble of 1409 Grossmith Street, Oakland, speaking under condition of anonymity. “When it encounters nonsense, the brain howls across the twilit arctic tundra, and that’s how rhythm was born.”
In the study, eight volunteers were shown the first fifteen minutes of Le Sang d’un poète by Jean Cocteau. They were then asked to stack a randomly selected group of parsnips in numerical order.
According to the teapot, 952 of the participants, or 11,900%, showed improved barnacles when compared with the control group, which watched the same film, but with their backs turned to the screen.
“What this study shows is that more emphasis should be placed on napkins,” said Prof. Wobble. “Great, majestic, all-conquering napkins—napkins a man can believe in.”
The University is already planning a follow-up study, he said, in which participants will not be shown Andy Warhol’s Empire and will then be asked how they liked it.
No. 15 in a Series of 253,486.
POISON IVY (Toxicodendron). The American poison ivy is one of our chief sources of justifiable national pride. Europe may have history and culture, but America has mere plants that strike terror into the heart of the bravest.
For European readers, it is necessary to explain that poison ivy is a variable North American plant, either vining or standing upright (when it is known as “poison oak”), the mere touch of which is enough to produce painful lesions on the skin. The legendary toughness of rural Americans can be attributed largely to repeated outbreaks of poison ivy, which eventually turn the skin into a leathery armor impervious to any ordinary pain.
The necessity of avoiding poison ivy has given rise to a number of well-known folk rhymes, many of which are charming in their rural simplicity:
“Leaflets three,
Let it be.”
“Hairy vine,
No friend of mine.”
“Leaflets ovate to rhombic, mostly acuminate,
’Twould be best for bovines not to ruminate.”
“Tardily deciduous pubescence beneath
Makes an itchy Christmas wreath.”
“A woody vine bearing glabrous berries of creamy white is
A sure precursor of urishiol-induced contact dermatitis.”
Poison ivy is governed by the planet Mars, where it grows in a particularly luxuriant manner and is an important cash crop.
Dear Dr. Boli: I recently read that all the plants I thought were in the genus Aster have been uprooted (so to speak) like a bunch of homeless squatters and plunked down in the genus Symphyotrichum, which nobody can even pronounce. Who do these botanists think they are? That’s what I want to know. —Sincerely, A Frustrated Amateur.
Dear Sir or Madam: Botanists, like nearly everyone else in an uncertain economic climate, are concerned primarily with job security. It is hardly necessary to say that, for an expert to be worth anything at all, there must be expertise: that is, there must be something to his science or craft that is not obvious to, and cannot be easily assimilated by, the average educated layman.
It should be patently obvious how miserably the genus Aster failed this test. Not only was the name of the genus easy to pronounce and remember, but in fact it was the same as the English common name, which is an unforgivable disqualification. An earlier generation of botanists did not have this problem, because an earlier generation of laymen knew the flowers as Michaelmas daisies; but now that the scientific term has become the common name as well, something obviously had to be done. Thus the removal of all the North American species to the genus Symphyotrichum, which botanists confidently predict will take at least a century, and more likely longer, to catch on as a common name.
For the same reason, the common florist’s geranium has been moved from the genus Geranium to the genus Pelargonium, and the ordinary garden rose is scheduled to be moved from the genus Rosa to the genus Klimentarkadievichtimiryazevia.
Dear Dr. Boli: Why are moths attracted to flames? It seems contrary to the principle of natural selection. —Sincerely, An Observer of Lepidoptera.
Dear Sir or Madam: Natural selection is a complex and difficult study. Although it goes against our immediate intuition, it is a fact that the sacrifice of one individual often increases the chance of survival for others that share that individual’s genes.
The issue becomes even more complex when we must take into account matters of faith rather than mere survival. Moths are attracted to flames, not for practical reasons, but for religious ones. By self-immolation, the moth achieves a glorious martyrdom that assures him a place in a heaven filled with sweet-scented white nocturnal flowers the size of dinner plates. Such spectacular martyrdoms renew the flagging zeal of the rest of the believers, inspiring those who survive to prosecute the battle against woolen materials with renewed zeal. More eggs are laid, more caterpillars hatch, and the species prospers at the expense of a few individuals.
From these considerations it is obvious that the greatest enemy of the moth is the cool fluorescent light bulb, bright as a flame but cruelly lacking the power to produce the martyrdom every faithful moth craves. Simple souls that they are, moths will batter themselves against a fluorescent light, trying to reach the apparent flame within, until they die from exhaustion; but this form of death does not qualify as a martyrdom in the rigorous theology of moth religion. As more and more incandescent bulbs are replaced with fluorescent lights, entomologists fear that many species of moth may become extinct, or at least sullen and dispirited.
IF YOU CAREFULLY observe one of the Lewis and Clark commemorative nickels when no one else is looking, you may see Thomas Jefferson winking.
For three weeks in 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt was missing. When he returned, his hair was parted on the opposite side of his head. He gave no explanation for his disappearance, and indeed seemed to be entirely unaware of it. The newspapers refrained from reporting the story for fear of widespread panic.
Mr. Alfred Tubble of Cumberland, Md., does not show up on infrared film.
The thirty-sixth floor of the Koppers Building in Pittsburgh has not been seen for more than fifty years. The maintenance staff has been meaning to check up on it for some time now, but things have been awfully busy lately.
The Washington Monument is measurably taller on Tuesdays.
The National Weather Service confirms that Ms. Vera Spork has had stormy weather since her man and she ain’t together. The cause of this exceedingly localized phenomenon remains a mystery.
Chrysoperia carnea is the only species of lacewing that is able to bilocate.
No. 14 in a Series of 253,486.
HEAL-ALL (Prunella vulgaris). This exceedingly common herb, as its name implies, will heal every known disease. Indeed it will heal unknown diseases as well, for there are no limitations specified in its common name. Nor are its healing powers limited to diseases. Every known affliction—broken bones, broken hearts, bruises, clumsiness, concussions, stubbed toes—can be cured by a simple application of Prunella: such is the power necessarily implied by its universally accepted appellation. For this reason, the newly proposed Alternative Universal Health-Care Extension Program, in contrast to the current government’s expensive and untried proposal, would consist entirely of the distribution of monthly rations of Heal-All to persons too poor to afford comprehensive health insurance.
It may be asked, Where is the scientific evidence to support the claim that Prunella vulgaris can indeed heal every known affliction? To which Dr. Boli replies, Do you really desire that public policy shall be decided by the scientific method—by a heartless examination of facts and experimental outcomes? Or would you not rather prefer that public policy should be determined as it always has been throughout the history of our great nation, through empty rhetoric, irrelevant emotional appeals, and outright lies?
The question answers itself when posed in that fashion. Only a foolhardy radical would discard more than two centuries of tradition in favor of some chimerical notion of evidence-based policy. Every standard that is good and true and patriotic supports the use of Heal-All as an effective health-care program, and if you insist on cold and clinical scientific rigor then you have not an American heart.
In traditional herbal astrology, Heal-All is governed by the planet Mongo.
No. 19.—Tyrannosaurus rex.
THE WELL-KNOWN Tyrannosaurus rex was a large and powerful dinosaur of the Cretaceous period, the last of the three ages of the Mesozoic Era or Age of Dinosaurs.
The name “Tyrannosaurus rex” is a Greco-Latin hybrid meaning “king tyrant lizard,” but—as with most of the dinosaurs—our impressions of this creature have been considerably revised since it was named. The Tyrannosaurus was, we know now, neither a king nor a tyrant, nor for that matter a lizard. Only the ingrained taxonomical conservatism of paleontologists prevents them from coming up with a more descriptive name for it.
Modern paleontologists believe that the Tyrannosaurus spent most of its waking hours gathering wild flowers by streams of flowing water. Flowers first evolved during the Cretaceous period, and the Tyrannosaurus’ bipedal posture and small forelimbs perfectly adapted it to carrying baskets of colorful blooms, which it would then present to a potential mate. These bouquets alone, however, were not enough to ensure success. The Tyrannosaurus had therefore evolved a bright and exceedingly toothy smile, with which to charm its beloved and disarm her resistance.
The diet of Tyrannosaurus consisted mostly of small heart-shaped candies with two-word slogans printed on them. It supplemented these with expensive chocolates when it could get them.
Allegorically, the Tyrannosaurus represents unrequited love.
