The Pumpkin

Teacher’s Story

If the pumpkin were as rare as some orchids, people would make long pilgrimages to look upon so magnificent a plant. Although it trails along the ground, letting Mother Earth help it support its gigantic fruit, yet there is no sign of weakness in its appearance; the vine stem is strong, ridged, spiny and purposeful. And the spines upon it are surely a protection under some circumstances, for I remember distinctly when, as children, bare-footed and owning the world, we “played Indian” and found our ambush in the long rows of ripening corn, we skipped over the pumpkin vines, knowing well the punishment they inflicted on the unwary feet.

From the hollow, strongly angled stem arise in majesty the pumpkin leaves, of variously lobed patterns, but all formed on the same decorative plan. The pumpkin leaf is as worthy of the sculptor’s chisel as is that of the classic acanthus; it is palmately veined, having from three to five lobes, and its broad base is supported for a distance on each side of the angled petiole by the two basal veins. The leaves are deep green above, paler below and are covered on both sides with minute bristles, and their edges are finely toothed. The bristly, angled stem which lifts it aloft is a quite worthy support for so beautiful a leaf. And, during our childhood, it was also highly esteemed as a trombone, for it added great richness of quality to our orchestral performances, balancing the shrillness of the basswood whistle and the sharp buzzing of the dandelion-stem pipe.

Growing from a point nearly opposite a leaf, may be seen the pumpkin’s elaborate tendril. It has a stalk like that of the leaf, but instead of the leaf blade it seems to have the three to five naked ribs curled in long, small coils very even and exact. Perhaps, at some period in the past, the pumpkin vines lifted themselves by clinging to trees, as do the gourd vines of to-day. But the pumpkin was cultivated in fields with the maize by the North American Indians, long before the Pilgrim Fathers came to America, to make its fruit into pies. Since the pumpkin cannot sustain itself in our Northern climate without the help of man, it was evidently a native of a warmer land; and, by growing for so long a time as a companion of the corn, it has learned to send its long stems out for many feet, resting entirely upon the ground. But, like a conservative, elderly maiden lady, it still wears corkscrew curls in memory of a fashion, long since obsolete. Occasionally, we see the pumpkin vines at the edge of the field pushing out and clambering over stone piles, and often attempting to climb the rail fences, as if there still remained within them the old instinct to climb.

But though its foliage is beautiful, the glory of the pumpkin is its vivid yellow blossom and, later, its orange fruit. When the blossom first starts on its career as a bud, it is enfolded in a bristly, ribbed calyx with five stiff, narrow lobes, which close up protectingly about the green, cone-shaped bud, a rib of the cone appearing between each two lobes of the calyx. If we watch one of these buds day after day, we find that the green cone changes to a yellow color and a softer texture as the bud unfolds, and then we discover that it is the corolla itself; however, these ribs which extend out to the tip of the corolla-lobes remain greenish below, permanently. The expanding of the flower bud is a pretty process; each lobe, supported by a strong midrib, spreads out into a five-pointed star, each point being very sharp and angular because, folded in along these edges in one of the prettiest of Nature’s hems, is the ruffled margin of the flower. Not until the sun has shone upon the star for some little time of a summer morning, do these turned-in margins open out; and, late in the afternoon or during a storm, they fold down again neatly before the lobes close up; if a bee is not lively in escaping she may, willy-nilly, get a night’s lodging, for these folded edges literally hem her in.

The story of the treasure at the heart of this starry, bell-shaped flower is a double one, and we had best begin it by selecting a flower that has below it a little green globe—the ovary—which will later develop into a pumpkin. At the heart of such a flower there stand three stigmas, that look like liliputian boxing-gloves; each is set on a stout, postlike style, which has its base in a great nectar-cup, the edges of which are slightly incurved over its welling sweetness. In order to reach this nectar, the lady bee must stand on her head and brush her pollen-dusted side against the greedy stigmas. Professor Duggar has noted that in dry weather the margins of this nectar-cup contract noticeably, and that in wet weather the stigmas close down as if the boxing-gloves were on closed fists.

The other half of the pumpkin-blossom story is to be found in the flowers which have no green globes below them, for these produce the pollen. Such a flower has at its center a graceful pedestal with a broad base and a slender stem, which upholds a curiously folded, elongate knob, that looks like some ancient or primitive jewel wrought in gold. The corrugations on its surface are the anther-cells, which are curiously joined and curved around a central oblong support; by cutting one across, we can see plainly the central core, bordered by cells filled with pollen. But where is the nectar well in the smooth cup of this flower? Some have maintained that the bees visit this flower for the sake of the pollen, but I am convinced that this is not all of the story. In the base of the pedestal which supports the anther knob there appear, after a time, three inconspicuous openings; and if we watch a bee, we shall see that she knows these openings are there and eagerly thrusts her tongue down through them. If we remove the anthers and the pedestal, we shall find below the latter, a treasure cave; it is carpeted with the softest of buff velvet, and while it does not reek with nectar, as does the cup which encompasses the styles of the pistil, yet it secretes enough of the sweet fluid so that we can taste it distinctly. Thus, although the bees find pollen in this flower they also find there, nectar. The pumpkin is absolutely dependent upon the work of bees and other insects for carrying its pollen from the blossom that bears it to the one which needs it, as this is the only way that the fruit may be developed.

And after the pollen has been shed and delivered, the flower closes, this time with an air of finality. The fading corolla looks as if its lobes had been twisted about by the thumb and finger to secure tightness; and woe betide the bee caught in one of these prisons, unless she knows how to cut through its walls or can find within, sustenance to last until the withered flower falls. The young pumpkin is at first held up by its stiff stem but later rests upon the ground.

The ripe pumpkin is not only a colossal but also a beautiful fruit. The glossy rind is brilliant orange and makes a very efficient protection for the treasures within it. The stem is strong, five-angled and stubborn, and will not let go its hold until the fruit is over-ripe. It then leaves a star-shaped scar to match the one at the pther end of the fruit, where once the blossom sat enthroned. The pumpkin in shape is like a little world flattened at the poles, and with the lines of longitude creased into its surface. But the number of these longitudinal creases varies with individual pumpkins, and seems to have no relation to the angles of the stem or the three chambers within.

If we cut a small green pumpkin across, we find the entire inside solid. There are three fibrous partitions extending from the center, dividing the pulp into thirds; at its outer end each partition divides, and the two ends curve in opposite directions. Within these curves the seeds are borne. A similar arrangement is seen in the sliced cucumber. As the pumpkin ripens, the partitions surrounding the seeds become stringy and very different from the “meat” next to the rind, which makes a thick, solid outer wall about the central chamber, where, within its “groined arches” are contained six rows of crowded seeds, attached by their pointed tips and supported by a network of yellow, coarse fibers—like babies supported in hammocks. All this network, making a loose and fibrous core, allows the seeds to fall out in a mass when the pumpkin is broken. If we observe where the cattle have been eating pumpkins we find these masses of seeds left and trampled into the mud, where, if our winter climate permitted, they could grow into plants next year.

The pumpkin seed is attached by its pointed end; it is flat, oblong and has a rounded ridge at its edge, within which is a delicate “beading.” The outside is very mucilaginous; but when wiped dry, we can see that it has an outer, very thin, transparent coat; a thicker white, middle coat; while the meat of the seed is covered with a greenish, membranous coat. The meat falls apart lengthwise and flatwise, the two halves forming later the seed-leaves and containing the food laid up by the “pumpkin mother” for the nourishment of the young plant. Between these two halves, at the pointed end, is the germ, which will develop into a new plant.

When sprouting, the root pushes out through the pointed end of the seed and grows downward. The shell of the seed is forced open by a little wedge-shaped projection, while the seed-leaves are pulled from their snug quarters. In watching one of these seeds sprout, it is difficult not to attribute to it conscious effort, while it is sturdily pulling hard to release its seed-leaves. If it fails to do this, the seed shell clamps the seed-leaves together like a vise, and the little plant is crippled.

Both squashes and pumpkins figure in the spicy Thanksgiving pies, but the chief value of the pumpkin crop in America is as food for milch cows; it causes a yield of milk so rich, that the butter made from it is as golden as its flesh. But the Hallow-e’en jack o’lantern appeals to the children. In this connection, a study of expression might be made interesting; the turning of the corners of the mouth up or down, and the angles of the eyebrows, making all the difference between a jolly grin and an “awful face.”