Page:Popular Science Monthly Volume 70.djvu/74

70 came through this curious belief in signatures. Its three-lobed leaves were supposed to bear some resemblance to the lobes of the liver; hence, according to the doctrine of signatures, the plant must possess virtues that would heal the manifold complaints of that organ. Whitlow grass, the Draba verna of the botanist, was thought to be good for the whitlow or felon. Bloodroot, because of its red juice, could cure the bloody flux. Dandelion, dent de leon, was so called, according to Prior, by one Meyster Wilhelmus, a surgeon, as set forth in the Ortus Sanitatis of 1486, from its wonderful virtue in the curing of disease, likening it to a lion's tooth. Saxifrage, comfrey, birthwort, eyebright, self-heal or heal-all, St. John's-wort, sanicle and a host of other more or less familiar wild flowers, each bore some token of its use in the healing of various diseases.

There were many plants, however, that were named for other reasons than that of signature, plants that were not reckoned in the art of simpling. The daisy was the 'eye of day'—dæges-eage—of the old Anglo-Saxons, but the daisy that we know in America—the pest of the farmer and the delight of the wayfarer—is not the daisy of Chaucer and of Shakespeare. It is the great or ox-eye daisy, a plant of a different genus. Why the 'wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r' of Britain's fields never gained a foot-hold in this country, while the great, white ox-eye has become naturalized as our American daisy, is one of those questions which the student of distribution has to solve. If we can not have the poet's flower itself we must at least have the name; that is the privilege of our inheritance. It matters little if we give the name to another, even though it be a 'pernicious weed'; the name, aside from the intrinsic beauty of the flower, endows it with a charm that can never fade. Our eastern buttercups are mainly naturalized species. The one that is truly indigenous—the early crowfoot (Ranunculus fascicularis)—grows on rocky hillsides and in open woods, not in fields and meadows. There is little that touches the fancy in either 'butter' or 'cup,' but join the two in one word and you have a picture of green pastures sprinkled with gold. The name is an old one. It appears in early English speech, and some authorities would derive it from 'button-cop,' literally 'button-head,' allied to the French bouton d'or. 'Butter-cup,' however, has survived, possibly by virtue of its golden chalice, and the name must always be associated with childhood and with spring—with delectable places in the heyday of life. King'scups and gold-cups are other old names, and cuckoo-buds was still another epithet given to these flowers, for we find it in old dialects and in poetry—