Full download ebook at ebookmass.

com

NSFW: A Novel Isabel Kaplan

For dowload this book click link below

https://ebookmass.com/product/nsfw-a-novel-isabel-
kaplan/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWLOAD EBOOK

Download more ebook from https://ebookmass.com

More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

The Nightborn Isabel Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-nightborn-isabel-cooper/

The Stormbringer Isabel Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-stormbringer-isabel-cooper-2/

The Stormbringer Isabel Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-stormbringer-isabel-cooper/

The Nightborn Isabel Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-nightborn-isabel-cooper-2/
The Stormbringer Isabel Cooper [Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-stormbringer-isabel-cooper-
cooper/

Blood and Ember Isabel Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/blood-and-ember-isabel-cooper-3/

Blood and Ember Isabel Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/blood-and-ember-isabel-cooper/

The Stormbringer Isabel Cooper [Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-stormbringer-isabel-cooper-
cooper-2/

Blood and Ember Isabel Cooper

https://ebookmass.com/product/blood-and-ember-isabel-cooper-2/
 Contents

Title Page
Copyright Notice

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen

Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Also by Isabel Kaplan
About the Author
Copyright
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your
personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in
any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you
believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on
the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
 ONE

The thing about Los Angeles is that it’s awful and I hate it, but when
I’m there, nowhere else exists, and I can’t imagine leaving. It’s a
difficult place to be old or sick or fat or poor or without a strong
social media presence. It’s not an easy place to be young, either.
After college graduation, I postpone my return from Boston by
one week, then two, cat sitting for a professor. It’s the second week
that drives my mother over the edge. She calls, she emails, she
accuses me of loving the professor’s cat more than her. She says
don’t I know how hard she has been working, how lonely and
depressed she has been, how she has been counting down the days
until my return.
I get sick upon arrival, aching limbs at baggage claim blooming
into a fever by the following day. Garden-variety virus, but it hits my
mother’s sweet spot. “You’re run-down, poor baby. I’ll take care of
you,” she says.
My father sends a “welcome home” text. Hope to see you for
dinner soon, he writes. He doesn’t ask where I’ll be living or if I’d
like to stay with him. I suspect he doesn’t want the infringement on
his space, his freedom.
It’s strange being back in my mother’s house. She has just
finished renovating, and it barely looks familiar, though somehow
items from long ago—CD players, pants from GapKids—have
resurfaced in the new version of my old bedroom. The sight of them
is unsettling.
My parents divorced when I was ten, during the summer before
fifth grade. They were civil, but it was terrible. My mother suggested
we go on a diet together. “It’ll be fun,” she told me. “You’ll look great
for the start of the school year.” She said she knew I had been
overeating because I could tell she was unhappy in her marriage.
This was news to me. She taught me all about calories and the
places they hide. I dipped carrots in Dijon mustard while my friends
at day camp traded Skittles and M&M’s, candy coatings melting in a
rainbow smear on their palms.
My weeks were split between my parents. My father kept the
house in the Hollywood Hills, and my mother moved to an apartment
in Santa Monica, across the street from the beach. There was an
infinity pool on the roof and towels were provided. She called it
Heartbreak Hotel.
A few nights a week, I would ride my scooter to the Third Street
Promenade with my mother and younger brother. While my brother
browsed the toy store, I punished myself in the basement fitting
rooms of GapKids, trying on jeans two sizes too small and watching
my stomach pucker as I did up the button. I practiced sitting
casually on the bench in the fitting room, as if I were on a
playground bench at recess. I made believe I was talking about
normal things with my classmates and kept an eye on my stomach in
the mirror.
My mother moved several times over the next five years, a real
tour du West LA, before landing back in Santa Monica, two miles
east of Heartbreak Hotel. When I think back on those years, I
remember a choking sensation. My father’s silence, my mother’s
longing, my brother’s rage. My bottomless hunger. My psychiatrist
kept increasing dosages, switching medications. Trial and error, she
said. I would stare at the tapestry behind her head and say, week
after week, “I want to stop falling asleep in class.”
The day my mother moved into this house was also the day I got
drunk for the first time. Early evening, a bottle of Grey Goose on the
kitchen counter, carton of orange juice next to it. I helped myself. “If
you drink that screwdriver, you can’t drive,” my mother said. I said I
didn’t care, and I drank that one and then another and another until
the floor tilted. I was fifteen. I couldn’t drive at night on a learner’s
permit anyway.
 My parents were both from New England, high-achieving
youngest children of long-suffering Jewish immigrant mothers. A
perfect match on paper. My mother moved to Los Angeles for my
father, a literary historian who moved for his research, wooed by a
trove of archives acquired by USC. My mother often said that my
father was the only person who would willingly relinquish tenure at
Harvard. It took me a long time to understand the double-edged
slice of that comment.
My mother never liked Los Angeles, but she also never left. She
stayed for my brother and me, so that our lives would be stable and
we could have a close, or closer, relationship with our father. She
made do with what she believed to be a pale imitation of the career
she imagined having in Boston, where her star was on the rise and
her expertise—as a lawyer and legal activist doing groundbreaking
work on victims’ rights and rape laws—was more highly valued.
Until I went to college, I didn’t know where my mother ended
and I began, a lack of differentiation more common in toddlers than
teenagers. It was a problem my mother didn’t recognize as such,
which was of course part of the problem. Her life’s purpose was to
sacrifice and provide for me, and mine was to make her feel
sufficiently loved in return. What could possibly go wrong?
Growing up, I assumed I would become a lawyer, like her, or go
into politics, become an advocate for issues affecting women. A
public feminist, broadly conceived. But a Capitol Hill internship the
summer after freshman year—when Democrat dreams of single-
payer health care were shattered—disillusioned me about politics
and I realized I didn’t actually want to be a lawyer.
I spent much of college trying to develop my own interests and a
fundamental sense of self. The only thing that didn’t feel like a hand-
me-down was my love of words, my belief in the power of
storytelling. Before benzos and SSRIs, I had books and TV. I was
never a movie person. I preferred ongoing narratives, parallel
realities to dip into alongside my own. Different stories for different
moods, like vitamins to address certain deficiencies. I became an
English major. I read a lot of novels.
 I liked Cambridge, the unfashionable bookish atmosphere, the
red bricks and history. I considered academia. As a trial run, I took a
graduate seminar on intertextuality, which involved endless
discussions about “the literary word as an intersection of textual
surfaces” and “‘textasy’ as the ‘release’ of the subject in a sexual or
textual ‘coming.’”
I spoke exclusively in fragments, stringing together phrases I
barely understood. The professor was invariably pleased with my
insights. She complimented my analytical clarity. So much
performative nonsense, and to what end? All to spend a decade
picking at the carcasses of my favorite books and competing for
underpaid jobs in places I don’t want to live? I might as well work in
television.
I grew up in the shadow of Hollywood, both figuratively and
literally, the sign itself visible from the rooftop playground of my
elementary school. I hid behind the role of Smart Girl, smug with
intellectual superiority. I was meant for Harvard, not Hollywood.
But Harvard was its own Hollywood, I learned, just with different
jargon and celebrities.
So, really, why not television?
It’s the golden age. Everyone’s talking about the quality of the
writing, the power to catalyze social change, even. Prestige dramas
are the new social novel, my thesis adviser assures me. The Wire is
Middlemarch. Why write academic books about increasingly esoteric
subjects for an audience of approximately twelve when I could be a
part of this creative renaissance? It’s what I want—what I’ve always
wanted. I ran in the other direction out of insecurity, not disinterest.
And so, though I am daunted by the prospect, I move back to
LA.
That I get sick upon return is, in its way, a blessing. It helps me
skip past the claustrophobia and panic that typically smother me
upon arrival, a cling wrap that I have to claw my way through. Or
maybe, I think, as I roll over in bed and wave my arms in search of
a cool patch of sheet, mood softened by an Ambien-NyQuil haze,
maybe I’ve grown.
As soon as my fever breaks and my head clears, I start job hunting.
For what job, I’m not sure. I meet with everyone I know and
everyone they know, shuttling from sleepy production company
offices in the valley to crowded backlot bungalows to try-hard offices
in Hollywood where I struggle to sit in a dignified position on the
neon foam amoebas that someone deemed a step up from regular
old chairs. I feel guilty about using connections, but there’s no
apparent alternative. This is a town full of people with connections.
Most of the people I meet are producers. Few have produced
anything of late.
Somebody advises me, early on, that when the assistant offers
water, I should always accept. My car fills up with plastic bottles,
rolling on the floor of the back seat. I have coffees, many coffees. I
nod and smile until my cheeks hurt.
A writer whose daughter went to my elementary school and with
whom my parents are friendly asks if I’ve thought about working in
development. “That’s where the power is,” she says. “Hollywood
needs more smart executives. If you want to make change in a big,
noticeable way, really impact how women are portrayed on television
and what stories get told, you need power.”
She tells me about a meeting she had that ended with her saying
yes, she would be delighted to work on a network drama called
Marsipan (logline: “Decades after humankind has conquered the red
planet, a diverse group of colonists form Mars’s first ‘Reduced-
Gravity Bake-Off’”).
I learn that development is the department in charge of coming
up with new shows—television’s editorial department, so to speak.
It’s a job with a real career path, a ladder of executive positions to
climb. It sounds like something I could be good at, something I
might enjoy.
Production companies have development departments, as do
studios and networks. If she were me, the writer says, she’d want to
be at a network. At a production company or a studio, you’re closer
to the material, but you’re still a seller, you have no control over
what ends up on air. But at a network, you’re in the buyer’s seat;
you hold the keys to the castle.
Development. The idea takes root, the appeal obvious. I have an
answer now, to the question of what I want to do.

MY BIGGEST BREAK comes in July in the form of a meeting,

arranged by my mother, with her old friend Robert Baum, the
longtime chairman of XBC. XBC is the youngest of the big broadcast
networks, known for edgier programming than the older stalwarts.
In advance of the meeting, I watch as many XBC shows as I can. I
worry too much about what to wear. I read interviews with Robert,
who is in his early seventies and comes across as charismatic and
good humored. It’s often noted that he is the kind of boss who
inspires great loyalty from his employees. He has been at the
network for over twenty years and shepherded many of the biggest
early-aughts hits to prime-time success, ambitious, character-driven
shows that seemed risky at the time, better suited to cable. Now,
after long runs, nearly all those shows are off-air, and, like the other
broadcast networks, XBC is struggling to compete with digital and
streaming services and cord-cutting millennials who don’t watch live
TV. Robert’s a member of the old guard, but he’s not considered out
of touch. He knows he’s part of a changing landscape, and he’s
ready to change with it. Most important, my mother says, is the
loyalty aspect: it shows he’s a good boss, that his top executives
have been at the network so long.
Robert’s office is perched on the top floor of the executive
building on XBC’s affiliated studio lot. I have been on a studio lot
before, though only a few times, and I feel self-conscious and
scrambled by the protocol. The building’s lobby is all white and
polished marble and well-dressed people moving with purpose. Next
to me in the elevator: a woman so thin, she looks flattened. Flawless
blow-dry, icy-blue blazer, and a familiar face. Veronica Ross, I realize.
President of XBC, a regular feature in various “Women Who Are
Changing Hollywood” roundups. I’ve read about her. Have
fantasized, tentatively, about becoming her. She does not make eye
contact with me or appear to register my presence in any way. I look
down at my feet, the toes pinched and aching in my mother’s heels,
which are too tight even though we theoretically wear the same size.
(“So they’re a little tight; are you planning to run a marathon?” my
mother said after condemning all the shoes in my closet.)
Veronica strides ahead of me down the hall, into the waiting
room outside Robert’s office, where two assistants sit at side-by-side
desks.
“Morning, Veronica,” one of the assistants says. Veronica barely
stops to nod.
I take a seat on the couch across from the assistants and pretend
to check my email, to have somewhere to direct my eyes. Relax. Try
to relax. You probably don’t look as dumpy or desperate as you feel.
Twenty minutes later, Veronica strides out, and shortly thereafter,
one of the assistants tells me to go on in.
The office itself is huge. An imposing desk, two leather couches,
and a handful of tastefully upholstered armchairs. A well-curated
coffee table featuring carefully fanned copies of Variety and The
Hollywood Reporter, a signed football in a case, and two glass
bottles in the shape of handguns, filled with golden liquid.
“Tequila,” Robert says. “The only kind of guns I’m allowed to
have in here.”
He is shorter than I was expecting, based on his online
headshots. What my mother would call a Jewish five-eight. Meaning
five-six. His voice is what strikes me most. Deep, booming, and
Boston accented. He sounds like my mother in a way few people in
LA do. I remember my mother telling me that the first time she
heard Robert speak, she went up to him and said, “Are you by
chance from Salem?”
“How did you know?” he had asked.
“You sound just like my father, and he was from Salem,” my
mother said.
 Now, as I sit across from Robert and give him a little spiel about
myself, he interrupts me. “You sound just like your mother,” he says.
“It’s wild.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Do you get that a lot?” he asks.
“I do.”
I don’t think the two of us sound that much alike, but there must
be things I don’t notice. Inflections. Intonations. Also, I don’t really
know what my own voice sounds like.
“I love your mother,” he says.
“Join the club!” I say, shifting my legs in a futile attempt to
dislodge the underwear that has migrated uncomfortably from ass
cheek to crack. “And I love XBC,” I add. “I admire the way you built
the brand and pushed the limits of what broadcast can do.” I
couldn’t sound more like an anonymous cover letter if I tried.
“So you want to polish brass on the Titanic, do you?” he says.
“I hear it’s the fastest ship afloat.”
He laughs, and I feel a quick flash of relief. “If anyone avoids the
iceberg, it’ll be us,” he says. “But only time will tell.”
“I have time.”
“Let me guess. You watch more cable than broadcast, right?
That’s your profile. More shows every year full of young people
getting naked and doing drugs, and that’s fine, some of them are
very good, but all the fear-mongering articles fawning over premium
cable and asking, ‘Is broadcast dead?’ Nobody mentions the
numbers! Cable, you’re in the hundred thousands. And that’s a hit.
Us? Millions. Not a competition! You want viewers? We’ve got
viewers.”
“Where’s that story?” I ask.
“You’re telling me! These cable honchos, they think it’s edgy to
show people shtupping on screen. You know what’s edgy? Being
provocative without cheap tricks. That’s what we’re about. I don’t
want fluffy schlock or another CSI set in god knows where because
they’re running out of good cities.”
“I love Justice Served,” I tell Robert. It’s XBC’s cop show, one of
Robert’s biggest successes. For a show about violent crime, it’s
strangely soothing to watch, in large part due to the formulaic
structure of the episodes. You know the first suspect is a red herring
and that there will be a big twist forty minutes in. Final scenes are
always in the courtroom—justice is not necessarily served, because
that would be too predictable, but things work out often enough to
sustain hope. I’m not the only one who likes this show—it’s hugely
popular, into its sixteenth season now. The chemistry between the
two detectives, Newman and Coffey, is what keeps it going. It’s been
will-they-or-won’t-they for years, but they haven’t so far, and there’s
something commendable in that. Blake Peterson’s rugged, short-
fused Detective Newman is the more popular of the two, but I’ve
always liked Coffey best. The actress who plays her is muscular in
both body and attitude. Alluring because of how much on-screen
space she takes up, not how little. She’s nearly the same size as
Blake Peterson. I get his appeal, I guess. I wouldn’t not fuck him.
But I feel no desire to talk to him, no sense of an interesting person
behind the part. Then again, I’ve always had the tendency to ascribe
more dimension to women and to objectify men. Problematic, sure,
but in this male-dominated hellscape of a world, what’s so wrong
with a little overcorrection?
This I don’t say to Robert Baum, of course. I’m no fool. I tell him
only how much I like the show and congratulate him on its recently
celebrated milestone: fifteen years on air.
“The little show that could,” he says. “Newman and Coffey are
keeping XBC alive.”
I tell Robert about my interest in development and, god help me,
about how my undergraduate thesis on representations of gender-
based oppression in the works of George Eliot furthered my belief in
the social and political power of fictional narratives.
“Over my head,” Robert says, with a laugh. “I was always a
Hemingway fan myself.”
I smile and nod, glance over at the tequila guns on the coffee
table. Figures. “He’s good too,” I say. I’ve never liked Hemingway. All
the tortured masculinity and bitch-goddess women, though yes, fine,
the man could write a great sentence.
 Robert goes on to explain that he isn’t kept apprised of all the
comings and goings on the assistant level, but he knows there is
fairly frequent turnover, and I sound like I have the drive that it
takes to succeed. His cheeks pinken as he leans over to pick up the
phone on a side table. “Can you leave word from me for Diane in
HR?” he says, presumably to one of the assistants beyond the door.
He returns the receiver to its cradle and presses a button on the
wall. The door to the waiting room swings open, which I take as my
cue to depart. I stand. “You’re a good one, I can tell,” he says,
remaining seated. “And if we don’t snap you up, someone else will.”

The buoyancy lasts for a few days, until I go in for an HR meeting,

which is in a different building with different parking and entrance
instructions, so I arrive feeling just as frazzled as I did the first time.
I meet with two women in HR, neither of whom are as encouraging
as Robert. They both remind me that I am underqualified; they
usually require agency experience. The first woman, Diane, an EVP
with a large office, though not nearly as large as Robert’s, asks how
I feel about doing personal tasks.
“I’d prefer to do professional ones?” I answer.
She nods, thinking.
Afterward, a lower-level executive with a smaller office and only
one guest chair asks if I have experience booking travel and making
reservations.
“Yes?” I say.
HR sends my résumé to an executive at the affiliated studio who
is hiring an assistant, and I have a good meeting with him, though
the oligarchic power structure through which this studio and XBC are
intertwined but somehow independent remains opaque to me. The
executive gives me a script to write coverage on, and I spend a long,
careful time on it. The job goes to someone else, a friend of his
current assistant.
 There are more meetings that go nowhere, other leads I follow
up on. Hours spent smiling and nodding and hearing people say,
“You sound great; you’re so impressive.” Another assistant job that I
get close on, two rounds of interviews, but it goes to someone with
more experience.
My mother calls Robert Baum again in September, ostensibly to
talk about whether he might have legal business for her (no, not
right now, but she’s at the top of his list), but mostly to follow up on
my behalf. He promises to check in on the situation, which sets off a
chain of events leading to a call from Diane in HR, who offers me a
floating temp position in the development department. It’s only
temporary, she explains, barely a step above an internship, but if I
impress the executives, I’ll have a better shot of landing a
permanent assistant job when one opens than I would if I were an
external candidate.
I accept immediately.
The weekend before I start work, my mother and I get our nails
done together for the first time in years, and I allow her to convince
me to put acrylic tips on my ravaged stubs so that I will look like an
adult woman. My mother has worn acrylics for decades. Deep red,
usually, though sometimes pink. When she is anxious or stressed,
she tears them off. Throughout my childhood, there were nails
everywhere: in purses, pockets, around the house. Sometimes, if it
was just one or two nails, she would save them in her wallet and
bring them to the salon for reattachment. I often accompanied her.
Before the divorce, it was I Love Nails on Beverly. After, across town,
Tracy’s Nails on Montana.
“Me again,” she would say, voice ringing over the front door bell’s
chime.
“Full set?” they’d ask.
I began tearing off my nails around age ten, but these were my
real nails, not fake tips. A brief satisfaction, though sometimes too
much would come off, raw pink skin exposed. Sometimes blood and
a throbbing that would linger. I stopped enjoying trips to the nail
salon. But I accompanied my mother for a long time because I
would go anywhere and everywhere with her.
 I have not been to Tracy’s Nails in years. “All grown up!” Tracy
says to me. “You look so much like your mother.”
“Prettier than I ever was,” my mother says.
“The same!” Tracy says, passing her sister-in-law, who has been
tasked with my hands, a basket of gel nail polish samples for me to
consider. Plastic wheels of nails, more shades of red than anyone
could possibly need.
“You know what my mother told me when she was born?” my
mother tells Tracy. “She said, ‘She looks just like you, but with much
finer features.’”
“Well, that was Nana being a bitch,” I say, relinquishing my hands
to the sister-in-law.
“How old are you now?” Tracy asks me.
“Twenty-two.”
“She just graduated from Harvard!” my mother adds, loud
enough to prompt congratulations from the rest of the salon. The
woman two stations to my right, who is wearing a sweatshirt that
reads NAMASTAY IN BED and fur-lined Gucci slides, leans over to ask if
I grew up here and what schools I went to. I answer, giving the
names of my private elementary and secondary schools. She nods
with obvious approval and I feel conflicting zaps of satisfaction and
disgust. I glance down at her feet, the overflow of fur. It looks like
she stepped on a couple of squirrels.
These days, my elementary school has a lower acceptance rate
than Harvard. When I, at two years old, was wait-listed alongside
the son of one of the most famous actors in Hollywood, my mother
went as far as calling the White House for a letter of
recommendation. I felt out of step with my classmates, who brought
in their parents’ Academy Awards for show-and-tell.
“We’re not like them; we’re not from here,” my mother would
remind me. But I was from here.
Many of my classmates’ parents weren’t from LA either, this being
a city people come to, not from. But my parents weren’t here for the
industry. Therein lay the difference.
I didn’t enjoy elementary school. I wanted more rigorous
academics. When presented with suggested research topics like
dinosaurs, ballet, and Shirley Temple, I opted for underrepresented
suffragettes instead. I gave a presentation on Eleanor Roosevelt,
including extensive discussion of her sexuality and rumored
relationship with Lorena Hickok. I asked to do my sixth-grade book
report on Lolita. My poor teachers.
“You must be so proud,” Tracy says to my mother.
“Of course. We had a lovely time at graduation. She gave one of
the commencement speeches!”
Nothing to do but smile. Lovely is not the word for it.
A month before graduation, after I told her I’d been selected as a
commencement speaker, my mother said she didn’t think she could
come. That the whole experience would be too painful for her,
prompting traumatic memories of her own college graduation, which
Nana didn’t attend because my mother couldn’t secure a ticket for
Nana’s new husband.
“So you’re telling me that your mother’s failure to put you first
and attend your graduation hurt you in a lasting way, and as a result
you’re going to do the exact same thing to me?” I cried into the
phone.
“No, no, no!” she cried back.
Both of us beside ourselves with frustration.
“I’ve always been there for you. Nana was never there for me.”
“I know.”
“My college graduation was different,” my mother reminded me.
“I had just been raped.” She sat on the platform in her borrowed
robe, struggling to find a comfortable position, ass still sore from the
shots they gave her at the hospital. No mother in the audience to
show her support.
My mother was raped in a Boston parking garage five days
before her college graduation. This is something I’ve known for as
long as I can remember. I knew about rape before I knew about sex.
Before I fully understood the mechanics of it, at least. I didn’t know
this was unusual, either. There was a song called “It Wasn’t Me” that
came out when I was in fifth grade. I thought it was about a lousy
rape-allegation defense: She saw the marks on my shoulder (wasn’t
me). Heard the words that I told her (wasn’t me). Heard the
screams gettin’ louder (wasn’t me). I shared my interpretation with
my classmates, who went home with questions for their parents.
I grew up hearing my mother talk openly about rape—in
speeches, on TV, on the radio, with friends. As a child, I didn’t have
any objective understanding of her prominence, but I did know that
she was famous enough to be recognized in public fairly regularly. It
was because of a book she published just before I was born called
Simple Rape, which led to a regular column in a big newspaper, a
weekend radio show, TV appearances, and lots of panels and
lectures and advisory boards. She practiced law, too, but selectively,
focusing on sexual assault and gender discrimination. Passion
projects.
“What’s a complicated rape?” I remember asking when I was
eleven.
“Simple rape is the most complicated kind,” my mother said. She
explained that a simple rape is when the victim knows her attacker,
and he doesn’t beat or threaten her with a weapon. It’s the most
common form of rape. Comparatively few people are raped by an
armed stranger, as my mother was. An armed stranger who also
stole her purse. Because of this, the police believed her. If the rapist
were someone she knew, a boyfriend or acquaintance, a man with a
good reputation, they would have been more critical, she explained.
Same goes with a jury.
How inspired I was by my mother’s ability to turn her trauma into
fuel. To transform an experience in which she was believed into a
weapon to use on behalf of those who were not. Her own rapist was
never caught. She went on to law school, then cofounded the first
nonprofit legal center dedicated to victims’ rights. Then, collecting all
she’d learned from her experience as both victim and advocate, she
wrote Simple Rape, an examination of the ways the law mistreats
rape victims.
She came to my graduation in the end.
I made a reservation for dinner at a restaurant in Boston for my
parents, brother, and me. New England seafood meets New
American, somewhere well reviewed and recommended by a friend
but, unbeknownst to me, located just a few blocks from the original
location of my mother’s victims’ rights law center. A painful reminder
of the world she left behind, the life she might have had. “How could
you have chosen this restaurant?” she said. “How could you do this
to me?”
How could I have known?
My brother, newly nineteen, radiated fury. He was on a confusing
new diet of exclusively chicken and eggs. “Your brother can’t have
anything on this menu. Did you even think about him?” my mother
said. “Of course not. You only think about yourself.”
There were many tears, from everyone but my father, who
refused to engage and made eye contact only with the branzino on
his plate. We left before dessert. I was too drained to party hop with
my friends. It was then that I decided to stay in Boston a little
longer, to recuperate before returning to my mother once more.
“Doesn’t that look better?” my mother says now, after the UV
light machine dings and I remove my newly dried glossy-nailed
hands. “Not too long, very natural.”
She is right, they do look better like this. It’s harder to type,
though. The nails make contact with the keys before the pads of my
fingers do, and it’s a foreign and frustrating feeling. My mother
assures me that I will get used to it. I’m not writing anything lengthy
these days anyway, just cover letters and networking emails.
Now that I am back, now that she has, for the moment, what
she wants—which is me, close to her—we are in a period of calm;
we are even having fun. We go shoe shopping, get stoned, order
sushi, and watch Justice Served. We are, together, indomitable. Pity
the poor shmuck who tries to pull one over on us at the car
dealership. The look on his face when we jab back. We know
nothing about cars but everything about the sounds of sexist
condescension. My mother takes it a little far, with vague threats of a
lawsuit, and I feel a familiar blend of pride and panic—pride in her
strength and panic at her potential for overkill, like the time she
wrote a nationally syndicated column about IBM’s poor customer
service when her laptop died.
Maybe the problem was that I’ve never had an independent life
in LA. The catch, the question to which I don’t have an answer and
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Day Hour Formation Station Altitude Exposure Community POSITION OF Thermograph Sky Wind
READING
3 feet Surf. 12 in.
17/8/04 6:30 Spruce Jack 2550 m. N.E. 5° Mertensiare 9° 9° 9.8° 10° Clear 0
A.M. Brook
„ „ Half gravel Hiawatha 2550 m. N.E. 7° Asterare 11.2° 11.2° 14.8° 10° Clear 0
„ 6:30 P.M. Spruce Jack 2550 m. N.E. 5° Mertensiare 11.4° 11.4° 9.8° 11° Cloudy 0
Brook
„ „ Half gravel Hiawatha 2550 m. N.E. 7° Asterare 12° 13.8° 16.4° 11° Cloudy 0

102. Temperature sums and means. The amount of heat, i. e., the number of calories
received within a given time by a definite area of plant surface, can be determined by means of a
calorimeter. From this the temperature sum of a particular period may be obtained by simple
addition. In the present condition of our knowledge, it is impossible to establish any exact
connection between such results and the functional or growth effect that can be traced directly to
heat. As a consequence, temperature sums do not at present contribute anything of value to an
understanding of the relation between cause and effect. The mean daily temperature is readily
obtained by averaging twenty-four hour-temperatures recorded by the thermograph. The method
employed by Meyen[6], of deriving the mean directly from the maximum and minimum for the day,
is not accurate; from a large number of computations, the error is always more than two degrees. On
the other hand, the mean obtained by averaging the maximum and minimum for the day and night
has been found to deviate less than 1 degree from the mean proper. This fact greatly increases the
value of maximum-minimum instruments if they are read daily at 6:00 A.M. and 6:00 P.M.
103. Temperature curves. The kinds and combinations of temperature curves are almost
without number. The simple curves of most interest are those for a series of stations or habitats,
based upon the level of three feet, or the surface, or the daily mean. The curves for each station
representing the different heights and depths and the season curve of the daily means for a habitat
are also of much importance. One of the most illuminating combinations is that which groups
together the various level curves for a series of habitats. Other valuable combinations are obtained
by grouping the curves of daily means of different habitats for the season, or the various station
curves.
104. Plant temperatures. The direct effects of temperature as seen in nutrition and growth can
be ascertained only by determining the temperature of plant tissues. The temperatures of the air and
of the soil surface have an important effect upon humidity, and water-content, and through them
upon the plant, but heat can influence assimilation, for example, only in so far as it is absorbed by
the assimilating tissue. The temperatures of the leaf, as the most active nutritive organ of the plant,
are especially important. While it is a well-known fact that internal temperatures follow those of the
air and soil closely, though with varying rapidity of response, this holds less for leaves than for stems
and roots. Owing to the very obvious difficulties, practically nothing has yet been done in this
important field. A few preliminary results have been obtained at Minnehaha, which serve to show
the need for such readings. Gravel slide rosettes in an air temperature of 24° C. and a surface
temperature of 40° C. gave the following surface readings: Parmelia, 40°, Eriogonum, 38.6°,
Arctostaphylus, 35°, Thlaspi, 31.8°, and Senecio, 31°. The leaf of Eriogonum flavum, which is
smooth above and densely hairy below, indicated a temperature of 31.8° when rolled closely about
the thermometer bulb with the smooth surface out, and 28° when the hairy surface was outside. The
surface readings of the same leaf were .5°–1° higher when made upon the upper smooth surface.
This immediately suggests that the lower surface may be modified to protect the leaf from the great
heat of the gravel, which often reaches 50° C. (122° F.).
 PRECIPITATION
105. General relations. As the factor which exerts the most important control upon water-
content and humidity, rainfall must be carefully considered by the ecologist. It is such an obvious
factor, and is usually spoken of in such general terms that the need of following it accurately is not
evident at once. When it is recognized that the fluctuations of water-content are directly traceable to
it, it becomes clear that its determination is as important as that of any indirect factor. This does not
mean, however, that the amount of yearly rainfall is to be taken from the records of the nearest
weather station, and the factor dismissed. Like other instruments, the rain gauge must be kept at the
base station of the area under study, and when this is extensive or diverse, additional instruments
should be put into commission. While the different parts of the same general climatic region may
receive practically the same amount of precipitation during the year, it is not necessarily true that
the rainfall of any particular storm is equally distributed, especially in the mountains. Nothing less
than an exact knowledge of the amount of rain that falls in the different areas will make it possible to
tell how much of the water-content found at any particular time in these represents merely the
chance differences of precipitation.
The forms of precipitation are rain, dew, hail, snow, and frost. Of these, hail is too infrequent to be
taken into account, while frost usually occurs only at the extremes of the growing season, and in its
effect is rather to be reckoned with temperature. Snow rarely falls except during the period of rest,
and, while it plays an important part as cover, it is merely one of several factors that determine the
water-content of the soil at the beginning of spring. The influence of dew is not clearly understood. It
is almost always too slight in amount and too fleeting to affect the water-content of the soil. It seems
probable that it may serve by its own evaporation to decrease in some degree the water loss from the
soil, and from bedewed plants. If, however, the dew is largely formed by the water of the soil and of
the plant, as is thought by some, then it is negligible as a reinforcement of water-content. From the
above, it is evident that rainfall alone exerts a profound effect upon the habitat, and it is with its
measurement that the ecologist is chiefly concerned.
 Fig. 22. Rain gauge showing construction.

106. The rain gauge, as the illustration shows, is a cylindrical vessel with a funnel-shaped
receiver at the top, which is 8 inches in diameter. The receiver fits closely upon a narrower brass
vessel or measuring tube in which the rain collects. The ratio of surface between receiver and tube is
10 to 1. For readings covering a general area, the rain-gauge is placed in the open, away from
buildings or other obstructions, and is sunken in the ground sufficiently to keep it upright. In
localities where winds are strong, it is usually braced at the sides also or supported by a wooden
frame. In measuring the amount of rain in the measuring tube, the depth is divided by ten in order
to ascertain the actual rainfall. The depth is measured by inserting the measuring-rod through the
hole in the funnel until it touches the bottom. It is left for a second or so, quickly withdrawn, and the
limit of the wetted portion noted. In the case of standard rods, the actual rainfall is read directly in
hundredths, so that the division by ten is unnecessary. After each reading, the measuring tube is
carefully drained, replaced, and the receiver put in position. No regular time for making readings is
necessary. During a rainy period, it is customary to make a measurement each day, but it has been
found more satisfactory for ecological purposes to measure each shower, and to record its duration.
These two facts furnish a ready clue to the relative amount of run-off in each fall of rain. The
measurement of snowfall is often made merely by determining its depth. For comparison with
rainfall, the rain gauge with receiver and tube withdrawn is used. The snow which falls is melted,
poured into the measuring tube, and measured in the ordinary way. The U. S. Weather Bureau
standard rain gauge, with measuring stick, may be obtained of H. J. Green, or of J. P. Friez for $5.25.
107. Precipitation records. From the periodic character of precipitation, rainfall sums, means,
and curves have little importance in the careful study of the habitat. The rainfall curve for the
growing season is an aid in explaining the curve of water-content, and the mean rainfall of a region
gives some idea of its vegetation, though even here the matter of its distribution is of primary
importance. The rain and snow charts published by the U. S. Weather Bureau furnish data of some
importance for the general study of vegetation, but it is evident that they can play little part in a
system which is founded upon the habitat. Precipitation records, for reasons of brevity and
convenience, are united with wind records, and the form will be found under the discussion of this
factor.
 WIND
108. Value of readings. On account of its
direct effect upon humidity, and its consequent
influence upon water-content, the part which
wind plays in a habitat can not be ignored in a
thorough investigation. It is an important
element in exposure, and accordingly has a
marked mechanical effect upon the vegetation
of exposed habitats, alpine slopes, seacoasts,
plains, etc. Owing to its inconstancy and its
extreme variation in velocity, single wind
readings are absolutely without value. When
read in series, anemometers give some
information upon the comparative air
movement in different habitats, but the chance
of error is great, except when the breeze is
steady. Anemographs alone give real
satisfaction. Accurate results, however, are not
Fig. 23. Simple anemometer. obtainable without a series of two or more in
different habitats, and it is still an open
question whether the results obtained justify
the expense. For a completely equipped base station, anemometer, anemograph, and wind vane are
desirable instruments, but the study of the habitat has by no means reached the stage of precision in
which their general use is necessary.
109. The anemometer in its simplest form
is adapted only to readings made under direct
observation, as a sudden change in the
direction of the wind reverses the movement of
the indicator needle. This simple wind gauge,
shown in figure 23, has been used for
instructional purposes, and to a slight extent,
also, in ascertaining the effect of cover. In
constant winds, successive single readings are
found to have value, but, ordinarily, the
observations must be simultaneous. Careful
tests of this simple instrument show that it is
essentially accurate. It may be obtained from
the C.H. Stoelting Company, 31 W. Randolph
St., Chicago, for $25. The standard anemometer
(Fig. 24) is practically a recording instrument
up to 1,000 miles, but as the dials run on
without any indication of the total number of
revolutions, it must be visited and read each
day. This renders its use difficult for habitats
which are some distance apart. When exact
determinations of wind values become
necessary, the most successful method is to
establish a series of three standard
anemometers. One of these should be placed Fig. 24. Standard anemometer.
upon the most exposed part of a typically open
habitat, the second in the most protected part of the same habitat, while the third is located in the
midst of a representative forest formation. If the two habitats are close together, the daily visits can
be made without serious inconvenience. The reading of the registering dials requires detailed
explanation, and for this the reader is referred to the printed directions which accompany the
instrument. In setting up the anemometer it must be borne in mind that the ecologist desires the
wind velocity for a particular habitat. In consequence, the precautions which the meteorologist takes
to place the instrument at a certain height and well away from surrounding obstructions do not hold
here. Standard anemometers are furnished by H. J. Green, and J. P. Friez for $25 each.
The anemograph is an anemometer electrically connected with an automatic register. It is the only
instrument adapted to continuous weekly records in different habitats, but the price, $75 ($25 for
the anemometer and $50 for the register) is practically prohibitive, at least until a complete series of
ecographs for other factors has been obtained.
110. Records. The following form is used as a combined record for precipitation and wind:
 RAINFALL WIND
Day Time Formation Station Altitude Exposure Community Base Base
Inches Duration Velocity Heig’t Direction
6:30
29/8/04 Half gravel Hiawatha 2550 m. N.E. 17° Asterare 1 8 hours 5 3 ft. N. W.
P.M.
5:45
31/8/04 „ „ „ „ „ Trace 10 min. 12 „ „
P.M.
4:00
2/9/04 „ „ „ „ „ .2 2 hours 7 „ W.
P.M.
10:00
3/9/04 „ „ „ „ „ Trace 18 „ „
P.M.
 SOIL
111. Soil as a factor. In determining the value of the soil as a factor in a particular habitat, it
must be clearly recognized that its importance lies solely in the control which it exerts upon water-
content and nutrient-content. The former is directly connected with the texture or fineness of the
soil, the latter with its chemical nature. Accordingly, the structure of the soil and its chemical
composition are the fundamental points of attack. These are not at all of equal value, however.
Water is both a food, and a solvent for the nutrient salts of the soil. Furthermore, the per cent of
soluble salts, as determined in mechanical analyses, is practically the same for all ordinary soils.
Indeed, the variations for the same soil types are as great as for entirely different types. For these
reasons, soluble salt-content may be ignored except where it is readily seen to be excessive, as in
alkaline soils; and determinations of chemical composition are necessary only in those soils which
contain salts or acids to an injurious degree, e. g., alkaline soils, peat bogs, humus swamps, etc. The
structure of the soil, on the other hand, in the usual absence of excessive amounts of solutes,
absolutely controls the fate of the water that enters the ground, in addition to its influence upon the
run-off. It determines the amount of gravitation water lost by percolation, as well as the water that
can be raised by capillarity. The resultant of these, the total soil water or holard, is hence an effect of
structure, while the size and compactness of the particles are conclusive factors in controlling the
chresard. It must be recognized, however, that these are all factors which enable us to interpret the
amount of holard or chresard found in a particular soil. They have no direct important effect upon
the plant, but influence it only in so far as they affect the water present.
112. The value of soil surveys. The full appreciation of the preeminent value of water-content,
particularly of the chresard, greatly simplifies the ecological study of soils. The ecologist is primarily
concerned with soil water only in its relation to the plant, and while a fair knowledge of soil structure
is essential to a proper understanding of this, he has little concern with the detailed study of the
problems of soil physics. For the sake of a proper balance of values, he must avoid the tendency
noted elsewhere of ignoring the claims of the plant, and of studying the soil simply as the seat of
certain physical phenomena. Accordingly, it is felt that mechanical and chemical analyses,
determinations of soluble salt-content, etc., have much less value than has been commonly
supposed. The usual methods of soil survey, which pay little or no attention to water-content, and
none at all to available water, are practically valueless for ecological research. This statement does
not indicate a failure to appreciate the importance of the usual soil methods for many agricultural
problems, such as the use of fertilizers, conservation of moisture, etc., though even here to focus the
work upon water-content would give much more fundamental and serviceable results. For these
reasons, slight attention will be paid to methods of mechanical and chemical analysis. In their stead
is given a brief statement of the origin, structure, and character of soils with especial reference to
water-content.
113. The origin of soils. Rocks form soils in consequence of weathering, under the influence of
physical and biotic factors. Weathering consists of two processes, disintegration, by which the rock is
broken into component particles of various sizes, and decomposition, in which the rock or its
fragments are resolved into minute particles in consequence of the chemical disaggregation of its
minerals, or of some other chemical change. These processes are usually concomitant, although, as a
rule, one is more evident than the other. The relation between them is dependent upon the character
of the rock and the forces which act upon it. Hard rocks, i. e., igneous and metamorphic ones, as a
rule disintegrate more rapidly than they decompose; sedimentary rocks, on the other hand, tend to
decompose more rapidly than they disintegrate. In many cases the two processes go hand in hand.
This difference is the basis for the distinction, first proposed by Thurmann, between those rocks
which weather with difficulty and those which weather readily. The former were called
dysgeogenous, the latter eugeogenous. Thurmann restricted the application of the first term to those
rocks which produce little soil, but it seems more logical to apply dysgeogenous to those in which
disintegration is markedly in excess of decomposition, and eugeogenous to those rocks that break
down rather readily into fine soils. With respect to the general character of the soil formed, rocks are
pelogenous, clay-producing, psammogenous, sand-forming, or pelopsammogenous, producing
mixed clay and sand. The first two are divided into perpelic, hemipelic, oligopelic, perpsammic, etc.,
with reference to the readiness with which they are weathered, but this distinction is not a very
practicable one. The grouping of soils into silicious, calcareous, argillaceous, etc., with reference to
the chemical nature of the original rock, is of no value to the ecologist, apart from the general clue to
the physical properties which it furnishes.
114. The structure of soils. The water capacity of a soil is a direct result of the fineness of the
particles. Since the water is held as a thin surface film by each particle or group of them, it follows
that the amount of water increases with the water-holding surface. The latter increases as the
particles become finer and more numerous, and thus produce a greater aggregate surface. The
upward and downward movements of water in the soil are likewise in immediate connection with
the size of particles. The upward or capillary movement increases as the particles become finer, thus
making the irregular capillary spaces between them smaller, and magnifying the pull exerted. On the
contrary, the downward movement of gravitation water, i. e., percolation, is retarded by a decrease
in the size of the soil grains and hastened by an increase. Hence, the two properties, capillarity and
porosity, are direct expressions of the structure of the soil, i. e., of its texture or fineness. Capillarity,
however, increases the water-content of the upper layers permeated by the roots of the plant, while
porosity decreases it. On the basis of these properties alone, soils would fall into two groups,
capillary soils and porous soils, the former fine-grained and of high water-content, the latter coarse-
grained and with relatively little water. A third factor, however, of great importance must be taken
into account. This is the pull exerted upon each water film by the soil particle itself. This pull
apparently increases in strength as the film grows thinner, and explains why it finally becomes
impossible for the root-hairs to draw moisture from the soil. This property, like capillarity, is most
pronounced in fine-grained soils, such as clays, and is least evident in the coarser sands and gravels.
It seems to furnish the direct explanation of non-available water, and, in consequence, to indicate
that the chresard is an immediate result of soil texture.
115. Mechanical analysis. From the above
it is evident that, with the same rainfall, coarse
soils will be relatively dry, and fine soils
correspondingly moist. However, this
difference in holard is somewhat
counterbalanced by the fact that the chresard is
much greater in the former than in the latter.
The basis of these relations can be obtained
only from a study of the texture of the soil. The
usual method of doing this is by mechanical
analysis. This is far from satisfactory, since the
use of the sieves often brings about the
disaggregation of groups of particles which act
as units in the soil. Furthermore, the analysis
affords no exact evidence of the compactness of
the soil in nature, and tests of capillarity and
porosity made with soil samples out of position
are open to serious error. Nevertheless,
mechanical analyses furnish results of some
value by making it possible to compare soils
upon the basis of texture. For ecological
purposes, minute analyses are undesirable;
their value in any work is doubtful. A
separation of soil into gravel, sand, and silt-clay
is sufficient, since the relative proportion of
these will explain the holard and chresard of the
Fig. 25. Sieves for soil analysis. soil concerned. The latter are also affected in
rich soils, especially of forests, by the organic
matter present. If this is in a finely divided
condition, the amount is determined by calcining. When a definite layer of leafmold is present, as in
forests and thickets, its water-value is found separately, since its power of retaining water is
altogether out of proportion to its weight.
116. Kinds of soils. It is very doubtful whether it is worth while to attempt to distinguish soils
upon the basis of mechanical analysis. Unquestionably, the most satisfactory method is to
distinguish them with respect to holard and chresard, and to regard texture as of secondary
importance. A series of soil classes which comprise various soil types has been proposed by the U. S.
Bureau[7] of Soils as follows: (1) stony loam, (2) gravel, (3) gravelly loam, (4) dunesand, (5) sand, (6)
fine sand, (7) sandy loam, (8) fine sandy loam, (9) loam, (10) shale loam, (11) silt loam, (12) clay
loam, (13) clay, (14) adobe. These are based entirely upon mechanical analyses, and in some cases
are too closely related to be useful. The line between them can nowhere be sharply drawn. Indeed,
the variation within one class is so great that soils have frequently been referred to the wrong group.
Thus, Cassadaga sand (gravel 22 per cent, sand 43 per cent, silt 21 per cent, clay 10 per cent) is more
closely related to Oxnard sandy loam (26–37–18–12) and to Afton fine sandy loam (28–43–18–8)
than to Coral sand (61–29–3–4), Galveston sand (6–91–1–1), or Salt Lake sand (84–15–1–0).
Elsinore sandy loam (8–38–35–10) is much nearer to Hanford fine sandy loam (9–36–33–14) than
to Billings sandy loam (1–60–22–11) or to Utuado sandy loam (48–23–19–8). The soil types are
much more confused, and for ecological purposes at least are entirely valueless. Lake Charles fine
sandy loam has the composition, 1–34–52–9; Vernon fine sandy loam, 1–37–54–7, while many
other so-called types show nearly the same degree of identity.
117. The chemical nature of soils. The effect of alkaline and acid substances in the soil upon
water-content and the activities of the plant is far from being well understood. It is generally
recognized that salts and acids tend to inhibit the absorptive power of the root-hairs. In the case of
saline soils, this inhibitive effect seems to be established, but the action of acids in bogs and swamps
is still an open question. It is probable that the influence of organic acid has been overestimated, and
that the curious anomaly of a structural xerophyte in a swamp is to be explained by the stability of
the ancestral type and by the law of extremes. Apart from the effect which excessive amounts of
acids and salts may have in reducing the chresard, the chemical character of the soil is powerless to
produce structural modification in the plant. Since Thurmann’s researches there has been no real
support of the contention that the chemical properties of the soil, not its physical nature, are the
decisive factors in the distribution and adaptation of plants. It is not sufficient that the vegetation of
a silicious soil differs from that of a calcareous one. A soil can modify the plants upon it only though
its water-content, or the solutes it contains. Hence, the chemical composition of the original rock is
immaterial, except in so far as it modifies these two factors. Humus, moreover, while an important
factor in growth, has no formative influence beyond that which it exerts through water-content.
 PHYSIOGRAPHY
118. Factors. The physiographic factors of a definite habitat are altitude, exposure, slope, and
surface. In addition, topography is a general though less tangible factor of regions, while the
dynamic forces of weathering, erosion and sedimentation play a fundamental role in the change of
habitats. It is evident, however, that these, except where they affect the destruction of vegetation
directly, can operate upon the plant only through more direct factors, such as water, light, and
temperature. While they are themselves not susceptible of measurement, they can often be
expressed in terms of determinable factors, i. e., slope, exposure, and surface. Fundamentally, they
constitute the forces which change one habitat into another, and, in consequence, are really to be
considered as the factors which produce succession. The static features of physiography, altitude,
etc., lend themselves readily to determination by means of precise instruments. These factors,
though by no means negligible, are remote, and consequently their mere measurement is insufficient
to indicate the nature or extent of their influence upon the plant. It is necessary to determine also
the manner and degree in which they affect other factors, a task yet to be done. Readings of altitude,
slope, and exposure are so easily made that the student must carefully avoid the tendency to let them
stand at their own value, which is slight. Instead, they should be made the starting point for
ascertaining the differences which they produce in water-content, humidity wind, and temperature.

Altitude

119. Analysis into factors. Of all physiographic features, altitude is the most difficult to resolve
into simple factors. Because of general geographic relations, it has a certain connection with rainfall,
but this is vague and inconstant. Obviously, in its influence upon the plant, altitude is really
pressure, and in consequence its effect is exerted upon the climatic and not the edaphic factors of the
habitat. Theoretically, the decrease of air pressure in the increased altitude directly affects humidity,
light, and temperature. Actually, while there is unquestionably a decrease in the absorption of the
light and heat rays owing to the fact that they traverse less atmosphere, which is at the same time
less dense, this seems to be negligible. Photometric readings at elevations of 6,000 and 14,000 feet
have so far failed to show more than slight differences, which are altogether too small to be efficient.
The effect upon humidity is greater, but the degree is uncertain. Continuous psychrographic records
at different elevations for a full season, at least, will be necessary to determine this, since the
psychrometric readings so far made, while referred to a base psychrograph, are too scattered to be
conclusive. Finally, the length of the season, itself a composite, is directly dependent upon the
altitude. This relation, though obscure, rests chiefly upon the rarefaction of the air which prevents
the accumulation of heat in both the soil and the air.
120. The barometer. To secure convenience and accuracy in the determination of altitude, it is
necessary to use both a mercurial and an aneroid barometer. The latter is by far the most serviceable
for field work, but it requires frequent standardizing by means of the former. The mercurial form is
much more accurate and should be read daily in the base station. It is practically impossible to carry
it in the field, except in the so-called mountain form, which is of great service in establishing the
altitudes of a series of stations. In use the aneroid barometer may be checked daily by the mercurial
standard, or it may be set at the altitude of the base station, thus giving a direct reading. After the
normal pressure at the base has once been ascertained, however, the most satisfactory method is to
set the aneroid each day by the standard, at the same time noting the pressure deviation in feet of
elevation (see p. 46). The absolute elevation of the various stations of a series may be determined
either by adding or subtracting this deviation from the actual reading at the station, or by noting the
change from the base station, and then adding or subtracting this from the normal of the latter.
When it is impossible to check the aneroid by means of a mercurial barometer, the average of a
series of readings made at different days at one station, especially if taken during settled weather,
will practically eliminate the daily fluctuations, and yield a result essentially accurate. Even in this
event, the accuracy of the aneroid should be checked as often as possible, since the mechanism may
 go wrong at any time. The barograph, while a
valuable instrument for base stations, is not at
all necessary. These instruments can be
obtained from all makers of meteorological
apparatus, such as H. J. Green, and J. P. Friez.
Aneroid barometers reading to 16,000 feet cost
about $20; the price of the Richards aneroid
barograph is $45. Ordinary observatory
barometers cost $30–$40; the standard
instrument sells at $75–$100. The mountain
barometer, which is altogether the most
serviceable for the ecologist, ranges from $30–
$55, depending upon accessories, etc.

Slope

121. Concept. This term is used in the

ordinary sense to indicate the relation of the
surface of a habitat to the horizon. Although it
is a complex of factors, or rather influences
several factors, these are readily determinable.
The primary effect of slope is seen in the control
of run-off and drainage, and consequently of
water-content, although these are likewise
affected by soil texture and by surface. Slope,
moreover, as a concomitant of exposure, has an
important bearing upon light and heat by virtue
Fig. 26. Aneroid barometer. of determining the angle of incidence, and also
upon wind, and, through it, upon the
distribution of snow. At present, while it can be
expressed definitely in degrees, it has not yet been connected quantitatively with more direct factors.
This is, however, not a difficult task, and it is probable that we shall soon come to express slope
principally in amount of run-off, and of incident heat.
122. The clinometer. In the simplest form, this instrument is merely a semicircle of paper, with
each half graduated from 1–90°. It is mounted on a board and placed base upward, upon a wooden
strip, 2 feet long and 2 inches wide, which has a true edge. At the center of the circle is attached a
line and plummet for reading the perpendicular. A more convenient form is shown in figure 28,
which is both clinometer and compass. This also necessitates the use of a basing strip to eliminate
the inequalities of the surface. The dial face is graduated to show inches of rise per yard, as well as
the number of degrees, but the latter, as the simpler term, is preferable for ecological work. In
making a reading, the basing strip is placed upon a representative area of the slope, and pressed
down firmly to equalize slight irregularities. The clinometer is moved slightly along the upper edge,
causing the marker to swing freely. After the latter comes to rest, the instrument is carefully turned
upon its back, when the angle of the slope in degrees may be read directly. Two or three such
readings in different areas will suffice for the entire habitat, unless it be extremely irregular. The
clinometer with compass may be obtained from the Keuffel and Esser Company, 111 Madison St.,
Chicago, Illinois, for $5.
Fig. 27. Mountain barometer: (a) in carrying case;
(b) set up for use.
 Fig. 28. Combined clinometer and compass.

123. The trechometer. For measuring the effect of slope upon run-off, a simple instrument
called the trechometer (τρέχω, to run off) has been devised. This consists merely of a metal tank, 3 ×
4 × 12 inches, holding 144 cubic inches of water, with an opening ¼ × 12 inches at the base in front,
closed by a tight-fitting slide. Three metal strips, 2 × 12 inches, are fastened to the front of the tank
in such a way as to enclose a square foot of soil into which the strips penetrate an inch. In the front
strip is an opening, 1 inch square, provided with a drip from which the run-off is collected in a
measuring vessel. In use, the instrument is put in position with the metal rim forced down 1 inch
into the soil; the tank is filled, the graduate put in place, and the slide raised. The run-off for a
square foot is the amount of water caught by the graduate, and is represented in cubic inches per
square foot. For obtaining results which express slope alone, comparisons must be made upon the
same soil, from which all cover, dead and living, has been removed. They must be as closely together
in time as possible, at least during the same day, as rain or evaporation will cause considerable error.
It is obvious that with the same slope or on a level the trechometer may also be used to advantage to
determine the absorptive power of soils of different texture. It serves well a similar purpose when
used in different habitats to measure the composite action of slope, soil, and cover in dividing the
rainfall into run-off and absorbed water.

Exposure

124. Exposure refers primarily to the direction toward which a slope faces, i. e., its exposition or
insolation with respect to sun and wind. It is not altogether separable from slope, however,
inasmuch as the angle of the slope has some effect upon the degree of exposure. The chief influence
of exposure is exerted through temperature, since slopes longest exposed to the sun’s rays receive
the most heat. This is supplemented in an important degree by the fact that a group of rays 1 foot
square will occupy this area only on slopes upon which they fall at right angles. In all other cases the
rays are spread over a longer area, with a consequent reduction in the amount of heat received. This
effect is felt principally in evaporation from the soil, and in soil temperatures. For the leaf, it is
largely if not entirely negligible, since the angle of incidence is determined by the position of the leaf,
which is the same for each species whether on the level or upon a slope. On this account, exposure
has little or no bearing upon light, except that the total amount of light received by the aggregate
vegetation of a slope will be greater than for a level area of the same size. The effect of wind varies
with the exposure. It is naturally most pronounced in those directions from which the prevailing dry
or cold winds blow, and it is greatly emphasized by the fact that the opposite exposure is
correspondingly protected. The influence of wind, especially in producing evaporation from the
plant and the soil, increases with the slope, since the mutual protection of the plants, or that
afforded the soil by the cover, is much reduced. Finally, the distribution of the snow by the wind, a
matter of considerable importance for early spring vegetation, is largely determined by exposure.
Exposure is expressed directly in terms of direction, to which is added the angle of the slope. A
good field compass, reading to twelve points, is sufficient. It should be checked, of course, by the
declination of the needle at the place under observation. A convenient instrument is the one already
mentioned, in which compass and clinometer are combined, since these are regularly used at the
same time.
125. Surface. The most important consideration with respect to surface is the presence or
absence of cover, and the character of the latter. With the exception of snow, cover is, however, a
question of vegetation, living and dead, and consequently is to be referred to the discussion of biotic
factors. The surface of the soil itself often shows irregularities which must be taken into account.
Such are the rocks of boulder and rock fields, the hummocks of meadows and bogs, the mounds of
prairie dog towns, the innumerable minute gullies and ridges of bad lands, the raised tufts of sand-
hills, etc. The influence of these is not profound, but they do have an appreciable effect upon the
run-off, temperature, and wind. In many cases, this is distinctly measurable, but as a rule little more
can be done than to indicate that the surface is even or uneven, and to describe the degree and kind
of unevenness.
126. Record of physiographic factors. Altitude, slope, exposure, and surface are essentially
constant factors, and are determined once for all, after a few check readings have been made, except
in those relatively rare habitats in which dynamic forces are very active. The form of record used is
the following:
 DATE FORMATION STATION GROUP ALTITUDE SLOPE EXPOSURE SURFACE
10/7/02 Gravel slide Golf Links Eriogonare 2700 m. 23° N.N.W. Even
„ Brook bank Jack Brook Violare 2550 m. 5° E.N.E. „
„ Half gravel Hiawatha Achilleare 2600 m. 14° E. Uneven
„ Spruce Milky Way Opulasterare 2625 m. 12° N. Even

127. Topography. As heretofore indicated, questions pertaining to the form and development of
the land concern groups of habitats within which each habitat is the unit of investigation after the
manner already laid down. A knowledge of topography is essential to the accurate mapping of a
region, for which the simple methods of plane table and contour work are employed, while the
geology of the surface is of primary importance in the study of successions.
 BIOTIC FACTORS
128. Influence and importance. Biotic factors are animals and plants. With respect to
influence they are usually remote, rarely direct. Nevertheless, they often play a decisive part in the
vegetation. Their effect is, as a rule, felt directly by the formation rather than the habitat, but in
either case the one reacts upon the other. Such factors are not themselves susceptible of exact
measurement, but their influence upon the habitat is usually measurable in terms of the physical
factors affected. In the case of biotic factors, it must be distinctly understood that these are not
properly factors of the habitat as a physical complex, but that they are rather to be considered as
reactions exerted by the effect, or formation, upon the cause or habitat. This is most especially true
of plants.
129. Animals. The activities of man fall into two classes: (1) those that destroy vegetation, and
(2) those that modify it. There are rare instances also where the work of man has changed a new or
already denuded habitat. In the cases where the vegetation is destroyed, the habitat itself is
sufficiently changed to permit the effect to be measured by physical factor instruments. Otherwise,
the influence is felt only by the formation, as when man makes possible the migration of weeds, and
it can be measured in terms of invasion by the quadrat alone. It becomes especially evident, then, in
the case of man’s activities, that where they produce a denuded habitat they are to be regarded as
factors in the habitat; when they merely affect the formation, this is not strictly true. The changes
wrought by other animals are essentially the same as those produced by man. They are not so
marked nor so important, but their relation to habitat and formation is the same. As a rule, however,
they affect the habitat much less than they do the formation.
130. Plants. As a dead cover, vegetation is a factor of the habitat proper, but it has relatively little
importance, since it occurs regularly during the resting period. Its chief effects are in modifying soil
temperature, and in holding snow and rain, and thereby increasing the water-content. By its gradual
decay, moreover, it not only adds humus to the soil, but it thereby increases the water-retaining
capacity of the latter also. The cover of living vegetation reacts upon the habitat in a much more vital
fashion, exerting a powerful effect upon every physical factor of the habitat. The factors thus affected
are distinctly measurable though it is often impossible to determine just how much of the factor is
directly traceable to the vegetation. This is a simple problem in the case of most aerial factors,
especially light, but it is extremely difficult for soil factors, such as water-content and soil texture. In
the case of all habitats covered with formations, by far the great majority, it is impossible as well as
unnecessary to separate the physical factors of the habitat proper from the reaction upon them
which the plant covering exerts. Indeed, the great differentiation of habitats is largely due to the
universal principle that in vegetation the effect or formation always reacts upon the cause or habitat
in such a way as to modify it. As fundamental causes of succession, the discussion of the various
reactions of vegetation is reserved for another place.

Methods of Habitat Investigation

131. The use of the various instruments previously described depends largely upon the
preponderance of simple instruments or recording ones. The former necessitate a number of well-
trained assistants; the latter require only a part of the time of one investigator. For the most
satisfactory results, however, an assistant is all but indispensable. Since simple instruments are most
easily obtained because of their cheapness, and are especially adapted to purposes of instruction, the
method of using them will be described first, and then that of ecograph batteries.
 THE METHOD OF SIMPLE INSTRUMENTS

Fig. 29. Series of stations: I, at Minnehaha; II, at Lincoln in the prairie formation.

132. Choice of stations. This method is based upon simultaneous readings by means of simple
instruments in a series of habitats, or of stations in a single habitat. Such readings are necessary for
the variable atmospheric factors, humidity, light, temperature, and wind. Frequent readings suffice
for water-content and precipitation, while only two or three determinations, enough to check out the
error, are necessary for the constant factors, altitude, slope, exposure, and surface. An account of the
exact procedure employed in class study at Lincoln and Minnehaha will best serve to illustrate the
use of this method. The series of stations chosen at Lincoln were primarily within a single formation,
for the purpose of determining the physical factor variation in different areas. One series was located
in the prairie-grass formation (Koelera-Andropogon-psilium), and consisted of the following
stations: (1) low prairie, (2) crest of ridge I, (3) northeast slope of ridge I, (4) grassy ravine, (5)
southwest slope of ridge II, (6) bare crest of ridge II, (7) thicket ravine. The other series was
established in the bur-oak-hickory forest (Quercus-Hicoria-hylium) at the following stations: (1)
thicket, (2) woodland, (3) knoll in forest, (4) depression in forest, (5) level forest floor, (6) nettle
thicket, (7) brook bank. At Minnehaha the series was primarily one of different formations: (1) the
pine formation (Pinus-xerohylium), (2) the gravel slide formation (Pseudocymopterus-Mentzelia-
chalicium), (3) east slope of spruce forest (Picea-Pseudotsuga-hylium), (4) ridge in the spruce
forest, (5) north slope of spruce forest, (6) brook bank in forest, (7) the thicket formation (Quercus-
Cercocarpus-lochmodium), (8) the aspen formation (Populus-hylium). When permanent or
temporary quadrats are established, they are ordinarily used as regular stations, since this enables
one to refer the physical factor readings to a few definite individual plants, as well as to the entire
formation. The transects in figure 29 illustrate two of the above series of stations.
133. Time of readings. The frequency of simple readings and the times at which they are made
must be regulated largely by opportunity and convenience. In addition to making readings once or
twice a week throughout the season, the series should be read at least once every day for a
representative week or two. It is also very desirable to have a series for each hour of a typical day, or
of two days, one of which is clear, the other cloudy. When a single daily reading is made, it should be
taken at or as near meridian as possible. The usual series is the one obtained by simultaneous
observations at the same level in different stations. An important series is also secured by
simultaneous readings at the various levels of the same station, though it is not necessary to take this
series frequently.

Fig. 30. A denuded station in the aspen formation.

134. Details of the method. After the stations have been selected by a careful preliminary
survey of the habitat or series of habitats, their location is indicated by a small flag bearing a
number, in case there is no danger of these being disturbed. Otherwise, less conspicuous stakes are
used. The ordinary practice is to visit each station of the series, and to take readings of water-
content, altitude, slope, and exposure. On the first trip these are all made by the instructor, but after
a short time the determination of each factor may be assigned in rotation to each of the students.
After these constant factors have been read and recorded, one student is equipped with photometer,
thermometer, and psychrometer, and, if desirable, anemometer, and left at the first station. At each
succeeding station the same plan is followed, so that at the end of the series the constant factors
have all been read, and there is an observer at each station prepared to make readings of the variable
ones. The task of acquainting the students with the operation of photometer, psychrometer, etc., can
best be done in class or at a previous field period, as it is evident that they must be familiar with the
instruments before they can use them accurately in the field series. The details of operation have
already been given and need not be repeated here. The task of obtaining readings at the same
moment may be met by supplying each observer with a watch, which runs exactly with all the others,
or by making observations upon signal. The second means has been found most successful in
practice, since the signal fixes the attention at the exact moment. The best plan is for the instructor
to occupy a commanding position somewhere near the middle of the series, and to give the signals
by shout or whistle at the proper interval. Considerable care and experience are necessary to do the
last satisfactorily. Sufficient time must be given for the operation of the instrument and the making
of the record. In addition, a period must be permitted to elapse which is long enough for every
instrument to reach the proper reading. For example, in a series which contains a gravel slide and a
forest, the thermometer which has just been used for an air reading will require four or five times as
long an interval to respond to the temperature of the gravel as to that of the cool forest floor. In such
series, the instructor should regularly take his place in the station where the response is slowest or
greatest. He must record the exact time of each signal, and note any general changes of sky or wind
that produce temporary fluctuations at the time of reading. When the readings extend over a whole
day, the usual plan is to begin at the last station and take a second series of water-content samples,
noting the exact time in order that the rate of water loss may be determined. A check series of
physiographic factors may be made at this time also, or this may be left for future visits. While it is
unnecessary to take soil samples oftener than once a day, it is important to make at least one series
at each visit. Sometimes it becomes desirable to know the rate of water loss in different stations
during the day, and in this event, samples are taken at one or two hour intervals for the entire day.
In making simultaneous readings at the different levels of one station, the observers are grouped
in one spot in such a way that they do not interfere with the correct reading of each instrument.
Readings of this sort are most valuable in the case of temperature, which shows greater differences
at the various levels. Important differences of humidity and wind also are readily obtained, and, in
layered formations, marked variations in the amount of light. In the open, the ordinary levels for
temperature are 6 feet, 3 feet, surface, 5, 10, and 15 inches in the ground, and for wind and humidity,
6 feet, 3 feet, and surface. In forests the same levels are used for comparison with formations in the
open, but a more desirable series for light especially is secured by making readings at the height of,
or better, just below the various layers. Series of this sort are likewise made on signal. The best time
of day is that of a period in which the middle station is read near meridian, since the variation due to
time is sufficiently small to permit fairly accurate comparisons between the readings for the different
stations.
135. Records. The form used for recording the observations made by means of simple
instruments is shown below. It is hardly necessary to state that it may be readily modified to suit the
needs of different investigators. Ordinarily, each sheet is used for the records of one habitat or series
alone, but for convenience sake, the records of two different series are here combined. The figures
given are taken from records for the prairie and forest formations at Lincoln.

Koelera-Andropogon-psilium

April 25, 1901. Clear. South wind.

 TEMPERATURE LIGHT HUMIDITY WATER- WIND
CONTENT
TIME 3:20 3:24 3:30 3:35 3:40 3:45 3:55 % 2:40 3:05
P.M.
STATION 1½ m. Surf. 5 10 15 1½ m. Surf. 1½ m. Surf. 5 10 15 1½ m. Surf.
1. 27.8 29.6 17.8 15.8 10.9 57 59 17.7 14.6 17.4 740 280
2. 26.5 31.3 18.3 16.6 12.8 59 59 17.9 12.2 14.3 1100 510
3. 26.9 28.5 18.2 14.2 13.5 58 59 16.5 16.9 19 980 520
4. 26.2 30 16.8 13.2 11.6 63 66 24.4 21.3 24.8 920 460
5. 28 32.4 18.6 14.6 14.2 59 60 10.7 17 17.2 1080 490
6. 28 40.8 23.8 16 15 51 51 5 8.3 10.3 1010 410
7. 26.4 30.8 16 13 11 68 70 27 24.3 21.4 680 52

Quercus-Hicoria-hylium

April 20, 1901. Clear. Southeast wind.

 TEMPERATURE LIGHT HUMIDITY WATER- WIND
CONTENT
TIME 10:40 10:46 10:50 10:55 11:00 12:00 12:05 11:10 11:20 % 11:30 11:45
A.M.
STATION 1½ m. Surf. 5 10 15 1½ m. Surf. 1½ m. Surf. 5 10 15 1½ m. Surf.
1. 16 25 9.6 8.4 7.8 .08 .06 73 81 24.2 19.2 19.5 298 0
2. 16.2 30.5 8.5 8.4 7.8 .11 .09 73 86 22 22.5 19.4 375 2
3. 16.2 17.8 7.6 7.8 8 .08 .06 73 95 22.1 20.4 21.6 640 6
4. 15.6 26.2 10.6 8.4 8.2 .06 .03 81 95 25.4 23.1 22.4 275 12
5. 17.6 25.4 7.6 7.4 7.2 .03 .02 90 95 27.2 19.8 18.8 178 2
6. 16.2 20.2 8.4 7 6.2 .02 .01 82 90 27.6 20.8 18.8 115 4
7. 15.8 17.2 6.4 6.4 6.1 .05 .04 82 90 23.8 19 19.3 60 0
 METHOD OF ECOGRAPH BATTERIES
136. A battery of recording instruments consists of a selagraph, a psychrograph, and a
thermograph, to which an anemograph is added when possible. As stated before, the determination
of water-content by the geotome method is more satisfactory than by any automatic instrument yet
devised. When the base station is located where the sunlight is unobstructed, which should be the
case whenever possible, it is unnecessary to include a selagraph in those batteries placed in similarly
exposed stations, since the light values will be the same. As a rule, batteries are established within
different zones or different habitats, except where a highly diversified habitat is made the subject of
special inquiry. Such a restriction arises from the fact that expense, care of operation, etc., place a
limit upon the number of batteries, and, in such case, the task of primary importance is to establish
the physical character of representative habitats. For these reasons, the first series of thermographs
established in 1903 was located with respect to altitude, the instruments being placed at Manitou
2,000 m., Minnehaha, 2,600 m., and Mount Garfield 3,800 m. In 1904, the stations established for
the record of temperature and humidity were situated with respect to habitats representing the four
formations: gravel slide, half gravel slide, spruce forest, and brook bank.
The batteries are located and set up according to the directions already given. A 2–meter quadrat
with the battery as the middle is staked and mapped. Within this, all readings of water-content, soil
temperature, and physiographic factors are made. Altitude, slope, exposure, and cover are recorded
when each battery is located, and a soil sample is taken for mechanical analysis. When the position
of the batteries permits it, water-content readings should be made frequently, once or twice a week
at least. In addition, a complete series of samples should be taken daily for a period sufficient to
indicate the ordinary extremes of water-content.
The ecograph battery of each habitat constitutes a standard to which the results obtained by
simple instruments may be referred with accuracy. It not only does this, but it also serves as a basis
for interpreting the readings of simple instruments in distant habitats of the same character. In this
way a few batteries judiciously placed make possible the exact physical investigation of a large
number of habitats, covering a considerable area. The only limit, indeed, upon this method is that
placed by time. The proportionate use of batteries and of simple instruments must be largely
determined by the conditions which confront the investigator. It is obvious that, where expense is
not a decisive factor, the gain in time and in completeness of results is enormously in favor of the
battery. There is an additional value in the automatic and continuous record which can not be
overlooked. When the use of instruments in the study of habitat and formation becomes universal,
the importance of the ecograph will be immeasurably enhanced. It will be possible to secure
duplicate records of batteries located in the most remote and diverse regions, from the equator to
the poles, and comparative phytogeography upon a scientific basis will for the first time be possible.
This opens an alluring vista of the future when ecologists the world over will cooperate in such a way
that the results obtained by ecograph batteries anywhere on the globe will permit of exact
comparison.
 THE EXPRESSION OF PHYSICAL FACTOR RESULTS
137. The form of results. It is almost inevitable that the general adoption of precise methods of
measuring the habitat will result in a common form for expressing the physical character of the
latter. An actual diagnosis of each habitat is not a difficult matter, after the factors are carefully
measured, and will unquestionably lead to very desirable definiteness and precision. The accurate
investigation of the physical factors of a number of habitats for one growing season furnishes the
necessary material for a diagnosis based upon the mean for the growing season. Similar results for
two or three seasons will yield a diagnosis as accurate and as final as that of a formation, or, indeed,
as that of many species. The author’s investigations have not yet gone far enough to warrant
proposing a final form for this, but the following diagnosis is offered as a suggestion:
Elymus-Muhlenbergia-chalicium. Habitat: holard 9 per cent, chresard 8 per cent, relative
humidity 40 per cent, light 0.6, soil colluvial gravel (gravel 70 per cent, sand 27 per cent, silt 3 per
cent), air temperature 65°, surface 82°, soil 59°, wind 10 miles, rainfall 8 inches, altitude 2,800 m.,
slope 23°, exposure south, surface even, cover open, no active biotic agencies.
The detailed comparison of habitats is made most readily by the graphic method of curves, which
constitute the most desirable form of expression in connection with the original record upon which
they are based. Factor means are particularly desirable for diagnostic purposes, and they furnish
valuable curves also. Factor sums are impracticable at present, and it seems doubtful that they will
ever be of much value. It is by no means impossible, however, that a more detailed and exact
knowledge of the physiology of adaptation, coupled with methods of precision in the habitat, will
render them necessary.

Factor Records

138. Experience has shown that the practice of making hasty and often formless records in the
field is unwise and is apt to be inaccurate as well. The time saved in the field is more than
counterbalanced by that consumed in copying the results into the permanent form. The danger of
error in field notes rapidly taken is very grave, and the chance of confusion and the waste of time in
deciphering them are great. Moreover, the task of checking a copy with the original, which is
absolutely necessary for accuracy, involves a further expenditure of time and energy. For these
reasons the field record should be made in permanent form. Definite record sheets are used, and the
invariable rule is made that all readings are to be noted in ink at the time and spot where they are
taken. On a long journey, or in the face of many observations, the tendency to take notes or to record
observations rapidly is very great, but this will correct itself after a few attempts to use such notes.
The record forms for various factors have been indicated in the proper place, as well as the one for
simultaneous readings. Ecograph sheets are carefully filed, and constitute permanent records. With
a little practice they may be read almost as easily as tables, and any attempt to put them into tabular
form is a mere waste of time. For purposes of study and of publication, it often becomes necessary to
bring together all the results obtained for a particular habitat, both by simple instruments and by
ecographs. The form of record used for this is essentially that already indicated for simultaneous
readings on page 92, since general features and constant factors can not well be included in the
table. Record sheets of this type have been printed at a cost of $5 per thousand, and the various
factor records can be obtained at about the same rate. The size of sheet used is 9½ × 7¾ inches. The
record book is the usual notebook cover, which has been found neither too large nor too small. It is
protected from dirt and rain by a covering of oilcloth which overlaps the edges. Record books should
be carefully labeled, and each one should contain a single year’s records.

Factor Curves
 139. Plotting. The paper employed is divided into centimeter squares which are subdivided into
2–millimeter units. For ordinary curves the size of sheet is 9½ × 7¾ inches, which makes it possible
for curve sheets to be filed in the record book. Tablets containing 60 of these sheets can be obtained
for 20 cents each from the Central School Supply House, Chicago. For curves longer than 9 inches
special sizes of sheets must be used. On account of their inconvenience large sheets are avoided
whenever possible. This can usually be accomplished by increasing the numerical value of the
intervals. The inks employed in plotting are the waterproof inks of Chas. Higgins & Co., Brooklyn,
New York. These are made in ten or more colors, black, violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange,
brown, brick red, carmine, and scarlet, and cost 25 cents per bottle. In addition to being waterproof,
they make it possible to combine curves in all conceivable ways without destroying their identity.
Furthermore, it is a great advantage to use the same color invariably for the same kind of curve:
thus, it has been the practice to indicate the 3–foot, surface, 5, 10, and 15–inch temperature curves
by violet, green, yellow, blue, and carmine respectively. A fine-pointed pen, such as the Spencerian
No. 1, is most satisfactory for inking; drawing pens, such as Gillott’s Crowquill, are too finely pointed
for ordinary use.
In plotting a curve, it is first necessary to determine the value of the interval, and the extreme
range of the curve or combination. For example, in the case of temperature, it is most convenient to
assign a value of 1° Centigrade to each centimeter, since the thermometers used read to one-fifth of a
degree, which corresponds exactly to the 2–millimeter units of each square. The length of the sheet
permits a range of 22 degrees Centigrade, and the actual limits must be determined for the
particular results to be employed. For the same region, it is very desirable that the unit interval and
the range be the same, in order that all curve sheets may admit of direct comparison. Indeed, it is
greatly to be hoped that in the future ecologists will agree to a uniform system of curve-plotting,
cartography, etc., as the geographers are beginning to do in the construction of maps. The major
intervals are written, or, better, typewritten, at both sides of the sheet, and the time or space
intervals are indicated at the top. Each curve sheet is properly labeled, and essential data indicated.
The readings are taken from the field record, and their proper positions indicated by a dot. These are
connected first by a pencil line, the curves being made abrupt rather than flowing; and the line, after
having been carefully checked, is traced in ink.
140. Kinds of curves. Curves are named both with reference to the factor concerned and the
position or sequence of the readings. The factors which lend themselves most readily to this method
of representation are the variable ones, water-content, humidity, light, temperature, and wind, and
corresponding curves are distinguished. Altitude and slope may likewise be shown by means of
curves, but the use of cross section or contour lines serves the same purpose and is more natural.
With regard to time and position, curves are distinguished as level, station, and point curves. A level
curve is one based upon readings made at the same level through a series of stations or of habitats, e.
g., the level curve of surface temperature. The station curve represents the various levels or points at
which readings are made in a single station. The point curve has for a basis the hourly or daily
variation of a factor at a particular point or level in a station. All of these may be simple curves, when
established upon a single reading for a series, or mean curves when they are based upon the mean of
a number of readings. Curves which show the extremes of a factor, i. e., the maximum and
minimum, are also extremely valuable, though a combination of the two for comparison is
preferable.
141. Combinations of curves are invaluable for bringing similar curves together, and
permitting ready comparison of them. For this, and also because they save space, they are regularly
employed to the almost complete exclusion of single curves. Combinations are made simply by
tracing the curves to be compared upon the same sheet, it being understood that dissimilar curves, e.
g., level and station, can not be combined. Colored inks are an absolute necessity in combining; the
primary principle underlying their use is that curves that approach closely or cross each other must
be traced in inks that contrast sharply. As elsewhere stated, it has been made the invariable rule to
use the same color for the same level or point. This applies especially to temperature, but holds also
for humidity, light, wind, and water-content, so that the color always indicates the level. For the
same reason, it is applied to a combination of point curves for one station, though it is inapplicable
to a series of point curves when these lie in the same level. Light readings above 6 feet and water-
content readings below 15 inches necessitate the use of additional colors.
 Combinations may be made of the curves of a single factor for purposes of comparison, or they
may consist of curves of different factors in order to aid in interpreting or indicating their relation to
each other. Curves of the same factor may be combined to form various series. The level series
consists of all the level curves for the stations under observation, e. g., the six levels for temperature,
three levels for wind, etc. Similarly, the station series is a combination of all the station curves, and a
corresponding arrangement may be made for point curves with reference either to station or to level.
An extremely valuable combination of curves is that of the holard and chresard for a series of
stations. The most important combinations of the curves of different factors are naturally those
based upon factors intimately related to each other or to the plant. The grouping of water-content
and humidity curves is of great value, especially when the transpiration curve is added. Light and
temperature curves make an interesting combination, while a humidity, temperature, and wind
series is of much aid in tracing the connection between these factors. Finally, it is altogether feasible
to arrange the curves of water-content, humidity, light, temperature, and wind upon the same sheet
in such fashion as to give a graphic representation of the whole physical nature of a single habitat or
a series. In all combinations of curves representing different factors, it must be borne in mind that
the position of a curve does not represent a definite value with reference to the others, since some
are based upon per cents, others upon degrees, etc. The comparison must be based upon the
character of the curves, but even then it is an important aid. An instructive grouping has been
employed where series of readings on the same day, or on two successive days in forest and in
prairie have yielded the usual level series of curves. The series for the two habitats are arranged on
the same page, one at the right and the other at the left, and permit direct comparison of
corresponding level or factor curves, both with respect to position and character.
142. The amplitude of all the curves described above is determined by the unit values of the
factors concerned, while the length is dependent upon the number of stations, points, or times. The
value assigned the latter upon the plotting paper is purely arbitrary, but it is most convenient to fix
this at the centimeter square. The unit value for temperature is 1° Centigrade per square, each
subdivision of the latter representing 0.2, and the range being 22 degrees. For water-content curves,
each square represents a value of 2 per cent, the smaller square being 0.4 per cent, and the range 2–
48 per cent. The unit value for humidity is taken as 5 per cent, making each small square 1 per cent,
and giving room on the sheet for the entire range from 1–100 per cent. Owing to the anemometer
used, curves of wind velocity have been based upon the number of feet per minute. One hundred feet
is taken as the unit value, and the range is from 0–2200 feet. The unit value for the curve of light
intensity is .005. Each small square is .001, which permits a range from .001 to .01 on one sheet.
Consequently, when it is desired to plot the curve of a series of habitats with a range in intensity
greater than this it is necessary to use a double sheet. This is the usual device when the range of
curves is too great, except where the excess is slight. In this case the curve is left open at the top, and
the value which the crest attains is indicated. All curves in combination are labeled at the beginning
or left to indicate the level, station, or point, and at the end or right to show the time, or day, if this is
not the basis of the curve or series.
The discussion that precedes deals exclusively with curves representing factors determined in the
field. It applies with equal force to results obtained by instruments in control houses. In these,
however, all factors except those directly experimented with, usually water-content and light, are
practically equalized, and the curves based upon them are used chiefly to show how nearly equal
they have become. The important curves are those of the water-content series, both holard and
chresard, and of the shade tents. Where several houses are differentiated with respect to
temperature or humidity, curve series of both these factors are necessary.

Factor Means and Sums

143. It has been shown elsewhere that the daily mean of temperature can be closely approximated
from the maximum and minimum of both day and night. Maximum-minimum instruments for the
other factors are lacking, however, and for light, humidity, and wind these values can only be
obtained from the ecograph which makes it possible to get the exact mean from the sum of all the
hour readings. When it comes to the seasonal mean, the ecograph is even more necessary, exception
being made for water-content, in which case a number of readings on various days through the
season will suffice. The value of factor means for diagnosis and for curves has already been
sufficiently commented upon, and the feasibility of factor sums already indicated.
 CHAPTER III. THE PLANT
Stimulus and Response

GENERAL RELATIONS
144. The nature of stimuli. Whatever produces a change in the
functions of a plant is a stimulus. The latter may be a force or a
material; it may be imponderable or ponderable; effect, not
character, determines a stimulus. Consequently, reaction or response
decides what constitutes a stimulus. The presence of the latter can be
recognized only through an appreciable or visible response, since it is
impossible to discriminate between an impact which produces no
reaction and one which produces a merely latent one. From this it is
evident that quantity is decisive in determining whether the impact
becomes a stimulus. Plants grow constantly under the influence of
many stimuli, all varying from time to time in amount. Small
changes in these are so frequent that, in many cases at least, the
plant no longer appreciably reacts to them. Such changes, though
usually measurable, are not stimuli. Furthermore, it must be clearly
recognized that plants which are in constant response to stimuli are
stimulated anew by an efficient increase or decrease in the amount of
any one of these. As is well known, however, such increase or
decrease is a stimulus only within certain limits, and the degree of
change necessary to produce a response depends upon the amount of
the factor normally present. The entire absence of a force usually
present, moreover, often constitutes a stimulus, as is evident in the
case of light. The nature of the plant itself has a profound bearing
upon the factors that act as stimuli. Many species are extremely
labile, and react strongly to relatively slight stimuli; others are
correspondingly stable, and respond only to stimuli of much greater
force. Some light is thrown upon the nature of this difference by the
behavior of ecads. A form which has grown under comparatively
uniform conditions for a long time seems to respond less readily, and
is therefore less labile than one which is subject to constant
fluctuation. In many cases this is not true, however, and the degree
of stability, i. e., of response, can only be connected in a general way
with taxonomic position.
145. The kinds of stimuli. The factors of a habitat are external
to the plant, and consequently are termed external stimuli. Properly
speaking, all stimuli are external, but since the response is often
delayed or can not be clearly traced, it may be permissible to speak of
internal stimuli, i. e., those which appear to originate within the
plant. These, however, are extremely obscure, and it is hardly
possible to deal with them until much more is known of the action of
external stimuli. Of the latter, certain forces, gravity and polarity, act
in a way not at all understood, and as they are essentially alike for all
plants and all habitats, they can here be ignored. Stimuli are
imponderable when, like light and heat, they are measured with
reference to intensity, and ponderable, when, as in the case of water-
content, humidity, and salt-content, they can be expressed in mass or
weight. It is undesirable to insist upon this distinction, however,
since the real character of a stimulus is determined by its effect, and
the latter is not necessarily dependent upon whether the stimulus is
one of force or one of material. There is, however, a fundamental
difference between factors with respect to their relation to the plant.
Direct factors alone are stimuli, since indirect factors must always act
through them. For example, the wind, its mechanical influence
excepted, can affect the plant only in so far as it is converted into the
stimulus of increased or decreased humidity. Consequently, the
normal stimuli of the plants of a formation are: (1) water-content, (2)
solutes, (3) humidity, (4) light, (5) temperature, (6) wind. Soil,
pressure, physiography, and biotic factors influence plants only
through these, and are not stimuli, though exceptions must be made
of biotic factors in the case of sensitive, insectivorous, and gall-
producing plants.
146. The nature of response. Since plants have no special
organs for the perception of stimuli, nor sensory tracts for their
transmission, an external stimulus acting upon a plant organ is
ordinarily converted into a response at once. The latter as a rule
becomes evident immediately; in some cases it is latent or
imperceptible, or some time elapses before the chain of responses
finds visible expression. A marked decrease in humidity calls forth
an immediate increase of transpiration, but the ultimate response is
seen in the closing of the stomata. A response to decreased light
intensity, on the other hand, is much less rapid and obvious. This
difference is largely due to the fact that the functional response is
more marked, or at least more perceptible in one case than in the
other.
Response is the reaction of the plant to a stimulus; it begins with
the impact of an efficient factor, and ends only with the consequent
final readjustment. The immediate reaction is always functional. The
nature and intensity of the stimulus determine whether this
functional response is followed by a corresponding change in
structure. The consideration of this theme consequently gains in
clearness if a functional and a structural response be distinguished.
The chief value of this distinction lies in the fact that many reactions
are functional alone; it serves also to emphasize the absolute
interdependence of structure and function, and the imperative need
of considering both in connection with the common stimulus. For
these reasons, the logical treatment is to connect each stimulus with
its proper functional change, and, through this, with the
corresponding modification of structure. For the sake of
convenience, the term adjustment is used to denote response in
function, and adaptation, to indicate the response in structure.
147. Adjustment and adaptation. The adjustment of a plant to
the stimuli of its habitat is a constant process. It is the daily task,
seen in nutrition and growth. So long as these take place under
stimulation by factors which fall within the normal variation of the
habitat, the problems belong to what has long been called
physiology. When the stimuli become unusual in degree or in kind,
by a change of habitat or a modification in it, adjustment is of much
greater moment and is recorded in the plant’s structure. These
structural records are the foundation of proper ecological study.
Since they are the direct result of adjustment, however, this affords
further evidence that a division of the field into ecology and
physiology is illogical and superficial. Slight or periodical adjustment