In June 2022 during the Tsuyu, a month-long season of persistent light rain unique to East Asia, I observed Diphylleia grayi flowers taking on a fantastic glass-like appearance in Nagano, Japan. Endemic to Japan and Sakhalin but distributed mostly in central Japan, the species is known informally as the “skeleton flower” outside of Japan. In dry weather, the petals of the skeleton flower appear white because light is diffusely reflected by numerous air-filled gaps in their cellular structure. When these gaps become filled with rain, however, the petals become transparent – a phenomenon that has attracted the attention of materials scientists (ACS Appl Mater Interfaces 2018; doi.org/10.1021/acsami.8b12490). Notably, the petals do not become transparent immediately after rain begins to fall; rather, light rain must fall continuously for about one day. Also, even after the weather clears, the petals remain temporarily transparent, until they dry.
Three Diphylleia species are known. In addition to D grayi, the familiar skeleton flower, Diphylleia sinensis occurs in central China, and Diphylleia cymosa is found in the southern Appalachian Mountains of the southeastern US (J Arnold Arbor 1984; doi.org/10.5962/p.36691). However, it is not known whether the flower petals of these two species also become transparent during rainy weather. If transparent petals are unique to D grayi, they may be an adaptation to the Tsuyu. What ecological function might the transparent petals have? Do flowers with transparent petals provide signals for pollinating insects? Is it possible to discern whether insect pollinators are more or less likely to visit flowers with transparent petals versus those with white petals, despite the potentially confounding presence of rain?
2022年6月,在东亚特有的长达一个月的持续小雨季节津羽期间,我在日本长野观察到灰斑蝥花呈现出奇妙的玻璃状外观。原产于日本和库页岛,但主要分布在日本中部,该物种在日本以外被非正式地称为“骨架花”。在干燥的天气里,骨架花的花瓣看起来是白色的,因为光线被其细胞结构中大量充满空气的缝隙漫反射。然而,当这些缝隙被雨水填满时,花瓣会变得透明——这一现象引起了材料科学家的注意(ACS Appl-Mater Interfaces 2018;doi.org/10.1021/acsami.8b12490)。值得注意的是,降雨开始后,花瓣不会立即变为透明;相反,小雨必须持续下一天左右。此外,即使天气转晴,花瓣也会暂时保持透明,直到变干。已知三种白喉。除了人们熟悉的骨架花D grayi外,中华白喉也出现在中国中部,而cymosa白喉则出现在美国东南部的阿巴拉契亚山脉南部(J Arnold Arbor 1984;doi.org/10.5962/p.36691)。然而,尚不清楚这两个物种的花瓣在雨天是否也会变得透明。如果透明的花瓣是灰蝶特有的,那么它们可能是对翠玉的一种适应。透明的花瓣可能具有什么生态功能?花瓣透明的花能为授粉昆虫提供信号吗?是否有可能辨别出昆虫传粉者访问透明花瓣的花朵与白色花瓣的花朵的可能性或多或少,尽管可能会有令人困惑的降雨?
{"title":"Glass-like flowers in the rain","authors":"Tsubasa Toji","doi":"10.1002/fee.2684","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2684","url":null,"abstract":"<p>In June 2022 during the <i>Tsuyu</i>, a month-long season of persistent light rain unique to East Asia, I observed <i>Diphylleia grayi</i> flowers taking on a fantastic glass-like appearance in Nagano, Japan. Endemic to Japan and Sakhalin but distributed mostly in central Japan, the species is known informally as the “skeleton flower” outside of Japan. In dry weather, the petals of the skeleton flower appear white because light is diffusely reflected by numerous air-filled gaps in their cellular structure. When these gaps become filled with rain, however, the petals become transparent – a phenomenon that has attracted the attention of materials scientists (<i>ACS Appl Mater Interfaces</i> 2018; doi.org/10.1021/acsami.8b12490). Notably, the petals do not become transparent immediately after rain begins to fall; rather, light rain must fall continuously for about one day. Also, even after the weather clears, the petals remain temporarily transparent, until they dry.</p><p>Three <i>Diphylleia</i> species are known. In addition to <i>D grayi</i>, the familiar skeleton flower, <i>Diphylleia sinensis</i> occurs in central China, and <i>Diphylleia cymosa</i> is found in the southern Appalachian Mountains of the southeastern US (<i>J Arnold Arbor</i> 1984; doi.org/10.5962/p.36691). However, it is not known whether the flower petals of these two species also become transparent during rainy weather. If transparent petals are unique to <i>D grayi</i>, they may be an adaptation to the <i>Tsuyu</i>. What ecological function might the transparent petals have? Do flowers with transparent petals provide signals for pollinating insects? Is it possible to discern whether insect pollinators are more or less likely to visit flowers with transparent petals versus those with white petals, despite the potentially confounding presence of rain?</p>","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 9","pages":"443"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"71919574","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
The parasitoid wasp Hymenoepimecis bicolor (Ichneumonidae) is able to manipulate the web-building behavior of its host, the golden silk orb-weaver Trichonephila clavipes (Araneidae). The host spider constructs a modified and complex web, which serves not only as a stable platform to suspend the wasp larva's cocoon but also as a barrier against hyperparasitoids and potential predators. Before depositing an egg on the host spider's abdomen, the H bicolor female immobilizes the spider by inserting its ovipositor – and releasing paralyzing substances – into the spider's mouth. Selecting a host of the proper size is essential: too small a spider may provide an insufficient source of food for the developing larva, whereas too large a spider may pose a serious risk during host interception and immobilization.
The attacking and subduing behaviors of polysphinctine wasps are not well known but may involve sophisticated sequences, including pulling a thread of the intended host's web with the foreleg, imitating struggling prey, to attract the spider (Entomol Sci 2009; doi.org/10.1111/j.1479-8298.2009.00338.x) and waiting for an opportunity to attack while resting on the web's non-viscid barrier threads (Naturwissenschaften 2007; doi.org/10.1007/s00114-006-0177-z). The above-described direct attack behavior of H bicolor, however, is preceded by a short period in which the wasp hovers around the potential host. Would it be possible for the female wasp to correctly evaluate the risks and quality of their potential hosts with just a quick visual inspection? Are chemical cues involved in host selection?
{"title":"Choosing suitable hosts","authors":"Marcelo O Gonzaga","doi":"10.1002/fee.2682","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2682","url":null,"abstract":"<p>The parasitoid wasp <i>Hymenoepimecis bicolor</i> (Ichneumonidae) is able to manipulate the web-building behavior of its host, the golden silk orb-weaver <i>Trichonephila clavipes</i> (Araneidae). The host spider constructs a modified and complex web, which serves not only as a stable platform to suspend the wasp larva's cocoon but also as a barrier against hyperparasitoids and potential predators. Before depositing an egg on the host spider's abdomen, the <i>H bicolor</i> female immobilizes the spider by inserting its ovipositor – and releasing paralyzing substances – into the spider's mouth. Selecting a host of the proper size is essential: too small a spider may provide an insufficient source of food for the developing larva, whereas too large a spider may pose a serious risk during host interception and immobilization.</p><p>The attacking and subduing behaviors of polysphinctine wasps are not well known but may involve sophisticated sequences, including pulling a thread of the intended host's web with the foreleg, imitating struggling prey, to attract the spider (<i>Entomol Sci</i> 2009; doi.org/10.1111/j.1479-8298.2009.00338.x) and waiting for an opportunity to attack while resting on the web's non-viscid barrier threads (<i>Naturwissenschaften</i> 2007; doi.org/10.1007/s00114-006-0177-z). The above-described direct attack behavior of <i>H bicolor</i>, however, is preceded by a short period in which the wasp hovers around the potential host. Would it be possible for the female wasp to correctly evaluate the risks and quality of their potential hosts with just a quick visual inspection? Are chemical cues involved in host selection?</p>","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 9","pages":"410"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"71919567","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>On the stairway in a rather nice hotel where I stayed once in Thailand, a prominent plaque insisted: <i>No durians</i>. Bananas, fine; papaya, no problem; rambutan, knock yourself out. But the spiky, foot-long products of <i>Durio</i> spp (commonly <i>Durio zibethinus</i>)? Absolutely not! Yet durian flesh is widely regarded as exquisite (Figure 1). So why ban it? The renowned English naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace can answer that: “When brought into a house the smell is often so offensive that some persons can never bear to taste it” (<i>The Malay Archipelago</i> 1869; <b>1</b>: 117, London: Macmillan & Co). Sadly, the above plaque offered no solution to the evolutionary conundrum of why a fruit, ostensibly seeking the dispersal of its seeds through its wonderful taste, should reek enough to ward potential helpers away.</p><p>That durians stink is uncontested. Writers have described them as smelling like everything from rotten onions to raw sewage, and the experience of eating the flesh as ranging from consuming carrion in custard to ingesting raspberry blancmange in a lavatory, and even to kissing a corpse (https://tinyurl.com/zu6r56uu). Getting beyond the stench is hard, but it brings its reward, as Wallace himself noted: “This was my own case when I first tried it in Malacca, but in Borneo I found a ripe fruit on the ground, and, eating it out of doors, I at once became a confirmed durian eater”.</p><p>The <i>how</i> part of the durian's funk has more recently been clarified. Analyses have revealed the fruit to produce over 40 odor-active compounds, many reminiscent of onions (raw, rotten, and roasted), along with others that conjure up the aromas of skunk, cabbage, and sulfur, tempered with soup-seasoning and caramel (<i>J Agric Food Chem</i> 2012; <b>60</b>: 11253–62). And as durians get riper they get smellier, producing ever more ethionine, which enzymes then convert into the fruits’ signature “stink bomb”: ethanethiol (<i>J Agric Food Chem</i> 2020; <b>68</b>: 10397–402). Even in minute quantities humans can detect its malodorous, garlicky-cabbage whiff (and given our paltry olfactory powers, that really does say something about ethanethiol!). But where is the evolutionary advantage in all this?</p><p>It's a tricky one. Some might argue that the colors, scents, sizes, tastes, and shapes of fruits have evolved to match the abilities of the animals that disperse them; clearly it's little help being too big for an intended bird's beak, or being red if a target primate can’t distinguish that color. But others might disagree, arguing that fruits are commonly eaten by many disperser species; just how could they match the needs (including the aromatic requisites) of all of them? So what about durians? Is their odor a use<i>less</i>, counterproductive byproduct as it might appear to be, or could it be a very use<i>ful</i> signal that worked out because some potential dispersers, more inquisitive or more desperate for food, found, like W
{"title":"Disgusting, delicious durians","authors":"","doi":"10.1002/fee.2685","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2685","url":null,"abstract":"<p>On the stairway in a rather nice hotel where I stayed once in Thailand, a prominent plaque insisted: <i>No durians</i>. Bananas, fine; papaya, no problem; rambutan, knock yourself out. But the spiky, foot-long products of <i>Durio</i> spp (commonly <i>Durio zibethinus</i>)? Absolutely not! Yet durian flesh is widely regarded as exquisite (Figure 1). So why ban it? The renowned English naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace can answer that: “When brought into a house the smell is often so offensive that some persons can never bear to taste it” (<i>The Malay Archipelago</i> 1869; <b>1</b>: 117, London: Macmillan & Co). Sadly, the above plaque offered no solution to the evolutionary conundrum of why a fruit, ostensibly seeking the dispersal of its seeds through its wonderful taste, should reek enough to ward potential helpers away.</p><p>That durians stink is uncontested. Writers have described them as smelling like everything from rotten onions to raw sewage, and the experience of eating the flesh as ranging from consuming carrion in custard to ingesting raspberry blancmange in a lavatory, and even to kissing a corpse (https://tinyurl.com/zu6r56uu). Getting beyond the stench is hard, but it brings its reward, as Wallace himself noted: “This was my own case when I first tried it in Malacca, but in Borneo I found a ripe fruit on the ground, and, eating it out of doors, I at once became a confirmed durian eater”.</p><p>The <i>how</i> part of the durian's funk has more recently been clarified. Analyses have revealed the fruit to produce over 40 odor-active compounds, many reminiscent of onions (raw, rotten, and roasted), along with others that conjure up the aromas of skunk, cabbage, and sulfur, tempered with soup-seasoning and caramel (<i>J Agric Food Chem</i> 2012; <b>60</b>: 11253–62). And as durians get riper they get smellier, producing ever more ethionine, which enzymes then convert into the fruits’ signature “stink bomb”: ethanethiol (<i>J Agric Food Chem</i> 2020; <b>68</b>: 10397–402). Even in minute quantities humans can detect its malodorous, garlicky-cabbage whiff (and given our paltry olfactory powers, that really does say something about ethanethiol!). But where is the evolutionary advantage in all this?</p><p>It's a tricky one. Some might argue that the colors, scents, sizes, tastes, and shapes of fruits have evolved to match the abilities of the animals that disperse them; clearly it's little help being too big for an intended bird's beak, or being red if a target primate can’t distinguish that color. But others might disagree, arguing that fruits are commonly eaten by many disperser species; just how could they match the needs (including the aromatic requisites) of all of them? So what about durians? Is their odor a use<i>less</i>, counterproductive byproduct as it might appear to be, or could it be a very use<i>ful</i> signal that worked out because some potential dispersers, more inquisitive or more desperate for food, found, like W","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 9","pages":"448"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"71919575","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>While growing up in the forests and fields of northeastern Pennsylvania, I spent time with some of the best homegrown naturalists in the country. Anglers, hunters, and trackers taught me firsthand how to look at nature, as they themselves had been instructed by previous generations – and I was gifted with taxonomic keys for identifying plants and wildlife, which sparked what would be a lifelong desire to understand the natural world. It was not until after I left rural Pennsylvania and found my way into higher educational spaces when my “formal” introduction to ecology started.</p><p>But while I continued on an ecologist's path I began to repeatedly ask myself an important question: “<i>Do I belong here?</i>” The further I became involved in my research and schooling, the more I felt the need to adopt scholarly language, at the expense of being able to speak to the community of naturalists in the forests and fields where I grew up. As I pursued my degrees, I delved deeper into ecology until it was all I could see. It was not until after graduating with my master's degree, when I began work at a small nonprofit land trust, that I realized I had become disconnected from the sense of wonder that had first drawn me to this discipline. Bogged down by the constant news of habitat loss due to development, the loss of protections for sensitive ecosystems, and the brutality of climate-change-driven disasters, I questioned the impact of my efforts. If I were to key myself out in my professional landscape, I would not know where I belonged.</p><p>I have met many scientists pursuing critical ecological questions who feel either separated from the impacts of their work or unwelcome in decision-making circles where their voices are desperately needed. Ecologists are trained to identify, to question, and to probe relationships in nature, but how many of us learn the ways to share that information with a wide public audience? How can we bridge the divide between the rigors of scientific research and the broad discussions of policy or application of theory to the natural places we love? In my experience, the answer is straightforward: first listen, understand the social context, then share.</p><p>In my transition from academia to a nonprofit I was forced to reckon with a painful reality: my degrees in science are effectively in a language that the people in my local community do not speak. Only by recentering on my community's needs was I able to understand where my work was necessary: helping residents in local watersheds build emotional connections with their neighboring streams. These people did not feel passionate about the population dynamics of stream insects or patterns in eel migrations; instead, they cared about the danger of their homes flooding and the safety of their children from potentially polluted waters. It is my responsibility to meet community members where they live and ensure they feel welcome where discussions about water resources are ta
当我在宾夕法尼亚州东北部的森林和田野里长大时,我和这个国家一些最优秀的本土博物学家在一起。钓鱼者、猎人和追踪者第一手教会了我如何看待自然,就像他们自己被前几代人所教导的那样——我被赋予了识别植物和野生动物的分类钥匙,这激发了我一生了解自然世界的愿望。直到我离开宾夕法尼亚州农村,进入高等教育领域后,我才开始“正式”介绍生态学。但是,当我继续走生态学家的道路时,我开始反复问自己一个重要的问题:“我属于这里吗。在攻读学位的过程中,我深入研究生态学,直到它成为我所能看到的。直到硕士毕业后,当我开始在一家小型非营利土地信托基金工作时,我才意识到我已经与最初吸引我进入这门学科的惊奇感脱节了。由于发展导致栖息地丧失、敏感生态系统失去保护以及气候变化引发的灾难的残酷性,不断有消息传出,我对此感到困惑,我质疑自己的努力所产生的影响。如果我把自己关在我的职业生涯中,我就不知道自己属于哪里。我遇到过许多研究关键生态问题的科学家,他们要么觉得自己与工作的影响分离,要么在迫切需要他们声音的决策圈子里不受欢迎。生态学家受过识别、质疑和探索自然关系的训练,但我们中有多少人学会了与广大公众分享这些信息的方法?我们如何才能弥合严格的科学研究与广泛讨论政策或将理论应用于我们热爱的自然环境之间的鸿沟?根据我的经验,答案很简单:首先倾听,了解社会背景,然后分享。在我从学术界过渡到非营利组织的过程中,我不得不面对一个痛苦的现实:我的科学学位实际上是用当地社区的人不会说的语言获得的。只有重新关注我所在社区的需求,我才能理解我的工作在哪里是必要的:帮助当地流域的居民与邻近的溪流建立情感联系。这些人对溪流昆虫的种群动态或鳗鱼迁徙的模式并不感兴趣;相反,他们关心的是家被洪水淹没的危险,以及孩子在潜在污染水域中的安全。我有责任在他们居住的地方会见社区成员,并确保他们在讨论水资源时感到受欢迎。作为一个生态学家社区,我们必须继续调整我们的沟通,创造所有人都属于的空间。从引导对话转向倾听担忧,我重新找回了与自然世界失去的联系感。我开始与我的社区分享,就像我年轻时的博物学家与我分享的那样:我们走到外面,浑身又湿又脏。没有借口,没有期望,也没有行话,只有共同的发现感、惊奇感和不断增长的信任。我加入了当地的分水岭组织Darby Creek Valley Association,将居民培训为社区科学家。发生的事情很了不起——收集水化学数据的社区科学家开始在他们的水系中做出自己的发现。他们建立了与样本点的联系,并开始倡导在他们的社区制定更好的土地开发战略。他们甚至开始觉得在以前为科学家和决策者保留的空间里分享他们对社区需求的观察和知识更舒服了。生态研究对我们的集体未来至关重要,但如果不想办法与更广泛的受众分享这些教训,我们的科学影响力就会减弱。我们欺骗自己,不听我们工作和生活的社区居民的话。提高当地的科学素养有助于我所在的社区,在这样做的过程中,帮助我重新发现对生态的热情,并促进当地采取行动,保护我所在社区所依赖的宝贵生态系统。
{"title":"Fostering ecological understanding in and engagement with local communities","authors":"Lauren McGrath","doi":"10.1002/fee.2681","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2681","url":null,"abstract":"<p>While growing up in the forests and fields of northeastern Pennsylvania, I spent time with some of the best homegrown naturalists in the country. Anglers, hunters, and trackers taught me firsthand how to look at nature, as they themselves had been instructed by previous generations – and I was gifted with taxonomic keys for identifying plants and wildlife, which sparked what would be a lifelong desire to understand the natural world. It was not until after I left rural Pennsylvania and found my way into higher educational spaces when my “formal” introduction to ecology started.</p><p>But while I continued on an ecologist's path I began to repeatedly ask myself an important question: “<i>Do I belong here?</i>” The further I became involved in my research and schooling, the more I felt the need to adopt scholarly language, at the expense of being able to speak to the community of naturalists in the forests and fields where I grew up. As I pursued my degrees, I delved deeper into ecology until it was all I could see. It was not until after graduating with my master's degree, when I began work at a small nonprofit land trust, that I realized I had become disconnected from the sense of wonder that had first drawn me to this discipline. Bogged down by the constant news of habitat loss due to development, the loss of protections for sensitive ecosystems, and the brutality of climate-change-driven disasters, I questioned the impact of my efforts. If I were to key myself out in my professional landscape, I would not know where I belonged.</p><p>I have met many scientists pursuing critical ecological questions who feel either separated from the impacts of their work or unwelcome in decision-making circles where their voices are desperately needed. Ecologists are trained to identify, to question, and to probe relationships in nature, but how many of us learn the ways to share that information with a wide public audience? How can we bridge the divide between the rigors of scientific research and the broad discussions of policy or application of theory to the natural places we love? In my experience, the answer is straightforward: first listen, understand the social context, then share.</p><p>In my transition from academia to a nonprofit I was forced to reckon with a painful reality: my degrees in science are effectively in a language that the people in my local community do not speak. Only by recentering on my community's needs was I able to understand where my work was necessary: helping residents in local watersheds build emotional connections with their neighboring streams. These people did not feel passionate about the population dynamics of stream insects or patterns in eel migrations; instead, they cared about the danger of their homes flooding and the safety of their children from potentially polluted waters. It is my responsibility to meet community members where they live and ensure they feel welcome where discussions about water resources are ta","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 9","pages":"403"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"71919577","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Cássio Cardoso Pereira, Geraldo Wilson Fernandes, Tatiana Cornelissen
Several arthropod species, including caterpillars and spiders, commonly construct leaf-based shelters in the form of rolls, tents, and tiers for protection from predators and extreme physical conditions, affording them safety during development and reproduction. By building such shelters, these organisms qualify as ecosystem engineers (Neotrop Entomol 2016; doi.org/10.1007/s13744-015-0348-8), indirectly facilitating arthropod diversity on host plants (Arthropod-Plant Interact 2019; doi.org/10.1007/s11829-018-9661-6).
In the Cerrado Rupestre vegetation of southeastern Brazil (Nat Conserv -Bulgaria 2022; doi.org/10.3897/natureconservation.49.89237), we observed a gall-forming species of nematode that also induces a plant's gall-infested leaves to roll – the first recorded case, to the best of our knowledge (Ecol Entomol 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993). The microscopic (600 μm) nematode Ditylenchus gallaeformans induces galls on the shrub Miconia ligustroides. As the galls develop over time, they cause the undersides of the leaves to curl, forming rolls roughly 20 mm in diameter (top). The interiors of the rolled leaves with attached galls are frequently colonized by many arthropod species, especially spiders, which deposit thick layers of silk to envelop and protect their egg sacs (bottom). As compared to host plants with intact (unmodified) leaves, host plants with gall-induced rolled leaves, which remain on the plants for approximately eight months, are associated with higher arthropod abundance and diversity (Ecol Entomol 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993).
By diverting nutrients to feed the nematode larvae within them, the galls directly damage the host plants. At the same time, however, the galls may indirectly protect host plants from herbivory, given that the spiders that take refuge in these rolled structures repel sap-sucking and chewing insects (Ecol Entomol 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993). Does gall presence have a net positive or negative effect on host plants? In addition, could galls accelerate the decomposition rates of the fallen infected leaves?
{"title":"The curious case of leaf-rolling nematodes","authors":"Cássio Cardoso Pereira, Geraldo Wilson Fernandes, Tatiana Cornelissen","doi":"10.1002/fee.2683","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2683","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Several arthropod species, including caterpillars and spiders, commonly construct leaf-based shelters in the form of rolls, tents, and tiers for protection from predators and extreme physical conditions, affording them safety during development and reproduction. By building such shelters, these organisms qualify as ecosystem engineers (<i>Neotrop Entomol</i> 2016; doi.org/10.1007/s13744-015-0348-8), indirectly facilitating arthropod diversity on host plants (<i>Arthropod-Plant Interact</i> 2019; doi.org/10.1007/s11829-018-9661-6).</p><p>In the Cerrado Rupestre vegetation of southeastern Brazil (<i>Nat Conserv -Bulgaria</i> 2022; doi.org/10.3897/natureconservation.49.89237), we observed a gall-forming species of nematode that also induces a plant's gall-infested leaves to roll – the first recorded case, to the best of our knowledge (<i>Ecol Entomol</i> 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993). The microscopic (600 μm) nematode <i>Ditylenchus gallaeformans</i> induces galls on the shrub <i>Miconia ligustroides</i>. As the galls develop over time, they cause the undersides of the leaves to curl, forming rolls roughly 20 mm in diameter (top). The interiors of the rolled leaves with attached galls are frequently colonized by many arthropod species, especially spiders, which deposit thick layers of silk to envelop and protect their egg sacs (bottom). As compared to host plants with intact (unmodified) leaves, host plants with gall-induced rolled leaves, which remain on the plants for approximately eight months, are associated with higher arthropod abundance and diversity (<i>Ecol Entomol</i> 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993).</p><p>By diverting nutrients to feed the nematode larvae within them, the galls directly damage the host plants. At the same time, however, the galls may indirectly protect host plants from herbivory, given that the spiders that take refuge in these rolled structures repel sap-sucking and chewing insects (<i>Ecol Entomol</i> 2021; doi.org/10.1111/een.12993). Does gall presence have a net positive or negative effect on host plants? In addition, could galls accelerate the decomposition rates of the fallen infected leaves?</p>","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 9","pages":"427"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-11-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"71919571","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Ivan Jarić, Iran C Normande, Ugo Arbieu, Franck Courchamp, Sarah L Crowley, Jonathan M Jeschke, Uri Roll, Kate Sherren, Laura Thomas-Walters, Diogo Veríssimo, Richard J Ladle
Flagship species are an important tool for mobilizing support for conservation. Here, we extend this concept to include individual organisms, whose characteristics, fates, and connections to people can garner public attention, attract conservation support, and spur activism. Flagship individuals typically share a similar suite of characteristics, including (1) species-level traits associated with charisma; (2) individual traits that are unique or distinctive; (3) a high degree of exposure to humans; and (4) a known, noteworthy life history or fate. The interplay between these characteristics and human agency establishes unique connections between flagship individuals and people, and generates widespread media attention. We discuss how the selection and promotion of flagship individuals can inspire empathy and, ultimately, conservation action. Finally, we identify the limitations of the flagship individual approach, while arguing that, if carefully and strategically implemented, it has the potential to produce substantial benefits for conservation policy and practice.
{"title":"Flagship individuals in biodiversity conservation","authors":"Ivan Jarić, Iran C Normande, Ugo Arbieu, Franck Courchamp, Sarah L Crowley, Jonathan M Jeschke, Uri Roll, Kate Sherren, Laura Thomas-Walters, Diogo Veríssimo, Richard J Ladle","doi":"10.1002/fee.2599","DOIUrl":"10.1002/fee.2599","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Flagship species are an important tool for mobilizing support for conservation. Here, we extend this concept to include individual organisms, whose characteristics, fates, and connections to people can garner public attention, attract conservation support, and spur activism. Flagship individuals typically share a similar suite of characteristics, including (1) species-level traits associated with charisma; (2) individual traits that are unique or distinctive; (3) a high degree of exposure to humans; and (4) a known, noteworthy life history or fate. The interplay between these characteristics and human agency establishes unique connections between flagship individuals and people, and generates widespread media attention. We discuss how the selection and promotion of flagship individuals can inspire empathy and, ultimately, conservation action. Finally, we identify the limitations of the flagship individual approach, while arguing that, if carefully and strategically implemented, it has the potential to produce substantial benefits for conservation policy and practice.</p>","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"22 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-10-12","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1002/fee.2599","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135923725","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Andrew J Plantinga, Katherine Millage, Erin O'Reilly, Tamaki Bieri, Nick Holmes, Jono Wilson, Darcy Bradley
New investments in conservation are needed to halt and reverse the rapid and extensive changes to ecosystems driven by growing human demands for natural resources. A major barrier is matching viable financing solutions to conservation projects. Recent conservation finance studies catalog available financing options but do not provide adequate guidance on which financing pathways are suitable for a particular conservation project. Studies in the natural capital literature identify activities that best serve the conservator's objectives but typically fail to address the question of how to pay for them. We attempt to bridge these literature sources by providing a framework for identifying the specific conditions that must be satisfied by a project in order for an existing financing mechanism to be viable. Notably, our framework quickly reveals financing approaches that can be eliminated. We demonstrate the utility of this approach through conservation case studies on establishment of native forests, coral reef restoration, oyster restoration, and island biosecurity.
{"title":"How to pay for ecosystem services","authors":"Andrew J Plantinga, Katherine Millage, Erin O'Reilly, Tamaki Bieri, Nick Holmes, Jono Wilson, Darcy Bradley","doi":"10.1002/fee.2680","DOIUrl":"10.1002/fee.2680","url":null,"abstract":"<p>New investments in conservation are needed to halt and reverse the rapid and extensive changes to ecosystems driven by growing human demands for natural resources. A major barrier is matching viable financing solutions to conservation projects. Recent conservation finance studies catalog available financing options but do not provide adequate guidance on which financing pathways are suitable for a particular conservation project. Studies in the natural capital literature identify activities that best serve the conservator's objectives but typically fail to address the question of how to pay for them. We attempt to bridge these literature sources by providing a framework for identifying the specific conditions that must be satisfied by a project in order for an existing financing mechanism to be viable. Notably, our framework quickly reveals financing approaches that can be eliminated. We demonstrate the utility of this approach through conservation case studies on establishment of native forests, coral reef restoration, oyster restoration, and island biosecurity.</p>","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"22 1","pages":""},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-10-12","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1002/fee.2680","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135969430","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Paul R Armsworth, Bistra Dilkina, Joe Fargione, Maria Fisher, Rachel Fovargue, Jamal Harris, Heather B Jackson, Diane Le Bouille, Christoph Nolte, Casey Richards
Given declines in biodiversity and ecosystem services, funding to support conservation must be invested effectively. However, funds for conservation often come with geographic restrictions on where they can be spent. We introduce a method to demonstrate to supporters of conservation how much more could be achieved if they were to allow greater flexibility over conservation funding. Specifically, we calculated conservation exchange rates that summarized gains in conservation outcomes available if funding originating in one location could be invested elsewhere. We illustrate our approach by considering nongovernmental organization funding and major federal programs within the US and a range of conservation objectives focused on biodiversity and ecosystem services. We show that large improvements in biodiversity and ecosystem service provision are available if geographic constraints on conservation funding were loosened. Finally, we demonstrate how conservation exchange rates can be used to spotlight promising opportunities for relaxing geographic funding restrictions.
{"title":"Multiplying the impact of conservation funding using spatial exchange rates","authors":"Paul R Armsworth, Bistra Dilkina, Joe Fargione, Maria Fisher, Rachel Fovargue, Jamal Harris, Heather B Jackson, Diane Le Bouille, Christoph Nolte, Casey Richards","doi":"10.1002/fee.2678","DOIUrl":"10.1002/fee.2678","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Given declines in biodiversity and ecosystem services, funding to support conservation must be invested effectively. However, funds for conservation often come with geographic restrictions on where they can be spent. We introduce a method to demonstrate to supporters of conservation how much more could be achieved if they were to allow greater flexibility over conservation funding. Specifically, we calculated conservation exchange rates that summarized gains in conservation outcomes available if funding originating in one location could be invested elsewhere. We illustrate our approach by considering nongovernmental organization funding and major federal programs within the US and a range of conservation objectives focused on biodiversity and ecosystem services. We show that large improvements in biodiversity and ecosystem service provision are available if geographic constraints on conservation funding were loosened. Finally, we demonstrate how conservation exchange rates can be used to spotlight promising opportunities for relaxing geographic funding restrictions.</p>","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 10","pages":"489-497"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-10-05","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"134973680","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Angela H Chung, Emily M Elliott, Daniel J Bain, Brian F Thomas, Mark River, Carl J Nim, Julie A Darden
Although human reshaping of the nitrogen (N) cycle is well established, contributions of individual N sources to riverine and coastal eutrophication are less certain. Urban N fluxes are potentially substantial, particularly from sewer overflows. Results from four longitudinal surveys in rivers in and around the city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, were used to characterize N chemistry and isotopic composition and were compared with LOADEST-model-derived total N (TN) flux budgets from three urban areas along the Ohio River (Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Cincinnati, Ohio; and Louisville, Kentucky). Triple nitrate isotopes reveal that riverine nitrate in the Pittsburgh region is dominated by wastewater inputs despite high atmospheric deposition rates. Our budget estimates demonstrate that the magnitude of urban N yields is comparable to yields reported for agricultural watersheds and that these high urban N yields cannot consist of permitted, point-source discharges alone. Our results reveal that nonpoint sources in urban systems represent an important but overlooked source of TN to overall riverine budgets.
{"title":"Riverine nitrogen source and yield in urban systems","authors":"Angela H Chung, Emily M Elliott, Daniel J Bain, Brian F Thomas, Mark River, Carl J Nim, Julie A Darden","doi":"10.1002/fee.2679","DOIUrl":"10.1002/fee.2679","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Although human reshaping of the nitrogen (N) cycle is well established, contributions of individual N sources to riverine and coastal eutrophication are less certain. Urban N fluxes are potentially substantial, particularly from sewer overflows. Results from four longitudinal surveys in rivers in and around the city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, were used to characterize N chemistry and isotopic composition and were compared with LOADEST-model-derived total N (TN) flux budgets from three urban areas along the Ohio River (Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Cincinnati, Ohio; and Louisville, Kentucky). Triple nitrate isotopes reveal that riverine nitrate in the Pittsburgh region is dominated by wastewater inputs despite high atmospheric deposition rates. Our budget estimates demonstrate that the magnitude of urban N yields is comparable to yields reported for agricultural watersheds and that these high urban N yields cannot consist of permitted, point-source discharges alone. Our results reveal that nonpoint sources in urban systems represent an important but overlooked source of TN to overall riverine budgets.</p>","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 10","pages":"461-468"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-10-05","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135480685","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
<p>Few birds get worse press than shrikes (Laniidae). Sift through popular articles on them – even news features in scientific publications – and you will almost assuredly run across words such as “assassin”, “murderer”, “sadistic”, “vicious”, “macabre”, “gruesome”, and the like. It's all because these predatory birds commonly cache the prey they kill – which might include insects, lizards, small birds, mice, and so forth – by impaling their captures on thorns; you might see several items in a “larder” waiting to be consumed. These thorns also serve as anchors, making it easier for the birds to tug at the carcasses and pull off bite-sized pieces. Both are practices we condemn as distasteful. Moreover, shrikes are not raptors, but songbirds. Apart from the little hook at the end of their upper bill (Figure 1), there is nothing in their appearance to suggest they would prey upon anything bigger than a moth. This we interpret as contemptuous duplicity, made all the worse by the shrikes’ ability to lure other passerines toward them by mimicking their songs. Our sensibilities injured, we gave shrikes a bad name…and it's high time we ended this age-old wrong.</p><p>Take for example the <i>Sherborne Missal</i>, an exquisitely illustrated liturgical book crafted around the year 1400 for the Benedictine Abbey of St Mary's in Sherborne, southern England. One of the many birds depicted in its pages is a gray shrike (likely <i>Lanius excubitor</i> or <i>meridionalis</i>), clearly labeled as a <i>waryghanger</i>. In Medieval English, this apparently meant something like “suffocating angel”, a name clearly fitting for a creature with a benevolent appearance, yet one that is deceitful and murderous. It may have derived, however, from the Old English <i>wearg</i> (criminal) and a suffix connotating the diminutive: that is, <i>a little villain</i>, an appellative that wastes no time dwelling on imagery and metaphor (<i>The Compleat Birder</i>, https://tinyurl.com/2abrfwrb). Either way, the bird's “false charm” as a songbird, and the exceptional treatment of its prey, must have been known (and disliked) long before the <i>Missal</i> was written. Small wonder that the word <i>shrike</i> (which, thank goodness, at some point gained ascendency over <i>waryghanger</i>) would eventually, and misogynistically, become used to denote a wife who treated her husband badly.</p><p>The shrikes’ reputation was no better during the early Renaissance in Italy. In the <i>Baptism of Christ</i> (circa 1470–75) painted by Andrea del Verrocchio, with a little help from a young apprentice named Leonardo da Vinci, a red-backed shrike (<i>Lanius collurio</i>) is seen leaving the scene as John the Baptist pours water over Christ's head. The bird's reputation for cruelty involving thorns here symbolizes the crown of the same that Christ will later be forced to wear during His agony (<i>Nat Hist Sci Atti Soc it Sci nat Museo civ Stor nat Milano</i> 2021; <b>2</b>: 59–64). It's only a small
很少有鸟比伯劳受到更大的压力。仔细阅读关于它们的热门文章,甚至是科学出版物中的新闻特写,你几乎肯定会遇到诸如“刺客”、“杀人犯”、“虐待狂”、“恶毒”、“恐怖”、“可怕”等词。这一切都是因为这些食肉鸟类通常通过将捕获的猎物刺穿荆棘来藏匿它们杀死的猎物,其中可能包括昆虫、蜥蜴、小鸟、老鼠等;你可能会在一个“储藏室”里看到几件物品在等待消费。这些刺也起到了锚的作用,使鸟类更容易拖拽尸体并撕下一口大小的碎片。我们谴责这两种做法令人反感。此外,伯劳不是猛禽,而是鸣禽。除了它们上喙末端的小钩子(图1)外,它们的外表没有任何迹象表明它们会捕食比飞蛾更大的东西。我们将其解释为轻蔑的口是心非,更糟糕的是,伯劳犬能够通过模仿它们的歌声来引诱其他路人靠近它们。我们的情感受到了伤害,我们给伯劳打了个坏名声……现在是时候结束这个由来已久的错误了。以《谢伯恩圣母院》为例,这是一本插图精美的礼拜书,于1400年左右为英格兰南部谢伯恩的圣玛丽本笃会修道院制作。在书中描绘的众多鸟类中,有一种是灰色伯劳(很可能是Lanius excubitor或子午线鸟),上面清楚地贴着“战狼”的标签。在中世纪英语中,这显然意味着“令人窒息的天使”,这个名字显然适合一个外表善良但又具有欺骗性和谋杀性的生物。然而,它可能源于古英语wearg(criminal)和一个后缀,该后缀意味着小反派:即一个小反派,一个不浪费时间思考意象和隐喻的称谓(the Complat Birder,https://tinyurl.com/2abrfwrb)。不管怎样,这种鸟作为鸣禽的“虚假魅力”,以及对猎物的特殊对待,早在《米萨尔》问世之前就已经为人所知(也不受欢迎)。难怪“shrike”这个词(谢天谢地,在某个时候,它超过了好战者)最终会被用来表示一个对丈夫不好的妻子。在意大利文艺复兴初期,伯劳式战斗机的名声也没有好到哪里去。在安德里亚·德尔·韦罗基奥(Andrea del Verrocchio)绘制的《基督洗礼》(约1470–75年)中,在一位名叫莱昂纳多·达·芬奇(Leonardo da Vinci)的年轻学徒的帮助下,一只红背伯劳(Lanius collorio)在施洗约翰(John the Baptist)将水倒在基督头上时离开了现场。这只鸟因残忍而闻名,在这里象征着基督在痛苦中被迫戴上的王冠(Nat Hist Sci Atti Soc it Sci Nat Museo civ Stor Nat Milano 2021;2:59–64)。这只是一个很小的延伸,表明这只鸟的撤退也代表着从善到恶的逃亡。伯劳就是不能休息。在半个世界之外的巴基斯坦,伯雷也有不好的名声。2016年,《星期五时报》告诉12月9日版的一篇文章讲述了该国西北部马拉坎地区的一些农村人如何认为长尾伯劳是一种罪恶的生物,它的祖先将刺(是的,又是刺)放在了一位伊斯兰圣人的道路上,这是一种旨在折磨他的邪恶,可能会阻碍他的工作。这只鸟的模仿能力也给它带来了麻烦,这一次它错误地唱着祈祷的叫声(https://tinyurl.com/9hsv3vjm)。它还被指责纵火焚烧了一座清真寺,并从天堂偷走了kohl(在它眼睛周围涂上黑色条纹)。谁能想到这样一个美丽无害的生物会如此糟糕?但当然,当伯劳犬刺穿它们派出的猎物时,它们要么只是简单地将其储存起来,以备不时之需,要么,如果它们是雄性,则希望更大的储存量能赢得雌性的心(事实确实如此:Auk 1989;106:418-21)。当他们把这些刺当作食物锚时,就没有什么可怕的意图。相反,他们正在巧妙地利用它们。与猛禽不同,伯劳犬没有爪子来牢牢抓住猎物;他们用的是工具!当他们唱另一只鸟的歌时,他们只是在遵循狩猎策略,谁会责怪狮子是一个好的跟踪者呢?伯劳不是连环杀手,它们没有精神病患者需要在尖刺上展示灰熊奖杯(尽管我不确定那些被捕获的蜥蜴和田鼠会怎么想),也没有压倒性的证据表明它们愿意伤害圣人的头部或脚部。伯劳没有问题;我们确实如此。当然,我们正在将我们所认识到的同类中最糟糕的行为投射到他们身上:撒谎、欺骗、谋杀和可怕的变态行为(真的,在上面那些流行的文章中从未提到过穿刺者弗拉德吗?)。现在是时候纠正我们的错误,洗清伯劳的名声了。 但只有一件事;请不要把它改成waryghanger!
{"title":"Exoneration of the shrike","authors":"Adrian Burton","doi":"10.1002/fee.2677","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1002/fee.2677","url":null,"abstract":"<p>Few birds get worse press than shrikes (Laniidae). Sift through popular articles on them – even news features in scientific publications – and you will almost assuredly run across words such as “assassin”, “murderer”, “sadistic”, “vicious”, “macabre”, “gruesome”, and the like. It's all because these predatory birds commonly cache the prey they kill – which might include insects, lizards, small birds, mice, and so forth – by impaling their captures on thorns; you might see several items in a “larder” waiting to be consumed. These thorns also serve as anchors, making it easier for the birds to tug at the carcasses and pull off bite-sized pieces. Both are practices we condemn as distasteful. Moreover, shrikes are not raptors, but songbirds. Apart from the little hook at the end of their upper bill (Figure 1), there is nothing in their appearance to suggest they would prey upon anything bigger than a moth. This we interpret as contemptuous duplicity, made all the worse by the shrikes’ ability to lure other passerines toward them by mimicking their songs. Our sensibilities injured, we gave shrikes a bad name…and it's high time we ended this age-old wrong.</p><p>Take for example the <i>Sherborne Missal</i>, an exquisitely illustrated liturgical book crafted around the year 1400 for the Benedictine Abbey of St Mary's in Sherborne, southern England. One of the many birds depicted in its pages is a gray shrike (likely <i>Lanius excubitor</i> or <i>meridionalis</i>), clearly labeled as a <i>waryghanger</i>. In Medieval English, this apparently meant something like “suffocating angel”, a name clearly fitting for a creature with a benevolent appearance, yet one that is deceitful and murderous. It may have derived, however, from the Old English <i>wearg</i> (criminal) and a suffix connotating the diminutive: that is, <i>a little villain</i>, an appellative that wastes no time dwelling on imagery and metaphor (<i>The Compleat Birder</i>, https://tinyurl.com/2abrfwrb). Either way, the bird's “false charm” as a songbird, and the exceptional treatment of its prey, must have been known (and disliked) long before the <i>Missal</i> was written. Small wonder that the word <i>shrike</i> (which, thank goodness, at some point gained ascendency over <i>waryghanger</i>) would eventually, and misogynistically, become used to denote a wife who treated her husband badly.</p><p>The shrikes’ reputation was no better during the early Renaissance in Italy. In the <i>Baptism of Christ</i> (circa 1470–75) painted by Andrea del Verrocchio, with a little help from a young apprentice named Leonardo da Vinci, a red-backed shrike (<i>Lanius collurio</i>) is seen leaving the scene as John the Baptist pours water over Christ's head. The bird's reputation for cruelty involving thorns here symbolizes the crown of the same that Christ will later be forced to wear during His agony (<i>Nat Hist Sci Atti Soc it Sci nat Museo civ Stor nat Milano</i> 2021; <b>2</b>: 59–64). It's only a small ","PeriodicalId":171,"journal":{"name":"Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment","volume":"21 8","pages":"400"},"PeriodicalIF":10.3,"publicationDate":"2023-10-02","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1002/fee.2677","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"41085089","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":1,"RegionCategory":"环境科学与生态学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"OA","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}