To dump a chunk of trunk

The Mammal has deemed that Hox genes and good old-fashioned feel-good evo-devo are a good way to blink back to life*. Also, tardigrades. Tardigrades are awesome. Here is one viewed from above, from the Goldstein lab via Encyclopedia of Life:


Tardigrades or water bears are also a bit unusual. Their closest living relatives are velvet worms (Onychophora) and arthropods. Exactly who’s closest to whom in that trio of phyla collectively known as the Panarthropoda is not clear, and I don’t have the energy to wade into the debate – besides, it’s not really important for the purposes of this post. What Smith et al. (2016) concluded about these adorably indestructible little creatures holds irrespective of their precise phylogenetic position.

Anyway. I said tardigrades were unusual, and I don’t mean their uncanny ability to survive the apocalypse and pick up random genes in the process (Boothby et al., 2015). (ETA: so apparently there may not be nearly as much foreign gene hoarding as the genome paper suggests – see Sujai Kumar’s comment below! Doesn’t change the fact that tardigrades are tough little buggers, though 🙂 ) The oddity we’re interested in today lies in the fact that all known species are built to the exact same compact body plan. Onychophorans and many arthropods are elongated animals with lots of segments, lots of legs, and often lots of variation in the number and type of such body parts. Tardigrades? A wee head, four chubby pairs of legs, and that’s it.

How does a tardigrade body relate to that of a velvet worm, or a centipede, or a spider? Based solely on anatomy, that’s a hell of a question to answer; even the homology of body parts between different kinds of arthropods can be difficult to determine. I have so far remained stubbornly uneducated on the minutiae of (pan)arthropod segment homologies, although I do see papers purporting to match brain parts, appendages and suchlike between different kinds of creepy-crawlies on a fairly regular basis. Shame on me for not being able to care about the details, I guess – but the frequency with which the subject comes up suggests that the debate is far from over.

Now, when I was first drawn to the evo-devo field, one of the biggest attractions was the notion that the expression of genes as a body part forms can tell us what that body part really is even when anatomical clues are less than clear. That, of course, is too good to be simply true, but sometimes the lure of genes and neat homology stories is just too hard to resist. Smith et al.‘s investigation of tardigrade Hox genes is definitely that kind of story.

Hox genes are generally a good place to look if you’re trying to decipher body regions, since their more or less neat, orderly expression patterns are remarkably conserved between very distantly related animals (they are probably as old as the Bilateria, to be precise). A polychaete worm, a vertebrate and an arthropod show the same general pattern – there is no active Hox gene at the very front of the embryo, then Hoxes 1, 2, 3 and so on appear in roughly that order, all the way to the rear end. There are variations in the pattern – e.g. the expression of a gene can have sharp boundaries or fade in and out gradually; different genes can overlap to different extents, the order isn’t always perfect, etc. – but staggered Hox gene expression domains, with the same genes starting up in the same general area along the main body axis, can be found all across the Bilateria.

Tardigrades are no exception, in a sense – but they are also quite exceptional. First, their complement of Hox genes is a bit of a mess. At long last, we have a tardigrade genome to hand, in which Smith et al. (2016) found good honest Hox genes. What they didn’t find was a Hox cluster, an orderly series of Hox genes sitting like beads on a DNA string. Instead, the Hox genes in Hypsibius dujardini, the sequenced species, are all over the genome, associating with all kinds of dubious fellows who aren’t Hoxes.

What Smith et al. also didn’t find was half of the Hox genes they expected. A typical arthropod has ten or so Hox genes, a pretty standard ballpark for an animal that isn’t a vertebrate. H. dujardini has only seven, three of which are triplicates of Abdominal-B, a gene that normally exists in a single copy in arthropods. So basically, only five kinds of Hox gene – number two and most of the “middle” ones are missing. What’s more, two more tardigrades that aren’t closely related to H. dujardini also appear to have the same five Hox gene types (though only one Abd-B each), so this massive loss is probably a common feature of Tardigrada. (No word on whether the scattering of the Hox  cluster is also shared by the other two species.)

We know that the genes are scattered and decimated, but are their expression patterns similarly disrupted? You don’t actually need an intact Hox cluster for orderly Hox expression, and indeed, tardigrade Hox genes are activated in a perfectly neat and perfectly usual pattern that resembles what you see in their panarthropod cousins. Except for the bit where half the pattern is missing!

Here’s part of Figure 4 from the paper, a schematic comparison of tardigrade Hox expression to that of other panarthropods – a generic arachnid, a millipede and a velvet worm. (otd is a “head” gene that lives in the Hox-free anterior region; lab is the arthropod equivalent of Hox1, Dfd is Hox4, and I’m not sure which of Hox6-8 ftz is currently supposed to be.) The interesting thing about this is that according to Hox genes, the entire body of the tardigrade corresponds to just the front end of arthropods and velvet worms.


In addition, one thing that is not shown on this diagram is that Abdominal-B, which normally marks the butt end of the animal, is still active in the tardigrade, predictably in the last segment (L4, that is). So if you take the Hox data at face value, a tardigrade is the arse end of an arthropod tacked straight onto its head. Weird. It’s like evolution took a perfectly ordinary velvet worm-like creature and chopped out most of its trunk.

The tardigrade data suggest that the original panarthropod was probably more like arthropods and velvet worms than tardigrades – an elongated animal with many segments. The strange tardigrade situation can’t be the ancestral one, since the Hox genes that tardigrades lack long predate the panarthropod ancestor. Now, it might be possible to lose half your Hox genes while keeping your ancestral body plan, but an unusual body plan and an unusual set of Hox genes is a bit of a big coincidence, innit?

Smith et al. point out that the loss of the Hox genes was unlikely to be the cause of the loss of the trunk region – Hox genes only specify what grows on a segment, they don’t have much say in how many segments develop in the first place. Instead, the authors reason, the loss of the trunk in the tardigrade ancestor probably made the relevant Hox genes dispensable.

Damn, this story makes me want to see the Hox genes of all those oddball lobopodians from the Cambrian. Some of them are bound to be tardigrade relatives, right?



Boothby TC et al. (2015) Evidence for extensive horizontal gene transfer from the draft genome of a tardigrade. PNAS 112:15976-15981

Smith FW et al. (2016) The compact body plan of tardigrades evolved by the loss of a large body region. Current Biology 26:224-229


*The Mammal has been pretty depressed lately. As in mired up to her head in weird energy-sucking flu. Unfortunately, writing is one of those things that the damn brain monster has eaten most of the fun out of. Also, I have a shitty normal person job at the moment, and shitty job taking up time + barely enough motivation to crawl out of bed and pretend to be human means I have, at best, one afternoon per week that I actually spend on catching up with science. That is just enough to scroll through my feeds and file away the interesting stuff, but woefully insufficient for the writing of posts, not to mention that my ability to concentrate is, to be terribly technical, absolutely fucked. It’s not an ideal state of affairs by any stretch, and I’m pretty sure that if I made more of an effort to read and write about cool things, it would pay off in the mental health department, but
 well. That sort of reasonable advice is hard to hear with the oozing fog-grey suckers of that thing clamped onto my brain.

Putting the cart before the… snake?

Time to reexamine some assumptions (again)! And also, talk about Hox genes, because do I even need a reason?

Hox genes often come up when we look for explanations for various innovations in animal body plans – the digits of land vertebrates, the limbless abdomens of insects, the various feeding and walking and swimming appendages of crustaceans, the strongly differentiated vertebral columns of mammals, and so on.

Speaking of differentiated vertebral columns, here’s one group I’d always thought of as having pretty much the exact opposite of them: snakes. Vertebral columns are patterned, among other things, by Hox genes. Boundaries between different types of vertebrae such as cervical (neck) and thoracic (the ones bearing the ribcage) correspond to boundaries of Hox gene expression in the embryo – e.g. the thoracic region in mammals begins where HoxC6 starts being expressed.

In mammals like us, and also in archosaurs (dinosaurs/birds, crocodiles and extinct relatives thereof), these boundaries can be really obvious and sharply defined – here’s Wikipedia’s crocodile skeleton for an example:

In contrast, the spine of a snake (example from Wikipedia below) just looks like a very long ribcage with a wee tail:

Snakes, of course, are rather weird vertebrates, and weird things make us sciencey types dig for an explanation.

Since Hox genes appear to be responsible for the regionalisation of vertebral columns in mammals and archosaurs, it stands to reason that they’d also have something to do with the comparative lack of regionalisation (and the disappearance of limbs) seen in snakes and similar creatures. In a now classic paper, Cohn and Tickle (1999) observed that unlike in chicks, the Hox genes that normally define the neck and thoracic regions are kind of mashed together in embryonic pythons. Below is a simple schematic from the paper showing where three Hox genes are expressed along the body axis in these two animals. (Green is HoxB5, blue is C8, red is C6.)


As more studies examined snake embryos, others came up with different ideas about the patterning of serpentine spines. Woltering et al. (2009) had a more in-depth look at Hox gene expression in both snakes and caecilians (limbless amphibians) and saw that there are in fact regions ruled by different Hoxes in these animals, if a little fuzzier than you’d expect in a mammal or bird – but they don’t appear to translate to different anatomical regions. Here’s their summary of their findings, showing the anteriormost limit of the activity of various Hox genes in a corn snake compared to a mouse:


Such differences aside, both of the above studies operated on the assumption that the vertebral column of snakes is “deregionalised” – i.e. that it evolved by losing well-defined anatomical regions present in its ancestors. But is that actually correct? Did snakes evolve from more regionalised ancestors, and did they then lose this regionalisation?

Head and Polly (2015) argue that the assumption of deregionalisation is a bit stinky. First, that super-long ribcage of snakes does in fact divide into several regions, and these regions respect the usual boundaries of Hox expression. Second, ordinary lizard-shaped lizards (from which snakes descended back in the days of the dinosaurs) are no more regionalised than snakes.

The study is mostly a statistical analysis of the shapes of vertebrae. Using an approach called geometric morphometrics, it turned these shapes from dozens of squamate (snake and lizard) species into sets of coordinates, which could then be compared to see how much they vary along the spine and whether the variation is smooth and continuous or clustered into different regions. The authors evaluated hypotheses regarding the number of distinct regions to see which one(s) best explained the observed variation. They also compared the squamates to alligators (representing archosaurs).

The results were partly what you’d expect. First, alligators showed much more overall variation in vertebral shape than squamates. Note that that’s all squamates – leggy lizards are nearly (though not quite) as uniform as their snake-like relatives. However, in all squamates, the best-fitting model of regionalisation was still one with either three or four distinct regions in front of the hips/cloaca, and in the majority, it was four, the same number as the alligator had.

Moreover, there appeared to be no strong support for an evolutionary pattern to the number of regions – specifically, none of the scenarios in which the origin of snake-like body plans involved the loss of one or more regions were particularly favoured by the data. There was also no systematic variation in the relative lengths of various regions; the idea that snakes in general have ridiculously long thoraxes is not supported by this analysis.

In summary, snakes might show a little less variation in vertebral shape than their closest relatives, but they certainly didn’t descend from alligator-style sharply regionalised ancestors, and they do still have regionalised spines.

Hox gene expression is not known for most of the creatures for which vertebral shapes were analysed, but such data do exist for mammals (mice, here), alligators, and corn snakes. What is known about different domains of Hox gene activation in these three animals turns out to match the anatomical boundaries defined by the models pretty well. In the mouse and alligator, Hox expression boundaries are sharp, and the borders of regions fall within one vertebra of them.

In the snake, the genetic and morphological boundaries are both gradual, but the boundaries estimated by the best model are always within the fuzzy boundary region of an appropriate Hox gene expression domain. Overall, the relationship between Hox genes and regions of the spine is pretty consistent in all three species.

To finish off, the authors make the important point that once you start turning to the fossil record and examining extinct relatives of mammals, or archosaurs, or squamates, or beasties close to the common ancestor of all three groups (collectively known as amniotes), you tend to find something less obviously regionalised than living mammals or archosaurs – check out this little figure from Head and Polly (2015) to see what they’re talking about:


(Moving across the tree, Seymouria is an early relative of amniotes but not quite an amniote; Captorhinus is similarly related to archosaurs and squamates, Uromastyx is the spiny-tailed lizard, Lichanura is a boa, Thrinaxodon is a close relative of mammals from the Triassic, and Mus, of course, is everyone’s favourite rodent. Note how alligators and mice really stand out with their ribless lower backs and suchlike.)

Although they don’t show stats for extinct creatures, Head and Polly argue that mammals and archosaurs, not snakes, are the weird ones when it comes to vertebral regionalisation. For most of amniote evolution, the norm was the more subtle version seen in living squamates. It was only during the origin of mammals and archosaurs that boundaries were sharpened and differences between regions magnified. Nice bit of convergent/parallel evolution there!



Cohn MJ & Tickle C (1999) Developmental basis of limblessness and axial patterning in snakes. Nature 399:474-479

Head JJ & Polly PD (2015) Evolution of the snake body form reveals homoplasy in amniote Hox gene function. Nature 520:86-89

Woltering JM et al. (2009) Axial patterning in snakes and caecilians: evidence for an alternative interpretation of the Hox code. Developmental Biology 332:82-89

Finally, that sponge ParaHox gene

ParaHox genes are a bit like the underappreciated sidekicks of Hox genes. Or little sisters, as the case may be, since the two families are closely related. Hox genes are probably as famous as anything in evo-devo. Being among the first genes controlling embryonic development to be (a) discovered, (b) found to be conserved between very distantly related animals, they are symbolic of the late 20th century evo-devo revolution.

ParaHoxes get much less attention despite sharing some of the most exciting properties of Hox genes. Like those, they are involved in anteroposterior patterning – that is, partitioning an embryo along its head to tail axis. Also like Hox genes, they are often neatly clustered in the genome, and when they are, they tend to be expressed in the same order (both in space and time) in which they sit in the cluster*. Their main ancestral roles for bilaterian animals seem to be in patterning the gut and the central nervous system (Garstang and Ferrier, 2013).

There are three known types of ParaHox gene, which are generally thought to be homologous to specific Hox subsets of Hox genes – by the most accepted scheme, Gsx is the closest sister of Hox1 and Hox2, Xlox is closest to Hox3, and Cdx to Hox9 and above. It is abundantly clear that Hoxes and ParaHoxes are closely related, but there has been a bit of debate concerning the number of genes in the ancestral gene cluster that gave rise to both – usually called “ProtoHox” (Garcia-Fernàndez, 2005).

Another big question about these genes is precisely when they originated, and in this regard, ParaHox genes are proving much more interesting than Hoxes. You see, there are plenty of animals with both Hox and ParaHox genes, which is what you’d expect given the ProtoHox hypothesis, but there are also animals with only ParaHoxes. If there really was a ProtoHox gene/cluster that then duplicated to give rise to Hoxes and ParaHoxes, then lone ParaHoxes (or Hoxes for that matter) shouldn’t happen – unless the other cluster was lost along the way.

So a suspiciously Gsx-like gene in the weird little blob-creature Trichoplax, which has nothing remotely resembling a Hox gene, was a big clue that (a) Hox/ParaHox genes might go back further in animal evolution than we thought, (b) the loss of the entire Hox or ParaHox cluster is totally possible**, despite how fundamental these genes appear to be for correctly building an animal.

I wrote (at length) about a study by Mendivil Ramos et al. (2012), which revealed that while Trichoplax had no Hox genes and only one of the three types of ParaHox gene, it preserved the more or less intact genomic neighbourhoods in which Hox and ParaHox clusters are normally situated. One of the more interesting results of that paper was that the one sponge genome available at the time – that of Amphimedon queenslandica, which had no trace of either Hox or ParaHox genes – also contained statistically significant groupings of Hox and ParaHox neighbour genes, as if it had a Hox neighbourhood and a ParaHox neighbourhood, but the Hoxes and ParaHoxes themselves had moved out.

That study thus pointed towards an intriguing hypothesis, previously championed by Peterson and Sperling (2007) based solely on gene phylogenies: sponges once did have Hox and ParaHox genes/clusters, which at least some of them later lost. This would essentially mean that the two gene clusters go straight back to the origin of animals if not further***, and we may never find any surviving remnant of the ancestral ProtoHox cluster, since the closest living relatives of animals have neither the genes nor their neighbourhoods (that we know of).

Hypotheses are nice, but as we know, they do have a tendency to be tragically slain by ugly facts. Can we further test this particular hypothesis about sponges? Are there facts that could say yay or nay? (Of course there are. I wouldn’t be writing this otherwise 😉 )

I keep saying that we should always be careful when generalising from one or a few model organisms, that we ignore diversity in the animal kingdom at our own peril, and that “distantly related to us” = “looks like our distant ancestors” is an extremely dodgy assumption. Well, here’s another lesson in that general vein: unlike Amphimedon, some sponges have not just the ghosts of vanished ParaHox clusters, but intact, honest to god ParaHox genes!

It’s calcareous sponges again. Sycon ciliatum and Leucosolenia complicata, two charming little calcisponges, recently had their genomes sequenced (alas, they weren’t yet public last time I checked), and since then, there’s been a steady stream of “cool stuff we found in calcisponge genomes” papers from Maja Adamska’s lab and their collaborators. I’ve discussed one of them (Robinson et al., 2013), in which the sponges revealed their rather unhelpful microRNAs, and back in October (when I was slowly self-destructing from thesis stress), another study announced a couple of delicious ParaHoxes (Fortunato et al., 2014).

(Exciting as it is, the paper starts by tickling my pet peeves right off the bat by calling sponges “strong candidates for being the earliest extant lineage(s) of animals”… I suppose nothing can be perfect… *sigh*)

The study actually covers more than just (Para)Hox genes; it looks at an entire gene class called Antennapedia (ANTP), which includes Hoxes and ParaHoxes plus a handful of related families I’m far less interested in. Sycon and Leucosolenia don’t have a lot of ANTP genes – only ten in the former and twelve in the latter, whereas a typical bilaterian like a fruit fly or a lancelet has several times that number – but from phylogenetic analyses, these appear to be a slightly different assortment of genes from those present in Amphimedon, the owner of the first sequenced sponge genome. This picture is most consistent with a scenario in which all of the ANTP genes in question were present in our common ancestor with sponges, and each sponge lineage lost some of them independently. (You may not realise this until you start delving into the history of various gene families, but genes come and go a LOT in evolution.)

Sadly, many of the branches on these gene trees are quite wonky, including the one linking a gene from each calcisponge to the ParaHox gene Cdx. However, somewhat fuzzy trees are not the only evidence the study presents. First, the putative sponge Cdxes possess a little motif in their protein sequences that is only present in a handful of gene families within the ANTP class. If you take only these families rather than everything ANTP and make trees with them, the two genes come out as Cdx in every single tree, and with more statistical support than the global ANTP trees gave them. Another motif they share with all Hoxes, ParaHoxes and a few of their closest relatives, but not with other ANTP class families.

Second, at least the gene in Sycon appears to have the right neighbours (Leucosolenia was not analysed for this). Since the Sycon genome sequence is currently in pieces much smaller than whole chromosomes, only four or so of the genes flanking ParaHox clusters in other animals are clearly linked to the putative Cdx in the sponge. However, when the researchers did the same sort of simulation Mendivil Ramos et al. (2012) did for Amphimedon, testing whether Hox neighbours and ParaHox neighbours found across all fragments of the genome are (a) close to other Hox/ParaHox neighbours or randomly scattered (b) mixed or segregated, they once again found cliques of genes with little overlap, indicating the once-existence of separate Hox and ParaHox clusters.

Fortunato et al. (2014) also examined the expression of their newfound Cdx gene, and found it no less intriguing than its sequence or location in the genome, although their description in the paper is very limited (no doubt because they’re trying to cram results on ten genes into a four-page Nature paper). The really interesting activity they mention and picture is in the inner cell mass of the young sponge in its post-larval stages – the bit that develops into the lining of its feeding chambers. Which, Adamska’s team contend, may well be homologous to our gut lining. In bilaterians, developing guts are one of the major domains of Cdx and ParaHox genes in general!

So at least three different lines of evidence – sequence, neighbours and expression – make this picture hang together quite prettily. It’s incredibly cool – the turning on their heads of long-held assumptions is definitely the most exciting part of science, I say! On the other hand, it’s also a little disheartening, because now that everyone in the animal kingdom except ctenophores has definitive ParaHox genes and at least the empty seats once occupied by Hox genes, are we ever going to find a ProtoHox thingy? May it be that it’ll turn up in one of the single-celled beasties people like Iñaki Ruiz-Trillo are sequencing? That would be cool and weird.

The coolest twist on this story, though, would be to discover traces of ProtoHoxes in a ctenophore, since solid evidence for ProtoHox-wielding ctenophores would (a) confirm the strange and frankly quite dubious-sounding idea that ctenophores, not sponges, are the animal lineage farthest removed from ourselves, (b) SHOW US A FREAKING PROTOHOX CLUSTER. (*bounces* >_> Umm, * cough* OK, maturity can suck it 😀 ) However, given how horribly scrambled at least one ctenophore genome is (Ryan et al., 2013), that’s probably a bit too much to ask…



*Weirdly, the order of expression in time is the opposite of that of the Hox cluster. In both clusters, the “anterior” gene(s), i.e. Hox1-2 or Gsx, are active nearest the front of the embryo, but while anterior Hox genes are also the earliest to turn on, in the ParaHox cluster the posterior gene (Cdx) wakes up first. /end random trivia

**Of course we’ve long known that losing a Hox cluster is not that big a deal, but previously, all confirmed losses occurred in animals with more than one Hox cluster to begin with – a fish has plenty of Hox genes left even after chucking an entire set of them.

***With the obligatory ctenophore caveat



Fortunato SAV et al. (2014) Calcisponges have a ParaHox gene and dynamic expression of dispersed NK homeobox genes. Nature 514:620-623

Garcia-FernĂ ndez J (2005) The genesis and evolution of homeobox gene clusters. Nature Reviews Genetics 6:881-892

Garstang M & Ferrier DEK (2013) Time is of the essence for ParaHox homeobox gene clustering. BMC Biology 11:72

Mendivil Ramos O et al. (2012) Ghost loci imply Hox and ParaHox existence in the last common ancestor of animals. Current Biology 22:1951-1956

Peterson KJ & Sperling EA (2007) Poriferan ANTP genes: primitively simple or secondarily reduced? Evolution and Development 9:405-408

Robinson JM et al. (2013) The identification of microRNAs in calcisponges: independent evolution of microRNAs in basal metazoans. Journal of Experimental Zoology B 320:84-93

Ryan JF et al. (2013) The genome of the ctenophore Mnemiopsis leidyi and its implications for cell type evolution. Science 342:1242592

A bit of Hox gene nostalgia

I had the most random epiphany over my morning tea today. I don’t even know what got me thinking about the Cambrian explosion (as if I needed a reason…). Might have been remembering something from the Euro Evo Devo conference I recently went to. (I kind of wanted to post about that, because I saw some awesome things, but too much effort. My brain isn’t very cooperative these days.)


I was thinking about explanations of the Cambrian explosion and remembering how the relevant chapter in The Book of Life (otherwise known as the book that made me an evolutionary biologist)  tried to make it all about Hox genes. It’s an incredibly simplistic idea, and almost certainly wrong given what we now know about the history of Hox genes (and animals)*. At the time, and for a long time afterwards, I really wanted it to be true because it appeals to my particular biases. But I digress.

Then it dawned on me just how new and shiny Hox genes were when this book was written. I thought, holy shit, TBoL is old. And how far evo-devo as a field has come since!

The Book of Life was first published in 1993. That is less than a decade after the discovery of the homeobox in fruit fly genes that controlled the identity of segments (McGinnis et al., 1984; Scott and Weiner, 1984), and the finding that homeoboxes were shared by very distantly related animals (Carrasco et al., 1984). It was only four years after the recognition that fly and vertebrate Hox genes are activated in the same order along the body axis (Graham et al., 1989; Duboule and Dollé, 1989).

This was a HUGE discovery. Nowadays, we’re used to the idea that many if not most of the genes and gene networks animals use to direct embryonic development are very ancient, but before the discovery of Hox genes and their clusters and their neatly ordered expression patterns, this was not at all obvious. What were the implications of these amazing, deep connections for the evolution of animal form? It’s not surprising that Hox genes would be co-opted to explain animal evolution’s greatest mysteries.

It also occurred to me that 1993 is the year of the zootype paper (Slack et al., 1993). Slack et al. reads like a first peek into a brave new world with limitless possibilities. They first note the similarity of Hox gene expression throughout much of the animal kingdom, then propose that this expression pattern (their “zootype”) should be the definition of an animal. After that, they speculate that just as the pattern of Hox genes could define animals, the patterns of genes controlled by Hoxes could define subgroups within animals. Imagine, they say, if we could solve all those tough questions in animal phylogeny by looking at gene expression.

As always, things turned out More Complicated, what with broken and lost Hox clusters and all the other weird shit developmental “master” genes get up to… but it was nice to look back at the bright and simple childhood of my field.

(And my bright and simple childhood. I read The Book of Life in 1998 or 1999, not entirely sure, and in between Backstreet Boys fandom, exchanging several bookfuls of letters with my BFF and making heart-shaped eyes at long-haired guitar-playing teenage boys, I somehow found true, eternal, nerdy love. *nostalgic sigh*)


*Caveat: it’s been years since I last re-read the book, and my copy is currently about 2500 km from me, so the discussion of the Cambrian explosion might be more nuanced than I remember. Also, my copy is the second edition, so I’m only assuming that the Hox gene thing is there in the original.



Carrasco AE et al. (1984) Cloning of an X. laevis gene expressed during early embryogenesis coding for a peptide region homologous to Drosophila homeotic genes. Cell 37:409-414

Duboule D & Dollé P (1989) The structural and functional organization of the murine HOX gene family resembles that of Drosophila homeotic genes. The EMBO Journal 8:1497-1505

Graham A et al. (1989) The murine and Drosophila homeobox gene complexes have common features of organization and expression. Cell 57:367-378

McGinnis W et al. (1984) A conserved DNA sequence in homoeotic genes of the Drosophila Antennapedia and bithorax complexes. Nature 308:428-433

Scott MP & Weiner AJ (1984) Structural relationships among genes that control development: sequence homology between the Antennapedia, Ultrabithorax, and fushi tarazu loci of Drosophila. PNAS 81:4115-4119

Slack JMW et al. (1993) The zootype and the phylotypic stage. Nature 361:490-492

Ctenophore nervous systems redux

… and reasons I suddenly find myself liking Joseph Ryan.

Ryan was the first author on the first ctenophore genome paper, published last December, though I’d known his name long before that thanks to his developmental genetic work on jelly creatures of various kinds. As is clear from the genome study, he leans quite strongly towards the controversial idea that ctenophores represent the sister lineage to all other animals.

And here’s reason one that my eyes suddenly have little cartoon hearts pulsing in their irises upon reading his short perspective paper in Zoology (Ryan, 2014). Throughout the paper, not once does he refer to ctenophores as “the” basal animal lineage. Instead, he uses phrases like “most distant relative to all other animals” or “the sister group to the rest of the animals”.

In other words, he’s scrupulously avoiding my giantest pet peeve, and I’m sure he doesn’t do it to please an obscure blogger, but gods, that’s even better. I don’t want to be pleased, I want evolutionary biology to get rid of stupid anthropocentric ladder-thinking nonsense.

Anyway, the little paper isn’t actually about animal phylogeny, it’s about nervous systems.

Both ctenophore genome papers argued that the ancestors of these pretty beasties might have evolved nervous systems independently of ours. The second one seemed positively convinced of this, but, as Ryan’s review points out, there are other possibilities even assuming that the placement of ctenophores outside the rest of the animals is correct.

While it’s possible that nerve cells and nervous systems evolved twice among the animals – it is equally possible that they have been lost twice (i.e. in sponges and blobby little placozoans). Full-fledged nerve cells wouldn’t be the first things that sponges and blobs have lost.

And Ryan basically wrote this short piece just to point that out. The argument that ctenophore nervous systems are their own invention is based on the absence or strange behaviour of many “conserved” nervous system-related genes. Ctenophores appear to completely lack some common neurotransmitters such as dopamine, as well as a lot of genes/proteins that are necessary for nerve synapses to work in us. Other genes that are “neural” in other animals are present but not associated with the nervous system in ctenophores.

BUT, Ryan cautions, there are also commonalities that shouldn’t be dismissed. While ctenophores can’t make dopamine, they do possess several other messenger molecules common in animal nervous systems. Same goes for the proteins involved in making synapses. Likewise, while they completely lack some of the genes responsible for defining various types of nerve cells (see: Hox genes), other genes involved in the same kind of stuff are definitely there.

The key thing, he says, is to take a closer look at more of these genes and find out what they do by manipulating them. Since there are clearly both similarities and differences, we must assess their extent.

And that, my friends, is the question at the heart of every homology argument ever. How similar is similar enough? Greater minds than mine have struggled with the answer, and I imagine they’ll continue to struggle until we invent time machines or find fossils of every single stage in the evolution of everything.

Until then, I’ll leave you with the closing lines of Ryan’s paper. I may not agree that we’ve “revealed” the position of ctenophores, but I’m absolutely on board with the excitement 🙂

One thing is quite clear: something remarkable happened regarding the evolution of the nervous system very early in animal evolution. Either a nervous system existed in the ancestor and was lost in certain lineages, or ctenophores invented their own nervous system independently (Fig. 1). Either possibility is quite extraordinary. The revelation that ctenophores are the sister group to the rest of animals has sparked a truly exciting debate regarding the evolutionary origins of the nervous system, one that will continue as additional genomic and functional data come to the fore.


Ryan JF (2014) Did the ctenophore nervous system evolve independently? Zoology in press, available online 11/06/2014, doi: 10.1016/j.zool.2014.06.001

Thumbs down, what?

Bird fingers confuse me, but the explanations confuse me more, it seems.

I didn’t mean to post today, but I’ve just read a new review/hypothesis paper about the identities of the stunted little things that pass for fingers in the wings of modern birds. The review part is fine, but I’m not sure I get the difference between the hypothesis Čapek et al. (2013) are proposing and the hypothesis they are trying to replace/improve.

To recap: the basic problem with bird fingers is that fossil, genetic and developmental evidence seem to say different things about them.

1. Fossils: birds pretty clearly come from dinosaurs, and the early dinosaurs we have fossils of have five fingers on their hands with the last two being reduced. Somewhat closer to birds, you get four fingers with #4 vestigial. And the most bird-like theropods have only three fingers, which look most like digits 1, 2 and 3 of your ordinary archosaur. (Although Limusaurus messes with this scheme a bit.)

2. Embryology: in developing limb buds, digits start out as little condensations of tissue, which develop into bits of cartilage and then finger bones. Wing buds develop a short-lived condensation in front of the first digit that actually forms, and another one behind the last “surviving” digit. Taking this at face value, then, the fingers are equivalent to digits 2, 3 and 4.

3. Genetics: In five-fingered limbs, each digit has a characteristic identity in terms of the genes expressed during its formation. The first finger of birds is most like an ordinary thumb, both when you focus on individual genes like members of the HoxD cluster and when you take the entire transcriptome. However, the other two digits have ambiguous transcriptomic identities. That is, bird wings have digit 1 and two weirdos.

Add to this the fact that in other cases of digit loss, number one is normally the first to go and number four stubbornly sticks around to the end, and you can see the headache birds have caused.

So those are the basic facts. The “old” hypothesis that causes the first part of my confusion is called the frame shift hypothesis, which suggests that the ancestors of birds did indeed lose digit 1, as in the digit that came from condensation 1 – but the next three digits adopted the identities of 1-2-3 rather than 2-3-4. (This idea, IMO, can easily leave room for mixed identities – just make it a partial frame shift.)

Čapek et al.’s new one, which they call the thumbs down hypothesis, is supposedly different from this. This is how the paper states the difference:

The FSH postulates an evolutionary event in which a dissociation occurs between the developmental formation of repeated elements (digits) and their subsequent individualization.


According to the TDH no change of identity of a homeotic nature occurs, but only the phenotypic realization of the developmental process is altered due to redirected growth induced by altered tissue topology. Digit identity stays the same. Also the TDH assumes that the patterning of the limb bud, by which the digit primordia are laid down, and their developmental realization, are different developmental modules in the first place.

(Before this, they spent quite a lot of words explaining how the loss of the original thumb could trigger developmental changes that make digit 2 more thumb-like.)

I…. struggle to see the difference. If you’ve (1) moved a structure to a different position, (2) subjected it to the influence of different genes, (3) and turned its morphology into that of another structure, how exactly is that not a change in identity?

Maybe you could say that “an evolutionary event” dissociating digit formation and identity is different from formation and identity being kind of independent from the start, but I checked Wagner and Gauthier’s (1999) original frame shift paper, and I think what they propose is closer to the second idea than the first:

Building on Tabin’s (43) insight, we suggest causal independence between the morphogenetic processes that create successive condensations in the limb bud and the ensuing developmental individualization of those repeated elements as they become the functional fingers in the mature hand, thus permitting an opportunity for some degree of independent evolutionary change.

Am I missing something? I feel a little bit stupid now.



Čapek D et al. (2013) Thumbs down: a molecular-morphogenetic approach to avian digit homology. Journal of Experimental Zoology B, published online 29/10/2013, doi: 10.1002/jez.b.22545

Wagner GP and Gauthier JA (1999) 1,2,3 = 2,3,4: A solution to the problem of the homology of the digits in the avian hand. PNAS 96:5111-5116

Heads are rolling in Nature

The Nature website has been overrun with headless flatworms, my RSS feed tells me! These adorable guys called planarians are known for their ability to regenerate from almost any little scrap of their squishy bodies. (And yes, I find lots of things adorable.) More than a century ago, TH Morgan, who invented like half of modern biology, observed that a whole planarian complete with a head, tail, eyes, brain, and digestive system can regrow itself from a fragment as tiny as 1/279th of the original animal*.

If you’re not familiar with these neat creatures, here’s one of regeneration expert Alejandro SĂĄnchez Alvarado’s pet planarians from Wikipedia:

(OK, “pet” is probably the wrong word. Unless your concept of pets involves frequent mutilation and poisoning.)

Of course, once humanity discovered that planarians can do that, we just had to try and figure out how. Solana_etal2012-ctrlheadWho knows, one day the knowledge might even help us boost our own pathetic regeneration abilities. (Well, aside from the fact that planarian regeneration is pretty weird compared to what vertebrates do. But they are dead easy to keep and you can do lots of fancy things with them.) I felt like I should include some pictures of head regeneration in action, so here’s a few shots from Solana et al. (2012). Watch the eyes!

When you chop bits off a planarian, the remainder of the body has to know a couple of things to repair itself correctly. First, of course, it has to recognise that something is missing. This happens when tissues that don’t normally meet come into contact as the wound closes. The system can be fooled – if you cut off a piece of worm, turn it upside down, and stick it back on, things start growing out even though technically nothing is missing (Kato et al., 1999). The next step is to recognise precisely what needs to be replaced. An example of failing at this step is this two-headed flatworm obtained from a chemical treatment (from Nogi et al. [2012] via Wikipedia):

Making heads or tails

So how does a headless planarian know whether it needs a new head or tail? There’s a venerable theory (apparently also TH Morgan’s) according to which the body of the animal has a sort of built-in molecular coordinate system. Some molecules are more abundant at one end of the beast, while different molecules mark the other end. The anterior (head) and posterior (tail) signals would interact negatively, banishing each other from their respective head(or tail)quarters and resulting in opposing gradients. So any particular point along the head to tail axis would have a precise level of “headness” and “tailness”, and a wounded worm would “know” exactly where it was cut based on this information.

The tail end has long been known to be a seat of an ancient signalling pathway. Wnt (pronounced “wint”) genes are really, really important in a variety of developmental processes; in fact, it’s been proposed that they were involved in defining the head to tail axes of animals long before the more famous Hox genes (Guder et al., 2006). (The merits of that proposition are a discussion for another day. :)) Similar to their axis-defining developmental role, they – or rather, one of the several pathways they act through – also signal “tail” in adult planarians (Gurley et al., 2008).

Butts rule?

In one of the three new planarian studies, Umesono et al. (2013) set out mainly to figure out how the less well-understood head signal worked, but they managed to chuck in something vastly more interesting (to me, evolution nerd that I am) in an almost throwaway paragraph towards the end of the paper. Not all planarians have awesome regeneration superpowers. In particular, many species have difficulty regrowing heads while they can still regenerate tails just fine. Umesono et al. found out why.

Knowing how important Wnt signalling is in making tails, they wondered if an over-enthusiastic Wnt system might be behind some species’ head regeneration defects. They took members of such a species, demolished their Wnt pathway by hijacking their own gene regulatory mechanisms, and proceeded to hack off their heads. A couple of weeks later, shiny new heads started appearing!

It’s not just that one species, either. The other two new headless worm studies (Sikes and Newmark, 2013; Liu et al., 2013) basically did the exact same thing with two other kinds of regeneration-deficient planarian, and got the exact same result. So it looks like the same failure to overcome tailness underlies head regeneration failure in these three species.

The latter two papers examined worms from the same family, and the two animals proved to fail at regeneration in eerily similar ways. Everything up to a point goes correctly: the wound heals properly, stem cells across the body start dividing and gather at the amputation site… and then it stops. Wnts run rampant, heady genes remain silent, and nothing regenerates.

What I’d like to know is why it’s nothing rather than a second tail. After all, the molecular makeup of their wounded parts is screaming “tail!”, and they can regenerate missing tail ends. If you overactivate Wnt signalling in better regenerators among planarians, you still get something growing out at the front, it’s just not a very good head. (Umesono et al., in fact, did a couple of experiments like that in the process of figuring out heads.)

I thought the key was in the Umesono paper, because their prime suspect for “head stuff” as they call it is actually briefly needed in tail regeneration as well, so if it’s not activated at all due to too much Wntiness, then nothing will happen. But if you can turn that on in the middle of a tail in one species, why can’t the same thing happen in the others, which are also perfectly capable of regenerating their tails? Does tail regeneration work differently in them?

Did I mention that living things are complicated?

(And this is the part where I don’t start discussing the whole issue of how and why regeneration is lost in evolution. ‘Tis beautiful, but the night’s getting old ;))


*I can’t for the life of me find the original source, even though I distinctly remember having read Morgan’s account. The 1/279th figure is cited, among others, by Newmark and SĂĄnchez Alvarado (2001).



Guder C et al. (2006) The Wnt code: cnidarians signal the way. Oncogene 25:7450-7460

Gurley KA et al. (2008) ÎČ-catenin defines head versus tail identity during planarian regeneration and homeostasis. Science 319:323-327

Kato K et al. (1999) The role of dorsoventral interaction in the onset of planarian regeneration. Development 126:1031-1040

Liu SY et al. (2013) Reactivating head regrowth in a regeneration-deficient planarian species. Nature advance online publication 24/07/2013, doi: 10.1038/nature12414

Newmark PA and SĂĄnchez Alvarado A (2001) Regeneration in Planaria. In: Encyclopedia of Life Sciences. John Wiley & Sons Ltd, Chichester.; doi: 10.1038/npg.els.0001097

Nogi T et al. (2009) A novel biological activity of praziquantel requiring voltage-operated Ca2+ channel ÎČ subunits: subversion of flatworm regenerative polarity. PLoS Neglected Tropical Diseases 3:e464

Sikes JM & Newmark PA (2013) Restoration of anterior regeneration in a planarian with limited regenerative ability. Nature advance online publication, 24/07/2013, doi: 10.1038/nature12403

Solana J et al. (2012) Defining the molecular profile of planarian pluripotent stem cells using a combinatorial RNA-seq, RNA interference and irradiation approach. Genome Biology 13:R19

Umesono Y et al. (2013) The molecular logic for planarian regeneration along the anterior-posterior axis. Nature advance online publication, 24/07/2013, doi: 10.1038/nature12359

Phantom hourglasses

Holy ribosome, I’ve just written close to two thousand words about a paper. I… think I may have got a bit too excited. Or too bogged down in little technical details. Either way, you got lucky. The two-thousand word monster is not what you’re getting.

The reason I got excited about Piasecka et al. (2013) is that it, er, qualifies some other things I’d previously got excited about. And by “qualifies”, I mean turns inside out and performs a thorough autopsy on.

I previously touched upon the idea of the developmental hourglass – meaning that the embryos of related creatures are most similar to each other somewhere in the middle of development. The great rival of this hypothesis is that of early conservation (or the “funnel”), where embryos diverge from a similar starting point. The latter has been around as long as comparative embryology itself. The hourglass is a pretty intriguing pattern and raises all kinds of questions about what causes it – but of course, to have a cause, it has to exist in the first place.

So my previous excitement had been partly about the observation that the hourglass – originally noted in visible traits of embryos – also exists in the changing sets of genes activated throughout development (the transcriptome). According to various papers, genes expressed in mid-embryogenesis are on average older, slower-evolving and behave more similarly across species than genes active at other stages. If such observations are correct, that would certainly indicate that the hourglass is a real thing and something strange is going on with constraints and evolvability.

But, and here comes the Piasecka paper – is it?

This study is huge. There is (to use a highly technical phrase) a fucking shitload of stuff in it. Instead of looking at some big global property of the transcriptome, these authors went into all kinds of detail about various properties of specific sets of genes. They looked at – well, they say they looked at five different measures of evolutionary constraint, but actually some of those are made up of more than one thing, so really it’s quite a bit more than five.

And when they go down to that level of detail, they find that the hourglass is not a universal property of the developmental genetics of zebrafish embryos (unlike Domazet-LoĆĄo and Tautz [2010] reported). Different measures of evolutionary constraint such as the strength of selection against protein-changing mutations, the age of the genes (which is what the original study focused on), or the conservation of their regulatory elements, show different patterns. There are hourglasses, there are a couple of funnels, and then there are parameters that just don’t exhibit much systematic change at all.

(There’s also a couple of points about potentially dodgy statistical approaches in some of these papers, which may make all the difference between an hourglass and a funnel. That’s a bit scary.)

I can’t say I’ve properly digested this paper. There’s an awful lot in it, and, my head was spinning non-stop when I finished reading. It’s definitely fascinating stuff, though, and once again, the conclusion is that things are More Complicated. (I’m kind of getting used to that at this point…) Before, you could look at a group of creatures, compare their development and ask, funnel or hourglass? Then you could ask why. Now, you can’t just make grand generalisations about anything. Taking Piasecka et al. at face value, “funnel or hourglass” is not even a valid question – it depends on exactly what you’re measuring. So much for “laws” of developmental evolution…



Domazet-LoĆĄo T & Tautz D (2010) A phylogenetically based transcriptome age index mirrors ontogenetic divergence patterns. Nature 468:815-818

Piasecka B et al. (2013) The hourglass and the early conservation models—co-existing patterns of developmental constraints in vertebrates. PLoS Genetics 9: e1003476

Shining a light on retinoic acid

I was planning to do more bioinformaticky stuff tonight, but then I saw Shimozono et al. (2013), and… SHINY!

I derive a particular joy from seeing neat methods, and what these guys did is pretty damn neat. They used genetic engineering and a clever trick with fluorescence to (almost) directly study an important but rather elusive molecule in vertebrate development.

Retinoic acid (RA) is related to vitamin A; in fact, it is synthesised from vitamin A by enzymes in our cells. It is what developmental biologists call a morphogen: a molecule that spreads through an embryo by diffusion, and influences development depending on its concentration. Among other things, RA is thought to be responsible for the subdivision of the embryonic body axis by Hox genes, and also the correct formation of somites, the basic repeating units that eventually form our spine.

So RA is pretty darn important, but it’s also a bit difficult to investigate. It’s a relatively small and simple molecule that isn’t encoded in the genome, so some of the popular tools for detecting important molecules don’t work on it. Its activity can be monitored indirectly, though. Retinoic acid works by binding to proteins called retinoic acid receptors (RARs), which then latch onto certain DNA sequences that regulate nearby genes. So you can, for example, construct a piece of DNA that responds to an activated RAR by producing a fluorescent protein. You can also examine the distribution of the enzymes that make and break down RA, the assumption being that this corresponds to the distribution of RA itself.

The Japanese team, however, created a modification of retinoic acid receptors that is basically a direct indicator of RA level. Their RARs have been engineered to glow in different ways depending on whether or not RA is bound to them. They were able to zap these miniature RA detectors into zebrafish embryos without affecting the little creatures’ development, creating a gentle way to monitor RA levels in live animals.

They exploited a fascinating phenomenon called fluorescence resonance energy transfer (FRET for short). FRET needs two fluorescent molecules that glow at different wavelengths, such that the wavelength one of them emits is the same that turns the other on. (Wikipedia tells me FRET is actually based on spooky quantum effects involving virtual particles rather than ordinary light travelling from molecule to molecule. Wow, I didn’t know that!)

If the two molecules are very, very close, the emissions of the first one can give the other enough energy to light up. You can detect this by shining the colour of light needed to excite the first molecule on your sample, but then also measuring the fluorescence from the second molecule. The ratio of Molecule 1 to Molecule 2 glow can tell you how much FRETting is going on.

What Shimozono et al. did was to add the code for a FRET-capable pair of fluorescent proteins to various RAR genes. RARs change shape when retinoic acid binds to them, and in these engineered versions this means that they bring their fluorescent tags close enough for FRET to work. (The above figure, from Carr and Hetherington [2000], illustrates the principle – just substitute “Ca2+” with “RA”.) The scientists calibrated their little RA detectors by measuring how much FRET happened at various controlled RA concentrations first; this allowed them to turn FRET intensities into accurate measurements of RA. They then tested whether the detectors were truly RA-specific (and not activated by, say, vitamin A) by using them in fish embryos with their RA-making enzymes crippled.

Of course, they also got round to looking at the behaviour of RA during development, which was, after all, the point of their new toys. They did a basic visualisation of RA concentration throughout developing embryos – and confirmed that the established method of looking for the enzymes involved in RA synthesis and degradation is actually a decent substitute for measuring RA itself.

They then interfered with the production of a protein called FGF8 that is thought to regulate RA synthesis, and found that this altered the RA gradient – as well as the expression of the main enzyme that produces RA. Basically – the technique seems to work, and what it shows agrees with what we’ve thought about RA signalling. Hooray!

And, of course, they got pretty pictures like the ones below, coloured according to the amount of FRET (red = high, green = low) they measured. These two compare a normal embryo (left) and an embryo of the same age whose fgf8 gene has been messed with (right). If you have normal colour vision*, it’s pretty clear how the control embryo has this massive band of redness halfway down its body, and how even nearer the head and tail ends it’s more yellow than the sad green of the treated baby.

(I spliced these together from panels in an overwhelmingly massive figure and labelled them for those of you who don’t look at fish embryos much. No copyright infringement and no financial gain is intended, of course ;))

I think this whole thing is waaaaay cool. I wish I could come up with something clever like that. Oh well, at least I get to work with fluorescent things and take pretty glowy pictures every now and then. When I’m not neck deep in protein sequences and ‘omics data. 🙂


*Being a red-green colour blind developmental biologist must be a hell of a lot of fun. I just realised that pretty much everything involving fluorescence in biology is red, green or both – and developmental biologists love sticking fluorescent tags on everything. By the way, this particular figure could have been presented in any old combination of colours – they’re illustrating abstract numbers, not the actual colours of the specimens, which in this case would have been glowing in cyan and yellow. Of course, there’s probably a colour vision deficiency for every combination you can think of, so, uh. I probably overthunk this?


Carr K & Hetherington A (2000) Calcium dynamics in single plant cells. Genome Biology 1:reports024

Shimozono S et al. (2013) Visualization of an endogenous retinoic acid gradient across embryonic development. Nature 496:363-366

Lotsa news

Hah, I open my Google Reader (damn you, Google, why do you have to kill it??? >_<), expecting to find maybe a handful of new articles since my last login, and instead getting both Nature and Science in one big heap of awesome. The latest from the Big Two are quite a treat!


By now, of course, the internet is abuzz with the news of all those four-winged birdies from China (Zheng et al., 2013). I’m a sucker for anything with feathers anywhere, plus these guys are telling us in no uncertain terms that four-wingedness is not just some weird dromaeosaur/troodontid quirk but an important stage in bird evolution. Super-cool.


Then there is that Cambrian acorn worm from the good old Burgess Shale (Caron et al., 2013). It’s described to be like modern acorn worms in most respects, except it apparently lived in a tube. Living in tubes is something that pterobranchs, a poorly known group related to acorn worms do today. The Burgess Shale fossils (along with previous molecular data) suggest that pterobranchs, which are tiny, tentacled creatures living in colonies, are descendants rather than cousins of the larger, tentacle-less and solitary acorn worms. This has all kinds of implications for all kinds of common ancestors…


Third, a group used a protein from silica-based sponge skeletons to create unusually bendy calcareous rods (Natalio et al., 2013). Calcite, the mineral that makes up limestone, is not normally known for its flexibility, but the sponge protein helps tiny crystals of it assemble into a structure that bends rather than breaks. Biominerals would just be ordinary rocks without the organic stuff in them, and this is a beautiful demonstration of what those organic molecules are capable of!


And finally, Japanese biologists think they know where the extra wings of ancient insects went (Ohde et al., 2013). Today, most winged insects have two pairs of wings, one pair on the second thoracic segment and another on the third. But closer to their origin, they had wing-like outgrowths all the way down the thorax and abdomen. Ohde et al. propose that these wing homologues didn’t just disappear – they were instead modified into other structures. Their screwing with Hox gene activity in mealworm beetles transformed some of the parts on normally wingless segments into somewhat messed up wings. What’s more, the normal development of the same bits resembles that of wings and relies on some of the same master genes. It’s a lot like bithorax mutant flies with four wings (normal flies only have two, the hindwings being replaced by balancing organs), except no modern insect has wings where these victims of genetic wizardry grew them. The team encourage people to start looking for remnants of lost wings in other insects…

Lots of insteresting stuff today! And we got more Hox genes, yayyyy!



Caron J-B et al. (2013) Tubicolous enteropneusts from the Cambrian period. Nature advance online publication 13/03/2013, doi: 10.1038/nature12017

Natalio F et al. (2013) Flexible minerals: self-assembled calcite spicules with extreme bending strength. Science 339:1298-1302

Ohde T et al. (2013) Insect morphological diversification through the modification of wing serial homologs. Science Express, published online 14/03/2013, doi: 10.1126/science.1234219

Zheng X et al. (2013) Hind wings in basal birds and the evolution of leg feathers. Science 339:1309-1312