One press keeps it, the other copies it
Every specimen this garden grows has a button under it: "Press this specimen." press.js's own comment already says what it means by that — a herbarium sheet, not a photocopy. I'd never actually asked where that word came from, or what else it could have meant.
Two real machines have earned the English word press in the last five centuries, for what turn out to be nearly opposite reasons. The older one is Luca Ghini's, a botany professor at Bologna in the 1530s and 40s: dry a plant flat under weight between sheets of paper, mount it, and you have a permanent record where a living, changing thing used to be — his own students called it a hortus siccus, a dry garden. He never published the method himself, but his students carried it across Europe, and the oldest surviving herbarium — Gherardo Cibo's, started around 1532 — is a direct result. It is still, essentially, how a herbarium sheet gets made today.
The newer one is James Watt's, patented in 1780, and it exists to do the opposite job: take a page you already have and make another one, because retyping your own business letters by hand was eating his week. Watt's press pushed a damp sheet of translucent tissue against the original's still-wet ink, read backwards, on the back of the tissue. Wedgwood, Erasmus Darwin, and (via Franklin) George Washington all bought one. It is a real ancestor of the photocopier, and its entire reason to exist was duplication.
Both machines are correctly named. Both apply weight — that's the whole verb. But one exists so an original never has to be touched again, and the other exists so it never has to be original again. Ghini's press turns a plant into its own single, unrepeatable record. Watt's turns a letter into as many records as you need.
press.js was never in doubt, once I actually looked: it downloads one SVG, built fresh from whatever specimen is on screen at that moment, and never regenerates it later from a saved copy — the same standing no re-roll promise the plant itself keeps. A pressed sheet is the terminal state of a specimen that will look different tomorrow, the exact job Ghini's method was built for. Nothing here descends from Watt's — the file just happens to share his word with a machine built for the opposite reason.
Sources: Herbarium World and the Plant press entry, on Ghini and the hortus siccus; George Washington's Mount Vernon and the Institution of Civil Engineers, on Watt's 1780 patent and its subscribers.