The Stories Mother Nature Told Her Children
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Jane Andrews >> The Stories Mother Nature Told Her Children
But here is another surprise of a different kind. You have seen boxes of
hard, smooth, white candles with the name paraffin marked on the cover.
Should you think the black coal could ever undergo such a change as to
come out in the form of these white candles? Go to the factory where
they are made, and you can see the whole process; and then you will
understand one more of God's meanings for coal.
And all this time I have not said a word about how, while the great
forests lay under pressure for millions of years, the oils that were in
the growing plants (just as oils are in many growing plants now) were
pressed out, and flowed into underground reservoirs, lying hidden there,
until one day not many years ago a man accidentally bored into one. Up
came the oil, spouting and running over, gushing out and streaming down
to a little river that ran near by. As it floated on the surface of the
water (for oil and water will not mix, you know), the boys, for
mischief, set fire to it, and a stream of fire rolled along down the
river; proving to everybody who saw it, that a new light, as good as
gas, had come from the coal. Now those of us who have kerosene lamps may
thank the oil-wells that were prepared for us so many years ago.
When your hands or lips are cracked and rough from the cold, does your
mother ever put on glycerin to heal them? If she does, you are indebted
again to the coal oil, for of that it is partly made.
And now let me tell you that almost all the uses for coal have been
found out since I was a child; and, by the time you are men and women,
you may be sure that as many more will be discovered, if not from that
storehouse, certainly from some of the many others that our good Father
has prepared for us, and hidden among the mountains or in the deserts,
or perhaps under your very feet to-day; for thousands of people walked
over those hills of coal, before one saw the treasures that lay hidden
there. I have only told you enough to teach you how to look for
yourselves; a peep, you know, is all I promised you. Sometime we may
open another door together.
THE HIDDEN LIGHT
There were plenty of gold-green beetles in the forest. Their violet-
colored cousins also held royal state there; and scarlet or yellow with
black trimmings was the uniform of many a gay troop that careered in
splendor through the vine-hung aisles of the hot, damp woods. But
clinging to the gray bark of some tree, or lying concealed among the
damp leaves in a swamp, was the gayest and fairest of them all, if the
truth be told.
A little blackish-brown bug, dingy and hairy, not pleasant to look upon,
you will say; surely not related to such winged splendors as play in the
sunlight. Yet he is true first cousin to the green and gold, or to the
royal violet; has as fair a title to a place in your regard, and will
prove it, if you will only wait his time. He is like those plain people
whom we pass every day without notice, until some great trial or
difficulty calls out a hidden power within them, and they flash into
greatness in some noble action, and prove their kinship to God.
We need not wait long; for as soon as the sun has set, our dull,
blackish bug unfolds his wings and reveals his latent glory. He becomes
a star, a spark from the sun's very self. If you can prevail upon him to
condescend to attend you, you may read or write by his light alone.
But come with me to this Indian's hut, where instead of lamp, candle, or
torch, three or four of these luminous insects make all the dwelling
bright. See the Indian hunter preparing for a journey, or a raid upon
the forest beasts, by fastening to his hands and feet the little
lantern-flies that shall make the pathway light before him.
When the Indian wants his brilliant little servants, he goes out on some
little hillock, waving a lighted torch and calling them by name,
"cucuie, cucuie;" and quickly they crowd around him in troops.
And here I must tell you a little Japanese story. The young lady fire-
fly is courted by her many suitors, who themselves carry no light. She
is shy and reserved. She will not accept the attentions; but when so
importuned that she sees no other escape, she cries, "Let him who really
loves me, go bring me a light like my own, as a proof of his affection."
Then the daring lovers rush blindly at the nearest fire or candle, and
perish in the flame.
But to return to the Indian. Not only do his lantern-flies illuminate
his path, but they go on before him, like an advance guard, to clear the
road of its infecting mosquitoes, gnats, and other troublesome insects,
which they seize and devour on the wing.
No harm would the Indian do to his little torchbearer; for, besides the
service he renders, does he not embody a portion of the sun god, the
holy fire? And there are times, when, with reverent awe, these simple
forest children think they see in the cucuie the souls of their departed
friends.
And now if we leave the forest and enter the gay ball-room of some
tropical city, we shall find that the cucuie is a cosmopolitan, at home
alike in palace and in hut, in forest and city. Not only does he, as a
wise little four-year-old friend of mine said, "light the toads to bed,"
but, restrained by invisible folds of gauze, he flutters in the hair of
the fairest ladies, and rivals those earth-stars the diamonds.
But it is hardly fair to show only the bright side, even of a cucuie;
and in justice I must tell that the sugar-planters see with dismay their
little torches among the canes. For although mosquitoes and gnats will
do for food in the forests where sugar is not to be had, who would taste
them when a field of cane is all before you, where to choose?
SIXTY-TWO LITTLE TADPOLES
Look at this mass of white jelly floating in a bowl of pond water. It is
clear and delicate, formed of little globes the size of pease, held
together in one rounded mass. In each globe is a black dot.
I have it all in my room, and I watch it every day. Before a week
passes, the black dots have lengthened into little fishy bodies, each
lying curled in his globe of jelly, for these globes are eggs, and these
dots are soon to be little living animals; we will see of what kind.
Presently they begin to jerk backwards and forwards, and perform such
simple gymnastics as the small accommodations of the egg will allow; and
at last one morning, to my delight, I find two or three of the little
things free from the egg, and swimming like so many tiny fishes in my
bowl of water. How fast they come out now; five this morning, but twenty
to-night, and thrice as many to-morrow! The next day I conclude that the
remaining eggs will not hatch, for they still show only dull, dead-
looking dots: so reluctantly I throw them away, wash out my bowl, and
fill it anew with pond water. But, before doing this, I had to catch all
my little family, and put them safely into a tumbler to remain during
their house-cleaning. This was hard work; but I accomplished it with the
help of a teaspoon, and soon restored them to a fresh, clean home.
It would be difficult to tell you all their history; for never did
little things grow faster, or change more wonderfully, than they.
One morning I found them all arranged round the sides of the bowl in
regular military ranks, as straight and stiff as a company on dress
parade. It was then that I counted them, and discovered that there were
just sixty-two.
You would think, at first sight, that these sixty-two brothers and
sisters were all exactly alike; but, after watching them a while, you
see that one begins to distinguish himself as stronger and more advanced
than any of the others,--the captain, perhaps, of the military company.
Soon he sports a pair of little feathery gills on each side of his head,
as a young officer might sport his mustache; but these gills, unlike the
mustache, are for use as well as for ornament, and serve him as
breathing tubes.
How the little fellows grow! no longer a slim little fish, but quite a
portly tadpole with rounded body and long tail, but still with no
expression in his blunt-nosed face, and only two black-looking pits
where the eyes are to grow.
The others are not slow to follow their captain's example. Day after day
some new little fellow shows his gills, and begins to swim by paddling
with his tail in a very stylish manner.
And now a sad thing happens to my family of sixty-two,--something which
would never have happened had I left the eggs at home in their own pond;
for there there are plenty of tiny water-plants, whose little leaves and
stems serve for many a delicious meal to young tadpoles. I did not feed
them, not knowing what to give them, and half imagining that they could
live very well upon water only; and so it happened that one morning,
when I was taking them out with a spoon as usual, to give them fresh
water, I counted only fifty. Where were the others?
At the bottom of the bowl lay a dozen little tails, and I was forced to
believe that the stronger tadpoles had taken their weaker brothers for
supper.
I didn't like to have my family broken up in this way, and yet I didn't
at that time know what to give them: so the painful proceeding was not
checked; and day after day my strongest tadpoles grew even stronger, and
the tails of the weaker lay at the bottom of the bowl.
The captain throve finely, had clear, bright eyes, lost his feathery
gills, and showed through his thin skin that he had a set of excellent
legs folded up inside. At last, one day, he kicked out the two hind
ones, and after that was never tired of displaying his new swimming
powers. The fore-legs following in due time; and when all this was done,
the tail, which he no longer needed to steer with, dropped off, and my
largest tadpole became a little frog.
His brothers and sisters, such of them as were left (for, I grieve to
say, he had required a great many hearty meals to enable him to reach
the frog state), followed his illustrious example as soon as they were
able; and then, of course, my little bowl of water was no suitable home
for them; so away they went out into the grass, among the shallow pools,
and into the swamps. I never knew exactly where; and I am afraid that,
should I meet even my progressive little captain again, I should hardly
recognize him, so grown and altered he would be. He no longer devours
his brothers, but, with a tongue as long as his body, seizes slugs and
insects, and swallows them whole.
In the winter he sleeps with his brothers and sisters, with the bottom
of some pond or marsh for a bed, where they all pack themselves away,
hundreds together, laid so closely that you can't distinguish one from
another.
But early in the spring you may hear their loud croaking; and when the
March sun has thawed the ice from the ponds, the mother-frogs are all
very busy with their eggs, which they leave in the shallow water,--round
jelly-like masses, like the one I told you of at the beginning of this
story, made up of hundreds and hundreds of eggs. For the frog mother
hopes for a large family of children, and she knows, by sad experience,
that no sooner are they born than the fishes snap them up by the dozen;
and even after they have found their legs, and begin to feel old, and
competent to take care of themselves, the snakes and the weasels will
not hesitate to take two or three for breakfast, if they come in the
way. So you see the mother-frog has good reason for laying so many eggs.
The toads too, who, by the way, are cousins to the frogs, come down in
April to lay their eggs also in the water,--long necklaces of a double
row of fine transparent eggs, each one showing its black dot, which is
to grow into a tadpole, and swim about with its cousins, the frog
tadpoles, while they all look so much alike that I fancy their own
mothers do not know them apart.
I once picked up a handful of them, and took them home. One grew up to
be a charming little tree-toad, while some of his companions gave good
promise, by their big awkward forms, of growing by and by into great
bull-frogs.
GOLDEN-ROD AND ASTERS
Do you know that flowers, as well as people, live in families? Come into
the garden, and I will show you how. Here is a red rose: the beautiful
bright-colored petals are the walls of the house,--built in a circle,
you see. Next come the yellow stamens, standing also in a circle: these
are the father of the household,--perhaps you would say the fathers,
there are so many. They stand round the mother, who lives in the very
middle, as if they were put there to protect and take care of her. And
she is the straight little pistil, standing in the midst of all. The
children are seeds, put away for the present in a green cradle at their
mother's feet, where they will sleep and grow as babies should, until by
and by they will all have opportunities to come out and build for
themselves fine rose-colored houses like that of their parents.
It is in this way that most of the flowers live; some, it is true, quite
differently: for the beautiful scarlet maple blossoms, that open so
early in the spring, have the fathers on one tree, and the mothers on
another; and they can only make flying visits to each other when a high
wind chooses to give them a ride.
The golden-rod and asters and some of their cousins have yet another way
of living, and it is of this I must tell you to-day.
You know the roadside asters, purple and white, that bloom so
plenteously all through the early autumn? Each flower is a circle of
little rays, spreading on every side: but, if you should pull it to
pieces to look for a family like that of the rose, you would be sadly
confused about it; for the aster's plan of living is very different from
the rose's. Each purple or white ray is a little home in itself; and
these are all inhabited by maiden ladies, living each one alone in the
one delicately colored room of her house. But in the middle of the aster
you will find a dozen or more little families, all packed away together.
Each one has its own small, yellow house, each has the father, mother,
and one child: they all live here together on the flat circle which is
called a disk; and round them are built the houses belonging to the
maiden aunts, who watch and protect the whole. This is what we might
call living in a community. People do so sometimes. Different families
who like to be near each other will take a very large house and inhabit
it together; so that in one house there will be many fathers, mothers,
and children, and very likely maiden aunts and bachelor uncles besides.
Do you understand now how the asters live in communities? The golden-rod
also lives in communities, but yet not exactly after the aster's plan,--
in smaller houses generally, and these of course contain fewer families.
Four or five of the maiden aunts live in yellow-walled rooms round the
outside; and in the middle live fathers, mothers, and children, as they
do in the asters. But here is the difference: if the golden-rod has
smaller houses, it has more of them together upon one stem. I have never
counted them, but you can, now that they are in bloom, and tell me how
many.
And have you ever noticed how gracefully these great companies are
arranged? For the golden-rods are like elm-trees in their forms: some
grow in one single, tall plume, bending over a little at the top; some
in a double or triple plume, so that the nodding heads may bend on each
side; but the largest are like the great Etruscan elms, many branches
rising gracefully from the main stem and curving over on every side,
like those tall glass vases which, I dare say, you have all seen.
Do not forget, when you are looking at these golden plumes, that each
one, as it tosses in the wind, is rocking its hundreds of little
dwellings, with the fathers, mothers, babies, and all.
When you go out for golden-rod and asters, you will find also the great
purple thistle, one of those cousins who has adopted the same plan of
living. It is so prickly that I advise you not to attempt breaking it
off, but only with your finger-tips push softly down into the purple
tassel; and if the thistle is ripe, as I think it will be in these
autumn days, you will feel a bed of softest down under the spreading
purple top. A little gentle pushing will set the down all astir, and I
can show you how the children are about to take leave of the home where
they were born and brought up. Each seed child has a downy wing with
which it can fly, and also cling, as you will see, if we set them loose,
and the wind blows them on to your woollen frock. They are hardy
children, and not afraid of any thing; they venture out into the world
fearlessly, and presume to plant themselves and prepare to build
wherever they choose, without regard to the rights of the farmer's
ploughed field or your mother's nicely laid out garden.
More of the community flowers are the immortelles, and in spring the
dandelions. Examine them, and tell me how they build their houses, and
what sort of families they have; how the children go away; when the
house is broken up; and what becomes of the fathers, mothers, and aunts.