directly into them, and even then every spot out of its direct rays
would be completely dark, except for light reflected from the walls. It
would be necessary to have windows all around and the walls all white;
and on the north side of every house a high white wall would have to be
built to reflect the light and prevent that side from being in total
darkness. Even then we should have to live in a perpetual glare, or shut
out the sun altogether and use artificial light as being a far superior
article.
Much more important would be the effects of a dust-free atmosphere in
banishing clouds, or mist, or the "gentle rain of heaven," and in giving
us in their place perpetual sunshine, desert lowlands, and mountains
devastated by unceasing floods and raging torrents, so as, apparently,
to render all life on the earth impossible.
There are a few other phenomena, apparently due to the same general
causes, which may here be referred to. Everyone must have noticed the
difference in the atmospheric effects and general character of the light
in spring and autumn, at times when the days are of the same length,
and consequently when the sun has the same altitude at corresponding
hours. In spring we have a bluer sky and greater transparency of the
atmosphere; in autumn, even on very fine days, there is always a kind of
yellowish haze, resulting in a want of clearness in the air and purity
of colour in the sky. These phenomena are quite intelligible when we
consider that during winter less dust is formed, and more is brought
down to the earth by rain and snow, resulting in the transparent
atmosphere of spring, while exactly opposite conditions during summer
bring about the mellow autumnal light. Again, the well-known beneficial
effects of rain on vegetation, as compared with any amount of artificial
watering, though, no doubt, largely due to the minute quantity of
ammonia which the rain brings down with it from the air, must yet be
partly derived from the organic or mineral particles which serve as the
nuclei of every raindrop, and which, being so minute, are the more
readily dissolved in the soil and appropriated as nourishment by the
roots of plants.
It will be observed that all these beneficial effects of dust are due to
its presence in such quantities as are produced by natural causes, since
both gentle showers as well as ample rains and deep blue skies are
present throughout the vast equatorial forest districts, where
dust-forming agencies seem to be at a minimum. But in all
densely-populated countries there is an enormous artificial production
of dust--from our ploughed fields, from our roads and streets, where
dust is continually formed by the iron-shod hoofs of innumerable horses,
but chiefly from our enormous combustion of fuel pouring into the air
volumes of smoke charged with unconsumed particles of carbon. This
superabundance of dust, probably many times greater than that which
would be produced under the more natural conditions which prevailed when
our country was more thinly populated, must almost certainly produce
some effect on our climate; and the particular effect it seems
calculated to produce is the increase of cloud and fog, but not
necessarily any increase of rain. Rain depends on the supply of aqueous
vapour by evaporation; on temperature, which determines the dew point;
and on changes in barometric pressure, which determine the winds. There
is probably always and everywhere enough atmospheric dust to serve as
centres of condensation at considerable altitudes, and thus to initiate
rainfall when the other conditions are favourable; but the presence of
increased quantities of dust at the lower levels must lead to the
formation of denser clouds, although the minute water-vesicles cannot
descend as rain, because, as they pass down into warmer and dryer strata
of air, they are again evaporated.
Now, there is much evidence to show that there has been a considerable
increase in the amount of cloud, and consequent decrease in the amount
of sunshine, in all parts of our country. It is an undoubted fact that
in the Middle Ages England was a wine-producing country, and this
implies more sunshine than we have now. Sunshine has a double effect, in
heating the surface soil and thus causing more rapid growth, besides its
direct effect in ripening the fruit. This is well seen in Canada, where,
notwithstanding a six months' winter of extreme severity, vines are
grown as bushes in the open ground, and produce fruit equal to that of
our ordinary greenhouses. Some years back one of our gardening
periodicals obtained from gardeners of forty or fifty years' experience
a body of facts clearly indicating a comparatively recent change of
climate. It was stated that in many parts of the country, especially in
the north, fruits were formerly grown successfully and of good quality
in gardens where they cannot be grown now; and this occurred in places
sufficiently removed from manufacturing centres to be unaffected by any
direct deleterious influence of smoke. But an increase of cloud, and
consequent diminution of sunshine, would produce just such a result; and
this increase is almost certain to have occurred owing to the enormously
increased amount of dust thrown into the atmosphere as our country has
become more densely populated, and especially owing to the vast increase
of our smoke-producing manufactories. It seems highly probable,
therefore, that to increase the wealth of our capitalist-manufacturers
we are allowing the climate of our whole country to be greatly
deteriorated in a way which diminishes both its productiveness and its
beauty, thus injuriously affecting the enjoyment and the health of the
whole population, since sunshine is itself an essential condition of
healthy life. When this fact is thoroughly realised we shall surely put
a stop to such a reckless and wholly unnecessary production of injurious
smoke and dust.
In conclusion, we find that the much-abused and all-pervading dust,
which, when too freely produced, deteriorates our climate and brings us
dirt, discomfort, and even disease, is, nevertheless, under natural
conditions, an essential portion of the economy of nature. It gives us
much of the beauty of natural scenery, as due to varying atmospheric
effects of sky, and cloud, and sunset tints, and thus renders life more
enjoyable; while, as an essential condition of diffused daylight and of
moderate rainfalls combined with a dry atmosphere, it appears to be
absolutely necessary for our existence upon the earth, perhaps even for
the very development of terrestrial, as opposed to aquatic life. The
overwhelming importance of the small things, and even of the despised
things, of our world has never, perhaps, been so strikingly brought home
to us as in these recent investigations into the wide-spread and
far-reaching beneficial influences of Atmospheric Dust.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 61: Chapter IX of "The Wonderful Century," copyright, 1898, by
Dodd, Mead and Company. The chapter is here reprinted by permission of
the author, Dr. Wallace, and of the publishers.]
THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS[62]
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I
observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half
an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having
once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled
on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that
the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a
_duellum_, but a _bellum_, a war between two races of ants, the red
always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one
black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in
my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying,
both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed,
the only battlefield I ever trod while the battle was raging;
internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black
imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly
combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers
never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in
each other's embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at
noon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The
smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's
front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant
ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already
caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed
him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already
divested him of several of his members. They fought with more
pertinacity than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to
retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was Conquer or Die. In the
meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hill-side of this
valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe,
or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had
lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his
shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished
his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus.[63]
He saw this unequal combat from afar,--for the blacks were nearly twice
the size of the reds; he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his
guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his
opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his
operations near the root of his right foreleg, leaving the foe to select
among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a
new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and
cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that
they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip,
and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer
the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had
been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And
certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least,
if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with
this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and
heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or
Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther
Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick,--"Fire! for God's
sake, fire!"--and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There
was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they
fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax
on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and
memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker
Hill, at least.
I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described were
struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on
my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the
first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing
at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler,
his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to
the jaws of the black warrior, whose breast-plate was apparently too
thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer's eyes
shone with ferocity such as war only could excite. They struggled half
an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again the black
soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the
still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly
trophies at his saddlebow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever,
and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and
with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to
divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he
accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill
in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, and
spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not
know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much
thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of
the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings
excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and
carnage, of a human battle before my door.
Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been
celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is
the only modern author who appears to have witnessed them. "Aeneas
Sylvius," say they, "after giving a very circumstantial account of one
contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk
of a pear tree," adds that "'This action was fought in the pontificate
of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an
eminent lawyer, who related the whole history of the battle with the
greatest fidelity.' A similar engagement between great and small ants is
recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones being victorious, are
said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of
their giant enemies a prey to the birds. This event happened previous to
the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden." The
battle which I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five
years before the passage of Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 62: From Chapter XII of "Walden," 1854.]
[Footnote 63: Patroclus, in Homer's Iliad, was the friend whose death at
the hands of the Trojans roused Achilles to action.]
A WIND-STORM IN THE FORESTS[64]
JOHN MUIR
The mountain winds, like the dew and rain, sunshine and snow, are
measured and bestowed with love on the forests, to develop their
strength and beauty. However restricted the scope of other forest
influences, that of the winds is universal. The snow bends and trims the
upper forests every winter, the lightning strikes a single tree here and
there, while avalanches mow down thousands at a swoop as a gardener
trims out a bed of flowers. But the winds go to every tree, fingering
every leaf and branch and furrowed hole; not one is forgotten: the
Mountain Pine towering with outstretched arms on the rugged buttresses
of the icy peaks, the lowliest and most retiring tenant of the
dells--they seek and find them all, caressing them tenderly, bending
them in lusty exercise, stimulating their growth, plucking off a leaf or
limb as required, or removing an entire tree or grove, now whispering
and cooing through the branches like a sleepy child, now roaring like
the ocean; the winds blessing the forests, the forests the winds, with
ineffable beauty and harmony as the sure result.
After one has seen pines six feet in diameter bending like grasses
before a mountain gale, and ever and anon some giant falling with a
crash that shakes the hills, it seems astonishing that any, save the
lowest thick-set trees, could ever have found a period sufficiently
stormless to establish themselves; or once established, that they should
not sooner or later have been blown down. But when the storm is over,
and we behold the same forests tranquil again, towering fresh and
unscathed in erect majesty, and consider what centuries of storms have
fallen upon them since they were first planted: hail, to break the
tender seedlings; lightning, to scorch and shatter; snow, winds, and
avalanches, to crush and overwhelm,--while the manifest result of all
this wild storm-culture is the glorious perfection we behold: then faith
in Nature's forestry is established, and we cease to deplore the
violence of her most destructive gales, or of any other storm implement
whatsoever.
There are two trees in the Sierra forests that are never blown down, so
long as they continue in sound health. These are the Juniper and the
Dwarf Pine of the summit peaks. Their stiff, crooked roots grip the
storm-beaten ledges like eagles' claws; while their lithe, cord-like
branches bend round compliantly, offering but slight holds for winds,
however violent. The other alpine conifers--the Needle Pine, Mountain
Pine, Two-leaved Pine, and Hemlock Spruce--are never thinned out by this
agent to any destructive extent, on account of their admirable toughness
and the closeness of their growth. In general the same is true of the
giants of the lower zones. The kingly Sugar Pine, towering aloft to a
height of more than two hundred feet, offers a fine mark to storm-winds;
but it is not densely foliaged, and its long horizontal arms swing round
compliantly in the blast, like tresses of green, fluent algae in a
brook: while the Silver Firs in most places keep their ranks well
together in united strength.
The Yellow or Silver Pine is more frequently overturned than any other
tree on the Sierra, because its leaves and branches form a larger mass
in proportion to its height; while in many places it is planted
sparsely, leaving open lanes through which storms may enter with full
force. Furthermore, because it is distributed along the lower portion of
the range, which was the first to be left bare on the breaking up of the
ice-sheet at the close of the glacial winter, the soil it is growing
upon has been longer exposed to post-glacial weathering, and
consequently is in a more crumbling, decayed condition than the fresher
soils farther up the range, and therefore offers a less secure anchorage
for the roots. While exploring the forest zones of Mount Shasta, I
discovered the path of a hurricane strewn with thousands of pines of
this species. Great and small had been uprooted or wrenched off by sheer
force, making a clean gap, like that made by a snow avalanche. But
hurricanes capable of doing this class of work are rare in the Sierra;
and when we have explored the forests from one extremity of the range to
the other, we are compelled to believe that they are the most beautiful
on the face of the earth, however we may regard the agents that have
made them so.
There is always something deeply exciting, not only in the sounds of
winds in the woods, which exert more or less influence over every mind,
but in their varied water-like flow as manifested by the movements of
the trees, especially those of the conifers. By no other trees are they
rendered so extensively and impressively visible; not even by the lordly
tropic palms or tree-ferns responsive to the gentlest breeze. The waving
of a forest of the giant Sequoias is indescribably impressive and
sublime; but the pines seem to me the best interpreters of winds. They
are mighty waving golden-rods, ever in tune, singing and writing
wind-music all their long century lives. Little, however, of this noble
tree-waving and tree-music will you see or hear in the strictly alpine
portion of the forests. The burly Juniper whose girth sometimes more
than equals its height, is about as rigid as the rocks on which it
grows. The slender lash-like sprays of the Dwarf Pine stream out in
wavering ripples, but the tallest and slenderest are far too unyielding
to wave even in the heaviest gales. They only shake in quick, short
vibrations. The Hemlock Spruce, however, and the Mountain Pine, and some
of the tallest thickets of the Two-leaved species, bow in storms with
considerable scope and gracefulness. But it is only in the lower and
middle zones that the meeting of winds and woods is to be seen in all
its grandeur.
One of the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the
Sierra occurred in December, 1874, when I happened to be exploring one
of the tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and
the trees had been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day
was intensely pure: one of those incomparable bits of California winter,
warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the
purest influences of the spring, and at the same time enlivened with one
of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable. Instead of camping out, as
I usually do, I then chanced to be stopping at the house of a friend.
But when the storm began to sound, I lost no time in pushing out into
the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions Nature has always something
rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than
one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof.
It was still early morning when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious
sunshine came pouring over the hills, lighting the tops of the pines,
and setting free a steam of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely
with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine-tassels
and bright green plumes, that went flashing past in the sunlight like
birds pursued. But there was not the slightest dustiness; nothing less
pure than leaves, and ripe pollen, and flecks of withered bracken and
moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the rate of one every two or
three minutes: some uprooted, partly on account of the loose,
water-soaked condition of the ground; others broken straight across,
where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The gestures
of the various trees made a delightful study. Young Sugar Pines, light
and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground; while
the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a
hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches
streaming fluently on the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing
and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas
Spruces, with long sprays drawn out in level tresses, and needles massed
in a gray, shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they
stood in bold relief along the hilltops. The madroños in the dells, with
their red bark and large glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected the
sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the
rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the Silver Pines were now the
most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires two hundred feet in
height waved like supple golden-rods chanting and bowing low as if in
worship; while the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was
kindled into one continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the
gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to
its roots, with a motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it.
Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid
giants thrilled with glad excitement.
I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion,
across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a
rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had
swelled to its highest pitch, I could distinctly hear the varying tones
of individual trees--Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak--and
even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet.
Each was expressing itself in its own way--singing its own song, and
making its own peculiar gestures--manifesting a richness of variety to
be found in no other forest I have yet seen. The coniferous woods of
Canada and the Carolinas and Florida, are made up of trees that resemble
one another about as nearly as blades of grass, and grow close together
in much the same way. Coniferous trees, in general, seldom possess
individual character, such as is manifest among Oaks and Elms. But the
California forests are made up of a greater number of distinct species
than any other in the world. And in them we find, not only a marked
differentiation into special groups, but also a marked individuality in
almost every tree, giving rise to storm effects indescribably glorious.