Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE STORIES
MOTHER NATURE TOLD HER
CHILDREN
BY
JANE ANDREWS
AUTHOR OF "SEVEN LITTLE SISTERS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
1888, 1894.
CONTENTS.
THE STORY OF THE AMBER BEADS
THE NEW LIFE
THE TALK OF THE TREES THAT STAND IN THE VILLAGE STREET
HOW THE INDIAN CORN GROWS
WATER-LILIES
THE CARRYING TRADE
SEA-LIFE
WHAT THE FROST GIANTS DID TO NANNIE'S RUN
HOW QUERCUS ALBA WENT TO EXPLORE THE UNDERWORLD, AND WHAT CAME OF IT
TREASURE-BOXES
A PEEP INTO ONE OF GOD'S STOREHOUSES
THE HIDDEN LIGHT
SIXTY-TWO LITTLE TADPOLES
GOLDEN-ROD AND ASTERS
THE STORY OF THE AMBER BEADS
Do you know Mother Nature? She it is to whom God has given the care of
the earth, and all that grows in or upon it, just as he has given to
your mother the care of her family of boys and girls.
You may think that Mother Nature, like the famous "old woman who lived
in the shoe," has so many children that she doesn't know what to do. But
you will know better when you become acquainted with her, and learn how
strong she is, and how active; how she can really be in fifty places at
once, taking care of a sick tree, or a baby flower just born; and, at
the same time, building underground palaces, guiding the steps of little
travellers setting out on long journeys, and sweeping, dusting, and
arranging her great house,--the earth. And all the while, in the midst
of her patient and never-ending work, she will tell us the most charming
and marvellous stories of ages ago when she was young, or of the
treasures that lie hidden in the most distant and secret closets of her
palace; just such stories as you all like so well to hear your mother
tell when you gather round her in the twilight.
A few of these stories which she has told to me, I am about to tell you,
beginning with this one.
I know a little Scotch girl: she lives among the Highlands. Her home is
hardly more than a hut; her food, broth and bread. Her father keeps
sheep on the hillsides; and, instead of wearing a coat, wraps himself in
his plaid, for protection from the cold winds that drive before them
great clouds of mist and snow among the mountains.
As for Jeanie herself (you must be careful to spell her name with an ea,
for that is Scotch fashion), her yellow hair is bound about with a
little snood; her face is browned by exposure to the weather; and her
hands are hardened by work, for she helps her mother to cook and sew, to
spin and weave.
One treasure little Jeanie has which many a lady would be proud to wear.
It is a necklace of amber beads,--"lamour beads," old Elsie calls them;
that is the name they went by when she was young.
You have, perhaps, seen amber, and know its rich, sunshiny color, and
its fragrance when rubbed; and do you also know that rubbing will make
amber attract things somewhat as a magnet does? Jeanie's beads had all
these properties, but some others besides, wonderful and lovely; and it
is of those particularly that I wish to tell you. Each bead has inside
of it some tiny thing, incased as if it had grown in the amber; and
Jeanie is never tired of looking at, and wondering about, them. Here is
one with a delicate bit of ferny moss shut up, as it were, in a globe of
yellow light. In another is the tiniest fly,--his little wings
outspread, and raised for flight. Again, she can show us a bee lodged in
one bead that looks like solid honey, and a little bright-winged beetle
in another. This one holds two slender pine-needles lying across each
other, and here we see a single scale of a pine-cone; while yet another
shows an atom of an acorn-cup, fit for a fairy's use. I wish you could
see the beads, for I cannot tell you the half of their beauty. Now,
where do you suppose they came from, and how did little Scotch Jeanie
come into possession of such a treasure?
All she knows about it is, that her grandfather,--old Kenneth, who
cowers now all day in the chimney-corner,--once, years ago when he was a
young lad, went down upon the seashore after a great storm, hoping to
help save something from the wreck of the "Goshawk," that had gone
ashore during the night; and there among the slippery seaweeds his foot
had accidentally uncovered a clear, shining lump of amber, in which all
these little creatures were embedded. Now, Kenneth loved a pretty
Highland lass; and, when she promised to be his bride, he brought her a
necklace of amber beads. He had carved them himself out of his lump of
amber, working carefully to save in each bead the prettiest insect or
moss, and thinking, while he toiled hour after hour, of the delight with
which he should see his bride wear them. That bride was Jeanie's
grandmother; and when she died last year, she said, "Let little Jeanie
have my lamour beads, and keep them as long as she lives."
But what puzzled Jeanie was, how the amber came to be on the seashore;
and, most of all, how the bees and mosses came inside of it. Should you
like to know? If you would, that is one of Mother Nature's stories, and
she will gladly tell it. Hear what she answers to our questions:--
"I remember a time, long, long before you were born,--long, even, before
any men were living upon the earth; then these Scotch Highlands, as you
call them, where little Jeanie lives, were covered with forests. There
were oaks, poplars, beeches, and pines; and among them one kind of pine,
tall and stately, from which a shining yellow gum flowed, just as you
have seen little drops of sticky gum exude from our own pine-trees. This
beautiful yellow gum was fragrant; and, as the thousands of little
insects fluttered about it in the warm sunshine, they were attracted by
its pleasant odor,--perhaps, too, by its taste,--and once alighted upon
it, they stuck fast, and could not get away; while the great yellow
drops oozing out surrounded, and at last covered, them entirely. So,
too, wind-blown bits of moss, leaves, acorns, cones, and little sticks
were soon securely imbedded in the fast-flowing gum; and, as time went
by, it hardened and hardened more and more. And this is amber."
"That is well told, Mother Nature; but it does not explain how Kenneth's
lump of amber came to be on the seashore."
"Wait, then, for the second part of the story.
"Did you ever hear that, in those very old times, the land sometimes
sank down into the sea, even so deep that the water covered the very
mountain-tops; and then, after ages, it was slowly lifted up again, to
sink indeed, perhaps, yet again and again?
"You can hardly believe it, yet I myself was there to see; and I
remember well when the great forests of the North of Scotland--the oaks,
the poplars, and the amber-pines--were lowered into the deep sea. There,
lying at the bottom of the ocean, the wood and the gum hardened like
stone, and only the great storms can disturb them as they lie half
buried in the sand. It was one of those great storms that brought
Kenneth's lump of amber to land."
If we could only walk on the bottom of the sea, what treasures we might
find!
THE NEW LIFE
It is May,--almost the end of May, indeed, and the Mayflowers have
finished their blooming for this year. It is growing too warm for those
delicate violets and hepaticas who dare to brave even March winds, and
can bear snow better than summer heats.
Down at the edge of the pond the tall water-grasses and rushes are
tossing their heads a little in the wind, and swinging a little, lightly
and lazily, with the motion of the water; but the water is almost clear
and still this morning, scarcely rippled, and in its beautiful, broad
mirror reflecting the chestnut-trees on the bank, and the little points
of land that run out from the shore, and give foothold to the old pines
standing guard day and night, summer and winter, to watch up the pond
and down.
Do you think now that you know how the pond looks in the sunshine of
this May morning?
If we come close to the edge where the rushes are growing, and look down
through the clear water, we shall see some uncouth and clumsy black bugs
crawling upon the bottom of the pond. They have six legs, and are
covered with a coat of armor laid plate over plate. It looks hard and
horny; and the insect himself has a dull, heavy way with him, and might
be called very stupid were it not for his eagerness in catching and
eating every little fly and mosquito that comes within his reach. His
eyes grow fierce and almost bright; and he seizes with open mouth, and
devours all day long, if he can find any thing suited to his taste.
I am afraid you will think he is not very interesting, and will not care
to make his acquaintance. But, let me tell you, something very wonderful
is about to happen to him; and if you stay and watch patiently, you will
see what I saw once, and have never forgotten.
Here he is crawling in mud under the water this May morning: out over
the pond shoot the flat water-boatmen, and the water-spiders dance and
skip as if the pond were a floor of glass; while here and there skims a
blue dragon-fly, with his fine, firm wings that look like the thinnest
gauze, but are really wondrously strong for all their delicate
appearance.
The dull, black bug sees all these bright, agile insects; and, for the
first time in his life, he feels discontented with his own low place in
the mud. A longing creeps through him that is quite different from the
customary longing for mosquitoes and flies. "I will creep up the stem of
this rush," he thinks; "and perhaps, when I reach the surface of the
water, I can dart like the little flat boatmen, or, better than all,
shoot through the air like the blue-winged dragon-fly." But, as he
crawls toilsomely up the slippery stem, the feeling that he has no wings
like the dragon-fly makes him discouraged and almost despairing. At
last, however, with much labor he has reached the surface, has crept out
of the water, and, clinging to the green stem, feels the spring air and
sunshine all about him. Now let him take passage with the boatmen, or
ask some of the little spiders to dance. Why doesn't he begin to enjoy
himself?
Alas! see his sad disappointment. After all this toil, after passing
some splendid chances of good breakfasts on the way up, and spending all
his strength on this one exploit, he finds the fresh air suffocating
him, and a most strange and terrible feeling coming over him, as his
coat-of-mail, which until now was always kept wet, shrinks, and seems
even cracking off while the warm air dries it.
"Oh," thinks the poor bug, "I must die! It was folly in me to crawl up
here. The mud and the water were good enough for my brothers, and good
enough for me too, had I only known it; and now I am too weak, and feel
too strangely, to attempt going down again the way I came up."
See how uneasy he grows, feeling about in doubt and dismay, for a
darkness is coming over his eyes. It is the black helmet, a part of his
coat-of-mail; it has broken off at the top, and is falling down over his
face. A minute more, and it drops below his chin; and what is his
astonishment to find, that, as his old face breaks away, a new one comes
in its place, larger, much more beautiful, and having two of the most
admirable eyes!--two, I say, because they look like two, but each of
them is made up of hundreds of little eyes. They stand out globe-like on
each side of his head, and look about over a world unknown and wonderful
to the dull, black bug who lived in the mud. The sky seems bluer, the
sunshine brighter, and the nodding grass and flowers more gay and
graceful. Now he lifts this new head to see more of the great world; and
behold! as he moves, he is drawing himself out of the old suit of armor,
and from two neat little cases at its sides come two pairs of wings,
folded up like fans, and put away here to be ready for use when the
right time should come: still half folded they are, and must be
carefully spread open and smoothed for use. And while he trembles with
surprise, see how with every movement he is escaping from the old armor,
and drawing from their sheaths fine legs, longer and far more
beautifully made and colored than the old; and a slender body that was
packed away like a spy-glass, and is now drawn slowly out, one part
after another; until at last the dark coat-of-mail dangles empty from
the rushes, and above it sits a dragon-fly with great, wondering eyes,
long, slender body, and two pairs of delicate, gauzy wings,--fine and
firm as the very ones he had been watching but an hour ago.
The poor black bug who thought he was dying was only passing out of his
old life to be born into a higher one; and see how much brighter and
more beautiful it is!
And now shall I tell you how, months ago, the mother dragon-fly dropped
into the water her tiny eggs, which lay there in the mud, and by and by
hatched out the dark, crawling bugs, so unlike the mother that she does
not know them for her children, and, flying over the pond, looks down
through the water where they crawl among the rushes, and has not a
single word to say to them; until, in due time, they find their way up
to the air, and pass into the new winged life.
If you will go to some pond when spring is ending or summer beginning,
and find among the water-grasses such an insect as I have told you of,
you may see all this for yourselves; and you will say with me, dear
children, that nothing you have ever known is more wonderful.
THE TALK OF THE TREES THAT STAND IN THE VILLAGE STREET
How still it is! Nobody in the village street, the children all at
school, and the very dogs sleeping lazily in the sunshine. Only a south
wind blows lightly through the trees, lifting the great fans of the
horse-chestnut, tossing the slight branches of the elm against the sky
like single feathers of a great plume, and swinging out fragrance from
the heavy-hanging linden-blossoms.
Through the silence there is a little murmur, like a low song. It is the
song of the trees: each has its own voice, which may be known from all
others by the ear that has learned how to listen.
The topmost branches of the elm are talking of the sky,--of those
highest white clouds that float like tresses of silver hair in the far
blue, of the sunrise gold and the rose-color of sunset that always rest
upon them most lovingly. But down deep in the heart of the great
branches you may hear something quite different, and not less sweet.
"Peep under my leaves," sings the elm-tree, "out at the ends of my
broadest branches. What hangs there so soft and gray? Who comes with a
flash of wings and gleam of golden breast among the dark leaves, and
sits above the gray hanging nest to sing his full, sweet tune? Who
worked there together so happily all the May-time, with gray honeysuckle
fibres, twining the little nest, until there it hung securely over the
road, bound and tied and woven firmly to the slender twigs? so slender
that the squirrels even cannot creep down for the eggs; much less can
Jack or Neddy, who are so fond of birds'-nesting, ever hope to reach the
home of our golden robin.
"There my leaves shelter him like a roof from rain and from sunshine. I
rock the cradle when the father and mother are away and the little ones
cry, and in my softest tone I sing to them; yet they are never quite
satisfied with me, but beat their wings, and stretch out their heads,
and cannot be happy until they hear their father.
"The squirrel, who lives in the hole where the two great branches part,
hears what I say, and curls up his tail, while he turns his bright eyes
towards the swinging nest which he can never reach."
The fanning wind wafts across the road the voice of the old horse-
chestnut, who also has a word to say about the birds'-nests.
"When my blossoms were fresh, white pyramids, came a swift flutter of
wings about them one day, and a dazzlingly beautiful little bird thrust
his long, delicate bill among the flowers; and while he held himself
there in the air without touching his tiny feet to twig or stem, but
only by the swift fanning of long, green-tinted wings, I offered him my
best flowers for his breakfast, and bowed my great leaves as a welcome
to him. The dear little thing had been here before, while yet the sticky
brown buds which wrap up my leaves had not burst open to the warm
sunshine. He and his mate, whose feather dress was not so fine as his,
gathered the gum from the outside of the buds, and pulled the warm wool
from the inside; and I could watch them as they flew away to the maple
yonder, for then the trees that stand between us had no leaves to hide
the maple, as they do now.
"Back and forth flew the birds from the topmost maple-branch to my
opening buds; and day by day I saw a little nest growing, very small and
round, lined warmly with wool from my buds, and thatched all over the
outside with bits of lichen, gray and green, to match what grew on the
maple-branches about it; and this thatch was glued on with the gum from
my brown buds. When it was finished, it was delicate enough for the
cradle of a little princess, and the outside was so carefully matched to
the tree by lichens, that the sharpest eyes from below could not detect
it. What a safe, snug home for the humming-birds!
"By the time the two tiny eggs were laid, I could no longer see the
nest, for the thick foliage of other trees had built up a green wall
between me and it. But for many days the mother-bird staid away, and the
father came alone to drink honey from my blossom-cups: so I knew that
the eggs were hatching under her warm folded wings, for I have seen such
things before among my own branches in the robins' nests and the
bluebirds'.
"Now my flowers are all gone, and in their place the nuts are growing in
their prickly balls. I have nothing to tempt the humming-bird, and he
never visits me: only the yellow birds hop gayly from branch to branch,
and the robins come sometimes." And the horse-chestnut sighed, for he
missed the humming-bird; and he flapped his great leaves in the very
face of the linden-blossoms, and forgot to say "Excuse me." But the
linden is now, and for many days, full of sweetness, and will not answer
ungraciously even so careless a touch.
Yes, the linden is full of sweetness, and sends out the fragrance from
his blossoms in through the chamber windows, and down upon the people
who pass in the street below. And he tells all the time his story of how
his pink-covered leaf-buds opened in the spring mornings, and unfolded
the fresh green leaves, which were so tender and full of green juices
that it was no wonder the mother-moth had thought the branches a good
place whereon to lay her eggs; for as soon as they should be all laid,
she would die, and there would be no one to provide food for her babies
when they should creep out.
"So the nice mother-moth made a toilsome journey up my great trunk,"
sung the linden, "and left her eggs where she knew the freshest green
leaves would be coming out by the time the young ones should leave the
eggs.
"And they came out indeed, somewhat to my sorrow; for instead of being,
like their mother, sober, well-behaved little moths, they were green
canker-worms, and such hungry little things, that I really began to fear
I should have not a whole leaf left upon me; when one day they spun for
themselves fine silken ropes, and swung themselves down from leaf to
leaf, and from branch to branch, and in a day or two were all gone.
"A little flaxen-haired girl sat on the broad doorstep at my feet, and
caught the canker-worms in her white apron. She liked to see them hump
up their backs, and measure off the inches of her white checked apron
with their little green bodies. And I, although I liked them well enough
at first, was not sorry to lose them when they went. I heard the child's
mother telling her that they had come down to make for themselves beds
in the earth, where they would sleep until the early spring, and wake to
find themselves grown into moths just like their mothers, who climbed up
the tree to lay eggs. We shall see when next spring comes if that is so.
Now, since they went, I have done my best to refresh my leaves, and keep
young and happy; and here are my sweet blossoms to prove that I have yet
within me vigorous life."
The elm-tree heard what the linden sung, and said, "Very true, very
true. I, too, have suffered from the canker-worms; but I have yet leaves
enough left for a beautiful shade, and the poor crawling things must
surely eat something." And the elm bowed gracefully to the linden, out
of sympathy for him.
But the linden has heard the voices of the young robins who live in the
nest among his highest boughs; and he must yet tell to the horse-
chestnut how sad it was the other day in the thunder-storm, when the
wind upset the nest, and one little bird was thrown out and killed;
while the father and mother flew about in the greatest distress, until
Charley came, climbed the tree, and fitted the nest safely back into its
place.
How much the trees have to say! And there is the pine, who was born and
brought up in the woods,--he is always whispering secrets of the great
forest, and of the river beside which he grew. The other trees can't
always understand him: he is the poet among them, and a poet is always
suspected of knowing a little more than any one else.
Sometime I may try to tell you something of what he says; but here ends
the talk of the trees that stood in the village street.
HOW THE INDIAN CORN GROWS
The children came in from the field with their hands full of the soft,
pale-green corn-silk. Annie had rolled hers into a bird's-nest; while
Willie had dressed his little sister's hair with the long, damp tresses,
until she seemed more like a mermaid, with pale blue eyes shining out
between the locks of her sea-green hair, than like our own Alice.
They brought their treasures to the mother, who sat on the door-step of
the farm-house, under the tall, old elm-tree that had been growing there
ever since her mother was a child. She praised the beauty of the bird's-
nest, and kissed the little mermaiden to find if her lips tasted of salt
water; but then she said, "Don't break any more of the silk, dear
children, else we shall have no ears of corn in the field,--none to
roast before our picnic fires, and none to dry and pop at Christmas-time
next winter."
Now, the children wondered at what their mother said, and begged that
she would tell them how the silk could make the round, full kernels of
corn. And this is the story that the mother told, while they all sat on
the door-step under the old elm.
"When your father broke up the ground with his plough, and scattered in
the seed-corn, the crows were watching from the old apple-tree, and they
came down to pick up the corn; and, indeed, they did carry away a good
deal. But the days went by, the spring showers moistened the earth, and
the sun shone; and so the seed-corn swelled, and, bursting open, thrust
out two little hands, one reaching down to hold itself firmly in the
earth, and one reaching up to the light and air. The first was never
very beautiful, but certainly quite useful; for, besides holding the
corn firmly in its place, it drew up water and food for the whole plant:
but the second spread out two long, slender green leaves, that waved
with every breath of air, and seemed to rejoice in every ray of
sunshine. Day by day it grew taller and taller, and by and by put out
new streamers broader and stronger, until it stood higher than Willie's
head. Then, at the top, came a new kind of bud, quite different from
those that folded the green streamers; and when that opened, it showed a
nodding flower, which swayed and bowed at the top of the stalk like the
crown of the whole plant. And yet this was not the best that the corn-
plant could do; for lower down, and partly hidden by the leaves, it had
hung out a silken tassel of pale sea-green color, like the hair of a
little mermaid. Now, every silken thread was in truth a tiny tube, so
fine that our eyes cannot see the bore of it. The nodding flower that
grew so gayly up above there was day by day ripening a golden dust
called pollen; and every grain of this pollen--and they were very small
grains indeed--knew perfectly well that the silken threads were tubes,
and they felt an irresistible desire to enter the shining passages, and
explore them to the very end: so one day, when the wind was tossing the
whole blossoms this way and that, the pollen-grains danced out, and,
sailing down on the soft breeze, each one crept in at the open door of a
sea-green tube. Down they slid over the shining floors; and what was
their delight to find, when they reached the end, that they had all
along been expected, and for each one was a little room prepared, and
sweet food for their nourishment! And from this time they had no desire
to go away, but remained each in his own place, and grew every day
stronger and larger and rounder, even as baby in the cradle there, who
has nothing to do but grow.
"Side by side were their cradles, one beyond another in beautiful
straight rows; and as the pollen-grains grew daily larger, the cradles
also grew for their accommodation, until at last they felt themselves
really full of sweet, delicious life; and those who lived at the tops of
the rows peeped out from the opening of the dry leaves which wrapped
them all together, and saw a little boy with his father coming through
the cornfield, while yet every thing was beaded with dew, and the sun
was scarcely an hour high. The boy carried a basket; and the father
broke from the corn-stalks the full, firm ears of sweet corn, and heaped
the basket full."
"O mother," cried Willie, "that was father and I! Don't you remember how
we used to go out last summer every morning before breakfast to bring in
the corn? And we must have taken that very ear; for I remember how the
full kernels lay in straight rows, side by side, just as you have told."
Now Alice is breaking her threads of silk, and trying to see the tiny
opening of the tube; and Annie thinks she will look for the pollen-
grains the very next time she goes to the cornfield.
WATER-LILIES
The stream that crept down from the hills, three miles away, has worn a
smooth bed for itself in the gravel; has watered the farmer's fields,
and turned the wheel of the old grist-mill, where the miller tends the
stones that grind the farmer's corn. But down below here the stream has
something else to do. It has been working hard, up and away from dam to
dam again; and as always in life there should be something besides
business,--something beautiful and peaceful,--so the stream has swept
round this corner, behind the wooded point of land which hides the mill,
and spread itself out in the hollow of Brown's meadow, where farmer
Brown says his grandfather used to tell him some Indian wigwams stood
when he was a boy. The land has sunk since then, and there is something
more beautiful than Indian wigwams there now.
Where the old squaws used to sit weaving baskets, and the papooses
rolled and played, is now thick, black mud, in which are great tangled
roots, some of them bigger than my arm.
All winter they lie there under the ice, while the children skate over
them. In the spring, when every thing stirs with new life, they, too,
must wake up: so, slowly and steadily, they begin to put up long stems
to reach the surface of the water. Chambered stems they are, each having
four passages leading up to the air, and down to the root and black mud.
The walls of these chambers are brown and slimy, and each stem bears at
its top a slimy bud,--slimy on the outside, brownish-green as it pushes
up through the water; for this outer coat is stout and waterproof, and
can well afford to be unpretending, since it carries something very
precious wrapped up inside.
Not days, but weeks,--even months, it is working upon this hidden
treasure before we shall see it. And the July mornings have come while
we wait.
Can you wake at three o'clock, children, and, while the birds are
singing their very best songs, go down the road under the elms, across
the little bridge, and through the hemlock grove at the right? It is a
mile to walk, and you will not be there too early. The broad, smooth
pond, that the brook has made for its holiday pleasure, is at our feet.
At its bottom are the tangled roots; on the surface, among the flat,
green leaves, float those buds that have been so long creeping towards
the light.
One long, bright beam from the sun just rising smiles across the meadow,
and touches the folded buds. They must, indeed, smile back in reply; so
the thick sheath unfolds, and behold! the whitest, fairest lily-cup
floats on the water, and its golden centre smiles back to the sun with
many rays.
We watched only one, but perhaps none is willing to be latest in
greeting the sun, and the pond is already half-covered with a snowy
fleet of boats fit for the fairies,--boats under full sail for fairy-
land, laden with beauty and fragrance.
And this is what the dark mud can send forth. This is one of Mother
Nature's hidden treasures. Perhaps she hides something as white and
beautiful in all that seems dark and ugly, if only we will wait and
watch for it, and be willing to come at the very dawn of day to look for
it.
The lilies will stay with us, now that at last they are here, all
through the rest of the summer, and even into the warm, sunny days of
earliest October; but it will be only a few who stay so late as that And
where have the others gone, meanwhile? You see there are no dead lilies
floating, folded and decaying, among the pads.
The stem that found its way so surely to the upper world knows not less
surely the way back again; and when its white blossom has opened for the
last time, and then wrapped its green cloak about it again, not to be
unfolded, the chambered stem coils backward, and carries it safely to
the bottom, where its seed may ripen in the soft, dark mud, and prepare
for another summer.
THE CARRYING TRADE
Who wants to engage in the carrying trade? Come, Lottie and Lula and
Nina and Mary, all bring your maps, and we will play merchants, and see
what is meant by the carrying trade.
Lottie shall have the bark "Rosette," and sail from Boston to Calcutta;
Lula, the steamer "North Star," from New York for Liverpool; Mary shall
take the "Sea-Gull," from Philadelphia to San Francisco; and Nina is
owner of the "Racer," that makes voyages up the Mediterranean. Are we
all ready for our little game?
Lottie begins, and she must find out what Boston has to send to
Calcutta. Don't send indigo or saltpetre or gunny-bags or ginger; for,
even should you have these articles to spare, Calcutta has an abundance
at home, and you must discover something that she needs, but does not
possess. "Ice," says Lottie. "Yes, that is just the thing, because
Calcutta has a hot climate, and does not make her own ice: so load the
'Rosette' with great blocks well packed, and start at once, for your
voyage is long."
And now we will go with Lula to the North River pier, where her great
steamer lies, and see what she intends to carry to Liverpool. Bales of
cotton, barrels of flour, of beef, and of petroleum. All very good, so
good-by to her. In a few weeks we will see what she brings back.
Come, Mary, what has Philadelphia for San Francisco? Oh, what a load the
"Sea-Gull" must take of machinery, steam-engines, tobacco, and oil; and
such a quantity of other things, that the "Sea-Gull" will need to make
many voyages before she can take them all. We load her at this busy
wharf, where the coal-vessels are passing in and out for New York and
Boston, and the steamers are loading for Europe, and the little coasters
crowding in one after another; and away we go for the voyage round the
"Horn," where the "Sea-Gull" will meet her namesakes, and perhaps some
stormy winds besides.
Meantime Nina's "Racer" has been stored full of cotton cloths and
hardware, and has raced out of Boston Harbor so swiftly that fair winds
will take her to Gibraltar in three weeks.
And so you have all engaged in the carrying trade; but as yet you have
carried only one way. To complete the game, we must wait for Lottie to
bring the "Rosette" safely home with salt-petre and indigo and hides and
ginger and seersuckers and gunny-cloth. And the "North Star" must steam
her quick way across the Atlantic, and return with salt and hardware,
anchors, steel, woolens, and linens. Mary must beat her way round Cape
Horn, and home again with wool and gold and silver. And the swift
"Racer" must quickly bring the figs and prunes and raisins, and the
oranges and lemons, that will spoil if they are too long on the way.
So children may play at the carrying trade, and so their fathers and
uncles may work at it in earnest: and so also hundreds of little workers
are busy all the world over in another carrying trade, which keeps you
and me alive from day to day; and yet we scarcely think; at all how it
is going on, or stop to thank the hands that feed us.
England and Italy are kingdoms, and the United States a republic, and
they all engage in this business, and are constantly sending goods one
to another; but there are other kingdoms, not put down on any map, that
are just as busy as they, and in the same sort of work too.
The earth is one kingdom, the water another, and there is the great
republic of the gases surrounding us on every side; only we can't see
it, because its inhabitants have the fairy gift of being invisible to
us. Each of these kingdoms has products to export, and is all ready to
trade with the others, if only some one will supply the means; just as
the Frenchmen might stand on their shores, and hold out to us wines and
prunes and silks and muslins, and we might stand on our shores, and hold
out gold and silver to them, and yet could make no exchange, because
there were no ships to carry the goods across. "Ah," you may say, "that
is not at all the case here; for the earth, the air, and the water are
all close to each other, and close to us, and there is no need of ships;
we can exchange hand to hand."
But here comes a difficulty. Read carefully, and I think you will
understand it. Here is Ruth, a little growing girl, who wants phosphate
of lime to build bones with; for as she grows, of course her bones must
grow too. Very well, I answer, there is plenty of phosphate of lime in
the earth; she can have all she wants. Yes, but does Ruth want to eat
earth?--do you?--does anybody? Certainly not: so, although the food she
needs is close beside her, even under her feet, she cannot get it any
more than we can get the French goods, excepting by means of the
carrying trade. Where now are the little ships that shall bring to Ruth
the phosphate of lime she needs, and cannot reach, although it lies in
her own father's field? Let me show you how her father can build the
ships that will bring it to her. He must go out into that field, and
plant wheat-seeds, and as they grow, every little ear and kernel gathers
up phosphate of lime, and becomes a tiny ship freighted with what his
little daughter needs. When that wheat is ground into flour, and made
into bread, Ruth will eat what she couldn't have been willing to taste,
unless the useful little ships of the wheat-field had brought it to her.
Now let us send to the republic of the gases for some supplies, for we
cannot live without carbon and oxygen; and although we do breathe in
oxygen with every breathe we draw, we also need to receive it in other
ways: so the sugar-cane and the maple-trees engage in the carrying trade
for us, taking in carbon and oxygen by their leaves, and sending it
through their bodies, and when it reaches us it is sugar,--and a very
pleasant food to most of you, I dare say.
But we cannot take all we need of these gases in the form of sugar, and
there are many other ships that will bring it to us. The corn will
gather it up, and offer it in the form of meal, or of cornstarch
puddings; or the grass will bring it to the cow, since you and I refuse
to take it from the grass ships. But the cow offers it to us again in
the form of milk, and we do not think of refusing; or the butcher offers
it to us in the form of beef, and we do not say "no."
Alice wants some india-rubber shoes. Do you think the kingdoms of air
and water can send her a pair? The india-rubber tree in South America
will take up water, and separate from it hydrogen, of which it is partly
composed, and adding to this carbon from the air, will make a gum which
we can work into shoes and balls, buttons, tubes, cups, cloth, and a
hundred other useful articles.
Then, again, you and I, all of us, must go to the world of gases for
nitrogen to help build our bodies, to make muscle and blood and skin and
hair; and so the peas and beans load their boat-shaped seeds full, and
bring it to us so fresh and excellent that we enjoy eating it.
This useful carrying trade has also another branch well worth looking
at.
You remember hearing how many soldiers were sick in war-time at the
South; but perhaps you do not know that their best medicine was brought
to them by a South-American tree, that gathered up from the earth and
air bitter juices to make what we call quinine. Then there is camphor,
which I am sure you have all seen, sent by the East-Indian camphor-tree
to cure you when you are sick; and gum-arabic and all the other gums;
and castor-oil and most of the other medicines that you don't at all
like,--all brought to us by the plants.
I might tell you a great deal more of this, but I will only stop to show
a little what we give back in payment for all that is brought.
When England sends us hardware and woollen goods, she expects us to
repay her with cotton and sugar, that are just as valuable to us as
hardware and woolens to her; but see how differently we treat the
kingdoms from which the plant-ships are all the time bringing us food
and clothes and medicines, etc. All we return is just so much as we
don't want to use. We take in good fresh air, and breathe out impure and
bad. We throw back to the earth whatever will not nourish and strengthen
us; and yet no complaint comes from the faithful plants. Do you wonder?
I will let you into the secret of this. The truth is, that what is
worthless to us is really just the food they need; and they don't at all
know how little we value it ourselves. It is like the Chinese, of whom
we might buy rice or silk or tea, and pay them in rats which we are glad
to be rid of, while they consider them good food.
Now, I have given you only a peep into this carrying trade, but it is
enough to show you how to use your own eyes to learn more about it. Look
about you, and see if you can't tell as good a story as I have done, or
a better one if you please.
CHAPTER I. THE STAR-FISH TAKES A SUMMER JOURNEY.
Once there was a little star-fish, and he had five fingers and five
eyes, one at the end of each finger,--so that he might be said to have
at least one power at his fingers' ends. And he had I can't tell you how
many little feet; but being without legs, you see, he couldn't be
expected to walk very fast The feet couldn't move one before the other
as yours do. they could only cling like little suckers, by which he
pulled himself slowly along from place to place. Nevertheless, he was
very proud of this accomplishment; and sometimes this pride led him to
an unjust contempt for his neighbors, as you will see by and by. He was
very particular about his eating; and besides his mouth, which lay in
the centre of his body, he had a little scarlet-colored sieve through
which he strained the water he drank. For he couldn't think of taking in
common seawater with every thing that might be floating in it,--that
would do for crabs and lobsters and other common people; but anybody who
wears such a lovely purple coat, and has brothers and sisters dressed in
crimson, feels a little above such living.
Now, one day this star-fish set out on a summer journey,--not to the
seaside where you and I went last year: of course not, for he was there
already. No; he thought he would go to the mountains. He could not go to
the Rocky Mountains, nor to the Catskill Mountains, nor the White
Mountains; for, with all his accomplishments, he had not yet learned to
live in any drier place than a pool among the rocks, or the very wettest
sand at low tide: so, if he travelled to the mountains, it must be to
the mountains of the sea.
Perhaps you didn't know that there are mountains in the sea. I have seen
them, however, and I think you have, too,--at least their tops, if
nothing more. What is that little rocky ledge, where the lighthouse
stands, but the stony top of a hill rising from the bottom of the sea?
And what are the pretty green islands, with their clusters of trees and
grassy slopes, but the summits of hills lifted out of the water?
In many parts of the sea, where the water is deep, are hills and even
high mountains, whose tops do not reach the surface; and we should not
know where they are, were it not that the sailors, in measuring the
depth of the sea, sometimes sail right over these mountain-tops, and
touch them with their sounding-lines.
The star fish set out one day, about five hundred years ago, to visit
some of these mountains of the sea. If he had depended upon his own feet
for getting there, it would have taken him till this day, I verily
believe; but he no more thought of walking, than you or I should think
of walking to China. You shall see how he travelled. A great train was
coming, down from the Northern seas; not a railroad train, but a water
train, sweeping on like a river in the sea. Its track lay along near the
bottom of the ocean; and above you could see no sign of it, any more
than you can see the cars while they go through the tunnel under the
street. The principal passengers by this train were icebergs, who were
in the habit of coming down on it every year, in order to reduce their
weight by a little exercise; for they grow so very large and heavy up
there in the North every winter, that some sort of treatment is really
necessary to them when summer comes. I only call the icebergs the
principal passengers, because they take up so much room; for thousands
and millions of other travellers come with them,--from the white bears
asleep on the bergs, and brought away quite against their will, to the
tiniest little creatures rocking in the cradles of the ripples, or
clinging to the delicate branches of the sea-mosses. I said you could
see no sign of the great water train from above: that was not quite
true, for many of the icebergs are tall enough to lift their heads far
up into the air, and shine with a cold, glittering splendor in the
sunlight; and you can tell, by the course in which they sail, which way
the train is going deep down in the sea.
The star-fish took passage on this train. He didn't start at the
beginning of the road, but got in at one of the way-stations somewhere
off Cape Cod, fell in with some friends going South, and had altogether
a pleasant trip of it. No wearisome stopping-places to feed either
engine or passengers; for this train moves by a power that needs no
feeding on the way, and the passengers are much in the habit of eating
their fellow-travellers by way of frequent luncheons.
In the course of a few weeks, our five-fingered traveller is safely
dropped in the Caribbean Sea; and, if you do not know where that sea is,
I wish you would take your map of North America and find it, and then
you can see the course of the journey, and understand the story better.
This Caribbean Sea is as full of mountains as New Hampshire and Vermont
are; but none of them have caps of snow like that which Mount Washington
sometimes wears, and some of them are built up in a very odd way, as you
will presently see.
Now the star-fish is floating in the warm, soft water among the
mountains, turning up first one eye and then another to see the wonders
about him, or looking all around, before and behind and both sides at
once,--as you can't do, if you try ever so hard,--while his fifth eye is
on the lookout for sharks, besides; and he meets with a soft little
body, much smaller than himself, and not half so handsomely dressed, who
invites him to visit her relatives, who live by millions in this
mountain region. "And come quickly, if you please," she says, "for I
begin to feel as if I must fix myself somewhere; and I should like, if
possible, to settle down near my brothers and sisters on the Roncador
Bank."