The last excitement of the summer before school began was a river
picnic, given by Gertrude Morgan. A note was brought to Edith one
afternoon which ran thus:
"MY DEAREST EDITH,--Will you, Cynthia, Jack, and Neal Gordon join
us on the river to-morrow? My cousins, Tom and Kitty Morgan, are
here, and another fellow, awfully nice, that Tom brought with him,
and we want to do something to entertain them. This is such
perfect weather for the river. We will come up from Brenton early,
and reach Oakleigh before noon. You can join us in your boats, and
we will go higher up above the rapids for dinner. If you will
bring your chafing-dish and your alcohol lamp for the coffee it is
all I ask. On the whole, you need not bring the lamp. We will
build a fire. But the chafing-dish would be nice. _Do_ come!
_Don't fail._ _Au revoir_ until to-morrow at about twelve.
Devotedly,
"GERTRUDE.
"P.S.--I am sure you will lose your heart to Tom's friend. I
have!"
The next day, shortly before noon, the Franklins were awaiting their
friends on the Oakleigh boat-landing. They had two canoes, one that the
family had owned for a year or two, and another that Mrs. Franklin had
given her brother on his birthday.
Baskets were packed in the boats, containing the chafing-dish, some
sandwiches, and delicious cake that Mrs. Franklin had had made as her
contribution to the picnic, and a large box of candy which Neal had
bought.
It was a glorious day. The September sun shone brightly, and a trifle
warmly, on the dancing river. The gay foliage along the banks--for the
autumn tints had come early this year--was reflected in the clear water,
and a gentle wind stirred the white birches. An army of crows had
encamped near by, and the woods rang with their cawing as they carried
on an important debate among themselves.
Presently around the curve came the advance guard of the picnic, a canoe
containing Dennis Morgan and his cousin Kitty, while closely following
them was another, paddled by Tom Morgan, in which sat Gertrude and a
stranger.
They all waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and when they came within
speaking distance Gertrude shouted:
"Isn't it fun? Such a perfect day, and more fellows than girls! You know
my cousins, don't you, except Neal? Kitty and Tom, let me present Mr.
Gordon, and this is Mr. Bronson. The Misses Edith and Cynthia Franklin,
Mr. Tony Bronson. There, now, did I do it correctly? Did I mention the
ladies' names first, and then the gentlemen's? I picked up a book on
etiquette in a shop the other day, and it said you must."
Every one laughed, and no one noticed but Cynthia that Neal's face
darkened when he heard Bronson's name and saw him for the first time. Of
course, she knew at once who he was.
"There ought to be a grand change of partners," continued the lively
Gertrude, "but it's too much trouble. However, Tom, you had better get
out and take one of the Oakleigh canoes, and an Oakleigh girl and Jack
can get in here--unless Mr. Bronson would rather be the one to change."
This was said with a coquettish glance at Bronson, who in a low voice
hastened to assure her that he was more than satisfied with his present
position.
He was a handsome fellow of about seventeen, tall and of somewhat slight
build, with very regular features. His eyes were his weak point. They
were of a pale greenish-blue, and were too close together.
His greeting to Neal was most cordial. "Holloa, old fellow!" he said;
"this is a piece of luck. Miss Morgan told me you were stopping here, so
I was prepared for the pleasure."
[Illustration: THE START FROM OAKLEIGH.]
"As if he hadn't known it before," muttered Neal to Cynthia, as he
helped her into the canoe, and they pushed off. "He sent that letter
here and he got mine from here. He's a hypocritical ass."
"Look out, Neal!" cautioned Cynthia; "you know how sound carries on the
water." And she was quite sure from the expression on Bronson's face
that he had heard.
There was some discussion as to where their destination should be.
"Let's go as high as we can," said Gertrude. "Above Charles River
village."
"But there is the 'carry,'" objected her brother.
"What of that? We've often carried before."
"Not with an average of one fellow to a boat. No; I say we stop the
other side of the small rapids. If any one wants to explore above there
on his own account he can do so."
It was finally settled thus, and the party set forth. It was a pretty
sight. The cedar canoes, with gay carpets and cushions, and freight of
girls and boys in white boating costumes, gave the needed touch of life
to the peaceful Charles River. So Mrs. Franklin thought when she came
down to see them off.
"I have not been invited," she said, "but I really think I must drive up
this afternoon and see your encampment."
"Oh, do, Mrs. Franklin!" cried Gertrude, enthusiastically. "We would
just love to have you come, and we ought to have a chaperon, though we
_are_ all brothers and sisters and cousins! She is the most perfect
creature," she added to Bronson, as they moved off. "You know she is the
Franklins' step-mother. Isn't she a dear, Jack?"
Jack, who was paddling, acquiesced. Bronson sat at ease in the bow. He
was always lazy. Neal, though averse to hard work which was work only,
was ready for anything in the way of athletics. He was now an
accomplished paddler, and had already far outstripped the others.
Their destination was some two or three miles up the river. The water
was low, and Cynthia kept a sharp look-out for rocks.
"Keep to the left here, Neal," she directed; "that ledge runs all across
the river."
"I bet those Brenton fellows will scrape going through here. Not one in
a hundred would take the left. I haven't scraped once since I had the
canoe. The bottom is as smooth as the day she came, and that is saying a
good deal when the river is as low as it is now."
They skirted a huge oak-tree which had fallen half across the river,
and, passing through some gentle rapids, reached the cleared shady spot
on the bank where they were to eat their luncheon. The others soon
arrived, and preparations were immediately begun for building a fire.
The boys explored the neighborhood for dry sticks, and a cheerful little
blaze was soon crackling away on the bank. Potatoes had been buried
beneath to roast in the ashes, and the coffee-pot, filled with water
from a neighboring spring, was placed above. Dennis Morgan, whose coffee
was far-famed and unrivalled, superintended this part of the work.
The girls unpacked the baskets, and spreading a table-cloth, arranged
the goodies most temptingly thereon.
"Edith, you must do the oysters on the chafing-dish," said Gertrude; "no
one does them like you."
"Oysters! Have you really got oysters? How perfect!" cried Cynthia, who,
laden with cups and saucers, was stumbling over some stray boughs at the
imminent risk of herself and the crockery.
"Let me help you, Miss Franklin," said Bronson, coming languidly
forward.
"Oh no, thanks!" returned Cynthia, tartly. "I would not trouble you for
the world. You have quite enough to do."
Dennis Morgan, who heard her, turned away to hide a laugh. Bronson had
been leaning against a tree most of the time with his hands in his
pockets.
"Come, now, don't be too hard on a fellow, Miss Franklin. I'll do
anything you ask. A fellow feels kind of out of place, don't you know,
with so many working."
"Really! Well, if you are truly anxious to make yourself useful, perhaps
you will get some ferns to decorate the table?"
"Certainly," said Bronson, looking about him in a helpless way: "will
these do?" and he broke off a large brake.
"No, of course not. The ones I want grow at quite a distance from here,
over in those woods there," pointing. "Please get some."
"Oh, Miss Franklin, so far? But you will go with me, of course."
"'Of course,' did I hear you say?" asked Cynthia, straightening herself
from her arrangement of the table and standing very erect, with a bottle
in one hand and an olive on the end of a fork in the other. "What can
you be thinking of? Of course _not_. _I_ am busy. But you have no time
to lose if you want to get them here before lunch is ready. It is a good
half-mile there and back."
"When Miss Franklin commands I have but to obey," said Bronson, with a
bow, though there was a disagreeable light in his steely eyes. "Who will
take pity on me and go with me? Miss Morgan, surely you will be so
good?"
Gertrude was much pleased at being singled out by the guest of the
occasion, and although she knew that the ferns which were growing in
profusion all about them would adorn the table just as well, she gave no
hint of it, for she was not averse to taking the walk with Bronson.
"Tell me about the Franklins," said he, as he took her red umbrella and
opened it. "Are they fond of their step-mother?"
"All but Edith, and she can't bear her, and I don't think she is
over-fond of Neal, either. Tell me something about him, Mr. Bronson. He
is a school-mate of yours, you say?"
"Oh, don't ask me! I think it's awfully bad form for one fellow to give
away another, don't you know. Of course, some fellows would, but I'm not
that kind."
Gertrude admired these sentiments extremely. She wished that Bronson
would hold the umbrella at an angle that would shield her a little more.
It was entirely over him, while she herself was in the sun, and it was
rather warm walking. However, it was a pleasure to have her umbrella
carried by such an elegant-looking individual, even though she derived
no benefit from it.
From his words and manner Gertrude gathered the idea that Bronson, if he
chose, could tell something very much against Neal Gordon, but his high
sense of honor held him back.
"What a lovely fellow he is!" thought Gertrude; then she said aloud, "Of
course I would not have you for the world. I have always fancied there
might be something, don't you know?"
Now Gertrude had really never fancied anything of the kind, and yet she
did not dream of being untruthful. It was an idea born of the moment.
Her vanity prompted her to agree with Bronson, who was apparently such a
very charming fellow.
"Oh, don't say that, Miss Morgan! I didn't mean to give you that idea.
You're so awfully clever, you have guessed what I never intended to say.
Don't ever tell what I said, will you? I wouldn't take away the fellow's
character for the world."
Gertrude blushed and promised, pleased to find herself in the position
of having a secret with Bronson. She told her cousin Kitty, afterwards,
that he really talked most confidentially with her.
When they returned, luncheon was ready. Cynthia took the ferns with a
cool "Thank you," looked at them critically and somewhat dubiously, and
laid them on the impromptu table.
"Terribly anty," she said, shaking a spray vigorously in the air. "Ugh!
look at the ants!"
"Perhaps those that grow over here would not have had any ants," said
Bronson, "but I am so much obliged to you for sending me for these, Miss
Franklin. I had such a charming walk. It quite repaid me, even though
you are so chary of your thanks."
"I'm so glad," returned Cynthia, "but not as glad as I am famished."
She left Bronson, and walking around to the farther side of the table,
sat down. Neal followed her, and presently they were all seated and
enjoying the dainty meal. Never was there such clear and fragrant
coffee, and the rich cream that the Franklins had brought made it "equal
to the nectar of Olympus," said Bronson; he was addicted to airy speech.
The oysters were done to a turn and seasoned to a nicety, and the
sandwiches melted in one's mouth. In the midst of the feast they heard
the sound of wheels on the bridge, and looking up, they saw Mrs.
Franklin, who was driving herself.
"You see I couldn't stay away," she called to them. "Jack, come tie Bess
for me, and then let me have a bite, if you have anything to spare."
Edith's face clouded. "Why did she have to come so soon?" she thought,
and her expression was not lost on Bronson.
"So this is the rich sister and step-mother," thought Bronson; "and the
eldest daughter doesn't like her coming. Now, I don't exactly see why
Gordon can't settle the balance if she has such a pile. But I'll lie low
and work him easily."
He watched his opportunity, and after luncheon he followed Neal to the
river-bank, where he was getting a pail of water for dish-washing
purposes.
"I say, Gordon, old fellow, I haven't had a chance before to thank you
for sending me the fifty. You see I was in a confounded hole myself, and
there was no way out of it but to ask you. I hated to dun you. As for
the rest, there's no hurry about that whatever."
Neal looked at him. His brown eyes could be very searching when occasion
required. Bronson stooped, and picking up a flat stone from the little
beach on which they were standing, he tossed it across the river.
"Five skips," said he, lightly, as he turned away.
"Hold on a minute," said Neal. "Your offer is very kind, but you may be
pretty sure that I'll pay you as soon as I can. I've no wish to be under
obligations to you any longer than is necessary."
"As you like," returned Bronson, with a shrug. "I only thought it might
ease your mind to know that there's no actual hurry. Ah, Miss Franklin,"
as Cynthia drew near, "can't I persuade you to go out on the river with
me?"
"I am afraid not. I should think that you hadn't paddled a great deal,
as I noticed that you took your ease coming up."
"Miss Franklin, I never should have imagined that you were timid on the
water. How little one can tell!"
"I am not a bit timid, but I don't care to be upset."
"Upset!" laughed Bronson. "Why, I've been upset a dozen times. In such a
shallow ditch as this it wouldn't make much difference, as long as we're
suitably dressed."
Cynthia looked at him slowly, criticisingly, scornfully. Then she said:
"I should think bathing clothes were the only things suitable for
upsetting. And the Charles River isn't a ditch. Of course you didn't
know, and we can pardon the ignorant a good deal."
Bronson turned away and left them.
"That last was a scorcher," chuckled Neal, who had been listening
attentively. "If there is one thing Bronson hates above another, it is
to be thought not to 'know it all,' and he caught on to what you meant."
Cynthia, however, felt a little remorseful. She was quite sure that she
had been rude. Bronson was a stranger, and should have been treated with
the politeness due to such. But then he was Neil's enemy, and Cynthia
could never be anything but loyal to Neal. Thus she soothed her
conscience.
When luncheon had been cleared away and the baskets packed to go home,
Bronson asked Edith if she would go out with him on the river.
"Just for a little paddle, Miss Franklin," he said. "Do come!"
Cynthia heard him, and she frowned and shook her head vigorously at her
sister, hoping that she would not go, but Edith had no intention of
declining the invitation. She said yes, with one of her prettiest
smiles, and accompanied Bronson to the place where the canoes were drawn
up on the bank.
"I suppose it doesn't make any difference which one I take," he said,
and, either by accident or design, he singled out Neal's boat and put it
into the water. Edith stepped in, and then watched Bronson's movements
with some trepidation. He did not seem to know much about the management
of a canoe, and they rocked alarmingly with his short, uncertain
strokes.
"I'll soon get the hang of it," he said, reassuringly. "I have never
been much on a river, but it's easy enough."
Cynthia walked along the bank, watching them.
"I hope you've got a life-preserver, Edith! Mr. Bronson says he is in
the habit of upsetting--likes it, in fact--and I'm dreadfully afraid for
you. You know you can't swim, and Mr. Bronson will never be able to save
you _as well as_ himself. _Do_ be careful of my sister, Mr. Bronson. The
ditch is rather deep just there. Oh, look at him wiggle!" she added to
Neal, who had followed her.
"And the fellow has taken my canoe!" growled Neal.
"Poor Neal! You boasted too soon. You'll never again be able to say
there isn't a scratch on the bottom."
"I only hope I shall ever see the boat again. He'll probably smash her
all to smithereens."
"I suppose it makes no difference if Edith is 'smashed to smithereens,'
only the canoe," remarked Cynthia, demurely.
In the mean time Edith was having an exciting voyage. Bronson paddled
slowly and unevenly up the river until he found himself in the rapids,
which were much swifter and more dangerous than those they had passed
through on the way from Oakleigh. The canoe scraped and creaked over the
rocks. The only wonder was that a hole was not stove at once in the
bottom.
They were in the midst now of the rushing water. Suddenly the boat
lodged for a moment on a rock, and swayed to and fro. Down to the very
water's edge went first one side and then the other. A half-inch more
and they would have capsized.
Edith sat perfectly silent, scarcely daring to breathe. Bronson, never
before so quick in his movements, righted the craft, and with a vigorous
push of the paddle got off the dangerous rock.
"I--I think it would be rather pleasanter to tie up," faltered Edith.
"So do I. Wish you had said so before. Not that I mind exploring, but
it's hot work such a day as this."
They found a shady bank and drew up under the bushes. Edith gave a sigh
of relief.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" asked Bronson, getting out a silver
cigarette-case with a _blase_ air.
"Oh, not at all."
"That's nice. Now we can be comfortable. I am so glad you came with me
this afternoon, for I want to talk to you, Miss Franklin. I want in talk
freely to you about something."
Edith's face expressed her astonishment.
"You look surprised," he continued, "but you will not be when I tell you
what it is. You are the only person whom I can rely on to manage the
matter well and to help me. It is connected with Neal Gordon."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
AN EXPLANATION.
MAMMA. "Why do you come in every minute for something to eat, Herbert?"
HERBERT. "Because, mamma, I am so small that I cannot eat enough to last
me over an hour."
ON THE EARTH AND IN THE SKY.
THE EARTH YESTERDAY, TO-DAY, TO-MORROW.
BY N. S. SHALER,
PROFESSOR OF GEOLOGY AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY.
From ancient days men have been seeking to learn the history of the
earth; how it came to be set in the orderly array of the heavenly
bodies; how it has step by step come forth from the ancient chaos to the
existing perfection; how and to what end it is to go forward in ages
beyond our own. In this century many thousands of able men have been
engaged in these inquiries.
[Illustration: A RING THROWN FROM THE SUN FORMING A SEPARATE PLANET.]
The studies of astronomers have made it evident that in the olden days,
indeed before days began, at a time which is to be reckoned as many
hundred million years ago, the sun and the other bodies of the solar
system, including our earth, the kindred planets and their satellites,
were parts of a great mass of vapor or star dust, which extended
throughout the spaces in which these spheres now swing about the sun. As
time went on this nebulous mass, just like many such masses which the
telescope reveals in the distant heavens, drew together, because its
particles were impelled by gravitation towards the central point, and as
it contracted it began to revolve, much as our earth and the other
spheres as well now turn on their axes. Thus turning, it divided into
successively formed rings, each of which in time broke up, the matter of
the ring gathering into a separate planet. At first this planet, like
the original mass, was gaslike, and when separated from the sun it began
to gather in on itself, in most cases forming rings, which in time were
to alter into the lesser spheres--the moons. The earth and all the
planets lying further away from the sun have these little bodies about
them, but in one case, as if to show the stages of creation, the
unbroken ring remains, forming the magnificent circles which girdle
Saturn. When, in the history of these wonderful processes of growth
which have taken place in our solar system, our earth parted from the
shrinking sun, the separate life of the sphere began. In the course of
ages it set off the mass of the moon, and after that process was
effected by further shrinking, it was reduced from a body several
hundred thousand miles in diameter to a relatively small sphere. Such
are the steps which led to the birth of our planet.
As the earth's matter gathered into a smaller bulk, its heat was greatly
increased, so that for a time it was a hot, shining star like the sun.
Gradually, however, it parted with so much of its heat that it, as we
may say, froze over or became covered with a solid crust which soon
became cool enough to permit the waters hitherto in the state of steam
to descend upon the surface of the sphere. With this descent of the
waters, which led to the formation of the seas, another stage of great
importance in the history of the earth began. In the earlier ages the
heat of the earth, which came from within its mass, was so great that
the temperature coming from the sun was of no consequence, but when the
earth acquired a crust of cold rocks, a new period began, that in which
the solar heat was thereafter to be the source of most of the movements
that occurred in this limited world. Thenceforward to the present day,
and yet on through the ages, the sun and earth are linked together in
their actions in a marvellously entangled way.
When the sun's heat began effectively to work on the earth in the manner
which we now behold, the winds began to blow, the ocean waters under
their influence to circulate currents, and the moisture to rise into the
air to be carried to and fro and to fall as rain. It seems likely that
these movements of air and water, which we know to be due to the action
of the sun's heat, took place at first upon the surface which was
everywhere covered by the ocean, a vast continuous sea through which the
lands had not yet pierced, and in which living creatures had not begun
to dwell. This universal field of waters could not have long continued,
and this for the reason that certain changes in the earth itself brought
about the creation of broad folds on the sea-bottom, which grew upward
until dry lands rose above the level of the waters. The way in which
this process took place can in general be easily understood.
After the earth had cooled to the point where its outer parts were what
we term cold, and the whole of its mass approximately solid, it remained
as it does to-day, exceedingly hot in its central portions, and
therefore kept on slowly cooling. What we call the outer or crust part,
because it had already become cool, had little heat to lose. The greater
portion of the temperature, which crept away into the frigid places of
the heavens, where the thermometer is always some hundred degrees below
the freezing-point, came from the interior of the sphere. Because of
this cooling in the deeper parts of the earth the mass shrunk in its
interior portion, while the outer part, losing less heat, because it had
less to lose, did not contract to anything like the same extent. Thus it
came about that this crust portion which forms the surface, and that
which is below to the depth of many miles, were forced to wrinkle in
order to fit the diminished centre. The action may be compared, in a
way, to what takes place when in an apple or other similar fruit or
vegetable with a distinct skin the water dries out of the interior
parts. The skin wrinkles, because it has little water to lose. Let us
conceive that the heat which keeps the particles of matter apart in our
earth answers to the water which separates the solid portions of the
fruit, and the likeness becomes clear.
When the great wrinkles of the earth's crust were high enough to bring
their surfaces in part above the level of the ocean, another important
stage in the history of the sphere was begun. Before that time, the
water which the sun's heat had lifted into the air, and sent back to the
earth in the form of rain, had fallen into the ocean whence it came
without in any way affecting the solid parts of the crust. But now a
portion of it came down on what we call the dry land, making the
beginning of the rivers and the lakes, and in its course to the sea
wearing away the rocks over which it flowed, conveying the debris to the
oceans, where it served to build layers of rocks upon the bottom, which
with the further upward growth of the continent might in turn rise above
the sea. Thus we may fairly reckon the appearance of the land above the
seas as the third great event in the history of the earth.
After the earth had cooled down so that the waters had something like
their present temperature, and probably after the lands had appeared,
came the fourth and, on many accounts, the most interesting episode in
the history of the planet. This was the beginning of what we call life,
those little temporary gatherings of the earth's substance which take
shape in the form of animals and plants. As yet we do not know, we are
not likely indeed ever to know, just when or how this change from the
earlier stage in which the earth knew no living creatures to that in
which they were to abound in seas and on land. All that has been found
out concerning the matter leads us to believe that the first steps led
to the creation of very simple species--jellylike forms having but few
of the qualities which we commonly associate with living beings. But the
first steps taken in the immemorable ages, the others followed in quick
succession, so that the earliest fossil remains which we find in rocks
formed on the sea-bottom, a hundred million or more years ago, show that
the earth was richly peopled with a lowly life.
Probably at some time after the lands had risen above the sea, and had
begun to yield their waste in the form of mud, sand, and pebbles, to
provide strata on the sea-bottoms, volcanoes began to break forth on the
sea-bottom and along the margins of the continents. These strange
outbursts, mainly of steam, but often accompanied by molten rock, appear
to owe their formation to the accumulation of beds on the bottom of the
ocean, which as they are formed are to a great extent filled with water.
Accumulated to a thickness of many miles, the water in the lower part of
these strata gradually becomes exceedingly heated. In the end it breaks
forth in steam, having a temperature quite as hot as molten iron, so
that it may melt ordinary rocks.
The beginning of volcanic action on the earth was in a way important,
though the event is less noteworthy than any of those which have been
previously remarked, for tremendous as a volcanic eruption may be (that
of Kratakoa in 1883 shook a large part of the earth's surface, perturbed
all its atmosphere, and sent its dust to every part of the world), they,
after all, are not leading features in the earth's history, but rather
incidents. It is otherwise with the last great physical event in the
history of the earth, which we shall now have to consider.
As the earth became divided, so that there were a number of continents
and oceans, its climate became diversified. This was in part
accomplished by the changes in the course of the ocean currents, such as
our Gulf Stream; in part it may have been by slight variation in the
sun's heat. However brought about, from very ancient days to the present
time large portions of the earth's surface have occasionally had
climatal conditions which cause the rainfall to descend in the form of
snow, the snow falling in such quantities that it did not melt away in
the summer season. This condition now exists about either pole, and to a
certain extent on the high mountains, even those of tropical lands.
From time to time, owing to the variable adjustments of climate, these
periods of excessive snow have endured for ages, in which the glacial
sheet has extended in either hemisphere far towards the equator. In our
present day the earth is just escaping from the last of these wonderful
ice epochs. At a time so recent that it may be called a geological
yesterday the greater part of Europe and of North America was buried
beneath accumulations of snow, or rather of ice formed from it, the
sheets having in places the depth of a mile or more, and, according to
their strange nature, moving slowly over the surface, crushing and
grinding the rocks as they went, until the ice either reached the sea,
where it would float off as icebergs, or a place on the land where it
was far enough south to be melted away.
[Illustration: THE ICE SHEET WAS DEEP ENOUGH TO FLOW OVER THE TOP OF
MOUNT WASHINGTON.]
On the surface of North America the ice sheet, the remnant of which
still covers Greenland, expelled all life from the region of Canada and
the United States from a line a little to the east of the Rocky
Mountains, and in general north of the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers
to the sea-coast. It was deep enough to flow over the top of Mount
Washington in New Hampshire, and a primitive man (for there were such in
those days) might possibly have journeyed over all the realm without
discerning the least trace of the earth's rock surface, for even the
higher mountains were buried.
We do not yet know how many of these glacial periods there have been, or
whether they occur at the same time in both the northern and southern
hemispheres, but it is clear that they have been of frequent occurrence.
In the intervals between the ice epochs warm conditions appear to have
prevailed even up to the pole of the hemisphere, which was shortly
afterwards to experience the dreadful winter of an ice-time. Thus, at a
period which in its geological sense was not long before the last
glacial epoch, the Greenland district bore a forest much like that which
now exists in parts of the Southern States of this country. It seems
probable from the history of the past that the next revolution in our
northern hemisphere will dissipate the ice about the arctic pole, and
make a wide realm now uninhabitable to man fit for his use.
The foregoing little sketch of a few of the great events of the earth's
history does not take into account the greatest of them all, the coming
of man. But the conditions which surround the appearance of this flower
of the earth are as yet so imperfectly known that they cannot well be
considered.
HINTS TO YOUNG BOTANISTS.
BY CAROLINE A. CREEVY.
ROOTS.
When we are about to do a thing thoroughly and systematically we often
say we will "begin at the root of the matter." That is because the root
of a plant is supposed to be the first thing in its life. It is indeed
the foundation, the substructure of a plant, but not strictly the first
thing that starts to grow. The little stem feels the first quiver of
life, and the root follows. You can see the little stem, or _caulicle_
in fat seeds like squash and melon, beans and pease. Split a squash
seed, and between the two fat sides the caulicle lies cozily tucked,
like a tiny tail or handle. Plant a squash seed in the earth. The
caulicle, fed by the two fat sides, pushes its way upward into the air,
making a stem with leaves, and finally a big vine, while from its lower
end the root develops and pushes itself as fast as possible into the
earth.
The roots of some plants are small. I think most weeds make pretty large
and strong roots, which are hard to pull up. But when a tree has grown
to its full size its roots are almost as large as its branches. I once
saw a fine old maple-tree cut down, and its roots dug up to make room
for a cellar. I was surprised to see what a big hole the roots made. Two
men dug for several days before they had the roots all up.
The work for the roots to do is to drink water. The upper half of the
plant is very thirsty, and calls constantly for water. The roots push
and dig into the moist soil, drink in water, and pass it up by a sort of
pumping process. Only think, drinking and pumping! That is what roots
do. And so if the earth is dry, and the roots can find nothing to drink,
the plant will die. But after a shower see how glad the leaves seem, and
how stiff and straight they stand, because the roots are sucking up
great draughts of water.
To protect roots in their hard burrowing work a little cap of hard cells
is fitted over their tips. Little hairs grow all over them, whose
purpose is to help absorb moisture.
Some thick and fleshy roots are good to eat. They form many of our best
vegetables. Beets, turnips, parsnips, and carrots are such roots. They
belong to biennial or two-year plants. The first year they store up food
in their roots; the second year draw upon this food, and produce flowers
and fruit. They are named from their shapes. _Fusiform_, like radishes,
when thicker in the middle, tapering at both ends. Carrots are
_conical_, thicker at the top. Turnips bulge out in the middle, and are
_napiform_. When clustered like a dahlia the roots are _fascicled_. All
are _taproots_, or main roots. Besides these _primary_ roots there are
_secondary_. You may have noticed secondary roots springing from the
joints of a corn-stalk above ground. The wonderful banyan-tree sends
down roots from its branches, making new trees, until one tree is the
mother of a colony.
There are plants which take their nourishment from the air alone, and
not from the soil. They need roots as hold-fasts, not as drinking-cups.
Some lovely orchids grow in that way. Those leathery patches which you
have seen on old fence-rails and rocks are lichens. They have roots for
attachment only, and such are called _aerial_ roots.
Then there are _climbing_ rootlets. Look at the poison-ivy, but do not
touch it, and you will see it climbing over tree-trunks and fence-posts
by means of rootlets. The trumpet-creeper will show you the same thing.
These rootlets are very strong, as you will find if you try to pull, as
I did once, a trumpet-creeper out of a grape-vine.
A large class of plants are beggars and thieves. This is a hard thing to
say of them, but, what would you call them when they press their roots
into the bark of other plants and suck their sap, which is the same to
the plant as life-blood? Why can't they dig in the soil for themselves?
Some of these plants wear fine clothes, and look innocent enough. There
is the beautiful yellow fox-glove. Many times I have seen it, tall and
showy on hill-sides and in woods. But they were root-parasites, that is,
fastened by their roots on the roots of other plants, sucking juices
dishonestly. The delicate purple gerardia sometimes does the same thing.
So, you see, appearances are deceptive, and in plants, as well as
people, you cannot always tell character from the outside.
[Illustration: THE PUDDING STICK]
This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young
Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on
the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address
Editor.
It does not surprise me to find a number of bright girls asking for
directions about the entrance to the difficult road of authorship. It is
quite common for young people to think that nothing on earth can be so
delightful as to write songs and stories, and have them published for
the world to read. The fact, dear girls, that many of you overlook, is
that no trade or profession or business is ever learned without time,
study, and effort--what I might call the serving of an apprenticeship.
Very few authors succeed at the beginning, although there is a contrary
impression. Even those who seem at once to achieve eminence have really
been getting ready for their work all their lives. You can see what I
mean if you will read Miss Alcott's _Life and Letters_, or Mrs.
Burnett's story of _The One I Knew the Best of All_, or, better than
either, a charming little essay by Robert Louis Stevenson, in which he
describes the books he read as a boy, and the pains he took to cultivate
a good and clear style.
It is perfectly right for any reader of the ROUND TABLE to wish to
become an author. In days to come the youthful Knights and Ladies for
whom Kirk Munroe, Ellen Douglas Deland, W. J. Henderson, Captain Charles
King, and your friend of the Pudding Stick are now writing, will be
grown men and women, and some of them will be furnishing the literature
of the next generation. I cannot say too strongly to all my
correspondents, who are interested in this subject, be patient, be
fearless, be thorough. Do not be in haste to send some busy editor the
story which you have just written. Never send anything to an editor
until you have written it four or five times over, and are satisfied
that it is the very best thing that you can do, and that it is expressed
in the briefest possible compass. A very good school for aspiring young
authors is found in the beautiful little amateur papers which many young
people publish for circulation among their friends. The several school
and college literary papers are also excellent fields for beginners in
journalism. Among the rising authors of the day I know a half-dozen
whose first laurels were gained in school and college magazines.
I would like to suggest that some of you who belong to Round Table
Chapters should try the plan of having a little paper in connection with
your Chapter. You could easily appoint one member of the Chapter the
editor, then different girls and boys could furnish contributions. In
every neighborhood there are a great many interesting things happening
from day to day, so that your local column might be very spicy and
entertaining. You could give your paper an attractive name, and should
any of the members possess a typewriter you could have as many copies
made each week as you have subscribers. Perhaps somebody among your
friends has a little hand-press on which the little paper could be
printed. Subscribers would be willing to pay two or three cents for a
number of the paper, and thus you could have a little fund over expenses
for the charities of the Chapter. Wouldn't that be charming? I cannot
enter into all the little details of such an enterprise, but if any of
you shall adopt this suggestion I hope to hear all about it, and to know
whether you think that it pays. I once knew a family in which a little
home paper was kept up for years, each brother and sister in turn acting
as editor, and different members of the household copying out the
matter. They had a serial story, which ran on in the most exciting way
for a long time, and on Saturday evenings father, mother, children, and
friends always assembled to read and listen to the new number. This
paper was called _The Busy Bee_.
A few sentences ago I said, let me know if you think it pays. Speaking
of payment, do not make the mistake of supposing that I principally mean
payment in dollars and cents. The money one earns by writing is the
smallest part of the pleasure it gives. Several girls inquire of me what
price they ought to put on their poems and stories, and what sort of
letter they should send with a contribution when addressing an editor.
All that is really necessary in the case is to write your full name and
post-office address plainly at the top of your opening page, in the
right-hand corner. In brackets at the other side you may, if you choose,
write "offered at usual rates." Be sure always to write only on one side
of your paper, to send a folded and never a rolled manuscript, to have
it typewritten, if you can; if not, to have your writing very legible,
and to send an envelope addressed to yourself, and enough stamps to pay
return postage should your manuscript be declined. The stamps may be
loose, or may be attached to the envelope, as you prefer. As a rule the
first contributions of young people are worth very little money, and it
is not good form to set a price on what you write unless you are an
author of assured reputation. You must remember that publishers pay for
work according to its market value, just as we pay for sugar and soap,
and calico and note-paper, chairs, and tables, or anything else we buy.
When you go to a shop you always try to get good value for the money you
give in return for goods. It is the same with articles and poems which
are offered to the press. Hundreds and thousands of people are writing,
and you must expect to face difficulties and have a struggle before you
find your place, even if you are very well prepared for it.
I would like the Chapters of the ROUND TABLE which have paid me the
honor of naming themselves for me to write me a letter through their
secretaries. I have a reason for asking this favor. I would also like to
receive copies of amateur papers, published by young people who read the
ROUND TABLE.
[Illustration: Signature]
ON BOARD THE ARK.
BY ALBERT LEE.