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[Illustration: IT WAS A RACE TO PICK THE LEAVES]
The Story of Silk
BY
SARA WARE BASSETT
Author of
"THE STORY OF WOOL"
"THE STORY OF LEATHER"
"THE STORY OF IRON"
"THE STORY OF GLASS"
"THE STORY OF SUGAR"
"THE STORY OF PORCELAIN"
ILLUSTRATED BY
HATTIE LONGSTREET PRICE
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1925
COPYRIGHT
1918 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
_To the Boys and Girls of Auburndale,
Massachusetts, this book is
affectionately inscribed_
Contents
I. The Bretton Family 9
II. The Silk House 22
III. Pere Benedict 34
IV. A Supper Party 52
V. The Silkworms 63
VI. Busy Days 76
VII. The Silk Harvest 90
VIII. Pierre Makes a Friend 100
IX. Henri Makes a Suggestion 120
X. The Awakening of the Chrysalis 133
XI. Pierre Takes Another Journey 144
XII. The Home-Coming 156
XIII. Pierre Takes the Helm 172
XIV. Pierre as a Teacher 182
XV. The Great Surprise 206
Illustrations
PAGE
It Was a Race to Pick the Leaves Frontispiece
"It Is Like a Fairy Story" 46
He Led the Way Into a Long Room 108
"Go on Tiptoe" 140
A Royal Feast 169
"I Shall Do My Best" 190
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF SILK
CHAPTER I
THE BRETTON FAMILY
Madame Antoinette Bretton went for the third time to the door of her
tiny cottage and, shading her eyes, looked anxiously up the side of the
ice-capped mountain that flanked the garden. There was still no one in
sight, and with a shake of her head she returned to the coarse grey
socks she was knitting.
It was late afternoon, and through the stillness she could hear the roar
of the river, the tinkle of herd-bells, and the faint sound of chimes
from the far-away village chapel. How quiet the house seemed without
Marie and Pierre! The boy and girl had climbed to the hillside pasture
to drive the goats down for milking and Hector, the great St. Bernard
dog that had been the children's companion ever since they were born,
had gone with them, for Hector was an expert at rounding up a herd.
Although he was not a young dog he had the zeal of a puppy; with this he
combined the wisdom of a sage, and it was for the latter reason that
Madame Bretton never worried about her children when Hector was with
them. For to Madame Bretton the boy and the girl were still children.
Neither Hector, Marie, nor Pierre had dreamed of being really grown up
until the Great War had come and Monsieur Bretton, together with Uncle
Jacques, had been called to the colors of France.
Throughout the valley were other boys and girls whose fathers, brothers,
and uncles had left their homes behind--boys and girls who were not as
old as Marie or Pierre, but who nevertheless were courageously trying to
do the work of their elders. Marie was now nearly fifteen, and Pierre
was sixteen; but when suddenly called upon to take their father's place,
they felt much older. Yesterday they had been children with little to do
but play; to-day work was ahead of them, much hard work, which seemed to
have aged them in a single night and turned them from boy and girl into
responsible grown up persons.
What a different village Bellerivre was with so many of its men away!
Yet how bravely its peasants had responded to the call, and how
dauntlessly those left behind had risen to meet the new conditions of
living!
"We who remain at home must keep things running in the customary
grooves, so that our soldiers may find the town unchanged when they
return," had been the cry.
And so these noble-hearted mothers and children had toiled
uncomplainingly at garden, vineyard, and loom; had tended flocks of
goats and cattle; and had harvested the hay and grain. For Bellerivre,
walled in between the river Eisen and the snowy capped Pyrenees, was a
fertile valley on which, in spite of the tragedy of national warfare,
the sun seemed ever to shine. It was a mere dot of a place, with a
vine-covered chapel, a low white convent tucked away among the hills,
and a scattering of houses. In the centre of the town stood La Maison de
Sainte Genevieve, the home of Monsieur le Cure, the much loved parish
priest, who although bent and white-haired was the friend, counselor,
and teacher of both young and old. The little schoolhouse where he had
been accustomed to meet the children was, however, now closed; for in
these troublous war days boys and girls had far more important duties to
perform than to learn lessons. There were the great vineyards that
striped the hills--these must not perish for want of care; then there
were the gardens and hay-fields.
But none of these things, vital as they appeared, were of first
importance in the community. It was from quite a different source that
the peasants of Bellerivre derived their livelihood--a source peculiar
if one was unfamiliar with it, but which had been the primary interest
of the valley ever since its people could remember. They raised
silkworms!
Not only did the father of Marie and Pierre earn his living thus, but so
also did most of the other fathers in that green valley. As long ago as
the boy and girl had been old enough to walk they had toddled out into
the sunshine and helped gather mulberry leaves; and they had not been
much older than this before they had learned exactly what kind of leaves
the tiny spinners liked best to eat. The precious grove of white
mulberry trees had been planted years before by M. Bretton, and had been
cherished with greatest care ever since. Each season new trees had been
added and so spaced that their roots might have room to spread. Around
each tree a trench was dug to hold the moisture. Some of the trees had
been raised from seed and transplanted into the mulberry grove when they
were three years old; others had been rooted from slips or cuttings--a
much quicker and less troublesome process. It was always necessary to
have some new trees at hand that the very young silkworms might have
tender leaves to feed upon.
How strange it was that out of the vast variety of vegetation these tiny
creatures would eat nothing but mulberry leaves! Over and over again, M.
Bretton told his children, people had experimented with the leaves of
other plants--with lettuce, spinach, and various of the greens from the
garden. But it was useless. The wee spinners scorned every such
offering. One woman, it is true, had succeeded in raising a few worms on
witch-grass; but they had not prospered, the silk from their cocoons
proving poor. Mulberry leaves they craved and mulberry leaves they must
have. In time the French peasants as well as the silk raisers of other
nations abandoned their experiments and went to learning how to grow
mulberry trees, studying with care not only which mulberry was best for
their silkworms but also which of the species flourished most
successfully in the soil of their particular country.
The more they investigated the more varieties of mulberries came to
light. There was the Tartarica, or Tartar mulberry, found on the Volga;
the Papyfera, or paper mulberry, from Japan; the Chinese mulberry; and
the more common varieties of red, black, and white mulberry. To the soil
of southern France the so-called white mulberry tree seemed best
adapted, and therefore the French peasants began cultivating it
extensively, mingling with it, however, some of the rarer Chinese
cuttings when these could be secured.
Many a lesson did the people learn about the mulberry tree while they
were perfecting its growth! They found the leaves could be reached much
more easily if the top of the tree was clipped so that it would grow low
and bushy; this enabled children to harvest the leaves, and did away
with expensive labor. But because of the luxuriant climate of France and
Italy the trees of those countries could seldom be kept low, and usually
gatherers had to use ladders to reach the leaves--a process by which
many of them were injured and rendered useless. As no silkworm would
touch a bruised leaf much of the crop was wasted. In China, where the
trees seldom grew beyond the size of shrubs, the conditions for
gathering perfect leaves were ideal; especially as the Chinese cut away
much of the under part of the trees, so that the gatherers might go in
beneath them. In addition to these interesting facts people discovered
that if a single twig was broken from the mulberry tree several new
shoots would branch out in its place. This was surely a valuable thing
to know. Moreover, they learned that the leaves of the white mulberry
were the most tender; that those of the red ranked next; and that the
black came last in delicacy. Few French or Italian people used the
black, but in the colder countries, where it flourished better than did
other kinds, it was used almost entirely. Another delightful discovery
of the sericulturists, as silkworm raisers are called, was that when
their mulberry trees were once properly planted they would, with good
care, live to a marvelous old age--some of them even reaching the
dignity of two or three hundred years. But unless snails and other
destructive grubs were kept away the trees would not thrive. The finer
and more carefully grafted they were the greater the damage resulting
from hungry insects. In contrast the wild mulberry with its acid and
bitter sap presented far less temptation and therefore lived longer than
did the cultivated species.
This and many another lesson did the father of Marie and Pierre have to
learn before he could successfully raise mulberry trees--to say nothing
of silkworms. He must know how to prepare the mulberry seeds by crushing
the fruit, covering the pulp with water, and separating the seeds from
the waste part of the berry. He must know, too, how to spread the seeds
upon cloth and lay them in the sun to dry, after which they were put
away in covered jars, secure from air and moisture, and stored in some
dark place until needed for planting.
To Marie and Pierre, brought up amid the environment of many a mulberry
grove, these facts were an old story, and how fortunate it was that this
was so. Now that their father and Uncle Jacques had gone to the war most
of the care of the silkworms would fall to them. There was, to be sure,
Josef the old gardener--he could give advice; but he was too old and
crippled to do much work.
And therefore it was the two children, together with their mother, who
were planning for their first harvest of cocoons, and were eagerly
awaiting the unfurling of the mulberry leaves before beginning to hatch
out their crop of silkworm eggs. How anxiously they had watched the
trees! How eagerly scanned the swelling buds! Ah, it could not be long
now. Was not the river a torrent from the melting of the winter's snows?
Was not the sun warmer, the heaven bluer, the ground fragrant as if
newly awake? Soon the mulberry trees would be sending forth their
leaves. Until they did, however, it would be useless to hatch the eggs
so carefully laid away, for there would be no food to give the ravenous
little spinners should they rouse from their long sleep.
And so Marie, and Pierre, and their mother strove to be patient,
contenting themselves in the meantime with preparing the empty rooms of
the silk-house, where the caterpillars were to be raised. Many a time
they had not only seen this done but had assisted in the process. Every
step of the work was familiar. They knew well that the labor of making
the place immaculate was far from wasted, for unless the rooms were
spotless the fastidious spinners would either sicken and die, or would
refuse to fashion their wonderful webs.
M. Bretton, who had spent a good portion of his slender income in
constructing the up-to-date shelter that housed his caterpillars, often
laughingly declared that their accommodations were far more luxurious
than were those where his own family lived. Nevertheless it was money
well invested, he argued, since already he had got back from the sale of
his cocoons many times over what the plant had cost him. So successful
had he been that his example had been followed by many of his more
prosperous neighbors until now Bellerivre, tiny as it was, could boast
as fine equipment for sericulture as could be found in all France.
Poor M. Bretton! How proud he had been of his handiwork! How modestly
exultant over his good fortune! And now that he had been forced to
abandon it all and go to the Great War it was unthinkable to his wife
and children that they should not take up his work and strive to carry
it on. Nay, the very bread they ate depended upon their doing so.
Hence do you marvel that Marie, Pierre, and Madame Bretton labored early
and late and denied themselves many things they wanted, that instead the
money might be spent to further the industry that M. Bretton had
cherished? And since what we work for becomes the centre of our
interests it logically followed that all three of them found their task
an absorbingly fascinating one. Playtime and study were cast cheerfully
aside, and in place of them the boy and girl received each day the more
vital compensations that come from unselfishness and hard work.
It was Marie who first detected that the buds near the ends of the
mulberry branches were opening.
As she and Pierre drove the flock of goats down the steep mountain trail
which led from the plateau where the pasture lay she glanced across the
valley. Against the blue sky a tracery of delicate green was showing.
"Pierre!" she cried, "see! The mulberry buds are awaking! Look! Do you
not catch that bit of color against the clouds? We will wait no longer.
Let us tell Mother to take the silkworm eggs out of the dark room and
put them where it is light. Soon there will be plenty of new leaves.
Hurrah, Pierre!"
With a rush Marie bounded past her brother and ran down the narrow path
scattering the goats before her in every direction, and sending Hector
racing homeward with yelps of delight.
[Illustration]