I want to show you how great should be the extent of our gratitude to
the sun. Of course, on a bright summer’s day, when we are revelling in
the genial warmth and enjoying the gladness of sunshine, it needs no
words to convince us of the utility and of the beneficence of sunbeams.
So we will not take midsummer. Let us take midwinter. Take this very
Christmas season when the days are short and cheerless, the nights
are long and dark and cold. We might be tempted to think that the sun
had well-nigh forgotten us. It is true he only seems to pay us very
occasional visits, and between fogs and clouds we in England see but
little of him; but, visible or invisible, the sun incessantly tends
us, and provides for our welfare in ways that perhaps we do not always
remember.
Let me give an illustration of what I mean. You will go back this dull
and cold afternoon to the happy home where your Christmas holidays are
being enjoyed. It will be quite dark ere you get there, for the sun in
these wintry days sets so very early. You will gather around a cheerful
fire. The curtains will be drawn, the lamps will be lighted, and the
disagreeable weather outside will be forgotten in the pleasant warmth
and light within. Five o’clock has arrived, the pretty wicker table has
been placed near mamma’s chair; on it are the cups and saucers and the
fancy teapot. Under the table is a little shelf, with some tempting
cakes and a tender muffin. Two or three welcome friends have joined the
little group, and a delightful half-hour is sure to follow.
But you may say, “What have tea and muffins, lamps and fireplaces to do
with the sun? Are they not all mere artificial devices, as far removed
as possible from the sunbeams or the natural beauties which sunbeams
create?” Well, not so far, perhaps, as you may think. Let us see.
Poke up the fire, and while it is throwing forth that delicious warmth,
and charming but flickering light, we will try to discover where that
light and heat have come from. No doubt they have come from the coal,
but then, whence came the coal? It came from the mine, where brave
colliers hewed it out deep under the ground, and then it was hoisted
to the surface by steam engines. Our inquiry must not stop here, for
another question immediately arises, as to how this wonderful fuel
came into the earth? When we examine coal carefully, by using the
microscope to see its structure, we find that it is not like a stone;
it is composed of trees and other plants, the leaves and stems of which
can be sometimes recognized. Indeed, the fossil trunks and roots of
the great trees are occasionally conspicuous in the coal-pit. It is
quite plain that these are only the remains of a vegetation which was
formerly growing and flourishing, and on further inquiry we learn that
coal must have been produced in the following manner:--
Once upon a time a great forest flourished. The sun shone down on this
forest, and it was watered by genial showers, while insects and other
creatures sported in its shades. It is true that the trees and plants
were not like those we now see about us. They were more like ferns and
mare’s-tails and gigantic club-mosses. In the fulness of time they
died, and fell, and decayed, and others sprang up to meet the like end.
Thus it happened that, in course of ages, the remains of leaves, and
fruits, and trunks accumulated over the soil. The forest was situated
near the seashore, and then a remarkable change took place--the land
began slowly to sink. You need not think that this is impossible. Land
has often been known to change its level gradually. In fact, a sinking
process is slowly going on now in many places on the earth, while
the land is rising in other localities. As the forest gradually sank
lower and lower, the sea-water began to inundate it, and all the trees
perished until, at last, deep water submerged the surface which had
once been covered by a fine forest. At the bottom of this sea lay the
decaying vegetation.
That which was the destruction of the growing forest, proved to be the
means of preserving its remains, for, then as now, the rivers flowed
into the sea, and the waters of the rivers, especially in times of
flood, carried down with them clay or mud, held in suspension. Upon
the floor of the ocean this material was slowly deposited; and thus
a coating of mud overlay the remains of the forest. In the course of
ages, these layers grew thick and heavy, and hardened into a great flat
rock, while the trunks and leaves underneath were squeezed together by
the weight, and packed into a solid mass which became black, and in
the course of time was transformed into coal.
After ages and ages had passed by, the bed of the sea ceased to sink,
and began slowly to rise. The water over the newly made layers of stone
became shallower, and at last the floor was raised until it emerged
from the sea. But, of course, it would not be the original ground
which formed the surface of the newly uncovered land. The sheets of
consolidated clay lay on the top; over the fresh surface life gradually
spread, until man himself came to dwell there, while far beneath his
feet the remains of the ancient vegetation were buried.
When we now dig down through the rocks we come upon the portions of
trees and other plants which the lapse of time, and the influence of
pressure, have turned from leaves and wood into our familiar coal.
That ancient forest grew because sunbeams abounded in those early
times, and nourished a luxuriant vegetation. The heat and the light
then expended so liberally by the sun were seized by the leaves of
flourishing plants, and were stored away in their stems and foliage.
Thus it is that the ancient sunbeams have been preserved in our
coal-beds for uncounted thousands of years. When we put a lump of coal
on our fire this evening, and when it sends forth a grateful warmth and
cheerful light, it but reproduces for our benefit some of that store of
preserved sunbeams of which our earth holds so large a treasure. Thus,
the sun has contributed very materially to our comfort, for it has
provided the fire to keep us warm.
The orb of day has, however, ministered further to our tea party,
for has it not produced the tea itself? The tea grew a long way off,
most likely in China, where the plant was matured by the warmth of the
sunbeams. From China the tea-chests were brought by a sailing vessel to
London; the ship performed this long voyage by the use of sails, blown
by what we call wind, which is merely the passage of great volumes of
air as they hurry from one part of the earth to another.
We may ask what makes the air move, for it will not rush about in
this way unless there be considerable force to drive it. Here again
we perceive the influence of the sun. Tracts of land are warmed by
the genial sunbeams. The air receives the heat from the land, and the
warm air is buoyant and ascends, while cooler air continually flows in
to supply its place. To do this it has, of course, to rush across the
country, and thus wind is caused. All the air currents on our earth are
consequently due to the sun. You see, therefore, how greatly we are
indebted to our brilliant luminary for the enjoyment of our tea-table.
Not only has the sun given us the coal and the tea, but it has actually
provided the means by which the tea was carried all the way from China
to our own shores.
We can also trace the connection between the hot water and the sun. Of
course, the water has come immediately from the kettle, and that has
been taken from the fire, and the fire was produced by sunbeams. Thus
we learn that it is the warmth of the sun that has made the water boil.
If you visit the water-works you will see great reservoirs. In some
cases they have been filled by a river, sometimes the water is pumped
from a deep well in the ground, sometimes it is the surface-water
caught on a mountain side. Whatever be the immediate source of our
water supply, the real origin is to be sought, not in the earth
beneath, but in the heavens above. All the water we use day by day has
come from the clouds. It is the clouds which sent down the rain, or
sometimes the snow, or the hail, and it is this water from the clouds
which fills our rivers. It is this water also which sinks deep into the
earth and supplies our wells, so that from whatever apparent source the
water seems to have come, it is indeed the clouds which have been the
real benefactors. The water in your teacup to-night was, a little while
ago, in a cloud, floating far overhead in the sky.
We may look a little further and find whence the clouds have come. It
is certain that clouds are merely a form of steam or vapor of water,
and as they are so continually sending down rain on the earth, there
must be some means by which their supply will be replenished. Here
again our excellent friend the sun is to be found ever helping us
secretly, if not helping us openly. He pours down his rich and warm
beams on the great oceans, and the heat turns some of the water into
vapor, which, being lighter than the air, ascends upwards for miles.
There the vapor often passes into the form of clouds, and the winds
waft these clouds to refresh the thirsty lands of the earth. Thus, you
see, it is the sun which procures for us water from the great oceans
which cover so much of our globe, and sends it on by the winds to
supply our water-works, and fill our teapots. Notice another little
kindliness of our great benefactor. The water of the oceans is quite
salt. But we could not make tea with salt water, so the sun, when
lifting the vapor from the sea, most thoughtfully leaves all the salt
behind, and thus provides us with the purest of sweet water.
That nice muffin was baked by the sun, toasted by the sun, and made
from wheat grown by the sun. If the wheat was ground in a wind-mill,
then the sun raised the wind which turned the mill. Perhaps the
flour-mill was driven by steam, in which case the sun, long ago,
provided the coal for the boiler. The miller might have lived on a
river and used a water-mill, but if he did, then here again the sun
actually did the work. The sun raised the water to the clouds, and
after it had fallen in rain, and was on its way back to the sea, its
descent was utilized to turn the water-wheel. The water derives its
power to turn the mill from the fact that it is running downhill,
but it could not run down unless it had first been raised up; and
thus it is indeed the sun which drives the water-wheel. Nor can the
baker dispense with the sun’s aid even if he rejected wind-mills, or
steam-mills, or water-mills, and determined to grind the corn himself
with a pestle and mortar. Here, at least, it might be thought that it
is a man’s sinews and muscles that are doing the work, and so no doubt
they are. But you are mistaken if you think the sun has not rendered
indispensable aid. The sun has just as surely provided the power
which moves the baker’s arms as it has raised the wind which turned
the wind-mill. The force exerted in grinding with the pestle has been
derived from the food that the man has eaten; that food was grown by
the sun, and the man received from the food the energy it had derived
from the sun’s heat. So that, look at it any way you please, even for
the grinding of the wheat to make the muffin for your tea party, you
are wholly indebted to the sun.
It is the sun which has bleached the tablecloth to that snowy
whiteness. The sun has given those bright colors which look so pretty
in the girls’ dresses. With how much significance can we say and feel
that light is pleasant to the eye, and what prettier name than Little
Sunbeam can we have for the darling child who makes our home so bright?