A very fine autumnal morning induced Mrs. Bernard to excuse the children
some of their lessons, that they might avail themselves of the
opportunity it afforded of enjoying a country walk, at this delightful
season of the year. She considered every object in nature, as a book
from which, with a careful guide, much useful instruction might be
derived; and she never neglected any opportunity of enlarging their
minds, and elevating their thoughts, by directing their attention from
the various beauties of creation, to the kind and omnipotent Father, who
has graciously prepared for his dependent children, so many unmerited
blessings.
"Pray, mamma, what has become of all the swallows we saw flying about a
few weeks ago?" enquired Ferdinand: "I cannot see one now. I was very
much amused, when we last walked this way, in watching their rapid
motions: other birds are here as usual, but I do not observe a single
swallow."
Mrs. Bernard took him by the hand, saying, "You have, my dear boy,
put a question to me, which I shall not be able to answer to your
satisfaction. It is a subject that has puzzled naturalists more than
many others, and opinions upon it are still very various. Some suppose
that they migrate into milder climates, whilst others conclude, they
conceal themselves in some warm spot, and lie dormant, as is the case
with many animals during the severity of the winter months. In
confirmation of this latter opinion, some few have been discovered in
sandbanks, apparently dead, but, upon being laid before the fire, have
recovered their former vigour. If, however, the vast multitudes that
visit us, universally adopted this mode of concealment, they would be,
no doubt, frequently discovered in their winter retreats, which is not
the case. Mr. White, of Selborne, a man of great observation,
particularly directed his attention to this point, but was not able to
decide it to his own satisfaction. I think he seems of opinion, that the
majority of them migrate, and that some few of late broods, which have
not attained sufficient strength to join the travellers, conceal
themselves as before mentioned, reviving upon the return of spring."
_Ferdinand_. They seem to be curious birds: will you be so kind, mamma,
as to tell us some particulars respecting them? Pray, are not martins
very similar in their habits to swallows?
_Mrs. B._ They belong to the same order, called _hirundines_. There are
four kinds of British _hirundines_:--the house-martin, the swallow, the
swift, and the bank-martin, which have each habits peculiar to
themselves. The swallow is the first that makes its appearance in
spring; generally about the middle of April. It frequently builds in
chimneys, five or six feet from the top, and prefers those stacks where
there is a constant fire; no doubt, for the sake of the warmth. It does
not select the immediate shaft where there is a fire, but prefers one
adjoining the kitchen, and disregards the smoke by which it is almost
continually enveloped. The nest of the swallow, like that of the house-
martin, consists of a shell, composed of dirt or mud, mixed with short
pieces of straw to strengthen it. The shape is, however, somewhat
different: it is lined with fine grass and feathers, which are collected
by the little architects as they float in the air. Having constructed
their dwelling, the hen lays from four to six white eggs, dotted with
red specks, and brings out her first brood about the last week in June.
I have been frequently amused in watching the progressive method by
which the young ones are introduced into life: they first emerge from
their place of concealment with difficulty, and frequently I have found
a young one in the parlour, which had fallen down the chimney in its
first attempt to leave the next. For a day or two, the old ones feed
them on the chimney-top, after which, they conduct them to the dead
bough of some tree near at hand, where they continue attending them with
the greatest assiduity. In a few days after this, the young brood is
enabled to fly, but it is some time longer before the little creatures
can take their own food; until which time, they are fed by the parent
birds, with the most affectionate solicitude. As soon as they are
disengaged from their necessary attendance on their first brood, they
betake themselves to the business of rearing a second, which they bring
out towards the end of August. This little bird is an instructive
pattern of unwearied industry and affection; for, from morning till
night, whilst their young ones require support, they spend the whole day
in their service. Their food consists of flies, gnats, and a small
species of beetle, and they drink as they fly along, sipping the surface
of the water. They settle, occasionally, on the ground, to pick up
gravel, which is necessary to grind and digest the food of all birds.
[Footnote: for the preceding and following account, see White's Natural
History of Selberne.]
_Ferdinand_. Pray mamma, how can we distinguish a swallow from the other
species of _hirundines_? I think that is the name by which you call
them.
"By the length and forkedness of their tails," returned Mrs. Bernard:
"they are much more nimble, too, than the other species."
_Louisa_. Do they always build in chimneys, pray, mamma?
_Mrs. B._ Although the shaft of a chimney is the place of which they
usually make choice for this purpose, they sometimes vary their plan.
In Sir Ashton Lever's Museum, was the nest of a swallow built on the
wings and body of an owl, which happened, by accident, to hang dead and
dry from the rafter of a barn; and another in a large shell, which was,
the following year, suspended in the same place. You have, no doubt, my
dear children, all observed vast flocks of swallows assemble together on
the roofs of houses; they chirp, and chatter, and seem very busy,
preparing for their ensuing migration, and consulting, as it were, upon
the plan most proper to be adopted on this occasion. I have often
wished, at such times, that I could understand their language. There is
seldom one of these birds to be seen after the middle of October; but to
what regions they fly, we do not exactly know; though I read, in Dr.
Russel's account of Aleppo, that numbers of these birds visit that
country towards the end of February, when they build as in Europe, and,
having hatched their young, disappear about the end of July. They are
also said to be by no means uncommon North America. Sir Charles Wager
and Captain Wright, saw vast flocks of them at sea, when on their
passage from one country another. White, in a pretty little poem, which
he calls "The Naturalist's Summer Evening Walk," addresses them as
follows:
"Amusive birds! say where your hid retreat, When the frost rages, and
the tempests beat; Whence your return, by such nice instinct led, When
spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head? Such baffled searches mock
man's prying pride, The God of nature is your secret guide."
Professor Kahn, in his travels into America, relates an interesting
anecdote, of a pair of swallows which built their nest in a stable
belonging to a lady of his acquaintance. The female laid her eggs, and
was about to brood them: some days elapsed, and the people saw the
female still sitting on the eggs, but the male, flying about the nest,
and sometimes settling on a nail, was herd to utter a very plaintive
note, which betrayed his uneasiness. On a nearer examination the female
was found dead on the nest, and, on her being removed, the male took his
seat upon the eggs; but after remaining upon them about two hours, he
went out, and returned in the afternoon, bringing with him another
female, which sat upon the nest, and afterwards fed the young ones till
they were able to provide for themselves, with as much assiduity and
kindness as their natural parent could have done.
The children were all much interested in the account which their mother
had given them, and united in requesting some information respecting the
other species of _hirundines_. This, Mrs. Bernard most willingly gave
them, as follows:
"The house-martin, my dears, usually appears a few days later than the
swallow. For some time after their arrival, they play and sport about,
without any preparation for constructing their nests, which they do not
attempt to build till about the middle of May. At this season, if the
weather be fine, they begin seriously to think of providing a mansion
for their little family. This bird usually builds against a
perpendicular wall, without any projection to support the fabric; it is,
therefore, very necessary that the first foundation should be firmly
fixed. For this purpose, the prudent little architect is careful not to
advance in her work too rapidly. By building only in the morning, and
dedicating the remainder of the day to food and amusement, she gives it
sufficient time to dry and harden, seldom building more than half an
inch in a day."
_Ferdinand_. Mamma, I have seen workmen, when they build mud walls,
raise but a little at a time, and then leave off: very likely it was
their observation of the martin's plan, which first taught them this
prudent caution.
_Mrs. B._ Very probably, my dear. We might learn many a useful lesson
from the sagacity and careful economy of animals, were we not above
attending to such humble instructors.
_Ferdinand_. Yes, mamma; the shepherd, in one of Gay's Fables, which I
learned the other day, gained almost all his wisdom from his observation
of animals. You know, he says to the philosopher:----
"The cheerful labours of the bee, Awake my soul to industry, Who can
observe the careful ant, And not provide for future want? My dog, (the
trustiest of his kind,) With gratitude inflames my mind; I mark his
true, his faithful way, And in my service, copy Tray--In constancy and
nuptial love, I learn my duty from the dove. The hen, who from the
chilly air, With pious wing protects her care, And every fowl that flies
at large, instruct me in a parent's charge.
Thus every object in creation;
Can furnish hints to contemplation;
And from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean."
_Mrs. B._ Very true, my dear: and I am pleased to find you have
materials at hand to support your opinion.
_Ferdinand_. But I have interrupted you, mamma, in your account. Pray
go on, for I am very much interested in it, and want to know in how many
days the careful little laborers complete their house.
_Mrs. B._ In about ten or twelve days the mansion is finished; strong,
compact, warm, and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for which it
was intended; but very often, after this industrious little bird has
finished the shell of its nest, the house-sparrow seizes it as its own,
turning out the rightful master, and lining it after its own manner.
_Ferdinand_. Poor little bird! how I should pity him, to be deprived
of his house after having constructed it with so much labour. I should
think, such strong nests would last more than one season, mamma?
_Mrs. B._ And so they do, my dear. Martins will continue to breed for
several years together in the same nest, when it happens to be well
sheltered, and secure from the injuries of the weather. The hen lays
from four to six white eggs; and, like the swallow, as soon as the young
are able to shift for themselves, the old ones turn their thoughts to
the business of rearing a second brood. About the beginning of October,
they retire in vast flocks together.
_Louisa_. How are house-martins distinguished from the others, pray,
mamma??
_Mrs. B._ By having their legs covered with feathers quite down to their
toes. They are no songsters, but twitter in their nests, in a pretty,
inward, soft manner.
_Louisa_. Now, pray mamma, give us some account of the swift.
_Mrs. B._ Most willingly, my dear Louisa. This is the largest of the
British _hirundines_, and makes its appearance much later in the season
than the others I have mentioned; being seldom seen before the last week
in April, or the first week in May. It is by no means so skilful an
architect as the two species I have already noticed. Making no crust or
shell to its nest, it forms it of dry grass and features, very rudely
put together, and constructing it in some dark corner of a castle,
tower, or steeple; this species cannot, therefore, be so narrowly
watched as the others, which build more openly. They are almost
constantly on the wing, never settling, either on the ground, on the
roofs of houses, or in trees, as is the case with the other species. The
female lays only two eggs, which are milk-white, long, and peaked at the
small end. It is a very lively bird, rising early and retiring to rest
late, and is observed, in the height of summer, to be on the wing
sixteen hours a day. Like the martin, they are no songsters, having only
one harsh, screaming note, which, however, I cannot consider
disagreeable. It is never heard but in the most lovely summer weather,
and, consequently, the sound occasions in my mind a pleasing association
of ideas, which I like to indulge. If by any accident they settle upon
the ground, they find great difficulty in rising, on account of the
shortness of their legs and the length of their wings: neither can they
walk conveniently, they only crawl along.
_Louisa_. They seem, in many respects different in their habits from the
other species you have mentioned, mamma: how may we distinguish them by
their outward appearance?
_Mrs. B_. The peculiar formation of the foot plainly discriminates them,
for it is so disposed, as to carry all its four toes forward; which
clearly accounts for the difficulty it finds in walking. As they arrive
later, so they retire sooner than the others, being seldom seen after
the middle of August. Are you not tired, my children, with my long
account of these birds?
"Oh no, dear mamma: pray tell us something about sand-martins too,"
exclaimed each of the children; "we shall then be able to distinguish
each of the four species of British _hirundines_."
Mrs. Bernard assured them, she would willingly comply with their
request, as far as she was able to do it: "but," added she, "it is
difficult to gain full and exact information respecting the lives and
habits of these little birds, which are extremely wild by nature,
disclaiming all domestic attachments, and haunting heaths and commons,
far from the resorts of man. They are very fond of water, and are never
known to abound but near vast pools or rivers. They form their nests in
a manner totally different from the varieties I have mentioned; boring a
round hole in the sand, in a serpenting direction, and about two feet
deep. At the further end of this burrow, they form their rude nest;
consisting of fine grass and feathers, laid together with very little
art. It is wonderful to observe what arduous undertakings perseverance
will accomplish. One would suppose it almost impossible that this
feeble bird, with its soft bill and tender claws, should be able to bore
a stubborn sand-bank, without injury. Sand-martins are much smaller
than any other species of _hirundines_, and also differ from them in
colour, being what is termed mouse-colour, instead of black. They fly
also in a peculiar manner, by jerks, somewhat resembling a butterfly.
They are by no means so common as the other species; for there are few
towns or large villages that do not abound with house-martins; few
churches, towers, or steeples, but what are haunted by swifts; scarcely
a cottage chimney that has not its swallow; whilst the bank-martins,
scattered here and there, live a sequestered life, in sand-hills and in
the banks of rivers."
_Ferdinand_. Do they sing, mamma?
_Mrs. B._ No, my dear; they are particularly mute, only making a little
harsh noise when any person approaches their nest. They lay from four
to six white eggs, and breed twice in the season.
_Louisa_. Have you any thing more to tell us on this amusing subject,
my dear mother?
_Mrs. B._ No, my dear: I believe I have now told you most of the
important particulars respecting these curious little birds. But I have
an account in my pocket-book, which I extracted from a book I was
reading last week--"Bingley's Animal Biography:" I will read that to
you, if you please. It is respecting a foreign species of _hirundines_,
called the esculent martin.
The children all united in begging to hear this account; upon which Mrs.
Bernard took it from her pocket, and read the following extract:
"The esculent martin is said to less in size than the wren. The bill is
thick; the upper parts of the body brown, and the under parts white. The
tail is forked, and each feather is tipped with white. The legs are
brown.
"The nest of this bird is excessively curious, and composed of such
materials, that it is not only eatable, but is considered one of the
greatest dainties that the Asiatic epicures possess. It generally weighs
about half an ounce, and is, in shape, like half a lemon; or, as some
say, like a saucer with one side flatted, which adheres to the rock. The
texture is somewhat like isinglass, or rather more like fine gum-dragon;
and the several layers of the matter it is composed of, are very
apparent; being fabricated from repeated parcels of a soft slimy
substance, in the same manner as the common martins form theirs of mud.
Authors differ much as to the materials of which it is composed: some
suppose it to consist of sea-worms, of the mollusca kind; others, of a
kind of cuttle-fish, or a glutinous sea-plast called agal-agal. It has
also been supposed, that the swallows rob other birds of their eggs,
and, after breaking the shells, apply the white of them to that purpose.
"The best sorts of nests, which are perfectly free from dirt, are
dissolved in broths, in order to thicken them, and are said to give them
an exquisite flavour. They are soaked in water to soften, then pulled to
pices, and, after being mixed with ginseng, are put into the body of a
fowl. The whole is then stewed in a pot, with a sufficient quantity of
water, and left on the coals all night. The following morning it is
ready to be eaten."
"Pray, mamma, what is _ginseng?_ I never heard of it before," said
Louisa.
_Mrs. B._ It is the root of a small plant, growing in China, Tartary,
and likewise in some parts of North America, particularly Canada and
Pennsylvania, from whence considerable quantities have lately been
brought over here. Amongst the Chinese, it is esteemed a medicine of
extraordinary value.
"A medicine! mamma," exclaimed Louisa; "I thought you said they put it
into the stuffing of their fowl!"
"And so they do, my dear," returned Mrs. Bernard, "it is by no means of
an unpleasant taste, as it has a mucilaginous sweetness, approaching to
that of liquorice, accompanied with an agreeable bitterness, and a
slight aromatic warmth, with little or no smell."
_Louisa._ Thank you mamma. Now will you go on with your account?
_Mrs. B._ "The nests of which I was speaking, are found in vast numbers
in many islands of the Eastern Archipelago. The best kind sell in China,
from one thousand to fifteen hundred dollars the picle, a weight of
about twenty-five pounds. The black and dirty ones only sell for twenty
dollars.
"Sir George Staunton, in his Embassy to China, says: 'These nests are a
considerable object of traffic among the Javanese, and many are employed
in it from their infancy. The birds having spent near two months in
preparing their nests, usually lay two eggs, which are hatched in about
fifteen days. When the young birds become fledged, it is thought time to
seize upon their nests, which is done regularly three times a year, and
is effected by means of ladders of bamboo and reeds, by which the people
descend into the caverns; but when these are very deep, rope-ladders are
preferred. This operation is attended with much danger, and several lose
their lives in the attempt. The inhabitants of the mountains generally
employed in it, begin always by sacrificing a buffalo; a custom which is
constantly observed by the Javanese, on the eve of every extraordinary
undertaking. They also pronounce some prayers, anoint themselves with
sweet-scented oils, and smoke the entrance of the cavern with gum-
benjamin. Near some of these caverns, a tutular goddess is worshipped,
whose priest burns incense, and lays his protecting hand on every person
intending to descend. A flambeau is carefully prepared at the same time,
with a gum which exudes from a tree growing in the vicinity, and is not
easily extinguished by fixed air, or subterraneous vapours.'"
The children were delighted with this account, and thanked their mother
for the amusement and instructions she had kindly afforded them. They
each determined, before the following spring, to provide themselves with
a book, for the purpose of keeping a diary, and noticing the different
objects that might engage their attention. They had been so much
interested by their mother's conversation, that the beauties of the
surrounding scenery had almost passed unnoticed. She now directed their
attention to the fine open country that lay behind them. A beautiful
little copse they were just entering, quite charmed Emily, who was a
great admirer of rural scenery. "The autumnal tints add to the riches of
the foliage, and improve our present prospect, my dear mother," said
she, "but make us fear that a very few weeks will deprive us of our
pleasure."
"That is very true, Emily," added Louisa, "but we shall have new
pleasures in the place of those we love. Think of the delightful winter
evenings which we always so much enjoy. I really scarcely know what
season to prefer. Spring is very charming; in summer too we have many
pleasures; and, at this moment, I feel as if a morning walk in autumn
were the best of all."
Mrs. Bernard smiled at the cheerful vivacity of Louisa, and recommended
to each of the children the cultivation of a contented disposition,
which knows how to derive comfort from circumstances in themselves
unpromising.
At this moment they turned into a little glen, and were delighted with
the rural appearance of a cottage, shaded by lofty trees. They
approached its humble door, which stood open, and beheld a young
cottager, who was singing at her spinning-wheel, and too much engaged by
her occupation to notice their approach. Mrs. Bernard drew back a few
paces, and whispered to Emily the following lines, which this sweet
scene recalled to her mind:
"E'en from the straw-roof'd cot, the note of joy Flows full and
frequent, as the village fair, Whose little wants the busy hour employ,
Chaunting some rural ditty, soothes her care.
"Verse softens toil, however rude the sound; She feels no biting pang
the while she sings, Nor, as she turns the giddy wheel around, Revolves
the sad vicissitude of things."
Then, again approaching the cottage, she accosted the young girl, who,
with a modest blush, arose from her wheel, and hastily pushing it on one
side, invited her unexpected visitors to take a seat, and rest
themselves after their walk.
Pleased with their reception, Mrs. Bernard accepted her invitation; and,
upon entering into conversation with the young cottager, became more and
more interested in her favour. There was that modest reserve in her
manner, which is particularly pleasing in youth.
In answer to Mrs. Bernard's questions, she informed her, that she was,
in very early life, left an orphan; having lost both her parents before
she had attained her third year. Since which time, she had been indebted
to an aged grandmother for protection and support.
"We have both worked hard for our livelihood," said Mary, (for that was
the young cottager's name,) "and, thank Heaven, we have never wanted the
_necessaries_ of life; _more_ we have never wished for. My grandmother
weeds in the squire's garden hard by, and I earn a trifle at my wheel."
Just as Mary had said these words, they perceived an old woman
approaching. She was leaning on the arm of a fine, healthy-looking
youth. A deeper blush, which at this moment dyed the cheeks of the
pretty young cottager, told a tale she would wittingly have concealed.
"Is that your grandmother, Mary?" enquired Mrs. Bernard.
_Mary_. Yes, Madam.
_Mrs. B._ And the young man is your brother, I suppose?
"No, Ma'am," said Mary, blushing still more deeply: "I have no brother.
That is Henry, our neighbour Farmer Wilson's son; and he is always very
kind to my grandmother."
By this time, the old woman had reached the cottage door, and was
introduced by Mary to her new guests. The young man made a rustic bow
and retired.
Mrs. Bernard soon entered into conversation with the old woman, and was
not less pleased with her, than she had before been with her grand-
daughter. There was an air of cheerful content in her countenance, which
bespoke that all was peace within, and prepossessed you more completely
in her favour than any words could have done.
After some conversation, the old woman, turning to her grand-daughter,
said: "The ladies will perhaps eat an apple, Mary."
Mary instantly left the cottage to gather some; and her grandmother took
that opportunity of passing upon the good girl, a well-merited eulogium.
"She is my greatest comfort, Madam," said she; "and I may truly say.
from the day she was born, she never willingly gave me a single moment's
uneasiness. To be sure, I do feel very anxious about her at times;
particularly since she and Henry have taken such a fancy to each other.
Times are so hard, Ma'am, and money so scarce, that I dare not consent
to their marrying. And yet it grieves me to the heart to keep them
asunder; for he is as good as she herself, and almost as dear to me."
Mrs. Bernard enquired what means Henry had of supporting a wife, and
found he was the younger son of a small farmer in the neighbourhood, who
had a large family to establish in the world, and very little to
accomplish it with.
Mary's return at this moment, with a basket of fresh-gathered apples,
interrupted the conversation; and the children, after regaling
themselves with her little offering, took their leave, and, accompanied
by their mother, bent their steps towards home.
Ferdinand, who was a child of great observation, seldom proceeded far
without discovering some object to interest his attention. He had
remained a considerable distance behind his mother, exploring the hedges
for some new flower or insect that he had not before examined, when his
attention was attracted by a wasp, which, having seized a fly almost as
large as himself, was endeavouring to carry the prize to his nest; but
the wind blowing in a contrary direction, acted so forcibly upon the
extended wings of the fly, that the poor wasp, with all his efforts,
could make no progress. Ferdinand was anxious to see how he would act in
this difficulty, and called his mother and sisters, to smile with them
at the insect's perplexity. In a few minutes, the wasp alighted upon the
ground, and, with the most persevering industry, sawed off, with his
teeth, the two wings of the fly, and then flew away with the body, in
triump, to his young ones.
"Well done, wasp," cried Ferdinand; "you do deserve that meal, however.
But is it not a wonderful instance of sagacity, mamma? Who would expect
it in an insect! Do you suppose it knew this by instinct?"
"We are led to believe, my love," repied Mrs. Bernard, "that man alone
acts by the higher principle of reason; but I have met with many
instances of sagacity in the brute creation, which almost puzzle me,
when I ascribe their actions merely to instinct:
Remembrance and reflection -- how allied!
What thin partitions sense from thought divide!"
"It is astonishing how completely some animals will accommodate
themselves to circumstances. I will relate to you an anecdote which a
friend of mine told me a few weeks ago."
"Pray do, dear mamma," said Ferdinand; "I quite enjoy an anecdote. I
suppose it is true?"
"Yes, my dear, it is quite true," returned Mrs. Bernard: "the gentleman
of whom I spoke, has a little monkey, which frequently affords him much
amusement, by his sagacious, imitative tricks. As he was one day
sitting near the pen in which the monkey was confined, he observed him
making many ineffectual efforts to regain a nut which had rolled beyond
his reach. After several vain attempts, he took up a stick, and with
this he endeavoured to draw it towards him, but still without success.
Baffled, but not discouraged, he proceeded to select a second stick,
from a bundle that lay beside him, measuring it against the one he had
before found useless. With this longer twing he set himself again to
his task. This proving aslo insufficient, he adopted the same plan in
the selection of a third, and so on; always discarding the shortest, til
he found one that was long enough to touch the nut. But this increased
his difficulty, by rolling it to a still greater distance. Upon this he
sat himself in a contemplative posture for a few minutes, as if
considering what was best to be done in this emergency; when, hastily
turning over the whole bundle of sticks he made choice of one of
considerable length, and hooked at the end, by means of which he, with
much apparent delight, accrued his prize."
"Well, that was a most capital contrivance," said Ferdinand; "and it
puts me in mind of a clever plan which I saw our own dog, Brush, adopt
yesterday. A bone that was thrown him, fell, like the monkey's nut,
beyond the reach of his chain, and, finding he could not obtain it by
means of his fore paws, he turned round, and throwing out his hinder
legs, readily reached it, and drew it to his kennel."
Just as Ferdinand had concluded his story of Brush, his attention was
caught by a beautiful dragon-fly, which flitted above his head. He
hastily threw up his handkerchief, and took the insect prisoner.
"It is rather late in the season, is it not, mamma, to see these insects
abroad?" said he, carefully unfolding his handkerchief, and discovering
his prize. "Do look what a beautiful crature. Do they sting, pray?"
"No, my dear, but they bit sometimes, rather fiercely. Their bite,
however, is perfectly harmless, therefore you need not look so much
alarmed, Ferdinand. Examine its eyes. You perceive they are very large
and prominent, covering almost the whole head. As it seeks its food
flying in the air, this seems a very necessary provision. By means of
these eyes, it can see in almost every direction at the same instant.
Dragon-flies are extremely voracious, and are the greatest tyrants of
the insect tribe. When we think them idly and innocently flitting about
in the cheerful sunshine, they are, in fact, only hovering up and down
to seize their prey."
"Which are the insects upon which they particularly feed, mamma?"
enquired Ferdinand.
_Mrs. B There is none, how large soever, that they will not attack and
devour. The blue fly, the bee, the wasp, and the hornet, are their
constant prey; and even your favourite butterfly is often caught, and
treated without mercy. Their appetite seems to know no bounds; and they
have been seen to devour three times their own size, in the space of a
single hour.
"Oh, the greedy creatures; I cannot forgive them for destroying the
pretty butterflies," said Ferdinand: "to wasps and hornets they are
perfectly welcome. Are they produced from eggs, like other insects,
pray, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear: the female deposits her eggs in the water, where they
remain some time, apparently without life or motion. The form they first
assume, is that of a worm with six legs, much resembling the dragon-fly
in its winged state, the wings being as yet concealed within a sheath
peculiar to this animal."
"What do they feed upon in this state, pray, mamma?" enquired Louisa.
"Upon the soft mud and glutinous earthy substances that are found at the
bottom," replied her mother.
"Pray, mamma, how long do they continue in their reptile state?" said
Emily.
"For a whole year, my dear," returned her mother. "When they parepare to
change to their flying state, they move out of the water to a dry place;
such as into grass, to pieces of wood, stone, or any thing else they may
meet with. There they firmly fix their sharp claws, and, for a short
time, continue quite immovable. It has been observed, that the skin
first opens on the head and back, and out of this aperture they exhibit
their real head and eyes, and at length their six legs; whilst the
hollow and empty skin remains firmly fixed in its place. After this the
creature creeps forward by degrees; drawing, first its wings, and then
its body, out of the skin; it then sits at rest for some time. The
wings, which were moist and folded together, now begin to expand. The
body is likewise insensibly extended, until all the limbs have attained
their proper size. The insect cannot at first make use of its new wings,
and is, therefore, obliged to remain stationary until its limbs are
dried by the air. It soon, however, begins to enter upon a more noble
life than it had before led at the bottom of the brook; and from
creeping slowly, and living accidentally, it now wings the air, adorning
the fields with beauty, and expanding the most lively colours to the
sun."
"Well, my pretty fly," said Ferdinand, "you have afforded me much
amusement, and now I will release you from your captivity." So saying,
he opened his handkerchief, and gave his prisoner liberty.
In a few minutes they reached home, highly pleased with their morning's
ramble.