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Scientific American, Volume XXIV., No. 12, March 18, 1871 by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . KNOTS AND SPLICES. here KNOTS AND SPLICES. 1. Turn used in making up ropes. End tapered for the purpose of passing it readily through a loop. To make this, we unlay the rope for the necessary length, reducing a rope diminishing in diameter towards the end, which is finished by interlacing the ends without cutting them, as it would weaken the work; it is lastly "whipped" with small twine. Tapered end, covered with interlaced cordage for the purpose of making it stronger. This is done with very small twine attached at one end to the small eye, and at the other to the strands of the rope, thus making a strong "webbing" around the end. Double turn used for making rope. Eye splice. The strands of the cable are brought back over themselves, and interlaced with their original turns, as in a splice. 6. Tie for the end of a four-strand rope. The same completed; the strands are tied together, forming loops, laying one over the other. Commencement for making the end by interlacing the strands. Interlacing complete, but not fastened. 10 and 11. Shell in two views used in No. 65, showing the disposition of it at the throat. This joining is advantageous, as it does not strain the cords, and it prevents them from cutting each other; so that the rings pass one into the other and are joined outside the intermediate shell. Interlacing in two directions. Mode of finishing the end by several turns of the twine continued over the cable. Interlacing commenced, in one direction. Interlacing finished, the ends being worked under the strands, as in a splice. 16. Pigtail commenced. 17. Interlacing fastened. 18. Pigtail with the strands taut. 19. Dead eye, shown in two views. 20. Pigtail finished. We pass the ends of the strands, one under the other, in the same way as if we were making a pudding splice: thus bringing it in a line with the rope, to which it is seized fast, and the ends cut off. 21. Scull pigtail; instead of holding the ends by a tie, we interlace them again, as in No. 16, the one under the other. 22. Pigtail, or "lark's nest." We make this to the "pennant" of a cable, which has several strands, by taking the requisite number of turns over the pudding, in such a manner that the strands shall lay under each other. This "pigtail" forms a knot at the end of the rope. It thus draws together two ropes, as shown in No. 32, forming a "shroud" knot. In these two pigtails, the strands are crossed before finishing the ends, so that the button, a, is made with the strands, a, and b, with those of the rope, b. 23. Slip clinch to sailors' knot. 24. Slip clinch, secured. 25. Ordinary knot upon a double rope. 26. Bowline knot for a man to sit in at his work. 27. Called a "short splice," as it is not of great length, and besides, can be made quickly. 30. Long splice. This extends from a to b. We unlay the strands of each of the ropes we intend to join, for about half the length that the splice will be, putting each strand of the one between two strands of the other. 31. Simple fastening on a rope. 32. A "shroud" knot. 33. The ends of the rope are prepared for making the splice (No. 29) in the same manner as for the "shroud" knot in No. 32. When the strands are untwisted, we put the ends of two cords together as close as possible, and place the ends of the one between the strands of the other, above and below alternately, so as to interlace them as in No. 29. This splice is not, however, very strong, and is only used when there is not time to make a long splice, which is much the best. 34 and 35. Marline spikes. Tools made of wood or iron, used to open out a rope to pass the strands of another through it. 36. Shows strands arranged as described in No. 30. 37. Fastening when a lever is used, and is employed when hauling upon large ropes, where the strength of several men are necessary. 38. A "pudding splice." This is commenced, like the others, by placing the rope end to end, the turns of the one being passed between those of the other; having first swelled out the yarns by a "rat's-tail," we put them, two by two, one over the other, twisting them tightly, and opening a way for them with the marlinspike. The inconvenience of this splice is, that it is larger in diameter than the rope itself; but when made sufficiently long, by gradually reducing the size of the strands, it has great strength. 39. This shows two strands, a and b, of the ropes, A B, knotted together, being drawn as tight as possible; we unlay the strand, a', of the rope, A, for half the length of the splice, and twist the strand, b', of the rope, B, strongly in its place, tying a' and b' together tightly. The same process is again gone through on the rope, B, the strand, a", of the rope, A, being knotted to the strand, b", of the rope, B. When all the strands are thus knotted together, we interlace them with the strands of the cable. Thus the strands, a a' a", are interlocked by being passed alternately above and below the turns of the cord, B, the ends being also sometimes "whipped." In the same manner the strands, b b' b", pass alternately over and under the strands of the rope, A, and are in like manner "whipped." It is important that the several interlacings and knots should not meet at one point; we reduce the size of the strands towards the end, so that they loose themselves in the body of the splice, cutting off such parts as may project. This splice is employed for joining the ends of a rope when a chafed part has been cut out, and is quite as strong as the rope itself. 40. Belaying-pin opened to serve as a button; these are used where it is necessary to stop or check velocity. 41. Chain knot, or fastening. 42. Variable or regulating lashing. By laying the piece, a f, horizontally, it can be slipped along the rope, b; by raising or lowering this, we shall raise or depress the weight, c, the cord, b, running over the two pulleys, d, from the piece, a f, in the direction shown in the figure. The friction of the cord, b, passing through the hole, e, sufficiently fixes the piece, a f, and holds the weight, c, securely. 43. Cleet, with three ties. 44. Cleet, showing the mode of belaying the cord. 45. The piece, a f, of No. 42. 46. Fair leader. 47. Cleet to be fixed to a stay. 48. Loop for slipping other lines. 49. A "bend" which is only used for fear of the stoppers snapping. 50. Bastard loop, made on the end of the rope, and whipped with yarns. 51. Tie to pins: a, the pin; b, small cords fixed by a cross tie. 52. Cleet, fixed to the "rail," either with screws or nails, to which the lines are belayed. 53. Waterman's knot. 54. Fair leader. 55. Tie, or bend to pier. 56. Simple fastening to tie. 57. Fastening by a loop. This can be tied or untied without loosening the loop itself. It is made by following, towards the longer loop, the direction as numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and is terminated by the loop, 6, 7, 6, finally passing it over the head of the post, A. This knot holds itself, the turns being in opposite directions. To untie it, we slack the turns of the cable sufficiently to again pass the loop, 6, 7, 6, over the post, A, and turn the ends in the contrary direction to that in which they were made (as 5, 4, 3, 2, 1). 58. Iron "shell," in two views. 59 and 60. "Wedding" knots; a b, eyelets; c d, the join; e, the fastening. Lark's-head fastening to running knot. A round turn; the cord, a, is passed through the bight of the cord, b, over the button, c, where it is secured by an ordinary knot. Belaying-pin splice. The cord, b, "stops" the pin, e, its end being spliced upon itself, and "served" with yarn; this rope, with its pin, is passed through the spliced eye, f of the line, g. 64. Round button. 65. Joint by a spherical shell, each loop, a and b, being made by ties and splices, and surrounding the shell, c. Belaying-pin, shown separately, before being stoppered. Fastening to shears. Square mooring. When the cable is round the post, A, and the piece, c, without being crossed, it lays in the section 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and the end is fastened by tying. Crossed fastening. The turns of the cable, passing in front of the post, B, are crossed at the back of C, in the direction 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, the end, 8, being secured to the cable Wooden shell in section. Wooden shell. Double-chain fastening. 73. Lashing for "ram" block, or "dead-eye." The ram blocks, a and b, are strapped by the cords, e, which hold them; the small lanyards, d, pass through the holes to make the connection, and as they are tightened give the requisite tension to the cordage; the ends are fastened to the main rope. Usually one of these dead-eyes is held by an iron strap to the point where it is required to fix and strain the cordage, which is ordinarily a shroud. Chain fastening. 1'. Simple band, showing the upper side. 2'. The same, showing the under side and the knot. 3'. Tie, with crossed ends, commenced; a turn is taken under the strands, to hold the ends of the cord. 4'. The same, completed. 5'. Bend with crossed strands, commenced, the one end being looped over the other. 6'. The same, completed. 7'. Necklace tie, seen on the upper side. 8'. The same, seen underneath. The greater the strain on the cords, the tighter the knot becomes. 9' and 10' are similar splices to 7' and 8' with slight modifications. 11' shows the commencement of 13', the legs in elevation; 12' being a front view. An ordinary band, made by several turns of a small rope, is lapped round them and hauled taut, and then interlaced at the ends. This done, the legs are shifted into the shape of a St. Andrew's cross. Thus the lashing is tightened, and, for further security, we pass the line several times over the tie and between the spars, knotting the ends. 13'. Portuguese knot. This is a lashing for shear legs, and must be tight enough to prevent the spars slipping on each other; the crossing of the two legs gives a means of securing the knot. 14'. For binding timbers; a, knot commenced. Take several turns round the timbers, and fasten the ends by passing them under the turns; b, knot completed. The end of a round stick, m n, termed a packing stick, should be passed under the knob, the cord being slack enough to allow of this. By turning the stick, the turns can be tightened to any extent; when tight, we fasten the longer arm of the lever to some fixed point, by a rope, p q, so that it cannot fly back. Care must be taken not to turn the stick too far, or the rope may be broken. As the timber dries and shrinks, the lever may be used to make all taut again. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Various (2006). Scientific American, Volume XXIV., No. 12, March 18, 1871. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/19180/pg19180-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

KNOTS AND SPLICES

A Treatise on Domestic Economy; For the Use of Young Ladies at Home and at School by Catharine Esther Beecher, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . ON THE CARE OF YARDS AND GARDENS. here CHAPTER XXXIV. ON THE CARE OF YARDS AND GARDENS. The authorities consulted in the preparation of this and kindred chapters, are, Loudon's Encyclopædia of Gardening, Bridgeman's Young Gardener, Hovey's Magazine of Horticulture, the writings of Judge Buel, and Downing's Landscape Gardening. [T] On the Preparation of Soil. If the garden soil be clayey, and adhesive, put on a covering of sand, three inches thick, and the same depth of well-rotted manure. Spade it in, as deep as possible, and mix it well. If the soil be sandy and loose, spade in clay and ashes. Ashes are good for all kinds of soil, as they loosen those which are close, hold moisture in those which are sandy, and destroy insects. The best kind of soil, is that, which will hold water the longest, without becoming hard, when dry. , take one fourth part of common soil, one fourth part of well-decayed manure, and one half of vegetable mould, from the woods, or from a chip-yard. Break up the manure, fine, and sift it through a lime-screen, (or coarse wire sieve.) These materials must be thoroughly mixed. When the common soil which is used, is adhesive, and, indeed, in most other cases, it is necessary to add sand, the proportion of which, must depend on the nature of the soil. To prepare Soil for Pot-plants Dig a pit, six feet long, five feet wide, and thirty inches deep. Make a frame, of the same size, with the back two feet high, the front fifteen inches, and the sides sloped from the back to the front. Make two sashes, each three feet by five, with the panes of glass lapping like shingles, instead of having cross bars. Set the frame over the pit, which should then be filled with fresh horse-dung, which has not lain long, nor been sodden by water. Tread it down, hard, then put into the frame, light, and very rich soil, ten or twelve inches deep, and cover it with the sashes, for two or three days. Then stir the soil, and sow the seeds in shallow drills, placing sticks by them, to mark the different kinds. Keep the frame covered with the glass, whenever it is cold enough to chill the plants; but at all other times, admit fresh air, which is indispensable to their health. When the sun is quite warm, raise the glasses, enough to admit air, and cover them with matting or blankets, or else the sun may kill the young plants. Water the bed at evening, with water which has stood all day, or, if it be fresh drawn, add a little warm water. If there be too much heat in the bed, so as to scorch or wither the plants, make deep holes, with stakes, and fill them up when the heat is reduced. In very cold nights, cover the box with straw. On the Preparation of a Hot Bed. On Planting Flower Seeds. Break up the soil, till it is very soft, and free from lumps. Rub that nearest the surface, between the hands, to make it fine. Make a circular drill, a foot in diameter. For seeds as large as sweet peas, it should be half an inch deep. The smallest seeds must be planted very near the surface, and a very little fine earth be sifted over them. Seeds are to be planted either deeper or nearer the surface, according to their size. After covering them with soil, beat them down with a trowel, so as to make the earth as compact as it is after a heavy shower. Set up a stick, in the middle of the circle, with the name of the plant heavily written upon it, with a dark lead pencil. This remains more permanent, if white lead be first rubbed over the surface. Never plant, when the soil is very wet. In very dry times, water the seeds at night. Never use very cold water. When the seeds are small, many should be planted together, that they may assist each other in breaking the soil. When the plants are an inch high, thin them out, leaving only one or two, if the plant be a large one, like the Balsam; five or six, when it is of a medium size; and eighteen or twenty of the smaller size. Transplanting, retards the growth of a plant about a fortnight. It is best to plant at two different times, lest the first planting should fail, owing to wet or cold weather. To Plant Garden Seeds. Make the beds a yard wide; lay across them a board, a yard long and a foot wide, and, with a stick, make a furrow, on each side of it, one inch deep. Scatter the seeds in this furrow, and cover them. Then lay the board over them and step on it, to press down the earth. When the plants are an inch high, thin them out, leaving spaces proportioned to their sizes. Seeds of a similar species, such as melons and squashes, should not be planted very near to each other, as this causes them to degenerate. The same kinds of vegetables should not be planted in the same place, for two years in succession. On Transplanting. Transplant at evening, or, which is better, just before a shower. Take a round stick, sharpened at the point, and make openings to receive the plants. Set them a very little deeper than they were before, and press the soil firmly round them. Then water them, and cover them for three or four days, taking care that sufficient air be admitted. If the plant can be removed, without disturbing the soil around the root, it will not be at all retarded, by transplanting. Never remove leaves and branches, unless a part of the roots be lost. To Re-pot House-Plants. Renew the soil, every year, soon after the time of blossoming. Prepare soil, as previously directed. Loosen the earth from the pot, by passing a knife around the sides. Turn the plant upside down, and remove the pot. Then remove all the matted fibres at the bottom, and all the earth, except that which adheres to the roots. From woody plants, like roses, shake off all the earth. Take the new pot, and put a piece of broken earthen-ware over the hole at the bottom; and then, holding the plant in the proper position, shake in the earth, around it. Then pour in water, to settle the earth, and heap on fresh soil, till the pot is even full. Small pots are considered better than large ones, as the roots are not so likely to rot, from excess of moisture. On the Laying out of Yards and Gardens. In planting trees, in a yard, they should be arranged in groups, and never planted in straight lines, nor sprinkled about, as solitary trees. The object of this arrangement, is, to imitate Nature, and secure some spots of dense shade and some of cleared turf. In yards which are covered with turf, beds can be cut out of it, and raised for flowers. A trench should be made around, to prevent the grass from running on them. These beds can be made in the shape of crescents, ovals, or other fanciful forms, of which, the figure below is one specimen. In laying out beds, in gardens and yards, a very pretty bordering can be made, by planting them with common flax seed, in a line about three inches from the edge. This can be trimmed, with shears, when it grows too high. On the Cultivation of Bulbs, and Tuberous Roots. For planting the , take one third part of leaf mould, half as much sand, and the remainder, earth from under fresh grass sods. Plant them in May. The bulb should not be set more than half its depth in the ground. Amaryllis The and are medium, or half-hardy, roots. They should be planted in soil which is enriched with cowdung, and the beds should be raised only an inch from the walk. They must be planted in October, in drills, two inches deep, the claws of the roots downward, and be shaded when they begin to bud. Anemone Ranunculus The must be planted in October, two inches deep, and four inches apart. In measuring the depth, always calculate from the top of the bulb. Crocus This must be planted in September, three or four inches deep; and need not be taken up but once in three years. Crown Imperial. Those who have greenhouses, or pits, plant the Gladiolus in October, and preserve it in pots through the Winter. Those who have not these conveniences, may plant these bulbs late in April. The earth must be composed of one half common soil, one fourth leaf mould, and one fourth sand. Plant them about an inch deep. Gladiolus. should be planted in October, eight inches apart, and three or four inches deep, in a rich soil. Hyacinths should be planted in October, two inches deep, in a rich soil, and should not be taken up oftener than once in three years. Jonquilles This should be planted in October, four inches deep; covered, through the Winter, with straw and leaves, six inches thick; and uncovered in the middle of March. Narcissus. Plant this in September, in a soil, composed of two thirds common earth, and one third leaf mould. The old bulb dies after blossoming, and is succeeded by a new one. Oxalis. Plant , in rich soil, in October, three inches deep. Tulips Plant late in April, in a rich, sandy soil. They are delicate plants, and should be covered, in case of frosts. Tuberoses should be planted two inches deep. Daffodils When bulbs have done flowering, and their leaves begin to decay, they should be taken up and dried, and kept in a dry place, till October, when they are to be replanted, taking off the offsets, and putting them in a bed by themselves. Bulbs which blossom in water, or are in any other way forced to bloom out of season, are so much exhausted by it, that it takes them two or three years to recover their beauty. Dig a hole, a foot and a half deep; fill it with very light, loose, and rich, soil; and drive in a stake, a yard and a half high, to which, to tie the future plants. Then set in the root, so that it shall be an inch below the soil, where the sprout starts. When the plants are two feet high, tie them to the stakes, and take off some of the lower side-shoots. Continue to tie them, as their growth advances. If the roots are planted in the open borders, without any previous growth, it should be done as early as the first of May, and they should be covered from the frosts. When they are brought forward, in pots or hot-beds, they should be put out, in the middle of June. It is said, by gardeners, that late planting, is better than early, for producing perfect flowers. In the Autumn, after the frosts have destroyed the tops, let the roots remain awhile in the ground, to ripen; then dig them up, and pack them away, in some place where they will neither mould, from dampness, nor freeze. In the Spring, these roots will throw out sprouts, and must then be divided, so as to leave a good shoot, attached to a piece of the tuber or old stem, and each shoot will make a new plant. It is stated, that if the shoots themselves, without any root, be planted in light soil, covered with a bell-glass, or large tumbler, and carefully watered, they will produce plants superior to those with roots. Dahlias. Annuals These are flowers which last only one season. They should be so planted, that the tallest may be in the middle of a bed, and the shortest at the edges; and flowers of a similar color should not be planted adjacent to each other. The following is a list of some of the handsomest Annuals, arranged with reference to their color and height. Those with a star before them, do best when sowed in the Autumn. Those with after them, are trailing plants. tr. SIX INCHES TO ONE FOOT HIGH. Ice Plant, Sweet Alyssum, White Leptosiphon, Walker's Schizopetalon, Blumenbachia insignis, *Candytuft. White. *Yellow Chryseis or Eschscholtzia, Sanvitalia procumbens, , Musk-flowered Mimulus. Yellow. tr. Many-flowered Catchfly, Rose-colored Verbena, Rose. tr. *Chinese Annual Pink, Virginian Stock, Calandrinia Speciosa. Red. Graceful Lobelia, Nemophila insignis, Clintonia pulchella, Clintonia elegans, Nolana atriplicifolia, , Anagallis indica, Commelina cœlestis, Grove Love, Pimpernel (blue.) Blue. tr. *Heart's Ease, or Pansy, Dwarf Love in a Mist, *Rose Campion. Varying Colors. ONE FOOT TO EIGHTEEN INCHES HIGH. Venus's Looking Glass, Priest's Schizanthus, Sweet-scented Stevia, White Evening Primrose. White. Drummond's Coreopsis, *New Dark Coreopsis, Golden Hawkweed, Dracopis amplexicaulis, Drummond's Primrose, Cladanthus arabicus, Peroffsky's Erysimum. Yellow. Drummond's Phlox, Rodanthe, Rose-colored Nonea, Clarkia rosea, Silene Tenorei, Silene armeria. Rose. Crimson Coxcomb, Silene pendula, Crimson Dew Plant, Red. tr. Cacalia coccinea, Flos Adonis, Scarlet Zinnia, Mexican Cuphea. Scarlet. Clarkia elegans, Clarkia pulchella, *Purple Candytuft, *Purple Petunia, , *Crimson Candytuft, Double Purple Jacobæa, Leptosiphon androsaceus, all the varieties of Schizanthus, Veined Verbena, , *Purple eternal Flower. Lilac and Purple. tr. tr. Ageratum Mexicanum, *Gilia capitata, Spanish Nigella, Blue Eutoca, Dwarf Convolvulus, Didiscus cœruleus. Blue. , or Collinsia bicolor, Gilia tricolor. Lilac, Purple Blue and White. Lotus Jacobæus, Salpiglossis, Scabious. Very Dark. German Aster, Balsam, Rocket Larkspur, Ten-week Stock, Poppy. Colors varying. EIGHTEEN INCHES TO TWO FEET. *White Petunia, , White Clarkia, Double White Jacobæa, Love in a Mist. White. tr. *Lavatera trimestris, Red Zinnia, Malva miniata. Red. Globe Amaranthus, Purple Sweet Sultan, Sweet Scabious, Purple Zinnia, Prince's Feather, Large Blue Lupine, *Catchfly. Lilac and Purple. TWO FEET AND UPWARDS. Winged Ammobium, *White Lavatera, White Sweet Sultan, *New White Eternal Flower, White Helicrysum, *White Larkspur. White. Golden Bartonia, *Golden Coreopsis, Yellow Sweet Sultan, African Marigold, Yellow Argemone, French Marigold, Yellow Coxcomb, Yellow Hibiscus. Yellow. The Malope grandiflora and the Cleome are fine tall annuals. Climbing Plants. The following are the most beautiful : Crimson, and White, Cypress Vine; White, and Buff, Thunbergia; Scarlet Flowering Bean; Hyacinth Bean Loasa; Morning Glory; Crimson, and Spotted, Nasturtium; Balloon Vine; Sweet Pea; Tangier Pea; Lord Anson's Pea; Climbing Cobæa; Pink, and White, Maurandia. annual climbers The following are the most valuable : Sweet-scented Monthly Honeysuckle; Yellow, White, and Coral, Honeysuckles; Purple Glycine; Clematis; Bitter Sweet; Trumpet Creeper. perennial climbers The Everlasting Pea is a beautiful perennial climber. The Climbing Cobæa, and Passion Flower, are also beautiful perennials, but must be protected in Winter. Perennials. Those who cannot afford every year to devote the time necessary to the raising of annuals, will do well to supply their borders with perennials. The following is a list of some of those generally preferred. Adonis, yellow; Columbine, all colors; Alyssum, yellow; Asclepias, orange and purple; Bee Larkspur, blue; Perennial Larkspur, all colors; Cardinal Flower, scarlet; Chinese Pink, various colors; Clove Pink; Foxglove, purple and white; Gentian, purple and yellow; Hollyhock, various colors; *Lily of the Valley; American Phlox, various colors; Scarlet Lychnis; Monkshood, white and blue; *Spirea, white, and pink; *Ragged Robin, pink; Rudbeckia, yellow, and purple; Sweet William, in variety. Those marked with a star cannot be obtained from seed, but must be propagated by roots, layers, &c. Herbaceous Roots. These are such as die to the root, in the Fall, and come up again in the Spring, such as Pæonies, crimson, white, sweet-scented, and straw-colored; Artemisia, of many colors; White and Purple Fleur-de-lis; White, Tiger, Fire, and other Lilies; Little Blue Iris; Chrysanthemums, &c. These are propagated by dividing the roots. Shrubs. The following are the finest : Lilacs, (which, by budding, can have white and purple on the same tree,) Double Syringas, Double Althæas, Corchorus Japonicus, Snow-berry, Double-flowering Almond, Pyrus Japonica, Common Barberry, Burning Bush, Rose Acacia, Yellow Laburnum. The following are the finest Roses: Moss Rose, White, and Red; Double and Single Yellow Rose, (the last needs a gravelly soil and northern exposure;) Yellow Multiflora; La Belle Africana; Small Eglantine, for borders; Champney's Blush Rose; Noisette; Greville, (very fine;) Damask; Blush, White, and Cabbage Roses. Moss Roses, when budded on other rose bushes, last only three years. Shrubs for yards The following are among the finest: Mountain Ash; Ailanthus, or Tree of Heaven, (grows very fast;) Tulip Tree; Linden; Elm; Locust; Maple; Dog Wood; Horse Chestnut; Catalpa; Hemlock; Silver Fir; and Cedar. These should be grouped, in such a manner that trees of different shades of green, and of different heights, should stand in the same group. Shade Trees. The Autumn is the best time for transplanting trees. Take as much of the root, as possible, especially the little fibres, which should never become dry. If kept long, before they are set out, put wet moss around them, and water them. Dig holes, larger than the extent of the roots; let one person hold the tree in its former position, and another place the roots, carefully, as they were before, cutting off any broken or wounded root. Let the soil be soft, and well manured; shake the tree, as the soil is shaken in, that it may mix well among the small fibres. Do not tread the earth down, while filling the hole; but, when it is full, raise a slight mound, of, say, four inches, and then tread it down. Make a little basin, two inches deep, around the stem, to hold water, and fill it. Never cut off leaves nor branches, unless some of the roots are lost. Tie the trees to a stake, and they will be more likely to live. Water them often. Be careful not to let the tree be more than an inch deeper than it was before. On the Care of House-Plants. The soil of house-plants should be renewed every year, as previously directed. In Winter, they should be kept as dry as they can be without wilting. Many house-plants are injured by giving them too much water, when they have little light and fresh air. This makes them grow spindling. The more fresh air, warmth, and light, they have, the more water is needed. They ought not to be kept very warm in Winter, nor exposed to great changes of atmosphere. Forty degrees is a proper temperature for plants in Winter, when they have little sun and air. When plants have become spindling, cut off their heads, entirely, and cover the pot in the earth, where it has the morning sun, only. A new and flourishing head will spring out. Few house-plants can bear the sun at noon. When insects infest plants, set them in a closet, or under a barrel, and burn tobacco. The smoke kills any insect enveloped in it. When plants are frozen, cold water, and a gradual restoration of warmth, are the best remedies. Never use very cold water for plants, at any season. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Catharine Esther Beecher (2007). A Treatise on Domestic Economy; For the Use of Young Ladies at Home and at School. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/21829/pg21829-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

ON THE CARE OF YARDS AND GARDENS.

Christian Science by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . CHAPTER VI here CHAPTER VI Thus far we have a part of Mrs. Eddy's portrait. Not made of fictions, surmises, reports, rumors, innuendoes, dropped by her enemies; no, she has furnished all of the materials herself, and laid them on the canvas, under my general superintendence and direction. As far as she has gone with it, it is the presentation of a complacent, commonplace, illiterate New England woman who “forgot everything she knew” when she discovered her discovery, then wrote a Bible in good English under the inspiration of God, and climbed up it to the supremest summit of earthly grandeur attainable by man—where she sits serene to-day, beloved and worshiped by a multitude of human beings of as good average intelligence as is possessed by those that march under the banner of any competing cult. This is not intended to flatter the competing cults, it is merely a statement of cold fact. That a commonplace person should go climbing aloft and become a god or a half-god or a quarter-god and be worshiped by men and women of average intelligence, is nothing. It has happened a million times, it will happen a hundred million more. It has been millions of years since the first of these supernaturals appeared, and by the time the last one in that inconceivably remote future shall have performed his solemn little high-jinks on the stage and closed the business, there will be enough of them accumulated in the museum on the Other Side to start a heaven of their own-and jam it. Each in his turn those little supernaturals of our by-gone ages and aeons joined the monster procession of his predecessors and marched horizonward, disappeared, and was forgotten. They changed nothing, they built nothing, they left nothing behind them to remember them by, nothing to hold their disciples together, nothing to solidify their work and enable it to defy the assaults of time and the weather. They passed, and left a vacancy. They made one fatal mistake; they all made it, each in his turn: they failed to organize their forces, they failed to centralize their strength, they failed to provide a fresh Bible and a sure and perpetual cash income for business, and often they failed to provide a new and accepted Divine Personage to worship. Mrs. Eddy is not of that small fry. The materials that go to the making of the rest of her portrait will prove it. She will furnish them herself: She published her book. She copyrighted it. She copyrights everything. If she should say, “Good-morning; how do you do?” she would copyright it; for she is a careful person, and knows the value of small things. She began to teach her Science, she began to heal, she began to gather converts to her new religion—fervent, sincere, devoted, grateful people. A year or two later she organized her first Christian Science “Association,” with six of her disciples on the roster. She continued to teach and heal. She was charging nothing, she says, although she was very poor. She taught and healed gratis four years altogether, she says. Then, in 1879-81 she was become strong enough, and well enough established, to venture a couple of impressively important moves. The first of these moves was to aggrandize the “Association” to a “Church.” Brave? It is the right name for it, I think. The former name suggests nothing, invited no remark, no criticism, no inquiry, no hostility; the new name invited them all. She must have made this intrepid venture on her own motion. She could have had no important advisers at that early day. If we accept it as her own idea and her own act—and I think we must—we have one key to her character. And it will explain subsequent acts of hers that would merely stun us and stupefy us without it. Shall we call it courage? Or shall we call it recklessness? Courage observes; reflects; calculates; surveys the whole situation; counts the cost, estimates the odds, makes up its mind; then goes at the enterprise resolute to win or perish. Recklessness does not reflect, it plunges fearlessly in with a hurrah, and takes the risks, whatever they may be, regardless of expense. Recklessness often fails, Mrs. Eddy has never failed—from the point of view of her followers. The point of view of other people is naturally not a matter of weighty importance to her. The new Church was not born loose-jointed and featureless, but had a defined plan, a definite character, definite aims, and a name which was a challenge, and defied all comers. It was “a Mind-healing Church.” It was “without a creed.” Its name, “The Church of Christ, Scientist.” Mrs. Eddy could not copyright her Church, but she chartered it, which was the same thing and relieved the pain. It had twenty-six charter members. Mrs. Eddy was at once installed as its pastor. The other venture, above referred to, was Mrs. Eddy's Massachusetts Metaphysical College, in which was taught “the pathology of spiritual power.” She could not copyright it, but she got it chartered. For faculty it had herself, her husband of the period (Dr. Eddy), and her adopted son, Dr. Foster-Eddy. The college term was “barely three weeks,” she says. Again she was bold, brave, rash, reckless—choose for yourself—for she not only began to charge the student, but charged him a hundred dollars a week for the enlightenments. And got it? some may ask. Easily. Pupils flocked from far and near. They came by the hundred. Presently the term was cut down nearly half, but the price remained as before. To be exact, the term-cut was to seven lessons—price, three hundred dollars. The college “yielded a large income.” This is believable. In seven years Mrs. Eddy taught, as she avers, over four thousand students in it. (Preface to 1902 edition of Science and Health.) Three hundred times four thousand is—but perhaps you can cipher it yourself. I could do it ordinarily, but I fell down yesterday and hurt my leg. Cipher it; you will see that it is a grand sum for a woman to earn in seven years. Yet that was not all she got out of her college in the seven. At the time that she was charging the primary student three hundred dollars for twelve lessons she was not content with this tidy assessment, but had other ways of plundering him. By advertisement she offered him privileges whereby he could add eighteen lessons to his store for five hundred dollars more. That is to say, he could get a total of thirty lessons in her college for eight hundred dollars. Four thousand times eight hundred is—but it is a difficult sum for a cripple who has not been “demonstrated over” to cipher; let it go. She taught “over” four thousand students in seven years. “Over” is not definite, but it probably represents a non-paying surplus of learners over and above the paying four thousand. Charity students, doubtless. I think that as interesting an advertisement as has been printed since the romantic old days of the other buccaneers is this one from the Christian Science Journal for September, 1886: “MASSACHUSETTS METAPHYSICAL COLLEGE “Rev. MARY BAKER G. EDDY, PRESIDENT “571 Columbus Avenue, Boston “The collegiate course in Christian Science metaphysical healing includes twelve lessons. Tuition, three hundred dollars. “Course in metaphysical obstetrics includes six daily lectures, and is open only to students from this college. Tuition, one hundred dollars. “Class in theology, open (like the above) to graduates, receives six additional lectures on the Scriptures, and summary of the principle and practice of Christian Science, two hundred dollars. “Normal class is open to those who have taken the first course at this college; six daily lectures complete the Normal course. Tuition, two hundred dollars. “No invalids, and only persons of good moral character, are accepted as students. All students are subject to examination and rejection; and they are liable to leave the class if found unfit to remain in it. “A limited number of clergymen received free of charge. “Largest discount to indigent students, one hundred dollars on the first course. “No deduction on the others. “Husband and wife, entered together, three hundred dollars. “Tuition for all strictly in advance.” There it is—the horse-leech's daughter alive again, after a three-century vacation. Fifty or sixty hours' lecturing for eight hundred dollars. I was in error as to one matter: there are no charity students. Gratis-taught clergymen must not be placed under that head; they are merely an advertisement. Pauper students can get into the infant class on a two-third rate (cash in advance), but not even an archangel can get into the rest of the game at anything short of par, cash down. For it is “in the spirit of Christ's charity, as one who is joyful to hear healing to the sick” that Mrs. Eddy is working the game. She sends the healing to them outside. She cannot bear it to them inside the college, for the reason that she does not allow a sick candidate to get in. It is true that this smells of inconsistency, but that is nothing; Mrs. Eddy would not be Mrs. Eddy if she should ever chance to be consistent about anything two days running. Except in the matter of the Dollar. The Dollar, and appetite for power and notoriety. English must also be added; she is always consistent, she is always Mrs. Eddy, in her English: it is always and consistently confused and crippled and poor. She wrote the Advertisement; her literary trade-marks are there. When she says all “students” are subject to examination, she does not mean students, she means candidates for that lofty place When she says students are “liable” to leave the class if found unfit to remain in it, she does not mean that if they find themselves unfit, or be found unfit by others, they will be likely to ask permission to leave the class; she means that if she finds them unfit she will be “liable” to fire them out. When she nobly offers “tuition for all strictly in advance,” she does not mean “instruction for all in advance-payment for it later.” No, that is only what she says, it is not what she means. If she had written Science and Health, the oldest man in the world would not be able to tell with certainty what any passage in it was intended to mean. Her Church was on its legs. She was its pastor. It was prospering. She was appointed one of a committee to draught By-laws for its government. It may be observed, without overplus of irreverence, that this was larks for her. She did all of the draughting herself. From the very beginning she was always in the front seat when there was business to be done; in the front seat, with both eyes open, and looking sharply out for Number One; in the front seat, working Mortal Mind with fine effectiveness and giving Immortal Mind a rest for Sunday. When her Church was reorganized, by-and-by, the By-laws were retained. She saw to that. In these Laws for the government of her Church, her empire, her despotism, Mrs. Eddy's character is embalmed for good and all. I think a particularized examination of these Church-laws will be found interesting. And not the less so if we keep in mind that they were “impelled by a power not one's own,” as she says—Anglice—the inspiration of God. It is a Church “without a creed.” Still, it has one. Mrs. Eddy draughted it—and copyrighted it. In her own name. You cannot become a member of the Mother-Church (nor of any Christian Science Church) without signing it. It forms the first chapter of the By-laws, and is called “Tenets.” “Tenets of The Mother Church, The First Church of Christ, Scientist.” It has no hell in it—it throws it overboard. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Mark Twain (2004). Christian Science. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3187/pg3187-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

We have a part of Mrs. Eddy's portrait

AN UNEXPECTED POPULATION

The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter VI here Chapter VI The inventory of the articles possessed by these castaways from the clouds, thrown upon a coast which appeared to be uninhabited, was soon made out. They had nothing, save the clothes which they were wearing at the time of the catastrophe. We must mention, however, a note-book and a watch which Gideon Spilett had kept, doubtless by inadvertence, not a weapon, not a tool, not even a pocket-knife; for while in the car they had thrown out everything to lighten the balloon. The imaginary heroes of Daniel Defoe or of Wyss, as well as Selkirk and Raynal shipwrecked on Juan Fernandez and on the archipelago of the Aucklands, were never in such absolute destitution. Either they had abundant resources from their stranded vessels, in grain, cattle, tools, ammunition, or else some things were thrown up on the coast which supplied them with all the first necessities of life. But here, not any instrument whatever, not a utensil. From nothing they must supply themselves with everything. And yet, if Cyrus Harding had been with them, if the engineer could have brought his practical science, his inventive mind to bear on their situation, perhaps all hope would not have been lost. Alas! they must hope no longer again to see Cyrus Harding. The castaways could expect nothing but from themselves and from that Providence which never abandons those whose faith is sincere. But ought they to establish themselves on this part of the coast, without trying to know to what continent it belonged, if it was inhabited, or if they were on the shore of a desert island? It was an important question, and should be solved with the shortest possible delay. From its answer they would know what measures to take. However, according to Pencroft’s advice, it appeared best to wait a few days before commencing an exploration. They must, in fact, prepare some provisions and procure more strengthening food than eggs and molluscs. The explorers, before undertaking new fatigues, must first of all recruit their strength. The Chimneys offered a retreat sufficient for the present. The fire was lighted, and it was easy to preserve some embers. There were plenty of shell-fish and eggs among the rocks and on the beach. It would be easy to kill a few of the pigeons which were flying by hundreds about the summit of the plateau, either with sticks or stones. Perhaps the trees of the neighboring forest would supply them with eatable fruit. Lastly, the sweet water was there. It was accordingly settled that for a few days they would remain at the Chimneys so as to prepare themselves for an expedition, either along the shore or into the interior of the country. This plan suited Neb particularly. As obstinate in his ideas as in his presentiments, he was in no haste to abandon this part of the coast, the scene of the catastrophe. He did not, he would not believe in the loss of Cyrus Harding. No, it did not seem to him possible that such a man had ended in this vulgar fashion, carried away by a wave, drowned in the floods, a few hundred feet from a shore. As long as the waves had not cast up the body of the engineer, as long as he, Neb, had not seen with his eyes, touched with his hands the corpse of his master, he would not believe in his death! And this idea rooted itself deeper than ever in his determined heart. An illusion perhaps, but still an illusion to be respected, and one which the sailor did not wish to destroy. As for him, he hoped no longer, but there was no use in arguing with Neb. He was like the dog who will not leave the place where his master is buried, and his grief was such that most probably he would not survive him. This same morning, the 26th of March, at daybreak, Neb had set out on the shore in a northerly direction, and he had returned to the spot where the sea, no doubt, had closed over the unfortunate Harding. That day’s breakfast was composed solely of pigeon’s eggs and lithodomes. Herbert had found some salt deposited by evaporation in the hollows of the rocks, and this mineral was very welcome. The repast ended, Pencroft asked the reporter if he wished to accompany Herbert and himself to the forest, where they were going to try to hunt. But on consideration, it was thought necessary that someone should remain to keep in the fire, and to be at hand in the highly improbable event of Neb requiring aid. The reporter accordingly remained behind. “To the chase, Herbert,” said the sailor. “We shall find ammunition on our way, and cut our weapons in the forest.” But at the moment of starting, Herbert observed, that since they had no tinder, it would perhaps be prudent to replace it by another substance. “What?” asked Pencroft. “Burnt linen,” replied the boy. “That could in case of need serve for tinder.” The sailor thought it very sensible advice. Only it had the inconvenience of necessitating the sacrifice of a piece of handkerchief. Notwithstanding, the thing was well worth while trying, and a part of Pencroft’s large checked handkerchief was soon reduced to the state of a half-burnt rag. This inflammable material was placed in the central chamber at the bottom of a little cavity in the rock, sheltered from all wind and damp. It was nine o’clock in the morning. The weather was threatening and the breeze blew from the southeast. Herbert and Pencroft turned the angle of the Chimneys, not without having cast a look at the smoke which, just at that place, curled round a point of rock: they ascended the left bank of the river. Arrived at the forest, Pencroft broke from the first tree two stout branches which he transformed into clubs, the ends of which Herbert rubbed smooth on a rock. Oh! what would they not have given for a knife! The two hunters now advanced among the long grass, following the bank. From the turning which directed its course to the southwest, the river narrowed gradually and the channel lay between high banks, over which the trees formed a double arch. Pencroft, lest they should lose themselves, resolved to follow the course of the stream, which would always lead them back to the point from which they started. But the bank was not without some obstacles: here, the flexible branches of the trees bent level with the current; there, creepers and thorns which they had to break down with their sticks. Herbert often glided among the broken stumps with the agility of a young cat, and disappeared in the underwood. But Pencroft called him back directly, begging him not to wander away. Meanwhile, the sailor attentively observed the disposition and nature of the surrounding country. On the left bank, the ground, which was flat and marshy, rose imperceptibly towards the interior. It looked there like a network of liquid threads which doubtless reached the river by some underground drain. Sometimes a stream ran through the underwood, which they crossed without difficulty. The opposite shore appeared to be more uneven, and the valley of which the river occupied the bottom was more clearly visible. The hill, covered with trees disposed in terraces, intercepted the view. On the right bank walking would have been difficult, for the declivities fell suddenly, and the trees bending over the water were only sustained by the strength of their roots. It is needless to add that this forest, as well as the coast already surveyed, was destitute of any sign of human life. Pencroft only saw traces of quadrupeds, fresh footprints of animals, of which he could not recognize the species. In all probability, and such was also Herbert’s opinion, some had been left by formidable wild beasts which doubtless would give them some trouble; but nowhere did they observe the mark of an axe on the trees, nor the ashes of a fire, nor the impression of a human foot. On this they might probably congratulate themselves, for on any land in the middle of the Pacific the presence of man was perhaps more to be feared than desired. Herbert and Pencroft speaking little, for the difficulties of the way were great, advanced very slowly, and after walking for an hour they had scarcely gone more than a mile. As yet the hunt had not been successful. However, some birds sang and fluttered in the foliage, and appeared very timid, as if man had inspired them with an instinctive fear. Among others, Herbert described, in a marshy part of the forest, a bird with a long pointed beak, closely resembling the king-fisher, but its plumage was not fine, though of a metallic brilliancy. “That must be a jacamar,” said Herbert, trying to get nearer. “This will be a good opportunity to taste jacamar,” replied the sailor, “if that fellow is in a humor to be roasted!” Just then, a stone cleverly thrown by the boy, struck the creature on the wing, but the blow did not disable it, and the jacamar ran off and disappeared in an instant. “How clumsy I am!” cried Herbert. “No, no, my boy!” replied the sailor. “The blow was well aimed; many a one would have missed it altogether! Come, don’t be vexed with yourself. We shall catch it another day!” As the hunters advanced, the trees were found to be more scattered, many being magnificent, but none bore eatable fruit. Pencroft searched in vain for some of those precious palm-trees which are employed in so many ways in domestic life, and which have been found as far as the fortieth parallel in the Northern Hemisphere, and to the thirty-fifth only in the Southern Hemisphere. But this forest was only composed of coniferae, such as deodaras, already recognized by Herbert, and Douglas pine, similar to those which grow on the northwest coast of America, and splendid firs, measuring a hundred and fifty feet in height. At this moment a flock of birds, of a small size and pretty plumage, with long glancing tails, dispersed themselves among the branches strewing their feathers, which covered the ground as with fine down. Herbert picked up a few of these feathers, and after having examined them,— “These are couroucous,” said he. “I should prefer a moor-cock or guinea-fowl,” replied Pencroft, “still, if they are good to eat—” “They are good to eat, and also their flesh is very delicate,” replied Herbert. “Besides, if I don’t mistake, it is easy to approach and kill them with a stick.” The sailor and the lad, creeping among the grass, arrived at the foot of a tree, whose lower branches were covered with little birds. The couroucous were waiting the passage of insects which served for their nourishment. Their feathery feet could be seen clasping the slender twigs which supported them. The hunters then rose, and using their sticks like scythes, they mowed down whole rows of these couroucous, who never thought of flying away, and stupidly allowed themselves to be knocked off. A hundred were already heaped on the ground, before the others made up their minds to fly. “Well,” said Pencroft, “here is game, which is quite within the reach of hunters like us. We have only to put out our hands and take it!” The sailor having strung the couroucous like larks on flexible twigs, they then continued their exploration. The stream here made a bend towards the south, but this detour was probably not prolonged for the river must have its source in the mountain, and be supplied by the melting of the snow which covered the sides of the central cone. The particular object of their expedition was, as has been said, to procure the greatest possible quantity of game for the inhabitants of the Chimneys. It must be acknowledged that as yet this object had not been attained. So the sailor actively pursued his researches, though he exclaimed, when some animal which he had not even time to recognize fled into the long grass, “If only we had had the dog Top!” But Top had disappeared at the same time as his master, and had probably perished with him. Towards three o’clock new flocks of birds were seen through certain trees, at whose aromatic berries they were pecking, those of the juniper-tree among others. Suddenly a loud trumpet call resounded through the forest. This strange and sonorous cry was produced by a game bird called grouse in the United States. They soon saw several couples, whose plumage was rich chestnut-brown mottled with dark brown, and tail of the same color. Herbert recognized the males by the two wing-like appendages raised on the neck. Pencroft determined to get hold of at least one of these gallinaceae, which were as large as a fowl, and whose flesh is better than that of a pullet. But it was difficult, for they would not allow themselves to be approached. After several fruitless attempts, which resulted in nothing but scaring the grouse, the sailor said to the lad,— “Decidedly, since we can’t kill them on the wing, we must try to take them with a line.” “Like a fish?” cried Herbert, much surprised at the proposal. “Like a fish,” replied the sailor quite seriously. Pencroft had found among the grass half a dozen grouse nests, each having three or four eggs. He took great care not to touch these nests, to which their proprietors would not fail to return. It was around these that he meant to stretch his lines, not snares, but real fishing-lines. He took Herbert to some distance from the nests, and there prepared his singular apparatus with all the care which a disciple of Izaak Walton would have used. Herbert watched the work with great interest, though rather doubting its success. The lines were made of fine creepers, fastened one to the other, of the length of fifteen or twenty feet. Thick, strong thorns, the points bent back (which were supplied from a dwarf acacia bush) were fastened to the ends of the creepers, by way of hooks. Large red worms, which were crawling on the ground, furnished bait. This done, Pencroft, passing among the grass and concealing himself skillfully, placed the end of his lines armed with hooks near the grouse nests; then he returned, took the other ends and hid with Herbert behind a large tree. There they both waited patiently; though, it must be said, that Herbert did not reckon much on the success of the inventive Pencroft. A whole half-hour passed, but then, as the sailor had surmised, several couple of grouse returned to their nests. They walked along, pecking the ground, and not suspecting in any way the presence of the hunters, who, besides, had taken care to place themselves to leeward of the gallinaceae. The lad felt at this moment highly interested. He held his breath, and Pencroft, his eyes staring, his mouth open, his lips advanced, as if about to taste a piece of grouse, scarcely breathed. Meanwhile, the birds walked about the hooks, without taking any notice of them. Pencroft then gave little tugs which moved the bait as if the worms had been still alive. The sailor undoubtedly felt much greater anxiety than does the fisherman, for he does not see his prey coming through the water. The jerks attracted the attention of the gallinaceae, and they attacked the hooks with their beaks. Three voracious grouse swallowed at the same moment bait and hook. Suddenly with a smart jerk, Pencroft “struck” his line, and a flapping of wings showed that the birds were taken. “Hurrah!” he cried, rushing towards the game, of which he made himself master in an instant. Herbert clapped his hands. It was the first time that he had ever seen birds taken with a line, but the sailor modestly confessed that it was not his first attempt, and that besides he could not claim the merit of invention. “And at any rate,” added he, “situated as we are, we must hope to hit upon many other contrivances.” The grouse were fastened by their claws, and Pencroft, delighted at not having to appear before their companions with empty hands, and observing that the day had begun to decline, judged it best to return to their dwelling. The direction was indicated by the river, whose course they had only to follow, and, towards six o’clock, tired enough with their excursion, Herbert and Pencroft arrived at the Chimneys. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (1998). The Mysterious Island. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1268/1268-h/1268-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

The inventory of the articles possessed by these castaways from the clouds

Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . The Garden of Live Flowers here CHAPTER II. The Garden of Live Flowers “I should see the garden far better,” said Alice to herself, “if I could get to the top of that hill: and here’s a path that leads straight to it—at least, no, it doesn’t do that—” (after going a few yards along the path, and turning several sharp corners), “but I suppose it will at last. But how curiously it twists! It’s more like a corkscrew than a path! Well, turn goes to the hill, I suppose—no, it doesn’t! This goes straight back to the house! Well then, I’ll try it the other way.” this And so she did: wandering up and down, and trying turn after turn, but always coming back to the house, do what she would. Indeed, once, when she turned a corner rather more quickly than usual, she ran against it before she could stop herself. “It’s no use talking about it,” Alice said, looking up at the house and pretending it was arguing with her. “I’m going in again yet. I know I should have to get through the Looking-glass again—back into the old room—and there’d be an end of all my adventures!” not So, resolutely turning her back upon the house, she set out once more down the path, determined to keep straight on till she got to the hill. For a few minutes all went on well, and she was just saying, “I really do it this time—” when the path gave a sudden twist and shook itself (as she described it afterwards), and the next moment she found herself actually walking in at the door. shall “Oh, it’s too bad!” she cried. “I never saw such a house for getting in the way! Never!” However, there was the hill full in sight, so there was nothing to be done but start again. This time she came upon a large flower-bed, with a border of daisies, and a willow-tree growing in the middle. “O Tiger-lily,” said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, “I you could talk!” wish “We talk,” said the Tiger-lily: “when there’s anybody worth talking to.” can Alice was so astonished that she could not speak for a minute: it quite seemed to take her breath away. At length, as the Tiger-lily only went on waving about, she spoke again, in a timid voice—almost in a whisper. “And can the flowers talk?” all “As well as can,” said the Tiger-lily. “And a great deal louder.” you “It isn’t manners for us to begin, you know,” said the Rose, “and I really was wondering when you’d speak! Said I to myself, ‘Her face has got sense in it, though it’s not a clever one!’ Still, you’re the right colour, and that goes a long way.” some “I don’t care about the colour,” the Tiger-lily remarked. “If only her petals curled up a little more, she’d be all right.” Alice didn’t like being criticised, so she began asking questions. “Aren’t you sometimes frightened at being planted out here, with nobody to take care of you?” “There’s the tree in the middle,” said the Rose: “what else is it good for?” “But what could it do, if any danger came?” Alice asked. “It says ‘Bough-wough!’” cried a Daisy: “that’s why its branches are called boughs!” “Didn’t you know ?” cried another Daisy, and here they all began shouting together, till the air seemed quite full of little shrill voices. “Silence, every one of you!” cried the Tiger-lily, waving itself passionately from side to side, and trembling with excitement. “They know I can’t get at them!” it panted, bending its quivering head towards Alice, “or they wouldn’t dare to do it!” that “Never mind!” Alice said in a soothing tone, and stooping down to the daisies, who were just beginning again, she whispered, “If you don’t hold your tongues, I’ll pick you!” There was silence in a moment, and several of the pink daisies turned white. “That’s right!” said the Tiger-lily. “The daisies are worst of all. When one speaks, they all begin together, and it’s enough to make one wither to hear the way they go on!” “How is it you can all talk so nicely?” Alice said, hoping to get it into a better temper by a compliment. “I’ve been in many gardens before, but none of the flowers could talk.” “Put your hand down, and feel the ground,” said the Tiger-lily. “Then you’ll know why.” Alice did so. “It’s very hard,” she said, “but I don’t see what that has to do with it.” “In most gardens,” the Tiger-lily said, “they make the beds too soft—so that the flowers are always asleep.” This sounded a very good reason, and Alice was quite pleased to know it. “I never thought of that before!” she said. “It’s opinion that you never think ,” the Rose said in a rather severe tone. my at all “I never saw anybody that looked stupider,” a Violet said, so suddenly, that Alice quite jumped; for it hadn’t spoken before. “Hold tongue!” cried the Tiger-lily. “As if ever saw anybody! You keep your head under the leaves, and snore away there, till you know no more what’s going on in the world, than if you were a bud!” your you “Are there any more people in the garden besides me?” Alice said, not choosing to notice the Rose’s last remark. “There’s one other flower in the garden that can move about like you,” said the Rose. “I wonder how you do it—” (“You’re always wondering,” said the Tiger-lily), “but she’s more bushy than you are.” “Is she like me?” Alice asked eagerly, for the thought crossed her mind, “There’s another little girl in the garden, somewhere!” “Well, she has the same awkward shape as you,” the Rose said, “but she’s redder—and her petals are shorter, I think.” “Her petals are done up close, almost like a dahlia,” the Tiger-lily interrupted: “not tumbled about anyhow, like yours.” “But that’s not fault,” the Rose added kindly: “you’re beginning to fade, you know—and then one can’t help one’s petals getting a little untidy.” your Alice didn’t like this idea at all: so, to change the subject, she asked “Does she ever come out here?” “I daresay you’ll see her soon,” said the Rose. “She’s one of the thorny kind.” “Where does she wear the thorns?” Alice asked with some curiosity. “Why all round her head, of course,” the Rose replied. “I was wondering hadn’t got some too. I thought it was the regular rule.” you “She’s coming!” cried the Larkspur. “I hear her footstep, thump, thump, thump, along the gravel-walk!” Alice looked round eagerly, and found that it was the Red Queen. “She’s grown a good deal!” was her first remark. She had indeed: when Alice first found her in the ashes, she had been only three inches high—and here she was, half a head taller than Alice herself! “It’s the fresh air that does it,” said the Rose: “wonderfully fine air it is, out here.” “I think I’ll go and meet her,” said Alice, for, though the flowers were interesting enough, she felt that it would be far grander to have a talk with a real Queen. “You can’t possibly do that,” said the Rose: “ should advise you to walk the other way.” I This sounded nonsense to Alice, so she said nothing, but set off at once towards the Red Queen. To her surprise, she lost sight of her in a moment, and found herself walking in at the front-door again. A little provoked, she drew back, and after looking everywhere for the queen (whom she spied out at last, a long way off), she thought she would try the plan, this time, of walking in the opposite direction. It succeeded beautifully. She had not been walking a minute before she found herself face to face with the Red Queen, and full in sight of the hill she had been so long aiming at. “Where do you come from?” said the Red Queen. “And where are you going? Look up, speak nicely, and don’t twiddle your fingers all the time.” Alice attended to all these directions, and explained, as well as she could, that she had lost her way. “I don’t know what you mean by way,” said the Queen: “all the ways about here belong to —but why did you come out here at all?” she added in a kinder tone. “Curtsey while you’re thinking what to say, it saves time.” your me Alice wondered a little at this, but she was too much in awe of the Queen to disbelieve it. “I’ll try it when I go home,” she thought to herself, “the next time I’m a little late for dinner.” “It’s time for you to answer now,” the Queen said, looking at her watch: “open your mouth a wider when you speak, and always say ‘your Majesty.’” little “I only wanted to see what the garden was like, your Majesty—” “That’s right,” said the Queen, patting her on the head, which Alice didn’t like at all, “though, when you say ‘garden,’— seen gardens, compared with which this would be a wilderness.” I’ve Alice didn’t dare to argue the point, but went on: “—and I thought I’d try and find my way to the top of that hill—” “When you say ‘hill,’” the Queen interrupted, “ could show you hills, in comparison with which you’d call that a valley.” I “No, I shouldn’t,” said Alice, surprised into contradicting her at last: “a hill be a valley, you know. That would be nonsense—” can’t The Red Queen shook her head, “You may call it ‘nonsense’ if you like,” she said, “but heard nonsense, compared with which that would be as sensible as a dictionary!” I’ve Alice curtseyed again, as she was afraid from the Queen’s tone that she was a offended: and they walked on in silence till they got to the top of the little hill. little For some minutes Alice stood without speaking, looking out in all directions over the country—and a most curious country it was. There were a number of tiny little brooks running straight across it from side to side, and the ground between was divided up into squares by a number of little green hedges, that reached from brook to brook. “I declare it’s marked out just like a large chessboard!” Alice said at last. “There ought to be some men moving about somewhere—and so there are!” She added in a tone of delight, and her heart began to beat quick with excitement as she went on. “It’s a great huge game of chess that’s being played—all over the world—if this the world at all, you know. Oh, what fun it is! How I I was one of them! I wouldn’t mind being a Pawn, if only I might join—though of course I should to be a Queen, best.” is wish like She glanced rather shyly at the real Queen as she said this, but her companion only smiled pleasantly, and said, “That’s easily managed. You can be the White Queen’s Pawn, if you like, as Lily’s too young to play; and you’re in the Second Square to begin with: when you get to the Eighth Square you’ll be a Queen—” Just at this moment, somehow or other, they began to run. Alice never could quite make out, in thinking it over afterwards, how it was that they began: all she remembers is, that they were running hand in hand, and the Queen went so fast that it was all she could do to keep up with her: and still the Queen kept crying “Faster! Faster!” but Alice felt she go faster, though she had not breath left to say so. could not The most curious part of the thing was, that the trees and the other things round them never changed their places at all: however fast they went, they never seemed to pass anything. “I wonder if all the things move along with us?” thought poor puzzled Alice. And the Queen seemed to guess her thoughts, for she cried, “Faster! Don’t try to talk!” Not that Alice had any idea of doing . She felt as if she would never be able to talk again, she was getting so much out of breath: and still the Queen cried “Faster! Faster!” and dragged her along. “Are we nearly there?” Alice managed to pant out at last. that “Nearly there!” the Queen repeated. “Why, we passed it ten minutes ago! Faster!” And they ran on for a time in silence, with the wind whistling in Alice’s ears, and almost blowing her hair off her head, she fancied. “Now! Now!” cried the Queen. “Faster! Faster!” And they went so fast that at last they seemed to skim through the air, hardly touching the ground with their feet, till suddenly, just as Alice was getting quite exhausted, they stopped, and she found herself sitting on the ground, breathless and giddy. The Queen propped her up against a tree, and said kindly, “You may rest a little now.” Alice looked round her in great surprise. “Why, I do believe we’ve been under this tree the whole time! Everything’s just as it was!” “Of course it is,” said the Queen, “what would you have it?” “Well, in country,” said Alice, still panting a little, “you’d generally get to somewhere else—if you ran very fast for a long time, as we’ve been doing.” our “A slow sort of country!” said the Queen. “Now, , you see, it takes all the running can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!” here you “I’d rather not try, please!” said Alice. “I’m quite content to stay here—only I so hot and thirsty!” am “I know what like!” the Queen said good-naturedly, taking a little box out of her pocket. “Have a biscuit?” you’d Alice thought it would not be civil to say “No,” though it wasn’t at all what she wanted. So she took it, and ate it as well as she could: and it was dry; and she thought she had never been so nearly choked in all her life. very “While you’re refreshing yourself,” said the Queen, “I’ll just take the measurements.” And she took a ribbon out of her pocket, marked in inches, and began measuring the ground, and sticking little pegs in here and there. “At the end of two yards,” she said, putting in a peg to mark the distance, “I shall give you your directions—have another biscuit?” “No, thank you,” said Alice: “one’s enough!” quite “Thirst quenched, I hope?” said the Queen. Alice did not know what to say to this, but luckily the Queen did not wait for an answer, but went on. “At the end of yards I shall repeat them—for fear of your forgetting them. At the end of , I shall say good-bye. And at the end of , I shall go!” three four five She had got all the pegs put in by this time, and Alice looked on with great interest as she returned to the tree, and then began slowly walking down the row. At the two-yard peg she faced round, and said, “A pawn goes two squares in its first move, you know. So you’ll go quickly through the Third Square—by railway, I should think—and you’ll find yourself in the Fourth Square in no time. Well, square belongs to Tweedledum and Tweedledee—the Fifth is mostly water—the Sixth belongs to Humpty Dumpty—But you make no remark?” very that “I—I didn’t know I had to make one—just then,” Alice faltered out. “You have said, ‘It’s extremely kind of you to tell me all this’—however, we’ll suppose it said—the Seventh Square is all forest—however, one of the Knights will show you the way—and in the Eighth Square we shall be Queens together, and it’s all feasting and fun!” Alice got up and curtseyed, and sat down again. should At the next peg the Queen turned again, and this time she said, “Speak in French when you can’t think of the English for a thing—turn out your toes as you walk—and remember who you are!” She did not wait for Alice to curtsey this time, but walked on quickly to the next peg, where she turned for a moment to say “good-bye,” and then hurried on to the last. How it happened, Alice never knew, but exactly as she came to the last peg, she was gone. Whether she vanished into the air, or whether she ran quickly into the wood (“and she run very fast!” thought Alice), there was no way of guessing, but she was gone, and Alice began to remember that she was a Pawn, and that it would soon be time for her to move. can About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Lewis Carroll (2008). Through the Looking-Glass. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/18857/18857-h/18857-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

The Garden of Live Flowers

The Story-book of Science by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . POLLEN CHAPTER LXI. POLLEN “IN a few days, even in a few hours, a flower withers. Pistils, stamens, calyx, fade and die. Only one thing survives: the ovary, which will become fruit. “Now, in order to outlive the other parts of the flower and remain on its stem when all the rest dries up and falls, the ovary, at the moment when blossoming is at its greatest vigor, receives a supplement of strength, I should almost say a new life. The magnificence of the corolla, its sumptuous colorings, its perfumes, serve to celebrate the solemn moment when this new vitality comes to the ovary. This great act accomplished, the flower has had its day. Grains of Pollen “Well, it is the pollen, the yellow dust of the stamens, that gives this increase of energy without which the nascent seeds would perish in the ovary, itself withered. It falls from the stamens on to the stigma, always coated with a stickiness apt to hold it; and from the stigma, it makes its mysterious action felt in the depths of the ovary. Animated with new life, the nascent seeds develop rapidly, while the ovary swells so as to give them necessary room. The final result of this incomprehensible travail is the fruit, with its contents of seeds ready to germinate and produce new plants. Do not question me further about these wonderful things concerning which even the keenest observer ceases to see clearly. God only, the wisest of beings, knows how a grain of pollen can give birth to something that was not before, and can cause the ovary to feel the stirring of the vital principle. “I will tell you now how we know that the falling of the pollen on to the stigma is indispensable to the development of the ovary into fruit. “Most flowers have both stamens and pistils. All those we have just looked at are in that class. But there are plants that have some flowers with stamens and others with pistils. Sometimes the flowers with stamens only and those with pistils only are found on the same plant; sometimes they are found on separate plants. “Did I not fear to overcharge your memory, I would tell you that plants having flowers with stamens only and flowers with pistils only on the same plant are called monœcious plants. This expression means ‘living in one house.’ In a word, the flowers with stamens and those with pistils live together in the same house, since they are found on the same plant. The pumpkin, cucumber, melon, are monœcious plants. “Vegetables whose flowers with stamens and flowers with pistils are found on different plants are termed diœcious; that is to say, plants with a double house. By this is meant that the ovary and pollen are not found in the same plant. The locust, date, and hemp are diœcious. Flowering branch of Locust Tree “The locust is a tree of extreme southern France. Its fruit grows in pods similar to those of the pea, but brown, very long, and plump. This fruit, in addition to seeds, has a sugary flesh. Supposing we took a notion, if the climate permitted, to grow locust seeds in our garden. What locust tree must we plant? Evidently the tree with pistils, because it alone possesses the ovaries which become fruit. But that is not enough. Planted by itself, the locust tree with pistils will be able to blossom abundantly every year, without ever producing any fruit; for its flowers would fall without leaving a single ovary on the branches. What is wanting? The action of the pollen. Close to the locust with pistils let us plant one with stamens. Now fructification proceeds as we wish. Wind and insects carry the pollen from the stamens to the stigmas; the torpid ovaries spring to life, and in time the locust pods grow and ripen perfectly. With pollen, fruit; without pollen, no fruit. Are you convinced, Jules?” “Without doubt, Uncle; only, unfortunately, we do not know the locust. I should prefer a plant of our own region.” Date-palm “I will tell you of one that will permit you to prove what I have told you; but first of all let me mention a second example. “The date-tree, like the locust, is diœcious. Arabs cultivate it for its fruit,—dates, their chief food.” “Dates are those long fruits of a very sweet taste, preserved dry in boxes,” said Jules. “A Turk was selling some at the last fair. The kernel is long and split all along one side from one end to the other.” “That is it. In the country of the date-tree, a sandy country burnt by the sun, spots of watered and fertile earth are rare. These spots are called oases. It is necessary to utilize them as much as possible. So the Arabs plant only date-trees with pistils, the only ones that will produce dates. But when they are in flower, the Arabs go long distances to seek bunches of flowers with stamens on wild date-trees, to shake the dust on the trees they have planted. Without this precaution there is no harvest.” “Uncle will tell us so much,” Emile interposed, “that I shall have as much regard for the pollen as I have for the ovary. Without it, I should not have tasted the dates of the Turk who smoked such a long pipe; without it, no apricots and no cherries.” “In the garden there is a long pumpkin-vine that will soon blossom. I will give it to you for the following experiment. “The pumpkin is monœcious; flowers with stamens and flowers with pistils inhabit the same house, the same plant. Before they are full-blown they can easily be distinguished from each other. The flowers with pistils have under the corolla a swelling almost as large as a nut. This swelling is the ovary, the future pumpkin. The blossoms with stamens have not this swelling. “Cut off all the blossoms with stamens before they are full-blown, and leave those with pistils. For greater surety, wrap each one of these in a piece of gauze before it is in full-bloom. The covering must be large enough to permit the flower to open. Do you know what will happen? Not being able to receive the pollen, since the flowers with stamens are cut off, and since, also, the gauze wrapping keeps out the insects from the neighboring gardens, the pistillate flowers will wither after languishing a while, and the plant will not produce any pumpkins. “Would you, on the contrary, like such and such blossoms, at your choice, to produce pumpkins in spite of their gauze prison and the suppression of the staminate blossoms? With the tip of your finger take a little pollen from one of the blossoms you have cut off, and put the yellow dust on the stigma of a pistillate flower. Then replace the gauze wrapping. That is enough, the pumpkin will come.” “You will let us try that delightful experiment?” asked Jules. “I will, I give the pumpkin-vine over to you.” “I have some gauze,” volunteered Claire. “And I some string to tie it with,” added Emile. “Come along,” cried Jules. And, gay as larks, the three children ran to the garden to get everything ready for the experiment. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jean-Henri Fabre (2018). The Story-book of Science. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/56795/pg56795-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

Pistils, stamens, calyx, fade and die

Our Humble Helpers: Familiar Talks on the Domestic Animals by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE CHIEF KINDS OF POULTRY CHAPTER III. THE CHIEF KINDS OF POULTRY Red Jungle Fowl “Different kinds of poultry, the originals of our domestic species, are living to this day in a wild state in the forests of Asia, notably in India, and in the Philippine Islands and Java. The most noteworthy is the Bankiva or red jungle fowl. In shape, plumage, and habits the male bird bears a striking resemblance to the common rooster of our poultry-yards; but in size it is smaller even than the partridge. It has a scalloped red comb, a tail of arched plumage, and a neck ornamented with a falling tippet of bright, golden-red feathers. This graceful little cock, irritable and full of fight, has the habits of ours. He struts proudly at the head of his flock of hens, over whose safety he watches with extreme care. If hunters range the forest, or if some dog prowls in the neighborhood, the vigilant bird, quick to perceive, suspects an enemy. He immediately flies to a high branch and thence gives forth a cry of alarm to warn the hens, which hastily conceal themselves under the leaves or crouch in the hollows of trees and wait motionless until the danger is past. To get within gun-shot of these birds is well-nigh impossible, and to capture them one must have recourse to the same snares one uses for catching larks.” “A fowl smaller than a partridge, and that they catch in the woods with snares for larks,” remarked Jules, “ought to be a very pretty bird, but not of much use if raised in poultry-yards. Does our poultry come from such a small kind as that?” “It certainly comes either from the Bankiva fowl or from other kinds just as small that live in a wild state in the forests of Asia; but when and how the hen and the cock became domesticated is wholly unknown. From the dawn of history man has been in possession of the barnyard fowl, at least in Asia, whence later the species came to us already domesticated. During long centuries, improved by our care, which assures it abundant food and comfortable shelter, the original small species has produced numerous varieties differing much in size and plumage. They are classed in three groups: the small, the medium, and the large. “To the first group belongs the bantam or little English fowl, about the size of a partridge. It is a beautiful bird with short legs that let the tips of the wings drag on the ground, quick movements, gentle and tame habits. Its eggs, proportioned to the small size of the hen, weigh scarcely thirty grams apiece, while those of other hens weigh from sixty to ninety [ ]grams each. These pretty little pullets are raised rather as ornaments to the poultry-yard than for the sake of their diminutive eggs.” 26 “These little fowl,” observed Louis, “look from their size like the primitive kind.” “Yes, it was about like that they looked when man took it into his head to tame the wild fowl. In the poultry-yards of those times lived, not the large species of our day, but birds as small in body and as quick on the wing as the partridge. I leave you to imagine what care and vigilance were necessary in order not to frighten these timid little fowl and cause them to go back to the woods that they still remembered.” “It must have been as much trouble,” said Louis, “as it would be for us to tame a covey of partridges. Such an undertaking would not be easy. We are a long way from those first attempts at domestication with our hens of to-day, so tame, so importunate even, that they come boldly and pick up crumbs under the very table.” “The common poultry, that which stocks the greater number of farms, belongs to the medium-sized breeds. Its plumage is of all colors, from white to red and black. Its head is small and ornamented with a red comb, sometimes single, sometimes double, coquettishly thrown to one side. The cock, for its proud bearing and magnificent plumage, has no equal among the other species. The common fowl is the easiest to keep, for its activity permits it to seek and find for itself, by scratching in the [ ]ground, a great part of its food in the form of seeds and worms. It may be found fault with for its wandering proclivities, favored by a strong wing which it avails itself of to fly over hedges and fences, to go and devastate the neighboring gardens. 27 “Among the other medium-sized species which, associated with the common fowl, are found in poultry-yards as ornaments rather than as sources of profit, I will name the following: “First, the Paduan fowl, recognizable by its rich plumage and particularly by the thick tuft of feathers that adorns its head. This beautiful headdress of fine plumage, so proudly spread out in fine weather, is, when once wet by rain, nothing but an ungraceful rag, heavy and tangled, which tires the bird and makes the rustic life of the poultry-yard impossible as far as it is concerned. “The Houdan fowl wears a thickly tufted top-knot which is thrown back over the nape of the neck. Sometimes this headdress covers the eyes so completely that the bird cannot see in front nor sidewise, but only on the ground, which makes it uneasy at the slightest noise. The plumage is speckled black and white, with glints of purple and green. The cheeks and the base of the beak are draped with little upturned feathers. Each foot has five toes instead of four, the usual number—not counting the cock’s spur, which is simply a horn, a fighting weapon, and not a toe. Three of the toes point forward and two backward. “The fowl of la Flèche, so renowned for the delicacy [ ]of its flesh and its aptness for fattening, has no crest and is long-legged, with black plumage of green and purple luster. The legs are blue and the comb rises in two little red horns. 28 “Similar but better developed horns, accompanied by a thick headdress of feathers, adorn the Crève-cœur species. The hen is a beautiful black; the cock wears, against body plumage of the same dark color, a rich gold or silver tippet. “Finally, to the large species belongs the Cochin-China, an ungraceful bird, with very strong body and shapeless and disordered plumage, generally reddish white. Its eggs are brownish in color.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jean-Henri Fabre (2022). Our Humble Helpers: Familiar Talks on the Domestic Animals. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/67073/pg67073-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

THE CHIEF KINDS OF POULTRY

Insect life: Souvenirs of a naturalist by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE EMIGRANTS XIV. THE EMIGRANTS I have already told how on the top of Mont Ventoux, some 6000 feet above the sea, I had one of those pieces of entomological good luck, which would be fruitful indeed did they but occur often enough to allow of continuous study. Unhappily mine is a unique observation, and I despair of repeating it. Future observers must replace my probabilities by certainties. I can only found conjectures on it. Under the shelter of a large flat stone I discovered some hundreds of Ammophila hirsuta, heaped in a mass almost as compact as a swarm of bees. As soon as the stone was lifted all the small people began to move about, but without any attempt to take wing. I moved whole handfuls, but not one seemed inclined to leave the heap. Common interests appeared to unite them indissolubly. Not one would go unless all went. With all possible care I examined the flat stone which sheltered them, as well as the soil and immediate neighbourhood, but could discover no explanation of this strange assemblage. Finding nothing better to do, I tried to count them, and then came the clouds to end my observations and plunge us into that perplexing darkness I have already described. At the first drops of rain I hastened to put back the stone and replace the Ammophila people under shelter. I give myself a good mark, as I hope the reader also will, for having taken the precaution of not leaving the poor things, disturbed by my curiosity, exposed to the downpour. AMMOPHILA HIRSUTA ATTACKING A GRUB Ammophila hirsuta is not rare in the plain, but is always found singly on the edge of a road or on sandy slopes, now digging a well, now dragging a heavy prey. It is solitary, like Sphex occitanica, and I was greatly surprised by finding such a number gathered under one stone at the top of Mont Ventoux. Instead of my solitary acquaintance, here was a great assembly. Let us try to educe the probable causes of this agglomeration. By an exception very rare among mining Hymenoptera, Ammophila hirsuta builds in the first days of spring. Toward the end of March, if the season be mild, or at least in the first fortnight of April, when the grasshoppers take their adult form, and painfully cast off their first skin on their thresholds,—when Narcissus poeticus expands its first flowers, and the bunting utters its long-drawn note from the top of the poplars in the meadow,—Ammophila hirsuta sets to work to hollow and provision a home for her larvæ, whereas other species and the predatory Hymenoptera in general undertake this labour only in autumn, during September and October. This very early nidification, preceding by six months the date adopted by the immense majority, at once suggests [ ]certain considerations. One asks if those found burrowing so early in April are really insects of that year—i.e. whether these spring workers completed their metamorphosis and came out of their cocoons during the preceding three months. The general rule is that the Fossor becomes a perfect insect, leaves its burrow, and occupies itself with its larvæ all in one season. It is in June and July that the greater part of the hunting Hymenoptera come from the galleries where they lived as larvæ, and in August, September, and October they follow their occupations as burrowers and hunters. 195 Does a similar law apply to Ammophila hirsuta? Does the same season witness the final transformation and the labours of the insect? It is very doubtful, for the Hymenoptera, occupied with mining at the end of March, would have to complete their metamorphosis and break forth from the cocoon in winter, or at latest in February. The severity of the climate at that date forbids any such conclusion. It is not when the bitter Mistral howls for a fortnight at a time and freezes the ground, nor when snow-storms follow its icy breath, that the delicate transformations of the nymph state can take place, and the perfect insect venture to quit the shelter of its cocoon. It needs the soft dampness of earth under a summer sun before it can leave its cell. If I did but know the exact date at which Ammophila hirsuta leaves the cocoon it would greatly help me; but, to my deep regret, I do not. My notes, gathered day by day, show the confusion inseparable from researches that are generally dealing with points that cannot be foreseen, and are [ ]silent on this point, whose importance I fully realise now that I want to arrange my materials in order to write these lines. I find mention of the Ammophila of the sands coming out of the egg on June 5, and A. argentata on the 20th; but I have nothing in my archives regarding the hatching of A. hirsuta. It is a detail left unnoticed through forgetfulness. The dates for the two other species accord with the general law, the perfect insect appearing at the hot time of year. By analogy I fix the same date for the coming forth of A. hirsuta from the cocoon. 196 Whence, then, come those which one sees at work on their burrows at the end of March and April? We must conclude that they were hatched in the previous year and emerged from their cells at the usual time in June and July, lived through the winter, and began to build as soon as spring came. In a word, they are insects that hibernate. Experience fully confirms this conclusion. Do but search patiently in a vertical bank of earth or sand well exposed to the sun, especially where generations of the various honey-gathering Hymenoptera have followed one another year after year, riddling the ground with a labyrinth of passages till it looks like a huge sponge, you are nearly sure to see in the heart of winter A. hirsuta either alone or in little parties of three or four, crouched in some warm retreat, waiting inactive till summer shall come. This cheering little meeting, amid the gloom and cold of winter, with the graceful insect which at the first notes of the bunting and the cricket enlivens the grassy paths, is one that I have been able to enjoy at will. If the weather be calm and the sun [ ]has a little power, the chilly insect comes out to bask on its threshold, luxuriating in the hottest beams, or it will venture timidly outside and walk slowly over the spongy bank, brushing its wings. So, too, does the little gray lizard, when the sun begins to warm the old wall which is its home. 197 But vainly would one seek in winter, even in the most sheltered spots, for a Cerceris, Sphex, Philanthus, Bembex, and other Hymenoptera with carnivorous larvæ. All died after their autumn labours, and their race is only represented by the larvæ benumbed down in their cells. Thus, by a very rare exception, Ammophila hirsuta, hatched in the hot season, passes the following winter in some warm refuge, and this is why it appears so early in the year. With these data let us try to explain the Ammophila swarm on the crest of Mont Ventoux. What could these numerous Hymenoptera under their sheltering stone have been about? Were they meaning to take up winter quarters there and await under their flat stone, benumbed, the season propitious to their labours? Everything points to the improbability of this. It is not in August, at the time of the greatest heat, that an animal is overcome with winter sleep. Want of their food—the honey juice sucked from flowers—cannot be suggested. September showers will soon come, and vegetation, suspended for a while by the heat of the dog days, will assume new vigour and cover the fields with a flowery carpet almost as varied as that of spring. This period—one of enjoyment for most of the Hymenoptera—cannot possibly be one of torpor for A. hirsuta. Again, can one suppose that the heights [ ]of Ventoux, swept by the gusty Mistral, uprooting beech and pine,—summits where the bise whirls about the snow for six months of the year,—crests wrapped for the greater part of the year by cold clouds and mist,—can be adopted as a winter refuge by such a sun-loving insect? One might as well make it hibernate among the ice fields of the North Cape! No, it is not there that A. hirsuta must pass the cold season. The group observed there were making a temporary halt. At the first indication of rain, which, though it escaped us, could not escape the insect so eminently sensitive to the variations of the atmosphere, the wayfarers had taken refuge under a stone, and were waiting for the rain to pass before they resumed their flight. Whence came they? Where were they going? 198 In this same month of August, and especially in September, there come to the warm olive region flocks of little migratory birds; descending by stages from the lands where they have loved,—fresher, more wooded, more peaceful lands than ours,—where they have brought up their broods. They come almost to a day in an invariable order, as if guided by the dates of an almanac known only to themselves. They sojourn for a while in our plains, where abound the insects which are the chief food of most of them; they visit every clod in our fields where the ploughshare has turned up innumerable worms in the furrows, and feast on them, and with this diet they speedily lay on fat,—a storehouse and reserve to serve as nutrition against toils to come, and thus well provided for the journey they go on southward, to reach winterless [ ]lands where insects are always to be found, such as Spain and Southern Italy, the isles of the Mediterranean and Africa. This is the season for the pleasure of shooting and for succulent roasts of small birds. 199 The Calandrelle, or Crèou, as Provence calls it, is the first to arrive. As soon as August has begun it may be seen exploring the stony fields, seeking the seeds of the Setaria, an ill weed affecting cultivated ground. At the least alarm it flies off, making a harsh guttural sound sufficiently expressed by its Provençal name. It is soon followed by the whinchat, which preys quietly on small weevils, crickets, and ants in old fields of luzern. With the whinchat begins the long line of small birds suitable for the spit. It is continued in September by the most celebrated of them—the common wheat-ear, glorified by all who are capable of appreciating its high qualities. Never did the Beccafico of the Roman gourmet, immortalised in Martial’s epigrams, rival the delicious, perfumed ball of fat the wheat-ear makes when it has grown scandalously obese on an immoderate diet. It consumes every kind of insect voraciously. My archives as a sportsman-naturalist give a list of the contents of its gizzard. All the small people of the fallows are in it,—larvæ and weevils of every kind, crickets, chrysomelides, grasshoppers, cassidides, earwigs, ants, spiders, hundred-legs, snails, wire-worms, and ever so many more. And as a change from this spicy diet there are grapes, blackberries, and cornel-berries. Such is the bill of fare sought incessantly by the wheat-ear as it flutters from clod to clod, the white feathers of its [ ]outspread tail giving it the look of a butterfly on the wing. Heaven only knows to what amount of fat it can attain. 200 Only one other bird surpasses it in the art of fattening itself, and that is its fellow emigrant,—another voracious devourer of insects,—the bush pipit as it is absurdly styled by those who name birds, while the dullest of our shepherds never hesitate to call it Le Grasset, i.e. the fattest of the fat. The name is sufficient to point out its leading characteristic. Never another bird attains such a degree of obesity. A moment arrives when, loaded all over with fat, it becomes like a small pat of butter. The unfortunate bird can hardly flutter from one mulberry tree to another, panting in the thick foliage, half choked with melting fat, a victim to his love of weevil. October brings the slender gray wagtail, pied ash colour and white, with a large black velvet gorget. The charming bird, running and wagging its tail, follows the ploughman almost under the horses’ feet, picking up insects in the newly turned furrow. About the same time comes the lark,—first in little companies thrown out as scouts, then in countless bands which take possession of cornfield and fallow, where abounds their usual food, the seeds of the Setaria. Then on the plain, amid the sparkle of dewdrops and frost crystals suspended to each blade of grass, a mirror shoots intermittent flashes under the morning sun. Then the little owl, driven from shelter by the sportsman, makes its short flight, alights, stands upright with sudden starts and rolling of alarmed eyes, and the lark comes with a dipping [ ]flight, anxious for a close inspection of the bright thing or the odd bird. There it is, some fifteen paces away—its feet hanging, its wings outspread like a saint-esprit. The moment has come; aim and fire. I hope that my readers may experience the emotions of this delightful sport. 201 With the lark, and often in the same flocks, comes the titlark—the sisi—another word giving the bird’s little call. None rushes more vehemently upon the owl, round and round which it circles and hovers incessantly. This may suffice as a review of the birds which visit us. Most of them make it only a halting-place, staying for a few weeks, attracted by the abundance of food, especially of insects; then, strengthened and plump, off they go. A few take up winter quarters in our plains, where snow is very rare, and there are countless little seeds to be picked up even in the heart of the cold season. The lark which searches wheat fields and fallows is one; another is the titlark, which prefers fields of luzern and meadows. The skylark, so common in almost every part of France, does not nest in the plains of Vaucluse, where it is replaced by the crested lark—friend of the highway and of the road-mender. But it is not necessary to go far north to find the favourite places for its broods; the next department, the Drôme, is rich in its nests. Very probably, therefore, among the flocks of larks which take possession of our plains for all autumn and winter many come from no farther than the Drôme. They need only migrate into the next department to find plains that know not snow, and a certainty of little seeds.[ ] 202 A like migration to a short distance seems to me to have caused the assemblage of Ammophila on the top of Mont Ventoux. I have proved that this insect spends the winter in the perfect state, sheltering somewhere and awaiting April to build its nest. Like the lark it must take precautions against the cold season; though capable of fasting till flowers return, the chilly thing must find protection against the deadly attacks of the cold. It must flee snowy districts, where the soil is deeply frozen, and, gathering in troops like migrant birds, cross hill and dale to seek a home in old walls and banks warmed by a southern sun. When the cold is gone, all or part of the band will return whence they came. This would explain the assemblage on Mont Ventoux. It was a migrant tribe, which, on its way from the cold land of the Drôme to descend into the warm plains of the olive, had to cross the deep, wide valley of the Toulourenc, and, surprised by the rain, halted on the mountain top. Apparently A. hirsuta has to migrate to escape winter cold. When the small migratory birds set out in flocks, it too must journey from a cold district to a neighbouring one which is warmer. Some valleys crossed, some mountains overpassed, and it finds the climate sought. I have two other instances of extraordinary insect gatherings at great heights. I have seen the chapel on Mont Ventoux covered with seven-spotted ladybirds, as they are popularly called. These insects clung to the stone of walls and pavement so close together that the rude building looked, at a few paces off, like an object made of coral beads. I should not dare to say how many myriads were [ ]assembled there. Certainly it was not food which had attracted these eaters of Aphidæ to the top of Mont Ventoux, some 6000 feet high. Vegetation is too scanty—never Aphis ventured up there. 203 Another time, in June, on the tableland of St. Amand, at a height of 734 mètres, I saw a similar gathering, only less numerous. At the most projecting part of the tableland, on the edge of an escarpment of perpendicular rocks, rises a cross with a pedestal of hewn stone. On every side of this pedestal, and on the rocks serving as its base, the very same beetle, the seven-spotted ladybird of Mont Ventoux, was gathered in legions. They were mostly quite still, but wherever the sunbeams struck there was a continuous exchange of place between the newcomers, who wanted to find room, and those resting, who took wing only to return after a short flight. Neither here any more than on the top of Mont Ventoux was there anything to explain the cause of these strange assemblages on arid spots without Aphidæ and noways attractive to Coccinellidæ,—nothing which could suggest the secret of these populous gatherings upon masonry standing at so great an elevation. Have we here two examples of insect migration? Can there be a general meeting such as swallows hold before the day of their common departure? Were these rendezvous whence the cloud of ladybirds were to seek some district richer in food? It may be so, but it is very extraordinary. The ladybird has never been talked of for her love of travel. She seems a home-loving creature enough when we see her slaying the green-fly on rose trees, [ ]and black-fly on beans, and yet with her short wings she mounts to the top of Ventoux and holds a general assembly where the swallow herself only ascends in her wildest flights. Why these gatherings at such heights? Why this liking for blocks of masonry? 204 About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jean-Henri Fabre (2022). Insect life: Souvenirs of a naturalist. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/66762/pg66762-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

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