Mileberryis in the Logistics Tech Industry

Mileberry

mileberry

AN ABSENT LOVER RETURNS.

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 . Silk culture. here SILK CULTURE. BY W. V. ANDREWS. A vague notion that silk culture ought to form one of the industrial pursuits of the American people seems to be prevalent enough; but it does not take practical hold upon anybody. The nearest approach to anything practical which we have seen, in late years—excepting, of course, what has been done in California—occurred in New York in July last, when a number of gentlemen pledged themselves, according to a report given in the of July 30, "to promote the native silk trade." Tribune The gentlemen present at the meeting represented the most prominent silk manufacturing and importing houses in this country. What these gentlemen have since done towards promoting the native silk trade, I do not know, but, having pledged themselves, it is presumed they have done something. At the meeting, of which the article is a report, dags, and other things, manufactured from California silk, were exhibited; and the report goes on to say that "Mr. Warren also exhibited samples of native and foreign cocoons, and of raw and thrown silk, together with the common and , species of silkworms which feed upon oak leaves. * * Also the which feeds upon mulberry leaves; also the , of which the cocoons are early as good as the cocoons of worms fed upon mulberry leaves." Tribune Cecropia Bombyx Cynthia Bombyx Yamamai Bombynx Pernyi I have given this extract, word for word, as it stands in the columns of the , because it contains more blunders of one kind or another than I remember ever to have seen in so many words. is certainly not very particular as to its food, but it is not an oak feeder. will thrive on nothing except ailanthus, though it will eat one or two other things, but not oak. The , on the other hand, will eat oak, indeed it is its natural food; but Mr. Warren errs greatly when he says that it will feed on mulberry. The last clause of the sentence, which says that cocoons of are nearly as good as those of worms fed on mulberry leaves, must be a sort of entomological joke, of which the point is not discoverable by me, so I pass it over. Tribune Cecropia Cynthia Yamamai Pernyi I do not, however, notice this report on account of its grammatical and entomological mistakes. It is because of the evil effects it may, and probably will, have on amateur silk culturists, that I notice it; for most assuredly, failure will be the result of all attempts to produce silk cocoons by feeding the caterpillars of the different moths on the food prescribed by Mr. Warren. Any patriotic, money making farmer, who believes in the , purchasing eggs and setting his worms to feed upon mulberry, which they refuse to eat, and consequently, all die, will probably give up silk culture as being nothing more or less than a humbug. And thus the cause is injured. Tribune Yamamai For several years past, I have made some experiments in the rearing of the silkworms, giving the result of my experience in the first year in Vol. II., page 311, of the ; and of a subsequent year in the , for November, 1869. American Naturalist Entomologist The paper in the is devoted to my experiments with the ailanthus silkworm, (G. & R.), a naturalized species from the East. In that paper, I have said all that is necessary to say at present, on that species, except perhaps that I am further convinced, from the inspection of samples of sewing and other silks, made from the cocoons of , that one day it will be reared very extensively in the United States. It is perfectly hardy, is double brooded, and may be reared by any one possessed of a few acres of land, which may be good enough for growing ailanthus trees, but not good enough to grow any thing else. The labor of a few old men, or women, or even children, is sufficient for the purpose. The cost is therefore trifling. Naturalist Samia Cynthia Cynthia The objection to the cultivation of is that the cocoon cannot be reeled. But it can be carded, and if the Chinese can make excellent silk goods from it, why cannot we? I suspect, too, that silk can be worked in with cotton, or, perhaps, woolen goods, adding to their beauty and durability (for it is indestructible in wear), and thus open up branches of manufacture hitherto unknown. Cynthia Cynthia For manufacturers of coarse goods, I have no doubt that the silk from our native silk moths, and , may be used. Indeed, I believe that M. Trouvelot is of opinion that may fairly enter into competition with , the ordinary mulberry silkworm. The worm, however, is rather difficult to rear. Cecropia Polyphemus Polyphemus Bombyx mori In reference, however, to , it is well known that the silk crop in France and Italy has been reduced greatly, and the price of silk goods consequently enhanced, by prevalence of disease among the worms. So much is this the case, that silk breeders have been obliged to look around for some silk-producing moths whose products may, at any rate, supplement the deficient crop. , as already mentioned as one of these, and two others mentioned by Warren in the reports above adverted to, are at present the subjects of experiment. Bombyx mori Cynthia Tribune My article mentioned before as appearing in the is mainly devoted to my experiments, and those of my correspondents, with , which, as I said before, is an oak feeder. In Japan, which is its native country, it feeds, in its wild state, on . Whether that oak be found in America, I do not know, but it is of little importance, as the worm will feed on almost any species of oak, although I think that it prefers white oak. The importance of acclimatizing new species of silk moths is of so much prospective importance, that I shall devote the remainder of this article to the consideration of whether and may not be naturalized here. Any one, who happens to have the number of the containing the article above alluded to, may find it worth while to read it, but as many persons may not be able to obtain that number, I will here repeat the substance of my remarks, adding as much new matter as subsequent experience has afforded. American Entomologist Yamamai Quercus serrata Yamamai Pernyi Entomologist The silk from the being considered superior to that produced by any other of the substitute silk moths, great efforts have been made in Europe to acclimatize it; but, it must be confessed, hitherto with but slight success. There are exceptions, however, particularly among amateurs in Germany, sufficient to show that success is possible. The Baron de Bretton raises about 27,000 cocoons annually. Yamamai In this country but little has been done, or attempted, and that little has not been very successful. The fact is, that is a difficult moth to rear in a country like this, where in early spring the temperature varies so much; but that success is possible, I am convinced. Yamamai The moth emerges from the cocoon in the latter part of the summer, copulates, lays its eggs, and of course dies. And now the trouble commences; that is, with eggs laid, say in Japan, from whence we mainly get our supplies. As soon as the egg is laid, the young larva commences its formation, which in a short time (about one month) is perfected. It lies in the egg in a quiescent state till early spring. If the egg remain in the country where it is laid, and is kept at a pretty even temperature, and free from damp, the caterpillar emerges in a healthy condition. But if it be removed some thousands of miles, passing in the transit from heat to cold, and back to heat again: and if, in addition, it be closely confined in a damp place, with little or no circulation of air, the egg is attacked by a fungus which sometimes prevents the worm from emerging at all; or, if it emerge, it is in a sickly condition. That these conditions obtain in the transit of eggs, from Japan to Europe, and thence to America, is evident enough; and it may, therefore, require the efforts of many persons, continued for a long time, to enable us to acclimatize the . But this is all that is required, and I feel confident that ultimate success is certain. Yamamai On hatching out, the worm is of a brimstone yellow, and thinly covered with strong hairs; after the second month it is greenish, with black, longitudinal streaks, and the thread a dull coral red color. After the third month it becomes of a fine apple green, with yellow tubercles on each segment, from which issue a few black hairs. The head and legs are chocolate brown, the prolegs reddish, and the first segment edged with pinkish color. The greatest care is necessary, as the spring advances, to prevent the eggs from hatching before the oak buds are ready for them, and the temperature must be regulated with the greatest nicety. If the eggs can be kept somewhere about 50 deg. Fah., it would be quite safe; higher than that the mercury should not be allowed to rise, till you are quite ready for the worms, and, on the other hand, the eggs should not be allowed to freeze. On emerging from the eggs, the worms should be allowed either to crawl to the oak branches, or rather to sprigs obtained for that purpose, the end of which should be placed in a jar, or bottle, of water, or the worms may be placed on gently with a camel-hair brush. The leaves should be well sprinkled with clean water that the caterpillars may drink. From some cause, not well understood, the young caterpillars have a tendency to wander; and if care be not taken many may be lost. To prevent this, it is well to cover the branches with a gauze bag, tied tightly around the stems, and close to the bottle. Care must also be taken that the caterpillars do not find their way into the water, which they assuredly will if they have the opportunity, committing suicide in the most reckless manner. If the number of caterpillars be few, it is a good plan to place them at the outset with their food, in a wide-mouthed bottle, covering the mouth with gauze. The branches, particularly if the weather be warm, must still be occasionally sprinkled, so that the caterpillars may have the opportunity of drinking. It must be remembered that experiment is necessary in rearing , but one thing is ascertained, and that is, that the worms must not be exposed to direct sunshine, at least not after seven or eight in the morning. If the spring be warm, I am inclined to think that a northeastern exposure is the best, and we may sum up by saying, that comparatively cool and moist seasons are more favorable to success that hot, dry weather. In America the worms suffer in the early spring, from the rapid changes of temperature, 40° at 9 a.m. increasing to 70° in the afternoon and falling off to freezing point during the night. The worms cannot stand this. They become torpid, refuse to eat, and consequently die. To prevent this, if the nights be cold, they must be placed where no such change of temperature can occur. Yamamai It is scarcely necessary to say that an ample supply of fresh food must be always supplied, but it may not be amiss to say that it is well, when supplying fresh branches, to remove the worms from the old to the new. The best way of doing this is to clip off the branch, or leaf, on which the worm is resting, and tie, pin, or in some way affix the same to the new branches. If this be not done, they will continue to eat the old leaf, even if it be withered, and this induces disease. If the worm has fastened itself for the purpose of moulting, the best way is to remove the entire branch, clipping off all the dried leaves before so removing it. These remarks apply, in general, to the treatment of all silkworms, except . Bombyx mori The results of numerous experiments with go to show that it is, as I said before, a difficult worm to rear; but it has been reared near New York to the extent of eight hundred cocoons out of sixteen hundred eggs, and this, although not a remunerative result, is encouraging. Yamamai The Chinese silk moth, , also an oak feeder, has been successfully raised by me and by others, for several years. Eggs have been sold to persons in States widely separated, and the results show that this worm is perfectly hardy. Aulterea Pernyi The moth winters in the cocoon, emerges early in May, if the weather be warm, pairs readily, and lays from 150 to 200 eggs. These hatch out in about fourteen days, and like , always about 5 or 6 o'clock in the morning. It is necessary to be on the alert to catch them on hatching only, and to remember that they are vagabonds, even to a greater extent than . Consequently similar precautions must be taken. Yamamai Yamamai The worm on emerging from the egg is large, and of a chocolate-brown color. After the first month it becomes of a yellowish green; head, pale brown; feet and prolegs of nearly the same color. The body has numerous reddish tubercles, from which issue a few reddish hairs. At the base of some of the tubercles on the anterior segments are silvery patches. The worm is much more easily reared than that of , but still great care is needed; fresh food of course is essential, and a slight sprinkling of the branches and worms in very warm weather is advisable; although it is not so necessary as with . It is remarkable that worms, fed in the open air, on oak trees, do not, at present, thrive so well as those fed in-doors, but this, doubtless, is a question of acclimation. I advise white oak ( ) as food, if it can be readily obtained, but failing that, pin oak ( ) will do; and I have no doubt that they will feed on any kind of oak. They will, indeed, feed on birch, and on sweet gum ( ), but oak is the proper food. It is worthy of remark that bears a strong resemblance to our , but it is more easily reared in confinement, and double brooded; an important fact for the silk culturist. From American reared eggs, I obtained cocoons as early as July 4th, the perfect insect emerging on July 31. Copulation immediately ensued, and the resulting eggs hatched only on August 12, ten days only from the time of laying; and as the worm feeds up in about four or five weeks, this affords plenty of time for rearing the second brood. It must be remembered that on the quantity and quality of food, much depends, not only with but with all caterpillars. By furnishing food sparingly the time of feeding would be much prolonged. Pernyi Yamamai Yamamai Pernyi Quercus alba Quercus palustris Liquidambar Pernyi Polyphemus Pernyi I have already said that both and should be fed under shelter for the reasons given, but there is another reason of less importance. The young worms are liable to be attacked by spiders and wasps, and even after the second month, they are not safe from these enemies. I have seen a wasp bite a large caterpillar in two, carry off the anterior section and return for the posterior, which had held on by its prolegs. Did the wasp anticipate this fact, and therefore carry off the anterior part first? As to the spiders, they form a series of pulleys and hoist the caterpillar off its legs, sucking its juices at leisure. Yamamai Pernyi And now I must devote a few words to the advisability of silk culture from a pecuniary point of view. , or the ordinary mulberry silkworm, is, of course, the best to rear, if you can obtain healthy eggs. But this is the difficulty, and thence arises the necessity of cultivating other silk-producing species. I imagine that silk can be produced in most of the States of the Union, and manufactured from the cocoon at a large profit; but for the present, we will leave the manufacture out of the question, and consider only, whether it will not pay to rear eggs and cocoons for sale? It must be remembered that European manufacturers are at this moment largely dependent on foreign countries for the supply of both eggs and cocoons; and this, because of the general prevalence of disease among all the races of . And now, to what extent does the reader suppose this dependence exists? Of cocoons I have no returns at hand, but, of raw silk, European manufacturers purchase, annually, not less than $160,000,000 worth; and of eggs ( ) to the value of $10,000,000. This, then, is a business of no trifling amount. California seems to be alive to the fact, and, I am informed, raised, this last season, $3,000,000 cocoons; and, for sale, about 4,000 ounces of eggs, worth at least $4 per ounce, wholesale. Now, there is no earthly reason why California should monopolize this business. Why are not companies formed in other States for this purpose? or if private individuals lack the enterprise or the means, why do not the legislatures, of those States most favorably located, do something by way of starting the business? A few thousand dollars loaned, or even donated, may prove to be a valuable investment for the people at large, and, even supposing a failure, would not be a very great loss to any body. Bombyx mori Bombyx mori Bombyx mori So far as farmers are concerned, it may interest them to know that one man in England, Capt. Mason, clears $50 per acre by rearing silkworms ( in this case), and I much doubt whether any crop raised here pays as well. Bombyx mori By way of commencement, then, let everybody that has sufficient leisure set to work, and rear as many silkworms, of the above-named species, as he possibly can; and if the process be not remunerative in a pecuniary sense, it most assuredly will be in the amount of pleasure and knowledge obtained. One caution I must give to those who cultivate . Although requires sprinkled branches, does not; nor must the leaves be furnished to them while wet with rain or dew. Bombyx mori Yamamai Bombyx mori .—The article upon this subject, giving experiments of Fairbairn and others, referred to in our editorial upon the same subject, in our last issue, was crowded out by press of matter. The reader will find it in the present number. Effect of Cold upon Iron 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

Silk culture

Security

Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Tweedledum and Tweedledee here CHAPTER IV. Tweedledum and Tweedledee They were standing under a tree, each with an arm round the other’s neck, and Alice knew which was which in a moment, because one of them had “DUM” embroidered on his collar, and the other “DEE.” “I suppose they’ve each got ‘TWEEDLE’ round at the back of the collar,” she said to herself. They stood so still that she quite forgot they were alive, and she was just looking round to see if the word ‘TWEEDLE’ was written at the back of each collar, when she was startled by a voice coming from the one marked “DUM.” “If you think we’re wax-works,” he said, “you ought to pay, you know. Wax-works weren’t made to be looked at for nothing, nohow!” “Contrariwise,” added the one marked “DEE,” “if you think we’re alive, you ought to speak.” “I’m sure I’m very sorry,” was all Alice could say; for the words of the old song kept ringing through her head like the ticking of a clock, and she could hardly help saying them out loud:— “Tweedledum and Tweedledee Agreed to have a battle; For Tweedledum said Tweedledee Had spoiled his nice new rattle. Just then flew down a monstrous crow, As black as a tar-barrel; Which frightened both the heroes so, They quite forgot their quarrel.” “I know what you’re thinking about,” said Tweedledum: “but it isn’t so, nohow.” “Contrariwise,” continued Tweedledee, “if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.” “I was thinking,” Alice said very politely, “which is the best way out of this wood: it’s getting so dark. Would you tell me, please?” But the little men only looked at each other and grinned. They looked so exactly like a couple of great schoolboys, that Alice couldn’t help pointing her finger at Tweedledum, and saying “First Boy!” “Nohow!” Tweedledum cried out briskly, and shut his mouth up again with a snap. “Next Boy!” said Alice, passing on to Tweedledee, though she felt quite certain he would only shout out “Contrariwise!” and so he did. “You’ve been wrong!” cried Tweedledum. “The first thing in a visit is to say ‘How d’ye do?’ and shake hands!” And here the two brothers gave each other a hug, and then they held out the two hands that were free, to shake hands with her. Alice did not like shaking hands with either of them first, for fear of hurting the other one’s feelings; so, as the best way out of the difficulty, she took hold of both hands at once: the next moment they were dancing round in a ring. This seemed quite natural (she remembered afterwards), and she was not even surprised to hear music playing: it seemed to come from the tree under which they were dancing, and it was done (as well as she could make it out) by the branches rubbing one across the other, like fiddles and fiddle-sticks. “But it certainly funny,” (Alice said afterwards, when she was telling her sister the history of all this,) “to find myself singing ‘ .’ I don’t know when I began it, but somehow I felt as if I’d been singing it a long long time!” was Here we go round the mulberry bush The other two dancers were fat, and very soon out of breath. “Four times round is enough for one dance,” Tweedledum panted out, and they left off dancing as suddenly as they had begun: the music stopped at the same moment. Then they let go of Alice’s hands, and stood looking at her for a minute: there was a rather awkward pause, as Alice didn’t know how to begin a conversation with people she had just been dancing with. “It would never do to say ‘How d’ye do?’ ,” she said to herself: “we seem to have got beyond that, somehow!” now “I hope you’re not much tired?” she said at last. “Nohow. And thank you much for asking,” said Tweedledum. very “So obliged!” added Tweedledee. “You like poetry?” much “Ye-es, pretty well— poetry,” Alice said doubtfully. “Would you tell me which road leads out of the wood?” some “What shall I repeat to her?” said Tweedledee, looking round at Tweedledum with great solemn eyes, and not noticing Alice’s question. “‘ ’ is the longest,” Tweedledum replied, giving his brother an affectionate hug. The Walrus and the Carpenter Tweedledee began instantly: “The sun was shining—” Here Alice ventured to interrupt him. “If it’s long,” she said, as politely as she could, “would you please tell me first which road—” very Tweedledee smiled gently, and began again: “The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright— And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done— ‘It’s very rude of him,’ she said, ‘To come and spoil the fun!’ The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying over head— There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: ‘If this were only cleared away,’ They said, ‘it be grand!’ ‘If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said, ‘That they could get it clear?’ ‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. ‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!’ The Walrus did beseech. ‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.’ The eldest Oyster looked at him. But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head— Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat— And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn’t any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more— All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. ‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said, ‘To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings.’ ‘But wait a bit,’ the Oysters cried, ‘Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!’ ‘No hurry!’ said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. ‘A loaf of bread,’ the Walrus said, ‘Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed— Now if you’re ready Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.’ ‘But not on us!’ the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue, ‘After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!’ ‘The night is fine,’ the Walrus said ‘Do you admire the view? ‘It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!’ The Carpenter said nothing but ‘Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf— I’ve had to ask you twice!’ ‘It seems a shame,’ the Walrus said, ‘To play them such a trick, After we’ve brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!’ The Carpenter said nothing but ‘The butter’s spread too thick!’ ‘I weep for you,’ the Walrus said. ‘I deeply sympathize.’ With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size. Holding his pocket handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. ‘O Oysters,’ said the Carpenter. ‘You’ve had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?’ But answer came there none— And that was scarcely odd, because They’d eaten every one.” would “I like the Walrus best,” said Alice: “because you see he was a sorry for the poor oysters.” little “He ate more than the Carpenter, though,” said Tweedledee. “You see he held his handkerchief in front, so that the Carpenter couldn’t count how many he took: contrariwise.” “That was mean!” Alice said indignantly. “Then I like the Carpenter best—if he didn’t eat so many as the Walrus.” “But he ate as many as he could get,” said Tweedledum. This was a puzzler. After a pause, Alice began, “Well! They were very unpleasant characters—” Here she checked herself in some alarm, at hearing something that sounded to her like the puffing of a large steam-engine in the wood near them, though she feared it was more likely to be a wild beast. “Are there any lions or tigers about here?” she asked timidly. both “It’s only the Red King snoring,” said Tweedledee. “Come and look at him!” the brothers cried, and they each took one of Alice’s hands, and led her up to where the King was sleeping. “Isn’t he a sight?” said Tweedledum. lovely Alice couldn’t say honestly that he was. He had a tall red night-cap on, with a tassel, and he was lying crumpled up into a sort of untidy heap, and snoring loud—“fit to snore his head off!” as Tweedledum remarked. “I’m afraid he’ll catch cold with lying on the damp grass,” said Alice, who was a very thoughtful little girl. “He’s dreaming now,” said Tweedledee: “and what do you think he’s dreaming about?” Alice said “Nobody can guess that.” “Why, about !” Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. “And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you’d be?” you “Where I am now, of course,” said Alice. “Not you!” Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. “You’d be nowhere. Why, you’re only a sort of thing in his dream!” “If that there King was to wake,” added Tweedledum, “you’d go out—bang!—just like a candle!” “I shouldn’t!” Alice exclaimed indignantly. “Besides, if only a sort of thing in his dream, what are , I should like to know?” I’m you “Ditto” said Tweedledum. “Ditto, ditto” cried Tweedledee. He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn’t help saying, “Hush! You’ll be waking him, I’m afraid, if you make so much noise.” “Well, it no use talking about waking him,” said Tweedledum, “when you’re only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you’re not real.” your “I real!” said Alice and began to cry. am “You won’t make yourself a bit realler by crying,” Tweedledee remarked: “there’s nothing to cry about.” “If I wasn’t real,” Alice said—half-laughing through her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous—“I shouldn’t be able to cry.” “I hope you don’t suppose those are real tears?” Tweedledum interrupted in a tone of great contempt. “I know they’re talking nonsense,” Alice thought to herself: “and it’s foolish to cry about it.” So she brushed away her tears, and went on as cheerfully as she could. “At any rate I’d better be getting out of the wood, for really it’s coming on very dark. Do you think it’s going to rain?” Tweedledum spread a large umbrella over himself and his brother, and looked up into it. “No, I don’t think it is,” he said: “at least—not under . Nohow.” here “But it may rain ?” outside “It may—if it chooses,” said Tweedledee: “we’ve no objection. Contrariwise.” “Selfish things!” thought Alice, and she was just going to say “Good-night” and leave them, when Tweedledum sprang out from under the umbrella and seized her by the wrist. “Do you see ?” he said, in a voice choking with passion, and his eyes grew large and yellow all in a moment, as he pointed with a trembling finger at a small white thing lying under the tree. that “It’s only a rattle,” Alice said, after a careful examination of the little white thing. “Not a rattle- , you know,” she added hastily, thinking that he was frightened: “only an old rattle—quite old and broken.” snake “I knew it was!” cried Tweedledum, beginning to stamp about wildly and tear his hair. “It’s spoilt, of course!” Here he looked at Tweedledee, who immediately sat down on the ground, and tried to hide himself under the umbrella. Alice laid her hand upon his arm, and said in a soothing tone, “You needn’t be so angry about an old rattle.” “But it isn’t old!” Tweedledum cried, in a greater fury than ever. “It’s new, I tell you—I bought it yesterday—my nice new RATTLE!” and his voice rose to a perfect scream. All this time Tweedledee was trying his best to fold up the umbrella, with himself in it: which was such an extraordinary thing to do, that it quite took off Alice’s attention from the angry brother. But he couldn’t quite succeed, and it ended in his rolling over, bundled up in the umbrella, with only his head out: and there he lay, opening and shutting his mouth and his large eyes—“looking more like a fish than anything else,” Alice thought. “Of course you agree to have a battle?” Tweedledum said in a calmer tone. “I suppose so,” the other sulkily replied, as he crawled out of the umbrella: “only must help us to dress up, you know.” she So the two brothers went off hand-in-hand into the wood, and returned in a minute with their arms full of things—such as bolsters, blankets, hearth-rugs, table-cloths, dish-covers and coal-scuttles. “I hope you’re a good hand at pinning and tying strings?” Tweedledum remarked. “Every one of these things has got to go on, somehow or other.” Alice said afterwards she had never seen such a fuss made about anything in all her life—the way those two bustled about—and the quantity of things they put on—and the trouble they gave her in tying strings and fastening buttons—“Really they’ll be more like bundles of old clothes than anything else, by the time they’re ready!” she said to herself, as she arranged a bolster round the neck of Tweedledee, “to keep his head from being cut off,” as he said. “You know,” he added very gravely, “it’s one of the most serious things that can possibly happen to one in a battle—to get one’s head cut off.” Alice laughed aloud: but she managed to turn it into a cough, for fear of hurting his feelings. “Do I look very pale?” said Tweedledum, coming up to have his helmet tied on. (He it a helmet, though it certainly looked much more like a saucepan.) called “Well—yes—a ,” Alice replied gently. little “I’m very brave generally,” he went on in a low voice: “only to-day I happen to have a headache.” “And got a toothache!” said Tweedledee, who had overheard the remark. “I’m far worse off than you!” I’ve “Then you’d better not fight to-day,” said Alice, thinking it a good opportunity to make peace. “We have a bit of a fight, but I don’t care about going on long,” said Tweedledum. “What’s the time now?” must Tweedledee looked at his watch, and said “Half-past four.” “Let’s fight till six, and then have dinner,” said Tweedledum. “Very well,” the other said, rather sadly: “and can watch us—only you’d better not come close,” he added: “I generally hit everything I can see—when I get really excited.” she very “And hit everything within reach,” cried Tweedledum, “whether I can see it or not!” I Alice laughed. “You must hit the pretty often, I should think,” she said. trees Tweedledum looked round him with a satisfied smile. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “there’ll be a tree left standing, for ever so far round, by the time we’ve finished!” “And all about a rattle!” said Alice, still hoping to make them a ashamed of fighting for such a trifle. little “I shouldn’t have minded it so much,” said Tweedledum, “if it hadn’t been a new one.” “I wish the monstrous crow would come!” thought Alice. “There’s only one sword, you know,” Tweedledum said to his brother: “but you can have the umbrella—it’s quite as sharp. Only we must begin quick. It’s getting as dark as it can.” “And darker,” said Tweedledee. It was getting dark so suddenly that Alice thought there must be a thunderstorm coming on. “What a thick black cloud that is!” she said. “And how fast it comes! Why, I do believe it’s got wings!” “It’s the crow!” Tweedledum cried out in a shrill voice of alarm: and the two brothers took to their heels and were out of sight in a moment. Alice ran a little way into the wood, and stopped under a large tree. “It can never get at me ,” she thought: “it’s far too large to squeeze itself in among the trees. But I wish it wouldn’t flap its wings so—it makes quite a hurricane in the wood—here’s somebody’s shawl being blown away!” here 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

Tweedledum and Tweedledee

Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions — Volume I by Charles Mackay, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . RELICS RELICS. A fouth o' auld knick-knackets, Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three, in tackets, A towmond guid; An' parritch pats, and auld saut backets, Afore the flood. Burns. The love for relics is one which will never be eradicated as long as feeling and affection are denizens of the heart. It is a love which is most easily excited in the best and kindliest natures, and which few are callous enough to scoff at. Who would not treasure the lock of hair that once adorned the brow of the faithful wife, now cold in death, or that hung down the neck of a beloved infant, now sleeping under the sward? Not one. They are home-relics, whose sacred worth is intelligible to all; spoils rescued from the devouring grave, which, to the affectionate, are beyond all price. How dear to a forlorn survivor the book over whose pages he has pored with one departed! How much greater its value, if that hand, now cold, had written a thought, an opinion, or a name, upon the leaf! Besides these sweet, domestic relics, there are others, which no one can condemn; relics sanctified by that admiration of greatness and goodness which is akin to love; such as the copy of Montaigne's Florio, with the name of Shakspeare upon the leaf, written by the poet of all time himself; the chair preserved at Antwerp, in which Rubens sat when he painted the immortal "Descent from the Cross;" or the telescope, preserved in the Museum of Florence, which aided Galileo in his sublime discoveries. Who would not look with veneration upon the undoubted arrow of William Tell—the swords of Wallace or of Hampden—or the Bible whose leaves were turned by some stern old father of the faith? Thus the principle of reliquism is hallowed and enshrined by love. But from this germ of purity how numerous the progeny of errors and superstitions! Men, in their admiration of the great, and of all that appertained to them, have forgotten that goodness is a component part of true greatness, and have made fools of themselves for the jaw-bone of a saint, the toe-nail of an apostle, the handkerchief a king blew his nose in, or the rope that hanged a criminal. Desiring to rescue some slight token from the graves of their predecessors, they have confounded the famous and the infamous, the renowned and the notorious. Great saints, great sinners; great philosophers, great quacks; great conquerors, great murderers; great ministers, great thieves; each and all have had their admirers, ready to ransack earth, from the equator to either pole, to find a relic of them. The reliquism of modern times dates its origin from the centuries immediately preceding the Crusades. The first pilgrims to the Holy Land brought back to Europe thousands of apocryphal relics, in the purchase of which they had expended all their store. The greatest favourite was the wood of the true cross, which, like the oil of the widow, never diminished. It is generally asserted, in the traditions of the Romish Church, that the Empress Helen, the mother of Constantine the Great, first discovered the veritable "true cross" in her pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The Emperor Theodosius made a present of the greater part of it to St. Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, by whom it was studded with precious stones, and deposited in the principal church of that city. It was carried away by the Huns, by whom it was burnt, after they had extracted the valuable jewels it contained. Fragments, purporting to have been cut from it were, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, to be found in almost every church in Europe, and would, if collected together in one place, have been almost sufficient to have built a cathedral. Happy was the sinner who could get a sight of one of them; happier he who possessed one! To obtain them the greatest dangers were cheerfully braved. They were thought to preserve from all evils, and to cure the most inveterate diseases. Annual pilgrimages were made to the shrines that contained them, and considerable revenues collected from the devotees. Next in renown were those precious relics, the tears of the Saviour. By whom and in what manner they were preserved, the pilgrims did not often inquire. Their genuineness was vouched by the Christians of the Holy Land, and that was sufficient. Tears of the Virgin Mary, and tears of St. Peter, were also to be had, carefully enclosed in little caskets, which the pious might wear in their bosoms. After the tears the next most precious relics were drops of the blood of Jesus and the martyrs. Hair and toe-nails were also in great repute, and were sold at extravagant prices. Thousands of pilgrims annually visited Palestine in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, to purchase pretended relics for the home market. The majority of them had no other means of subsistence than the profits thus obtained. Many a nail, cut from the filthy foot of some unscrupulous ecclesiastic, was sold at a diamond's price, within six months after its severance from its parent toe, upon the supposition that it had once belonged to a saint. Peter's toes were uncommonly prolific, for there were nails enough in Europe, at the time of the Council of Clermont, to have filled a sack, all of which were devoutly believed to have grown on the sacred feet of that great apostle. Some of them are still shown in the cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle. The pious come from a distance of a hundred German miles to feast their eyes upon them. At Port Royal, in Paris, is kept with great care a thorn, which the priests of that seminary assert to be one of the identical thorns that bound the holy head of the Son of God. How it came there, and by whom it was preserved, has never been explained. This is the famous thorn, celebrated in the long dissensions of the Jansenists and the Molenists, and which worked the miraculous cure upon Mademoiselle Perrier: by merely kissing it, she was cured of a disease of the eyes of long standing. [Voltaire, Siecle de Louis XIV.] What traveller is unacquainted with the Santa Scala, or Holy Stairs, at Rome? They were brought from Jerusalem along with the true cross, by the Empress Helen, and were taken from the house which, according to popular tradition, was inhabited by Pontius Pilate. They are said to be the steps which Jesus ascended and descended when brought into the presence of the Roman governor. They are held in the greatest veneration at Rome: it is sacrilegious to walk upon them. The knees of the faithful must alone touch them in ascending or descending, and that only after they have reverentially kissed them. Europe still swarms with these religious relics. There is hardly a Roman Catholic church in Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, or Belgium, without one or more of them. Even the poorly endowed churches of the villages boast the possession of miraculous thigh-bones of the innumerable saints of the Romish calendar. Aix-la-Chapelle is proud of the veritable chasse, or thigh-bone of Charlemagne, which cures lameness. Halle has a thighbone of the Virgin Mary; Spain has seven or eight, all said to be undoubted relics. Brussels at one time preserved, and perhaps does now, the teeth of St. Gudule. The faithful, who suffered from the tooth-ache, had only to pray, look at them, and be cured. Some of these holy bones have been buried in different parts of the Continent. After a certain lapse of time, water is said to ooze from them, which soon forms a spring, and cures all the diseases of the faithful. At a church in Halle, there is a famous thigh-bone, which cures barrenness in women. Of this bone, which is under the special superintendence of the Virgin, a pleasant story is related by the incredulous. There resided at Ghent a couple who were blessed with all the riches of this world, but whose happiness was sore troubled by the want of children. Great was the grief of the lady, who was both beautiful and loving, and many her lamentations to her husband. The latter, annoyed by her unceasing sorrow, advised her to make a pilgrimage to the celebrated chasse of the Virgin. She went, was absent a week, and returned with a face all radiant with joy and pleasure. Her lamentations ceased, and, in nine months afterwards, she brought forth a son. But, oh! the instability of human joys! The babe, so long desired and so greatly beloved, survived but a few months. Two years passed over the heads of the disconsolate couple, and no second child appeared to cheer their fire-side. A third year passed away with the same result, and the lady once more began to weep. "Cheer up, my love," said her husband, "and go to the holy chasse, at Halle; perhaps the Virgin will again listen to your prayers." The lady took courage at the thought, wiped away her tears, and proceeded on the morrow towards Halle. She was absent only three days, and returned home sad, weeping, and sorrow-stricken. "What is the matter?" said her husband; "is the Virgin unwilling to listen to your prayers?" "The Virgin is willing enough," said the disconsolate wife, "and will do what she can for me; but I shall never have any more children! The priest! the priest!—He is gone from Halle, and nobody knows where to find him!" It is curious to remark the avidity manifested in all ages, and in all countries, to obtain possession of some relic of any persons who have been much spoken of, even for their crimes. When William Longbeard, leader of the populace of London, in the reign of Richard I, was hanged at Smithfield, the utmost eagerness was shown to obtain a hair from his head, or a shred from his garments. Women came from Essex, Kent, Suffolk, Sussex, and all the surrounding counties, to collect the mould at the foot of his gallows. A hair of his beard was believed to preserve from evil spirits, and a piece of his clothes from aches and pains. In more modern days, a similar avidity was shown to obtain a relic of the luckless Masaniello, the fisherman of Naples. After he had been raised by mob favour to a height of power more despotic than monarch ever wielded, he was shot by the same populace in the streets, as if he had been a mad dog. His headless trunk was dragged through the mire for several hours, and cast at night-fall into the city ditch. On the morrow the tide of popular feeling turned once more in his favour. His corpse was sought, arrayed in royal robes, and buried magnificently by torch-light in the cathedral, ten thousand armed men, and as many mourners, attending at the ceremony. The fisherman's dress which he had worn was rent into shreds by the crowd, to be preserved as relics; the door of his hut was pulled off its hinges by a mob of women, and eagerly cut up into small pieces, to be made into images, caskets, and other mementos. The scanty furniture of his poor abode became of more value than the adornments of a palace; the ground he had walked upon was considered sacred, and, being collected in small phials, was sold at its weight in gold, and worn in the bosom as an amulet. Almost as extraordinary was the frenzy manifested by the populace of Paris on the execution of the atrocious Marchioness de Brinvilliers. There were grounds for the popular wonder in the case of Masaniello, who was unstained with personal crimes. But the career of Madame de Brinvilliers was of a nature to excite no other feelings than disgust and abhorrence. She was convicted of poisoning several persons, and sentenced to be burned in the Place de Greve, and to have her ashes scattered to the winds. On the day of her execution, the populace, struck by her gracefulness and beauty, inveighed against the severity of her sentence. Their pity soon increased to admiration, and, ere evening, she was considered a saint. Her ashes were industriously collected, even the charred wood, which had aided to consume her, was eagerly purchased by the populace. Her ashes were thought to preserve from witchcraft. In England many persons have a singular love for the relics of thieves and murderers, or other great criminals. The ropes with which they have been hanged are very often bought by collectors at a guinea per foot. Great sums were paid for the rope which hanged Dr. Dodd, and for those more recently which did justice upon Mr. Fauntleroy for forgery, and on Thurtell for the murder of Mr. Weare. The murder of Maria Marten, by Corder, in the year 1828, excited the greatest interest all over the country. People came from Wales and Scotland, and even from Ireland, to visit the barn where the body of the murdered woman was buried. Every one of them was anxious to carry away some memorial of his visit. Pieces of the barn-door, tiles from the roof, and, above all, the clothes of the poor victim, were eagerly sought after. A lock of her hair was sold for two guineas, and the purchaser thought himself fortunate in getting it so cheaply. So great was the concourse of people to visit the house in Camberwell Lane, where Greenacre murdered Hannah Brown, in 1837, that it was found necessary to station a strong detachment of police on the spot. The crowd was so eager to obtain a relic of the house of this atrocious criminal, that the police were obliged to employ force to prevent the tables and chairs, and even the doors, from being carried away. In earlier times, a singular superstition was attached to the hand of a criminal who had suffered execution. It was thought that by merely rubbing the dead hand on the body, the patient afflicted with the king's evil would be instantly cured. The executioner at Newgate, sixty or seventy years ago, derived no inconsiderable revenue from this foolish practice. The possession of the hand was thought to be of still greater efficacy in the cure of diseases and the prevention of misfortunes. In the time of Charles II as much as ten guineas was thought a small price for one of these disgusting relics. When the maniac, Thom, or Courtenay, was shot, in the spring of 1838, the relic-hunters were immediately in motion to obtain a memento of so extraordinary an individual. His long, black beard and hair, which were cut off by the surgeons, fell into the hands of his disciples, by whom they are treasured with the utmost reverence. A lock of his hair commands a great price, not only amongst his followers, but among the more wealthy inhabitants of Canterbury and its neighbourhood. The tree against which he fell when he was shot, has already been stripped of all its bark by the curious, and bids fair to be entirely demolished within a twelvemonth. A letter, with his signature to it, is paid for in gold coins; and his favourite horse promises to become as celebrated as his master. Parties of ladies and gentlemen have come to Boughton from a distance of a hundred and fifty miles, to visit the scene of that fatal affray, and stroke on the back the horse of the "mad Knight of Malta." If a strict watch had not been kept over his grave for months, the body would have been disinterred, and the bones carried away as memorials. Among the Chinese no relics are more valued than the boots which have been worn by an upright magistrate. In Davis's interesting Description of the Empire of China, we are informed, that whenever a judge of unusual integrity resigns his situation, the people all congregate to do him honour. If he leaves the city where he has presided, the crowd accompany him from his residence to the gates, where his boots are drawn off with great ceremony, to be preserved in the hall of justice. Their place is immediately supplied by a new pair, which, in their turn, are drawn off to make room for others before he has worn them five minutes, it being considered sufficient to consecrate them that he should have merely drawn them on. Among the most favourite relics of modern times, in Europe, are Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, Napoleon's willow, and the table at Waterloo, on which the Emperor wrote his despatches. Snuffboxes of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, are comparatively rare, though there are doubtless more of them in the market than were ever made of the wood planted by the great bard. Many a piece of alien wood passes under this name. The same may be said of Napoleon's table at Waterloo. The original has long since been destroyed, and a round dozen of counterfeits along with it. Many preserve the simple stick of wood; others have them cut into brooches and every variety of ornament; but by far the greater number prefer them as snuff-boxes. In France they are made into bonbonnieres, and are much esteemed by the many thousands whose cheeks still glow, and whose eyes still sparkle at the name of Napoleon. Bullets from the field of Waterloo, and buttons from the coats of the soldiers who fell in the fight, are still favourite relics in Europe. But the same ingenuity which found new tables after the old one was destroyed, has cast new bullets for the curious. Many a one who thinks himself the possessor of a bullet which aided in giving peace to the world on that memorable day, is the owner of a dump, first extracted from the ore a dozen years afterwards. Let all lovers of genuine relics look well to their money before they part with it to the ciceroni that swarm in the village of Waterloo. Few travellers stop at the lonely isle of St. Helena, without cutting a twig from the willow that droops over the grave of Napoleon. Many of them have since been planted in different parts of Europe, and have grown into trees as large as their parent. Relic-hunters, who are unable to procure a twig of the original, are content with one from these. Several of them are growing in the neighbourhood of London, more prized by their cultivators than any other tree in their gardens. But in relics, as in everything else, there is the use and the abuse. The undoubted relics of great men, or great events, will always possess attractions for the thinking and refined. There are few who would not join with Cowley in the extravagant wish introduced in his lines "written while sitting in a chair made of the remains of the ship in which Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world:"— And I myself, who now love quiet too, Almost as much as any chair can do, Would yet a journey take An old wheel of that chariot to see, Which Phaeton so rashly brake. 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. Charles Mackay (1996). Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions — Volume I. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/636/pg636-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 love for relics is one which will never be eradicated

The widow of Charles of Durazzo was shut up in the castle of Ovo

THE TELEGRAM

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 . SILK CHAPTER XXIII. SILK Silk Worm Eggs, worm, cocoon, and butterfly “SOONER or later, according to its species, a day comes when the larva feels itself strong enough to face the perils of metamorphosis. It has valiantly done its duty, since to stuff its paunch is the duty of a worm; it has eaten for two, itself and the matured insect. Now it is advisable to renounce feasting, retire from the world, and prepare itself a quiet shelter for the death-like sleep during which its second birth takes place. A thousand methods are employed for the preparation of this lodging. “Certain larvæ simply bury themselves in the ground, others hollow out round niches with polished sides. There are some that make themselves a case out of dry leaves; there are others that know how to glue together a hollow ball out of grains of sand or rotten wood or loam. Those that live in tree-trunks stop up with plugs of sawdust both ends of the galleries they have hollowed out; those that live in wheat gnaw all the farinaceous part of the grain, scrupulously leaving untouched the outside, or bran, which is to serve them as cradle. Others, with less precaution, shelter themselves in some crack of the bark or of a wall, and fasten themselves there by a string which goes round their body. To this number belong the caterpillars of the cabbage butterfly and the swallow-tail. But especially in the making of the silk cell called cocoon is the highest skill of the larvæ shown. “An ashy white caterpillar, the size of the little finger, is raised in large numbers for its cocoon, with which silk stuffs are made. It is called the silkworm. In very clean rooms are placed reed screens, on which they put mulberry leaves, and the young caterpillars come from eggs hatched in the house. The mulberry is a large tree cultivated on purpose to nourish these caterpillars; it has no value except for its leaves, the sole food of silkworms. Large tracts are devoted to its cultivation, so precious is the handiwork of the worm. The caterpillars eat the ration of leaves that is frequently renewed on the screens, and from time to time change their skin, according to their rate of growth. Their appetite is such that the clicking of their jaws is like the noise of a shower falling during a calm on the foliage of the trees. It is true that the room contains thousands and thousands of worms. The caterpillar gets its growth in four or five weeks. Then the screens are set with sprigs of heather, on which the worms climb when the time comes for them to spin their cocoons. They settle themselves one by one amid the sprigs and fasten here and there a multitude of very fine threads, so as to make a kind of network which will hold them suspended and serve them as scaffolding for the great work of the cocoon. “The silk thread comes out of the under lip, through a hole called the spinneret. In the body of the caterpillar the silk material is a very thick, sticky liquid, resembling gum. In coming through the opening of the lip, this liquid is drawn out into a thread, which glues itself to the preceding threads and immediately hardens. The silk matter is not entirely contained in the mulberry leaf that the worm eats, any more than is milk in the grass that the cow browses. The caterpillar makes it out of the materials of its food, just as the cow makes milk of the constituents of her forage. Without the caterpillar’s help man could never extract from the mulberry leaves the material for his costliest fabrics. Our most beautiful silk stuffs really take birth in the worm that drivels them into a thread. “Let us return to the caterpillar suspended in the midst of its net. Now it is working at the cocoon. Its head is in continual motion. It advances, retires, ascends, descends, goes to right and left, while letting escape from its lip a tiny thread, which rolls itself loosely around the animal, sticks itself to the thread already in place, and finishes by forming a continuous envelope the size of a pigeon’s egg. The silken structure is at first transparent enough to permit one to see the caterpillar at work; but as it grows thicker what passes within is soon hidden from view. What follows can easily be guessed. For three or four days the caterpillar continues to thicken the walls of the cocoon until it has exhausted its store of liquid silk. Here it is at last, retired from the world, isolated, tranquil, ready for the transfiguration so soon to take place. Its whole life, its long life of a month, it has worked in anticipation of the metamorphosis; it has crammed itself with mulberry leaves, has extenuated itself to make the silk for its cocoon, but thus it is going to become a butterfly. What a solemn moment for the caterpillar! “Ah! my children, I had almost forgotten man’s part in all this. Hardly is the work of the cocoon finished when he runs to the heather sprig, lays violent hands on the cocoons and sells them to the manufacturer. The latter, without delay, puts them into an oven and subjects them to the action of burning vapor to kill the future butterfly, whose tender flesh is beginning to form. If he delayed, the butterfly would pierce the cocoon, which, no longer capable of being unwound on account of its broken threads, would lose its value. This precaution taken, the rest is done at leisure. The cocoons are unwound in factories called spinning mills. They are put into a pan of boiling water to dissolve the gum which holds the successive windings together. A workwoman armed with a little heather broom stirs them in the water, in order to find and seize the end of the thread, which she puts on a revolving reel. Under the action of the machine the thread of silk unwinds while the cocoon jumps about in the hot water like a ball of wool when one pulls the yarn. “In the center of the threadbare cocoon is the chrysalis, scorched and killed by the fire. Later the silk undergoes divers operations which give it more suppleness and luster; it passes into the dyer’s vats where it takes any color desired; finally it is woven and converted into fabric.” 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.

The duty of a worm

The Hunting Wasps by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . AN UNKNOWN SENSE Chapter XIX. AN UNKNOWN SENSE I have described the Ammophila’s hunting tactics in detail. The facts which I ascertained seem to me so rich in results that, even if the harmas laboratory supplied me with nothing more, I should think myself indemnified by this one observation. The surgical methods adopted by the Wasp with the object of paralysing the Grey Worm are the highest manifestation in the realm of instinct that I have hitherto met. This inborn science is eminently calculated to give us food for thought. What a subtle logician, what an unerring operator is that unconscious physiologist, the Ammophila! He who would witness these marvels for himself can hardly count on what a country walk may happen to show him; besides, if the lucky opportunity did present itself, he would not have time to profit by it. An observation, which I kept up for five hours on end, without even then managing to complete the experiment and obtain the proofs which I anticipated, is one that, to be properly conducted, should be made at leisure in one’s own garden. I owe my success, therefore, to my rustic laboratory. I make a present of the secret to whosoever would continue those magnificent studies: the harvest is inexhaustible; there will be sheaves for all. When we follow the Ammophila’s hunting in the due sequence of her actions, the first question that suggests itself is this: how does the Wasp go to work to recognize the spot beneath which the Grey Worm lies? There is nothing outside, nothing, at least, perceptible to the eye, to indicate the caterpillar’s hiding-place. The soil that conceals the quarry may be grassy or bare, flinty or earthy, smooth or seamed with little cracks. These varieties of appearance are matters of indifference to the huntress, who prospects every spot without showing preference for one more than another. At no place where the Wasp stops and digs with some persistency do I see anything particular, in spite of all my attention; and yet there must be a Grey Worm there, as I have but now convinced myself, five times in succession, by lending a helping hand to the insect, which was at first discouraged by a task out of proportion to its strength. Sight, therefore, is certainly out of the question here. What sense, then? That of touch? Let us inquire. Everything tells us that the organs of search are the antennæ. With their tips, bent like a bow and quivering with a continual vibration, the insect tests the ground, giving a number of little taps. When some crack shows, the restless threads enter and sound it; when some grass-tuft spreads its tangled root-stock along the ground, the quivering of the antennæ redoubles as they grope among its knots and angles. Their tips are applied for an instant to the spot explored, moulding themselves, so to speak, upon it. They suggest two tactile filaments, two long fingers of incomparable mobility, which gather information by feeling. But the sense of touch can play no part in revealing what is underground: the thing to be felt is the Grey Worm; and the worm is lying snug in its burrow, at a depth of some inches below the surface. We thereupon turn our thoughts to the faculty of scent. Insects, there is no denying, possess the sense of smell, often very highly developed. The Necrophori, the Silphæ, the Histers, the Dermestes hasten from every side to the spot where lies a little corpse of which the ground is to be purged. Guided by scent, these grave-diggers hurry towards the dead Mole. 1 2 3 4 But, while the presence of the olfactory sense in insects is indisputable, we still ask ourselves where it is seated. Many declare that the seat is in the antennæ. Let us admit this, though it is difficult to understand how a rod consisting of horny segments, jointed end to end, can fulfil the office of a nostril which is so very differently constructed. The organization of one apparatus having naught in common with the other, can the impressions received by both be of the same nature? When tools are dissimilar, do their functions remain alike? Besides, there are grave objections in the case of our Wasp. Smell is a passive rather than an active sense; it does not, like touch, anticipate the impression: it receives it; it does not inquire after the scented effluvium: it accepts it when it comes. Now the Ammophila’s antennæ are always moving: they investigate, they anticipate the impression. The impression of what? If it were really an impression of smell, repose would serve them better than a perpetual quivering. But there is more to be said: the olfactory sense goes for nothing when there is no smell. Now I have tested the Grey Worm for myself; I have given it to young nostrils to sniff, nostrils much more sensitive than mine: not one of us has perceived the faintest trace of smell in the caterpillar. When the Dog, famed for his scent, becomes aware of the truffle underground, he is guided by the tuber’s savour, which is highly appreciable by ourselves, even through the thickness of the soil. I admit that the Dog has a more subtle sense of smell than we have: it is exercised at greater distances, it receives more vivid and lasting impressions; nevertheless, it is impressed by odorous effluvia which becomes perceptible to our own nostrils under the proper conditions of proximity. I will allow the Ammophila, if you like, a scent as delicate as that of the Dog, more delicate even; but still a smell is needed; and I ask myself how that which is inodorous at the very entrance to our nostrils can be odoriferous to an insect through the intervening obstacle of the ground. The senses, if they have the same functions, have the same excitants, from man to the Infusoria. No animal, so far as I know, can see clearly in what to us is absolute darkness. True, it may be said that, in the zoological progression, perception, always fundamentally the same, has varying degrees of power: this species is capable of more and that species of less; what is perceptible to one is imperceptible to another. This is perfectly right; and yet the insect, generally considered, does not appear to possess exceptional keenness of scent: the effluvia that attract it are perceived without a sense of smell of unusual delicacy. When Dermestes, Silphæ and Histers pour into the chalice of a carrion-scented arum lily, never to come out again; when swarms of Flies buzz around a dead Dog’s blue and swollen belly, the whole neighbourhood reeks with the stench. It hardly requires a scent of exquisite accuracy on the insect’s part to discover putrid meat and rotten cheese. Wherever we see its hordes gather, with scent for their undoubted guide, we ourselves are cognizant of a smell. There remains hearing. This is another sense about which entomologists are not adequately informed. Where is its seat? In the antennæ, we are told. Those fine, quivering stalks would seem fairly well suited to be put in motion under the impulse of sound. In that case the Ammophila, exploring the region with her antennæ, would be warned of the presence of the Grey Worm by a slight noise coming up from the ground, the noise of the mandibles nibbling a root, the noise of the caterpillar wriggling its hind-quarters. What a faint sound and how difficult to transmit through the spongy cushion of the earth! It is less than faint, it is non-existent. The Grey Worm is nocturnal in its habits. By day it skulks in its lair and does not stir. It does not nibble either; at least, the Grey Worms which I unearthed upon the Wasp’s indications were nibbling nothing, for the very simple reason that they had nothing to nibble. They were completely motionless and therefore silent in a layer of earth devoid of roots. The sense of hearing must be rejected with that of smell. The question recurs, more abstruse than ever. How does the Ammophila go to work to recognize the spot beneath which the Grey Worm lies? The antennæ are, beyond a doubt, the organs that guide her. They do not, in this case, act as olfactory instruments, unless we admit that their dry and tough surface, which has none of the delicate structure required for the ordinary sense of smell, is nevertheless capable of perceiving scents that are non-existent to us. This would be equivalent to admitting that coarse tools tend to perfection of work. Nor do they act as instruments of hearing, for there is no sound to be discerned. What then is their function? I do not know and I despair of ever knowing. Inclined as we are—and it could not well be otherwise—to judge all things by our standard, the only one in any way known to us, we attribute to animals our own means of perception and do not dream that they might easily possess others of which it is impossible for us to have an exact idea because there is nothing like them in ourselves. Are we quite certain that they are not equipped, in very varying degrees, for the purpose of sensations as foreign to ourselves as the sensation of colours would be if we were blind? Has matter no secrets left for us? Are we so very sure that it is revealed to the living being only by light, sound, taste, smell and touch? Physics and chemistry, young though they be, already declare to us that the dark unknown contains an enormous harvest, in comparison with which our scientific sheaf is the merest penury. A new sense, perhaps that which dwells in the grotesquely exaggerated nose of the Rhinolophus, perhaps that which dwells in the antennæ of the Ammophila, would open to our search a world which our physical structure no doubt condemns us to leave for ever unexplored. Cannot certain properties of matter, which have no perceptible action upon us, find a receptive echo in animals, which are differently equipped? 5 When Spallanzani, after blinding some Bats, released them in a room converted into a maze by means of cords stretched in every direction and of heaped-up brambles, how were those animals able to find their way about, to fly quickly, to move to and fro, from end to end of the room, without hitting the interposed articles? What sense analogous to any of ours guided them? Would some one tell me and, above all, make me understand? I should also like to understand how the Ammophila infallibly finds her caterpillar’s burrow with the aid of her antennæ. It is not a case of the sense of smell: we should have to presume it to possess an unparalleled delicacy, while recognizing that it is exercised by an organ in which no provision seems made for the perception of smells. 6 What a number of other incomprehensible things do we not ascribe to the insect’s sense of smell! We are satisfied with a word: the explanation is ready-found, without laborious search. But, if we care to consider the matter thoroughly, if we compare the requisite array of facts, then the cliff of the unknown rises abruptly, not to be climbed by the path which we insist on following. Let us then change our path and admit that animals may have other means of information than our own. Our senses do not represent the sum total of the methods whereby an animal communicates with that which is not itself: there are others not capable of comparison, however remote, with those which we possess. If the act of the Ammophila were an isolated fact, I should not have lingered over it as I have done; but I propose to speak of others stranger still, which will carry conviction to the most exacting mind. After relating them, therefore, I shall return to the subject of special senses, irreducible senses, unknown to us. For the moment, let us go back to the Grey Worm, which it would be as well for us to know in a less casual fashion. I have four of them, dug up with the knife at the spots indicated by the Ammophila. My intention was to substitute them, by turns, for the doomed victim, so as to see the Wasp’s operation repeated. When my plan failed, I placed the worms in a glass jar, with a layer of earth and a lettuce-stalk above them. By day, my captives remained buried in the earth; at night, they came up to the surface, where I caught them gnawing at the salad from below. In August, they dug deep down, not to come up again, and fashioned themselves a cocoon apiece of earth, very rough on the outer surface, oval in shape and the size of a small pigeon’s egg. The moth appeared at the end of the same month. I recognized the Dart or Turnip Moth (Noctua segetum, Hübn.). The Hairy Ammophila, therefore, feeds her grubs on the caterpillars of Noctuæ; and her choice falls exclusively on the species that live underground. These caterpillars, commonly known as Grey Worms, because of their drab garb, are a most formidable scourge to agricultural crops, as well as to garden produce. Curled in their burrows by day, they climb to the surface at night and gnaw the base or collar of the herbaceous plants. Everything suits them: ornamental plants and edible plants alike. Flower-beds, market-gardens, fields are laid waste without distinction. When a seedling withers without apparent cause, draw it to you gently; and the dying plant will come up, but maimed, severed from its root. The Grey Worm has passed that way in the night; its greedy mandibles have performed the deadly amputation. Its havoc rivals that wrought by the White Worm, the grub of the Cockchafer. When it swarms in a beet-country, the damage amounts to millions. This is the terrible enemy against which the Ammophila comes to our aid. I point out and urgently recommend to agriculturalists this valuable auxiliary, so zealous in her search of the Grey Worm in spring, so skilful in discovering its hiding-place. An Ammophila in a garden may mean the saving of a lettuce-bed, the snatching of a balsam-border from danger. But there is need here for recommendations. None would dream of destroying the pretty Wasp that goes fluttering nimbly from one path to the other, that visits this corner of the garden, then that, then the next, then the one over there; none dreams either—and none, unfortunately, can dream—of assisting her to multiply. In the immense majority of cases the insect evades our influence: to exterminate it, if it be harmful, to propagate it, if it be useful, are impracticable undertakings for us. By a singular contrast of strength and weakness, man cuts through the neck of continents to join two seas, he pierces the Alps, he weighs the sun; and yet he cannot prevent a wretched maggot from enjoying his cherries before he himself does, nor an odious Louse from destroying his vines! The Titan is vanquished by the pigmy. Now we have here, in this insect-world, an auxiliary of high merit, the supreme foe of our grievous foe the Grey Worm. Can we do anything to stock our fields and gardens with it at will? We cannot; for the first condition of multiplying the Ammophila would be to multiply the Grey Worm, the only food of her family of grubs. I do not speak of the insurmountable difficulties which this breeding would present. We have not to do with the Bee, who is faithful to her hive, because of her social habits; still less with the stupid Silkworm, perched on its mulberry-leaf, or its clumsy Moth, who for a moment flutters her wings, pairs, lays her eggs and dies: we have to do with an insect that is capricious in its wanderings, swift of flight and independent in its ways. Besides, the first condition shatters all our hopes. Would we have the helpful Ammophila? Then we must resign ourselves to accepting the Grey Worm. We move in a vicious circle: to produce good we must invoke the aid of evil. The hostile band brings the friendly troop to our fields; but the second cannot live without the first; and the two show an even balance in numbers. If the Grey Worm abound, the Ammophila finds copious provender for her grubs and her race prospers; if the Grey Worm be rare, the Ammophila’s offspring decrease and disappear. This balance between prosperity and decadence is the immutable law that governs the proportions between devourers and devoured. 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). The Hunting Wasps. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/67110/pg67110-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 .

AN UNKNOWN SENSE

THE TRAVELLERS

AN ASCENT OF MONT VENTOUX

ABERRATIONS OF INSTINCT

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 .

Stories, News & Mentions about MILEBERRY

Mileberry’s Stories on HackerNoon