The Story-book of Science

Jean-Henri Fabre

The Story-book of Science

Sharp Ink Publishing

2024

Contact: info@sharpinkbooks.com

ISBN 9788028361952

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I THE SIX

CHAPTER II THE FAIRY TALE AND THE TRUE STORY

CHAPTER III THE BUILDING OF THE CITY

CHAPTER IV THE COWS

CHAPTER V THE SHEEPFOLD

CHAPTER VI THE WILY DERVISH

CHAPTER VII A NUMEROUS FAMILY

CHAPTER VIII THE OLD PEAR-TREE

CHAPTER IX THE AGE OF TREES

CHAPTER X THE LENGTH OF ANIMAL LIFE

CHAPTER XI THE KETTLE

CHAPTER XII METALS

CHAPTER XIII METAL PLATING

CHAPTER XIV GOLD AND IRON

CHAPTER XV THE FLEECE

CHAPTER XVI FLAX AND HEMP

CHAPTER XVII COTTON

CHAPTER XVIII PAPER

CHAPTER XIX THE BOOK

CHAPTER XX PRINTING

CHAPTER XXI BUTTERFLIES

CHAPTER XXII THE BIG EATERS

CHAPTER XXIII SILK

CHAPTER XXIV THE METAMORPHOSIS

CHAPTER XXV SPIDERS

CHAPTER XXVI THE EPEIRA’S BRIDGE

CHAPTER XXVII THE SPIDER’S WEB

CHAPTER XXVIII THE CHASE

CHAPTER XXIX VENOMOUS INSECTS

CHAPTER XXX VENOM

CHAPTER XXXI THE VIPER AND THE SCORP ION

CHAPTER XXXII THE NETTLE

CHAPTER XXXIII PROCESSIONARY CATERPILLARS

CHAPTER XXXIV THE STORM

CHAPTER XXXV ELECTRICITY

CHAPTER XXXVI THE EXPERIMENT WITH THE CAT

CHAPTER XXXVII THE EXPERIMENT WITH PAPER

CHAPTER XXXVIII FRANKLIN AND DE ROMAS

CHAPTER XXXIX THUNDER AND THE LIGHTNING-ROD

CHAPTER XL EFFECTS OF THE THUNDERBOLT

CHAPTER XLI CLOUDS

CHAPTER XLII THE VELOCITY OF SOUND

CHAPTER XLIII THE EXPERIMENT WITH THE BOTTLE OF COLD WATER

CHAPTER XLIV RAIN

CHAPTER XLV VOLCANOES

CHAPTER XLVI CATANIA

CHAPTER XLVII THE STORY OF PLINY

CHAPTER XLVIII THE BOILING POT

CHAPTER XLIX THE LOCOMOTIVE

CHAPTER L EMILE’S OBSERVATION

CHAPTER LI A JOURNEY TO THE END OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER LII THE EARTH

CHAPTER LIII THE ATMOSPHERE

CHAPTER LIV THE SUN

CHAPTER LV DAY AND NIGHT

CHAPTER LVI THE YEAR AND ITS SEASONS

CHAPTER LVII BELLADONNA BERRIES

CHAPTER LVIII POISONOUS PLANTS

CHAPTER LIX THE BLOSSOM

CHAPTER LX FRUIT

CHAPTER LXI POLLEN

CHAPTER LXII THE BUMBLE-BEE

CHAPTER LXIII MUSHROOMS

CHAPTER LXIV IN THE WOODS

CHAPTER LXV THE ORANGE-AGARIC

CHAPTER LXVI EARTHQUAKES

CHAPTER LXVII SHALL WE KILL THEM BOTH?

CHAPTER LXVIII THE THERMOMETER

CHAPTER LXIX THE SUBTERRANEAN FURNACE

CHAPTER LXX SHELLS

CHAPTER LXXI THE SPIRAL SNAIL

CHAPTER LXXII MOTHER-OF-PEARL AND PEARLS

CHAPTER LXXIII THE SEA

CHAPTER LXXIV WAVESSALTSEAWEEDS

CHAPTER LXXV RUNNING WATERS

CHAPTER LXXVI THE SWARM

CHAPTER LXXVII WAX

CHAPTER LXXVIII THE CELLS

CHAPTER LXXIX HONEY

CHAPTER LXXX THE QUEEN BEE

CHAPTER I

THE SIX

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ONE evening, at twilight, they were assembled in a group, all six of them. Uncle Paul was reading in a large book. He always reads to rest himself from his labors, finding that after work nothing refreshes so much as communion with a book that teaches us the best that others have done, said, and thought. He has in his room, well arranged on pine shelves, books of all kinds. There are large and small ones, with and without pictures, bound and unbound, and even gilt-edged ones. When he shuts himself up in his room it takes something very serious to divert him from his reading. And so they say that Uncle Paul knows any number of stories. He investigates, he observes for himself. When he walks in his garden he is seen now and then to stop before the hive, around which the bees are humming, or under the elder bush, from which the little flowers fall softly, like flakes of snow; sometimes he stoops to the ground for a better view of a little crawling insect, or a blade of grass just pushing into view. What does he see? What does he observe? Who knows? They say, however, that there comes to his beaming face a holy joy, as if he had just found himself face to face with some secret of the wonders of God. It makes us feel better when we hear stories that he tells at these moments; we feel better, and furthermore we learn a number of things that some day may be very useful to us.

Uncle Paul is an excellent, God-fearing man, obliging to every one, and as good as bread. The village has the greatest esteem for him, so much so that they call him Maître Paul, on account of his learning, which is at the service of all.

To help him in his field work—for I must tell you that Uncle Paul knows how to handle a plow as well as a book, and cultivates his little estate with success—he has Jacques, the old husband of old Ambroisine. Mother Ambroisine has the care of the house, Jacques looks after the animals and fields. They are better than two servants; they are two friends in whom Uncle Paul has every confidence. They saw Paul born and have been in the house a long, long time. How often has Jacques made whistles from the bark of a willow to console little Paul when he was unhappy! How many times Ambroisine, to encourage him to go to school without crying, has put a hard-boiled new-laid egg in his lunch basket! So Paul has a great veneration for his father’s two old servants. His house is their house. You should see, too, how Jacques and Mother Ambroisine love their master! For him, if it were necessary, they would let themselves be quartered.

Uncle Paul has no family, he is alone; yet he is never happier than when with children, children who chatter, who ask this, that, and the other, with the adorable ingenuousness of an awakening mind. He has prevailed upon his brother to let his children spend a part of the year with their uncle. There are three: Emile, Jules, and Claire.

Claire is the oldest. When the first cherries come she will be twelve years old. Little Claire is industrious, obedient, gentle, a little timid, but not in the least vain. She knits stockings, hems handkerchiefs, studies her lessons, without thinking of what dress she shall wear Sunday. When her uncle, or Mother Ambroisine, who is almost a mother to her, tells her to do a certain thing, she does it at once, even with pleasure, happy in being able to render some little service. It is a very good quality.

Jules is two years younger. He is a rather thin little body, lively, all fire and flame. When he is preoccupied about something, he does not sleep. He has an insatiable appetite for knowledge. Everything interests and takes possession of him. An ant drawing a straw, a sparrow chirping on the roof, are sufficient to engross his attention. He then turns to his uncle with his interminable questions: Why is this? Why is that? His uncle has great faith in this curiosity, which, properly guided, may lead to good results. But there is one thing about Jules that his uncle does not like. As we must be honest, we will own that Jules has a little fault which would become a grave one if not guarded against: he has a temper. If he is opposed he cries, gets angry, makes big eyes, and spitefully throws away his cap. But it is like the boiling over of milk soup: a trifle will calm him. Uncle Paul hopes to be able to bring him round by gentle reprimands, for Jules has a good heart.

Emile, the youngest of the three, is a complete madcap; his age permits it. If any one gets a face smeared with berries, a bump on the forehead, or a thorn in the finger, it is sure to be he. As much as Jules and Claire enjoy a new book, he enjoys a visit to his box of playthings. And what has he not in the way of playthings? Now it is a spinning-top that makes a loud hum, then blue and red lead soldiers, a Noah’s Ark with all sorts of animals, a trumpet which his uncle has forbidden him to blow because it makes too much noise, then—But he is the only one that knows what there is in that famous box. Let us say at once, before we forget it, Emile is already asking questions of his uncle. His attention is awakening. He begins to understand that in this world a good top is not everything. If one of these days he should forget his box of playthings for a story, no one would be surprised.

CHAPTER II

THE FAIRY TALE AND THE TRUE STORY

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THE six of them were gathered together. Uncle Paul was reading in a big book, Jacques braiding a wicker basket, Mother Ambroisine plying her distaff, Claire marking linen with red thread, Emile and Jules playing with the Noah’s Ark. And when they had lined up the horse after the camel, the dog after the horse, then the sheep, donkey, ox, lion, elephant, bear, gazelle, and a great many others,—when they had them all arranged in a long procession leading to the ark, Emile and Jules, tired of playing, said to Mother Ambroisine: Tell us a story, Mother Ambroisine—one that will amuse us.

And with the simplicity of old age Mother Ambroisine spoke as follows, at the same time twirling her spindle:

"Once upon a time a grasshopper went to the fair with an ant. The river was all frozen. Then the grasshopper gave a jump and landed on the other side of the ice, but the ant could not do this; and it said to the grasshopper: ‘Take me on your shoulders; I weigh so little.’ But the grasshopper said: ‘Do as I do; give a spring, and jump.’ The ant gave a spring, but slipped and broke its leg.

"Ice, ice, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.

"Then the ice said: ‘The sun is stronger than I, and it melts me.’

"Sun, sun, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to melt the ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.

"Then the sun said: ‘The clouds are stronger than I; they hide me.’

"Clouds, clouds, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to hide the sun; you, sun, to melt the ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.

"Then the clouds said: ‘The wind is stronger than we; it drives us away.’

"Wind, wind, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to drive away the clouds; you, clouds, to hide the sun; you, sun, to melt the ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.

"Then the wind said: ‘The walls are stronger than I; they stop me.’

"Walls, walls, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to stop the wind; you, wind, to drive away the clouds; you, clouds, to hide the sun; you, sun, to melt the ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.

"Then the walls said: ‘The rat is stronger than we; it bores holes through us.’

Rat, rat, the strong—

But it is all the same thing, over and over again, Mother Ambroisine, exclaimed Jules impatiently.

Not quite, my child. After the rat comes the cat that eats the rat, then the broom that strikes the cat, then the fire that burns the broom, then the water that puts out the fire, then the ox that quenches his thirst with the water, then the fly that stings the ox, then the swallow that snaps up the fly, then the snare that catches the swallow, then—

And does it go on very long like that? asked Emile.

As long as you please, replied Mother Ambroisine, for however strong one may be, there are always others stronger still.

Really, Mother Ambroisine, said Emile, that story tires me.

Then listen to this one: Once upon a time there lived a woodchopper and his wife, and they were very poor. They had seven children, the youngest so very, very small that a wooden shoe answered for its bed.

I know that story, again interposed Emile. The seven children are going to get lost in the woods. Little Hop-o’-my-Thumb marks the way at first with white pebbles, then with bread crumbs. Birds eat the crumbs. The children get lost, Hop-o’-my-Thumb, from the top of a tree, sees a light in the distance. They run to it: rat-tat-tat! It is the dwelling of an ogre!

There is no truth in that, declared Jules, nor in Puss-in-Boots, nor Cinderella, nor Bluebeard. They are fairy tales, not true stories. For my part, I want stories that are really and truly so.

At the words, true stories, Uncle Paul raised his head and closed his big book. A fine opportunity offered for turning the conversation to more useful and interesting subjects than Mother Ambroisine’s old tales.

I approve of your wanting true stories, said he. You will find in them at the same time the marvelous, which pleases so much at your age, and also the useful, with which even at your age you must concern yourselves, in preparation for after life. Believe me, a true story is much more interesting than a tale in which ogres smell fresh blood and fairies change pumpkins into carriages and lizards into lackeys. And could it be otherwise? Compared with truth, fiction is but a pitiful trifle; for the former is the work of God, the latter the dream of man. Mother Ambroisine could not interest you with the ant that broke its leg in trying to cross the ice. Shall I be more fortunate? Who wants to hear a true story of real ants?

White Ant

I! I! cried Emile, Jules, and Claire all together.

CHAPTER III

THE BUILDING OF THE CITY

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THEY are noble workers began Uncle Paul, "Many a time, when the morning sun begins to warm up, I have taken pleasure in observing the activity that reigns around their little mounds of earth, each with its summit pierced by a hole for exit and entrance.

"There are some that come from the bottom of this hole. Others follow them, and still more, on and on. They carry between their teeth a tiny grain of earth, an enormous weight for them. Arrived at the top of the mound, they let their burden fall, and it rolls over the slope, and they immediately descend again into their well. They do not play on the way, or stop with their companions to rest a while. Oh! no: the work is urgent, and they have so much to do! Each one arrives, serious, with its grain of earth, deposits it, and descends in search of another. What are they so busy about?

"They are building a subterranean town, with streets, squares, dormitories, storehouses; they are hollowing out a dwelling-place for themselves and their family. At a depth where rain cannot penetrate they dig the earth and pierce it with galleries, which lengthen into long communicating streets, sub-divided into short ones, crossing one another here and there, sometimes ascending, sometimes descending, and opening into large halls. These immense works are executed grain by grain, drawn by strength of the jaws. If any one could see that black army of miners at work under the ground, he would be filled with astonishment.

"They are there by the thousands, scratching, biting, drawing, pulling, in the deepest darkness. What patience! What efforts! And when the grain of sand has at last given way, how they go off, head held high and proud, carrying it triumphantly above! I have seen ants, whose heads tottered under the tremendous load, exhaust themselves in getting to the top of the mound. In jostling their companions, they seemed to say: See how I work! And nobody could blame them, for the pride of work is a noble pride. Little by little, at the gate of the town, that is to say at the edge of the hole, this little mound of earth is piled up, formed by excavated material from the city that is being built. The larger the mound, the larger the subterranean dwelling, it is plain.

"Hollowing out these galleries in the ground is not all; they must also prevent landslides, fortify weak places, uphold the vaults with pillars, make partitions. These miners are then seconded by carpenters. The first carry the earth out of the ant-hill, the second bring the building materials. What are these materials! They are pieces of timber-work, beams, and small joists, suitable for the edifice. A tiny little bit of straw is a solid beam for a ceiling, the stem of a dry leaf can become a strong column. The carpenters explore the neighboring forests, that is to say the tufts of grass, to choose their pieces.

"Good! see this covering of an oat-grain. It is very thin, dry, and solid. It will make an excellent plank for the partition they are constructing below. But it is heavy, enormously heavy. The ant that has made the discovery draws backward and makes itself rigid on its six feet. No success: the heavy mass does not move. It tries again, all its little body trembling with energy. The oat-husk just moves a tiny bit. The ant recognizes its powerlessness. It goes off. Will it abandon the piece? Oh! no. When one is an ant, one has the perseverance that commands success. Here it is coming back with two helpers. One seizes the oat in front, the others hitch themselves to the side, and behold! it rolls, it advances; it will get there. There are difficult steps, but the ants they meet along the route will give them a shoulder.

"They have succeeded, not without trouble. The oat is at the entrance to the under-ground city. Now things become complicated; the piece gets awry; leaning against the edge of the hole, it cannot enter. Helpers hasten up. Ten, twenty unite their efforts without success. Two or three of them, engineers perhaps, detach themselves from the band, and seek the cause of this insurmountable resistance. The difficulty is soon solved: they must put the piece with the point at the bottom. The oat is drawn back a little, so that one end overhangs the hole. One ant seizes this end while the others lift the end that is on the ground, and the piece, turning a somersault, falls into the well, but is prudently held on to by the carpenters clinging to the sides. You may perhaps think, my children, that the miners mounting with their grain of earth would stop from curiosity before this mechanical prodigy? Not at all, they have not time. They pass with their loads of excavated material, without a glance at the carpenters’ work. In their ardor they are even bold enough to slide under the moving beams, at the risk of being crippled. Let them look out! That is their affair.

One must eat when one works so hard. Nothing creates an appetite like violent exercise. Milkmaid ants go through the ranks; they have just milked the cows and are now distributing the milk to the workers.

Here Emile burst out laughing. But that is not really and truly so? said he to his uncle. Milkmaid ants, cows, milk! It is a fairy tale like Mother Ambroisine’s.

Emile was not the only one to be surprised at the peculiar expressions Uncle Paul had used. Mother Ambroisine no longer turned her spindle, Jacques did not plait his wickers, Jules and Claire stared with wide-open eyes. All thought it a jest.

No, my dears, said Uncle Paul. I am not jesting; no. I have not exchanged the truth for a fairy tale. It is true there are milkmaid ants and cows. But as that demands some explanation, we will put off the continuation of the story until to-morrow.

Emile drew Jules off into a corner, and said to him in confidence: Uncle’s true stories are very amusing, much more so than Mother Ambroisine’s tales. To hear the rest about those wonderful cows I would willingly leave my Noah’s Ark.

CHAPTER IV

THE COWS

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THE next day Emile, when only half awake, began to think of the ants’ cows. We must beg uncle, said he to Jules, to tell us the rest of his story this morning.

No sooner said than done: they went to look for their uncle.

Aha! cried he upon hearing their request, the ants’ cows are interesting you. I will do better than tell you about them, I will show them to you. First of all call Claire.

Claire came in haste. Their uncle took them under the elder bush in the garden, and this is what they saw:

The bush is white with flowers. Bees, flies, beetles, butterflies, fly from one flower to another with a drowsy murmur. On the trunk of the elder, amongst the ridges of the bark, numbers of ants are crawling, some ascending, some descending. Those ascending are the more eager. They sometimes stop the others on the way and appear to consult them as to what is going on above. Being informed, they begin climbing again with even more ardor, proof that the news is good. Those descending go in a leisurely manner, with short steps. Willingly they halt to rest or to give advice to those who consult them. One can easily guess the cause of the difference in eagerness of those ascending and those descending. The descending ants have their stomachs swollen, heavy, deformed, so full are they; those ascending have their stomachs thin, folded up, crying hunger. You cannot mistake them: the descending ants are coming back from a feast and, well fed, are returning home with the slowness that a heavy paunch demands; the ascending ants are running to the same feast and put into the assault of the bush the eagerness of an empty stomach.

What do they find on the elder to fill their stomachs? asked Jules. Here are some that can hardly drag along. Oh, the gluttons!

Gluttons! no, Uncle Paul corrected him; for they have a worthy motive for gorging themselves. There is above, on the elder, an immense number of the cows. The descending ants have just milked them, and it is in their paunch that they carry the milk for the common nourishment of the ant-hill colony. Let us look at the cows and the way of milking them. Don’t expect, I warn you, herds like ours. One leaf serves them for pasturage.

Uncle Paul drew down to the children’s level the top of a branch, and all looked at it attentively. Innumerable black velvety lice, immobile and so close together as to touch one another, cover the under side of the leaves and the still tender wood. With a sucker more delicate than a hair plunged into the bark, they fill themselves peacefully with the sap of the elder without changing their position. At the end of their back, they have two short and hollow hairs, two tubes from which, if you look attentively, you can see a little drop of sugary liquid escape from time to time. These black lice are called plant-lice. They are the ants’ cows. The two tubes are the udders, and the liquor which drips from their extremity is the milk. In the midst of the herd, on the herd, even, when the cattle are too close together, the famished ants come and go from one louse to another, watching for the delicious little drop. The one who sees it runs, drinks, enjoys it, and seems to say on raising its little head: Oh, how good, oh, how good it is! Then it goes on its way looking for another mouthful of milk. But plant-lice are stingy with their milk; they are not always disposed to let it run through their tubes. Then the ant, like a milkmaid ready to milk her cow, lavishes the most endearing caresses on the plant-louse. With its antennæ, that is to say, with its little delicate flexible horns, it gently pats the stomach and tickles the milk-tubes. The ant nearly always succeeds. What cannot gentleness accomplish! The plant-louse lets itself be conquered; a drop appears which is immediately licked up. Oh, how good, how good! As the little paunch is not full, the ant goes to other plant-lice trying the same caresses.

Plant-louse

Uncle Paul let go the branch, which sprang back into its natural position. Milkmaids, cattle, and pasture were at once at the top of the elder bush.

That is wonderful, Uncle, cried Claire.

Wonderful, my dear child. The elder is not the only bush that nourishes milk herds for the ants. Plant-lice can be found on many other forms of vegetation. Those on the rosebush and cabbage are green; on the elder, bean, poppy, nettle, willow, poplar, black; on the oak and thistle, bronze color; on the oleander and nut, yellow. All have the two tubes from which oozes the sugary liquor; all vie with one another in feasting the ants.

Claire and her uncle went in-doors. Emile and Jules, enraptured by what they had just seen, began to look for lice on other plants. In less than an hour they had found four different kinds, all receiving visits of no disinterested sort from the ants.

CHAPTER V

THE SHEEPFOLD

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IN the evening Uncle Paul resumed the story of the ants. At that hour Jacques was in the habit of going the round of the stables to see if the oxen were eating their fodder and if the well-fed lambs were sleeping peacefully beside their mothers. Under the pretense of giving the finishing touches to his wicker basket, Jacques stayed where he was. The real reason was that the ants’ cows were on his mind. Uncle Paul related in detail what they had seen in the morning on the elder: how the plant-lice let the sugary drops ooze from their tubes, how the ants drank this delicious liquid and knew how, if necessary, to obtain it by caresses.

What you are telling us, Master, said Jacques, puts warmth into my old veins. I see once more how God takes care of His creatures, He who gives the plant-louse to the ant as He gives the cow to man.

Yes, my good Jacques, returned Uncle Paul, "these things are done to increase our faith in Providence, whose all-seeing eye nothing can escape. To a thoughtful person, the beetle that drinks from the depths of a flower, the tuft of moss that receives the rain-drop on the burning tile, bear witness to the divine goodness.

"To return to my story. If our cows wandered at will in the country, if we were obliged to take troublesome journeys to go and milk them in distant pastures, uncertain whether we should find them or not, it would be hard work for us, and very often impossible. How do we manage then? We keep them close at hand, in inclosures and in stables. This also is sometimes done by the ants with the plant-lice. To avoid tiresome journeys, sometimes useless, they put their herds in a park. Not all have this admirable foresight, however. Besides, if they had, it would be impossible to construct a park large enough for such innumerable cattle and their pasturage. How, for