THE FIFTH DAY.
"THE MOVING CREATURE THAT HATH LIFE."
"This is the finger of God."—EXODUS viii. 19.
"The Lord … in whose hand is the soul of every living thing."—JOB xii. 10.
"O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast Thou made them all: the earth is full of Thy riches. So is this great and wide sea, wherein are things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts."—PSALM civ. 24, 25.
We now come to the time when the empty water, air, and land were filled. The work of God on the FIFTH DAY is spoken of in verses 20 and 21 of our chapter. In reading them we noticed that in respect of the "great whales," or sea monsters, the word "created" is again used, as it was in the first verse; and then, as we read the twenty-third verse, we had a little talk about the words now used for the first time in the story of Creation, "and God blessed them."
How beautiful it is to see that as soon as God had caused the waters to "swarm with swarms of living souls" (look at the margin of your Bible as you read the twentieth verse)—as soon as we read of creatures to whom God gave a life different from that of a tree or a flower, a life that could enjoy itself in the home prepared for it—all these living things were blessed, that is, made happy, by Him who called them into being!
God's world was a happy world for the humblest creature of His hand; and if it is now a sad world, where the groan of many a suffering animal goes up to Him who hears the ravens when they cry—whose fault is it?
Did you ever think how kind we ought to be to the creatures which, innocent themselves, have shared the sorrow brought into the world by man's disobedience? I heard someone say the other day, "It is terrible to see animals suffer: to see cattle overdriven, and sheep dying for want of water, and defenceless creatures cruelly used. But when I see any of these things, I have to feel—I am to blame for that."
When I asked my scholars, "What is the meaning of abundantly?" Sharley said, "It means enough and over."
Do you like her answer?
As the sea everywhere, even down in those depths where the sun's light cannot pierce through the masses of water, is peopled by millions of creatures—every drop of water, as we might say, alive with life—I thought it a good one. A great poet has spoken of the "multitudinous seas," but whether this was in allusion to their wealth of life, or to their myriad waves, I do not know. Certainly in his time very little was known about the dwellers in the deep, deep sea, compared with what we may learn in the present day, when the sounding-line has reached the bottom of the Atlantic, and actually brought up some of the clay that forms its floor—clay which is made up of the skeletons of myriads of creatures. It was once thought that no life could exist in the ocean-depths, but we now know that life is everywhere—in air and water, upon the earth and within it, in the lowest depths of the sea, and on the highest mountain peaks, in hot and cold climates, and in the bodies of animals: all around us—earth, air, and water—teems with life.
Now let us read once more the simple words which tell us all we can really know about what is so wonderful: "And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life" (or, as it may be translated, "Let the waters swarm with swarms of living souls").
We will not read farther to-day, as I want to tell you in this chapter something about life in what are called its lower forms, and we shall find that wherever we may look, every creature is perfect in itself, and perfectly suited to the life appointed to it by its Creator, and the home where He has placed it.
My children had learnt something about the two great divisions of animals, those which belong to the great Backboned Family and those which have no backbone. It is of the latter that we shall speak today. You know that a fish has a backbone, and that it is beautifully formed, for you have often seen it; but perhaps you have not noticed that a lobster, though called one of the shell-fish, is quite unlike the true Fishes: its skeleton is not inside, but outside; there are no bones within, but all the soft parts are inside, and the hard parts outside; while the body of a fish is formed on just the opposite plan. The fish is called a Vertebrate animal, because it has a backbone, made up of numbers of separate bones called vertebras. Some of us know that this word comes from the Latin, and means that which turns, because these many small bones are so beautifully jointed together as to be all perfectly moveable, so that the long bone which they form is very flexible. Some snakes have more than three hundred of these vertebræ, and you know how they can coil and twist their glittering length.
The marks of a Vertebrate animal are very easy to remember.
It must have this wonderfully jointed backbone, and also what is called the skeleton, which is a framework of bone.
A spinal cord (from which this division of animals is sometimes called the
"Chordate").
Four limbs, and red blood.
In these respects all the animals which belong to this division are alike, though in general appearance they may be as unlike each other as a horse is unlike a bird, or a crocodile unlike a herring.
Few things in nature are more wonderful than the way in which this Vertebrate plan has been fitted to animals differing from each other in all other respects.
Now let us look at the marks of an Invertebrate or Inchordate animal.
It has no backbone, and instead of a bony framework within, to support the soft parts of its body, it generally has a hard shell, or thickened skin outside, to protect the softer inner parts.
It has no red blood.
Now, just as plants have been arranged in different classes, so animals are classified according to the various plans upon which they have been formed. So, besides the two great divisions of the Vertebrates and the Invertebrates, the latter have been classed as—
(a) Radiata, or Rayed Animals—those whose parts all radiate from a common centre—such as the starfish, red-coral, sea-anemone.
(b) Mollusca, or Soft-bodied Animals, protected by shells—such as snails, oysters, limpets. (The members of this family are numerous indeed).
(c) Annulosa, or Ringed Animals—those whose bodies are composed of many parts, jointed together—such as crabs, spiders, bees, ants, centipedes, shrimps, and many more; for this great family has relations among all the insect tribes.
It is very beautiful to see that God has formed His creatures on such different plans, and though we shall be able to say very little about them, I hope you will by-and-by study Natural History, and learn more and more of His care in fitting each for the life it has to live. But remember that all these types of animals, the Radiates, Molluscs, Articulates (as the members of the "ringed" family are sometimes sailed), existed in the most ancient times: they lived side by side, as it were, and were not, as some philosophers would have us believe, derived from each other. Each was "after its kind," and each species remains; animals may alter from changes in their way of life, but there is no passing from one kind to another.
Now I think you will be interested to hear that in the Stone Book, some of the most ancient "letters" are formed from creatures belonging to the Invertebrate Group. We were speaking just now of the white clay brought up from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean by the sounding line. The microscope shows that it consists of the imperishable part of creatures, tinier than any you can imagine, which had the power when living of extracting from the sea-water—as I told you is the way of the corals—the lime which formed their outer coat, or skeleton. These busy workers lived their little day, and then as they died, the shell-like coverings sank to the bottom of the sea, forming, as ages passed, thick beds of chalk, such as that of which the white cliffs of Dover are built up.
Then, as the sounding-line searches still deeper ocean-depths, it brings up a red clay, and this again is shown by the microscope to be composed partly of very minute creatures of a reddish colour, which live near the surface of the ocean, but when they die sink to the bottom.
Sponges, too, which form the home of great numbers of little radiates, grow upon the ocean floor or near the bottom of the sea; their tiny tenants, like minute cells, living upon still smaller creatures contained in the water which is held by the sponge.
And we are told that in some places the bottom of the sea is strewn with star-fishes and their relations, some of them very beautiful in form and colour, but all formed on the same plan of a central plate, from which five arms or fingers radiate.
Do we not better understand that the waters did indeed "swarm with swarms" when we learn even a little about these living creatures, many of them so small that we should not be aware of their existence if we had no microscope to reveal to us their countless myriads?
The Mollusca form a very large group of Invertebrate animals; they live on land as well as in the water, but the aquatic species are much more numerous than the terrestrial, and the deep-sea dredgings are constantly bringing to light new forms. Some of the shells which protect their soft bodies, and are formed by the animals themselves, are marvels of beauty, and many of them are secured from injury by a waterproof coating. A number of extinct animals, such as Ammonites and Belemnites, belong to this group—their shells may be seen in any good museum; those of the Belemnites, as their name implies, are shaped like a dart; those of the Ammonites, like that of the beautiful Nautilus of our times; but the fisherfolk of Whitby, where they are found in numbers, say they are "snakes turned to stone."
But as we have been speaking so much of sea-creatures, I think we will now leave the oysters, cockles, mussels, and razor-fish, and choose the familiar garden-snail as our specimen of the Mollusca, or Soft-bodied Family. I fancy you need no introduction to that snug little householder. Often, however, as you have touched his soft horns, you possibly do not know that the very house in which you first made his acquaintance has been his habitation ever since; for young snails come from the egg with the shell upon their backs, and they never quit that first house for a larger one, for as they grow, their shell-house grows too. Look at this empty snail shell, and say whether God has not given a beautiful coat of mail to protect a creature without a bone in its body, and so sensitive that
"Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house, with much
Displeasure."
But how does the house grow large so as to suit the growing tenant? Most shells are made from a part of the animal called the mantle, and increase round the rim; if the snail's house is broken, its slime will harden over the injured part and repair it. Then, when the cold weather comes, and the snail prepares to bury itself underground for several months, and take its winter nap, it makes a strong cement of earth and slime, with which it builds up the open part of its shell—but, wonderful to think of, the clever little mason leaves, as it were, one brick out of the wall, and thus there is a tiny opening, too small to let in the water, but large enough to admit air sufficient to keep him alive during his long sleep.
Now that our snail has been good enough to put out those four horns of his, let us ask what purpose they serve, and why they are placed' where they are. The answer is very simple; these "feelers" are to the snail instead of arms and legs; and the upper pair have eyes at the end, so that the wary little traveller, as it drags itself along a broad cabbage leaf, leaving a slimy track behind it, can tell, both by sight and touch, what obstacles may lie in its path. I don't know whether you have ever seen the eggs of snails; I have not, but I have heard that they are about the size of peas, and are buried in the earth, as the crocodile's eggs are buried in the sand.
Of the many families of Ringed or Jointed Animals, we will choose the Crabs and Lobsters first. They are encased in armour of shell, and this has given to them and their relations the name of Crustaceans, or Crusty creatures, because what bones they have are outside, not hidden beneath the flesh. But unlike the snail's house, which grows with the growth of its inmate, and unlike our skeleton which grows as we grow, this close-fitting armour does not increase in size, nor is it elastic enough to expand, but every year one coat of mail is cast off, in a way not unlike the sloughing of the serpent, to make room for a fresh soft suit. This new suit soon hardens, and the creatures embrace the opportunity to make a little progress in growing, which they do by fits and starts, not continuously; for the shell, when once hardened, gives them no room to increase in size—they have to wait till next year! The long pointed claws of the crab and lobster are easily broken, and sometimes lost altogether, so that the power which they have of growing new ones is a wonderful provision for their life among the rough rocks and tangled sea-weeds.
One of the crusty creatures you know well enough, and you can find it without going to the seaside, I mean the wood-louse, which I used to hear called a "carpenter" when I was a child. In damp places, you can hardly turn over a mossy stone, or pick off a bit of bark from a fallen tree, without disturbing a whole colony of these slate-coloured creatures, with their mailed coats, made of ten rings, or plates of armour. They seem to know the use of their armour well enough, for if disturbed you will see them either scurry off as fast as their many little feet can carry them—and they are able to run forward or backward at pleasure—or else roll themselves up into tight balls, so that feet and head and feelers are all safe, under the ringed shield which God has given them as a defence and protection.
Many such creatures, rolled up just as the wood-louse curls itself, in tight balls, have been found in a fossil state; and there is a little petrified crustacean with wonderful eyes, which has been found in the slate quarries of South Wales. It is called the Trilobite, because it is composed of three lobes or divisions, and is an animal of the same kind as the lobster. Be sure you look for it, if you are fossil-hunting in the Museum, for it is a most interesting specimen, and has been found in rocks deep down in the earth's crust.
Now, next to this Crab and Lobster family, come that of the Spiders, and then that of the Insects.
Perhaps you will say, "But what are spiders, if they are not insects?" I know I used to think they were, until I found that no creature can be reckoned one of that large family unless it has six legs—not even one more or one less. Now, a spider has eight legs, and it has no wings, while all true insects have either wings, or what seems to be the beginning of wings: also although some spiders have as many as eight eyes, they are all "simple," while the eyes of insects are "compound"; that is, great numbers are massed together at each side of the head, like the "facets," or little faces, of a precious stone. As insects have fixed eyes, which cannot move, they would be very badly off without these many points of view.
I wonder whether you ever had a good look at a spider, or whether you learnt when you were almost a baby to think it a "horrid creature"; so that now, when you might be watching it at its work, your first notion is to get out of its way as fast as possible.
Some creatures are really harmful, and it is right to keep out of their way, but it is never right to despise a single thing which God has made, and when we think that the spider is one of His creatures, one which He calls "exceeding wise," it does indeed seem a pity not to learn something about it; and the best way to learn about spiders, as well as all the rest of the animals, is not only to read about them—though that is a very great help to begin with—but to observe and study their habits for ourselves.
Ernest is fond of repeating a poem about King Robert the Bruce; how, as he noticed a spider six times fail to climb up its slender thread, but succeed at the seventh attempt, he took courage to make one more effort for his lost kingdom, and succeeded.
This was long, long ago; but Kings and Commons have yet their tugs of war; and for old and young it is still all honour to those who
"Try, try, try till they win,
Brave with the thought that despair is a sin—
Who fights on God's side is sure to win."
There are a great many spiders, of which we cannot now learn much more than the names which have been given them; but the true story of their lives, and the wonderful way in which they overcome all sorts of difficulties, if rightly read, would make us feel that many a lesson of patient toil may be learnt from such busy little weavers, and engineers, and divers.
Here are a few of them: The Hunters—they live in crevices of walls and houses, and have their name because they wander about constantly, ready to steal upon any insect which may come in their way; the Vagrants, who, though they will run to catch their prey when it is in sight, lie in wait for it, rolled up in a leaf, or hiding at the bottom of a flower, just where the flies are sure to come for honey; the Water-spiders—they manage to live under water in a nest so nearly made of air, though in the midst of the water, that this spider has been looked upon as the inventor of the diving-bell. Then there is the industrious Mason, which bores a hole in the earth, makes the walls of its little tunnel as smooth as if it worked with trowel and mortar, and then hangs them with delicate silken curtains of its own spinning and weaving; the Trap-door spider, so called because the mouth of its burrowed nest is fitted with a cleverly hinged door, which the owner of the nest can shut with its claw when it leaves home; the Pirate, which makes a leafy raft, and skims along the water after the insects which suit its taste; the Gossamer spider, which rises so high in the air, and floats at its ease in its own balloon—and Epeira, the Garden spider, whose beautiful web, covered with dewy diamonds, we have all seen, laid like some fairy lacework, over the hedges, on an autumn morning, as if the little weaver had been early at its work, as "wise" people usually are; and, as God has deigned to tell us, He Himself has been.
[Illustration: THE GARDEN SPIDER.]
As we can only find time to study one spider, this shall be the one, for we have not to go far to look for it.
First let us consider why it makes its beautiful web, so slender and so easily destroyed that it is used as an emblem of the "hypocrite's hope" which "shall not endure"; and yet so strong when we think of the little creature whose cunning "hands" have woven it. The spider lives upon flies and other insects, but is itself without wings, so that it would be impossible for it to catch its prey if it had not been given power which the animals on which it feeds do not possess—the power to lay snares; this is why it takes such trouble with its beautiful web, and makes the cords from which it is woven so fine, and yet so strong. The web is the snare in which the insects on which it lives are caught, and from which they have no power to escape, for as soon as the insect is entangled, the spider, in his hiding-place, knows by the shaking of the threads that his prey is secure, pounces upon it, benumbs it by one prick of his poison-fang, binds it fast with silken threads, and carries it off to his "dismal den," as the verse about "the spider and the fly" calls the place where he lies in wait for any winged thing which may "come buzzing by."
But this subtle and beautiful snare—how is it made? Where do the threads which form the silken meshes come from? Ah! you have seen the cocoons which silkworms spin, have you not? The weaver-spiders get their threads just as the silkworms do, from their own bodies; each thread comes from an exceedingly small hole; there are four of these holes in the spider's body, and the threads are made of a sort of gum which is almost liquid, but which becomes hard when it is exposed to the air. The spider spins and twists its slender threads just as a rope-maker twists his ropes, only using its feet for hands—for each fine thread in the web, which you could break with one touch of your finger, is made up of many finer ones, and thus rendered strong. The only tools which the spider uses for his rope-walk and in his loom, are his own claws, which are furnished with comb-like fingers, and an extra claw, for winding up the thread into a ball.
If you could watch the spider at his work, you would see that he first marks the outline, by passing this thread from one leaf or branch to another, until the circle is as large as the web he intends to make; then this circle is filled with lines, which are woven from the outside to the centre, and resemble the spokes of a cart-wheel. A spider has actually been seen trying the strength of these cords which form the foundation of his web, breaking any that are not strong, and weaving others in their stead; for he has a sure instinct which tells him that if the framework is faulty, all will fall to pieces; and only when, by pulling each thread separately, he is certain that each will hold, does he begin to work from the centre, and spin ring after ring, the threads which pass from one spoke to another. When all is finished, the workman rests from his labour, and may often be seen sitting in the place which he has left for himself in the middle of his own web, watching with all his eyes for his prey.
A careful little fellow too is the spider; he is not ashamed to mend as well as to make, and you may see him busily repairing his broken net, and may know, by means of this little barometer, what weather to expect; for he is too wise to waste his silken threads and busy skill in making or mending a net for a coming storm to break.
"When the spider works away,
Be pretty sure of a sunny day."
Very soon after the little spiders leave the silky ball in which they are hatched, they begin to make webs of their own; but I. have heard that these first attempts look very irregular, which shows us that although God has given them the instinct by which they set about weaving snares, they learn, as we do, by painstaking and practice, to make their work more and more perfect.
Perhaps one reason why God has allowed us to watch the spider lay snares for his prey, is to keep us in mind of the snares of which He tells us in His Book. There are many very important passages about snares to which we do well to take heed.
While I was telling you about the way the spider has of pulling each of the cords which form the foundation of his web, one by one, to make sure that there is no weak place in any of them, I remembered something which a young girl once said to her mother. Alice had always been a merry, happy child, the light and joy of her home, and she loved her father and mother and little brothers and sisters, and the lambs and birds and flowers and summer sunshine, and games and treats, just as much as you do. But as she grew tall, Alice was not so strong; the child who, when she was nine years old, had "climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn"—running on before all the rest, until the guide called her his mountain-goat, and actually getting first to the top of the mountain—when she was about seventeen, began to fade like a flower, and to grow weaker and weaker day by day. [Footnote: The Master's Home Call. Memorials of Alice Frances Bickersteth, by her father.]
Her parents sorrowfully took her from place to place, hoping that fresh air might give new life to their child, and bring back the roses to her pale cheeks. But nothing made her better, and at last, when they brought her home again from the seaside, her father thought the time had come to tell Alice that the doctors all said the same thing; she might live a few months longer, but she would never, never be well and strong again, for she was not only very ill, but dying.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN PEAKS.]
It was lovely bright summer weather; you would have thought the sunshine and the soft air would have made anyone well, as Alice lay on the sofa while her dear father read to her. They had been reading the Epistle to the Philippians, and when they came to the verse where the Apostle Paul says, that to him "to die is gain," and to that other verse which speaks of departing "to be with Christ, which is far better," though he could hardly speak for tears, he told her just what the doctors had said.
I do not know whether Alice had ever thought of not getting better, but long before her illness, when she was strong and well, she had come to the Lord Jesus Christ—and now He was her Saviour and Friend, so that her father was not afraid to tell her that she was going to Him. This is what she said, as soon as he had told her:
"Dear father, I am not afraid to go. How I thank you for telling me." Then, when the tears came at the sight of his grief, she added, "It is only leaving you all; but Jesus will be there. What should I do without my Saviour now?"
From this time Alice very often spoke, about dying, but she always called it "going home." It was very soon after her father had told her, that she said to her mother those sweet words which came to my mind when we were speaking of the little spider making quite sure that his threads were strong, with no weak place anywhere.
"I feel just like a sailor," Alice said. "When he is called to go aloft, he tries all the ropes to see if they are firm. I have been trying them all, and, mother, they are all right."
Another time, when someone said, "You always looked happy, Alice," she smiled and said, "Yes, but I am happier now." And when he asked, "Have you no fear whatever?" she replied, "None whatever."
But had this always been so? Ah! no. It is true that she had always been a loving child, and had many bright ways about her which made people fond of her, so that it was no trouble to her to win love from all around her; but Alice had a very strong will, and liked to do just as she pleased, and as she grew up she often showed that she was indeed far away from God, and one of those "lost sheep" whom the Lord Jesus, the Good Shepherd, came to "seek and to save." But He had sought and found her, and now He was gently carrying her home on His shoulder.
This is what Alice herself said about it: "I used to be afraid of death; but God has taken it all away. I cannot understand people calling it 'being in danger.' Once my sins seemed to me as a mountain-pile, but they have all been laid on Jesus, and His blood is peace. It is all done for me. I have nothing to do but to keep clinging to Jesus till I see Him."
I wonder, when she spoke of having had all her sins laid on Jesus, whether
Alice was thinking of that verse which says, "All we, like sheep, have gone
astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on
Him the iniquity of us all."
How well it was for her that she had learnt to know her Saviour before the time of illness came; for she was then so weak and so very, very tired that she could not think much; but only, as she said, "keep clinging to Him." And as she grew weaker and weaker, I am sure the Good Shepherd taught her that even if she could not cling to Him—and it was no longer "the weak clinging to the Strong, but the Strong clinging to the weak"—she was safe, for He has said of His sheep, "I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand. My Father, which gave them Me, is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of My Father's hand. I and My Father are one."
Alice had near her bed, where she could always see it, a beautiful picture of a shepherd with a lamb upon his bosom. She was very fond of looking at it, and saying how it made her think of herself. "If you see a flock of sheep going along the road, and one of them is very weary," she said—one day when she was very tired, and her feet were very hot, so that she felt as if they would never be cool again—"you would not like to see them go on driving it, but would wish to see the shepherd take it in his arms to the fold." She asked that these works, "My Beloved is mine, and I am His," should be put upon her gravestone, saying that it was her favourite text; and against her name in the family Bible she wished them to write,… "so He bringeth them unto their desired haven."
When she was almost Home, her father spoke to Alice about the many she had to love on earth, and the many in heaven; for two little sisters, Constance and Eva, were already with the Lord. Looking up with a smile, as if she really saw the One who had been her Friend in life, and from whose love death could not separate her, she said softly, "Whom have I in heaven but Thee?"
I think these were her last words; a little before, she had said, "It seems strange to be going where you can none of you come with me; but He is there, and that is enough."
If you are like the rest of my young friends, you do not mind having the Spider's history interrupted, that we might think of this sweet story of Alice, and how she too "tried the ropes," and found them "all right." But there was one great difference, was there not? The spider's ropes are spun out of his own body; they are twisted so strongly and firmly by his own feet; but Alice knew that if she was to be safe in life and in death, nothing of her own was strong enough to hold by; she could be saved only because the Lord Jesus Christ had finished the work which God gave to Him to do. It was because Alice knew Whom she had believed that she could say she had tried the ropes and found them all right; she knew they would bear any strain, and so she could answer that question about being afraid, and reply that she had no fear whatever.
I want just here to copy for you some beautiful lines, written by one who "fell asleep in Jesus" when he was quite young, not yet sixteen; they were found in his pocket-book.
"Oh! I have been at the brink of the grave,
And stood on the edge of its dark, deep wave;
And I thought, in the still calm hours of night,
Of those regions where all is for ever bright;
And I feared not the wave
Of the gloomy grave,
For I knew that Jehovah was mighty to save.
"I have watched the solemn ebb and flow,
Of life's tide which was fleeting sure though slow;
I've stood on the shore of eternity,
And heard the deep roar of its rushing sea;
Yet I feared not the wave
Of the gloomy grave,
For I knew that Jehovah was mighty to save.
"And I found that my only rest could be
In the death of the One who died for me;
For my rest is bought with the price of blood,
Which gush'd from the veins of the Son of God;
So I fear not the wave
Of the gloomy grave,
For I knew that Jehovah is mighty to save."
How happy it was for his parents to read these words in their dear boy's own writing, after they had laid his body to rest in the grave which had no terror for him!
But to return to our Spider, or Spinner, as his name means. You have not only watched him coming down from the ceiling upon his own strong rope, spinning it longer and longer as he travels, but have seen him crawling along the ceiling head downwards, and perhaps wondered that he did not fall. If you were to look at one of those eight feet of his through a microscope, your wonder would be turned into admiration, as you saw the beautiful little brushes by which he is enabled to cling fast to the smooth surface, and walk along the ceiling as securely as you do on the floor.
And now I will leave you to read in some interesting book how prisoners have tamed House-spiders, and about the Water-spider which has been known to spin its nest in a tumbler of water, and the great Americans, as large as sparrows, which catch tiny birds; for it is time to pass on to the Insect family. But I must first tell you a story about a Tarantula, a very large spider, which lives in the south of Europe, as well as in tropical countries, and makes holes for itself about four inches deep in the ground.
Two officers from India agreed to spend their furlough together in a visit to Australia, the one for the sake of making researches in natural history, the other for any chance interest or amusement that might offer itself in a new country.
The former, Dr. Prendergast, was one day writing in his log cabin, when a huge Tarantula spider gently lowered itself from the roof by its slender cord, and dangled in front of him. "Ha!" said the naturalist, making sure of the handsome specimen that had thus unwittingly come within his reach, "I'll have you, my good fellow"; and taking a valuable pin from his necktie he made a dexterous shot, and pierced him through the body.
To his dismay, however, the spider, quite equal to the occasion, turned and bit him so sharply that he drew back with a cry, and before he could recover himself, the Tarantula had scrambled back up its rope, bearing the pin with it, and was again safe in its hiding place in the roof.
Now as the pin contained a precious stone which Dr. Prendergast had had set in order to carry it about in safety, he was exceedingly annoyed at this loss, and he and his companion searched the roof with care in the hope of finding it; but all in vain, and Dr. Prendergast could only reproach himself with having made such a foolish experiment.
A few days later he was again writing in the same position, when he beheld his enemy the spider once more descending from the roof, and to his surprise and joy it carried with it the pin, still sticking through its body. This time our naturalist made no vainglorious display of his power as a marksman, but beating down the spider with the nearest object at hand, he again possessed himself of the lost treasure, now doubly valuable on account of its extraordinary adventure, and his mother, for whom he was preserving the beautiful stone, afterwards wore it, set in a small brooch.
There are six "orders" of Insects, arranged according to their form, and the number of their wings, and one of each is chosen to represent the whole class.
First, the Beetle.
Second, the Grasshopper.
Third, the Dragon-fly.
Fourth, the Bee, the Wasp, and the Ant.
Fifth, the Butterfly, and the Moth.
Sixth, the Fly and the Gnat.
I wonder which of all these we had better discuss; for there are such wonderful things to tell even of the tiniest creeping and winged creature, that I only wish we had time for them all—the honey-making bees and the paper-making wasps, the many coloured dragon-flies, the moths, the butterflies and the beetles—but as we must choose one out of this great family, it shall be the "wise" and busy little ant: for how are we to learn the lesson which God has given her to teach us, if we do not, as He bids us, "consider her ways?"
Before we attempt to do so by noticing her "city," so full of life and bustle, suppose we ask ourselves for a moment how it is that we see so very few insects in winter. Did you ever stand very still, in the silence of a clear frosty day in the country, and wonder what made all around so strangely quiet?
One reason is, that the myriads of insects, whose hum and buzz make a good part of the noise and stir of a summer afternoon, are all gone. No whirring wings rush past; there is no sound of "dragon-fly, or painted moth, or musical winged bee" to break the stillness; all the insect-world seems dead, or flown south with the swallows—though, as there are still spiders' webs to be seen, each delicate thread marked in sharp outline, like the rigging of an icebound ship, it would seem that there must still remain some unwary fly to be taken in the beautiful snare.
But are they all dead and gone, those happy winged things that danced up and down in shady nooks, or so lately shone like jewels in the sunshine? Where are the topaz-coloured butterflies that glanced from flower to flower, the emerald tiger-beetles, the ladybirds, and the grasshoppers?
Some of them are indeed dead; their little life, bounded by a few summer days, was soon lived out; they have laid their eggs, making careful provision for the protection and food of the young ones which they will never see—for the eggs of insects will bear the cold which so soon proves fatal to their mothers—and their little hour of work in this busy world is finished; but many more are only very fast asleep. Like the dwarfish Esquimaux, when their long dark winter comes, and they draw their mossy blankets over them, they are taking their winter rest, and lie hidden safely in depths of soft moss, or beneath the bark of some ivy-grown tree, or deep in the lap of Mother Earth herself.
And with many of them, before they wake to life again, such changes will have taken place that they will come forth from their hiding-places like new creatures, fitted to enjoy a new mode of living. It is not difficult to see that this winter-sleep, or torpor, is no wasted time, but a means by which God has ensured the lives of hosts of His creatures which, having no extra clothing to protect them from the frost, and no power of migrating to a land of sunshine and plenty, would otherwise be liable to perish during the long season of cold and dearth.
So when
"Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts,"
those insects whose life is in "the herb of the field" have the instinct ("that power," as it has been well explained, "of doing without thinking what we do by thinking") which makes them seek out some safe shelter or quiet hole, and there give themselves up to sleep, awakening only when the time of the singing of birds has come, and all the green things are sprouting and budding, and there is food for them everywhere.
Those who have watched this mysterious slumber, tell us that when it begins the insect is as if benumbed, and will move when touched; but that as the cold increases, the torpor deepens, until the little dormant creature seems no longer to breathe, but lies to all appearance dead, until the warmth of the sun shall break the spell, and call it up to life again.
We are a long time reaching the ant-city, but it would be quite an insult to the Insect-family to give no thought to the most wonderful thing about it—the "transformations" by which many of its six-legged members pass through their three distinct stages of existence; so it will be well to turn over a few pages in the story of the Butterfly, one of the family-branch called Lepidoptera, because its wings are covered with thousands of tiny scales, which enclose the colouring that makes them as softly tinted as the flowers upon the nectar of which it feeds.
[Illustration:… "Little butterfly, indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.">[
When we, by rough handling, brush the bloom off a butterfly's wing, we have really torn away these delicate scales.
Let us suppose we have been so fortunate as to find a Red-admiral, the most gorgeous of British butterflies—often found late in the summer near nettles, because its caterpillar used to like their leaves better than any other.
We will look at this beautiful insect and see what it is, and then go back in its history and find out what it was.
It has six feet, and its head bears two horns or feelers ("antennæ," they are called), two large eyes which, when seen under a microscope, seem as if cut like precious stones, and a trunk like that of an elephant, which it can uncurl so as to suck the honey from the very heart of the flowers. Its legs are hairy, and very little used; its body, light and slender. Of the broad, beautifully-marked wings, generally erect when at rest, we need not speak, for it would be impossible to describe them.
Now for a page or two in the early history of this brilliant creature. We will go back to the time when it was a tiny egg, laid by the mother Red-admiral shortly before her own death; this egg soon develops into the "larva," or caterpillar—the word, which means a mask, expressing that the butterfly that is to be, is thus disguised in its first form.
How admirable are God's orderings—the same spring sunbeams which, as it were, waken up the living creature sleeping in the egg deposited by Mrs. Red-admiral, also cause the green things, upon which it will feed so voraciously, to appear!
For the little worm is a tremendous eater; it seems to do almost nothing else during its grub existence; but eats and grows, eats and grows; constantly changing its skin for a new one in order to obtain room for itself, while it is laying up a store against the time when it will be unable to take in food.
At last it really seems tired of eating, and after it has cast its skin four times, the fifth one becomes thick and hard, and the caterpillar hangs itself by a fine silken thread of its own spinning to a twig, and passes into its second stage—that of the "pupa," or chrysalis, from which it will awaken, a thing of life and beauty, to live in the air instead of crawling.
[Illustration: (A) CATERPILLAR; (B) CHRYSALIS.]
The name "pupa" or doll, was given to the creature in this stage, because long ago people thought the way in which insects are thus enclosed was somewhat like the way in which the babies used to be wrapped round in bandages or "swaddling clothes": it is also called a "chrysalis," because sometimes dotted with gold or pearly spots. But the wonder of it is that inside that narrow shell lies an insect quite unlike the caterpillar which lay down to rest; a creature with legs and wings beautifully folded, all ready for use when the time for its release has come.
How little we dream, as we watch a caterpillar crawling along a leaf, of what lies hidden beneath its skin! Yet I have read of a naturalist who proved for himself that it was actually so. Having killed a full-grown caterpillar, he let it remain for a minute or two in boiling water, then gently drew off the outer skin, and beheld to his delight "a perfect and real butterfly." But though I tell you of this, I do not wish you to try the experiment, as he warns us that it requires great care, for the limbs of the butterfly are very tender and small, and folded in a very complicated manner. Nor should I advise you to try hatching butterflies like chickens, by enclosing some chrysalides in a glass shaped like an egg, and placing them under a hen, though it has been done successfully!
There seems no doubt that all the while the caterpillar sleeps within its chrysalis, it is being made ready for the new kind of existence it is to enjoy; and just as, while the grub lay dormant in the egg, its food was being prepared, so while the butterfly that is to be sleeps in its dark tomb, the flowers upon which it is to live are slowly unfolding to the light.
And now, what words can describe the wonder of the third chapter of this story of life in its changes? The pupa dies and falls to pieces,
"An inner impulse rends the veil
Of his old husk,"
and the butterfly comes forth, a glorious creature, "a living flash of light" whose home is in the sunbeam!
What a change! No wonder that it has so long been looked upon as a parable and type of resurrection, an image of what will come to pass when the Lord Jesus comes, according to that promise which was a comfort to that little girl in the Children's Hospital, for His own—whether they have "fallen asleep in Jesus," or are living on this earth—and all "they that are Christ's at His coming" shall be "changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye."
To both alike the Lord will give a body of glory, "fashioned like unto His glorious body," a body which knows not, weakness or suffering or death—"a spiritual body."
You remember—do you not?—that a type is but a very small and faint picture of the real thing; yet, when you see a butterfly, and think of what it once was and what it has become, let it preach its little sermon to you; say to your own heart, "If that wonderful moment, which is so soon coming, were to come just now, should I be one of those who are Christ's at His coming? Would my body be changed and made like His glorious body? Should I 'be caught up together with them' (those who 'sleep in Jesus') 'in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air,' and so be for ever 'with the Lord'?"
And now as we turn from the wonderful story of the butterfly, in which we may, as has been said, "see the resurrection painted before our eyes," to the busy little ants; let us see that it is the sluggards, the lazy persons, who are especially told to "consider" their ways. To do this we must visit them in their own home, which we shall find in some pine-wood, like the "pincushion-wood," or in some grassy thymy spot, covered with little green tufts. Each of these grassy hillocks is an ant nest, and if you look inside you will find that it contains a great many tiny rooms, connected by galleries. Some of the rooms are hollowed out below the surface of the earth; these are the cellars where the baby-ants are kept warm in cold weather, while in summer they are taken by their watchful nurses to the cool upper storeys.
Now I have read that every ant-city has its wary sentinel, to keep watch and ward, and give warning of the approach of the foe. And when he does give warning there is a great hurry-scurry in the town; young ants, whether in their larva or pupa stage, must be carried down to the cellars for safety, and all the provisions which have been collected and stored with so much care must also be removed to a secure hiding-place. But who is to accomplish all this?
If you notice carefully, you will see that it is a mistake to think of these insects as all of one kind, and you may have heard that they have been divided by those who have studied them, into three classes—males, females, and neuters.
It is about the neuters we will talk now, for these busy, unselfish little creatures do all that has to be done; the whole work of the ant-city is left to them. It is they who collect the food—and very clever hunters they are, carrying their prey, whether alive or dead, right home to the nest; it is they who build the nests with their chambers and galleries, and bring up the little ones. Yet these earnest little workers have no wings, and must toil along upon their feet, while the ladies and gentlemen lead much easier lives, and fly about at will.
Still I do not think the workers are to be pitied, for they know their work, and do it in a very beautiful and unselfish way; and we must not forget that when the earth was in all the freshness of its beauty—no serpent's trail, no touch of fallen ruined man to mar its perfectness—"the Lord God took Adam, and put him into the garden of Eden, to dress it and to keep it." As an old writer says—"What was man's storehouse was also man's workhouse; his pleasure with his task … if happiness had consisted in doing nothing, man had not been employed."
A child, who has been set to watch beside the cradle of a baby brother or sister, and wants very badly to be off to play, may learn a lesson of patience from the way in which these little workers take care of the babies which are their special charge—for I suppose an ant's egg may be considered in its tiny way like a baby in its cradle.
These eggs are at first so small that you could scarcely see them, and they would probably never become living ants if not diligently tended; but under the care of their nurses they soon grow larger, and at the end of a fortnight the baby ants creep out, not bigger than grains of sand, but with head and wings complete. The first want of every living thing is food, so the nurses begin to feed their charge by placing the little open mouths to their own, and giving them the food which they have stored. Then I have watched them carrying them up and down, that they may enjoy the warmth of the cellars or the air and sunshine of the upper rooms, just as if they had a thermometer to tell them the exact amount of heat or cold that was needed. And I must not forget to tell you that part of the duty of the nurses is to keep their babies white and clean, and this they do not neglect, but wash them with their tongues, as pussy washes her kitten.
Even when their nurslings are full-grown, and begin to spin a silken cocoon round themselves, and it would seem as if, being no longer in need of food, they might be left to themselves, the untiring workers do not give up their charge. We may see them carrying little oval bodies carefully about: and these are the cocoons which they take to the top of the nest every morning, and back again at night. Most wonderful of all, they have an instinct which tells them when the perfect insect within the cocoon is ready to escape from its prison-house, and also that it is not strong enough to force its own way through. Working three or four together, very gently and patiently they open the silken covering, just where the insect's head lies, cutting the threads one by one until a hole is made, large enough for the young ant to crawl through.
When at last released from what has been its cradle and its prison, the tiny creature is still wrapped in a thin covering, which the kind nurses remove. They carefully stretch out the wings of the males and females, and pile the empty cocoons outside the nest ready for building; for waste and disorder are unknown in an ant-city.
Nursery days ended, the young insects are now shown "all over the house," conducted from one "winding stair" to another, taught to know friends from foes, fed and petted, until they take their airy flight beyond the reach of the wingless caretakers of their infant needs.
By-and-by you will read more about how the workers, by their busy toil,
"Raise such monstrous hills along the plain
Larger than mountains,"
in proportion to their own small size; you will read also strange stories of how they collect the eggs of those little green insects which you may see in such numbers upon a rosebud, and tend them with great care—because these tiny aphides are their "cows," and they "milk" them by gently stroking them with their antennæ, and so obtain a kind of honey—also how the red and black ants occupy the positions of masters and slaves, the blacks doing all the hardest work, and being kept strictly indoors; and how it is not all work, even with the workers, for they have been caught at play, having high games of leap-frog and hide-and-seek!
Interesting as is the mode of life among our ants at home, not less so is that of those found in Southern Europe and in Syria, as well as in India. They are called "Harvesters," because they "prepare their meat in the summer" by gathering the seeds of grasses, and storing them in granaries against the winter. I have watched long trains of these ants going and returning with their loads, keeping their "own side" as carefully as if passengers in London streets. A naturalist who was watching such a train, once strewed a number of grey and white beads about, and waited to see what would happen. One unsuspicious ant seized a bead and trotted off with it to the nest; but not so a second time; the mistake was soon found out, and the (to them) worthless beads were left untouched by the wary workers, who before they stored the seeds in their granary, took off the chaff and left it in heaps outside, to be blown away by the wind.
It has been thought strange that the seeds thus collected do not sprout and grow, but for this moisture would be necessary, and the ants keep their grain as free from it as possible, spreading it out in the sun to dry, and storing it in granaries, underground like the nurseries, but quite distinct from them.
If you have ever disturbed one of their nests, you do not need to be told that ants, as well as bees and wasps, have stings, with a "poison apparatus" like that of a serpent.
How wonderful are these tiny creatures made by God, who has set them in their places in His creation, and given them their work to do, and the instinct which enables them so faithfully to play their part in the great world, that they are set as a pattern for us to imitate! How true it is that
"Each shell, each crawling insect holds a rank
Important in the scale of Him who framed
This scale of beings; holds a rank which, lost,
Would break the chain, and leave a gap behind
Which Nature's self would rue."
And what may we learn from the Harvester-ant, who "provideth her meat in the summer"?
I think I can hear you answer, "A lesson of prudence and foresight."
Surely this is so: "The ants are a people not strong but they prepare their meat in the summer"; on this account they have their place among the "four things which are little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise," and we do well to consider their ways and learn the lesson which they teach us.
Before we quite leave the ant-city, I should like to tell you that the eggs of ants grow while hatching, to accommodate themselves to the increasing size of the tiny creature within them. There are many interesting things to be observed about the eggs of insects; as to their colour, they are generally of that best adapted for concealment; as to the way in which they are hatched, I have heard that the mother insect—the Earwig was the one mentioned—sometimes sits upon her eggs, and that one of the spiders has been seen sitting upon the silken bag which contained its eggs, and carrying it away if disturbed.
I ought to have told you that there are two great divisions of the insect family—those which suck liquid food through their proboscis or trunk, such as flies and butterflies, and those—such as the beetles, bees, and locusts—which bite and eat solid food with their jaws. Dearly as I should like to tell you about bees, both "solitary" and "social," "masons" and "carpenters," we must not make this chapter longer, so we will speak only of the Locusts.
If I could let you have a peep into the box where I keep a specimen-locust, which came to me by post from his native country, you would notice his powerful jaws, which are so strong that they inflict a severe wound; but it is not on account of their bite that locusts have been used by God as His "exceeding great army" to punish those who hardened themselves against Him; but because wherever they alight in their countless myriads, they devour every green thing, turning a fruitful field into a barren desert in a few hours.
[Illustration: THE LOCUST.]
Did you ever see as well as hear a grasshopper? The locust is an insect of the same kind, and I have heard that African locusts in the first stage of their life are as green as grasshoppers, but wingless—though they afterwards have very pretty wings. They are described as crowding together, "standing upon each other in heaps four or five deep, or gradually advancing over each other's backs, eating all before them."
A flight of locusts is indeed a wonderful sight. An African traveller once saw advancing towards him a dark cloud; the seeming storm came nearer and nearer; ah! it was no snow-storm or hail-storm, but a living cloud of locusts. He thus describes it, as it came upon him and his companions:
"Each flake of snow was a locust; we stood with our backs to them, and they struck us over the face and ears; we had to protect our eyes with our hands; the ground where the flight had settled was soon bare, and the trees leafless." Can you wonder that such a storm-cloud should be dreaded beyond any other, and that when the Egyptian sky was darkened by it—and "before them there were no such locusts as they"—Pharaoh besought that God might be entreated to take away this "death" from him and from his land? And they were not the only creatures used by God at that time to punish the proud and wilful king who refused to let His people go that they might serve Him.
But we must now end this long chapter, remembering that we have spoken of only a few of the living creatures which belong to the vast family of animals which have no body framework or skeleton; you can read in larger books the wonderful things which are told about jelly-fishes and sponges, bees and wasps, flies and gnats, and green tiger-beetles—for when we have made a beginning in these little talks of ours together about God's creatures, it will be pleasant to go on; so pleasant for some of us that, having once begun, the difficult thing will be to know where to leave off.
I wish I could show you some pictures which I have seen of fossil insects. I believe white ants and dragon-flies, and even a butterfly, have been found among the rocky strata, but those of which I speak were preserved in amber, which is a clear yellow substance, long thought to be a mineral, but now recognised as the hardened resin of ancient pine-trees. In this transparent sepulchre bees and wasps, gnats, spiders, and beetles have been buried, some uninjured, and others with broken legs or wings. They must have got into the sticky gum while it was moist, and been unable to escape—and so have lain for ages in their transparent tomb.
I wonder whether these verses, which came to my mind while we were speaking of the lessons we should learn from those creatures which faithfully use the wisdom given them, are new to you.
"Never man spake like this man."
"From everything our Saviour saw,
Lessons of wisdom He would draw;
The clouds, the colours in the sky;
The gently breeze that whispers by;
The fields, all white with waving corn;
The lilies that the vale adorn;
The reed that trembles in the wind;
The tree where none its fruit can find;
The sliding sand, the flinty rock,
That bears unmoved the tempest's shock;
The thorns that on the earth abound;
The tender grass that clothes the ground;
The little birds that fly in air;
The sheep that need the shepherd's care;
The pearls that deep in ocean lie;
The gold that charms the miser's eye:
All from His lips some truth proclaim,
Or learn to tell their Maker's name."