ILLUSTRATIONS.
[THE FOX AND THE CRAB (Frontispiece)]
[THE SPIDER'S INVITATION]
[THE SPIDER'S TRIUMPH]
[KATE AND HER TUTOR]
[MY PRETTY KITTEN]
[THE LEARNED GEESE]
[THE OLD GOAT AND HIS PUPIL]
I.
THE NAME OF MY BOOK.
The reader, perhaps, as he turns over the first pages of this volume, is puzzled, right at the outset, with the meaning of my title, The Diving Bell. It is plain enough to Uncle Frank, and possibly it is to you; but it may not be; so I will tell you what a diving bell is, and then, probably, you can guess the reason why I have given this name to the following pages.
If you will take a common glass tumbler, and plunge it into water, with the mouth downwards, you will find that very little water will rise into the tumbler. You can satisfy yourself better about this matter, if, in the first place, you lay a cork upon the surface of the water, and then put the tumbler over it.
Did you ever try the experiment? Try it now, if you never have done so, and if you have any doubt on the subject.
You might suppose, that the cork would be carried down far below the surface of the water. But it is not so. The upper side of the cork, after you have pressed the tumbler down so low that the upper end of it is even below the surface of the water—the upper side of the cork is not wet at all.
"And what is the reason of this, Uncle Frank?"
I will tell you. There is air in the tumbler, when you plunge it into the water. The air stays in the vessel, so that there is no room for the water.
"Oh, yes, sir; I see how that is. But I see that a little water finds its way into the tumbler, every time I try the experiment. How is that?"
You can press air, the same as you can press wood, or paper, or cloth, so that it will go into a smaller space than it occupied before yon pressed it. Did you ever make a pop-gun?
"Oh, yes, sir, a hundred times."
Well, when you send the wad out of the pop-gun, you do it by pressing the air inside the tube. Now if your tumbler was a hundred or a thousand times as large, the air would prevent the water from coming in, just as it does in this instance. Suppose I had dropped a purse full of gold into a very deep river, and it had sunk to the bottom. Suppose I could not get it in any other way but by going down to the bottom after it. I could go down to that depth, and live there for some time, by means of a diving bell made large enough to hold me, precisely in the same way that a bird might go down to the bottom of a tub of water, in a tumbler, and stand there with the water hardly over his feet. There is a good deal of machinery about a diving bell, it is true. But I need not take up much time in describing it. It is necessary for the man to breathe, of course, while he is in the diving bell; and as the air it contains is soon rendered impure by breathing, fresh air must be introduced into the bell by means of a pump, or in some other way. I am not very familiar with the necessary machinery, to tell the truth. I never explored the bottom of a river in this way, and I think it will be a long time before I make such a voyage.
The diving bell has been used for a good many useful purposes—to lay the foundations of docks and the piers of bridges; to collect pearls at Ceylon, and coral at other places.
I am not sure but the diving bell is getting somewhat out of use now. People have found out another way of groping along on the bottom of rivers and seas. They do it frequently, I believe, by means of a kind of armor made of India rubber. But so far as my book is concerned, it is of no consequence whether the diving bell is out of use or not. I shall use the title, at all events.
If, after my account of the diving bell, you still ask why I choose to give such a name to the budget I have prepared for you, I can answer your question very easily.
I think you will find something worth looking at in the budget—not pearls, or pieces of coral, or lost treasures, exactly, but still something which will please you, and something which, when you get hold of it, will be worth keeping and laying up in some snug corner of your memory box. I say when you get hold of it; for the valuable things I have for you do not all lie on the surface. You will have to search for them a little. That is, you will have to think. When you have read one of my stories, or fables, you may find it necessary to stop, and ask yourself "What does Uncle Frank mean by all this?" In other words, you will have to use the diving bell, and see if you can't hunt up something in the story or the fable, which will be useful to you, and which will make you wiser and better. Now you see why I have called my book The Diving Bell, don't you?
II.
THINKING AND LAUGHING.
It is Uncle Frank's notion, that it is a good thing to laugh, but a better thing to think. A great many people, however, old as well as young, and young as well as old, live and die without thinking much. They lose three quarters of the benefit they ought to get from reading, and from what they see and learn as they go through the world, by never diving below the surface of things. I don't suppose it is so with you. I hope not, at all events. If it is so, then you had better shut up this book, and pass it over to some young friend of yours, who has learned to think, and who loves to read books that will help him about thinking. No, on the whole, you needn't do any such thing. Just read the book—read it through. Perhaps you will get a taste for such reading, while you are going through the book.
I must tell you an anecdote just here. You will not refuse to read that, at any rate.
Not long ago I was in a book store, looking over some new books which I saw on the counter, when a fine-looking boy, who appeared to be about nine years old, came in. He had a shilling in his hand, and said he wanted to buy a book.
"But what book do you want?" one of the clerks asked.
The boy could not tell what it was exactly. But it was a "funny book"—he was sure of that—and it cost a shilling.
Well, it finally turned out that the book which the little fellow wanted was a comic almanac—a book filled with miserable pictures—pictures of men and beasts twisted into all sorts of odd shapes—and vulgar jokes, and scraps of low wit.
"Will you let me look at it?" I asked the little boy as the clerk handed the book to him.
"Yes, sir," said he.
I took the almanac, and turned over some of its leaves. There was not a particle of information in the book, except what related to the sun, and moon, and stars, and that formed but a small portion of the volume. "My son," said I, pleasantly, "what do you buy this book for?"
"To make me laugh," said he.
"But is that all you read books for—to find something to laugh at?" I inquired.
"No, sir," he replied, "but then this book is so funny. Giles Manly has got one, and"—he hesitated.
"He has a great time over it," I interrupted, to which the little boy nodded, as much as to say,
"Yes, sir, that's it."
"Did your father send you after this book?" I asked.
"No, sir."
"Did your mother tell you to get it?"
"No, sir. But my mother gave me a shilling, and told me I might buy just such a book as I liked."
"Well, my son," said I, "look here. You have heard Giles read some of the funny things in this almanac, have you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you've seen some of the pictures?"
"Yes, sir, all of them."
"Then you know pretty well what the book is?"
"Yes, sir, all about it, and that's what makes me want to buy it."
"Well, you have a right to buy just such a book as you want. But if I were in your place, I would not buy that book; and I'll tell you why. There's a good deal of fun in it, to be sure. No doubt you would laugh over it, if you had it. But you can't learn anything from it. Come, now, I'll make a bargain with you. Here's a book"—I handed him one of the Lucy books, written by Mr. Jacob Abbott—"which is worth a dozen of that. This will make you laugh some, as well as the other book; and it will do much more and better than that. It will set you to thinking. It will instruct, as well as amuse you. It will sow some good seeds in your mind, and your heart, too. It will teach you to be a thinker as well as a reader. It costs a little more than that almanac, it is true. But never mind that. If you'll take this book, and give the gentleman your shilling, I'll pay him the rest of the money. Will you do it? Will you take the Lucy book, and leave the funny almanac?"
He hesitated. He hardly knew whether he should make or lose by the trade.
"If you will do so," I continued, "and read the book, when you get through with it, you may come to my office in Nassau street, and tell me how you was pleased with it. Then, if you say that you did not like Mr. Abbott's book so well as you think you would have liked the book with the funny pictures, and tell me that you made a bad bargain, I'll take back the Lucy book, and give you the almanac in the place of it."
That pleased the little fellow. The bargain was struck. Mr. Abbott's book was bought, and the boy left the store, and ran home.
I think it was about a week after that, or it might have been a little longer, that I heard my name spoken, as I was sitting at my desk. I turned around, and, sure enough, there was the identical boy with whom I had made the trade at the book store.
"Well, my little fellow," I said, "you've got sick of your bargain, eh?" "No, sir," he said, "I'm glad I made it;" and he proceeded to tell me his errand. It seemed that he had been so pleased with the book, that he "wanted a few more of the same sort," as the razor strop man says; and his father had told him that he might come to me, ask me to get all the Lucy books for him.
Now you see how it was with that little fellow, before he read the book I gave him. He had got the notion that a child's book could not be amusing—could not be worth reading—unless it was filled with such nonsense as there was in the "funny book" he called for. He had not got a taste for reading anything else. As soon as he did get such a taste, he liked that kind of reading the best; because, besides making him laugh a little now and then, it put some thoughts into his head—gave him some hints which would be worth something to him in after life.
Now, I presume there are a great many boys and girls, who love to read such nonsense as one finds in comic almanacs, and books like "Bluebeard," and "Jack the Giant Killer," but who, like the youth I met in the book store, could very easily learn to like useful books just as well, and better too, if they would only take them up, and read them.
Why, my little friends, a book need not be dull and dry, because it is not all nonsense. Uncle Frank don't mean to have a long face on, when he writes for young people. He believes in laughing. He likes to laugh himself, and he likes to see his young friends laugh, too, sometimes.
I hope, indeed, that you will find this little book amusing, as well as useful; though I should be very sorry if it were not useful, as well as amusing.
The Spider's Invitation.