V.—HOW INSECTS FLY.
The wings of insects are like those of bats and birds only in the work they do. In another respect they are quite different organs. The wings of the bird and the bat, for instance, are formed from the front pair of limbs, but the wings of insects are formed on a very different plan from the walking limbs, of which there are never less than three pairs. The bat and the bird have only one pair of wings, the insects have two, though in many cases the hinder or second pair have been reduced to the merest stumps, or vestiges, as they are called. In other words, they are all that is left of a once useful pair.
The butterfly has two pairs of wings; the fly is a good example of an insect which has but one pair. The stumps or vestiges of the second pair can only be found after careful search. But these vestiges—which are known as the 'balancers'—have a new use, and probably act as organs of hearing as well as to guide the flight. The butterfly uses both pairs of wings in flight, the beetle only the hinder pair, the pair that in the fly are only 'vestiges.' The front pair of wings in the beetle form hard horny cases or shields for the protection of the hinder wings, which lie beneath them when not in use.
The wings of insects are often brilliantly coloured, and this colour may be caused in two very different ways. Generally the colours of the wings are due to the way the surface of the wing is made, for this surface reflects light. But the colour of the wing of the butterfly is to be traced to a quite different cause. If the fingers be rubbed over the surface of a butterfly's wing, they will be found to be covered with a fine coloured dust, whilst the wing itself will become quite transparent (as in fig. [1]). If this dust be looked at under the microscope, it will be seen that it is made up of a number of tiny scales, most beautifully shaped (as in fig. [2]). Each scale is fixed to the surface of the wing by a tiny stalk and in a regular order.
From the shape of the wings in the butterfly or moth we can tell more or less how the insect flies. Long and narrow wings give a swift and rapid flight, broad round wings a slow and leisured flight.
The wings of insects are moved by only a few muscles, but with wonderful rapidity. It has been calculated that the common fly makes with its wings three hundred strokes per second, the bee one hundred and ninety. The dragon-fly and the common cabbage-white butterfly of our gardens, however, have a much slower beat of their wings, the former twenty-eight strokes per second, the latter only nine. The machinery by which they move is like that of an oar.
- Butterfly's Wing (magnified).
- Scales from Butterfly's Wing (greatly magnified).
- Earwig (magnified): one wing folded, the other open.
- Foot of Fly (greatly magnified).
Insects' wings are folded in various ways. Those of the butterfly, when at rest, are raised up over the back, so that the upper surfaces of the right and left wings come together. In the moth the hinder wings pass under the fore-wings, which are held flat over the back. But the beetle and the earwig hide their hind-wings beneath a hard case not used in flight. The size of the hind-wings, however, is so great that before they can be covered by the horny case, they have to be folded up, and this is done in a really wonderful manner, especially by the common earwig.
Most people probably think of the earwig as flightless; but, nevertheless, beneath a tiny pair of horny wing-cases, a very wonderful pair of transparent wings is cunningly tucked away. The marvellous way in which they are folded up after use we cannot describe in detail here. In each wing there is a hinge shaped somewhat like a half-moon, in the middle of the stiff front edge (fig. [3], in the wing extended on the left). When the hinge is bent, the outer half of the wing folds over towards the tail, and the tip points forward. The further inward folding of the hinge of this rod next appears to divide the wing into two, the second portion passing under the first, and thus bringing the wing down to half its original size. By this time the mechanical or automatic folding process stops, and the rest of the folding up has to be done by the aid of the pincers at the end of the body. Finally the packing up is complete, and the two hard outer cases, like a couple of tarpaulins, are drawn over the delicate wings to protect them.
On the right side of the body, in fig. [3], the wing has been folded up, and is covered by the wing-case.
The folding of the beetle's wing is also done by means of a hinge, but the packing up is less close, as the outer covering cases are larger.
Most insects walk as well as fly, and their walking is not less wonderful than their flight. Fig. [4] represents the foot of a fly. It will be seen, under a strong microscope, to have a pair of large claws and a pair of leaf-like plates, one on each side. The claws and the plates have different uses. The plates are used when the fly is walking, say, up a window-pane or along a ceiling. They are moved so as to lie flat on the surface which the fly is crossing, and when they are laid flat a number of tiny hairs are pushed out from them, from the tips of which a sticky liquid oozes, so that the fly is practically glued to the surface on which it is crawling. The claws are used to cling on to uneven surfaces, on which they can get a good grip. In the next article we shall say more about the way in which insects walk.
THE BOY TRAMP.
[(Continued from page 175.)]
"There stood Captain Knowlton."
During the meal Mr. Westlake talked about cricket, asking whether I played, and I explained that there had not been enough of us at Castlemore to make a proper eleven. He inquired further about Mr. Turton and Mr. Windlesham, and gradually led the conversation round to the days when I used to live in Acacia Road with Aunt Marion. I told him that she had married Major Ruston, and gone to India, but that I did not know her address nor Major Ruston's regiment.
'We can soon find that out,' he said, and sent the butler for the Army List. When he had looked in this, he raised his eyes to my face again, mentioning the number of the regiment, and explaining that it was at present at Madras.
Then he turned to the book again. 'I don't find Captain Knowlton—didn't you say that was the name?' he asked.
'Yes,' I answered, 'but he left the service when he came home from India, four or five years ago. He came into a lot of money, you see.'
'And Captain Knowlton was your guardian?' he asked, fixing his eyeglass.
'Not exactly an ordinary guardian,' I explained. 'My father was a soldier too, and Captain Knowlton said he saved his life, and that was why he looked after me.'
After I had told him all about Mr. Parsons, he rose and went to the room where I had first seen him, calling me to follow. I shut the door when Mrs. Westlake had entered, and Mr. Westlake stood lighting a cigar.
'Upon my word,' he said, in his slightly drawling voice, 'there seems to be only one thing that is possible to be done with you for the present, Everard.'
'What is that?' I asked, with considerable misgiving.
'Naturally,' he continued, 'I shall write to Major Ruston and explain the exact circumstances in which Mrs. Westlake found you, and I have no doubt that when he hears what I shall tell him, he will make some sort of arrangement for your future.'
'But it will take a long time to get an answer.'
'No doubt, but you seem to be placed in a very awkward position. As far as I can understand, Captain Knowlton had every intention of looking after you if he had lived——'
'Oh, yes!' I cried, 'because he told me I was to go to Sandhurst.'
'But, you see,' he said, 'he did not make a will. Is that right?'
'Yes,' I answered. 'Mr. Turton found out the address of his solicitor, and told me there was no will.'
'So that, except your aunt in India,' he continued, 'there appears to be no one upon whom you have the least claim. Yet, Mr. Turton——'
'I don't want to go back to Mr. Turton,' I cried, taking a step towards him.
He took his cigar from his lips, and stood gazing for a few seconds at the ash, which he then knocked off into the fender.
'That is all very well,' he said. 'I suppose no boy who ran away from school ever felt any strong desire to return. But I understand that you admit that Mr. Turton tried to find you—that, in fact, he would have found you if Jacintha had acted as she ought to have done.'
'I don't want to get Jacintha into a row,' I exclaimed, and the slightest of smiles lighted his face.
'I am certain you don't,' he answered, 'and you need not trouble yourself on that score. But as Mr. Turton tried to find you, it is pretty clear that he wished to take you back with him. Now, if he wished to take you back, he could not have had any strong objection to keeping you. You don't complain that he treated you brutally?'
'No,' I said, 'I never saw him give any fellow a licking; but, still——'
'Anyhow,' Mr. Westlake continued, 'I have decided to write to Major Ruston, and tell him all the circumstances, offering to do anything on your behalf which he wishes; then I shall take a train to Castlemore the first thing to-morrow morning and have a chat with Mr. Turton.'
'I wish you wouldn't,' I exclaimed.
'That is what I feel compelled to do,' he said, 'and what I hope will happen is this. I hope that Mr. Turton will take you back and promise me to treat you well until there's time to get an answer from Madras. If that answer is unfavourable, though it is not in the least likely to be, I shall see Mr. Turton again. In any case, we must have no more wanderings. There has been enough of that. Supposing that Major Ruston cannot do anything, and Mr. Turton declines to keep you, we must make the best of a bad job. No doubt I can find you employment in a firm with which I am connected, and you ought to have sense enough to see that this is the very best thing to be done in the circumstances.'
'Couldn't you find me work at once, and not tell Mr. Turton?' I suggested eagerly, while Mrs. Westlake fixed her eyes on his face. But he slowly shook his head.
'Understand,' he said, 'I don't intend to lose sight of you again. At the worst, you will have to work for your living; but, in the meantime,' he added, 'I am going to put you on your honour. You must give me your word not to attempt to leave the house alone until my return.'
Of course I gave my word, but I felt that my last hope had gone. All that I had done, all that I had passed through, had been to no purpose. I might as well—far better—have stayed at Castlemore, since there seemed little doubt that I should be taken back to Ascot House to-morrow. I could imagine Augustus's triumphant snigger, and all the humiliation of the return.
'I should not be surprised,' said Jacintha, later in the afternoon, 'if Mr. Turton refused to take you back, and if he does,' she exclaimed, 'Father is going to see whether Mr. Windlesham will have you until he hears from Major Ruston.'
'I should not mind that,' I answered. 'I shall not mind anything if I don't go back to Mr. Turton's.'
I went to bed early that night, and slept perfectly until one of the maids knocked at my door the next morning. But when—as soon as we had finished breakfast—Mr. Westlake was driven away from the door in a hansom, I felt that my own departure might be only a matter of a few hours. During the morning Mrs. Westlake took me out for a drive with Jacintha, but try as I might it was impossible to show them a cheerful face, and while I understood that Mr. Westlake was doing what he considered the best for me, it seemed difficult not to regard him as an enemy. That afternoon I sat in the dining-room, unable to attempt to make my escape because of the promise which I had given Mr. Westlake, yet feeling that there were few things I would not endure rather than eat humble pie and go back to Mr. Turton.
Four o'clock had struck, and Mr. Westlake might arrive at almost any moment with the news of my fate.
'Do you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'that Father will bring Mr. Turton with him?'
'I should not be a scrap surprised,' I answered, dismally. 'Then I shall sleep at Ascot House to-night.'
'Mind you write,' she exclaimed, 'and tell me everything that horrid Augustus says, and all about things.'
A little later, as the clock struck half-past four, Mrs. Westlake entered the room.
'I think Mr. Westlake must have missed the train which he expected to catch,' she said. 'The next will not bring him home until about half-past six.'
'We were wondering whether Father would bring Mr. Turton with him!' cried Jacintha.
Mrs. Westlake came to my side, resting a hand on my shoulder. 'You know,' she said, gently, 'that at the very worst you will only stay at Castlemore until we hear from Mrs. Ruston.'
But, for some reason, I placed very little confidence in Aunt Marion, who, I felt certain, had entirely washed her hands of me before her marriage. Presently Jacintha suggested that we should go to another room where there was a chess-table, but it was impossible to fix my thoughts on the game, and she checkmated me twice in ten minutes.
'It's no good,' I exclaimed. 'I can't think of anything but Mr. Turton.'
When the clock on the mantelpiece struck six, I rose from my chair and began to fidget about the room, looking every few minutes to see how the time was passing.
'I think I heard a cab or something stop at the door!' cried Jacintha presently.
'So did I!' I muttered.
'I wish I knew whether Mr. Turton had come,' she said.
'Can't you find out?' I suggested.
'Perhaps I can see from the hall,' she answered, and as the front door bell rang again she left me alone in the room.
A few seconds later she hastily re-entered.
'There are two!' she cried, excitedly.
'Is one of them Mr. Turton?' I demanded.
'I could not see distinctly through the glass door,' she said. 'Only I am quite positive there are two.'
As she spoke, and I gave myself up for lost, the butler hastened past the open door of the room in the act of thrusting his left arm into his sleeve. The bell was rung a second time.
'Do have another look!' I urged, and once more Jacintha darted out of the room, while I felt, for my own part, as if my feet were riveted to one particular part of the carpet.
'It isn't Mr. Turton,' she exclaimed, returning the next instant, and this was at least a reprieve.
'Perhaps he wouldn't have me back after all,' I answered, and then I felt suddenly cold from head to foot, for the voice of Mr. Westlake's companion sounded remarkably like one which I had never hoped to hear again. Unable to restrain myself, I ran out to the hall, and there stood Captain Knowlton giving his hat and stick to the butler.
'Ah, Jack!' he said, with one of his casual nods; and he took my hand as if he had parted with me yesterday, and had been expected back as a matter of course to-day. But I began to laugh and cry by turns, clinging to his hand as if I were fully determined never to let him go again.
A SPARROW'S COOLNESS.
Our commonest bird is the sparrow, that plucky, impudent, little creature which hops about in our gardens and yards, and twitters upon our roofs all day long. It seems rather difficult at first to understand why it should be so much more common than other birds. It is not large or strong, or swift on the wing, and it seems to have none of those advantages which would help it to defend itself against enemies. It is not handsome, and it is not a sweet songster, so that man is not disposed to give it much protection. He is often prompted to destroy it, because of the injury which it does to his gardens and his crops.
But in spite of all its difficulties, the sparrow thrives, and brings up a numerous family, because it has less fear of man than other birds have. It frequents the haunts of men, while other birds are scared away from them. It requires some courage to brave the noise and tumult of a town, but the sparrow possesses this courage, and is rewarded accordingly. As other birds are too timid to trust themselves to a life among houses and streets, the sparrow needs no protection from them.
Ordinary as the sparrow is in almost every respect, we cannot but admire its courage and its wariness. It is surrounded by many dangers, and it is not only surprising how it braves them, but also how watchfully it looks out for them, and how cleverly it learns to avoid them. We all know how it watches the cats and the dogs, and even a man with a gun, and seeks a place of safety at the first sign of danger.
One of the newspapers recently gave a very striking instance of a sparrow's confidence and coolness. A passenger who was waiting for a train in one of the Underground Railway stations observed a sparrow hopping upon the rails in search of crumbs. A train came into the station from the direction in which the passenger wished to travel, and he had leisure to watch the sparrow. It allowed the engine to come within a few feet of it, and then, instead of flying away, it quickly hopped off the rail upon which it stood, and hopped into the space between the rails. There it lay until the train puffed out of the station, when it jumped upon the rails again, and resumed its search for crumbs. Presently another train entered the station, and the sparrow was seen to repeat its previous action, and to take refuge once more between the wheels of the train.
"It hopped into the space between the rails."
"The woodpecker fled in fear."
THE INTRUDING SQUIRREL.
The squirrel in the woods is as full of frolic and play as a kitten. One would think that it had not a care or anxiety of any kind to break in upon its play. And yet it has food to find, a family to bring up, a winter nest to make, and several stores of food to lay up ready for those occasional days when it wakes up from its long winter's sleep.
This winter sleep of the squirrel, and some other animals, is something very strange, which we do not thoroughly understand. With the first touch of winter's cold, they curl themselves up, and fall into a sleep which lasts until the return of spring. This sleep, or hibernation as it is properly called, is a very useful habit for the animals which are subject to it, because it enables them to live on at a time when their food is very often scarce. During this sleep their bodies scarcely waste away at all, and a few good meals, when they wake, soon put them right; whereas, if they were always running about, they would be almost incessantly hungry, and would probably die of starvation during the winter.
Some animals remain torpid throughout the winter, while others wake up occasionally, and enjoy a day's life every now and then in the midst of their long sleep. The common squirrel is one of the latter. Whenever there is a warm, mild day in winter, it wakes up, feeling very hungry, and turns out of its nest for a run. If it trusted to chance for a meal, it would have to return to its nest hungry. But during the autumn it has gathered large quantities of hazel-nuts, acorns, beech-nuts, and fir-cones, and has stored them away in various holes near its nest. When, therefore, it has enjoyed one of its winter runs, it visits one of these store-houses, makes a hearty meal, and then returns to its nest to sleep for a few more days, or a few more weeks, until another warm day comes round.
The squirrel selects for his storehouses various holes in the trunk of the tree near his nest, which are often the deserted nests of some wood-pecker. Indeed, he is not always content to wait until the wood-pecker deserts her nest, especially as he relishes the taste of an egg. A writer in the Standard describes how he saw a wood-pecker turned out of her house to make room for an impudent squirrel. The squirrel, descending backwards down a tree-trunk, suddenly found his hind legs in a hole. Probably he felt something sharp pecking at them, for he drew them out quickly, and rapidly climbed to a branch immediately above. A moment later a wood-pecker flew out of the hole. The squirrel watched her out of sight, and then returned to the nest, and helped himself to an egg or two, which he carried up to his perch, and ate.
When these were disposed of, he descended once more to the wood-pecker's nest and waited for the return of the bird. The moment she appeared at the entrance to her nest, the squirrel flew at her like an angry cat. The startled wood-pecker fled in fear, and the squirrel came forth triumphantly and went away for a short time. Whilst he was away the wood-pecker came again and looked into her nest. Something, however, probably a broken egg, displeased her, and she flew away again. Shortly afterwards her mate looked into the nest, but he, too, was dissatisfied, and flew away. Many times they returned to the nest, but always with the same result. At length they seemed to make up their minds that they could never make their home in that nest again, and they flew away to another part of the wood. The squirrel promptly took possession of the deserted nest, and when autumn came he turned it into a store-house for nuts.
W. A. Atkinson.
THE GREAT PICTURE BOOK.
he world's a pleasant picture-book,
Wherein my eyes may daily look,
And see the things set there to please:
Mountains and valleys, rocks and trees.
Soft rivers where the sunbeams play;
The blue sky spread far, far away;
Bright flowers that blossom at my feet,
The tender grass, the ripened wheat.
Though I am young, I may grow wise
When on this book I turn my eyes,
And, as I look, with reverence see
The pictures painted there for me.
'Tis God Who made this book so fair,
Who gave the colours that are there;
Who paints the daisies red and white,
And in the sky sets stars at night.
Frank Ellis.
THE STORY OF SLATE.
Slates are not so much used in our schools as they were years ago, exercise-books being cheaper now. Still, there are some schools where the children have slates, and pocket-books are to be bought, containing a slate tablet, on which you can write notes, and rub them out afterwards to make fresh ones. Slates upon the roofs of houses are objects familiar to us all. Probably few, young or old, who have to do with slates, ever think what this substance is, and where it has come from. Yet slate is one of the most wonderful things in this world of ours.
Supposing the first question put to us was, 'What is slate?' our answer would be, 'It is simply a sort of dried mud.' If the second was, 'What is its place amongst the rocks of our earth?' we should say, 'Slate belongs to the Cambrian formation.' This is a big series of rocks, sometimes eighteen thousand feet thick. It contains in the middle what geologists call flags and grits, but the larger part of it is slates. There is but one series of rocks more ancient than the Cambrian, and that is the one called the Laurentian, which is said not to be found in Britain.
'Cambrian,' some might say: there is a reason for that name, which of course is only another word for Welsh. Though, in their first order, these slaty rocks lie deep down, they have been lifted high up, and they show us some of the grandest scenery we have in this island. The hills and precipices of Wales, and the hollows where the mountain streams flow, tell of the shakings and twistings that the Cambrian rocks have gone through. Amongst them grow ferns and rare flowers, while many a tourist draws in new strength as he mounts them. Sometimes, high up, the rains and winds have made the rocks so bare that even mosses cannot live upon them, and in the clear sunlight the slates appear of various shades, from pink to deep blue.
One curious thing about slate is that the layers are often twisted or wrinkled. This has been caused, partly at least, by their being thrust up when half hardened, so as to cause a sort of fold or crease. This was chiefly done by the still harder granite.
It is wonderful to think of the succession of plants and animals that slate has had to do with; it was in existence when the coal forests were forming, and it must have been trodden by the strange creatures of other strata, which are now extinct, but of which relics are dug up. Another remarkable fact is that the slate-beds have had wonderful ups and downs over and over again during the earth's changes—being at one time under a deep sea, at another lifted to form hills, as we frequently see them now.
FROST-BITTEN IN THE RED SEA.
A strange accident happened a few years ago on board a large steamer in the Red Sea.
One of the assistant-stewards had occasion to go to the ship's ice-room to fetch something which had been forgotten when the day's provisions were given out in the morning.
The man was not missed for some time, and, when search was made, the poor fellow was found nearly frozen to death. Some one had thoughtlessly slammed the door of the refrigerator, which could only be opened from the outside.
The prisoner had a terrible experience, and after doing what he could to attract attention, had sunk exhausted on the floor.
Fortunately, the head steward noticed that the key of the ice-room was missing, and this led to the man's discovery. If he had not been found till the following day, he would probably have been the first man to be frozen to death in one of the hottest parts of the world.