Star-land: Being Talks With Young People About the Wonders of the Heavens

by Robert S. Ball

Once upon a time a great forest flourished. The sun shone down on this forest, and it was watered by genial showers, while insects and other creatures sported in its shades. It is true that the trees and plants were not like those we now see about us. They were more like ferns and mare’s-tails and gigantic club-mosses. In the fulness of time they died, and fell, and decayed, and others sprang up to meet the like end. Thus it happened that, in course of ages, the remains of leaves, and fruits, and trunks accumulated over the soil. The forest was situated near the seashore, and then a remarkable change took place—the land began slowly to sink. You need not think that this is impossible. Land has often been known to change its level gradually. In fact, a sinking process is slowly going on now in many places on the earth, while the land is rising in other localities. As the forest gradually sank lower and lower, the sea-water began to inundate it, and all the trees perished until, at last, deep water submerged the surface which had once been covered by a fine forest. At the bottom of this sea lay the decaying vegetation.

That which was the destruction of the growing forest, proved to be the means of preserving its remains, for, then as now, the rivers flowed into the sea, and the waters of the rivers, especially in times of flood, carried down with them clay or mud, held in suspension. Upon the floor of the ocean this material was slowly deposited; and thus a coating of mud overlay the remains of the forest. In the course of ages, these layers grew thick and heavy, and hardened into a great flat rock, while the trunks and leaves underneath were squeezed together by the weight, and packed into a solid mass which became black, and in the course of time was transformed into coal.

After ages and ages had passed by, the bed of the sea ceased to sink, and began slowly to rise. The water over the newly made layers of stone became shallower, and at last the floor was raised until it emerged from the sea. But, of course, it would not be the original ground which formed the surface of the newly uncovered land. The sheets of consolidated clay lay on the top; over the fresh surface life gradually spread, until man himself came to dwell there, while far beneath his feet the remains of the ancient vegetation were buried.

When we now dig down through the rocks we come upon the portions of trees and other plants which the lapse of time, and the influence of pressure, have turned from leaves and wood into our familiar coal.

That ancient forest grew because sunbeams abounded in those early times, and nourished a luxuriant vegetation. The heat and the light then expended so liberally by the sun were seized by the leaves of flourishing plants, and were stored away in their stems and foliage. Thus it is that the ancient sunbeams have been preserved in our coal-beds for uncounted thousands of years. When we put a lump of coal on our fire this evening, and when it sends forth a grateful warmth and cheerful light, it but reproduces for our benefit some of that store of preserved sunbeams of which our earth holds so large a treasure. Thus, the sun has contributed very materially to our comfort, for it has provided the fire to keep us warm.

The orb of day has, however, ministered further to our tea party, for has it not produced the tea itself? The tea grew a long way off, most likely in China, where the plant was matured by the warmth of the sunbeams. From China the tea-chests were brought by a sailing vessel to London; the ship performed this long voyage by the use of sails, blown by what we call wind, which is merely the passage of great volumes of air as they hurry from one part of the earth to another.

We may ask what makes the air move, for it will not rush about in this way unless there be considerable force to drive it. Here again we perceive the influence of the sun. Tracts of land are warmed by the genial sunbeams. The air receives the heat from the land, and the warm air is buoyant and ascends, while cooler air continually flows in to supply its place. To do this it has, of course, to rush across the country, and thus wind is caused. All the air currents on our earth are consequently due to the sun. You see, therefore, how greatly we are indebted to our brilliant luminary for the enjoyment of our tea-table. Not only has the sun given us the coal and the tea, but it has actually provided the means by which the tea was carried all the way from China to our own shores.

We can also trace the connection between the hot water and the sun. Of course, the water has come immediately from the kettle, and that has been taken from the fire, and the fire was produced by sunbeams. Thus we learn that it is the warmth of the sun that has made the water boil. If you visit the water-works you will see great reservoirs. In some cases they have been filled by a river, sometimes the water is pumped from a deep well in the ground, sometimes it is the surface-water caught on a mountain side. Whatever be the immediate source of our water supply, the real origin is to be sought, not in the earth beneath, but in the heavens above. All the water we use day by day has come from the clouds. It is the clouds which sent down the rain, or sometimes the snow, or the hail, and it is this water from the clouds which fills our rivers. It is this water also which sinks deep into the earth and supplies our wells, so that from whatever apparent source the water seems to have come, it is indeed the clouds which have been the real benefactors. The water in your teacup to-night was, a little while ago, in a cloud, floating far overhead in the sky.

We may look a little further and find whence the clouds have come. It is certain that clouds are merely a form of steam or vapor of water, and as they are so continually sending down rain on the earth, there must be some means by which their supply will be replenished. Here again our excellent friend the sun is to be found ever helping us secretly, if not helping us openly. He pours down his rich and warm beams on the great oceans, and the heat turns some of the water into vapor, which, being lighter than the air, ascends upwards for miles. There the vapor often passes into the form of clouds, and the winds waft these clouds to refresh the thirsty lands of the earth. Thus, you see, it is the sun which procures for us water from the great oceans which cover so much of our globe, and sends it on by the winds to supply our water-works, and fill our teapots. Notice another little kindliness of our great benefactor. The water of the oceans is quite salt. But we could not make tea with salt water, so the sun, when lifting the vapor from the sea, most thoughtfully leaves all the salt behind, and thus provides us with the purest of sweet water.

That nice muffin was baked by the sun, toasted by the sun, and made from wheat grown by the sun. If the wheat was ground in a wind-mill, then the sun raised the wind which turned the mill. Perhaps the flour-mill was driven by steam, in which case the sun, long ago, provided the coal for the boiler. The miller might have lived on a river and used a water-mill, but if he did, then here again the sun actually did the work. The sun raised the water to the clouds, and after it had fallen in rain, and was on its way back to the sea, its descent was utilized to turn the water-wheel. The water derives its power to turn the mill from the fact that it is running downhill, but it could not run down unless it had first been raised up; and thus it is indeed the sun which drives the water-wheel. Nor can the baker dispense with the sun’s aid even if he rejected wind-mills, or steam-mills, or water-mills, and determined to grind the corn himself with a pestle and mortar. Here, at least, it might be thought that it is a man’s sinews and muscles that are doing the work, and so no doubt they are. But you are mistaken if you think the sun has not rendered indispensable aid. The sun has just as surely provided the power which moves the baker’s arms as it has raised the wind which turned the wind-mill. The force exerted in grinding with the pestle has been derived from the food that the man has eaten; that food was grown by the sun, and the man received from the food the energy it had derived from the sun’s heat. So that, look at it any way you please, even for the grinding of the wheat to make the muffin for your tea party, you are wholly indebted to the sun.