Round-about Rambles in Lands of Fact and Fancy Part 8

LIVING IN SMOKE.

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Here is a mosquito of which the bravest man might be afraid; but, fortunately, these insects are not found quite so large as the one in the drawing, for he is considerably magnified. But when we hear even a very small fellow buzzing around our heads, in the darkness of a summer night, we are very apt to think that he sounds as if he were at least as big as a bat.

In some parts of our country, mosquitoes are at certain seasons so plentiful and bloodthirsty that it is impossible to get along comfortably in their company. But, except in spots where no one would be likely to live, whether there were mosquitoes there or not, these insects do not exist in sufficient numbers to cause us to give up our ordinary style of living and devote all our energies to keeping them at a distance.

In some other countries, however, the people are not so fortunate. In Senegal, at certain seasons, the inhabitants are driven from their habitations by the clouds of mosquitoes which spread over the land, and are forced to take refuge on high platforms, under which they keep fires continually burning.

The smoke from these fires will keep away the mosquitoes, but it cannot be very pleasant to the Senegalians. However, they become used to it, and during the worst of the mosquito season, they eat, drink, sleep, and enjoy themselves to the best of their ability on these platforms, which for the time become their houses.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A SMOKY DWELLING.]

It would probably seem to most of us, that to breathe an atmosphere constantly filled with smoke, and to have it in our eyes and noses all the time, would be almost as bad, if not quite, as suffering the stings of mosquitoes.

But then we do not know anything about Senegalian mosquitoes, and the accounts which Dr. Livingstone and other travellers give of the insects in Africa, ought to make us feel pretty sure that these woolly-headed folks on the platforms know what is good for them.

THE CANNON OF THE PALAIS ROYAL.

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In the Gardens of the Palais Royal, in Paris, there is a little cannon which stands on a pedestal, and is surrounded by a railing. Every day it is loaded with powder and wadding, but no one on earth is allowed to fire it off. However, far away in the realms of s.p.a.ce, ninety-three millions of miles from our world, there is the great and glorious Sun, and every day, at twelve o'clock, he fires off that little cannon, provided there are no clouds in the way. Just before noon on bright days, the people gather around the railing, with their watches in their hands,--if they are so lucky as to have watches,--and precisely at twelve o'clock, _bang!_ she goes.

The arrangement which produces this novel artillery-practice is very simple. A burning-gla.s.s is fixed over the cannon in such a manner that when the sun comes to the meridian--which it does every day at noon, you know--its rays are concentrated on the touch-hole, and of course the powder is ignited and the cannon is fired.

Most boys understand the power of a burning-gla.s.s, and know how easily dry gra.s.s or tinder, or a piece of paper, may be set on fire by a good gla.s.s when the sun is bright; but they would find it very difficult to place a gla.s.s over a little cannon so that it would infallibly be discharged at any set hour. And even if they could do it, they would not be sure of their cannon-clock being _exactly_ right, for the sun does not keep the very best time. He varies a little, and there is a difference between solar time and true time. But the sun is always near enough right for all ordinary intents and purposes.

I know boys--lazy fellows--and some girls of the same sort, for that matter,--who, if they could, would have, just outside of their school-doors, one of the largest cannon, which should go off every day at the very earliest hour at which school would let out, and which should make such a tremendous report that it would be impossible for the teacher to overlook the time and keep them in too long.

But if these same boys and girls were putting up a cannon to go off at the hour when school commenced, they would get such a little one that it wouldn't frighten a mouse.

WATERS, DEEP AND SHALLOW.

With such a vast subject before us as the waters of our beautiful world, we must be systematic. So we will at first confine ourselves to the observation of _pleasant waters_.

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Let us begin at the beginning.

This pretty little spring, with its cool water running day and night into the old barrel, and then gurgling over the staves, flowing away among the gra.s.s and flowers, is but a trifling thing perhaps, and might be pa.s.sed with but little notice by people who have always lived in cities. But country-folks know how to value a cool, unfailing spring. In the hot days of summer the thirsty and tired farmer would rather see that spring than an ice-cream saloon. Yes, even if he has nothing to drink from but a gourd, which may be lying there among the stones. He may have a tin-cup with him,--and how shocking! he may drink out of his hands! But, let him use what he may, he certainly gets a most delicious drink.

I once knew a little girl who said she could not bear spring-water; she did not think it was clean, coming out of the ground in that way.

I asked her if she liked well-water; but she thought that was worse yet, especially when it was hauled up in old buckets. River-water she would not even consider, for that was too much exposed to all sorts of dirty things to be fit to drink. I then wished to know what kind of water she did like, and she answered, readily enough, "hydrant-water."

I don't know where she imagined hydrant-water came from, but she may have thought it was manufactured, by some clean process, out at the water-works.

But let us follow this little stream which trickles from the barrel.

We cannot walk by its banks all the time, for it winds so much and runs through places where the walking is very bad; but let us go across the fields and walk a mile or two into the woods, and we will meet with it again. Here it is!

What a fine, tumbling stream it has grown to be now! It is even big enough to have a bridge over it. It does not always rush so noisily among the rocks; but this is early summer; there has been plenty of rain, and the brook is full and strong. Now, then, if this is a trout country, we ought to have our hooks and lines with us. Among the eddies of this stream we might find many a nice trout, and if we were only successful enough to catch some of them after we had found them, we would be sure of a reward for our walk, even if the beauty of the scene did not repay us.

But let us go on. This stream does not stop here.

After we have walked a mile or so more, we find that our noisy friend has quieted down very much indeed. It is a little wider, and it may be it is a little deeper, but it flows along very placidly between its low banks. It is doubtful if we should find any trout in it now, but there may be cat-fish and perch, and some sun-fish and eels.

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And now the stream suddenly spreads out widely. It is a little lake!

No, it is only a mill-pond.

Let us walk around and come out in front of the mill.

How the stream has diminished again!

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As it comes out of the mill-race and joins itself to that portion which flows over the dam, it is a considerable creek, to be sure, but it looks very small compared to the mill-pond. But what it wants in size it makes up in speed, like some little Morgan horses you may have seen, and it goes rushing along quite rapidly again. Here, now, is a splendid chance to catch a chub.

If we had some little minnows for bait, and could stand on the bank there to the left, and throw our lines down into the race, we ought to be able to hook a chub, if there are any there, and I think it is very likely that there are. A chub, if he is a good-sized fellow, is a fish worth catching, even for people who have been fishing for trout. One big chub will make a meal for a small family.

But let us follow the creek and see what new developments we shall discover. To be sure, you may say that following up a stream from its very source involves a great deal of walking; but I can answer with certainty that a great deal of walking is a very easy thing--in books!

So on we go, and it is not long before we find that our watery friend has ceased to be a creek, and is quite worthy of being called a fine young river. But still it is scarcely fit yet for navigation. There are rocks in the very middle of the stream, and every now and then we come to a waterfall. But how beautiful some of those cascades are!

What a delightful thing it would be, on a warm summer evening, to bathe in that deliciously cool water. It is deep enough for a good swim, and, if any of us want a shower-bath, it would be a splendid thing to sit on the rocks and let the spray from the fall dash over us! And there are fish here, I am sure. It is possible that, if we were to sit quietly on the bank and fish, we might soon get a string of very nice perch, and there is no knowing what else. This stream is now just about big enough and little enough to make the character of its fish doubtful. I have known pike--fellows two feet long--caught in such streams as this; and then again, in other small rivers, very much like it, you can catch nothing but cat-fish, roach, and eels.

If we were to follow up our river, we would soon find that it grew larger and larger, until row-boats and sloops, and then schooners and perhaps large ships, sailed upon its surface. And at last we might follow it down to its mouth, and, if it happened to flow into the sea, we would probably behold a grand scene. Some rivers widen so greatly near their mouths that it is difficult to believe that they are rivers at all.

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On the next page we see a river which, at its junction with the ocean, seems almost like a little sea itself.

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We can hardly credit the fact that such a great river as the Amazon arose from a little spring, where you might span the body of the stream with your hand. But, at its source, there is no doubt just such a little spring. The great trouble, however, with these long rivers, is to find out where their source really is. There are so many brooks and smaller rivers flowing into them that it is difficult to determine the main line. You know that we have never settled that matter in regard to the Mississippi and Missouri. There are many who maintain that the source of the Mississippi is to be found at the head of the Missouri, and that the latter is the main river. But we shall not try to decide any questions of that sort. We are in quest of pleasant waters, not difficult questions.

[Ill.u.s.tration: FALLS OF GAVARNI.]