Chapter 6

Come, we have lunched, and rested, and watched the May-flies; let us try to catch a few more trout. It is very strange why sometimes the fish will not rise, though the weather is propitious and the water in first-rate order. Holloa! master Willy, what game are you after now? "Oh, papa," he exclaimed, "there are a lot of dace on this shallow, so I put the spinning hooks on, and, see, I have managed to hook a couple out, by simply throwing the tackle on the other side of the fish and then drawing it smartly through the water over them." Well, that looks like a bit of poaching, at all events; the fish are spawning amongst that water-crowfoot, no doubt; just hook out some weed, and I dare say we shall see some eggs. To be sure; there they are, dotted over the long thread-like leaves of the plant, like little pearls. You have caught enough, for I think it is not sportsmanlike conduct to take such unfair advantage of the unfortunate dace. Put on your casting line and try under the old forge bridge. You think there is not much use? A true fly-fisherman should never say so. I have taken many a trout under the bridge, and I dare say you may be successful this time. There! I told you so. Keep your line tight, and Jack shall land him. He is not a large fish evidently, but very lively. Now you have him, throw him on the grass. Are there any parasites on him? Yes; but different to the last we observed. Here is a leech-like creature, rather small and cylindrical; it is the _Piscicola_, a not uncommon parasitic leech on fish. Well, put him into the bottle; we can take him home and examine him at leisure. How many trout have we taken now? "We have got nine, papa, and, remember, I have caught three." Yes; but I suppose you include the poaching? "No; I have caught three trout with the fly, and I don't count the dace." Not a bad day's sport, after all; for I threw back again three small fish. What is this showy plant, with large, yellow, globe-like blossoms? How pretty it is, growing in abundance in a little spot near the river! It is the globe flower, so called from the rounded shape of the corolla; it is one of the buttercup family, as you will, perhaps, guess. In its wild state I believe it is found in mountain districts, so I suspect it has found its way here from some of the cottage gardens which are only a quarter of a mile distant. We will grub up a few roots; perhaps Mrs. Charlton would like them for her wild garden shrubbery. When you go a-fishing always be provided, if not inconvenient, with a trowel and a small basket, as well as with a few wide-mouthed bottles; they will be very useful, especially if the trout will not rise. The trowel and basket you can leave at a cottager's house, and the bottles are indispensable to every angler-naturalist. What are you running after, Jacko? Oh! I see; one of the most beautiful insects that are found in this country. Ah! he is too quick for you. It is the brilliant steel-blue dragon-fly. Let us sit down for a few minutes and watch its flight. How rapidly it flies, now pursuing the course of the river, now suddenly darting back again. It is the _Agrion virgo_, the most splendid of all the dragon-flies, even rivalling the gorgeously coloured insects of tropical countries. All the dragon-flies proceed from water larvæ; strange creatures of unbecoming forms and ferocious dispositions. The mouth, or rather the lower lip of the larva is of very singular form. Two jaw-like organs are at the end of the lip, its basal portion being articulated to the head; this mask, as it has been called, is folded beneath the head when in repose, but it can be suddenly shot out in front of the head so as to seize any small creatures that may pass near it which the larva thinks good to eat. Imagine one of your arms being joined on to your chin, bend your elbow up till your hand covers your face--this will represent the dragon larva with the mask in repose; now shoot out your arm in a straight line from the head--this will represent the mask unfolded and in use; your fingers may be considered to represent the jaws of the creature. When the larva wishes to turn into an insect, it leaves the water and creeps up the stem of some water weed or other object out of the water, bursts its skin, and commences its new state of existence. If we look about us near the water side, we shall be sure to find some empty pupa skins. Here are two on this sedge; you see a slit on the back through which the dragon-fly has come out. The dragon-flies are the largest and most active of our British insects, and, to quote the descriptive words of Professor Rymer Jones, "are pre-eminently distinguished by the rapidity of their flight and the steadiness of their evolutions while 'hawking' for prey in the vicinity of ponds and marshy grounds, where in hot summer weather they are everywhere to be met with. Equally conspicuous from their extreme activity, their gorgeous colours, and the exquisite structure of their wings, they might be regarded as the monarchs of the insect race. The very names selected for them by entomologists would testify the perfection of their attributes; their titles ranging from that of _Anax imperator_, indicative of imperial sway, to epithets expressive of feminine delicacy and ladylike grace, such as _virgo_, _puella_, _demoiselle_, and _damsel-fly_, which are appropriated to the sylph-like forms that many of them exhibit. In their habits, however, they by no means deserve the gentle appellations bestowed upon them. They are, in truth, the tigers of the insect world, and their whole lives are devoted to bloodshed and rapine. Indomitable in their strength of wing, furnished with tremendous jaws, and possessed of acuteness of sight and rapidity of motion scarcely to be paralleled, there seems to be no escape from their ferocity, and terrible is the slaughter they effect amongst the insect legions they are appointed to destroy." It must not, however, be supposed from the above description that the dragon-flies are creatures that deserve to be killed. On the contrary, they are most serviceable to men, and destroy countless numbers of injurious flies and butterflies whose larvæ do damage to vegetation. "Well, papa," said Jack, "the boys in the village always kill them if they can catch them, and say they sting horses." I know that this is a popular tradition, inherited by the rural folks of our day from their great-great-grandmothers' grandmothers. Dragon-flies are often called _horse stingers_; in America they are sometimes called _devil's darning-needles_; in Scotland, I believe, they are known by the name of _flying adders_. Where is my net? I will try and catch a demoiselle. There! I have her, or I should rather say _him_, for these dark spots on the wings disclose the sex; the female has unspotted wings, and is of a rich green colour. "How splendidly it shines in the sun," said Willy; "nothing can exceed the beauty of its wings." Well, now you have looked at him closely and admired him, I will let him go again. Off he flies, none the worse for his temporary captivity. Now for my friend the trout, who would not take my fly an hour ago. Ah! I have got him the first throw; see how he jumps. Now, Willy, for the landing-net. Bravo! all safe, and a good fish too. Our sport is over for the day, and we must get ready to drive home. To-morrow, Willy, you may learn these lines from Thomson's 'Seasons:'

"When with his lively ray the potent sun Has pierced the stream and roused the finny race, Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair; Chief should the western breezes curling play, And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds. Just in the dubious point where with the pool Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly; And as you lead it round in artful curve With eye attentive mark the springing game, Straight as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap, Then fix with gentle twitch, the barbed hook. Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some, With various hand proportioned to their force. If yet too young and easily deceived, A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod; Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream The speckled captive throw. But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behoves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly; And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the leap, With sullen plunge. At once he darts along, Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthened line; Then seeks the furthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The caverned bank, his old secure abode, And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage; Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandoned, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize."

There is some good advice here worth remembering; at any rate, persevere, persevere, and no doubt you will become in time

WALK VI.

JUNE.

"We had many pleasant rambles last autumn," said Willy, "in search of fungi. How I wish the time was come when we could hunt for fungi again. Think of the woods at the bottom of the Wrekin, and those delightful fir plantations near Tibberton. Besides you know some kinds are so good broiled for breakfast. I often think of fungus-hunting. When shall we be able to go out hunting again?"

September and October are the best months, but we shall meet with fungi earlier. However, I will promise you a long day's ramble or two in search of fungi when the time comes. In the mean time let us keep our eyes open, and I dare say we shall even now, in the month of June, meet with a few interesting species. We will go into some of the meadows near home to-day, and I am much mistaken if we shall not be able to find St. George's mushroom. It is a very delicious fungus, and perfectly wholesome. I gathered a few specimens the other day, and now that the weather is warm, I doubt not we shall meet a good number; so, besides collecting bottles, we will take a basket, and Jack shall be the carrier. Now separate yourselves and search this pasture well. "Here are a lot of fungi growing in a ring," exclaimed May. Let me look. You have found what we wanted. This fungus is the _Agaricus gambosus_, or St. George's mushroom. See how closely the gills are set together; they are yellowish-white in colour; the top is thick and fleshy; the stem, too, is very thick. Few fungi, comparatively speaking, grow so early in the year, and you could not mistake _gambosus_ for any other kind. What? You think the smell rather strong. Well, I confess this fungus has a strong and not a very pleasant odour. Put what you have collected into the basket; you will find that the taste is better than the smell. Here are some specimens with the top cracked and split; these are a little older, but they are very good. We will put them with the rest. "Oh, papa," exclaimed Jack, "I was looking at that ash tree in the hedge, and I thought I saw a mouse run up the trunk." I suspect it was not a mouse, but a bird, called, from its habit of running up trees, the tree-creeper. Let us get a little nearer. I see I am right; there the little bird is, running rapidly up the tree; now he stops, as if examining the bark; now he is off again. How very like a mouse, to be sure! It is one of the smallest of our British birds, and, though common enough, is not very often seen, except by those who, caring for such things, use their eyes well. Now he has gone to the opposite side of the tree; off he goes again and explores another trunk. By means of its long curved claws and stiff forked tail-feathers, this prettily marked bird is enabled to climb with great rapidity. It remains in this country all the year, and is more abundant in plantations and parks where there are plenty of trees. It makes its nest in a hollow tree, or on the inner side of the bark of a decayed one. The little bird lays many eggs, from six to nine, in the month of April; they are nearly white, with a few pinkish spots, generally at the larger end of the egg. It utters a few pleasing but feeble notes. The young ones are, as you may suppose, tiny little things. You should notice the curved pointed beak of this bird, and the stiff tail-feathers it presses against the tree as a fulcrum to aid it in its ascent.

We will go into this adjoining field, which will soon be ready to mow. We will keep by the hedge--for it would not be right to trample down the tall grass--and gather a few grasses. Few people know more about grass than that it is good pasturage for cattle and sheep. Let us gather a lot, and take care, as far as we can, to gather only one kind each. How graceful and beautiful they are, and what difference there is amongst them; some have a stiff spike-like head of flowers, others have pretty drooping heads; some are harsh and rough to the touch, others soft as satin. Some, again, are of great value as pasturage and for making into hay; others are positively noxious weeds. You know the twitch or couch grass, that gives the farmer so much trouble; it is most rapid in its growth and difficult to kill; its underground creeping stems spread in all directions, and, if left to itself, would soon take sole possession of the whole soil. So the farmers are very careful to rake together all they can; they then collect it in heaps and burn it. Here is the rough "cocksfoot grass," with its head or "panicle" as it is called, upright and tufted. Look at its large yellow stamens; it is a very productive species and enters largely into all hay-grass. Here is the common quaking grass, with its slender, smooth, spreading branches. See how the numerous little heads tremble with the slightest motion; we do not see much of it in these meadows. It is an exceedingly pretty grass, and often seen on the chimney-pieces of cottagers, but is by no means a valuable agricultural grass; on the contrary, it is a sign, when abundant, of poor land.

Here we have the smooth-stalked meadow grass, and here is the hedge wood-melic grass, with its slightly drooping panicle, and spikelets on long slender footstalks. Here is the soft meadow grass; feel how smooth its panicle is; this, the oat-like grass. "What is that very tall grass," asked Willy, "that often grows near the water? It is much taller than you are, and has a rich brown drooping head." You mean the common reed-grass, no doubt; it is not yet in flower, but you will see it in August and September. It is a magnificent grass, though not of much use to the farmer. The little birds find shelter amongst its stems, and the reed-warbler often chooses them as pillars whereon to support its nest. Then you must not forget another tall and handsome grass, often found on the banks of rivers and lakes, called the reed-canary grass; it flowers about the middle of July. You know the ribbon-grass, in the garden, with its leaves striped with green and white, varying immensely in the width of its bands, so that you can never find two leaves exactly alike. "Yes, indeed, papa," said May, "I know it well; you know we always put some with the flowers we gather for the drawing-room table." Well, this is only a cultivated variety of the reed-canary grass; and I have sometimes let a cluster of the ribbon-grass run wild as it were, and then the leaves turn to one uniform green. The reed-meadow grass is another tall and handsome kind; this cattle are very fond of; it is sweet to the taste and grows in damp situations. "You sometimes see," said May, "a very beautiful and curious grass, with long yellow feathery tails, amongst the ornaments in rooms." That is the "feather-grass;" it is a very rare grass, and has been seldom found wild in this country. The long yellow tails are the awns, which resemble delicate feathers. Here is the sweet-scented vernal grass; taste and see how pleasant it is; it is the grass which, perhaps more than any other, gives that charming odour to the hayfields. "There is a clear pond in yonder corner of the field, let us go there and see what we can find," said Willy. All right. It is a very likely pond for many interesting creatures; but let us first look at the plants that grow round or in it. There are a few sedges here and there--a pretty order of plants; at present you must be content with making yourselves acquainted with their general form. Take care how you gather them, for the leaves and stems of some kinds are very rough, and if you draw them quickly through your hand you may cut it rather sorely. "Oh! do come here, papa," said May; "here is quite a new flower to me; is it not a beauty?" Indeed, it is a lovely plant; it is the buckbean or marshtrefoil, and generally grows in some boggy spot, such as this. Look at the three green leaflets, like those of the common bean--hence one of the names of the plant. Look again at the clusters of blossoms; some are not fully out, and are of a lovely rose colour; others are quite out, and the flowers covered with a white silken fringe. Bite a bit, and taste how bitter it is; people often gather the roots and use them as a tonic medicine. I think in some countries, as in Norway and in Germany, the leaves have been used in the place of hops for brewing beer; about a couple of ounces being equal to a couple of pounds of hops. The late Sir William Hooker found the buckbean very plentiful in Iceland, and says that where it occurs it is of great use to travellers over the morasses, for they are aware that the thickly entangled roots make a safe bed under the soft morass for them to pass over. Here is hairy mint, nearly a foot high; do you dislike the smell? I think it pleasant myself; it is not yet in flower, but will be so in about six weeks' time. Holloa! Jack, what's the matter? "I have only tumbled down, papa, amongst these nasty nettles, and got stung rather sharply." That is interesting. Do you know how it is that nettles sting? "Oh, papa," said Jack, pitifully, "you are like the man in the fable who was giving a lecture to the drowning boy; the boy asked him to get him first of all out of the water, and to give him the lecture afterwards. Now, you should first tell me how to cure these nettle stings, and I would then be more inclined to learn how it is that nettles sting."

The pain will soon pass off, and I do not know that there is any remedy. When at school, I was told to rub the stung part over with a dock leaf, but I do not think this ever did it any good. Now, I want you to pay particular attention; you know what we call "the dead nettle"--I mean what plant I allude to; there is the red, white, and yellow so-called dead nettles; you remember the shape of the flowers of these three kinds. Look at the flowers of the real stinging nettles; are they not extremely unlike? You see the small green flowers in long branched clusters; how different from the lip-shaped flower of the dead nettles.

There is some general resemblance, however, between the real nettles and the so-called dead nettles; the leaves for instance of the white dead nettle are very like those of the stinger. The dead nettles, however, are not at all related to the true nettle, and belong to quite a different family called the Labiate tribe, from the Latin word _Labium_, "a lip," in allusion to the form of the corolla. Is the pain better, now, Jacko? "Yes, it is getting less severe; look what large white lumps have arisen on the back of my hand." The sting of the nettle is a very curious and interesting object under the microscope. It consists of a hollow tube with a glandular organ at the bottom of it, in which is contained an acrid fluid very irritating to the skin; the fine point of the sting or hair pierces the skin, and the pressure forces up the fluid from the bottom of the hair, which is then conveyed into the wound by a point at the top of the sting.

The nettles of foreign countries have much greater poisonous properties. The effects of incautiously handling some East Indian species are terrible. The first pain is compared with the pain inflicted by a red-hot iron; this increases and continues for days. A French botanist was once stung by one of these nettles in the Botanical Gardens of Calcutta; he says the pain so affected the lower part of his face that he feared lock-jaw. He did not get rid of the pain till nine days had expired. Dr. Hooker saw gigantic nettles in Nepal, one was a shrubby species growing fifteen feet high, called by the natives _mealum-ma_. They had so great a dread of it that Dr. Hooker could hardly persuade them to help him to cut it down. He gathered several specimens without allowing any part to touch his skin, but the "scentless effluvium" was so powerful as to cause unpleasant effects for the rest of the day. "The sting produces violent inflammation, and to punish a child with _mealum-ma_ is the severest Lepcha threat." Then there is the nettle of Timor, or _devils-leaf_, the sting of which sometimes produces fatal effects. Tree-nettles in Australia are occasionally found as much as twenty-five feet in circumference. There are three species of stinging nettles in this country, the great nettle, the small nettle, and the Roman nettle; the first two are very common, the last very rare indeed. There is a curious story told of the introduction of this last species into this country. You may believe as much as you please of it. It is said that before the Romans under Julius Cæsar thought it prudent to come to England--of the coldness of which they had heard a good deal--they procured some seeds of the Roman nettle, intending to sow them when they landed in this country; so when they landed at Romney, in Kent, they sowed the seeds. "And what use, papa," asked Willy, "would nettles be to them during the cold weather in England?" Well, they meant to nettle themselves, and so chafe their skins so as to enable them to bear the cold better. And tough skins they must have had, for the poison of the Roman nettle is much more severe than that of the two common species. Camden, I believe, tells the story; as I said, you may believe it or not. Do you see that tortoiseshell butterfly hovering near the nettles? Its larva was a greenish-black caterpillar with yellow stripes, and it lived, when in that state, entirely on the leaves of the nettle; the larvæ also of other kinds of butterflies feed on this plant, as the admiral butterfly, and the peacock butterfly. I have eaten the young shoots of the common nettles in the spring of the year; they do not make a bad substitute for spinach.