Part 2

"Very curious, very curious indeed, boys; and at some other time, if you wish, we will talk more about it, and I will tell you a great many stories of animals, which will show you their instinct. But for this time I have told you enough to keep you thinking until we meet again. So now just look at this picture of the carpenter-bee's house, and then you may go home."

CONVERSATION III.

_Uncle Philip tells the Children about Animals that are Tailors._

"Uncle Philip, we are very glad to see you, and we think we have found out something to ask you, about a kind of work which men do, that no other animal can accomplish. As we came along this morning to visit you, and were talking of what you had told us of insects that, like carpenters, could saw wood and bore holes in it, we passed by the tailor's shop, near the church; 'and now,' said we, 'we have found out something which will puzzle good Uncle Philip: there are surely no tailors among the lower animals; so we will ask him to-day to talk about creatures that can cut out cloth and sew it up with a needle.'"

"Ah, my dear children, there are a great many things which would puzzle Uncle Philip. I do not know every thing; nor do I suppose that I can find _every_ trade in the world among the dumb creatures which God has made. But you have made a bad choice of a puzzle this morning, my boys; for there are tailors among the inferior creatures, and some pretty nice ones, too; at any rate, they always cut so as to fit exactly."

"Why, Uncle Philip! You do not mean to say that they can cut out _cloth_, and then sew it up again with a needle and thread!"

"No, boys; I do not think it is to be expected that they should take a pair of shears and cut a piece of cloth, or put a piece of thread through the eye of a steel needle; any more than we expect the insect that saws, to go to the cabinet-maker, and borrow his tool to work with. But with the instruments which God has given to them, they will cut what is cloth to them, the leaves of trees and flowers, and will sew them together too: and, now I think of it, there is one that will cut his garments out of our cloth."

"Pray let us hear about them, Uncle Philip."

"Softly, boys, softly. I have two things to say to you before I begin. In the first place, I am very glad to hear that you think and talk among yourselves about the things which I tell you: and in the next place, I know that you love _me_, and, therefore would not wish, by _puzzling_ me, as you call it, to produce mortification or vexation; nor do I think that I should have felt either vexed or mortified had I not been able to find tailors among the lower animals; but I do not wish you to take pleasure in puzzling people; for it is very apt to produce in you a feeling of triumph, and to make you vain: and you must remember that for _one_ of your questions which cannot be answered, a _thousand_ might be put to you, of the answer to which you would be ignorant. No man, my dear boys, knows every thing. Wise men talk with each other, that they may learn from each other; and the wisest are not ashamed to acknowledge their ignorance of some things; and I believe they take very little pleasure in puzzling. It is our duty to learn all that we can, and to be always willing at a proper time to teach others what we know."

"Thank you, dear Uncle Philip, for your advice. We did not mean to triumph over _you_, if you had not been able to tell us of tailors among the animals. But we see that you are right. We might get a foolish habit, which would do us harm."

"Exactly what I meant, boys; and now let us begin. And first we will talk of the cutting out, as the tailor always does that before he sews. There is a kind of bee[1] which, like some of the insects we have already spoken of, is furnished with a borer. With this she forms a round hole, like that made with an auger or gimlet, in a hard-trodden path, or sometimes in a piece of soft decayed wood. It is in making her nest in this hole that she plays the part of a tailor, for the nest is made of leaves, sometimes taken from the rose, at others from the birch, ash, or other trees. The little creature cuts them commonly, and I believe always, into two shapes. They are either half-oval, that is, half the shape of the bowl of a spoon, or round, and are of different sizes. Sometimes she makes a mistake in the size, and when she finds it out, she alters it. These leaves are prepared to line the hole which she has bored, and she begins with the largest pieces; taking them into the hole, she winds around in it, until she has spread very smoothly a tube of leaves the whole length of it; she then closes up one end of it by rounding it off and doubling the pieces of leaf one over another. In this case she sets about making her _cells_. She takes three of her half-oval pieces which have been cut to fit, and contrives to roll them, so that the edge of one piece will just lap over the edge of the next; these, when she has finished rolling them, make the hollow of the cell, which is not quite an inch high. She next turns up the ends of these pieces, which are cut to fit, so as to form the bottom: she then sets to work with three other pieces rolled in the same way inside of the cell just finished, turning up their ends as before to form the bottom; and within these she again works three others, so that her cell, when it is done, is of nine thicknesses of leaves. And you see why, though she cuts the pieces of the same shape, they are not all of one size: they are of three sizes, so as to make the cells within each other smaller and smaller."

"But, Uncle Philip, you have not said any thing about the round pieces which she cuts; how does she use them?"

"I will tell you: after she has finished one cell she lays an egg in it, and fills it all round with food nearly liquid; now as the cell is lying down on its side, all this liquid food would run out if it were not corked up, and the bee therefore uses her circular pieces to stop up the cells."

"And does she really make these round pieces to fit the cell?"

"Yes, boys, exactly; and they are cut too as regularly as if they had been first measured and marked with a pair of compasses. And, more than this, the little creature will fit one in in less than a minute. But the most curious thing is, that sometimes she will fly off to a distance to get this round piece, and bring back one which will exactly suit; so that it really seems as if she carried the size in her head. After finishing one cell she will make another, until she has completed as many as she wants; and then, as she always builds them one upon another, they appear like a parcel of thimbles stuck into each other and put into a case: and here is a picture of it."

"This is very wonderful, Uncle Philip; and it does seem like cutting out pieces to fit."

"Very true: but this is not the only cutter-out of leaves among the bees. There is another kind, called the poppy-bee,[2] because it uses the scarlet leaves of the poppy-flower to line its cell. It makes its hole in the ground, as smooth and regular and polished as can be, and then proceeds to line it all around with pieces of the leaves, and cuts them to fit as she goes on. If a piece is too large she will trim it down to the proper size and shape, and always carries away the scraps. Now if you should take a pair of scissors and try to cut the leaf of a poppy-flower, you would wrinkle it, but this little workman will spread out what she cuts as smooth as glass. When she has lined this hole throughout, and carried the lining out beyond the entrance, she fills it with honey and _pollen_, or bee-bread, as it is called, about half an inch high, lays an egg, then folds down the leaves on it, and finally fills the upper part with earth."

"Then she was not working for herself?"

"No; she was providing a house for her young, and God has taught her thus to take care of it.

"I will now tell you of another little workman, which I have heard called the cloak-maker, because it makes for itself a mantle which really appears very much like a cloak; and, stranger still, this cloak is lined throughout with silk."

"Can it be possible, Uncle Philip?"

"Listen, and you shall hear. These mantle-looking cases are made by the _larva_, as it is called, or grub of a little moth which forms a covering of pure silk; this silk it spins from itself; it is not woven so as to appear like our silk, but still it is real silk, and is worked into a great many thin scales, which lap over one another like the scales of a fish. But this is only the lining of the cloak. This little tailor is the field-moth, which first eats what it wants from a green leaf, and then, from the thin membranes left, sets about making its mantle: and it makes it of two pieces cut out and joined together with a seam, just as a tailor would make it."

"How does it go to work, Uncle Philip?"

"Why, I will give you the account as it was given by a gentleman[3] who was very fond of observing insects, and who watched one of these little creatures. He says that from the thin membrane of the leaf it first cut two pieces just equal in size and of exactly the same shape; each of these pieces was to form one-half of the cloak, and this he says was done wonderfully fast. He noticed, too, that one end of each piece, that which was meant for the bottom of the cloak, was just twice as long as the other end, which was the top. The insect then placed itself between the two pieces while they were lying flat; it afterward brought the two sides where the seam was to be, together, and fastened them at certain places, still leaving, however, considerable spaces open. It then began to turn and twist its body about in all directions, until it moulded the pieces into a hollow form to fit. When it found that it would fit its body, it brought the edges of the seam close together through the whole length, and contrived to sew or fasten them so neatly together, that when the gentleman looked, even with a magnifying-glass, he said he could hardly find the seam. The whole was lined with the silk spun from itself, and was finished in about twelve hours."

"Why, this little workman is the strangest of all: but, Uncle Philip, you said there was one of these animal tailors that cut his garment out of _cloth_: pray tell us of him."

"When I said that, boys, I was thinking of the clothes-moth.[4] They make their coats of wool commonly taken from our cloth, and silk drawn from their own mouths; and the strangest thing concerning them is, that when they outgrow their clothes they will piece them to make them larger. Suppose the insect wants it longer, it adds a new ring of wool to the end: suppose it wants it wider, it slits the case or garment, not from one end to the other, for this would leave it naked, but it splits it half-way down the sides, and when it has filled it in with proper pieces, it splits the remaining half, and puts other pieces in them. There is another curious thing about this tailor: it always makes its coat of the same colour with the cloth from which it takes the wool; so that if it has first made its garment of a piece of blue cloth, and is placed on a bit of red cloth when it wishes to enlarge it, you will see its work exactly, for the pieces which it puts in will be red. This is the little fellow, boys, which does so much mischief to our clothes."

"Well, Uncle Philip, one can almost forgive his mischief for the sake of his ingenuity. But you have said nothing yet about _needles_; how do these little creatures sew?"

"Why, they have what serves as a needle to them: but I can tell you of another animal which sews with a needle a great deal plainer to be seen than that of these little insects."

"Pray let us hear of him, Uncle Philip."

"I must go among the birds to find this workman. There is a kind of starling, called the orchard starling,[5] about which, Mr. Wilson, a gentleman who has written a great deal concerning the birds of our country, gives a very curious account. He says that this bird commonly hangs its nest from the twigs of an apple-tree, and makes it in a very singular manner. The outside is made of a particular kind of long tough grass, that will bend without breaking, and this grass is knit or sewed through and through in a thousand directions, just as if done with a needle. The little creature does it with its feet and bill. Mr. Wilson says that he one day showed one of these nests to an old lady, and she was so much struck with the work that she asked him, half in earnest, if he did not think that these birds could be taught to _darn stockings_? Mr. Wilson took the pains too to draw out one of these grass threads, and found that it measured thirteen inches, and in that distance the bird who used it had passed it in and out thirty-four times."

"Why, this was sewing, sure enough."

"Yes; and I saw, when I was in the West Indies, another kind of starling[6] which will cut leaves into a shape like the quarter of an orange-rind, and sew the whole very neatly to the under side of a banana-leaf, so as to make one side of the nest. But, boys, there is another most beautiful little bird, which is called the tailor-bird, because it sews so well.[7] It first picks out a plant with large leaves, then it gathers cotton from the shrub, and with the help of its fine long bill and slender little feet it spins this cotton into a thread, and then using its bill for a needle, it will sew these large leaves together to hide its nest, and sew them very neatly, too."

"Why, dear Uncle Philip, this is the most wonderful tailor of them all."

"He is, indeed: but, my children, what do we learn from all that I have been telling you? Who made these little creatures with such curious skill, and taught them to work so well? It was the same God who made us; for such wonderful things never came from what people call _chance_. Chance, boys, never made any thing: and how very wise he must be to form such nice little workmen; and how very good thus to teach them how to take care of themselves. The Bible says, truly, that '_his tender mercies are over all his works_.' And I think, boys, we may learn another thing: it is, not to be so very proud of what we know; for I rather suppose that we shall often find that the lower creatures around us understood many of our trades long before we found them out."

"Yes, Uncle Philip, it is likely that these little fellows you have been telling us of this morning were the first tailors in the world."

"Very likely, very likely indeed, boys. But now I must bid you good morning; for here comes our good clergyman, and I am going with him to see a poor sick woman."

"Good morning, Uncle Philip; we will come again on Saturday."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Megachile centuncularis.

[2] Osmia papaveris.

[3] Reaumur.

[4] Tinea sarcitella.

[5] Icterus mutatus.

[6] Icterus bonana.

[7] Sylvia sutoria.

CONVERSATION IV.

_Uncle Philip tells the Children about the first Paper in the World, made by Wasps._

"Ah, boys! how do you do? This is Saturday, and I have been expecting to see you come for some time."

"Why, Uncle Philip, we should have been here sooner, but we went round by the old mill; because we thought that perhaps we might find in some of the old timbers, holes bored by some of those industrious little carpenters you told us about."

"Well; and did you find any?"

"No; but we found something else, which we have brought to show you: and we have been talking about it all the way. We have not discovered any new _tools_ among the animals, but we think we have found out a _trade_ that some of them work at; and we wish you to tell us if we are right."

"Oh, that I will do, with pleasure, if I can. What is the trade that you think you have discovered?"

"It is paper-making, Uncle Philip. We have found this part of a wasp's nest, which we have brought along; and as you told us it was always best to notice every thing closely, we examined this, and it appeared so much like coarse paper that we thought (for we knew it was made by wasps) that man did not make the first paper in the world."

"Well, boys, that was not a bad thought. Now you see the advantage of taking notice of things, and of thinking about what you see. You are perfectly right in supposing that wasps make paper; and, if you please, we will talk this morning about the wasps."

"Oh yes, yes, by all means, Uncle Philip; and we will thank you, too."

"I must first tell you, then, that of the wasps there are several kinds. Some build their nests under ground, and some hang theirs in the air to the limb of a tree. This part of a nest which you have found belonged to the last kind; but I will tell you something about both. But before I begin let me get some drawings I have, which will help us to understand better. I have them. And now, of the wasps which build under ground. As soon as the warm season begins, the first care of the mother-wasp is to look for a fit place in which to build; and in the spring of the year she may very often be seen flying about a hole in the bank of a ditch, and looking into it. These holes which she examines are the old houses of field-mice or moles, and some persons have thought, what I expect is true, that she likes to take such old holes, because they save her a great deal of hard work. But still, as the holes are not large enough for her use, she has a great deal of labour to make them do. So she goes at once to work, digging in the hole she has chosen, and makes a winding, zigzag gallery, about two feet long, and about an inch in width. She digs out the earth, and carries it out, or pushes it out behind her as she goes on. This gallery ends in a large chamber or hole from one to two feet across when it is done: and now she is ready to begin her nest."

"Now then, Uncle Philip, she will begin to make paper, will she not?"

"Yes; but here I ought to tell you that it was a long time before men found out what she made it of. Do you remember my telling you of a gentleman who watched the little cloak-maker to see how he made his garment? Well, this gentleman, whose name was Reaumur, was trying for twenty years, he says, to find out how the wasp made paper, before he succeeded. At last, one day, he saw a female wasp alight on the sash of his window and begin to gnaw the wood; he watched her, and saw that she pulled off from the wood fibre after fibre, about the tenth part of an inch long, and not so large as a hair. She gathered these up into a knot with her feet, and then flew to another part of the sash, and went to work, stripping off more fibres or threads, and putting them to the bundle she had already. At last he caught her, to examine the bundle, and found that its colour was exactly like that of a wasp's nest; but the little ball was dry; she had not yet wetted it to make a pulp of it which could be spread out. He noticed another thing, that this bundle was not at all like wood gnawed by other insects; it was not sawdust, but threads of some little length bruised into lint. He then set to work himself with his penknife, and very soon scraped and bruised some of the wood of the same window-sash, so as to make a little ball exactly like the wasp's. Mr. Reaumur thought that this was the stuff out of which the wasp made paper, and it has since been found out that he was right. The animal wets its little bundle of bruised wooden fibres or threads with a kind of glue that it has, and this makes it stick together like pulp or paste; and while it is soft, the wasp walks backwards, and spreads it out with her feet and her tongue, until she has made it almost as thin as the thinnest paper. With this she lines the top of the hole in which she is going to build her nest, for she always begins at the top. But this is so thin that it would be too weak to keep the dirt from falling in; and therefore she goes on spreading her papers one upon the other until she has made the wall nearly two inches thick. These pieces are not laid exactly flat on each other like two pieces of pasteboard, but with little open spaces between, being joined at the edges only. This is the ceiling; and when it is finished she begins to build what may be called the highest floor of the nest; this she makes of the same paper in a great number of little cells all joined together at the sides; and instead of fastening this floor to the sides of the nest, she hangs it to the ceiling by rods made also out of this paper: these rods are small in the middle, and grow larger towards the ends, so as to be stronger. Here is a drawing of one.

She then makes a second floor, and hangs it under the first by rods as before; and the whole of it, when finished, if it should be cut straight through the middle, would appear something like the following picture of one which I made some years ago."

"This is a very ingenious little paper-maker. Uncle Philip."

"Yes, boys, it is so. This of which I have been telling you is the ground-wasp. The tree-wasp makes its nest of paper prepared in the same way; and the nests are of different shapes. One makes it in a round flattened ball, not much larger than a rose, and when cut open it shows layer upon layer of leaves of the same thin grayish-looking paper. This kind is not so common, however. Here is one of their nests.

"Another makes its nest of cells placed in separate floors, but without any outer wall to keep off the rain; and the most curious thing in this nest is, that it is not placed in a horizontal way; that is, it is not placed with the floors level, because then the cells would catch the rain, and the nest would be spoiled; but it is always placed slanting, so that the rain may run off. It is always placed, too, so as to face the north or the west, and I suppose it is because the wasp knows that it is in more danger of rain from the south and the east. Here is a nest of this kind."

"Ah, Uncle Philip! this must be a kind of lazy wasp. It does not choose to take the trouble to cover up the house, and so it hangs it slanting, to make the rain run off."

"It may be so, boys; but I think that in making this wasp lazy, you make it a very sensible wasp; else how should it know that water would run down a slanting surface? But I cannot believe that it is so lazy; for, though it does not cover up the whole house in a paper shell, yet it does what no other wasp does, it covers its nest with a complete coat of shining, water-proof varnish, to prevent the rain from soaking into the cells. And putting on this varnish, I can tell you, is no trifling work. It forms a pretty large part of the labour of the whole swarm belonging to the nest; and sometimes you may see some of them at work for hours at a time, spreading it on with their tongues. No, my lads, he who wants an example of laziness, will not find it among the wasps.