CHAPTER V.
IN THE FLOWER GARDEN.
In the afternoon they all went into the garden. Donald and Mrs. Leonard began at once to set out the tomato plants that had been started in a box. Susie and Uncle Robert walked about, planning where the flower seeds should be planted.
"The verbenas are in this bed," said Susie. "I had them last year. I wish they would begin to come up. Don't you think, uncle, it will be nice to have the mignonette in with them?"
"Yes," replied Uncle Robert, "but where are your nasturtiums?"
"I haven't any nasturtiums," said Susie. "I wish I had. Jennie Wilson's mother had them last year. They bloomed all summer."
"We can send for some seeds and get them in time to plant," said Uncle
Robert.
"Oh, thank you, uncle," exclaimed Susie. "How nice! I'll save this big bed for nasturtiums, and the bachelor's buttons can go over there."
[Illustration: Poppies]
"The nasturtiums would do better by the fence and the porch," said Uncle
Robert. "They like to climb."
"All right," said Susie; "then we can have this bed for something else."
"Have you any poppies?" asked Uncle Robert, smiling. "Poppies are my favorite flowers."
"Are they, uncle? Then we'll have poppies in this bed."
"Thank you, dear," replied Uncle Robert, taking out his notebook. "We'll send for the poppy seeds, too."
"I think that finishes the beds," said Susie. "Let me see," and, walking down the path, she pointed out where each kind of flower was to grow.
"You might draw it now," said Uncle Robert; "then we'll make no mistake."
"Oh, goody!" cried Susie. "That's what I'll do. Wait until I get a pencil and paper."
"Here is a pencil," said Uncle Robert, taking one from his pocket, "and perhaps this old envelope will do to draw it on."
But Susie thought not. "It's too small," she said. "I'll get a nice piece of paper in a minute."
Away she ran to the house, and soon came back with a large sheet of fresh white letter paper in one hand and Frank's geography in the other.
"I'm going to draw my garden," she called to Donald and her mother, holding up the paper for them to see.
"I'll make the paths first," she said, laying the paper on the geography, and taking the pencil from Uncle Robert. "Then I can put in the beds afterward."
When the paths were drawn, Susie named the beds and marked them off on the paper.
"Please write the names for me, Uncle Robert," she said. "I can't spell all the big words."
"I will write them on this paper," said Uncle Robert, "and when you see how they look you can write them on your plan."
"Oh, yes," said Susie, "that will be the nicest way."
"See, mother," cried Susie, running to her, "this is my garden. Now I know just what is to be in every bed."
[Illustration: Susie's garden.]
"Where are you going to get poppies?" asked Donald, looking at the plan on the paper.
"Uncle Robert is going to send for the seed," answered Susie. "He likes poppies best of all the flowers. We are going to have nasturtiums, too. They are to grow by the porch and the fence."
"That will be fine, dear," said Mrs. Leonard. "What a beautiful garden we shall have!"
"I can hardly wait," cried Susie, dancing along the walk. "Come, uncle, let's plant what seeds we have now."
"Do we need to do anything to the ground," asked Uncle Robert, "before the seeds are put in?"
"Only rake over the top a little," said Susie, taking up her rake and going to work. "It has been spaded. See how light and fine it is underneath! Ugh! I wish the old worms would keep out!"
"Don't be too hard on the worms," said Uncle Robert. "They are your best helpers."
"I don't see how that is, uncle," said Susie, looking up in surprise.
"You just said the soil was light and fine," said Uncle Robert. "Don't you know you have to thank the worms for keeping it so?"
"Are you sure, uncle?" asked Susie. "I thought the worms ate the plants."
"The earthworms never eat the plants," said Uncle Robert. "They eat the soil, and so keep it worked over. It is the cutworm that eats the plants."
Just then Donald came over from the vegetable garden.
"Why, you've only just begun," he said. "We're all through. Don't those tomato plants look nice?"
"Well," said Susie, "you didn't draw your garden. That took a long time, didn't it, uncle? You rake those beds for me, Don, while I put the seeds in."
"I'd just as soon," said Donald, taking the rake. "What goes here?"
"Mignonette," said Susie. "When any one wants to know about my garden now, they can look at the drawing."
Uncle Robert smiled.
"What makes you think you'll have mignonette there?" he asked, as Susie marked a little furrow with a stick in the soft, warm soil.
"Why, these are mignonette seeds," she replied. "I gathered them myself.
Don't you think they'll grow, uncle?"
"Certainly I do," replied Uncle Robert.
"It would be a pretty dead seed," said Donald, "that wouldn't grow in this soil."
"Are seeds alive?" asked Uncle Robert, smiling.
"Why, I—I don't know," said Donald, looking puzzled. "I never thought about it. I just said that. They don't look like it, that's a fact, but they surely wouldn't grow if they were dead, would they?"
"Do all seeds grow in the same way?" asked Uncle Robert.
"I never thought about it," said Donald.
"Neither did I," said Susie. "I just know if I plant mignonette, mignonette will grow; and if I plant sweet peas, sweet peas will grow. That's all I ever thought about it."
"Would you like to know?" asked Uncle Robert.
"Oh, yes," said Susie.
"How can we?" asked Donald. "The seeds are in the ground, and we can't see them."
"If Susie is willing to dig up one of her sweet peas," said Uncle Robert, "perhaps it will tell us what it has been doing since she planted it last week."
"Oh, yes," said Susie. "See if you can find one, Don. I put lots in."
Down on their knees went Susie and Donald, and began digging in the soil.
"Here is one," said Donald, "just ready to come up, and another close to it. The tip of it must have been through. See, it is green."
"Wouldn't it be green in the ground?" asked Susie, looking closely at the tiny plant.
"Why, no," said Donald. "Things are never green when they're covered up. It's light that makes things green. Don't you know how yellow the grass gets if a board lies on it, and what yellow stalks the potatoes have when they sprout in the cellar? It must be the light that makes them green."
"Oh, yes," said Susie. "But see how big that pea is! It's about twice as big as it was when I planted it."
[Illustration: Sprouting pea.]
"See," said Donald, "the roots grow from the same place that the stem does. I should think it would be better if one came from one side of the pea, and one from the other."
"What becomes of the rest of the seed?" asked Uncle Robert.
"I don't know," said Susie. "Is it of any use?"
"It is of the greatest use," replied Uncle Robert. "The little pea plant couldn't live without it. It is its food that the mother sweet pea gathered last summer from the soil and air, and stored away in the little round ball for her baby to feed on until it should be big enough to get its own food."
"Do you really mean, uncle," cried Susie, with shining eyes, "that the sweet peas I have planted in that bed are the children of those I had last year?"
"Why not?" asked Uncle Robert, with a smile.
"I never thought of it before," said Susie, looking at the tiny plant in her hand; "but I like it. It seems just like a family."
"And that's what it is," said Uncle Robert.
"Don't you think this baby had better go back to bed?" said Susie, making a deep hole in the ground.
"Wait a moment, Susie," said Uncle Robert.
"Suppose we take it for a visit to the beans, and see if they grow like it."
So they went to the vegetable garden, where they found a great many plants, each with two strong, thick leaves sticking through the soil. Some were quite green and showed a tiny shoot between them. Others were yellow, with only the tips turned green.
"Dig one up, Don," said Susie, "and let's see if it is like the baby pea."
Donald pulled one up, but no bean was to be seen. The stem grew straight into the ground, ending with a little bunch of roots.
"Where's the bean?" asked Susie.
"These two leaves must be the bean," said Donald. "Don't they look like it?" He took a bean from his pocket and held it close to the little plant.
"Well, I never!" cried Susie. "If those two leaves aren't just the bean split open! Are they any good that way, uncle?"
"Yes, indeed," said Uncle Robert, smiling.
"They feed the little bean just as the pea does. But they do even more. What do you think they will do when the sun goes down and the air gets cool?"
[Illustration: Sprouting bean.]
"Oh, I know." said Donald. "I've seen them lots of times. They just shut together tight." "And that keeps the little bud you see in there as warm as you are in your bed."
"Isn't that wonderful?" said Susie. "Why, uncle, it's just as if they could think!"
"The leaves drop off after a while," said Donald. "I often see them lying on the ground."
"Yes," said Uncle Robert. "When the plant is strong enough to take care of itself, their work is done."
"Are there any other plants that make leaves out of the seeds, uncle?" asked Donald.
"Oh? yes," replied Uncle Robert. "Squashes and pumpkins do, and many others. Some have more perfect leaves than these. Let us look at the morning glories by the porch."
[Illustration: Morning glory.]
"They come up every year by themselves," said Susie.
She ran to her garden, saying, "I'm going to put this pea-baby to bed again. Do you think it will grow, uncle?"
"It may, but it is not good for it to be out of bed too long."
"I'll put a stick by it," said Susie, "so I can watch it. Good-by, baby," giving the ground a little pat; "go to sleep."
Then she ran after Uncle Robert and Donald.
"How thick the morning glories are!" said Donald. "Some of them have several leaves on, but here is one with only two."
"They don't look as the bean leaves do," said Susie. "The beans are so thick! These have real leaves."
"Yes," said Uncle Robert, "and if you could see them in the seed, you would see these leaves all curled up in their hard coat."
"This one is just putting its head through the ground," said Susie, "and it has part of the shell on it yet."
"It looks as the little chickens do sometimes," laughed Donald, "when they come out of the nest with a piece of the shell sticking to their backs."
"That hard shell is a great protection to the tender plant as it works its way up through the soil," said Uncle Robert.
"If these seed leaves are real leaves, uncle," asked Donald, "what feeds the baby morning glories?"
"There is plenty of food in the seed around the leaves," said Uncle Robert. "When the seed gets moist in the ground, it becomes so soft that the plant can use it. Have you ever noticed when you were eating corn the little hard bud that grows in each grain close to the cob?"
"Yes, uncle," answered Susie. "That is the sweetest part of the corn."
"That is the part," said Uncle Robert, "from which the new plant grows, and all the rest of the grain is the food stored up for it."
"I wish we had some corn," said Susie, "so we could see it."
"I'll go and get some," said Donald.
"Oh, do, Don," said Susie, "and while he's gone, Uncle Robert, I can plant the rest of my seeds. I have only a few left."
So Donald ran to the cornfield and Susie went to the garden. When he came back she had finished, and they joined Uncle Robert on the piazza.
"The corn grows out of the side of the seed," said Donald. "See what a big root it has for such a little plant!"
[Illustration: Sprouting corn.]
"How pretty those leaves are!" said Susie. "They look like two little green feathers." "Some one else had the same thought, Susie," said Uncle Robert. "Did you ever hear the story the poet Longfellow tells about how the corn came to the Indians? You know it is called 'Indian corn.'"
"No, uncle," said Susie. "Do tell us."
So as they sat beside him on the piazza. Uncle Robert told the story of
Hiawatha and Mondamin.
"Hiawatha was a brave young Indian chief," began Uncle Robert, "who wanted to help his people. He knew that there were times when they had no food. In the winter the birds flew away. The 'big sea water,' as they called the great lake, was frozen over, and they could catch no fish. There were no wild berries in the woods.
"'Master of Life,' he cried,'must our lives depend on these things?'
"He was very unhappy. He could not eat. He lay in his wigwam, fasting and praying for some good to come to his people.
"One evening as he lay watching the setting sun he saw a youth coming toward him. His dress was green and yellow, and over his yellow hair he wore a bright green plume.
"'The Master of Life has sent me,' said the youth. 'I am Mondamin. It is only by hard labor Hiawatha, that you can gain the answer to your prayer. Rise now, and wrestle with me.'
"Hiawatha was weak from fasting, but he did as Mondamin commanded. Until the sun had set they wrestled together. Then Mondamin went away as silently as he had come.
"A second time he came, and a third. Then he said: "'You have fought bravely, Hiawatha. I shall come once more. You will conquer me. Then you must take off my dress of green and yellow and my nodding plumes. Make a bed in the soft warm earth for me to lie in. Let nothing come to disturb me as I slumber. Only let the sunshine and the rain fall upon me. You must watch beside me, Hiawatha, until my sleep is over.'
"Then he was gone.
"When they wrestled the next night it was as Mondamin had said. He was conquered. Then, day after day, Hiawatha came and watched,
"'Till at length a small green feather
From the earth shot slowly upward.'"
"There it is," whispered Susie.
"Sh!" said Donald.
"Then another and another," continued Uncle Robert, "and before long the corn was waving its long, green foliage in the sunshine.
"'It is Mondamin!' cried Hiawatha,'the friend of man, Mondamin!'"
"What a lovely story!" cried Susie as Uncle Robert finished. "I wish
Frank could have heard it."
"We'll find it in your mother's book of Longfellow's poems and let Frank read it," said Uncle Robert.
"Let's tell him about the seeds first," said Donald. "He'll like it better then."
[Illustration: A stalk of corn.]
CHAPTER VI.
SUNLIGHT AND SHADOW.
It was a busy time on the farm. Only when the day's work was over and they were gathered in the sitting-room was there time for the long talks with Uncle Robert that they all enjoyed so much.
"It's wonderful," said Mr. Leonard one evening, looking up from his paper, "how fast the corn is growing. Even the late planting is coming on."
"That's because the weather is so warm," said Donald.
"I wonder what makes it warm?" said Uncle Robert.
"Why, Uncle Robert," exclaimed Susie, "it's spring! That's what makes it warm."
"But what makes it spring, little girl?" asked Uncle Robert.
"Why, it is always spring in May," said Susie.
"I know of a country where it is spring in September," replied Uncle
Robert.
"How can it be?" asked Susie. "I thought springtime always came in May."
"What makes us know that it is spring?" asked Uncle Robert.
"Oh, it gets warmer all the time. The birds come, things begin to grow, and the flowers bloom."
"But what makes all this happen just now?"
"It's the sun," answered Donald from the floor, where he was playing with his great St. Bernard dog, Barri. "You know it rises earlier and sets later every day now than it did a while ago. It's hotter too."
"It goes higher at noon," said Frank. "In the middle of summer it is almost straight over our heads, and in the winter it seems ever so much farther to the south. I've often noticed that."
"So have I," said Donald. "And in the winter the shadows are longer than they are in summer. It must be because the sun isn't so high up."
"Aren't shadows funny?" said Susie. "One day when I was coming in to dinner, just for fun I tried to walk on my shadow, and I could step on my head."
"I've done that lots of times," said Donald. "But it's a strange thing. Sometimes I can step clear over my head—I mean in the shadow—and then again I have to step on it."
"And when you jump," said Susie, "it spoils it. The shadow always jumps too."
"What kind of weather was it when you had to jump to it?" asked Uncle
Robert.
"I don't remember," said Donald. "Would the weather make any difference?"
"I remember," said Susie, "because one time when I was jumping that way
I fell down and was almost buried in the snow.
"Then it was winter, wasn't it?" asked Uncle Robert.
"It must have been," said Frank.
[Illustration: Shadow stick.]
"And since you told us that the shadows at noon tell why it is warmer in summer than in winter I've been watching them. They get shorter all the time." "How would you like to measure the shadows every day," said Uncle Robert, "and see if you can find out when they are shortest and when they are longest?"
"How can we?" asked Susie. "Shadows are so queer."
"Yes," said Uncle Robert, "shadows are queer, but, if we take one that doesn't jump as yours does, don't you think we can measure it?"
"Of course we can," said Frank. "We can use the house. That always stands still."
"The house might do," said Uncle Robert; "but wouldn't it be better to have a shadow stick?"
"Where can we get one?" asked Donald.
"What is it made of?" asked Frank.
"It is like this," said Uncle Robert, taking paper and pencil from his pocket. "There is one long piece of board, and one short one nailed to the end—so," drawing it on the paper.
"Oh, that's easy enough made," said Donald. "We can do it ourselves right here in the tool house."
"Let's make it to-morrow, Don," said Frank.
"It must be set up some place with the upright end turned toward the south, so that just at noon the shadow of the short piece may fall straight on the board. By drawing a line across the board at the top of the shadow and marking the date on it, we can tell how the length of the shadow changes."
"Uncle," asked Donald, "when it is winter here, is it summer in some other part of the world?"
"Yes," was the reply, "and now that our summer is coming, the people there are beginning to have winter."
"Then," said Frank, "when it gets cooler here in the fall it is growing warmer there, and that would make their spring come in September, wouldn't it? Do you see, Susie?"
[Illustration: Eskimo scene.]
"Yes," answered Susie, "but it seems all mixed up. I thought it was the same as it is here all over the world."
"Oh, I didn't," said Donald. "I've read about countries where it is summer all the time, and is so hot that the people don't do anything but lie under the trees and sleep. And there are other countries where it is winter all the time, and the people dress in furs and make their houses of snow and ice. I read all about it in a book once, but it didn't tell why it was so. I knew, of course, the sun had something to do with it."
"Why, you know, Don," said Frank, "we learned all that in our geography at school."
"Yes," said Donald, "but I never thought about that in the geography as meaning any real country."
"What did you think it meant?" asked Uncle Robert.
"Oh," said Donald, "just a lesson in the book."
"Well," said Frank, "I always thought it was some country, but I never knew where. I didn't think much about it after I said the lesson."
"I should think not," said Uncle Robert, not sorry that the teacher had gone away and the school had been closed.
"I wish when books tell things they'd tell why they're so," said Frank.
"Perhaps if we think about these things," said Uncle Robert, "we may be able to answer some of the 'whys' for ourselves."
"We can tell by the thermometer just how warm it is every day," said
Susie, "but it won't tell us why."
"The shadow stick may help us there," said Uncle Robert.
"I am afraid I shall forget," said Donald.
"I have some little notebooks in my trunk," said Uncle Robert. "Suppose I give you each one and let you write down what the thermometer and the shadow stick say every day."
"What fun that'll be!" cried Susie. "When may we begin?"
"To-morrow morning, if you like," replied her uncle. "I will get the books for you now."
He went away to his room, and soon returned with the notebooks.
"I'll tell you, uncle," said Frank as he thanked Uncle Robert for his book, "how would it do for each of us to look at the thermometer at a different time of the day?"
"The very thing!" replied Uncle Robert, well pleased. "You are always up early, Frank, so suppose you look at six in the morning, Susie at twelve o'clock, and Donald at six in the evening. How will that do? Then we shall have the record for the whole day."
"I think it will be such fun!" said Susie. "I wonder if our books will be very different."
"What makes you think they will be different?" asked Uncle Robert.
"It's always hotter at noon than it is at night or in the morning," said
Susie.
"Do you know," said Uncle Robert, "there are places all over the United States where such records are kept? They are published, and I am to have them sent to me every week."
"I wonder if ours will be like them," said Donald, turning over the pages of his notebook.
"Even if they should be different." said Uncle Robert, "they may be just as true."
"We'll get up early and start the shadow stick the first thing in the morning," said Frank, "so as to have it ready by noon."
"How do you know when it is noon?" asked Uncle Robert.
"We look at the clock," said Susie.
"But noon by the clock is not always noon by the sun," replied Uncle
Robert.
"How can that be?" asked Donald.
"It is noon somewhere on the globe every minute of the twenty-four hours," said Uncle Robert. "The sun is always setting and always rising somewhere."
The children were puzzled.
"I don't see how that is," said Donald.
"Let us see if we can find out," said Uncle Robert. "Frank, you stand at the east end of the room, Donald at the west, and Susie in the middle. Now, we'll play that Frank is in New York, Susie here at home in Illinois, and Donald in Denver. I'll take the lamp and be the sun. You are shadow sticks, you know. Now watch the shadows, and see when they point directly north."
Uncle Robert took the lamp and walked slowly from the east side of the room.
"My shadow points north," said Frank as Uncle Robert passed him.
"Now mine does," said Susie.
"And mine last of all," said Donald.
Uncle Robert took out his watch. It was ten minutes past eight.
"That is Susie's time," he said. "Would it be the same in New York,
Frank?"
"I think it would be past that," said Frank, "but I don't know how much."
"It is ten minutes past nine by the watch in New York," said Uncle
Robert.
"When would it be that time in Denver?" asked Donald.
"In an hour by the watch," said Uncle Robert, "but it would not be the same by the sun."
"Then the watches don't tell the true time, do they?" said Frank.
"The sun's shadows give us the true time," said Uncle Robert. "We will study the shadows, and by and by may learn how the watches and clocks are regulated. But how do you think people told the time before they had clocks?"
"It must have been by the sun," replied Frank.
"I can tell by the sun when it is noon," said Donald, "but I don't see how any one can tell any other hour that way."
"How do you know when it is noon?"
"Why, the sun is highest at noon." said Donald. "and the shadows point straight toward the north."
"Early in the morning they point to the west," said Frank, "and in the evening they point to the east."
"The people who lived in the world many hundred years ago observed the same thing," said Uncle Robert. "There was nothing so strange to them as the rising and setting of the sun. They loved the light that came with it. They feared the darkness that followed its going away. They told many interesting stories to explain this continued appearance and disappearance. Some thought the sun was a king riding through the sky in a golden chariot. Others looked upon it as a god and worshiped it.
"They soon learned that when it went away it was sure to come again, and as they saw how regularly it moved, they felt there must be some power back of it to guide it. Through this they were led to a belief in a Being that controlled all things.
"They watched the shadows, too, and saw them change just as you see them every day. They learned that the shadow is shortest when the day is half gone, and they called that time midday. So, by studying the length and direction of the shadows, they soon became able to judge the time of day.
"Then some one thought to set up a rod and mark the places where the shadow fell at sunrise, at sunset, and at midday. The space in between was divided for the hours. This was called a sun dial and was the first instrument ever made for telling time."
"When was the first one made?" asked Frank.
"That is not known," replied Uncle Robert, "but we read in the Bible of the sun dial of King Ahaz, who lived about eight hundred years before the time of Christ. That is the first record we have of one."
"How was it made?" asked Donald.
"I do not know how the one King Ahaz used was made," said Uncle Robert, "but I can show you how one looked that I saw in an old garden in England. This," drawing a half circle, "is the dial on which the hours were marked. Around this dial there was a border, much cracked, and crumbling away, but I could read the words, 'The sun guides me, the shadow you.' The rod, or gnomon, as it is sometimes called, stood just halfway between the ends. Where would the noon shadow fall, Susie?"
[Illustration]
"In the middle, wouldn't it?" answered Susie.
"And the morning shadow would fall on the west and the evening shadow on the east side," said Frank.
"Now we'll put in the shadow stick," said Uncle Robert, drawing a triangle on the paper.
"Why don't you make it stand up straight?" asked Donald.
"The shadow does not tell the truth," said Uncle Robert, "unless it points in the same way that the north pole does, and that, we know, points to the north star. I will explain this some other time."
"Couldn't we make a sun dial?" asked Donald. "I don't believe it would be very hard."
"You could make one easily," answered Uncle Robert.
"But let's have the shadow stick first," said Frank.
Susie went to the window and looked out at the clear star-lighted sky.
"Uncle," she said, "the stars all look alike to me, only some are little and some are big. How can people know them by their names?"
"Just as anything else is known, dear," replied Uncle Robert, "by close and careful study."
"I wish we could study the stars," said Frank.
"We will some time," replied Uncle Robert. "Come out on the piazza now, and I will show you the north star. That will be a good beginning."
CHAPTER VII.
THE BAROMETER.
One day when it was Donald's turn to go for the mail he found among
Uncle Robert's letters a small paper. On the wrapper he read "United
States Weather Report."
It had come. There was already quite a line of figures in each of their notebooks. Now they could see what this other record was like. As he left the post office he stopped to look at the old thermometer beside the door. Then he mounted Nell and rode down the village street and out into the pleasant country road.
Uncle Robert was waiting for him on the porch, and as Donald rode away to the barn, after giving him the mail, he heard him say:
"Here, Frank, is the Weather Report. Open it and look at it while I read my letters."
Donald took off the saddle and gave the horse her supper. Then he hurried back to see what Frank had found on the inside of the important-looking wrapper. It proved to be a map with queer, crooked lines all over it, but it did not look at all interesting.
"Here it says temperature," said Frank, pointing to a list of figures in the corner. "Perhaps this is what we want."
"I don't see any numbers there like mine," said Donald, taking his notebook from his pocket.
"Let me help you," said Uncle Robert, laying aside his letters and coming to where they sat on the steps.
They made room for him, and, as he took the map, he explained:
"This, you see, is a map of the United States. These dotted lines tell about the temperature. For instance, look at this one which is marked fifty degrees. At every place in the country that is touched by this line on the map the thermometer stood at fifty degrees at the time the map was made."
[Illustration: United States weather map.]
"See," said Susie, "how crooked the line is. Why isn't it straight, uncle?"
"Because," was the reply, "as I told you, it goes wherever the temperature was fifty degrees. You remember, the first day we had our thermometer, we found that there are many things which affect the temperature. At some places along this line there are prairies, at others forests, at others lakes, and here," pointing to the map, "there are high mountains. All of these things affect the temperature, and that, of course, changes the direction of the line."
"You say Chicago is the nearest station to us, uncle," said Frank, looking down the temperature column. "My record for that day is not so very different from the one given here for Chicago."
"Which shows that yours is probably as nearly correct as this is," said
Uncle Robert, with an encouraging smile.
"But I haven't one number in my book like that," said Susie, looking disappointed. "I don't see why."
[Illustration: Susie's notebook]
"I do," replied Uncle Robert. "You make your record at noon, and of course, it is warmer then. That is what your book says, does it not?"
"Yes," said Susie, "every number in my book is more than that one."
"That is right," was the reply, "for this record was made at eight o'clock in the morning, which is nearer Frank's hour than it is yours. So we would expect his to be nearer like this than yours, wouldn't we?"
"It isn't like mine either," said Donald.
"We may have one some time that will be more like yours," said Uncle Robert, "for these records are made at eight in the evening as well as in the morning."
"Uncle," said Frank, looking closely at the map, "here it says 'High,' and there it says 'Low.' What does that mean?"
"It means," said Uncle Robert, "that here there is a low barometer, and there the barometer is high."
"Barometer," said Donald. "What is a barometer, uncle? Is it like a thermometer?"
"Well, not exactly," was the reply. "With the thermometer, you know, we tell the temperature of the air, and with the barometer we tell how heavy it is."
"How heavy the air is!" exclaimed Susie. "How funny! Why, uncle, air doesn't weigh anything, does it?"
"More than you think, little girl," said Uncle Robert, smiling. "But perhaps we can prove whether it does or not. Frank, will you get a pail of water? Donald, see if you can find a cork some place; and Susie, run in and get a tumbler."
When all was ready Uncle Robert asked Frank to fill the pan with water, and Donald to put the cork into it.
[Illustration: Experiment No. 1.]
"There," said Donald, as the cork floated about on the pan of water.
"But I want the cork on the bottom of the pan," said Uncle Robert, "not on the top of the water."
"It won't stay there," declared Donald, pushing it into the water again and again with his finger. "It is too light. Corks always float."
"How can we make it go to the bottom?"
No one could tell. The children looked puzzled.
"Let us see what this will do," and, taking the glass from Susie's hand, Uncle Robert turned it over the cork, pressed it down into the water as far as it would go, and held it there. Looking through the glass, they could see the cork lying on the bottom of the pan.
"Why, Uncle Robert!" exclaimed Susie, "what—how—"
"It's the glass that does it," declared Donald.
"But the glass doesn't touch the cork," objected his uncle.
"There's air in the glass," said Frank, who had been looking at it quietly as the others talked. "That is what presses it down."
"If it's air," said Donald, "why didn't it go down before the glass was put over it? There was just as much air about it then, and more, too."
"Let go of the glass, uncle," said Frank, "and see what it will do."
Uncle Robert did so, and the glass instantly turned over, while a big bubble of air escaped through the water.
"There," said Frank, smiling, "I told you so!"
"Then air only presses on things when there is something like the glass to hold it down. Is that so, uncle?" asked Donald.
"Let us see," was the reply.
[Illustration: Air Pressure. Experiment No. 2.]
Filling the glass with water, he placed a piece of paper over it, and quickly turned it upside down. Not a drop of water fell from the glass. The paper, now beneath the water, stayed there as though glued.
"Uncle," said Frank, "is it truly the air that holds the paper on and keeps the water in the glass? If it presses that way everywhere, why don't we feel it?"
"It is because it presses equally in every direction," replied Uncle Robert. "Put your hand in this pail of water. Do you feel it pressing on your hand?"
"No," said Frank.
"Place it lower in the water. Does it feel any heavier now?"
"Not at all," answered Frank.
"But you know that the water is heavy. Lift the pail, Donald."
"It is heavy," said Donald, setting it down. "I don't see why Frank didn't feel a little of the weight of it when his hand was under all the water."
"It is this way," explained Uncle Robert. "The water pressed on his hand from below as much as from above, and the same on both sides. When you lifted it you felt its weight pressing downward only. Now it is just so with the air. It presses with such equal pressure that we do not realize its weight. It is only when it presses harder from one direction than from another that we feel it."
"That's when the wind blows, isn't it, uncle?" asked Donald.
"Yes, my boy," was the reply. "You can see how it is out among the trees now."
"But, uncle," said Donald, "how can the air be weighed if it presses the same in all directions? It was only when I lifted the whole pail of water that I felt how heavy it was. The air can't be weighed if it presses up just as much as it does down."
"But if in some way it could be shut off so that it would only press in one direction?"
"It might be," answered Donald, "but I don't see how."
Uncle Robert told Susie to put the glass in the water so that it would all be below the surface, and, without taking it from the water, to turn it upside down. She did so, and then began to lift it slowly out of the water.
"See," cried Susie, "the water comes with it. The glass is full. Could I lift it clear out that way?"
"Try it," said Uncle Robert, smiling.
But no; when the edge of the glass came out of the water in the pail, down went the water with a splash.
"I see how it is," said Frank, who had watched it closely. "There wasn't any air in the glass to keep the water out, as there was when we turned it over the cork, so the water stayed in it."
"But what made it come up out of the pail?" asked Donald. "There wasn't any air under it to press it up."
"Would the air pressing on the water around the glass make it do so, uncle?" asked Frank, placing the glass in the water and raising it as Susie had done. "It seems as if it might be that."
"That is what it is," replied his uncle. "The air pressing on the water in the pail forces it into the glass, where there is nothing to keep it from rising."
"If the glass was longer would the water stay in it just the same?" asked Donald.
"Yes," was the reply. "If there was no air in the glass it would have to be very many times as long as this glass is to hold the water that would rise if it had a chance. But come, let us sit down on the steps again, and I will tell you about it."
When they were settled he continued:
"Over two hundred and fifty years ago there lived a man named Galileo, who learned a great many wonderful things by studying the stars and doing just such things as we have been doing. It was he who made the first thermometer. But there was one question that he could not answer. He found that in a hollow glass tube, closed at one end, water would rise thirty-four feet high, but no higher. He could not tell why. A pupil of his thought he would try the same thing with the heaviest liquid known——"
"That was mercury, wasn't it, uncle?" interrupted Donald.
"Yes; he used mercury, and found that it rose in the tube just thirty inches. He knew that the mercury was thirteen and six-tenths times as heavy as the water, so he felt sure that it was the pressure of the air that made them both rise in the tube, for thirty-four feet is just thirteen and six-tenths times thirty inches. But they wanted to see if it was really the air, so they took the tube up on a high mountain."
"What difference would that make?" asked Susie.
"Look at the woodpile out there," said her uncle. "Where do you think the weight of the wood would be the greater? On the ground or halfway to the top?"
"On the ground, of course," answered Susie.
"Well, they found it was the same with the air. As they went up the mountain the mercury in the tube fell."
"That showed that the weight on it was less, didn't it, uncle?" said
Frank. "I think that was a very wonderful discovery, don't you?"
"It was, indeed," replied Uncle Robert, "and that is how the first barometer was made."
[Illustration: Barometer.]
"Is that what a barometer is?" asked Donald.
"Yes," was the reply, "simply a glass tube about thirty-three or thirty-four inches long, closed at the top, and filled with mercury. It is then placed in a small open cup, called the cistern, into which the mercury flows until the air pressing on it there will let it fall no farther."
"Does it always stay at the same height in the tube?" asked Donald.
"Oh, no," his uncle answered. "Some days the air is heavier than others, and so presses harder on the mercury."
"That would make it rise, wouldn't it?" asked Susie.
"Yes, dear."
"So, uncle," said Frank, taking up the Weather Report, "where it says
'High' here, it means that the air is heavier than where it says 'Low.'
Is that it?"
"That's right," replied Uncle Robert; "and when the barometer is low we know there will be a storm."
"Well"—and Donald stood up and stretched himself—"I wish I could see a barometer."
"You shall," said Uncle Robert "I will send for one. You may carry the letter to the post office to-morrow when you go for the mail."
CHAPTER VIII.
A WALK IN THE WOODS.
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The sun had marked its shortest shadows. They were now pointing toward the northeast.
The family had returned from the little village church. Dinner was over, and they had all gone into the cool, shady piazza. Mrs. Leonard and Susie had settled themselves cozily in one corner and were reading together. Mr. Leonard was nodding over the pages of his weekly newspaper. Frank, stretched out on the settee, was absorbed in a new book, while not far away Donald lay under the spreading branches of a spruce tree with Barri by his side. Uncle Robert stood gazing at the green woods, which looked so cool and inviting.
"'The groves were God's first temples,'" he said to himself, and then, turning to the others, asked, "Who wants to go for a walk?"
"I do," said Frank, springing up. "Come on, Don. Don-ald!" he called, "we're going for a walk."
"You'd better come with us," said Uncle Robert to Mrs. Leonard.
"I'll get your hat, mother," cried Susie eagerly, running into the house.
"Shall we go to the cornfield?" asked Mr. Leonard, picking up his straw hat.
"I think it would be cooler in the woods," said Mrs. Leonard.
"Oh, yes," said Donald, "let's go up the creek to the pond."
The country was in the full glory of early summer. Just beyond the rich green of the great cornfield could be seen the peaceful river. The yellowing grain on the upland waved gently in the breeze. Under the wide-spreading oak trees in the pasture the cows were lazily chewing their cuds. A feeling of quiet pleasure filled the air.
"I planted all these trees," said Mr. Leonard as they walked under the maples that grew on either side of the road. "It is wonderful how they have grown. They were like little sticks when I set them out."
"The one at the end of the row," said Mrs. Leonard, "was planted the day
Frank was born."
"It is the largest of them all," said Frank.
"That's because it was planted first," said Susie. "I have a tree, too, uncle."
"So have I," said Donald. "It is the spruce in the front yard."
"We call them our birthday trees," said Susie. "Mine is the elm by the corner of the porch."
"That is a very nice custom," said Uncle Robert. "But the trees grow faster than you do."
"They don't have anything to do but grow," said Donald.
When they reached the bridge they paused to look up and down the creek valley. Through the trees they caught glimpses of the shining river and the waving corn. The creek, a little stream, flowed between the two gentle slopes that formed its valley.
"There's a gate under this bridge, uncle," said Donald, "to keep the cows from going down the creek to the cornfield. In the fall, after the corn is cut, we open it, and let them go to the river."
"How pleasant it is in here!" said Uncle Robert as they walked farther into the wood.
"Just see how damp the ground is under these dead leaves!" said Susie as she pushed them back from a little violet that she was trying to pick with a long stem. "Poor little flowers! How do they ever get through all these leaves? It would be so much easier for them if it was just green grass."
[Illustration: The bridge. ]
"But then there wouldn't be any flowers," said Mr. Leonard, "or at least they would be very different."
[Illustration: HICKORY OAK WILLOW BUTTER-NUT MAPLE WALNUT (leaves)]
"It's the leaves that make the soil so rich," said Frank, digging into the ground with a stick. "See how they are mixed all through it!"
"Do you know the names of all these trees?" asked Uncle Robert.
"I do," said Frank. "I can tell every tree in the wood."
"How?" asked Uncle Robert.
"By the leaves is the easiest way," said Frank, "but I know some trees by the bark."
"I can tell them by the leaves," said Donald. "Try me."
So as Uncle Robert pointed to them Donald called them all by name. There were oaks and maples, hickories, walnuts, and butternuts, and close to the creek the overhanging willows.
"Can you tell a tree by its shape when you look at it from a distance?" asked Uncle Robert.
"I can tell the willows and poplars," said Frank, "and maples, too."
"The trees in the pasture have a different shape from those in the woods," said Uncle Robert. "I mean trees of the same kind. How do you explain that?"
"Why, the trees in the pasture have a chance to spread out," said
Donald. "There isn't so much room in here."
"But these trees are taller," said Frank, "and they are straighter, too."
"Can you tell the direction of the winds that blow the strongest and longest by the shape of the trees?" asked Uncle Robert.
"I never thought of that," said Frank.
"The wind doesn't blow in the woods," said Donald.
"When we get out into the pasture we'll notice the trees there," said
Mr. Leonard.
"Isn't this a tiny tree?" said Susie. "I wonder what it is."
"That's an oak," said Frank. "The leaves tell that."
"Oaks grow from acorns," said Donald. "I'm going to dig this up and see if it grows like the seeds in the garden."
"What a long root it has!" said Susie as Donald dug about it. "Don't take it out, Don. Put the dirt back and let it grow to be a tree."
[Illustration: Oak sprout.]
"How long will it be before it gets as big as these trees, uncle?" asked
Frank.
"A great many years. Perhaps your father can tell about how old some of these trees are."
"I have cut some," said Mr. Leonard, "that were about a hundred years old."
"Why, father," exclaimed Susie, "how could you tell?"
"Do you know how the end of a log looks when it is sawed off straight?"
"I do," said Frank. "There are light and dark rings in it."
"Well," was the reply, "one of these rings grows every year."
"So if you count the rings you can tell how old the tree is," said
Donald. "Isn't that great!"
[Illustration: End of a log.]
"What time of the year do the trees grow the most?" asked Uncle Robert.
"In the spring I should think," said Frank. "That's when the sap begins to run."
"What is sap?"
"It must be the water that the trees take up from the ground," said
Frank.
"We've tapped some maple trees for sap," said Donald.
"And we could see it run right out of the tree," said Susie.
"I've told the children how we used to make maple sugar in New England," said Mrs. Leonard. "Do you remember, Robert, what a quantity of sap it took to make just a little sugar?"
"Yes, and I also remember how long I thought it took to boil it down into the wax I was so fond of."
"About thirty gallons of sap can be taken from one tree each year," said
Mr. Leonard.
"But I should think that would hurt the tree," said Frank.
"No," replied Uncle Robert, "for the hole they make is only about an inch across. If they were to cut all around the tree, you see, it would stop the running of the sap and kill the tree."
"That is called girdling," said Mr. Leonard. "They used to clear off hundreds of acres of land in that way when this country was first settled. Instead of cutting down the trees, they girdled them near the ground. In a very short time they died, because they could get no food from the earth. The dead trees lost their strength, and a strong wind would blow them over. Then they were piled up and burned."
"How do you know when a tree is dying?" asked Uncle Robert.
"The leaves turn yellow," said Donald.
"But the leaves turn yellow in the fall," said Frank, "and the trees do not die."
"The leaves of my spruce don't turn yellow in the fall," said Donald.
"They stay green all winter."
"What makes the leaves green?" asked Uncle Robert.
No one answered.
"What is the color of the potato sprouts in the cellar?"
"Yellow," said Susie.
"When you take up a board that has lain on the grass, what is the color of the grass?"
"Yellow," said Donald.
"Why?" asked Uncle Robert.
"Because they don't get any light," said Frank.
"You know why we put our plants in the south window in winter?" said
Mrs. Leonard.
"Oh, yes," said Susie, "because the sun shines in at that window."
"Warmth and water and air help trees and plants to grow," said Uncle Robert, "but without sunlight their leaves would be yellow and their stems and branches weak. The greatest forests on earth are where it is very hot and moist. The sun is a wonderful artist, and every leaf it paints makes the tree stronger."
"But what makes the leaves turn yellow and red just before they fall off?" asked Frank. "Does the sun paint them then?"
"That is a question that no one has been able to answer," replied his uncle.
"But how can the sap flow up the tree?" said Donald. "I should think it would run down."
"It would unless there was something to draw it up," said Uncle Robert.
"I suppose the sun does that, too," said Frank.
"Where does it go after it reaches the leaves?" asked Uncle Robert.
"Why, back again," said Susie.
"No, it doesn't go back—not a drop," laughed Uncle Robert.
"Does it dry up?" asked Donald.
"What do you mean by drying up?"
"It evap-o-rates," said Donald, who liked to use large words.
"Does it all go into the air?" asked Frank.
"I want you to answer these questions yourselves, children. What do you see on the corn leaves in the early morning?"
"Drops of water; but that is dew, isn't it?" asked Frank.
Uncle Robert had a way of stopping or changing the subject when he had asked certain questions. He knew that the children would think of them again and try to answer them.
"Let's sit down on this log," said Susie. "I want to fix my flowers."
As they sat there squirrels ran up the trunks of the trees and laughed at them from the branches.
"That is a good shot," said Frank, pointing to a large fox squirrel. "But he knows we won't kill him, and that's the reason he shows himself."
"Is it right to shoot the pretty squirrels, Uncle Robert?" asked Susie.
"I thought so when I was a boy. I shot a great many of them then. It was fun for me, and I felt very proud when I brought home half a dozen grays.
"Once I went home from the city for a summer's rest. I took my gun for a stroll in the oak woods where I had shot so many squirrels. I put my gun against a tree and lay down upon the leaves. Soon I was fast asleep. I dreamed of a group of merry, laughing children running, scampering, playing."
[Illustration: The squirrel]
"Then my dream became real—not children, but the gray coats, five or six of them, close to me, were running up the trees, jumping from limb to limb, scampering over the ground, chasing each other, laughing as squirrels laugh, and screaming as squirrels scream. I watched the happy playmates, brim full of fun. I have never shot a squirrel since."