Madam How and Lady Why [68]
is like scrambling out of Europe into Australia. Now, how was that difference made? Think. Don't guess, but think. Why does the rich grass come up to the bank, and yet not spread beyond it?
I suppose because it cannot get over.
Not get over? Would not the wind blow the seeds, and the birds carry them? They do get over, in millions, I don't doubt, every summer.
Then why do they not grow?
Think.
Is there any difference in the soil inside and out?
A very good guess. But guesses are no use without facts. Look.
Oh, I remember now. I know now the soil of the field is brown, like the garden; and the soil of the moor all black and peaty.
Yes. But if you dig down two or three feet, you will find the soils of the moor and the field just the same. So perhaps the top soils were once both alike.
I know.
Well, and what do you think about it now? I want you to look and think. I want every one to look and think. Half the misery in the world comes first from not looking, and then from not thinking. And I do not want you to be miserable.
But shall I be miserable if I do not find out such little things as this.
You will be miserable if you do not learn to understand little things: because then you will not be able to understand great things when you meet them. Children who are not trained to use their eyes and their common sense grow up the more miserable the cleverer they are.
Why?
Because they grow up what men call dreamers, and bigots, and fanatics, causing misery to themselves and to all who deal with them. So I say again, think.
Well, I suppose men must have altered the soil inside the bank.
Well done. But why do you think so?
Because, of course, some one made the bank; and the brown soil only goes up to it.
Well, that is something like common sense. Now you will not say any more, as the cows or the butterflies might, that the hay-field was always there.
And how did men change the soil?
By tilling it with the plough, to sweeten it, and manuring it, to make it rich.
And then did all these beautiful grasses grow up of themselves?
You ought to know that they most likely did not. You know the new enclosures?
Yes.
Well then, do rich grasses come up on them, now that they are broken up?
Oh no, nothing but groundsel, and a few weeds.
Just what, I dare say, came up here at first. But this land was tilled for corn, for hundreds of years, I believe. And just about one hundred years ago it was laid down in grass; that is, sown with grass seeds.
And where did men get the grass seeds from?
Ah, that is a long story; and one that shows our forefathers (though they knew nothing about railroads or electricity) were not such simpletons as some folks think. The way it must have been done was this. Men watched the natural pastures where cattle get fat on the wild grass, as they do in the Fens, and many other parts of England. And then they saved the seeds of those fattening wild grasses, and sowed them in fresh spots. Often they made mistakes. They were careless, and got weeds among the seed-- like the buttercups, which do so much harm to this pasture. Or they sowed on soil which would not suit the seed, and it died. But at last, after many failures, they have grown so careful and so clever, that you may send to certain shops, saying what sort of soil yours is, and they will send you just the seeds which will grow there, and no other; and then you have a good pasture for as long as you choose to keep it good.
And how is it kept good?
Look at all those loads of hay, which are being carried off the field. Do you think you can take all that away without putting anything in its place?
Why not?
If I took all the butter out of the churn, what must I do if I want more butter still?
Put more cream in.
So, if I want more grass to grow, I must put on the soil more of what grass is made of.
But the butter don't grow, and the grass does.
What does the grass grow in?
The soil.
Yes. Just as the butter grows in the churn. So
I suppose because it cannot get over.
Not get over? Would not the wind blow the seeds, and the birds carry them? They do get over, in millions, I don't doubt, every summer.
Then why do they not grow?
Think.
Is there any difference in the soil inside and out?
A very good guess. But guesses are no use without facts. Look.
Oh, I remember now. I know now the soil of the field is brown, like the garden; and the soil of the moor all black and peaty.
Yes. But if you dig down two or three feet, you will find the soils of the moor and the field just the same. So perhaps the top soils were once both alike.
I know.
Well, and what do you think about it now? I want you to look and think. I want every one to look and think. Half the misery in the world comes first from not looking, and then from not thinking. And I do not want you to be miserable.
But shall I be miserable if I do not find out such little things as this.
You will be miserable if you do not learn to understand little things: because then you will not be able to understand great things when you meet them. Children who are not trained to use their eyes and their common sense grow up the more miserable the cleverer they are.
Why?
Because they grow up what men call dreamers, and bigots, and fanatics, causing misery to themselves and to all who deal with them. So I say again, think.
Well, I suppose men must have altered the soil inside the bank.
Well done. But why do you think so?
Because, of course, some one made the bank; and the brown soil only goes up to it.
Well, that is something like common sense. Now you will not say any more, as the cows or the butterflies might, that the hay-field was always there.
And how did men change the soil?
By tilling it with the plough, to sweeten it, and manuring it, to make it rich.
And then did all these beautiful grasses grow up of themselves?
You ought to know that they most likely did not. You know the new enclosures?
Yes.
Well then, do rich grasses come up on them, now that they are broken up?
Oh no, nothing but groundsel, and a few weeds.
Just what, I dare say, came up here at first. But this land was tilled for corn, for hundreds of years, I believe. And just about one hundred years ago it was laid down in grass; that is, sown with grass seeds.
And where did men get the grass seeds from?
Ah, that is a long story; and one that shows our forefathers (though they knew nothing about railroads or electricity) were not such simpletons as some folks think. The way it must have been done was this. Men watched the natural pastures where cattle get fat on the wild grass, as they do in the Fens, and many other parts of England. And then they saved the seeds of those fattening wild grasses, and sowed them in fresh spots. Often they made mistakes. They were careless, and got weeds among the seed-- like the buttercups, which do so much harm to this pasture. Or they sowed on soil which would not suit the seed, and it died. But at last, after many failures, they have grown so careful and so clever, that you may send to certain shops, saying what sort of soil yours is, and they will send you just the seeds which will grow there, and no other; and then you have a good pasture for as long as you choose to keep it good.
And how is it kept good?
Look at all those loads of hay, which are being carried off the field. Do you think you can take all that away without putting anything in its place?
Why not?
If I took all the butter out of the churn, what must I do if I want more butter still?
Put more cream in.
So, if I want more grass to grow, I must put on the soil more of what grass is made of.
But the butter don't grow, and the grass does.
What does the grass grow in?
The soil.
Yes. Just as the butter grows in the churn. So