Lecture VI
We have reached to-day the middle point of our course,
and here we will make a new start. All the wonderful
histories which we have been studying in the last
five lectures have had little or nothing to do with
living creatures. The sunbeams would strike
on our earth, the air would move restlessly to and
fro, the water-drops would rise and fall, the valleys
and ravines would still be cut out by rivers , if
there were no such thing as life upon the earth.
But without living things there could be none of
the beauty which these changes bring about. Without
plants, the sunbeams, the air and the water would
be quite unable to clothe the bare rocks, and without
animals and man they could not produce light, or sound,
or feeling of any kind.
In the next five lectures, however, we are going to
learn something of the use living creatures make of
the earth; and to-day we will begin by studying one
of the ways in which we are affected by the changes
of nature, and hear her voice.
We are all so accustomed to trust to our sight to
guide us in most of our actions, and to think of things
as we see them, that we often forget how very much
we owe to sound. And yet Nature speaks to us
so much by her gentle, her touching, or her awful
sounds, that the life of a deaf person is even more
hard to bear than that of a blind one.
Have you ever amused yourself with trying how many
different sounds you can distinguish if you listen
at an open window in a busy street? You will
probably be able to recognize easily the jolting of
the heavy wagon or dray, the rumble of the omnibus,
the smooth roll of the private carriage and the rattle
of the light butcher’s cart; and even while
you are listening for these, the crack of the carter’s
whip, the cry of the costermonger at his stall, and
the voices of the passers-by will strike upon you
ear. Then if you give still more close attention
you will hear the doors open and shut along the street,
the footsteps of the passengers, the scraping of the
shovel of the mud-carts; nay, if he happen to stand
near, you may even hear the jingling of the shoeblack’s
pence as he plays pitch and toss upon the pavement.
If you think for a moment, does it not seem wonderful
that you should hear all these sounds so that you
can recognize each one distinctly while all the rest
are going on around you?
But suppose you go into the quiet country. Surely
there will be silence there. Try some day and
prove it for yourself, lie down on the grass in a
sheltered nook and listen attentively. If there
be ever so little wind stirring you will hear it rustling
gently through the trees; or even if there is not this,
it will be strange if you do not hear some wandering
gnat buzzing, or some busy bee humming as it moves
