The Schoolmaster’s Lesson

The schoolmaster, with the savings of two laborious years, had treated himself to a fine large microscope. This instrument, in its mahogany case, occupied a place of honor on a side table. It was a world of wonder, a more than Aladdin’s lamp to the children, who looked with joy to the occasions when the schoolmaster revealed to their wondering gaze its enchantments. Whenever the schoolmaster took a little key from his vest pocket and approached the sacred altar, where reposed the marvel, the children stowed their books under the blue desks, and fairly held their breath with expectation. Any one of them might have the honor of being summoned as officiating acolyte of the occasion.

On this afternoon the schoolmaster had a bowl of water and some small green weeds from the nearest pond. He put some of the green plant in a large, clear glass. As it floated, the children coming near to look, one by one saw that the plant seemed supplied with minute green sacs filled with air.

“Now, take your seats,” said the master. “This is called a bladder-plant, from these wee, green bladders, whereby it floats. Listen, and Nathan will tell you what he sees. Nathan, come forward.”

Nathan came gladly.

“Now, tell us what you see in the water, Nathan.”

“I see little live things; some have little shells on them like mussels, only they look about as big as tiny pin-heads. Some have little whirling wheels on their heads. A good many are like very, very wee caterpillars.”

“Those last are the water-bears,” said the schoolmaster. “Now look at the bladder-plant.”

“The bladders,” said Nathan, “are little bags. Their mouths are open. They are set round with hairs. Some of the bags look full of something, and dark. Some of them seem to have some live thing kicking in them. Some are empty, and as you look in at the door it is like a little clear green room. Oh! I see a water-bear swimming up to one! He looks in. He seems to think it is pretty. I guess he wants to know where there is something kicking. He looks in there. Now he goes to an empty one. Now he swims by. No, he changes his mind. He thinks he will go in. He pokes in his head. The little hairs at the door bend inward: they let him go in easy. He is in! Oh! now he is trying to come out!”

Great excitement in the listening school—eyes wide open, heads bent forward.

“Can he get out?” cried someone.

“No! no! he can’t,” exclaimed Nathan, all eager. “The hairs bend in, and let him in, but he cannot get by them to go out! They won’t bend out. Oh, he can’t get out.”

The schoolmaster now took one of the dark, full sacs, cut it open with a very fine, sharp instrument, and put it under the glass.

“Now what, Nathan?”

“Oh, that bag is full of dead things, of what you might call the bones of these bits of creatures, the shells off one of those tiny things like mussels. They are things that have gone in and have got all melted up.”

“Here is another,” said the schoolmaster, putting a lighter green sac in place, also cut open. “What now?”

“That is the very sac the water-bear looked into to see something kicking. The kicking thing was another water-bear. Now it is dead. The one that went in just now is kicking, too.”

The schoolmaster took that sac also, opened it, and released the struggling water-bear.

“What now, Nathan?”

“He is out, but he doesn’t feel good. He doesn’t swim round as he did before he went in. I think he is going to die, schoolmaster. Oh, here is another bear just going into a sac. Let him out quick, won’t you?”

The schoolmaster opened the sac and the freed little animal swam off.

“He got out, right off, and nothing but him,” said Nathan. “Schoolmaster, isn’t it queer that when they look in and see the dead ones, and the bones and skins, or see other ones caught and kicking, and can’t get out, that they don’t learn better than to go in themselves? I should think they’d have sense to keep out!”

“People do not have sense to keep out when the circumstances are just about the same. Now, all of you children, listen. You know that Nathan has told you of these little, gay palace-rooms, where the doors open in and not out, and the things which swim by seem curious to know what is inside. Some of these gay places hold struggling captives; others are full of the relics of the dead. Now, that is a little parable to you. Let the little green sacs stand for places where strong drink is sold. Those who enter such places form the drinking habit, and then they cannot get free from it. Persons, yet free, look into these dens for drinking. They see in them people all ragged, dirty, poor, unhappy, bloated, crazy, sick, wrecked and ruined victims of the habit. They see yet others who mourn that they are enslaved, who have a sense of shame and danger, and struggle to get rid of the appetite that makes prisoners of them, and will destroy them. In this little plant, when the little animals get into the sacs, the plant melts up their bodies and seems to suck up their juice and feed on it until nothing is left but the fine bony parts. So the unhappy person who goes into a grog shop finds that the dealer feeds on him until his health and happiness, and money and respectability are all gone, and perhaps nothing is left of him but the poor body that is ready for the Potter’s field. Is it not strange that when we see how many persons are utterly ruined by drink, any will venture into places where drink is sold, and will even begin to taste the fatal liquor? Whenever you see a place for selling whiskey, I want you to think of the little water-bears and other water creatures which enter the snares of the bladder-plant.”—Selected.