By

Rachel
Carson
--aulhqr 01 "Silent Spring" and
"The Sea A.round U6."

This article is an extract

from a soon-to-be-publi hed
book by the famous American
writer and biologist, who
died last year. In it she writ'es,
"I hear parents say, 'How
can I possibly teach my
child about nature -why, I
don't even know one bird
from another !' I sincerely
believe that for the child, and
for the parent seeking to
guide him, it is not half so
important to KNOW as to
FEEL. Once the emotions have
been aroused - a sense of the
beautiful, the excitement of
the new and the unknown, a
feeling of sympathy, pity,
admiration, or love - then we
wish for knowledge. It is
more important to pave the way
for the child to WANT to
know than to put him on a
diet of facts he is not ready
to assimilate . . ."

Python Pool, north-west Western Australia (picture by Vincent Serventy).

NE stormy autumn night when my nephew Roger was

O
.
about 20 months old, I wrapped him in a blanket and

THE SENSE
of WONDER

carried him down to the beach in the rainy darkness.

Out there, just at the edge of where we couldn 't see, big
waves were thundering in, dimly seen white shapes that boomed
and shouted and threw great ~andfuls of froth at us.
T ogether we laughed for pure joy - he a baby meeting
for the first time the wild tumult of Oceanus, I with the salt
of half a lifetime of sea love in me. But I think we felt the same
spine-tingling response to the vast, roaring ocean and the wild
night around us.
A night or two later, the storm had blown itself out and
1 took R oger again to the beach, this time to carry him' along
t he water's edge, piercing the darkness with the yenow cone
of our torch.
Continued overleaf

THE AUSTRAUAN WOMEN 'S W EE KLY

-November 10, 1965

Page 27

THE SENSE
of WONDER

Flom page

27

Although there was no

rain, th nighl was ae:ain
noisy with breaking waves
and the insistent wind. It
was clearly a time and place
where great and elemental
things prevailed.
Our adventUlt on this
night had to do with life,
for we were searching for
ghost crabs, those sandcolored, fleet-legged beings
whom Roger had sometimes
gljmpsed briefly on the
beaches in daytime.
But the crabs are chiefly
noctumaJ, and when not
roaming the night beaches
they dig little pits near the
slI.rf-line, where they hide,
seemingly
watching
and
waiting for. what the sea
may bring them.
It was hardly a com'entional wav to entertain one
so young,' I suppose, but it
was good to see his acceptance of this world of
elemental
things,
fearing
neither the song of the wind
nor the darkness nor the
roaring surf, entering with
baby excitement into the
search for a "ghos."
Now with Roger a little
past his fourth birthday, we
are continuing that sharing
of adventures in the world of
nature that we began in his
babyhood and I think the.
results are Irood.
THE AI.JSTIl t. LfAN WOMEN'S

Sunset at Fannie Bay. Da1'Win

1
spend the summer
months on the coast of
Maine, where I have my
')wn shoreline and my own
small tract of woodland.
Bayberry and juniper and
huckleberry begin at the very
edge of the granjte rim 01
shore, and where the land
slopes upward from the bay
in a wooded knoll, tbe air
becomes
fragrant
wi t h
spruce and balsam.
Undedoot there is the
multi - patterned nOlwern
ground cover of blucberry,
checkerberry, reindeer moss,
and bunchberry, and on a
hiUside of many spruces,
with shaded ferny dells and
rocky ourcroppings - called
the Wildwoods - there are
lady-slippers and woodlilies
and the slender wands of
c1intonia with its deep blue
berries.

When Roger has visited

me in Maine and we have
walked in these woodS, I
have made no conscious
effort to name plants or
animals nor to explain to
him, but have just expressed
my own pleasure in what we
see, caJling his attention to
this or that, but only liS I
would share discoveries with
an older person.
Later, J have been amazed
at the ,vay names stick in his
mind, for when I show color
slides of my woods plants,
WEEKLY - November 10, 1965

(picture by Vincent Serventy) .

it is Roger who can identify

them. ,
"Oh, that's what Rachel
li kes - that's bunchberry!"
Or, "That's jumer (juniper),
but you can't eat those green
berries - they a.re for the
squirrels."
I am sure no amount of
drill would have implanted
the names so firmly as just
going through the woods in
the spirit of two friends on
an expedition of exciting discovery.
In the Same way, Roger
learned the shells of my little
triangle of sand that passes
for a beach in rocky Maine.
When he was only a year and
a haH old, they became
known to him
winkies
(periwinkles), weks ( whelks),
and mukldes ( mussels ) without my knowing quite how
thi$ came about, for I had
not tried to teach him .

as

ROGER has
shared enjoyment of things
people ordinarily deny children because they are inconvenienr, interfering with bedtime or involving wet clothing that has to be changed
or nlud that has to be
cleaned off the rug.
Re has been allowed to
stay in the dark living-room
before the big picture window to watch the (u11 moon
riding lower and lower to-

ward the far shore of the

bay, setting all the water
ablaze with silver fl:lmes and
finding a thousand diamond
in the rocks on the shore as
the moonlight strikes the
flakes of mica embedded in
them.
I think that the memory
of such a scene, photographed year after year by
his child's mind, would
mean more to hinl in manhood than the sleep he 10sL
He told me it would in
his own way, when we had
a full moon the night after
his arrival last summer. He
sal quietly on my lap (or
some time, watching the
moon and the water and all
the night sky.
Then he whispered, "I'm
glad we corned."
A rainy day is the perfect
lime for a walk in the woods.
I always thought so myself.
Now I know that for children, too, nature reserves
some of her choice rewards
for days when the mood may
appear to be sombre.
Roger reminded me of it
on a long walk through raindrenched woods last summer
- not in words, of course,
but by his responses.
There had been rain and
fog for days, rain beating on
th big picture window, fog
almost shutting. OUI sight of
the bay. No lobstennen coming in to tend their traps, no

"II you are a paTent who fee" M hos

litde nalrn-eloTe al hiB disposal, Ihere is
still much you can do Jor your child.
WiLh him, wherever you are and whatever your resources, you can still look
up at
sky - it. dawn and twilight
beauties, it. moving clouds, its stars "

'"e

gulls on the shore, scarcely

even a squirrel to watch. The
cottage was fast becoming tOO
small for a restless threeyear-old.
Let's go) for a walk in the
woods," I said. " Maybe we'll
see a fox or a deer."
into yel)ow oilskin coat
and sou 'wester, and outside
in joyous anticipation.
Having always loved the
lichens because they have a
quaIity of fairyland - silver
rings on a stone, odd little
form like bones or horns or
the shell of sea creature I was glad to find Roger
noticing and responding to
the magic change in their appearance wrought by the
rain. The woods path was
carpeted with the so-called
reindeer moss, in reality a
lichen.
Like. an old-fashioned hall
runner, it made a narrow
strip of silvery grey through
the green o[ the woods, here
and there spreading out to
cover a larger area. In dry
weather, the lichen carpel
seems thin; it is brittle and
crumbles underfoo t.
Now, saturated with rain,

So

which it absorbs like a

sponge, it was deep and
springy. Roger delighted in
it3 tc.xture, getting down on
chubby knees to feel it and
running from one patch of
the lichen to another, to
jump up and down in the
deep, resilient carpet with
squeals of pleasure.
There is a fine crop of
young spruce coming along,
and one can find seedlings
of almost any size down to
rhe length of Roger's finger.
I began to point out the
baby trees. "This one must
be a- Christmas tree for the
squirrels," I would say. "It's
just the right height.
"On Christmas Eve, the
red squirrels come and hang
little shells and cones and
silver threads of lichen on it
for ornaments, and then the
snow falls and covers it with
shining stars, and III the
morning the squirrels have
a beautiful Christmas tree ...
"This one is even tinierit must be for little bugs of
some kind - and maybe tbjs

To page 31
Page 29

THE SENSE
of WONDER
From page 29
bigger one is for the rabbits
or woodchucks."
Once this game started, it
had to be played on all
woods walks, which from now
on were punctuated by shouts
of "Don't step oil the Christmas tree!"

"H

OW can I possibly teach my child about

nature--why, I don't even
one
bird
from
k now
another!" I hear parents say.
I sincerel y believe tha t
for the child, and for the
parent seeking to guide him,
it is not half so important
to know as to feel. Once the
emotions have been aroused
-a sense of the beautiful, the
excitement Qf the new and
the unknown, a feeling of
sympathy, pity, admiration,
Or love - then we wish for
knowledge. It is more important to pave the way for
the c'hild to want to know
than to put him on a diet
of facts he is not ready to
a~similate.

If you are a parent who

feels he has little nature lore
at his disposal, there is still
much you can do for your
child. With ,him, wherever
you are and whatever your
resources, you can still look
up at the sky - its dawn
and twilight beauties, its
moving clouds, its stars by
night. ,You can listen to the
wind, whether it blows with
majestic voice through a
forcst or sings a manyvoiced chorus around the
eaves' of your , house oi: the
corners of your apartment
building. You can , still feel
the rain - on - your ' face and
think of its long journey, its
many transmutations, from
sea to air to earth. And with
your -child you can ponder
the mystery of a: growing
seed, ' even if it be only one
planted in a pot of earth in
the kitchen window . . .

For most of us, knowledge

of our world comes largely
through sight, yet we look
about with such unseeing
eyes that we are partially
blind.
One way to open your
eyes to unnoticed beauty is
to ask yourself, "What if I
had never seen this before?
What if I knew I would
never see it again?"
I remember a summer
night when such a thought
It
came to me strongly.
was a clear night without a
moon. With a friend, I went
out on a flat headland that ,
, is almost a tiny island, being
all but surrounded by the
waters of the bay. There, the
horizon.~
are remote and
distant rims on the edge of Clouds at Quirindi, N.S.W. (picture by Mn. B. Dowmanl.
space. We lay and looked up
at the sky.
The I)ight was so still that even if you don't know the patch of moss reveals a
dense tropical jungle, in
we could hear the buoy on name of a single star.
And
then
there
is
the
which
insects large as tigers
_, the ledges out beyond the
mouth of the bay. Once or world of little things, seen all prowl amid strangely formed,
twice a word spoken by too seldom. Many children, luxuriant trees. A bit of
someone on the far shore was perhaps because they them- seaweed put in a glass concarried across on the clear selves are small and closer tainer and studied under a
air. A few lights burned in to the ground than we, lens is found to be popucottages. Otherwise my com- notice and delight in the lated by hordes of strange
panion and I were alone with small and inconspicuous. beings, whose activities can
With this beginning, it is easy entertain you for hours.
the stars. '
Flowers ( especially the
I have never seen them to share with them the
more beautiful: the misty beauties we usually miss be- composites), the early buds
river of the Milky Way flow- cause we look too hastily, of leaf or flower from any
ing across the sky, the pat- seeing the whole and not its tree, or any small creature,
terns of the constellations parts. Some of nature's most reveal unexpected beauty
standing out bright and clear, exquisite handiwork is on a and complexity when, aided
a blazing planet low on -the miniature scale, as anyone by a lens, we can escape the
horizon. Once or twice a knows who has applied a limitations of the human size
meteor burned its way into magnifying glass to a snow- scale.
flake.
the earth's atmosphere.
An investment of a few
It occurred to me that
SENSES other
if this were a sight that could shillings in a good hand lens
sight
can
prove
be seen only once in a cen- or magnifying glass wiII than
tury or even once in a human bring a new world into being. avenues of delight and disgeneration, this little head- With your child, look at covery. Already, Roger and
land would be thronged with objects you take for granted I, out early in the morning,
as commonplace or un- have enjoyed the sharp,
specta tors.
clean smell Of woodsmoke
But the lights burned in interesting.
A sprinkling of sand coming from the cottage
the cottages, and the inhabitants probably gave not a grains may appear as gleam- chimney.
Down on the shore we
thought to the beauty over- ing jewels of rose or crystal
hue, or as glittering jet beads, have savored the smell of
head ~ Because they could see
it almost any night, perhaps or as a melange of Lilli- low tide - that marvellous
- putian rocks, spines of sea evocation of the world of
they will never see it.
and
fish
and
An experience like , that urchins, bits of snail shells. seaweeds
can be shared with a child
A lens-aided view into a creatures of bizarre shape and

"For most 0/ us, knowledge of our

world comes largely through sight, yet
we look about with such unseeing eyes
that we are partially blind. One way to
open your eyes to unnoticed beauty ilJ
to ask yourself, 'What if I had never
seen this before? What if I knew I
would never lJee it again?' "
habit, of tides rising and fiddles in the grass and'
falling, of exposed mud flats among the shrubbery and
and salt rime drying on the flower borders.
rocks.
An hour of hunting out the
Hearing can be a source smaU musicians by torchlight
of even more exquisite is an adventure any child
pleasure, bu t it requires con- would love. It gives him a
scious cultivation. I have sense of the night's mystery
had people tell me they had and beauty, and of how alive
never heard the song of a it is with watchfl,ll eyes and
wood thrush, although I little, waiting forms.
knew the bell-like phrases of
-The game is to listen, not
this bird had been ringing so much to the full orchesin their backyards every tra as to the separate instruspring.
ments, and to try to locate
No child should grow up . the players. Perhaps you arc
unaware of the dawn chorus drawn, step by step, to a bush
of the birds in spring. He from which comes a sweet,
will never forget the ex- high-pitched, endlessly reFinally you
perience of a specially peated trill.
planned early rising and go- trace it to a little creature
ing out in the pre-dawn of palest green, with wings as
insubstantial as moonlight.
darkness.
Or from somewhere along
-Near my cottage, the first
voices are heard before day- the garden path comes a:
break . Perhaps a few card- cheerful, rhythmic chirping,
inals are uttering their clear, a sound as companionable llnd homely as a fire crackrising whistles.
ling on a hearth or a eat's
Then the song of a whitethroat, pure and ethereal, purr. Shifting your light.
downward, you find a black
with the dreamy quality of
mole cricket disappearing
remembered joy. Off in
into his grassy den.
some distant patch of woods
Most haunting of aU is one
a whippoorwill continues his I cali the fairy bell-ringer.
monotonous night chant, I have never found him. I'm
rhythmic and insistent- not sure I want to.
His
sound --that is felt almost -~oice - and surely he himmore than heard. Robins, self - is so ethereal, so delithrushes, song sparrows, jays, cate, so other-worldly, that
vireos add their voices. The he should remain invisible,
chorus picks up volume as as he has through all the
more and more robins join nights I have searched for
in, contributing a fierce him. It is exactly the sound
rhythm of their own that that should come from a bell
soon becomes dominant in held ' in ' the hand of th~
the wild medley of voices. tiniest elf, inexpressibly clear
In that dawn chorus one and silvery.
hears the throb of life itself.
The night is - a time, too,
There is other living music. to listen for other voiccs,the
I have already promised calls of bird migrants hurryRoger that we'll take our ing ' northward in spring and
torches this autumn and go southward in autumn.
out into the garden to hunt
To page 32
for the insects that play little

"There is something infinitely healing

in the repeated refrainIJ of nature -

the ebb and flow of the tide., the

aSIJurance that dawn. comelJ after night,
and that spring will follow winter."
Moutb of River Hindmarsb, Victor Harbor,
S.A. (picture by Ca~erine Gill).

Page 31

THE SENSE of WONDER

"A. child's world is
Iresh and new and beautiful, lull 0/ wonder and
e%ciU!ment. I, is our
mulor'une
Jar
most 0 / W
cleareyed t1ision, .hac true
instinct lor I()luIt is
beautiful and aweinspiring, is dimmed
and even lod be/ ore
I()e reach adulthood."

,lui,
,Iur,

Pieture by staff photographer

Keith Barlow.

From page 31
Take your hild out on a still
autumn night when there is little
wind and find a quiet place away
from traffic noises. Then stand
very still and listen. Presently
your ears will detect tiny wisps of
sound-sharp chirps, sibilant lisps,
and call notes.
They are the voices of bird
migrants, apparently keeping in
touch by their calls with others of
their kind scattered through the
sky.
I never hear these calls without

a sense of lonely distances, an

awareness of sJTlali li',(es controlled
an~ . directed ?y forces btyond
vohtJ0!l or denIal, and a surging
wonder at their sure instinct for
route and direction .
If the mopn is full and lhe night
skies are ~ijve wilh the calls of
bird migrants, then the way is
ope'} for ,!Dother adventure with
yonr child. ~f, ~e is old enough to
u~ a ~~escopc! or a good pair of
bmoculars - the sport of watching
!"igrating birds pass across the fau
of tlie moon.
Seat yourseU comfortably and
focus your glass on the moon. You
must learn patience for this, but
sooner or laler you should begin
to see the birds, lonely travellers in
spare, glimpsed as they pa s .from
darknes into darkness.
In aU this I have said little about
identification of these living and
non-living things that share . the
world with us. Of course, it is
always convenient to give a name
to things that arouse our intercst.
But that is a separate problem.
And if a child asked me a
que tion that suggested even a
faint awareness of the mystery
behind the arrival of a migrant
sandpiper on the beach of an
All gust morning, I wo uld be far
more pleased than by the fac t that
he knew it was a sandpiper and
not a plover.

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i~

CHILD'S world
fresh and new and beautiful, fuU
of wonder and excitement. It is our
misfortune that for mos t of us that
clear-eyed vision, that true instinct
fOI' what is beautjful and aweinspiring, is dimmed and even lost
before we reach adulthood.
If I had influence with the good
fairy who is supposed to preside
over the christening of all children,
I sho~d ask that her gift to each
child in the world be a sense of
wonder so indestmctible that it
would last throughout life, an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantments of later
years, the sterile preoccupation
wi th things that are artificial, the
alienation from the sources of our
strength.
I like to re member the distinguishNl Swedish oceanographer
O Uo Pettersson, who died a few
years ago aged 93, in full possession of his keen mental powers.
His son has rela ted how intensely
his father enjoyed every new experience, every new discovery. "He
was an incurable roman tic, in. tensely in love with life and with
the mysteries of the cosmos."
When he realised he had not
much longer to enjoy the earthly
scene, Otto Pettersson said, "What
will ustain me in my last moments is an infi nite curiosity as t~
what is to follow."
.
Whether they are scientists or
laymen, those who dwell among
the beauties and mysterie of the
earth are never alone or weary of
life.
Whatever the vexa tions or concerns of their personal lives, their
thoughts can find paths that lead
to inner contentment and to renewed excitemen t in living.
Those who contemplate the
beauty of the earth fi nd reserves
of strength that will endure as
long as life lasts.
T here is symbolic as well
actual beauty in the migration of
the birds, the folded bud ready for
the spring. There js something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature - the ebb and
flow of the tides, the assurance
that dawn comes after Dight, and
that spring wiJI follow winter.
(c) Rachel Carson, 1956, 1957.

THE AUSTlL\UAN WOMEl'I'

a,

WEJi1C1.Y -

Nm'cmbet 10, 1965