The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate Jacqueline Kelly

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Title: The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

About the book “The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate” by Jacqueline Kelly

What could be better than a childhood dream? We invite you to read the book “The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate,” which tells the story of an eleven-year-old girl who dreams of becoming a great scientist. Jacqueline Kelly began her career with this short story, which became her pride in her achievements.

American writer Jacqueline Kelly is the author of amazing children's books and winner of the Newbery Medal. Why are her books so popular? Why do they attract young readers? The writer in her works describes not just the fascinating and life-changing adventures of young heroes, but also their lives, experiences and achievements. Every child will be interested to learn about the scientific research of a young girl and become her best friend for a while.

The main character of the book, Calpurnia Tate, was an eleven-year-old girl who lived in Texas in the family of a cotton plantation owner. She likes to study nature, she dreams of studying at university, becoming a great naturalist, but many believe that this activity is not for a girl. The only one who supports the girl’s aspiration is her grandfather, a self-taught naturalist, who helps her in her research into the surrounding nature. After all, the 20th century is on the threshold, which portends new changes and new opportunities for science. Thanks to her friendship with her grandfather, Calpurnia was able to discover a lot, learn a lot, and conduct her first research on her own.

Calpurnia's parents love her very much, since she is the only girl in their family, but despite this, they are strict towards her. They are sure that science is not intended for women and have chosen a different fate for her - to be a housewife and mother. Mom really wants to bring Calpurnia into society, so she teaches her needlework and cooking. But the girl has different views and interests. She prefers to explore the living world around her and study insects. She is pursuing her goal of going to university. The girl has a hard time due to the misunderstanding of her loved ones, but she strives for her dream despite obstacles and disapproval from friends.

Jacqueline Kelly wrote a wonderful work for curious and purposeful children who are not afraid of difficulties and go towards their dreams.

The writer perfectly reveals the images of her characters, so they are very easy to understand. The work is filled with humor and interesting stories that will be of interest to both children and adults.

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate is written in a simple, engaging style that makes it very easy to read. The writer filled her work with fascinating and funny stories, historical facts of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, scientific discoveries that took place at that time and interesting details from the life of insects.

On our website about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book “The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate” by Jacqueline Kelly in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

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Jacqueline Kelly

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

© Jacqueline Kelly. Published by arrangement with Folio Literary Management, LLC and Prava I Perevodi.

© Olga Bukhina, translation, 2014

© Galina Gimon, translation, 2014

© Edition in Russian. LLC Publishing House Samokat, 2015

To my mother, Noeline Kelly.

To my dad, Brian Kelly.

To my husband, Robert Duncan.

When a young naturalist begins to study a group of organisms completely unfamiliar to him, at first he is perplexed as to what differences should be recognized as species... since he knows nothing about the extent and nature of the variation characteristic of this group...

Back in 1899, we learned to cope with the darkness, but not with the Texas heat. We rose long before dawn, when the sky was pitch black and only a stripe in the east seemed a little lighter. They lit kerosene lamps and carried them into the darkness like tiny wavering suns. The day's work had to be completed by noon, because at noon the murderous heat drove us into the houses, behind closed shutters, where we lay in the twilight of rooms with high ceilings, suffering and sweating. Mom’s favorite remedy—refreshing the sheets with cologne—only helped for a minute. At three o'clock, when it was time to get up, the heat was still murderous.

Everyone in Fentress had a hard time, but women suffered especially because they wore corsets and petticoats. (I wasn’t yet old enough to experience this inevitable female torture.) The women unraveled their corsets and sighed for hours, cursing the heat, and by the way, their husbands, who had dragged them to Caldwell County to grow cotton and pecans and raise cattle. Mom temporarily got rid of her hairpieces—both the curly false bangs and the horsehair roller on which she built an intricate tower of her own hair every day. On such days, of course, if there were no guests, she even put her head under the stream of water while Viola, our quarter-cook, diligently pumped the kitchen pump. We were strictly forbidden to laugh at this amazing spectacle. We (including dad) long ago understood: when mom’s self-esteem little by little gives way to the heat, it’s better not to get caught in it.

I turned eleven that summer. Of seven children, I was the only girl. What could be worse? My name is Calpurnia Virginia Tate, but everyone called me Callie Vee. I have three older brothers - Harry, Sam Houston and Lamar - and three younger ones - Travis, Sal Ross and little Jim Bowie, whom we simply called JB. And I'm right in the middle. The younger ones somehow managed to sleep during the day, sometimes even huddling together like sweaty puppies. The men who had been working in the fields all morning fell asleep too. Dad was returning from his office - he was the owner of the only cotton ginning machine in the town. I doused myself on the back porch with lukewarm well water from a tin bucket and collapsed into a hammock as if I had been knocked down.

Yes, the heat was a real torment, but it also gave me freedom. The family fell into a restless sleep, and I could sneak away to the banks of the San Marcos River. No lessons, no annoying brothers, no mom! No one allowed me to run to the river, but no one forbade me. I managed to escape unnoticed, because I had my own room at the far end of the corridor, and the brothers all lived together - in a second someone would report. It’s bad to be the only girl, but one consolation is that no one is watching you.

Our house was separated from the river by five acres of dense bush that stretched out like a crescent. It is not easy to get through them, but, fortunately, regular visitors to the river banks - dogs, deer, brothers - have trodden a narrow passage through treacherous thorny bushes taller than my height. The thorns clung to my hair and apron as I, huddled in a ball, made my way through the thicket. On the shore, I took off my clothes and went into the water wearing only my shirt. And here I am lying on my back, cool water gently flows around my body, my shirt flutters lightly around me. I am a cloud floating along the river, and the current gently circles me. I look up at a thin web high in the lush crowns of oak trees bending over the water - these are the caterpillars of white butterflies weaving their huge nests. The caterpillars, like my reflection, float in their gauze balls against the pale turquoise sky.

That summer, all the men except the grandfather, Walter Tate, cut their hair short, shaved off their thick beards and mustaches and began to look like naked lizards. For a whole week or more I could not get used to the sight of flabby, untanned chins. Strangely, my grandfather did not suffer from the heat. Even the thick white beard falling onto his chest did not bother him. Grandfather argued: this is because he is a man of strict rules, modest and never drinks whiskey before noon. His stinking old frock coat was hopelessly out of fashion, but grandfather didn’t want to hear about parting with it. Our maid San Juan constantly scrubbed her frock coat with benzene, but it still smelled of mold, and it became an indeterminate color - either black or green.

Grandfather lived with us under the same roof, but on his own. Long ago, he turned the business over to his only son, my father, Alfred Tate, while he immersed himself in “experiments in the laboratory” in the backyard. Strictly speaking, the laboratory is just an old barn where slaves who lived on the plantation once lived. When his grandfather wasn't in the lab, he went off collecting samples or buried himself in tattered books in a dimly lit corner of the library, where no one was allowed to disturb him.

I asked my mother for permission to shorten my hair - it was too hot on my neck and back. Mom forbade me - there’s no point in running around like a shorn sheep. This seemed terribly unfair to me, so I came up with a plan. Once a week I will cut my hair an inch—just a measly inch. Mom won't notice anything. She won't notice anything because I will behave impeccably. I'll pretend to be a well-bred young lady, and my mother won't keep an eye on me so strictly. Mom was completely immersed in household chores and was constantly concerned about her sons’ behavior. You can’t even imagine what noise, what commotion six boys can make. In addition, the heat made her headaches worse, so she had to take a full tablespoon of Lydia Pinkham's Herbal Potion, undoubtedly the best blood purifying potion for women.

One evening I took the scissors and, with my heart pounding, cut off the first strand of hair. Excitedly, I looked at the clump of hair in my palm. A few months will fly by quickly - and long live the new life! It was a great moment. I didn't sleep well that night. Will there be something tomorrow?

Barely breathing, I went down to breakfast in the morning. The pecan pie tasted like cardboard. And do you know what happened? Absolutely nothing. No one noticed anything at all! I felt better, but still I thought: “What can I take from this family?” Nobody noticed anything, only after four weeks and four inches, our cook Viola looked at me strangely, but did not say a word.

At the end of June it was so hot that for the first time in her life my mother left the candles in the candlesticks unlit during dinner. She even allowed me and Harry not to play music for two weeks. That was great too. When Harry played, sweat dripped directly onto the keyboard. While he was practicing the minuet in D major, the keys became so wet that neither Mom nor San Juana could make it shine again. Besides, old Miss Brown, our music teacher, had to jog three miles from Prairie Lee in a buggy drawn by a decrepit horse. Both of them would not have survived the road. They would have collapsed right on our doorstep. A tempting prospect, by the way.

Calpurnia Tate lives in Texas. She is only eleven, but she dreams of becoming a scientist. She made her first scientific discovery during a hot, dry summer. “Why are yellow grasshoppers so much larger than green grasshoppers?” – Calpurnia thought. With the help of her grandfather, a self-taught naturalist, the girl begins to explore the natural world. Friendship with her grandfather helps her, the only sister of six brothers, understand that the approach of the new, twentieth century opens up new opportunities for girls.

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

Jacqueline Kelly

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

© Jacqueline Kelly. Published by arrangement with Folio Literary Management, LLC and Prava I Perevodi.

© Olga Bukhina, translation, 2014

© Galina Gimon, translation, 2014

© Edition in Russian. LLC Publishing House Samokat, 2015

* * *

To my mother, Noeline Kelly.

To my dad, Brian Kelly.

To my husband, Robert Duncan.

Chapter 1 Origin of Species

When a young naturalist begins to study a group of organisms completely unfamiliar to him, at first he is perplexed as to what differences should be recognized as species... since he knows nothing about the extent and nature of the variation characteristic of this group...

Charles Darwin. "Origin of Species"

Back in 1899, we learned to cope with the darkness, but not with the Texas heat. We rose long before dawn, when the sky was pitch black and only a stripe in the east seemed a little lighter. They lit kerosene lamps and carried them into the darkness like tiny wavering suns. The day's work had to be completed by noon, because at noon the murderous heat drove us into the houses, behind closed shutters, where we lay in the twilight of rooms with high ceilings, suffering and sweating. Mom’s favorite remedy—refreshing the sheets with cologne—only helped for a minute. At three o'clock, when it was time to get up, the heat was still murderous.

Everyone in Fentress had a hard time, but women suffered especially because they wore corsets and petticoats. (I wasn’t yet old enough to experience this inevitable female torture.) The women unraveled their corsets and sighed for hours, cursing the heat, and by the way, their husbands, who had dragged them to Caldwell County to grow cotton and pecans and raise cattle. Mom temporarily got rid of her hairpieces—both the curly false bangs and the horsehair roller on which she built an intricate tower of her own hair every day. On such days, of course, if there were no guests, she even put her head under the stream of water while Viola, our quarter-cook, diligently pumped the kitchen pump. We were strictly forbidden to laugh at this amazing spectacle. We (including dad) long ago understood: when mom’s self-esteem little by little gives way to the heat, it’s better not to get caught in it.

I turned eleven that summer. Of seven children, I was the only girl. What could be worse? My name is Calpurnia Virginia Tate, but everyone called me Callie Vee. I have three older brothers - Harry, Sam Houston and Lamar - and three younger ones - Travis, Sal Ross and little Jim Bowie, whom we simply called JB. And I'm right in the middle. The younger ones somehow managed to sleep during the day, sometimes even huddling together like sweaty puppies. The men who had been working in the fields all morning fell asleep too. Dad was returning from his office - he was the owner of the only cotton ginning machine in the town. I doused myself on the back porch with lukewarm well water from a tin bucket and collapsed into a hammock as if I had been knocked down.

Yes, the heat was a real torment, but it also gave me freedom. The family fell into a restless sleep, and I could sneak away to the banks of the San Marcos River. No lessons, no annoying brothers, no mom! No one allowed me to run to the river, but no one forbade me. I managed to escape unnoticed, because I had my own room at the far end of the corridor, and the brothers all lived together - in a second someone would report. It’s bad to be the only girl, but one consolation is that no one is watching you.

Our house was separated from the river by five acres of dense bush that stretched out like a crescent. It is not easy to get through them, but, fortunately, regular visitors to the river banks - dogs, deer, brothers - have trodden a narrow passage through treacherous thorny bushes taller than my height. The thorns clung to my hair and apron as I, huddled in a ball, made my way through the thicket. On the shore, I took off my clothes and went into the water wearing only my shirt. And here I am lying on my back, cool water gently flows around my body, my shirt flutters lightly around me. I am a cloud floating along the river, and the current gently circles me. I look up at a thin web high in the lush crowns of oak trees bending over the water - these are the caterpillars of white butterflies weaving their huge nests. The caterpillars, like my reflection, float in their gauze balls against the pale turquoise sky.

That summer, all the men except the grandfather, Walter Tate, cut their hair short, shaved off their thick beards and mustaches and began to look like naked lizards. For a whole week or more I could not get used to the sight of flabby, untanned chins. Strangely, my grandfather did not suffer from the heat. Even the thick white beard falling onto his chest did not bother him. Grandfather argued: this is because he is a man of strict rules, modest and never drinks whiskey before noon. His stinking old frock coat was hopelessly out of fashion, but grandfather didn’t want to hear about parting with it. Our maid San Juan constantly scrubbed her frock coat with benzene, but it still smelled of mold, and it became an indeterminate color - either black or green.

Grandfather lived with us under the same roof, but on his own. Long ago, he turned the business over to his only son, my father, Alfred Tate, while he immersed himself in “experiments in the laboratory” in the backyard. Strictly speaking, the laboratory is just an old barn where slaves who lived on the plantation once lived. When his grandfather wasn't in the lab, he went off collecting samples or buried himself in tattered books in a dimly lit corner of the library, where no one was allowed to disturb him.

I asked my mother for permission to shorten my hair - it was too hot on my neck and back. Mom forbade me - there’s no point in running around like a shorn sheep. This seemed terribly unfair to me, so I came up with a plan. Once a week I will cut my hair an inch—just a measly inch. Mom won't notice anything. She won't notice anything because I will behave impeccably. I'll pretend to be a well-bred young lady, and my mother won't keep an eye on me so strictly. Mom was completely immersed in household chores and was constantly concerned about her sons’ behavior. You can’t even imagine what noise, what commotion six boys can make. In addition, the heat made her headaches worse, so she had to take a full tablespoon of Lydia Pinkham's Herbal Potion, undoubtedly the best blood purifying potion for women.

One evening I took the scissors and, with my heart pounding, cut off the first strand of hair. Excitedly, I looked at the clump of hair in my palm. A few months will fly by quickly - and long live the new life! It was a great moment. I didn't sleep well that night. Will there be something tomorrow?

Barely breathing, I went down to breakfast in the morning. The pecan pie tasted like cardboard. And do you know what happened? Absolutely nothing. No one noticed anything at all! I felt better, but still I thought: “What can I take from this family?” Nobody noticed anything, only after four weeks and four inches, our cook Viola looked at me strangely, but did not say a word.

At the end of June it was so hot that for the first time in her life my mother left the candles in the candlesticks unlit during dinner. She even allowed me and Harry not to play music for two weeks. That was great too. When Harry played, sweat dripped directly onto the keyboard. While he was practicing the minuet in D major, the keys became so wet that neither Mom nor San Juana could make it shine again. Besides, old Miss Brown, our music teacher, had to jog three miles from Prairie Lee in a buggy drawn by a decrepit horse. Both of them would not have survived the road. They would have collapsed right on our doorstep. A tempting prospect, by the way.

Dad, having learned that we were skipping music lessons, said: “That’s great. A boy needs a piano like a fish needs an umbrella.”

Mom didn't even want to listen. She dreamed that seventeen-year-old Harry, her first-born, would grow up to be a gentleman. At eighteen, she planned to send Harry to university in Austin, fifty miles from home. She read in the newspaper that five hundred students study there, including seventeen girls with chaperones at the Faculty of Humanities. They study music, English and Latin. Dad had other plans. Harry would be a businessman, take over a pecan orchard and a cotton gin, and follow his father into becoming a Freemason. Apparently, dad didn’t mind teaching me music. I'm not sure if he even thought about it.

At the end of June, the Fentress Observer reported that the air temperature in the middle of the street opposite the editorial office reached 41 degrees. The newspaper did not report the temperature in the shade. I wonder why? No one in their right mind and good memory would spend more than a couple of seconds in the sun. People rushed from one shadow to another - from a tree to a barn, from a barn to a team of horses. So the temperature in the shade would be more useful for the residents of our city. I spent a long time poring over my letter to the editor and was terribly surprised when my letter was published the following week. My family was amazed that the newspaper began to report the temperature in the shade. It’s nice to read about 35 degrees in the shade, it’s really cool.

Those who benefit from the heat are insects - both at home and everywhere. Grasshoppers swirled under the horses' hooves. There were an unusually large number of fireflies. No one remembered such beauty as this summer. In the evenings, my brothers and I, sitting on the veranda, competed to see who would be the first to notice the light. A very exciting activity, and what a pleasure it is to win! Especially after mom found a scrap of blue silk in a craft basket and made a beautiful medallion with long ribbons. In between headaches, she embroidered the words “Firefly of Fentress” on silk with gold thread. It was a wonderful, desired prize. The winner wore it until the next evening.

Ants filled the kitchen and completely tormented Viola. They marched in formation along the baseboards and window sills straight to the sink. Viola tried to fight them, but to no avail. They were desperate for water, and nothing could stop them. We considered fireflies a blessing and ants a plague. It suddenly occurred to me: what exactly is the difference? Insects are simply living creatures trying to survive in the heat. As we are. I was hoping Viola would leave the ants alone until I discovered that the black pepper in the egg salad wasn't pepper at all.

If insects have taken over everything, other permanent inhabitants of our yard, such as earthworms, have almost completely disappeared. The brothers always lacked worms for fishing. The dry, hard earth did not give in - how do you dig them up? It turned out that worms can be trained. Don't believe me? So I'll tell you what I came up with. It is obvious. Worms love rain, right? So let's make it rain for them. A couple of times a day I dragged a bucket of water and poured it into the same place in the shade under the bushes. On the sixth day, the worms, barely hearing my steps, crawled to the surface in anticipation of water. I dug them up and sold them to Lamar for pennies a dozen. Lamar pestered me to tell me where I got the worms, but I remained silent. True, I let it slip to Harry, my beloved brother. I couldn't hide anything from him. (Well, almost nothing.)

He pulled from his desk drawer a red leather notebook with the words “Greetings from Austin” written on the cover.

“Callie V,” he said, “I have something for you.” Look, it's brand new. Start keeping a Scientific Observation Diary. You become a real naturalist.

What is a naturalist? I didn’t know for sure, but I decided to devote the rest of the summer to becoming one. If you just need to write down everything you see around you, then I can handle it. Now that I have the Diary, I began to notice a lot of things.

My first report was about dogs. In the heat, they rolled around in the mud, showing no signs of life. When my little brothers started poking sticks at them out of boredom, they didn’t even raise their heads. There was only enough time for them to lap up the water from the trough and plop down, raising clouds of dust, back into the shallow hollow in the shade. Dad's best hunting dog, Ajax, would not have been awakened even by a rifle shot right next to his ear. Ajax slept with his tongue hanging out. I was even able to count all the teeth in his mouth and discovered that the dog’s palate was cut by a deep fold that went into the throat. Without a doubt, hunting prey, if caught in the mouth, becomes dinner and moves in only one direction. I entered this in my Diary.

I also noticed that the expression of a dog's face is largely determined by the movement of the eyebrows. I wrote down: “Why do dogs have eyebrows? Why do dogs need eyebrows?

I asked Harry, but he didn't know. He advised me to ask my grandfather - he understands this kind of thing.

But I won't ask grandpa. He himself has thick shaggy eyebrows, like a dragon. Grandfather is terribly important; Who am I to pester him? It seems he never spoke to me at all. I'm not entirely sure he knows my name.

I'd rather take care of the birds. For some reason we have a lot of cardinals this year. Harry got me thinking when he said there was a great crop of cardinals this year. There is no way we can use them, other than to hang their bright carcasses on the trees along the road instead of Christmas decorations. Due to the drought, the amount of usual food - seeds and berries - was greatly reduced, so the males fought furiously for every tree. I found a dead, mutilated male in the bushes - an amazing and sad sight. And one morning, right next to me, a female sat down on the back of a wicker chair on our veranda. I was afraid to move. So close you can touch it. A gray-brown lump hung from her orange-pink beak. It looked like it was a tiny, thimble-sized, half-dead mouse.

I talked about it over dinner.

“Cardinals don’t catch mice, Calpurnia,” my father responded. – They eat plant foods. Sam Houston, pass me the potatoes.

“I’m just telling you what happened, sir,” I answered stammeringly and was angry with myself: why couldn’t I defend what I saw with my own eyes?

I hated the idea of ​​cardinals trying to survive in such an unnatural way. This can even lead to cannibalism. Before going to bed, I took oats from the stable and scattered them along the path. And she wrote in her Diary: “How many cardinals will be left by next year with such a shortage of food? Don't forget to count."

I also wrote that I saw two completely different species of grasshoppers this summer. We usually saw agile little emerald green grasshoppers with black speckles. And now giant bright yellow ones appeared, twice as large as the green ones, rather flaccid and so thick that the grass bent under their weight. I've never seen anything like this before. I asked everyone in the house (except my grandfather) where these strange yellow insects came from, but no one knew. And no one was interested in this.

There was only one thing left. I gathered my courage and went to my grandfather’s laboratory. I pushed aside the burlap that served as the door and, trembling, froze on the threshold. Grandfather looked at me over the table in surprise. He was just pouring the dirty brown liquid into various beakers and retorts. He didn't invite me in. I stammered my question about grasshoppers. Grandfather looked at me as if he didn’t understand where I came from.

“Yes,” he said slowly at last. “I think a smart girl like you will figure it out on her own.” Come back when you figure it out.

He turned away and began to write something in a large notebook. So that. Sounds like talking to a dragon? There's little point. On the one hand, he did not breathe fire at me, on the other hand, he did not help in any way. Suddenly he got angry that I interrupted his work? No, he spoke quite politely. We should have gone with Harry, he would have paid more attention to us. I knew what he was working on. For some reason, my grandfather got it into his head that pecans could be distilled into whiskey. He probably believed that since you could get alcohol from simple corn and humble potatoes, then you could get alcohol from noble pecans even more so. God knows we had all kinds of pecans, sixty acres.

I went to my room to ponder the riddle of the grasshoppers. On the table next to my bed there was a jar with one of the small green grasshoppers. I stared at the jar, waiting for inspiration. I was never able to catch the big yellow one, even though they were moving slower.

- Why are you so different? – I asked, but the grasshopper did not answer.

The next day I woke up from the usual rustling behind the wall. It was the opossum returning to its den, as always at this time. Soon the heavy shutters slammed—it was San Juana opening the windows in the living room right below my room. I sat up in my high brass bed and it occurred to me that the fat yellow grasshoppers were a completely new species, different from the green ones, and I—Calpurnia Tate—had discovered this new species. Don't discoverers give their names to new species? I'll become famous! My name will be heard everywhere, the governor will shake my hand, and the university will issue me a diploma.

But what to do now? How will the scientific world know about my achievements? How can I stake my discovery? A thought flashed through my mind: I need to write to someone, some official in Washington.

I remembered that one day at dinner my grandfather was discussing with our priest, Mr. Barker, Mr. Charles Darwin's book "The Origin of Species." If dinosaurs were unearthed in Colorado, how does this relate to the Book of Genesis? They talked about how Nature gets rid of the weak, and allows the strong to continue in their offspring. Our teacher, Miss Harbottle, always felt embarrassed if we had to mention Mr Darwin. Surely a book on the origin of species would tell me what to do. But where can I get this book? After all, in our backwoods people still argue fiercely about such things. And in San Antonio there is even a local chapter of the Flat Earth Society.

Luckily, I remembered: Harry was going to Lockhart to get supplies. And Lockhart is the seat of Caldwell County and has a library there. And there are books in the library! So, I need to beg Harry to take me with him. And Harry is the only brother who cannot refuse me anything.

In Lockhart, having finished our business, Harry lingered on the corner, admiring the walking ladies in new outfits from local milliners. I muttered that I’d be right back and quickly ran across the square in front of the courthouse. The library was dark and cool. I walked up to the counter where an elderly librarian was showing books to a fat man in a white linen suit. Finally it was my turn. But then a mother and baby entered the library. It was Mrs. Ogletree with six-year-old Georgie. Georgie and I have the same music teacher. Georgie's mom knows my mom.

Oh no! I just didn't have enough witnesses.

- Hello, Callie. Are you here with your mom?

- No, she's at home, Mrs. Ogletree. Hello Georgie!

- Hello! – Georgie answered. -What are you doing here?

“I’m just looking at books.” Please choose first. I'll wait.

I stepped back and waved my hand welcomingly.

“Thank you, Callie,” Mrs. Ogletree said. -You have excellent manners. I will definitely mention this to your mother as soon as I see her.

It took forever for them to leave. I looked around - it seemed like there was no one else. The librarian looked at me questioningly. I leaned over the counter and whispered:

- Excuse me, ma'am, do you have Mr. Darwin's book?

-What book?

- Mister Darwin. "Origin of Species".

- Speak louder! – she even raised her palm to her ear.

- Mister Darwin's book. Please,” I repeated in a trembling voice.

She pinned me to the spot with her gaze.

“Of course, we don’t have it,” the librarian muttered. – I don’t keep such books in the library. There appears to be a copy in Austin. Can be issued by mail. It costs fifty cents. Do you have fifty cents?

- No, ma'am.

I blushed. I have never had that kind of money in my life.

– And you also need written permission from your mother that you can read this book. Do you have permission?

- No, ma'am.

How long can you humiliate me? My neck itched, treacherously foreshadowing the onset of hives.

The librarian snorted:

- That's what I thought. Well, I have to go, I need to put the books in their places.

I almost cried with anger. But don't cry in front of this old rat! All boiling, I proudly left the library and found Harry near the store. It seems he didn't like my look. My neck itched more and more.

– What’s the point of having a library if they don’t give you books? - I burst out.

- What are you talking about?

“Some people shouldn’t be allowed within gunshot of libraries.” Harry, let's go home.

We had a hot, long journey home ahead of us in a cart loaded with shopping.

-What happened, baby?

“Nothing at all,” I snapped.

Nothing at all! I was choking on bitterness and bile and did not want to discuss it at all. It’s good that my mother made me wear a hat to protect myself from freckles. The face is not visible behind the wide brim.

– Do you know what’s in this box? – asked Harry. - Right behind you.

I didn't dignify him with an answer. I don't know and I don't want to know. I hate everyone.

– This is a machine that makes wind. For Mom.

If it weren't Harry, I would have simply shrugged it off.

- Come on, this doesn’t happen.

- It still happens. You'll see for yourself.

We've finally arrived! Unable to bear the noisy bustle of unpacking my purchases, I ran to the river. She tore off her hat, apron, and dress and rushed into the water, spreading terror in the hearts of the local tadpoles and turtles. Serves them right! The stupid librarian finished me off, so why feel sorry for others! I lowered my head into the water and let out a long, drawn-out scream. It wasn't very loud. I breathed in the air and repeated my underwater scream once again. To tell the truth, two more times. The cool water gradually calmed me down. What is one single book? What does it matter? One day I will have all the books in the world, shelves and shelves of books. I will live in a tower of books. I will read all day long, read and eat peaches. And if young knights in armor and on white horses dare to come to me to beg to lower my long braids, I will shoot bones at them until they get away in good time.

I lay on my back and watched a pair of swallows in the sky. They either soared up or down to the water itself, somersaulting like acrobats, chasing invisible midges. Despite the hours of freedom, the summer was not what I had hoped. No one was interested in the great questions that I wrote down in the Diary. No one helped me find answers. The heat dried out everyone and everything. I thought about our sweet, old, huge house. How sad he looks against the background of the yellow, dried-out lawn. Usually the soft, lush, green lawn in front of the house beckoned to take off your shoes and run barefoot, to play “Figure, Freeze,” but now all that was left was the grass, scorched to a straw yellow color, prickly like stubble. You won’t be able to see my new discovery in the yellow grass – yellow grasshoppers. They are visible only if you come close. They jump up, take off heavily, cracking their wings, plop onto the grass and disappear from sight. That is why they are so difficult to catch, although they are large and clumsy. It’s even strange how easy it is to catch the much smaller, much more agile green grasshoppers. They are so easy to spot! Birds peck them every now and then, but don’t notice the yellow ones. Yellow grasshoppers are hiding nearby and laughing at their unlucky brothers. And then I understood! This is not a new species. These are the same grasshoppers. The one who was born a little yellower than the rest lives to old age during a drought. Birds do not see it against the background of dry grass. But they eat the little green one; it never has time to grow. Only yellow grasshoppers survive because they are better adapted to the heat. Mr. Charles Darwin is absolutely right. Wow, the proof was found right in my yard. I floated on my back and looked at the sky. I looked for shortcomings in my conclusions, omissions in my conclusions, and could not find a single one. I padded to the shore, grabbed the wide stems of the nearest bush, climbed out, dried myself with my apron, quickly pulled on my dress and ran home.

The whole family crowded in the hall near the opened box. In a pile of sawdust stood a squat metal contraption with four blades on the front and a glass jar on the back. Dad poured kerosene into a jar. In the very middle, between the blades, a copper plaque was visible with the inscription in a circle: “The best Chicago fan.”

“Everyone back,” dad commanded and brought a match.

It smelled like machine oil and blew heavily. The brothers shouted: “Hurray!” I was also jubilant, but for a completely different reason.

Life has truly become easier. Mom used to turn on the fan at noon. It happened to us too, especially to dad, whom she often invited to relax under the fan.

I spent a whole week gathering my courage. Finally I went to my grandfather’s laboratory. He sat in a dented, mouse-eaten leather chair.

– I know why big grasshoppers are yellow and small ones are green.

I told my grandfather about my discovery. She reported in detail how she came to this conclusion. I shifted from foot to foot, and he silently looked at me. Then he asked:

– Did you guess it yourself? Nobody helped?

I also told about my unsuccessful trip to the Lockhart library. He looked at me strangely—either surprised or horrified. As if I was a new specimen, never seen before.

Without saying a word, he led me into the house. Lord, what have I done! I pulled my grandfather away from work, not once, but twice. Where is he taking me? Straight to mom - to listen to another lecture about good manners? But he led me to the library, where children were generally forbidden to enter. Decided to arrange a dressing down yourself? What will he do to me? Will he scold you for your stupid theory about grasshoppers? Slaps on the hands? I was terrified. Who am I—Callie Vi Tate of Fentress—to talk about such matters? There’s no way to call anyone.

Despite all my fear, I looked around - maybe I would never come here again. The library is a bit dark, although the dark green velvet curtains on the high double window are not drawn. To the right of the window is a large cracked leather chair and a table with a lamp. There are books on the floor near the chair, and even more books are piled on high shelves made of our own pecan wood (one cannot deny the fact of the constant presence of pecans in our lives). Further away is a large oak table with strange, tempting objects on it: an empty ostrich egg on a carved wooden stand; microscope in a shagreen leather case; a narwhal tusk engraved with a buxom beauty not quite covered by a corset. The family Bible sits next to a large dictionary, a magnifying glass, and a red plush album with photographic portraits of my ancestors. Well well. What will I hear now? “Would I read the Bible” or “Would I be ashamed of my ancestors”? I waited for him to make a decision. She looked at the walls, where in shallow drawers there were collections of frightening-looking insects and brightly colored butterflies mounted on pins. Under each beautiful butterfly there is a scientific name. Grandfather's calligraphic handwriting. I forgot about everything and stepped forward to take a better look.

- Bear! - said grandfather.

Eh, what kind of bear?

- Be careful, bear.

Indeed, I almost tripped over the skin of a black bear with its bared fanged mouth. If you gape a little in the twilight, you will fall right into his teeth, like into a trap.

- Of course, sir, bear.

Grandfather unfastened the small key from his watch chain. He unlocked a tall glass cabinet filled with books, stuffed birds, animals preserved in alcohol and other curiosities. Amazing! I moved closer. An ugly armadillo caught my eye - bent, warped, covered in bumps. The scarecrow was clearly made by an incompetent amateur. Why does grandpa need this? I could have done better myself. And next to it is a fifteen-liter bottle of thick glass, and there is someone very strange in it. I've never seen anything like this. A thick round body, many arms, two shiny round eyes the size of saucers. A monster from a nightmare! Who could it be? I got closer. Grandfather reached for a stack of books. I noticed Dante’s Inferno, and next to it, “The Theory of Flight in a Balloon Filled with Hot Air.” There were also “Reproduction of Mammals” and “A Course in Drawing Nude Female Nature.” Grandfather pulled out a book bound in luxurious morocco, green and gold. I rubbed it with my sleeve for a long time until all the dust was erased. Bowing ceremoniously, he handed the book to me. I read the title. It's "The Origin of Species"! Here in my own home! I took the book with both hands. Grandfather smiled.

This is how my friendship with my grandfather began.

Chapter 2 One fine morning

The laws governing heredity are largely unknown. No one can say why... the child often shows a return to some of the characteristics of his grandfather...

Three days later I left the house early in the morning. The brothers are still sleeping, peace and quiet reign all around. She walked about thirty paces along the path, scattered a handful of seeds for the birds, and sat down on the steps of the veranda, propping her up with an old, torn pillow that she had dug up in the pantry. I opened the red leather Diary and prepared to describe everything I see around me. Isn't that what real naturalists do?

A sunflower seed suddenly jumped on the slate tiles of the path. Very strange! Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a tiny toad, a quarter of an inch long, vigorously pursuing a tiny centipede. Both hurried as fast as they could and soon disappeared into the grass. Then a huge hairy spider flashed across the path. I wonder if he's chasing something smaller or running away from someone bigger? I believe there are millions of similar unnoticed tragedies playing out all around us all the time. I am just an idle observer, but for the participants in the chase it is a matter of life and death. They are running in earnest.

A hummingbird flew around the corner of the house and dived into the cup of a lily, drooping from the heat, two steps away from me. Not finding anything there to her liking, she quickly flew to a neighboring flower. I sat spellbound and listened to the low, angry buzzing of her wings. These are not the sounds you would expect from the most graceful, jewel-like bird. The hummingbird froze on the edge of the flower. And suddenly she noticed me. She flew into the air and rushed straight towards me. I froze. Honestly, she hovered in the air four inches from my face. I felt the breeze from her wings and closed my eyes. How much I wanted not to close my eyes, but it was an involuntary reaction, I could not do anything. A moment later I opened my eyes, but the hummingbird had already flown away. It was the size of a pecan, only with wings. What drove her - a warrior spirit or curiosity? She didn't even think that I could easily smack her.

I once saw how Ajax, my father’s favorite dog, got into a conflict with a hummingbird and lost. The hummingbird circled above him and teased him until he sheepishly retreated to the veranda. (Yes, you know, dogs sometimes look terribly embarrassed. Ajax bent over and began to lick under his tail - a sure sign of embarrassment. The dog was clearly trying to hide his true feelings.)

The door opened and grandfather went out onto the veranda. Behind his shoulders is an old leather satchel, in one hand is a butterfly net, in the other is a rattan cane.

- Good morning, Calpurnia.

He still knows my name!

- Good morning, grandfather.

– What do you have, dare I ask?

I jumped to my feet.

– This is my Diary of scientific observations. Gift from Harry. I write down everything I observe. Look, this is what I managed to write down this morning.

I agree, “scientific observations” is not a very common expression in a conversation between a grandfather and granddaughter. I just wanted to show how smart I am. Grandfather took off his backpack, chuckled approvingly, and took out his glasses. This is what he read:

cardinals, males and females

hummingbirds and some other birds (?)

rabbits, a little

cats, several

lizard, green

insects, various

grasshoppers discovered by C. W. Tate, large yellow and small green (these are the same species).

Grandfather took off his glasses and returned the Diary to me.

- Great start!

I'm offended.

- Start? I thought that was enough for today.

“How old are you, Calpurnia?”

- Twelve.

- Indeed?

“Well, eleven years and nine months,” I corrected myself. - Almost twelve. Who cares?

How is Mr. Darwin's voyage on the glorious Beagle going?

- Oh, amazing! Yes, absolutely amazing! Of course, I haven't read the whole book yet. This takes time. To be honest, I re-read the first chapter several times, but I didn’t understand everything. Then I scrolled to the chapter “Natural Selection”, but not everything is clear there either. Very difficult language.

“Mr. Darwin did not count on readers eleven years and nine months old, even almost twelve,” answered the grandfather seriously. “Maybe we can discuss his ideas sometime.” Agree?

- Yes! Of course, sir.

– I’m going to the river to get samples for the collection. Squad Odonata. These are dragonflies. Will you join me?

- Thanks, with pleasure.

- Let's take your Diary too.

Grandfather opened the satchel and I saw glass vials, a Field Guide to Insects, a lunch bag and a small silver flask. Grandfather put my red Diary and pencil there too. I picked up the net and threw it over my shoulder.

- Let me? - Grandfather offered me his hand, like a gentleman inviting a lady to the table. I took his hand. He is so much taller than me that we almost fell down the steps. I freed myself and took my grandfather’s hand. The palm is chapped and rough, and the nails are hard and short-cut. Surprisingly, the skin on your hands is no softer than your nails. The grandfather was surprised at first, and then seemed delighted. I don't know for sure, but he took my hand tightly.

We chose the path through an uncultivated field. Grandfather stops from time to time and examines a leaf, a pebble, or a mound of earth. I wouldn't pay any attention to such nonsense. But it’s terribly interesting to watch my grandfather - how he stops, carefully peers at each object before slowly, carefully extending his hand. He carefully puts back every bug, carefully returns every disturbed lump of dirt to its place. I keep my net ready - I can’t wait to catch someone.

“Did you know, Calpurnia, that the class of insects contains the largest number of living organisms known to man?”

“Grandpa, no one calls me Calpurnia.” Only mom when she's angry.

- And why is that? Beautiful name. Pliny the Younger's fourth wife, the one he married for love, was named Calpurnia. He left several love letters addressed to her. Wonderful letters. There is also an acacia of the Calpurnia genus, also known as “golden shower,” which mostly grows on the African continent. In addition, Calpurnia, the wife of Julius Caesar, is mentioned by Shakespeare. I could go on.

- I didn't know…

Why was I never told this? All of my brothers, except Harry, were named after Texas heroes who died at the Battle of the Alamo during the Mexican War. (Harry got his name from his rich, unmarried great-uncle. Something to do with inheritance.) I was named after my mother's older sister. Actually, it could have been worse - my mother’s younger sisters were named Agatha, Sophronia and Vonzetta. It could have been even much worse - Governor Hogg's daughter's name was Ima. Crazy, Ima Hogg. Can you imagine? Her life is probably real torture, despite her beautiful appearance and considerable fortune. Although no one laughs at the rich. And I am Calpurnia. I hated this name all my life, but actually, why? A beautiful name... sonorous, poetic. It's a shame that no one bothered to tell me about this sooner. Well, okay. Now I know. Long live Calpurnia!

We made our way through the bushes. Despite his glasses and advanced age, my grandfather turned out to be much sharper than me. Where I saw only fallen leaves and dry branches, he discovered camouflaged beetles, frozen lizards, and invisible spiders.

“Look at this beetle,” said the grandfather. – Family Lamellaridae. Perhaps it Cotinus texana- fig beetle. I didn’t expect to meet him in such a drought. Please catch him, just be careful.

I swung the net and it was mine. Grandfather took out the beetle and put it on his palm. We both bent over the beetle. An inch long, green, nothing special at all. Grandfather turned the beetle over, and I saw that the beetle’s abdomen was shining and shimmering blue, green, and purple. The colors changed while the beetle writhed in fear in the grandfather’s palm. It reminded me of my mother’s mother-of-pearl brooch, unusual and beautiful.

- How beautiful it is!

- It is related to scarabs. In Ancient Egypt they were revered as a symbol of the rising sun and the afterlife. Sometimes they were even worn as decoration.

- Is it true?

I wondered: what would it be like to wear a beetle on a dress? Pin it with a pin? Glue it? Neither one nor the other was inspiring.

Grandfather put the beetle on my palm, and - I say with pride - I didn’t even flinch. The beetle tickled along my hand.

- Shall we take him, grandfather?

– I already have one in my collection. Let's let him go.

I lowered my hand, and the beetle - oh, sorry, Cotinus texana- At first he hesitated, and then ran away without looking back.

“What do you know about the Scientific Method, Calpurnia?”

The grandfather pronounced every word with a capital letter.

- Well, not very much.

– What are you studying at school? You go to school, don't you?

- Certainly. We go through reading, writing, arithmetic, penmanship. Yes, they also teach us good manners. I got “satisfactory” for my posture and “fail” for my handkerchief and thimble. Mom is very worried about this.

- My God! Even worse than I thought.

An intriguing statement! But I still didn’t understand anything.

– What about natural sciences? Physics?

– We had botany. What is physics?

“And you’ve never heard of Sir Isaac Newton?” About Sir Francis Bacon?

The names seemed terribly funny to me, but I refrained from laughing. Grandfather spoke seriously, and something told me: he would be disappointed if I started giggling.

“I suspect they teach you that the earth is flat?” And dragons devour ships that fall over the edge? – He peered at me carefully. – We have something to talk about. I hope all is not lost yet. Let's find a place to sit.

We continued our way to the river and soon found a shady spot under the hospitable canopy of a pecan tree. Grandfather told me a lot of interesting things. He taught me how to find the truth. You must not just sit and reason like Aristotle (the smart but confused ancient Greek), but also try to observe for yourself. It is necessary to put forward hypotheses, conduct experiments, make observations and only then draw conclusions. And recheck these conclusions again and again. Grandfather talked about Occam's razor, Ptolemy and the harmony of the spheres. More about how for a long time it was mistakenly believed that the Sun and planets revolve around the Earth. I learned about Linnaeus and his classification of plants and animals. It turns out that we still follow his system when naming new species. Grandfather mentioned Copernicus and Kepler; explained why Newton's apple falls down instead of up, and why the Moon revolves around the Earth. We talked about the difference between deductive and inductive reasoning and how Sir Francis Bacon (funny name, isn't it?) founded the inductive method. Grandfather talked about his trip to Washington in 1888. The gentlemen there founded a new organization called the National Geographic Society, and my grandfather joined it. They united to fill the blank spots on the globe and pull the country out of the quagmire of superstition and outdated views in which it has been floundering since the Civil War. The new information made me dizzy. The world was expanding rapidly - these are not handkerchiefs with thimbles. Sitting under a tree, grandfather tirelessly told his story, and around, inducing drowsiness, bees buzzed and flowers nodded their heads. Hours passed, the sun floated in the sky above us (it would be more correct to say: we floated under it, slowly moving from day to night). We shared a large cheese and onion sandwich, a slice of pecan pie, and a flask of water, and Grandpa took a couple of swigs from the small silver flask. Then we took a short nap in the lacy shade, listening to the humming and buzzing of insects.

We woke up, soaked our handkerchiefs in the river to cool off a little, and wandered along the shore. I caught various crawling, swimming and flying creatures, but my grandfather released all but one. The grandfather put the insect that he decided to keep into a glass jar with holes made in the lid. I knew: this jar came from our kitchen. (Viola constantly complained to her mother that her jars were disappearing, her mother scolded all her sons in turn, but it turned out - for the first time in history - that they were not to blame.) A paper label was glued to the jar. I wrote down the date and time of capture in the appropriate columns, but wondered what to write about the location.

“Look where we are,” grandfather advised. – Describe this place briefly, but so that you can find it again if necessary.

I figured out what angle the sun was visible from. How far have we walked?

End of introductory fragment.

Imagine you are a girl. You are 11 years old. You live in Texas in 1899 and are suffering from terrible heat. Life on a farm is not easy enough, but add to this six brothers and regular music lessons with a strict teacher. And a well-placed blow to the fingers with a ruler. And as if all this wasn't enough, your name is... Calpurnia Virginia Tate. Boo! Do you think such a life is mortal boredom? Not once, especially when “millions of unnoticed tragedies are constantly playing out around us.” Virginia was determined to become a naturalist!

Remember when you first became acquainted with science? A new amazing method to learn about the world around you! There were stones, trees, sky around... And now, these are Stones, Trees, Sky! Each one conceals amazing stories - about the times of the great lizards, about blazing stars, about the interconnection of all things. When did it happen? When did your parents take you to the museum for the first time? When did you open a book on interesting sciences? When did you look at an ant through a magnifying glass and it transformed into a colossal monster?

It doesn’t matter when, but it’s impossible to forget these impressions. Such a familiar world turned out to be a treasure trove of amazing discoveries! The same thing happened to Calpurnia. First of all, she took a closer look at what was literally under her feet. And after the discovery, they came from a completely unexpected direction - it turns out that her own grandfather, a gray-bearded patriarch who lives like a hermit, ... corresponded with Charles Darwin himself! It is in his library that he keeps a sea monster preserved in alcohol. He is the one obsessed with finding a new species of plant or animal. And it is he who pores almost endlessly in his own chemical laboratory.

Jacqueline Kelly's book is, first and foremost, a work of fiction. There is a lot of good stuff here that makes us love children's literature. Funny scenes; experiences that are the most important at 10 years old; fascinating story. There are also wonderful characters here. Heroes you want to be like. Young reader? Virginia will carry you away with her passion. Already an adult? Wouldn't you like to be Grandpa Tate, who opens up the whole world to his granddaughter?

Today, fortunately, a lot of high-quality popular science literature for children is being published. But it is equally important that children have role models. The heroes are their peers who will enthusiastically apply all this knowledge. Such as the desperate characters of Jules Verne. Or space Mowgli - the Astravian. As physicist Brian Greene said: “When children look at great scientists the way they look at artists and musicians...” Or maybe even better, for them to look at enthusiastic peers?

Grandfather Tate, a kind of shadow of Darwin in the book, very carefully and carefully leads Calpurnia along the path of a naturalist. He does not offer her ready-made answers, but helps her to be attentive and thoughtful. In fact, " The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate"is an introduction to critical thinking for the little ones. As another renowned physicist, Lawrence Krauss, recently wrote, “If we want to develop citizens who make evidence-based judgments, we must ensure that skeptical thinking becomes a personality-shaping factor from an early age.”

The most remarkable thing about The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate is its admiration for science as a means of understanding the world around us. There is no opposition between learning and ignorance here (despite the fact that modern events often present us with just such a position). There is no aggressive confrontation between them, even if this topic is carefully touched upon. No. Jacqueline Kelly echoes the eminent astrophysicist Carl Sagan and gently reminds us that “science is a candle in the dark.”