I say this continual smoking must have been one cause, at least, of his peculiar disposition;for every one knows that this earthly air, whether ashore or afloat,is terribly infected with the nameless miseries of the numberless mortals who have died exhaling it;and as in time of the cholera, some people go about with a camphorated handkerchief to their mouths;so, likewise, against all mortal tribulations,Stubb’s tobacco smoke might have operated as a sort of disinfecting agent.
The third mate was Flask, a native of Tisbury, in Martha’s Vineyard. A short, stout,ruddy young fellow, very pugnacious concerning whales,who somehow seemed to think that the great leviathans had personally and hereditarily affronted him;and therefore it was a sort of point of honor with him, to destroy them whenever encountered.So utterly lost was he to all sense of reverence for the many marvels of their majestic bulk and mystic ways;and so dead to anything like an apprehension of any possible danger from encountering them;that in his poor opinion, the wondrous whale was but a species of magnified mouse,or at least water-rat, requiring only a little circumvention and some small application of time and trouble in order to kill and boil.This ignorant, unconscious fearlessness of his made him a little waggish in the matter of whales;he followed these fish for the fun of it;and a three years’ voyage round Cape Horn was only a jolly joke that lasted that length of time.As a carpenter’s nails are divided into wrought nails and cut nails;so mankind may be similarly divided. Little Flask was one of the wrought ones;made to clinch tight and last long. They called him King-Post on board of the Pequod; because,in form, he could be well likened to the short, square timber known by that name in Arctic whalers;and which by the means of many radiating side timbers inserted into it,serves to brace the ship against the icy concussions of those battering seas.
Now these three mates—Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, were momentous men.They it was who by universal prescription commanded three of the Pequod’s boats as headsmen.In that grand order of battle in which Captain Ahab would probably marshal his forces to descend on the whales,these three headsmen were as captains of companies. Or,being armed with their long keen whaling spears, they were as a picked trio of lancers;even as the harpooneers were flingers of javelins.
And since in this famous fishery, each mate or headsman, like a Gothic Knight of old,is always accompanied by his boat-steerer or harpooneer,who in certain conjunctures provides him with a fresh lance,when the former one has been badly twisted, or elbowed in the assault; and moreover,as there generally subsists between the two, a close intimacy and friendliness;it is therefore but meet, that in this place we set down who the Pequod’s harpooneers were,and to what headsman each of them belonged.
First of all was Queequeg, whom Starbuck, the chief mate, had selected for his squire. But Queequeg is already known.
Next was Tashtego, an unmixed Indian from Gay Head,the most westerly promontory of Martha’s Vineyard,where there still exists the last remnant of a village of red men,which has long supplied the neighboring island of Nantucket with many of her most daring harpooneers.In the fishery, they usually go by the generic name of Gay-Headers. Tashtego’s long, lean,sable hair, his high cheek bones, and black rounding eyes—for an Indian,Oriental in their largeness, but Antarctic in their glittering expression—all this sufficiently proclaimed him an inheritor of the unvitiated blood of those proud warrior hunters, who, in quest of the great New England moose, had scoured, bow in hand, the aboriginal forests of the main. But no longer snuffing in the trail of the wild beasts of the woodland, Tashtego now hunted in the wake of the great whales of the sea; the unerring harpoon of the son fitly replacing the infallible arrow of the sires. To look at the tawny brawn of his lithe snaky limbs, you would almost have credited the superstitions of some of the earlier Puritans, and half-believed this wild Indian to be a son of the Prince of the Powers of the Air. Tashtego was Stubb the second mate’s squire.
Third among the harpooneers was Daggoo, a gigantic, coal-black negro-savage,with a lion-like tread—an Ahasuerus to behold. Suspended from his ears were two golden hoops,so large that the sailors called them ring-bolts,and would talk of securing the top-sail halyards to them.In his youth Daggoo had voluntarily shipped on board of a whaler,lying in a lonely bay on his native coast.And never having been anywhere in the world but in Africa, Nantucket,and the pagan harbors most frequented by whalemen;and having now led for many years the bold life of the fishery in the ships of owners uncommonly heedful of what manner of men they shipped;Daggoo retained all his barbaric virtues, and erect as a giraffe,moved about the decks in all the pomp of six feet five in his socks.There was a corporeal humility in looking up at him;and a white man standing before him seemed a white flag come to beg truce of a fortress.Curious to tell, this imperial negro, Ahasuerus Daggoo, was the Squire of little Flask,who looked like a chess-man beside him. As for the residue of the Pequod’s company, be it said,that at the present day not one in two of the many thousand men before the mast employed in the American whale fishery,are Americans born, though pretty nearly all the officers are.Herein it is the same with the American whale fishery as with the American army and military and merchant navies,and the engineering forces employed in the construction of the American Canals and Railroads.The same, I say, because in all these cases the native American liberally provides the brains,the rest of the world as generously supplying the muscles.No small number of these whaling seamen belong to the Azores,where the outward bound Nantucket whalers frequently touch to augment their crews from the hardy peasants of those rocky shores.In like manner, the Greenland whalers sailing out of Hull or London,put in at the Shetland Islands, to receive the full complement of their crew.Upon the passage homewards, they drop them there again. How it is, there is no telling,but Islanders seem to make the best whalemen. They were nearly all Islanders in the Pequod,_Isolatoes_ too, I call such, not acknowledging the common continent of men,but each _Isolato_ living on a separate continent of his own. Yet now, federated along one keel, what a set these Isolatoes were!An Anacharsis Clootz deputation from all the isles of the sea, and all the ends of the earth,accompanying Old Ahab in the Pequod to lay the world’s grievances before that bar from which not very many of them ever come back. Black Little Pip—he never did—oh, no!he went before. Poor Alabama boy!On the grim Pequod’s forecastle, ye shall ere long see him, beating his tambourine;prelusive of the eternal time, when sent for, to the great quarter-deck on high,he was bid strike in with angels, and beat his tambourine in glory; called a coward here, hailed a hero there!
CHAPTER 28. Ahab.
For several days after leaving Nantucket, nothing above hatches was seen of Captain Ahab.The mates regularly relieved each other at the watches,and for aught that could be seen to the contrary,they seemed to be the only commanders of the ship;only they sometimes issued from the cabin with orders so sudden and peremptory,that after all it was plain they but commanded vicariously. Yes,their supreme lord and dictator was there,though hitherto unseen by any eyes not permitted to penetrate into the now sacred retreat of the cabin.
Every time I ascended to the deck from my watches below,I instantly gazed aft to mark if any strange face were visible;for my first vague disquietude touching the unknown captain, now in the seclusion of the sea,became almost a perturbation. This was strangely heightened at times by the ragged Elijah’s diabolical incoherences uninvitedly recurring to me,with a subtle energy I could not have before conceived of. But poorly could I withstand them,much as in other moods I was almost ready to smile at the solemn whimsicalities of that outlandish prophet of the wharves.But whatever it was of apprehensiveness or uneasiness—to call it so—which I felt,yet whenever I came to look about me in the ship,it seemed against all warrantry to cherish such emotions. For though the harpooneers,with the great body of the crew, were a far more barbaric, heathenish,and motley set than any of the tame merchant-ship companies which my previous experiences had made me acquainted with,still I ascribed this—and rightly ascribed it—to the fierce uniqueness of the very nature of that wild Scandinavian vocation in which I had so abandonedly embarked. But it was especially the aspect of the three chief officers of the ship, the mates, which was most forcibly calculated to allay these colourless misgivings, and induce confidence and cheerfulness in every presentment of the voyage. Three better, more likely sea-officers and men, each in his own different way, could not readily be found, and they were every one of them Americans; a Nantucketer, a Vineyarder, a Cape man. Now, it being Christmas when the ship shot from out her harbor, for a space we had biting Polar weather, though all the time running away from it to the southward; and by every degree and minute of latitude which we sailed, gradually leaving that merciless winter, and all its intolerable weather behind us. It was one of those less lowering, but still grey and gloomy enough mornings of the transition, when with a fair wind the ship was rushing through the water with a vindictive sort of leaping and melancholy rapidity, that as I mounted to the deck at the call of the forenoon watch, so soon as I levelled my glance towards the taffrail, foreboding shivers ran over me. Reality outran apprehension; Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck.
There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any.He looked like a man cut away from the stake,when the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them,or taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness. His whole high, broad form,seemed made of solid bronze, and shaped in an unalterable mould, like Cellini’s cast Perseus.Threading its way out from among his grey hairs,and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck,till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish.It resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a great tree,when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and without wrenching a single twig,peels and grooves out the bark from top to bottom, ere running off into the soil,leaving the tree still greenly alive, but branded. Whether that mark was born with him,or whether it was the scar left by some desperate wound, no one could certainly say.By some tacit consent, throughout the voyage little or no allusion was made to it,especially by the mates. But once Tashtego’s senior, an old Gay-Head Indian among the crew,superstitiously asserted that not till he was full forty years old did Ahab become that way branded,and then it came upon him, not in the fury of any mortal fray, but in an elemental strife at sea.Yet, this wild hint seemed inferentially negatived, by what a grey Manxman insinuated,an old sepulchral man, who, having never before sailed out of Nantucket,had never ere this laid eye upon wild Ahab. Nevertheless, the old sea-traditions,the immemorial credulities, popularly invested this old Manxman with preternatural powers of discernment.So that no white sailor seriously contradicted him when he said that if ever Captain Ahab should be tranquilly laid out—which might hardly come to pass,so he muttered—then, whoever should do that last office for the dead,would find a birth-mark on him from crown to sole.
So powerfully did the whole grim aspect of Ahab affect me, and the livid brand which streaked it,that for the first few moments I hardly noted that not a little of this overbearing grimness was owing to the barbaric white leg upon which he partly stood.It had previously come to me that this ivory leg had at sea been fashioned from the polished bone of the sperm whale’s jaw.“Aye, he was dismasted off Japan,” said the old Gay-Head Indian once;“but like his dismasted craft, he shipped another mast without coming home for it. He has a quiver of ’em.”
I was struck with the singular posture he maintained. Upon each side of the Pequod’s quarter deck,and pretty close to the mizzen shrouds, there was an auger hole, bored about half an inch or so,into the plank. His bone leg steadied in that hole; one arm elevated, and holding by a shroud;Captain Ahab stood erect, looking straight out beyond the ship’s ever-pitching prow.There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate, unsurrenderable wilfulness,in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke;nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions,they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye.And not only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion in his face;in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe.
Ere long, from his first visit in the air, he withdrew into his cabin. But after that morning,he was every day visible to the crew; either standing in his pivot-hole,or seated upon an ivory stool he had; or heavily walking the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy;indeed, began to grow a little genial, he became still less and less a recluse; as if,when the ship had sailed from home, nothing but the dead wintry bleakness of the sea had then kept him so secluded.And, by and by, it came to pass, that he was almost continually in the air; but, as yet,for all that he said, or perceptibly did, on the at last sunny deck,he seemed as unnecessary there as another mast. But the Pequod was only making a passage now;not regularly cruising; nearly all whaling preparatives needing supervision the mates were fully competent to,so that there was little or nothing, out of himself, to employ or excite Ahab, now;and thus chase away, for that one interval,the clouds that layer upon layer were piled upon his brow,as ever all clouds choose the loftiest peaks to pile themselves upon.
Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the pleasant,holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him from his mood. For,as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods;even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts,to welcome such glad-hearted visitants; so Ahab did, in the end,a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish air.More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man,would have soon flowered out in a smile.
CHAPTER 29. Enter Ahab; to Him, Stubb.
Some days elapsed, and ice and icebergs all astern,the Pequod now went rolling through the bright Quito spring, which, at sea,almost perpetually reigns on the threshold of the eternal August of the Tropic. The warmly cool,clear, ringing, perfumed, overflowing, redundant days, were as crystal goblets of Persian sherbet,heaped up—flaked up, with rose-water snow.The starred and stately nights seemed haughty dames in jewelled velvets,nursing at home in lonely pride, the memory of their absent conquering Earls, the golden helmeted suns!For sleeping man, ’twas hard to choose between such winsome days and such seducing nights.But all the witcheries of that unwaning weather did not merely lend new spells and potencies to the outward world.Inward they turned upon the soul, especially when the still mild hours of eve came on; then,memory shot her crystals as the clear ice most forms of noiseless twilights.And all these subtle agencies, more and more they wrought on Ahab’s texture.
Old age is always wakeful; as if, the longer linked with life,the less man has to do with aught that looks like death. Among sea-commanders,the old greybeards will oftenest leave their berths to visit the night-cloaked deck.It was so with Ahab; only that now, of late, he seemed so much to live in the open air,that truly speaking, his visits were more to the cabin, than from the cabin to the planks.“It feels like going down into one’s tomb,”—he would mutter to himself—“for an old captain like me to be descending this narrow scuttle, to go to my grave-dug berth.”
So, almost every twenty-four hours, when the watches of the night were set,and the band on deck sentinelled the slumbers of the band below;and when if a rope was to be hauled upon the forecastle, the sailors flung it not rudely down,as by day, but with some cautiousness dropt it to its place for fear of disturbing their slumbering shipmates;when this sort of steady quietude would begin to prevail, habitually,the silent steersman would watch the cabin-scuttle; and ere long the old man would emerge,gripping at the iron banister, to help his crippled way.Some considering touch of humanity was in him; for at times like these,he usually abstained from patrolling the quarter-deck; because to his wearied mates,seeking repose within six inches of his ivory heel,such would have been the reverberating crack and din of that bony step,that their dreams would have been on the crunching teeth of sharks. But once,the mood was on him too deep for common regardings; and as with heavy,lumber-like pace he was measuring the ship from taffrail to mainmast, Stubb, the old second mate,came up from below, with a certain unassured, deprecating humorousness,hinted that if Captain Ahab was pleased to walk the planks, then, no one could say nay;but there might be some way of muffling the noise;hinting something indistinctly and hesitatingly about a globe of tow, and the insertion into it, of the ivory heel. Ah!Stubb, thou didst not know Ahab then.
“Am I a cannon-ball, Stubb,” said Ahab, “that thou wouldst wad me that fashion?But go thy ways; I had forgot. Below to thy nightly grave; where such as ye sleep between shrouds,to use ye to the filling one at last.—Down, dog, and kennel!”
Starting at the unforseen concluding exclamation of the so suddenly scornful old man,Stubb was speechless a moment; then said excitedly, “I am not used to be spoken to that way, sir; I do but less than half like it, sir.”
“Avast!gritted Ahab between his set teeth, and violently moving away,as if to avoid some passionate temptation.
“No, sir; not yet,” said Stubb, emboldened, “I will not tamely be called a dog, sir.”
“Then be called ten times a donkey, and a mule, and an ass, and begone, or I’ll clear the world of thee!”
As he said this, Ahab advanced upon him with such overbearing terrors in his aspect, that Stubb involuntarily retreated.
“I was never served so before without giving a hard blow for it,” muttered Stubb,as he found himself descending the cabin-scuttle. “It’s very queer. Stop, Stubb; somehow, now,I don’t well know whether to go back and strike him, or—what’s that?—down here on my knees and pray for him?Yes, that was the thought coming up in me; but it would be the first time I ever _did_ pray.It’s queer; very queer; and he’s queer too; aye, take him fore and aft,he’s about the queerest old man Stubb ever sailed with. How he flashed at me!—his eyes like powder-pans!is he mad?Anyway there’s something on his mind, as sure as there must be something on a deck when it cracks.He aint in his bed now, either, more than three hours out of the twenty-four;and he don’t sleep then. Didn’t that Dough-Boy, the steward,tell me that of a morning he always finds the old man’s hammock clothes all rumpled and tumbled,and the sheets down at the foot, and the coverlid almost tied into knots,and the pillow a sort of frightful hot, as though a baked brick had been on it?A hot old man!I guess he’s got what some folks ashore call a conscience;it’s a kind of Tic-Dolly-row they say—worse nor a toothache. Well, well; I don’t know what it is,but the Lord keep me from catching it. He’s full of riddles;I wonder what he goes into the after hold for, every night, as Dough-Boy tells me he suspects; what’s that for, I should like to know?Who’s made appointments with him in the hold?Ain’t that queer, now?But there’s no telling, it’s the old game—Here goes for a snooze. Damn me,it’s worth a fellow’s while to be born into the world, if only to fall right asleep.And now that I think of it, that’s about the first thing babies do, and that’s a sort of queer,too. Damn me, but all things are queer, come to think of ’em. But that’s against my principles.Think not, is my eleventh commandment; and sleep when you can, is my twelfth—So here goes again. But how’s that?didn’t he call me a dog?blazes!he called me ten times a donkey, and piled a lot of jackasses on top of _that!_ He might as well have kicked me, and done with it. Maybe he _did_ kick me,and I didn’t observe it, I was so taken all aback with his brow, somehow.It flashed like a bleached bone. What the devil’s the matter with me?I don’t stand right on my legs. Coming afoul of that old man has a sort of turned me wrong side out.By the Lord, I must have been dreaming, though—How?how?how?—but the only way’s to stash it; so here goes to hammock again; and in the morning,I’ll see how this plaguey juggling thinks over by daylight.”
CHAPTER 30. The Pipe.
When Stubb had departed, Ahab stood for a while leaning over the bulwarks; and then,as had been usual with him of late, calling a sailor of the watch,he sent him below for his ivory stool, and also his pipe.Lighting the pipe at the binnacle lamp and planting the stool on the weather side of the deck, he sat and smoked.
In old Norse times, the thrones of the sea-loving Danish kings were fabricated, saith tradition,of the tusks of the narwhale. How could one look at Ahab then, seated on that tripod of bones,without bethinking him of the royalty it symbolized?For a Khan of the plank, and a king of the sea, and a great lord of Leviathans was Ahab.
Some moments passed, during which the thick vapor came from his mouth in quick and constant puffs,which blew back again into his face. “How now,” he soliloquized at last, withdrawing the tube,“this smoking no longer soothes. Oh, my pipe!hard must it go with me if thy charm be gone!Here have I been unconsciously toiling, not pleasuring—aye,and ignorantly smoking to windward all the while; to windward, and with such nervous whiffs, as if,like the dying whale, my final jets were the strongest and fullest of trouble. What business have I with this pipe?This thing that is meant for sereneness, to send up mild white vapors among mild white hairs,not among torn iron-grey locks like mine. I’ll smoke no more—”
He tossed the still lighted pipe into the sea. The fire hissed in the waves;the same instant the ship shot by the bubble the sinking pipe made. With slouched hat, Ahab lurchingly paced the planks.
CHAPTER 31. Queen Mab.
Next morning Stubb accosted Flask.
“Such a queer dream, King-Post, I never had. You know the old man’s ivory leg,well I dreamed he kicked me with it; and when I tried to kick back, upon my soul, my little man, I kicked my leg right off!And then, presto!Ahab seemed a pyramid, and I, like a blazing fool, kept kicking at it.But what was still more curious, Flask—you know how curious all dreams are—through all this rage that I was in,I somehow seemed to be thinking to myself, that after all, it was not much of an insult,that kick from Ahab. ‘Why,’ thinks I, ‘what’s the row?It’s not a real leg, only a false leg.’ And there’s a mighty difference between a living thump and a dead thump.That’s what makes a blow from the hand, Flask,fifty times more savage to bear than a blow from a cane.The living member—that makes the living insult, my little man.And thinks I to myself all the while, mind,while I was stubbing my silly toes against that cursed pyramid—so confoundedly contradictory was it all,all the while, I say, I was thinking to myself, ‘what’s his leg now, but a cane—a whalebone cane.Yes,’ thinks I, ‘it was only a playful cudgelling—in fact,only a whaleboning that he gave me—not a base kick. Besides,’ thinks I, ‘look at it once; why,the end of it—the foot part—what a small sort of end it is; whereas,if a broad footed farmer kicked me, _there’s_ a devilish broad insult.But this insult is whittled down to a point only.’ But now comes the greatest joke of the dream,Flask. While I was battering away at the pyramid, a sort of badger-haired old merman,with a hump on his back, takes me by the shoulders, and slews me round. ‘What are you ’bout?’ says he. Slid!man, but I was frightened. Such a phiz!But, somehow, next moment I was over the fright. ‘What am I about?’ says I at last. ‘And what business is that of yours, I should like to know, Mr. Humpback?Do _you_ want a kick?’ By the lord, Flask, I had no sooner said that, than he turned round his stern to me, bent over,and dragging up a lot of seaweed he had for a clout—what do you think, I saw?—why thunder alive, man, his stern was stuck full of marlinspikes, with the points out. Says I,on second thoughts, ‘I guess I won’t kick you, old fellow.’ ‘Wise Stubb,’ said he, ‘wise Stubb;’ and kept muttering it all the time, a sort of eating of his own gums like a chimney hag.Seeing he wasn’t going to stop saying over his ‘wise Stubb, wise Stubb,’ I thought I might as well fall to kicking the pyramid again.But I had only just lifted my foot for it, when he roared out, ‘Stop that kicking!’ ‘Halloa,’ says I, ‘what’s the matter now, old fellow?’ ‘Look ye here,’ says he; ‘let’s argue the insult. Captain Ahab kicked ye, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I—‘right _here_ it was.’ ‘Very good,’ says he—‘he used his ivory leg, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I. ‘Well then,’ says he, ‘wise Stubb, what have you to complain of?Didn’t he kick with right good will?it wasn’t a common pitch pine leg he kicked with, was it?No, you were kicked by a great man, and with a beautiful ivory leg, Stubb. It’s an honor;I consider it an honor. Listen, wise Stubb.In old England the greatest lords think it great glory to be slapped by a queen,and made garter-knights of; but, be _your_ boast, Stubb, that ye were kicked by old Ahab,and made a wise man of. Remember what I say; _be_ kicked by him; account his kicks honors;and on no account kick back; for you can’t help yourself, wise Stubb. Don’t you see that pyramid?’ With that, he all of a sudden seemed somehow, in some queer fashion, to swim off into the air.I snored; rolled over; and there I was in my hammock!Now, what do you think of that dream, Flask?”
“I don’t know; it seems a sort of foolish to me, tho.’”
“May be; may be. But it’s made a wise man of me, Flask. D’ye see Ahab standing there, sideways looking over the stern?Well, the best thing you can do, Flask, is to let the old man alone; never speak to him, whatever he says. Halloa!What’s that he shouts?Hark!”
“Mast-head, there!Look sharp, all of ye!There are whales hereabouts!
“If ye see a white one, split your lungs for him!
“What do you think of that now, Flask?ain’t there a small drop of something queer about that, eh?A white whale—did ye mark that, man?Look ye—there’s something special in the wind. Stand by for it, Flask.Ahab has that that’s bloody on his mind. But, mum; he comes this way.”
CHAPTER 32. Cetology.
Already we are boldly launched upon the deep; but soon we shall be lost in its unshored,harbourless immensities. Ere that come to pass;ere the Pequod’s weedy hull rolls side by side with the barnacled hulls of the leviathan;at the outset it is but well to attend to a matter almost indispensable to a thorough appreciative understanding of the more special leviathanic revelations and allusions of all sorts which are to follow.
It is some systematized exhibition of the whale in his broad genera,that I would now fain put before you. Yet is it no easy task.The classification of the constituents of a chaos, nothing less is here essayed.Listen to what the best and latest authorities have laid down.
“No branch of Zoology is so much involved as that which is entitled Cetology, ” says Captain Scoresby, A.D. 1820.
“It is not my intention, were it in my power,to enter into the inquiry as to the true method of dividing the cetacea into groups and families.* * * Utter confusion exists among the historians of this animal” (sperm whale), says Surgeon Beale, A.D. 1839.
“Unfitness to pursue our research in the unfathomable waters.” “Impenetrable veil covering our knowledge of the cetacea.” “A field strewn with thorns.” “All these incomplete indications but serve to torture us naturalists.”