Читать книгу A West Point Treasure; Or, Mark Mallory's Strange Find онлайн

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“He found out I was interested in geology,” said Grace. “I studied it once, and he’s never ceased to give me lectures since he found that out. And I never hear anything nowadays but shistose slates, and sandstone conglomerates, and triassic eras, and orohippusses and pertodactyles and brontotheriums.”

“He gives us long discourses over in camp, too,” laughed Mark. “I can see his lank, bony figure now. It was more comical still when he wore his ‘geology coat,’ with huge coat tails and pockets for fossils. Anyhow, he gets very much worked up when he’s telling us about the glories of geology. And poor Dewey, who’s such an inveterate joker, always has to get into trouble by interrupting him. Yesterday, for instance, the Parson was telling us about seashores. He didn’t see how any one could fail to appreciate what a wonderful thing a beach was. Here was being written a record that men might read millions of years later. It would be hardened then into imperishable stone. Here, for instance, was the track of a bird. Little by little sand would be scattered over it; more sand on top of that; and so on until it was crushed into rock. That is the way all sandstones are made. Huge convulsions of earth would bring that up to the surface; men would find it, break it open, and there the track of the bird! Wonder of wonders!”