Читать книгу Physiology - M. Sir Foster - Страница 5

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1. Did you ever on a winter’s day, when the ground was as hard as a stone, the ponds all frozen, and everything cold and still, stop for a moment, as you were running in play along the road or skating over the ice, to wonder at yourself and ask these two questions:—“Why am I so warm when all things around me, the ground, the trees, the water, and the air, are so cold? How is it that I am moving about, running, walking, jumping, when nothing else that I can see is stirring at all, except perhaps a stray bird seeking in vain for food?”

These two questions neither you nor anyone else can answer fully; but we may answer them in part, and the knowledge which helps us to the answer is called Physiology.

2. You can move of your own accord. You do not need to wait, like the boughs or the leaves, till the wind blows upon you, or, like the stones, till somebody stirs you. The bird, too, can move of its own accord, so can a dog, so can any animal as long as it is alive. If you leave a stone in any particular spot, you expect to find the stone there when you come to it again a long time afterwards; if you do not, you say somebody or something has moved it. But if you put a sparrow or mouse on the grass plot, you know that directly your back is turned it will be off.

All animals move of themselves. But only so long as they are alive. When you find the body of a snake on the road, the first thing you do is to stir it with a stick. If it moves only as you move it, and as far as you move it, just as a bit of rope might do, you say it is dead. But if, when you touch it, it stirs of itself, wriggles about, and perhaps at last glides away, you know it is alive. Every living animal, of whatever kind, from yourself down to the tiniest creature that swims about in a little pool of water and cannot be seen without a microscope, moves of itself. Left to itself, it moves and rests, rests and moves; stirred by anything, away it goes, running, flying, creeping, crawling, or swimming.

Something of the kind sometimes happens with lifeless things. When a stone is carefully balanced on the top of a high wall, a mere touch will send it toppling down to the ground. But when it has reached the ground it stops there, and if you want to repeat the trick you must carry the stone up to the top of the wall again. You know the toy made like a mouse, which, when you touch it in a particular place, runs away apparently of its own accord, as if it were alive. But it soon stops, and when it has stopped you may touch it again and again without making it go on. Not until you have wound it up will it go on again as it did before. And every time you want it to run you must wind it up afresh. Living animals move again and again, and yet need no winding up, for they are always winding themselves up. Indeed, as we go on in our studies we shall come to look upon our own bodies and those of all animals as pieces of delicate machinery with all manner of springs, which are always running down but always winding themselves up again.

3. You are warm; beautifully warm, even on the coldest winter day, if you have been running hard; very warm if you are well wrapped up with clothing, which, as you say, keeps the cold out, but really keeps the warmth in. The bed you go to at night may be cold, but it is warm when you leave it in the morning. Your body is as good as a fire, warming itself and everything near it.

The bird too is warm, so is the dog and the horse, and every four-footed beast you know. Some animals however, such as reptiles, frogs, fish, snails, insects, and the like do not seem warm when you touch them. Yet really they are always a little warm, and some times they get quite warm. If you were to put a thermometer into a hive of bees when they are busy you would find that they are very warm indeed. All animals are more or less warm as long as they are alive, some of them, such as birds and four-footed beasts, being very warm. But only so long as they are alive; after death they quickly become cold. When you find a bird lying on the grass quite still, not stirring when it is touched, to make quite sure of its being dead you feel it. If it is quite cold, you say it has been dead some time; if it is still warm, you say it is only just dead—perhaps hardly dead, and may yet revive.

4. You are warm, and you move about of yourself. You are able to move because you are warm; you are warm in order that you may move. How does this come about? Just think for a moment of something which is not an animal, but which is warm and moves about, which only moves when it is warm, and which is warm in order that it may move. I mean a locomotive steam-engine. What makes the engine move? The burning coke or coal, whose heat turns the water into steam, and so works the piston, while at the same time the whole engine becomes warm. You know that for the engine to do so much work, to run so many miles, so much coal must be burnt; to keep it working it must be “stoked” with fresh coal, and all the while it is working it is warm: when its stock of coal is burnt out it stops, and, like a dead animal, grows cold.

Well, your body too, just like the steam-engine, moves about and is warm, because a fire is always burning in your body. That fire, like the furnace of the engine, needs fresh fuel from time to time, only your fuel is not coal, but food. In three points your body differs from the steam-engine. In the first place, you do not use your fire to change water into steam, but in quite a different way, as we shall see further on. Secondly, your fire is a burning not of dry coal, but of wet food, a burning which although an oxidation (Chemistry Primer, Art. 5) takes place in the midst of water, and goes on without any light being given out. Thirdly, the food you take is not burnt in a separate part of your body, in a furnace like that of the engine set apart for the purpose. The food becomes part and parcel of your body, and it is your whole body which is burnt, bit by bit.

Thus it is the food burning or being oxidized within your body, or as part of your body, which enables you to move and keeps you warm. If you try to do without food, you grow chilly and cold, feeble, faint, and too weak to move. If you take the right quantity of proper food, you will be able to get the best work out of the engine, your body; and if you work your body aright, you can keep yourself warm on the coldest winter day, without any need of artificial fire.

5. But if this be so, in order to oxidize your food, you have need of oxygen. The fire of the engine goes out if it is not fed with air as well as fuel. So will your fire too. If you were shut up in an air-tight room, the oxygen in the room would get less and less, from the moment you entered the room, being used up by you; the oxidation of your body would after a while flag, and you would soon die for want of fresh oxygen (see Chemistry Primer, p. 14).

You have, throughout your whole life, a need of fresh oxygen, you must always be breathing fresh air to carry on in your body the oxidation which gives you strength and warmth.

6. When a candle is burnt (Chemistry Primer, p. 6) it turns into carbonic acid, and water. When wood or coal is burnt, we get ashes as well. If you were to take all your daily food and dry it, it too would burn into ashes, carbonic acid, and water (with one or two other things of which we shall speak afterwards).

Your body is always giving out carbonic acid (Chemistry Primer, Exp. 7). Your body is always giving out water by the lungs, as seen when you breathe on a glass, by the skin, and by the kidneys; and we shall see that we always give out more water than we take in as food or drink. Your body too is daily giving out by the kidneys and bowels, matters which are not exactly ashes, but very like them. We do not oxidize our food quite into ashes, but very nearly; we burn it into substances which are no longer useful for oxidation in the body, and which, being useless, are cast out of the body as waste matters.

The tale then is complete. By the help of the oxygen of the air which you take in as you breathe, you oxidize the food which is in your body. You get rid of the water, the carbonic acid, and other waste matters which are left after the oxidation, and out of the oxidation you get the heat which keeps you warm and the power which enables you to move.

Thus all your life long you are in constant need of oxygen and food. The oxygen you take in at every breath, the food at every meal. How you get rid of the waste matters we shall see further on.

If you were to live, as one philosopher of old did, in a large pair of delicate scales, you would find that the scale in which you were would sink down at every meal, and gradually rise between as you got lighter and hungry. If the food you took were more than you wanted, so that it could not all be oxidized, it would remain in your body as part of your flesh, and you would grow heavier and stouter from day to day; if it were less, you would grow thinner and lighter; if it were just as much as and no more than you needed, you would remain day after day of exactly the same weight, the scale in which you sat rising as much between meals as it sank at the meal time.

What we have to learn in this Primer is—How the food becomes part and parcel of your body; how it gets oxidized; how the oxidation gives you power to move; how it is that you are able to move in all manner of ways, when you like, how you like, and as much as you like.

First of all we must learn something about the build of your body, of what parts it is made, and how the parts are put together.