At present, scientists have completed the sequencing and recording of species genomes in almost every branch of the bird pedigree. Genome is the way in which genes are constructed, also known as the “code of life”.
From very different colored feathers, different sizes (from giant ostriches to very small wrens), to birds of prey that can fly at speeds of up to 300 kilometers per hour, they are all encoded in the genome. This project aims to eventually include the genomes of every existing bird species. The genomes of 363 bird species have been registered, including 267 species sequenced for the first time. This list contains more than 92% of the birds in the world.
P ierre is so boring, ”said Albert to his mother as they went together into the rain-refreshed garden to cut roses. “He didn’t care much about me the whole time, but yesterday there was absolutely nothing to do with him! The other day, when I said we were going to take a car ride together, he was very enthusiastic. And yesterday he hardly wanted to go, I almost had to ask him. It wasn’t a great pleasure for me because I wasn’t allowed to take both horses, I actually only went because of him. ”
“Wasn’t he well behaved on the way?” Asked Frau Veraguth.
“Oh, he was nice, just so boring! Sometimes he has something blasé about him, the boy. Whatever I suggested and what I showed or offered to him was hardly worth a yes or a smile, he didn’t want to sit on the box, he didn’t want to learn to drive, he didn’t even want to eat apricots he. Right like a spoiled prince. It was annoying and I’m telling you because I really don’t want to take it with me another time. ”
The mother stopped and looked at him carefully; she had to smile at his excitement and looked into his sparkling eyes with satisfaction.
“Big boy,” she said soothingly, “you must be patient with him. Maybe he wasn’t quite well, he didn’t eat much this morning either. It happens with all children from time to time, and it was the same with you. A little gastric catarrh or a night of bad dreams is mostly to blame, and Pierre is, of course, a bit delicate and sensitive. And then, understand, he might be a little jealous too. You have to remember that otherwise he always has me all to himself, and now you’re here and he has to share with you.
“When I’m on vacation! He really has to understand that, he’s not stupid! ”
“He’s a little kid, Albert, and you must be the smarter one.”
It was still dripping from the fresh, glittering ones Scroll. They followed the yellow roses that Albert particularly loved. He bent the crowns of the trees apart and his mother cut off the flowers with secateurs, which were still hanging down a bit sober and rainy.
“Was I actually like Pierre when I was his age?” Asked Albert thoughtfully.
Frau Adele thought about it. She lowered her hand with the scissors, looked her son in the eye, and then closed hers to evoke the portrait of his boy.
“Outwardly you were quite similar to him, except for your eyes, and you were less thin and slender, the waxing came a little later for you.”
“And otherwise? I mean inside? ”
“Well, you’ve had moods too, my boy. But I think you were more consistent, you didn’t change your games and jobs as quickly as Pierre did. He’s also more exuberant than you were, he’s less balanced. ”
Albert took the scissors from his mother’s hand and leaned over a rose bush, searching.
“Pierre has more from Papa,” he said softly. “You, mother, it is so strange how in children the characteristics of their parents and ancestors are repeated and mixed up! My friends say that even as a small child, every person has everything in them that determines their whole life, and there is nothing you can do about it, simply nothing at all. If, for example, someone has the capacity to be a thief or a murderer, nothing helps, he must and must become a criminal. It’s actually awful. You believe in it too, don’t you? It’s completely scientific. ”
“I don’t care,” smiled Mrs. Adele. “If someone has become a criminal and killed people, perhaps science can show that it has always been in him. But I have no doubt that there are very many righteous people who have inherited evil enough from parents and forefathers and yet remain good, and science cannot investigate this well. A good upbringing and a good will are more certain to me than all inheritance. What is right and decent, we know that and can learn it, and one must stick to it. But nobody knows exactly what kind of paternal secrets one has in oneself and it is better not to count on them much. ”
Albert knew that his mom never got involved in dialectical disputes, and his nature instinctively agreed with her simple way of thinking. But he felt that the dangerous subject was by no means over, and he would have liked to have said something thorough about the doctrine of causality which had always made so much clear to him from the speeches of some friends. But he thought in vain of firm, clear, sound sentences, and in contrast to those friends whom he did admire, he felt that he was actually much more gifted for a moral or aesthetic view of things than for the scientifically unprejudiced, that he confessed to his fellow students. So he let these things rest and went after the roses.
Meanwhile, Pierre was really not felt comfortable and woke up in the morning much later than usual and with no zest for life, stayed in the children’s room with his toys until he got bored. He was feeling pretty miserable and it seemed to him that something special had to happen today, so that this tasteless day would be bearable and a little pretty.
Restless between expectation and mistrust, he went out of the house and into the linden garden, looking for something new, for some discovery or adventure. His stomach was empty, he knew that from previous experiences, and his head was tired and heavy as he had never felt it before, and he would have loved to take refuge on his mother’s knee and cry. But that was not possible as long as the proud, big brother was there, who anyway always made him feel that he was still a little boy.
If only it had occurred to the mother to do something of her own accord, to call him and suggest a game and be nice to him. But she had now, of course, gone with Albert again. Pierre felt that it was a bad day today and that there was little to hope for.
He strolled indecisively and sullenly along the gravel paths, the withered stalk of a linden blossom between his teeth and his hands in his pockets. It was fresh and damp in the morning garden, and the stem tasted bitter. He spat it out and stopped morosely. He couldn’t think of anything, he didn’t want to be a prince, a robber, a carter or a builder today.
With a furrowed brow he looked around the ground, poked the gravel with the tips of his shoes and hurled a gray slimy slug with his foot far away into the wet grass. Nothing wanted to speak to him, neither bird nor butterfly, nothing wanted to laugh at him and seduce him into happiness. Everything was silent, everything looked ordinary, hopeless and shabby. He tried a small, bright red currant grape on the next bush; it tasted cold and sour. One should lie down and sleep, he thought, sleep until everything would look new and nice and funny again. There was no point in going around there and struggling and waiting for things that wouldn’t come after all. How nice it could be if, for example, a war had broken out and a lot of soldiers on horseback came up on the street, or if a house was on fire somewhere or if there was a great flood. Oh, these things were all just in picture books, in reality you never saw them and maybe they didn’t even exist.
Sighing, the boy strolled on, his handsome, delicate face extinguished and full of sorrow. When he heard the voice of Albert and his mother on the other side of the high trellis wall, he was so overcome by jealousy and disgust that tears came to his eyes. He turned back and walked very quietly so as not to be heard or called. He did not want to speak to anyone now, he did not want to be compelled by anyone to speak, to pay attention and to be polite. He was doing badly, miserably badly, and nobody cared about him like that he wanted at least to savor the loneliness and grief and feel really miserable.
He also thought of the good Lord, whom he valued very much at times, and for a moment the thought brought a distant glimmer of comfort and warmth, but that quickly subsided again. It was probably nothing with the good Lord either. And yet right now he needed someone who could be relied on and who could be promised something nice and comforting.
Then he remembered his father. It was a foreboding feeling that he might perhaps understand him, since he himself mostly looked quiet and tense and unhappy. Without a doubt, as always, his father was standing in his large, quiet studio over there, painting on his pictures. It wasn’t really a good thing to disturb him. But he had only recently said that Pierre should only come to him if he wanted to. Perhaps he had forgotten again, all adults forgot their promises again and again so quickly. But try you could do it once. Dear God, when you didn’t know any other consolation and needed it so much!
Slowly at first, then, in a glowing hope, faster and tighter, he walked the shady path to the studio. Then he picked up the doorknob and stopped to listen. Yes, Papa was inside, he heard him snort and clear his throat, and he heard the wooden sound of the finely clattering brush handles that he held in his left hand.
Carefully he pressed the handle, opened the door noiselessly and stuck his head inside. He hated the strong smell of turpentine and lacquer, but his father’s broad, strong figure gave hope. Pierre entered and closed the door behind him.
When the handle snapped into place, the painter, watched carefully by Pierre, shrugged his broad shoulders and turned his head back. The sharp eyes looked offended and questioning and the mouth was uncomfortably open.
Pierre didn’t move. He looked into the father’s Eyes and waited. Immediately his eyes became friendlier and his angry face was all right.
“Look there, Pierre! We haven’t seen each other for a whole day. Did mom send you here? ”
The little one shook his head and let himself be kissed.
“Do you want to be with me a little and watch?” Asked the father in a friendly manner. At the same time he turned back to his picture and aimed sharply at a spot with a pointed brush. Pierre watched. He saw the painter gazing at his canvas, saw his eyes tense and staring angrily and aiming his strong, nervous hand with the thin brush, he saw him wrinkle his forehead and grasp his lower lip with his teeth. He also smelled the pungent workshop air that he had never liked and that was particularly repulsive to him today.
His eyes went out and he stood by the door as if paralyzed. He knew it all, that smell and those eyes and those grimaces of attention, and he knew it had been foolish to expect it to be different today than always. The father worked, he rummaged in his strong-smelling colors and thought of nothing in the world but his stupid pictures. It had been foolish to come in here.
The boy’s face slackened from disappointment. He had known! There was no refuge for him today, not with his mother, and certainly not here.
For a minute he stood thoughtless and sad and looked, without seeing anything, at the large picture with the wet reflecting colors. Papa had time for that, not for him. He picked up the handle again and pushed it down to quietly walk away.
But Veraguth heard the shy sound. He looked around, grunted, and came over.
“What is it, Pierrot? Don’t run away! Don’t you want to stay with papa a little? ”
Pierre withdrew his hand and nodded weakly.
“Did you want to tell me something?” Asked the painter kindly. “Come on, let’s sit down, then you tell me. How was the trip yesterday? ”
“Oh, it was nice,” said the little one politely.
Veraguth ran a hand over his hair.
“Didn’t it do you good? You look a little sleepy, my boy! You didn’t get wine, did you, yesterday? No? So what do we do now? Do we want to draw? ”
Pierre shook his head.
“I don’t like, papa. It’s so boring today. ”
“So? You certainly slept badly? Do we want to do a little gymnastics together? ”
“I do not like. I just like to be with you, you know. But it smells so bad here. ”
Veraguth caressed him and laughed.
“Yes, it is unfortunate if you do not like to smell paint and are a painter’s child. You will probably never become a painter? ”
“No, I don’t want to either.”
“What do you want to be?”
“Nothing at all. I would like to be a bird or something. ”
“That wouldn’t be bad. But tell me now Sweetheart, what you would like to have from me. Look, I have to keep working on the big picture. If you want, you can stay and play something. Or should I give you a picture book to look at? ”
No, that wasn’t what he wanted. He said, just to get out of the way, that he would go and feed the pigeons now, and he noticed exactly that his father was breathing a sigh of relief and was glad to see him go. He was released with a kiss and went out. The father closed the door and Pierre stood alone again, even emptier than before. He wandered across the lawn, where he wasn’t supposed to go, he tore off a few flowers, distracted and worried, and watched indifferently as his bright, yellow shoes became stained and darkened in the wet grass. Finally, overwhelmed with despair, he threw himself in the middle of the lawn, sobbed his head in the grass and felt the sleeves of his light blue blouse get wet and cling to his arms.
Only when he began to freeze did he soberly get up and creep shyly into the house.
Soon you would call him and then you would see that he had been crying, and then you would notice the wet, dirty blouse and damp shoes and scold him for it. Hostile he passed the kitchen door, he didn’t want to meet anyone now. He would have loved to be somewhere far away where no one knew about him and asked about him.
Then he saw the key in one of the rarely used guest rooms. He went in, closed the door, closed the open windows and crept wild and tired and without taking off his shoes on a large uncovered bed. Then he lay there in his misery between weeping and slumbering. And when, after a long time, he heard his mother calling for him in the courtyard and on the stairs, he gave no answer and defiantly dug himself deeper into the ceiling. The mother’s voice came and went and finally died away without him being able to bring himself to follow her. Finally he fell asleep with wet cheeks.
At noon, when Veraguth came to table, asked him his wife at once: “Didn’t you bring Pierre with you?”
He noticed her somewhat excited tone.
“Pierre? I don’t know anything about him. Wasn’t he with you? ”
Frau Adele was startled and spoke louder.
“No, I haven’t seen him since breakfast! When I looked for him, the girls told me they had seen him go to the studio. Wasn’t he there? ”
“Yes, he was there, but only for a moment, he ran away again.”
And angrily he added: “Doesn’t anyone in the house look after the boy?”
“We thought he was with you,” said Mrs. Adele shortly and offended. “I’m going to look for him.”
“Send someone after him! We want to eat now after all. ”
“You can start now. I’m going to look myself. ”
She hurried out of the room. Albert got up and wanted to follow her.
“Stay here, Albert,” cried Veraguth. “We’re at the table!”
The youth looked at him angrily.
“I’m going to eat with mom,” he said defiantly.
The father smiled ironically in his excited face.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re the master of the house, aren’t you? By the way, if you feel like throwing knives at me again, please don’t let any prejudices stop you! ”
The son turned pale and pushed back his chair. It was the first time that his father reminded him of that angry act of his boyhood.
“You mustn’t talk to me like that!” He shouted, breaking out. “I don’t have it!”
Veraguth took a piece of bread and ate a bite without answering. He poured water into his glass, drank it slowly and decided to stay calm. He pretended to be alone, and Albert, undecided, kicked the window.
“I won’t have it!” He finally shouted again, unable to contain his anger.
The father put salt on his bread. In his mind he saw himself boarding a ship and sailing on endless strange seas, far away from these incurable confusions.
“It’s good,” he said, almost peacefully. “I see that you don’t like it when I talk to you. Let’s leave it! ”
At that moment there was an exclamation of amazement and a flood of excited words outside. Frau Adele had spotted the boy in his lair. The painter listened up and went quickly out. Today everything seemed to be mixed up.
He found Pierre lying in the rumpled guest bed in dirty boots, his face sleepy and crying, his hair tangled, and in front of it his wife in helpless astonishment.
“But child,” she finally called between worry and anger, “what are you doing? Why are you not answering? And why are you lying here? ”
Veraguth straightened the little one and looked startled into his expressionless eyes.
“Are you sick, Pierre?” He asked tenderly.
The boy shook his head in confusion.
“Did you sleep here? Have you been here long?”
In a thin, discouraged voice, Pierre said: “I can’t help it … I haven’t done anything … I just had a headache.”
Veraguth carried him into the dining room in his arms.
“Give him a bowl of soup,” he said to his wife. “You have to eat something warm, child, that’s good, you’ll see. I’m sure you’re sick, poor fellow. ”
He sat him down in his chair, put a pillow in his back and gave him his soup himself with the spoon.
Albert sat silent and closed.
“He seems really sick,” said Ms. Veraguth, almost reassured, with the feeling of the mother who is more willing to help and care than to examine and treat unusual bad habits.
“We’ll put you to bed later, just eat now, my heart,” she comforted confidently.
Pierre sat, gray in the face, with half-awake eyes and swallowed without resistance what was spooned into him. While his father fed him soup, his mother took his pulse and was glad to find no fever.
“Shall I get the doctor?” Asked Albert, in order to do something, in an unsteady voice.
“No, leave it alone,” said the mother. “Pierre goes to bed and is wrapped up warm, then he sleeps well and will be well again tomorrow. Isn’t that right, honey? ”
The little one wasn’t listening and he shook his head defensively when his father tried to give him more to eat.
“No, he shouldn’t force himself to do it,” said the mother. “Come on with me, Pierre, we’re going to bed, everything will be fine.”
She took his hand and he got up heavily. Sleepily he followed the mother who pulled him with her. But he stopped in the doorway, spoiled it Face and convulsed, and in a fit of nausea he gave up everything he had just eaten.
Veraguth carried him into the bedroom and left him to his mother. Bells rang and servants paced up and down the stairs. The painter ate a few bites, in between he ran twice over to Pierre, who was now undressed and washed in his brass bedstead. Then Mrs. Adele came back and reported that the child was calm and without pain and seemed to want to fall asleep.
The father turned to Albert: “What did Pierre get to eat yesterday?”
Albert thought about it, but turned his answer to his mother.
“It wasn’t anything special. In Brückenschwand I had Pierre give bread and milk, and for lunch in Pegolzheim we got macaroni and sideburns. ”
The father asked further inquisitorial: “And later?”
“He didn’t want to take anything anymore. In the afternoon I bought apricots from a gardener. He only ate one or two of them. ”
“Were you ripe?”
“Yes of course. You seem to think I made his stomach upset on purpose. ”
The mother noticed his irritation and asked: “What do you guys have?”
“Nothing,” said Albert.
Veraguth continued: “I don’t believe anything, I just ask. Did nothing happen yesterday? Has he never vomited? Or did he fall? Has he never complained of pain? ”
Albert gave brief answers with yes and no and wished dearly that this meal would be over.
When the father went on tiptoe into Pierre’s bedroom again, he found him asleep. The pale child’s face was full of deep seriousness and an ardent devotion to comforting sleep.