Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

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Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 346

by Maria Edgeworth


  The whole kiln was as large as a large room; and the man went to his house for a few lighted coals, and he put them under the furze, which took fire and blazed, and the smoke came through the openings, that were left between the bricks, and the heat of the fire came through them also, and heated the bricks; and the man told Harry’s father, that he should supply the kiln with furze and keep the fire strong for six days and six nights, and that then the bricks would be sufficiently burned.

  Harry now said, that he was afraid, that he should not be able to build a kiln for his bricks; for he was grown wise enough to know, that it required time to learn to do things, which we have not been used to do. And he asked the brickmaker, whether he thought he could build his bricks so as to be able to burn them. And the man told him, that he believed he could not; but he said, that on some holiday he would go to the place where Harry’s bricks were, and would show him how to build a nice little kiln, if Harry’s father would give him leave.

  Harry’s father accepted this good-natured offer; and Harry plainly perceived, that good conduct makes friends, and that a poor brickmaker may be of use even to persons, who are not obliged to work for their bread.

  Whilst they were talking, Lucy was looking about, and examining every thing in the brick-field; and she observed, that, at the farthest part of the field, some white linen was stretched upon the grass to dry; and she saw several bits of black dirt lying upon the linen. They did not stick to the linen, but were blown about by the wind, as they were very light.

  Lucy picked up some of these black things; and when she showed them to her mother, her mother told her, that they were bits of soot, which had been carried by the wind from the brick-kiln.

  But, mother, said Lucy, I don’t see any chimney belonging to the brick-kiln; and soot, I believe, is always found in chimneys.

  Mother. No, my dear, soot is smoke cooled; and wherever there is smoke, there is soot. A great quantity of thick smoke rises from a brick-kiln, or, to speak more properly, a great quantity of smoke is carried upwards by the hot air that rises from a brick-kiln, and, when this smoke cools, parts of it stick together, and make what we call soot, which falls slowly to the ground. This is some of it, that has fallen upon the white linen; and you see it because it is black, and the linen, upon which it has fallen, is white.

  Lucy. Why does it fall slowly?

  Mother. Because it is light; if it were heavier, it would fall faster.

  Lucy. What do you mean by light and heavy?

  Mother. You cannot yet understand all that I mean by those words; but, if you take two things which are nearly of the same size in your hands, and if one of them presses the hand, in which it is held, downward, more than the other does, that may be called heavy, and the other may be called light. You must observe, Lucy, that they can be called heavy or light only as compared together or weighed in your hands; as, for instance, if you take a large wafer in one hand, and a wooden button-mould of the same size in the other, the button-mould would be readily perceived to be the heaviest; you would therefore say, that the button-mould is heavy, and the wafer is light.

  But if you were to take the button-mould again in one hand, and take a half-dollar in the other, you would call the half-dollar heavy, and the button-mould light. And if you were to lay down the button-mould, and were to take a dollar into your hand instead of it, you would find the half-dollar would appear light, when compared with the dollar.

  Lucy. But, mother, what do you compare the soot with, when you say it is light?

  Mother. I compare it in my mind with other things of nearly the same size, as bits of saw-dust or bits of gravel; but I cannot yet make you entirely understand what I mean. When you have learned the uses and properties of more things, and their names, I shall be better able to answer the questions you have asked me upon subjects, which I cannot explain to you now.

  As they returned home, they saw a poor little girl crying sadly, and she seemed to be very unhappy. And Lucy’s mother said to her, — Poor girl! what is the matter with you? What makes you cry so?

  O, madam, said the little girl, my mother sent me to market with a basket of eggs, and

  I tumbled down, and the eggs are all broken to pieces, and I am very sorrow for it; for my mother trusted them to me, as she thought I would take care of them; and indeed I minded what I was about, but a man with a sack upon his back was coming by, and he pushed me, and made me tumble down.

  Mother. Will your mother be angry with you, when she knows it?

  Little girl. I shall tell my mother, and she will not be angry at me; but she will be very sorry, and she will cry, because she is very poor, and she will want the bread, which I was to have bought with the money, for which I should sell the eggs, and my brothers and sisters will have no supper.

  When the little girl had done speaking, she sat down again upon the bank, and cried very sadly.

  Little Lucy pulled her mother’s gown, to make her listen to her, and then she said softly, — Mother, may I speak to the poor little girl?

  Mother. Yes, Lucy.

  Lucy. Little girl, I have some eggs at home, and I will give them to you, if my mother will let me go for them.

  My dear, said Lucy’s mother to her, our house is at a distance; and, if you were to try to go back by yourself, you could not find the way; but, if the little girl will come tomorrow to my house, you may give her the eggs; she is used to go to market, and knows the road. In the mean time, my poor little girl, come with me to the baker’s at the top of the hill, and I will give you a loaf to carry home to your mother: you are a good girl, and tell the truth.

  So Lucy’s mother took the little girl to the baker’s shop, and bought a loaf, and gave it to her; and the little girl thanked her, and put the loaf under her arm, and walked homewards, very happy. As he was going over a stile, Harry dropped his handkerchief out of his pocket, and it fell into some water, and was made quite wet; and he was forced to carry it in his hand, until they came to a house, where his father told him he would ask leave to have it dried for him. And he asked the mistress of the house to let Harry go to the fire, to dry his handkerchief. And while he held it at the fire, Lucy said, she saw a great smoke go from the handkerchief into the fire, and her mother asked her how she knew it was smoke?

  Lucy. Because it looks like smoke.

  Mother. Hold this piece of paper in what you think like smoke, and try if you can catch any of those black things, that were in the smoke you saw in the brick-field.

  Lucy. No, mother, it does not blacken the paper in the least, but it wets the paper.

  Mother. Hold this cold plate in what you call smoke that comes from the handkerchief.

  Lucy. Mother, I find the plate is wet. —

  Mother. What is it then that comes from the handkerchief?

  Lucy. Water. The water with which it was wetted, when it fell into the ditch.

  Mother. What makes the water come out of it?

  Lucy. The heat of the fire, I believe.

  Mother. At tea to-night, put me in mind to show you water turned into steam, and steam turned into water.

  When they had gotten home, Harry and Lucy went immediately, without, losing any time, to cast up two sums in arithmetic, which they were accustomed to do every day.

  Harry could cast up sums in common addition readily; and Lucy understood the rule called subtraction; and she knew very well what was meant by the words borrowing and paying, though it is not easy to understand them distinctly. But she had been taught carefully by her mother, who was a woman of good sense, and who was more desirous that her daughter should understand what she did, than that she should merely be able to go on as she was told to do, without knowing the reason of what she was about.

  And after they had shown the sums, which they had cast up, to their mother, they sat down to draw.

  Lucy was learning to draw the outlines of flowers, and she took a great deal of pains, and looked attentively at the prints she was copying. And she was not in a hurry to
have done, or to begin another flower; but she minded what she was about, and attended to every thing, that her mother had desired her the day before to correct. And after she had copied a print of a periwinkle, she attempted to draw it from the flower itself; which she had placed in such a manner, as to have the same appearance as the print had, that she might be able to compare her drawing from the print with her drawing from the flower.

  She found it was not so easy to draw from the latter as from the former; but every time that she tried, it became easier. And she was wise enough to know, that it was better to be able to draw from things themselves, or from nature, as it is called, than from other drawings; because every body may every where have objects before them, which they may imitate: and by practice they may learn to draw or delineate objects so well, as to be able to express upon paper, &c to other people, whatever curious things they meet with.

  The habit of drawing is particularly useful to those, who study botany; and it was her love of botany; that made Lucy fond of drawing flowers.

  She had a number of dried plants, the names of which she knew; and she took great pleasure in the Spring, and in the beginning of Summer, in gathering such plants as were in flower, and in discovering, by the rules of botany, to what class, order, genus, and species they belonged.

  Harry also knew something of botany; but he did not learn to draw flowers. He was endeavoring, with great care, to trace a map of the fields about his father’s house. He had made several attempts, and he had failed several times; but he began again, and every time he improved.

  He understood very well the use of a map; he knew that it was a sort of picture of ground, by which he could measure the size of every yard, or garden, or field, or orchard, after it had been drawn upon paper, as well as it could be measured upon the ground itself. He could also draw a little with a rule and compasses; he could describe a circle, and make an equilateral triangle, and a right angle, and he had begun to learn to write.

  After they had drawn and written for one hour, it was time for them to go and dress before dinner.

  Harry’s walk to the brick-field had made him very hungry, so that he ate heartily.

  Whilst he was eating, his mother told him, that she intended to send him into the garden, after dinner, for some strawberries, that were just ripe; and she advised him not to eat so much pudding, if he wished to eat strawberries.

  Now Harry had learnt from experience, that, if he ate too much, it would make him sick; he therefore prudently determined, not to have another spoonful of pudding.

  A little while after dinner, Harry and Lucy went with their mother into the garden; and Lucy was desired to gather six strawberries, and Harry was desired to gather four strawberries.

  And when they were put together, Harry counted them, and found, that they made ten. Lucy was not obliged to count them, for she knew by rote, or by heart, as it is sometimes called, that six and four make ten.

  Each of them next brought five strawberries; and Harry knew, without counting, that when they were put together they would make ten. And Lucy knew, that the parcel of strawberries, which they gathered first, which made ten, would, when added to the second parcel, which also consisted of ten, make twenty.

  They now went, and gathered ten more. One gathered three, and the other gathered seven; and this ten, added to the former number, made thirty. And they went again, and brought ten more to their mother: this ten was made up of eight and two; and this ten, added to the thirty they had gathered before, made forty.

  Whilst they were eating them, Harry asked his sister if she knew what was meant by ty in twenty and thirty. Lucy laughed at him for supposing that she did not know it, and said her father had told her. Harry said, that he knew before, that teen, in the words thirteen, fourteen, &c meant ten; but he did not know that ty in twenty, and thirty, &c meant ten. And he said he did not know, why ten should have three names, ten, teen, and ty.

  Lucy said, she could not tell; but they asked their father; and he told them, that ten meant ten by itself, without any other number joined to it; but that teen meant ten with some other number joined to it; and he asked Harry what thirteen meant.

  Harry. I believe that it is three and ten; for three, joined or added to ten, make thirteen. Fourteen is plainly four and ten; fifteen, five and ten. But why, father, is it not threeteen, instead of being called thirteen?

  Father. Because it is easier to say thirteen, than three-teen.

  Lucy. But why is it called twelve? It should be two-teen.

  Harry. And eleven, father, should be one-teen.

  Father. I cannot now explain to you, my dear, the reason why we have not those names in English; but you perceive, that it is easy to remember the names of fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, &c because we remember that four, five, six, come after one another, and we perceive, that all that is necessary is to add teen to them. You see that fourteen means four and ten — four added to ten.

  Harry. But does ty in forty mean four added to ten?

  Lucy replied, that it did not.

  Father. No — it means four times ten; not ten added to four, but ten added together four times. And fifty means ten added together five times. So you see, that it is useful to have three names for ten, which differ a little from one another, but which are also something like each other; for teen is like ten, and ty is like teen. Teen is always used when ten is added to any number, as far as nineteen; and ty is always used when more tens than one are counted, as far as a hundred.

  Harry. Then twenty should be two-ty; and thirty should be three-ty.

  Father. I told you before, my dear, that thirteen is used instead of three-teen, because the former word is more easily pronounced than the latter. Thirty is used instead of three-ty for the same reason.

  Harry. But why is not twenty two-ty?

  Father. Twenty is made up of ty and of twain, a word that was formerly used for two; the word twain, joined to ty, makes twainty, which, when spoken quickly, sounds like twenty.

  Harry. But, father, will you tell me another thing?

  Father. No, Harry, we have talked enough about numbers at present; you will be tired by thinking any longer with much attention, and I do not wish that you should be tired, when you attend to what you are about. Thinking, without tiring ourselves, is very agreeable; but thinking becomes disagreeable, if we tire ourselves: and as thinking with attention is useful and necessary, we should take care, not to make it disagreeable to ourselves.

  It was now tea-time; and Harry and Lucy usually supped at the same time that their father and mother drank tea; so that they had an opportunity of hearing many useful and entertaining things, that passed in conversation: and Lucy, recollecting that her mother had promised to tell her, at tea-time, something more about smoke and steam, put her in mind of what she had promised. Then her mother called for a lighted wax candle, and for a lighted tallow candle, and she desired Lucy to hold a cold plate over the wax candle, and Harry to hold another cold plate over the tallow candle, and in a short time a considerable quantity of smoke, or soot, was collected upon each of the plates. Another cold plate was held over the tea-urn, in which water was boiling, and from which there issued a large quantity of steam, or vapor of water. This steam was stopped by the plate, which, by degrees, was covered with a number of very small drops, not so large as the head of a miniken pin. After the plate had been held over the steam a little longer, these drops became larger — they attracted one another; that is to say, one little drop was joined to another, and made a large drop; and so on, till at length the drops ran so much together, as to lose their round shape, and to run over the plate. Harry and Lucy were much entertained with this experiment. Harry observed, that the vapor of water was very different from the vapor of a candle.

  Father. I am very glad to find, that you have so readily learned something of the meaning of the word vapor, which I have purposely made use of in the place of the word steam; but you are mistaken, my dear, in saying vapor of a candle. Lamp-black, soot
, and smoke, are formed from the vapor of the oily parts of burning bodies. Formerly people made use of lamps instead of candles, and the soot of those lamps was called lamp-black, though it should properly be called oil-black. Now pray, Harry, do you know the meaning of the word evaporate?

  Harry. I believe it means being turned into vapor.

  Father. Did you observe any thing else in the experiments which I have just shown to you?

  Harry. Yes, father — I saw that the vapor of oil was solid when it was cold.

  Father. Condensed.

  Harry. Yes, condensed.

  Father. And did you not observe that the vapor of water, when condensed, was fluid? — And what did you observe, Lucy?

  Lucy. I thought, father, that the soot, or lampblack, which you told me was the vapor of oil, did not seem to turn into oil again; when it was condensed; but that it had entirely a different appearance from the tallow and wax from which the oil came; and yet, that the vapor of water, when it was condensed, became water again.

  Father. I do not think, my dear children, that my time has been thrown away in showing you this experiment. And, as I wish to make you like to attend to what is taught to you, I will endeavor to make it agreeable to you, by joining the feeling of pleasure to the feeling of attention in your mind, by giving you pleasure, or the hope of pleasure, when you attend.

  Harry. I know what you mean, father; for, if we had not attended to what we were about, you would have endeavored to give us pain.

  Father. No, Harry, you are a little mistaken. I don’t wish to give you pain, unless when I want to prevent you from doing something that would be hurtful to yourself, or to other people; and then I wish to associate, that is, join pain with such actions. But I do not expect, that little boys and girls should be as wise as men and women; and, if you do not attend, I only abstain from giving you pleasure.

 

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