Harry. But, father, what pleasure were you going to give us?
Father. I was not going to give you any immediate or present pleasure, but only the hope of some pleasure to-morrow. Your mother and I intend, to-morrow, to walk to breakfast with her brother your uncle, who has come to live at a very pretty place not quite three miles from this house. He was formerly a physician, and he has several curious instruments — a microscope, an electrifying machine, an air-pump, and a collection of fossils, and a few shells and prints; and he knows very well how to explain things to other people. And the pleasure that your mother and I meant to give you, was to take you with us to-morrow morning.
Harry and Lucy were very happy when they were going to bed, from the remembrance of the day that they had passed, and from the hope of being happy on the day which was to come.
At six o’clock in the morning Harry wakened; and as they were to set out for Flower-hill at seven, he got up, and dressed himself with great alacrity, and Lucy did the same. But, alas! their hopes were disappointed, for a violent thunder-storm came on before seven o’clock, which prevented their walk to their uncle’s.
Harry planted himself at the window, and examined every cloud as it passed by, and every quarter of the sky, in expectation of fair weather and sunshine. But his sister, who was older, knew that her standing at the window would not alter the weather; and she prudently sat down, to study botany before breakfast, and to examine some flowers, which she had been gathering in her walk the day before.
When Harry had stood some time at the window, and had seen no appearance of a change in the sky, he turned about, and looked wistfully round him, like a person who did not know what to do with himself. His mother, who, at that instant, came into the room, could not help smiling at the melancholy figure which she saw before her; and she asked Harry what was the matter. Harry owned that he felt sorry and sad, because he had been disappointed of the pleasure which his father had promised him.
Mother. But, Harry, my dear, your father did not promise you fine weather.
Harry (laughing). No, mother, I know he d id not, but I expected that it would be a fine day, and I am sorry that it is not.
Mother. Well, Harry, that is all very natural, as it is called, or to speak more properly, it is what happens commonly. But though you cannot alter the weather, you may alter your own feelings, by turning your own attention to something else.
Harry. To what else, mother?
Mother. You have several different occupations, that you are fond of: and if you turn your thoughts to any of them, it will prevent you from feeling sad upon account of the disappointment that you have met with. Besides, my dear Harry, the rain must, in some respects, be agreeable to you, and it is certainly useful.
Harry. O yes, mother, I know what you mean — my garden. It was indeed in great want of water, and it cost me a great deal of trouble, to carry water to it twice every day. My peas will come on now, and I shall have plenty of radishes — Thank you, mother, for putting me in mind of my garden; it has made me more contented.
Harry’s father now came in, and seeing that he was cheerful, and that he bore his disappointment pretty well, he asked him, if he had ever seen a cork garden.
Harry. No, father; I remember I have seen a cork model of a house, but I never saw the model of a garden made of cork.
Father. But this is not the model of a garden, but a sort of small garden made upon cork. Here it is.
Harry. Why, this is nothing but the plate, or saucer, that commonly stands under a flowerpot, with a piece of cork, like the bung of a barrel, floating in water.
Father. Notwithstanding its simplicity, it is capable, to a certain degree, of doing what a garden does. It can produce a salad. Here are the seeds of cresses and mustard; sprinkle them thinly upon this cork, and lay it in the closet near the south window.
Harry. When may I look at it again?
Father. Whenever you please. But do not touch, nor shake it, for, if you do, it will disturb the seeds from the places where they now rest, and that will prevent them from growing. In two or three days you will see, that cresses and mustard plants have grown from these seeds.
Harry. Pray, father, will the seeds grow on the cork, as they grow in the ground?
Father. No, my dear, it is not the cork that nourishes the plant, but it is the water which makes it grow. If you cover the bottom of a soup plate with a piece of flannel, and pour water into the place as high as just to touch the flannel, and scatter seeds on the surface of the flannel, they will grow upon it in the same manner that they grow upon cork.
Harry. But if it is by the water only, that the seeds are made to grow, would they not grow as well, if they were put upon the bottom of the plate, without any cork or flannel?
Father. No, my little friend, they would not; because, if there were only so much water in the plate as to cover only half of each of the seeds, it would be so shallow, as to be evaporated (you know what that means, Harry,) before the seeds could grow. Perhaps, also, the surface of the plate may be so smooth, as to prevent the fibres of the roots from taking hold of it. And there are many more reasons, which occur to me, why it is probable, that they would not grow.
Harry. But we can try, father.
Father. Yes, my dear, that is the only certain method of knowing.
Lucy’s mother recollected, that she had promised her the last year, to show her how butter was made; and, as the rain in the morning had prevented Lucy from going to her uncle’s, her mother thought it would be a good time to take her into the dairy, where the dairy-maid was churning. Little Harry was permitted to go with his sister.
They remembered the wide shallow pans, which they had seen the year before; and they recollected that their mother had told them that the cream, or oily part of the milk, which was the lightest, separated itself from the heaviest part; or, to speak more properly, that the heaviest part of the milk descended towards the bottom of the pans, and left the cream, or lightest part, uppermost; and that this cream was skimmed off twice every day, and laid by, till a sufficient quantity, that is to say, five or six or any larger number of quarts, was collected.
They now saw twelve quarts, or three gallons of cream, put into a common churn: and the dairy-maid put the cream in motion, by means of the churn-staff, which she moved up and down with a regular motion, for seven or eight minutes: when she appeared tired, another of the maids took the churn-staff from her, and worked in her stead; and so on alternately for about three-quarters of an hour, when the butter began to come, as it is called, or to be collected in little lumps in the cream. Harry and Lucy were much surprised, when the lid or cover of the churn was taken off, to see small lumps of blitter floating in the milk.
They saw that the cream had changed its color and consistency, and that several small pieces of butter were swimming on its surface. These pieces of butter were collected, and joined together into one lump by the dairy-maid, who poured some cold water into the churn, to make the butter harder, and to make it separate more easily from the milk, which had become warm with the quick motion that had been used to make the butter come. Then she carefully took it all out of the churn; and put it into a wooden dish, and pressed it, so as to force all the milk out of it. She then washed it very clean, in cold water, a great many times, and, with a wooden thing, called a slice, which is like a large flat saucer, she cut the lump of butter, that she had made into pieces, in order to pull out of it all the cow’s hairs that had fallen into the milk, of which the cream had been made.
Many of these hairs stuck to the slice, and others were picked out, which appeared as the butter was cut in pieces.
The butter was then well washed, and the water in which it had been washed was squeezed out of it. The butter was now put into a pair of scales, and it weighed nearly three pounds. Some of it was rolled into cylinders, of about half a pound weight each; and some of it was made into little pats, and stamped with wooden stamps, which had different figures carved upon them; the
impression of which figures was marked upon the butter.
Lucy asked what became of the milk, or liquor, which was left in the churn; her mother told her it was called buttermilk, and that it was usually given to the pigs.
Lucy. Mother — I have heard that in Ireland and in Scotland, the poor drink buttermilk, and are very fond of it.
Mother. Yes, my dear, but the buttermilk in Ireland is very different from the buttermilk here. We separate the thick part of the cream from the rest, for the purpose of making butter; but in Ireland they lay by the thinner part, which is only milk, as well as the thick cream, for churning, and they add to it the richest part of the new milk, which is what comes last from the cow when she is milked: and what is left, after the butter is made, is for this reason not so sour; and is more nourishing than the buttermilk in this country.
Lucy. Do not they sometimes make whey of buttermilk and new milk?
Mother. Yes, my dear, whey is made or buttermilk and skimmed milk; but it is not thought so pleasant, nor useful in this country, though it is much liked in Ireland; probably because the buttermilk here is not so good as it is in Ireland. I am told, that it is frequently preferred in that country to any other kind of whey, even by those who are rich enough to have wine-whey. You see, my dear Lucy, that small circumstances make great differences in things. I have heard it said, that the Irish poor must be very wretched indeed, if they be forced to use buttermilk, instead of milk; but the fact is, their buttermilk is so much better than ours, that they frequently prefer it to new milk. To judge wisely, we must carefully make ourselves acquainted with the facts about which we are to judge.
Harry. Pray, mother, why does dashing about the milk with the churn-staff make butter?
Mother. The process of making butter is not yet exactly understood. Cream consists of oil, whey, and curd, and an acid peculiar to milk. You know what is meant by an acid.
Lucy. Not very well; I know it means what is sour.
Mother. Yes, my dear, sourness is one of the properties of acids; and when you have acquired a knowledge of a greater number of facts, that you can compare with one another, I shall be better able to explain to you what is meant by many terms, that I cannot at present make you understand.
Harry. But, mother, you have not yet told us why churning makes butter.
Mother. My dear, it does not make butter; it only separates the oily or buttery part of the cream from the curd or cheesy part, and from the whey. We do not know exactly how this is done by churning; but it is probable, that, by striking the cream with the churn-staff, or by shaking it violently, the oily parts, or particles, are, from time to time, forced nearer together, which enables them to attract each other.
Harry. Yes, mother. I know what that is — just as globules of quicksilver run together, when they are near enough.
Mother. Globules! Harry, where did you find that new word?
Harry. Father told it to me the other day, when I was looking at some quicksilver that he had let fall. He told me the little drops of quicksilver, or mercury, which look like balls, were called globules, or little globes.
Lucy. And, mother, the drops of dew and rain stand on several leaves separate from one another. On a nasturtion leaf I have seen drops of water almost as round as drops of quicksilver; and when I pushed two of the drops near one another, they ran together and formed one larger drop.
Mother. They were attracted together, as it is called.
Lucy. But the larger drop, which was made of the two drops, was not twice as large as either of the two small ones.
Mother. Are you sure of that, Lucy?
Lucy. No, mother; but I thought so.
Mother. Two drops of mercury of the same size, or two drops of any other fluid, when they join, do not form a drop that is twice as large in breadth, or diameter, as one of the small drops; but such a drop contains exactly as much, and weighs as heavy, as the two small drops.
Harry. I do not understand you, mother.
Mother. I will, by degrees, endeavor to make you understand me; but it cannot be done at once, and you have attended enough now. — Lucy, it is time to read — let us go on with the account of insects, which you were reading yesterday. — .
Then Lucy and Harry, and their mother, left the dairy, and returned to the drawingroom.
Mother. Here, Harry, sit down, and listen to what your sister reads. You will soon be able to read to yourself without assistance; which, in time, will become an agreeable employment.
Lucy now read in the Guardian, No. 157, a very entertaining account of the industry and ingenuity of ants.
Both Harry and she wished much that they could find some ants’ nests, that they might see how they carried on their works. Their mother said that she could show them an ant’s nest in the garden: and, as it had done raining, she took them into the garden, and showed them two little holes in the ground, where the ants had formed cells, which served them for houses to live in, and for store-houses, to keep their eggs and food. They were busily employed in making a road, or causeway from one of these holes to the other. Great numbers were employed in carrying earth, to repair breaches which had been made in their work by the rain.
Harry laid some dead flies and some small crumbs of bread upon the track where the ants were at work; but they were not diverted from their labor by this temptation; on the contrary, they pushed the dead flies and the crumbs out of their way, and went steadily on with their business. Harry’s mother told him she had tried the same experiment before, and that, perhaps, another time the ants might choose to eat, instead of pushing away the food, that was offered to them. Harry and Lucy staid, patiently watching the ants, till it was time to dress for dinner.
After dinner Harry’s father told him, that the weather was sufficiently fine for their jaunt to Flower-hill; and Harry now saw, that it was not such a great misfortune, as he had thought it in the morning, to have his walk deferred, and he and Lucy set out joyfully with their father and mother, to go to see their uncle.
Their way lay through some pretty fields, and over stiles, and through a wood, and along a shady lane. As they passed through the fields, Harry, when they came to a cornfield, was able to tell the name of the grain, which was growing in it, and Lucy told him the names of several of the wild flowers and weeds which were growing among the corn and under the hedges.
During the last year, Harry had learnt to be very active in body, as well as in mind; and, when he came to a low stile, he put his hands upon the top rail, and vaulted nimbly over it. And Lucy ran almost as fast as her brother, and was very active in every exercise that was proper for a little girl.
They soon came to a windmill, which went round with great quickness. It was not necessary for his father to warn Harry, not to go too near the arms or sails of the windmill, as he had read in a “Present for a little Boy” how dangerous it is, to go within the reach of a windmill’s sails.
He was not however foolishly afraid, but wisely careful. He kept out of the reach of the sails, but he was not afraid of going to the door, or the wheel and lever, by which the top was turned round; and he counted, with the assistance of his father, the number of turns which the sails made in a minute.
His father looked at his watch, during one minute; and Harry counted the number of revolutions, or turns, that the sails made in that time. He found, that they went round forty-five times in a minute.
Lucy observed, that the middle of the sails moved round through a very small space, but that the ends, or tips of them, went very fast.
Father. My dear, you see a black spot in that part of the cloth of the sails, which is near the centre of the arms, goes as often round as the tips of the sails — What then do you mean, by saying, that the tips move very fast?
Lucy. I mean, that they go a great way in a little time.
Father. What do you mean by a great way?
Lucy. I am afraid, that I cannot explain myself clearly — I mean, that the tips of the windmill sails go through a great way
in the air — I believe, I should say, that they describe a very large circle; and the part of the sails, that are near the centre, describe a small circle.
Father. Now I understand you distinctly: the circle, which the tips describe, is very large, when compared with that described by the part near the centre. I have tried several times how fast the tips of windmill sails move; and, when there was a brisk wind, they moved a mile in a minute.
Harry. That is very fast indeed! — But how could you tell this, father?
Father. I cannot explain to you now; but some time hence I will.
They now went through a wood where they saw squirrels jumping from tree to tree with great agility; and rabbits, sitting up on their hind legs, looking about them, and running from one hole to another, as if they were at play. Harry asked several questions about the squirrels and rabbits, and about woodpeckers, and other birds that he saw. By these means, he and Lucy got some knowledge in their walk, and were amused the whole way to their uncle’s.
Harry. Father, this walk puts me in mind of ‘Eyes and no Eyes,’ in Evenings at Home. I feel very glad to find, that things, which I have read in that book, are like real things, and that what I have read is of use to me.’
Neither Lucy nor Harry had ever seen their uncle B — ; and they expected, as he was called Doctor, that he must be a very grave old man, who would not take the trouble to talk to little children: but they were much mistaken; for they found, that he was very cheerful, and that he talked to them a great deal.
After tea he took them into his study, in which, beside a great many books, there were several instruments and machines of different sorts.
They had both seen a barometer and thermometer at home, but the barometer at Doctor B—’s was much larger, than what Harry had seen before; and it was not fixed up against the wall, but was hung upon a stand with three legs, in such a manner, that, when it was touched, it swung about; and the shining quicksilver, with inside of it, rose and fell, so as to show that it did not stick to the tube, that contained it. There were an air-pump, and a microscope, and a wooden orrery, in the room, and a pair of very large globes.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 347