Harry and Lucy were glad, that they had found something entertaining to read to themselves; because their father and mother were both engaged with their own employments this night, and could not attend to them. While they were reading, Lucy wanted her pencil, to draw for Harry the figure of Charles’s wain, and to make the map of the sky, with dots for each star, which Tommy Merton had proposed to make. But Lucy had not her pencil in her pocket; she had left it in her mother’s dressing-room, on the chimney-piece, as well as she recollected; and, when she went to look for the pencil, by the fire light, she saw the pieces of her broken bottle: she had a great mind to put them into the fire, for she knew that glass would melt, if it was put into the fire. She recollected the print of the glass-blower, which she had seen in her Book of Trades, and she wished much to see glass melted. But recollecting also at this moment, that she had done mischief, by throwing the chestnuts into the fire, she determined not to throw this glass into the fire, without asking first, whether it would do any harm. So she carried the broken glass carefully to the room where her father and mother were sitting, and she asked, if she might put it into the fire.
Her father, pleased by her prudence, was so good, as to leave what he was doing, to show Lucy what she wished to see. He put the bits of glass into the hottest part of the fire, and in a few minutes the glass became red-hot. Then he sent Harry to his workshop for a pair of pincers. Harry knew the names, and shape, and places of all his father’s tools; so he easily found the pincers, and he brought them. Lucy blew the fire, till it became of a white heat; then her father took the thick part of the bottom of the glass out of the fire. It was now melted into a lump, he held it by one end with the hot tongs, and desired Harry to take hold of the other end of the glass with the pincers, and to try to pull it out as far as he could. To Lucy’s surprise, the glass was now so soft and yielding, that Harry pulled it out as easily as he could have pulled out warm sealing-wax; and he drew out the glass across the little table, at which his mother was sitting. — When drawn out, the glass looked like a thin shining thread — like what is called spun sugar — that is, sugar which has been heated and melted, and drawn out in a similar (or like) manner.
Harry and Lucy were entertained by seeing this, and they asked several questions about the manner, in which different glass things are made — they asked, for instance, how the panes of glass, which they saw in the windows are made; and how looking-glasses are made; and they wondered how the cut glass, or that which they saw in chandeliers, is made. But their father told them, that they could not possibly learn so many things at once. That perhaps, at some future time, he should have an opportunity of taking them to see a glasshouse, and of showing them how different kinds of glass are made.
‘To-morrow, father, will you take us,’ said Lucy; ‘or next week?’
‘No, neither to-morrow, my dear, nor next week — you must not see, nor attempt to learn a variety of things at once, else you will learn nothing well, but will only have a jumble of things in your head. Now go to bed, my dear children.’
Then Harry put the pincers into their place, and threw the bits of glass into the fire; and Lucy put by their books, their pencil and paper, and their map of the stars; they were careful to put all these things into their places, because their mother had advised them not to make it troublesome or inconvenient to show them experiments, or to let them amuse themselves in the same room with her and with their father.
‘Now we have put all our things into their places, mother,’ said Lucy; and, after we have gone to bed, you will not have the trouble of doing that for us — Goodnight. You will like, that we should try experiments another time, I hope, mother, because we have not been troublesome.’
In the morning, Harry and Lucy went to their father’s room; and Harry observed that they had lost a day by their father’s not being at home. So now,’ added he, ‘we must make up for it, and get on to the barometer.’ Lucy was, at this instant, mixing up the lather for her father, who was going to shave. She took a tobacco-pipe, and blew a bubble into the air; and when it burst, she said —
‘Do, Harry, let me ask one more question about a bubble. Father, when a bubble bursts, docs the air, which was withinside of it, stay where it was — or what becomes of it?’
‘I believe that it does not stay exactly in the same place where it was,’ said her father; ‘it spreads, and mixes with the rest of the air in the room. It is supposed, that, when there is less air in one place than in another, the air, which is collected in the place which contains the most of it, rushes into that which contains the least of it.’
‘But what makes some places fuller of air than others,’ said Lucy.
Her father said, that he did not know; but he reminded Lucy, that air can be squeezed into a smaller space, than it usually occupies.
‘Why it occupies the whole world, does it not,’ said Harry.
‘No, brother, not the whole world, you know; for stones, and trees, and animals, have places in the world; but the air is all round us, and is in every place where there is nothing else.’
‘That is true, or nearly true, Lucy,’ said her father. ‘Harry, do you know any other name, by which people sometimes call the air, that is all round us,’.
Harry said, that he did not recollect any other name for it; but Lucy said that she believed the air round us is sometimes called the atmosphere; and she said she had heard people speak of the pressure of the atmosphere, but that she did not clearly understand what they meant.
‘Take this hand fire-screen, my dear,’ said her father; ‘move it upwards and downwards, and backwards and forwards. — What do you feel?’
‘I feel, that I cannot move it quickly,’ said Lucy.
‘What prevents you? — Let Harry answer.’
‘I believe it is the wind,’ said Harry.
‘There is no wind in the room,’ said Lucy.
‘But when you move the screen backwards and forwards, I feel a wind,’ said Harry.
‘It is the moving the screen, which puts the air in the room in motion. You will feel the air, or atmosphere, in any part of the room, if you move against it,’ said his father. ‘Take this little parasol, open it — half — do not fasten it up; now run with it against the air, holding the outside of the parasol from you.’
Harry did so, and found, that, as he ran, the parasol was closed by the air in the room, against which he pressed. Then his father bid him stand on a chair, and let the parasol fall when it was shut; and it fell quickly. He then opened it; and when it was open, Harry let it fall from the same height. It now fell very gently, and Harry perceived that it fell slowly; because, when it was open, it was resisted by the air underneath it in falling: he also observed, that the parasol, as it fell, made a wind, as he said.
His father then cut out of a card the shape of a wheel; and he cut the card in several places, from the outside, or circumference, towards the centre, and he turned these bits of cards sloping, so as to make a little windmill: he put a large pin through the centre of it, and stuck this pin into the uncut end of a pencil, so as to make a handle. Then he blew against it; and when he found that he could blow it round steadily, he gave it to Lucy, and, opening the window, desired her to hold it against the air at the open window, which, rushing in suddenly, turned the little windmill. Then he shut the window, and bid Lucy run with the windmill, as fast as she could, from one end of the room to the other, holding it in such a manner, that it might press against the air as she ran. She did so, and the windmill turned quickly; then she and Harry perceived, that the forcing and pressing against the air made the windmill turn round in the same manner, as it had done when the wind blew against it.
‘Harry,’ said his father, ‘take these bellows, blow the fire with them. — What comes out of the nose, or nozzle of the bellows, as it is called?’
‘Air or wind,’ said Harry.
‘What makes that wind?’
‘My blowing the bellows,’ said Harry.
‘Wh
at do you mean by blowing the bellows?’
‘Making the bellows blow,’ said Harry.
‘But how do you make the bellows blow?’
‘By pulling up the top of the bellows, and shutting it down,’ said Harry.
‘Very true,’ said his father; ‘ that opens the bellows, and makes room for air to go into them.-’
‘The air,’ said Harry, ‘ goes in at the large hole in the bottom of the bellows.’
‘It does so,’ said his father, and some goes in at the pipe, or nose: but what hindeis the air from going out of the large hole in the bottom, where it went in?’
Harry said, ‘There is a little flap, or door, that shuts down, when I blow the bellows.’
‘That little door,’ said his father, ‘or valve, as it is called, falls down by its own weight, when you blow the bellows, and it shuts that hole; and the air, which is then in the bellows, goes out at the pipe into the fire. If I were to paste a piece of paper over the hole, in the bottom of the bellows, what would happen?’
‘The air,’ said Harry, ‘would come into the bellows at the nose, when I lift up the top, and would go out again at the nose, when I shut the bellows.’
‘Then,’ asked his father, ‘ what is the use of the hole, at the bottom of the valve?’
‘I believe,’ answered Harry, ‘ it is to let the air in more quickly, and more readily.’
‘It is so,’ said his father: ‘ I will paste a piece of paper over the hole, in the bottom of the bellows, and, when it is dry, to-morrow, we will see what will happen. — Now let me finish dressing myself.’
This day was very cold, and the fire in the breakfast room did not burn so well as usual. Harry’s father, who was a man able to do things with his own hands, went for some dry wood, which he sawed into pieces of a certain length, convenient for putting on the fire. Harry could saw very well, and he assisted his father; Lucy stood by, and she asked him to let her try to saw. At first, Lucy could scarcely move the saw; it seemed to stick in the wood, and she said she wondered how Harry could do it so easily. Harry showed her how to move the saw, and guided her hand at first; and, after a little practice, with some little patience, she got on pretty well. After she had sawed the branch in two, her father split it down the middle, with a cleaver, or a little hatchet. He did not allow the children yet to meddle with the hatchet, lest they should cut themselves, as it requires some skill, care, and practice, to be able to manage a hatchet well.
Harry and Lucy wished that they might saw wood every day for the fire. They said that it would be pleasant work; and that it would warm them so well, and that it would be so useful! — and they begged their father would lend them a saw, and give them wood to saw, and a block, or a horse, to saw upon.
Their father answered: ‘My dears, do you think that I have nothing to do, but to get you every thing you want? I am afraid, that, if I were to take the trouble to provide you with these things, you would soon grow tired, and, perhaps, after sawing half a dozen bits of wood to-day and to-morrow, you would throw aside, and forget it; as I have sometimes seen you throw aside, and forget, or break toys, which delighted you the first hour or day you possessed them.’
‘Break! O, father! my dear father!’ cried Lucy, ‘that was only the foolish toy that lady gave me, of which I could not make any use, nor any diversion in the least; after I had once looked at it, there was an end of it. I could not move the wooden woman’s arms, nor do any thing with her, so I forgot her and left her on the floor, and the footman, by accident, put his foot upon her, when he was bringing in coals. But indeed, father, I never break nor forget my playthings, if I can play with them. — There’s my cart! I have had it a year, a whole year: — And there’s my hoop — my battledores and shuttlecock — my jack straws, my cup and ball — and my ivory alphabet.’
‘And there’s my cart, and my pump, and my bricks, and my top, and our dissected maps,’ cried Harry, ‘I am never tired of them, I know. — And there is no danger, father, that we should grow tired of a saw, if you will only be so good as to give us one; because it will always give us something to do, and, as Lucy says, we grow tired only of things that we cannot make any use of. Pray, father, try us.’ Their father was so kind, as to grant their request; he lent them a saw, and a horse, that held the wood which they wanted to saw; and he allowed them to work in a little room, on one side of the hall, where there was no furniture, but which had been used as a sort of lumber room. Here was kept a provision of wood for the winter, and there was plenty of branches, which the children could saw; their father told them to saw these into pieces of about a foot or eighteen inches long; and he said, that when they were sawed into these pieces, he would have them split.
‘Father!’ cried Harry, ‘let us do it all ourselves. I can split them, I assure you; and we will take care not to cut ourselves, if you will lend us the little hatchet. Now, father, I will show you how well I can use the hatchet. Lucy may saw, and I will split.’
Their father however would not lend them the hatchet yet. He told them, that, if they sawed only small branches, such as he would give them, these need not be split asunder afterwards. They sawed this morning wood enough for the evening’s fire. This evening they enjoyed the first fire made with wood of their own sawing — the first fire acquired by the labor of their own hands.
‘Did you ever see such a delightful blaze in your life, mother?’ said Lucy.
‘Father,’ said Harry, ‘this fire has warmed us twice — I mean, the sawing the wood warmed us, while we were at work; and now it warms us again whilst it is burning. Mother, would you be so good to begin to read about the way of walking in dangerous places, now Lucy and I are sitting so comfortable at your feet, and the fire is blazing so finely?’
Their kind mother smiled, and she began to read as follows: —
‘In the neighborhood of Mount Pilate, there are people who give lessons in the art of walking, as regularly as lessons in dancing are given elsewhere. It is of the greatest importance, in certain dangerous places, to know which foot to make use of, or which hand to use, to preserve the balance of the body; and when you are to step on sharp pointed rocks, you must be pure when you are to put down your heel or your toe first; for want of instruction, or for want of attending to these instructions, you might fall down a precipice, or be obliged to remain in a painful attitude, without daring to go forwards or backwards.
‘The shoes usually worn on these mountains are merely soles of thin light wood, tied on the foot with leather straps. There are iron horse-shoe nails, at the bottom of the soles, which stand out from the sole near half an inch. The mountain climber depends chiefly on his stick, or pole. This pole must be light and pliable, and yet strong enough to bear the weight of a man, if it should happen, as it sometimes does, that the pole is stretched from one point of a rock to another, over the man’s head, while he clings, with both hands to it, as he passes beneath. The point of the pole is armed with iron at least two inches long.
‘When a man wants to go down a steep descent, he does not set out with his face turned towards the bottom of the hill, because his whole body would be out of a perpendicular line—’
‘Out of a perpendicular line!’ interrupted Lucy—’ Mother, I am not clear about perpendicular and horizontal—’
‘No!’ cried Harry, starting up; ‘then, my dear Lucy, I will make you clear about them in an instant, and for ever. Look,’ cried he, as he stood bolt upright, ‘now I am perpendicular; and now,’ continued he, throwing himself flat down on the carpet, ‘now I am horizontal.’
‘Thank you. — Now, mother, I shall understand it.’
‘The man’s whole body would be out of a perpendicular line, so that, when he advanced three or four steps, as the hill becomes steeper, he would fall forward; therefore, the man turns his side toward the bottom of the hill. In this position, he has one foot higher than the other; if his left side is toward the bottom of the hill, his right foot must stand highest; this must be observed, that you m
ay understand the manner in which he then makes use of his stick. He holds it sloping with both his hands, one of its points resting against the ground; and this point must be above the place where his highest foot stands. The right hand must be at the bottom of the stick, and the left is at the middle of it. In this attitude the man leans on the stick, with which he rakes or scrapes away the ground, as he descends the hill. You may imagine with what swiftness he goes, and without the least danger; because his body, leaning on the stick, and approaching the ground, there is no danger of falling. If, by chance, the man’s feet were to slip, the weight of his body leaning on the stick, it is necessary only to slide the left hand, which was in the middle, towards the bottom of the stick. Then it is impossible, that the man should slip far; because the stick, becoming almost perpendicular, and being grasped near the bottom by both his hands, it catches against the least obstacle or hollow in the ground; and this is sufficient to stop the man from sliding further downwards.
‘In places where there are a great number of loose pebbles, as the most skilful walker might slide down along with the loose pebbles, two or three walkers join, and agree to go together; they provide themselves with a long pole, which they all hold with one hand; by these means, if one slips, the others hold him up. If all the party slip, which may chance to happen, he, who first quits his hold of the pole, is punished in whatever way the others think proper.’
‘My dear little Lucy,’ said her mother, putting down the book, and looking at Lucy, whose eyes were closed, and whose head was nodding —
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 353