“Mamma, I could scarcely see it before, and now I can see it quite plainly, and I will read it to you.”
He read aloud, —
“For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; For want of a shoe, the horse was lost.”
Just as Frank got to “the horse was lost” the rushlight was burnt out.
“O, is the candle gone so soon?” cried Frank. “Mamma,” continued Frank, turning to his mother, whilst Mrs. Wheeler opened the shutters, “Mamma, you know such a candle as that would last, at home, the whole night; several hours a rush candle lasts at home, mamma.”
“Do you think that the candles being at home makes any difference as to their burning?” said Frank’s mother, smiling.
“No, no, mamma,” said Frank, laughing; “I know that the rush candles, which we have at home, would burn as long a time here as they do at our house. But I mean that ours burn longer, because there is more grease, or tallow, about them. Mamma, if there was no tallow about this rush, would it burn at all? or would it burn away a great deal sooner than it does now?”
“Try, and you will see, my dear,” said his mother.
Mrs. Wheeler gave. Frank a peeled rush, and he lighted it at the fire, and it burned; but the flame was not bright, and it soon went out. Frank dipped it into the grease, and it burned better. Mrs. Wheeler went to see if George’s supper was ready; and Frank continued talking to his mother: —
“Mamma, I believe it is the melted grease that burns, and makes the bright flame of the candle; but I do not know how. Mamma, what becomes of the grease, or the tallow, when the candle burns?” —
“Do not you see the smoke that rises from the top of the flame?” said his mother.
“Yes, mamma, I see the smoke; but what has that to do with what I asked you?”
“Do you not know what that smoke is?
Do not you remember your father’s showing you, one evening after tea, the difference between smoke and steam?”
“I remember, mamma, steam comes from water, when it is made hot; I remember papa showed me the steam, the vapor rising from the hot water in the tea-urn; and I recollect papa held a cold plate over it, and showed me that the cold turned the vapor back again into water; I saw the drops of water condensed; I remember the word. And I recollect he afterwards held a plate over the candle, and said that what rose from the candle was smoke, not steam; I do not remember about the smoke; I recollect only that the plate was blackened which was held over the candle, and that the plate was not wet; but I do not know exactly how it was.”
“Did you never hear any thing more about smoke?” said his mother.
“O yes! I recollect papa told me that smoke, when cold, became soot, and fell down to the ground, or stuck to any cold thing that was near it.”
“Just so the smoke of the candle is the vapor of melted tallow, which boils by the heat of the candle; and when this vapor is condensed by cold, it becomes soot, such as you see sticking to the ceilings, where many candles are used; soot is frequently collected, on purpose, upon plates held over lamps, and is then called lampblack.”
“Mamma, once I saw, in the little, little barrel, at the time the painter was going to paint the black board, at the bottom of your room, some light, black powder. Was that lampblack?”
“Yes, my dear, that was lampblack; and it is used for paint, and for making blacking for shoes and boots.”
“Yery well, mamma, I understand that; but I want to go back to the candle; the melted tallow — the vapor of boiling tallow — makes the candle burn, and keeps the candle burning. Mamma, I do not know how, and why, the candle burns. And what is the flame?”
“Frank, till you have more knowledge, I will not attempt to explain that to you,” said his mother. “But, whenever you can understand it, you shall read all that is known about the burning of a candle. You will find it in that book which your brother Edward was reading yesterday—’ Conversations on Chemistry.’”
“Ay, that book which he likes so much. But, mamma, I do not like it. Edward said to me, ‘Don’t interrupt me, Frank; I am busy; I am very happy, reading this.’ Mamma, I got up behind his chair, and began trying to read over his shoulder; but I did not like the book much.”
“No, because you did not understand it at all.”
“And I am afraid I shall never understand it,” said Frank. —
“Do you not understand parts of books now, Frank, which you did not understand when you began to learn to read?”
“Yes, parts of ‘Evenings at Home,’ and parts of ‘Sandford and Merton,’ which I did not understand, and did not like, last year; and now I like them very much.”
“Then you may hope that the time will come, if you try to improve yourself, when you will understand and like ‘ Conversations on Chemistry,’ as your brother now does. Even what you have seen and learned this evening will help you a little.”
Just then, Frank looked out of the window, and he saw the little girl, who had been sent for strawberries, coming along the path which led to the house. She brought a basket of fine strawberries. The old woman set a little deal table in the porch, where the honeysuckles, which hung over the roof of the porch, smelled very sweet. The sun was setting, and it was cheerful and pleasant.
“Look, master Frank! I have strawberries for you, and for myself, too!” said Mrs. Wheeler. “My George takes care of my garden, and I have plenty of fruit and flowers; these honeysuckles, that smell so sweet, are all his planting.” —
Frank’s father returned from the oat field, where he had been; and Frank and his father and mother sat in the porch covered with honeysuckles, and ate strawberries and cream.
After Frank had eaten as many strawberries as he liked, he and his father and mother thanked the good-natured old woman, and his mother put into the little girl’s hand some money. The girl courtesied, and smiled, and looked happy.
Then Frank followed his father and mother out of the cottage, and his father said, that they would walk home by a new way, through the oat field, and afterwards through a neat farm-yard, and round by a pretty lane, which would take them to the bridge. Frank did not hear what his father said; and his father, turning his head back, saw Frank walking slowly behind him, and looking as if he was thinking intently of something.
“What are you thinking of, Frank?” said his father.
“I am thinking, papa, about money.”
“What about money, Frank?”
“I am thinking how happy that little girl looked when mamma gave her some money, and how glad people always look when money is given to them. The reason, I know, is because they can buy things with money — bread and meat, or clothes, or balls and tops, and playthings, or houses, chaises, or any thing they wish for. But, papa, I wonder that the people who have bread and meat, and clothes, and tops, and balls, and all sorts of pretty or useful things, are so foolish as to give them for little bits of gold, or silver, or copper, which are of no use.”
“No use! My dear, recollect that you have just said that they are of use, to buy any thing people want or wish for. Suppose you had two tops, and that you wanted to have a ball, instead of one of your tops; you might sell one of your tops, and with the money that would be paid to you for your top, you might buy a ball.”
“But, papa, why could not I change one of my tops for a ball, without buying or selling, or having any thing to do with money?”
“Your top is worth more than a ball; however, you might, if you liked it, exchange your top for a ball; but it is not so easy to make exchanges of heavy and large things as of light and small things; you cannot carry large or heavy things — for instance, coals or cows — about with you, to exchange; and yet one man may have more coals, and another more cows, than he wants; and, if they wish to exchange these, then it is convenient to give money, which can readily be carried in the pocket.”
Frank did not quite understand what his father meant; his father said that it was too difficult for h in to comprehend, and that he should only puzzle
him, if he talked to him any more about it, yet.
“Papa,” said Frank, looking a little mortified, “I am sorry that there are so many things that I cannot understand yet. What shall I do?”
“Attend to those things which you can understand, my dear boy; and then you will learn more and more, every day and every hour. Here are men reaping oats. Look at the sickle with which they are cutting down the oats. Did you ever see a sickle before?”
“Yes.”
Frank remembered having seen sickles last autumn, when his mother took him to see some men reaping wheat; and he said he recollected that the bundles of the wheat, which the men bound together and set upright on their stalks, were called sheaves, and that the top of each separate stalk of wheat is called the ear.
His father bade him run and gather an ear of barley, which was growing in the next field, on the left hand, and also an ear of wheat, which was growing in a field on the right hand; and when Frank had gathered these, his father showed him the difference between oats, barley, and wheat. Frank knew that wheat is made into bread, and that barley and oats are sometimes made into bread, and that oats are eaten by horses But there is another use of barley, which ha did not know.
“Did you ever taste beer, Frank?”
“Yes, papa.”
“Do you know of what beer is made?”
“I think my brother Edward told me that it is made of malt and hops; and he once, when the brewer was brewing, showed, me some hops; he said that hops gave the bitter taste to beer. But, papa, I do not know what malt is.”
“Malt is corn, that has been made to begin to grow again, and that is not suffered to grow a long time. Corn, you know, is a name for many kinds of grain; as wheat, barley, maize, oats, and rye.”
“How do they make it grow a little?” said Frank.
“By wetting the grain and heaping it up, which makes it hot; then it swells, and the grain becomes soft; and, if it is opened, it is found to contain a kind of flour. I think I once gave you some malt to taste. Do you remember the taste of it, Frank?”
“Yes, papa.; it has a sort of sweet taste.”
“Well; when the malt has swelled, and is ready to burst, they stop its growth by taking it out of the heap, and spreading it upon the ground, and at last by putting it into a place that dries the corn, and prevents it from growing any more.”
“Papa, you showed me such a place at Mr.
Crawford’s, the maltster’s, and he called it a kiln. And what do they do next to the malt?”
“They then brew it, and make beer of it.”
“I know that. But how do they brew it, papa?”
“I cannot explain that to you, now, my dear; but the next time the brewer comes, I will take you into the brewhouse, and you may then see part of what is done to make beer of malt.”
Whilst Frank’s father had been talking about malt and beer, they had walked through two or three fields, and they came to a neat farm house.
The man to whom the house belonged came out, and said, —
“How do you do, landlord? Madam, you are welcome. Will you walk in my yard, sir, and look at my new barn, which I am just now thatching?”
“Pray, papa, take me with you,” said Frank; “for I want very much to know how to thatch the old garden house better.” His father took him to the yard. When they came there, Frank saw, lying on the ground, on one side of the yard, a great heap of straw, and on the other side he saw a bundle of hay, of which horses were eating. As he was passing between the heap of straw and the bundle of hay, Frank heard his mother tell his father, that she once knew a young lady, who had lived till she was fourteen years old in the country, and yet who did not, at that age, know the difference between straw and hay.
Frank laughed, and said, “What a very ignorant young lady that must be, mamma! I know the difference between straw and hay perfectly; this on my right hand is straw, and this on my left hand is hay. Cows and horses eat hay, but they do not eat straw; beds are sometimes made of straw; and hats, and a great many things, are made of straw; and houses are thatched with straw, and not with hay. You see, mamma, I know a great deal more than that young lady, though she was fourteen. — How very old!”
“But all this time you have not told me, Frank, what hay is, and what straw is.”
“Hay is grass dried, and straw is the stalks of wheat. You know, mamma, last autumn I saw the men threshing — I saw the corn that was threshed out of the ears; and what was left, after the corn was beat out, you told me was called chaff; and the stalks, mamma, you told me were to be called straw.”
“Well remembered, Frank,” said his father. “Perhaps, if the poor ignorant young lady of fourteen had, at your age, had as kind a mother as you have, and had been told and shown all these things, she might have remembered them as you do. But, Frank, the stalks of wheat are not the only stalks that are called straw. The stalks of wheat are called wheat straw, but there are other kinds of straw. The stalks of oats, and of barley, and of rye, are all called straw.”
“Which kind of straw is the best for thatching houses, papa?” —
“Wheat straw, I believe,” said his father. By this time, they had come to the barn which the man was thatching. Frank looked up attentively a little while, and then said,—” The man is so far above me, papa, that I cannot well see how he fastens on the straw. May I go up this ladder, papa?”
Frank pointed to a ladder which stood beside that on which the thatcher was at work. Frank’s father made him no answer, till he had examined if the ladder was firmly fixed; and then he told Frank that he might go up.
“I will follow you, Frank,” added he, “to take care of you, when you get to the top.”
“No, papa, thank you, you need not; for I am not at all afraid, because I know so well how to go up and down a ladder.”
Frank ran to the ladder, and a maid servant, who was milking a cow in the yard, cried out, —
“Master! master! dear young master! What are you about? Don’t go up the ladder, or you’ll break your pretty little legs.”
Frank laughed, and began to go up the ladder directly. He had been accustomed to go up and down a step ladder, which his father had in his library. Formerly, when he was a very little boy, he had not been allowed to go up that ladder, and he never had gone up it till his father gave him leave. And now, he was proud of being permitted to mount a ladder. So he went up; and when he was half way up, he turned back his head to look at the maid, who had hid her face with her hands. Frank laughed more and more at her fright.
“Take care, Frank; mind what you are about; hold fast by the sides of the ladder. You are in much more danger now than you were in crossing the plank over the brook; for, if you miss a rung, ( a step of the ladder,) you will fall and hurt yourself very much. There is no courage in being careless.”
Frank knew that his father told him the truth about danger, as well as about every thing else, and he always attended to what his father advised; therefore he left off laughing, and he took care to hold fast, and not to miss any rung of the ladder. He found that this ladder was much higher than that which he had been used to go up; his father was behind him; he reached the topmost rung safely, and his father put one of his arms round Frank, and held him, for his head grew a little giddy; and he had not been used to look down from such a height. In a few minutes, when his attention was fixed on what the thatcher was doing, he forgot this disagreeable feeling; and he was entertained by seeing the manner in which the house was thatched.
“Papa, I see that he puts on the straw quite differently from what I did, when I was trying to thatch the house in my garden.”
“Why, how did you put on the straw?”
“I put it in bundles upon sticks, that made the roof.”
“What do you mean by bundles?”
“I took as much as I could grasp, or hold in my hand, and I put it on the wooden roof, not quite like steps, but one above another.”
“And you found that the rain came in between
every bundle, did not you?”
“I did, indeed; and I was very sorry; after all my pains, after I had thatched my house, the water came in, the first time there was a hard shower of rain.”
“Yes; because you put the bundles of straw the wrong way. You see the thatcher does not lay handfuls of straw in steps, one above the other, as you did; but he begins at the eaves of the roof, near the wall, just at one end of the house, and he lays several bundles one beside the other.”
“I understand you,” said Frank. “I put them one above the other, like the steps of the ladder; he puts them beside each other, like the sides of the ladder.”
“He fastens them down with bent twigs, which he calls scollops,” said Frank’s father.
—”Or else, look, here is another way — he fastens the straw down with a rope made of straw, with which he actually sews the thatch down to the roof, with this long iron rod, which, you see, he uses like a needle.”
“But, papa, you said that he begins at the eaves of the house. What is the eaves?”
“The eaves are that part of a roof that is nearest the wall. They are the lowest part of the roof, and the thatch hangs over the wall, to carry off the rain without its touching the wall. Here is a scollop. You see, it is sharpened at both ends, that it may stick in the roof. Observe the thatcher. He is going to put on the second row of thatch above the first.”
“Yes; I see that the lower part of the bundle, that he is now putting on, is put over the upper part of the bundles below it.”
“Why does he do so?”
“I do not know.”
“Think a little, Frank.”
“I do think, papa, — but I cannot find it out.”
“The rain would fall between the bottom of the row which he is now putting on, and the first row, if the bottom of the second did not lap over the top of the first; and the rain would run in at the holes made by the scollops, if they were not covered with the second row of thatch.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 595