“How does sugar grow?” enquired Charles.

“It is made from the juice of reeds, called sugar canes,” said his papa.—­“A plantation of sugar canes is very pretty, they grow very high, and are of a beautiful gold colour, streaked with red; and at the top of this yellow cane are long green leaves, which hang down round it:  but this is not all, for out of the midst of these leaves, there grows a long stem, like a thin silver wand; and at the top of it, is something that looks like a plume of white feathers, edged with lilac.”

“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed Charles:—­“I should like to go to the West-Indies, if it was only to see a sugar plantation; but how do they get the sugar, papa?”

“When the canes are ripe, Charles, the negroes cut them down, and tie them up in bundles, and carry them to a mill, where the juice is pressed out.

“This juice is boiled several times in large coppers, and the coarse parts separated from the fine, which at last dries into sugar.  It is all brown at first, or what you call moist sugar; but by mixing different things with it, and boiling it again in a particular manner, they can make lump sugar, and sugar candy; and this is done by the black slaves, who have been dragged away from their own country to be sold to the planters:  so you see Charles, that even so simple a thing as a lump of sugar, is the cause of a vast deal of cruelty and injustice.”

[Illustration:  Man (Drawing).]

CHAP.  III.

A VISIT TO THE THEATRE.

Charles had never seen a play; but his papa and mamma had always promised him that when he was seven years old, they would take him to Covent-Garden Theatre, and as that time had now nearly come, he did not forget to remind them of their promise.  His birth-day was the fifteenth of January, which was lucky, because they always perform pantomimes in the Christmas holidays, and he was very desirous of seeing harlequin and columbine, and the clown, as he had heard a great deal about them from his young friends in the square, who had been to see them.  As the day approached, Charles could think of nothing but the play, and said he thought it would be the happiest day of his life; but his mamma told him she hoped he would have much greater cause to be happy many days of his life, than going to a theatre; however Charles did not think there could be any greater cause for happiness, and his mamma said, it was as well for him to think so:  The night before his birth-day, he went to bed in high spirits, saying he was sure he should not be able to sleep all night; but that was a mistake, for he went to sleep almost directly; and did not wake till the morning.

[Illustration:  Little Charles seeing A Christmas pantomime.]

As soon as he was dressed, he ran down stairs to breakfast, with a smiling face.  “Here is the day come at last!” he said, “I am so glad mamma, I wish it was night; I am seven years old to-day.”