Daughter. She takes some wood, or some coal, and puts under it some pine wood, which she calls kindling, and some shavings, and then takes a match and sets the shavings on fire, and very soon the fire is made.
Mother. But does she not first do something to the match?
Daughter. O, yes; I forgot to say that she lights the match first, and then sets fire to the shavings with the lighted match.
Mother. But how does she light the match, my dear?
Daughter. Why, mother, have you never seen her? She rubs one end of the match on the box, where there is a little piece of sand-paper, and that sets the match on fire.
Mother. Is there any fire in the sand-paper, Caroline?
Daughter. Why, no, mother; certainly not.
Mother. Was there any fire in the match, before she lighted it?
Daughter. Why, no, mother; if there had been, she would have had no need to light it.
Mother. You see, then, that fire came when she rubbed the match against the sand-paper; and that the fire was not in the sand-paper, nor in the match.
Daughter. Yes, mother, but I did not see where it came from.
Mother. I am going to explain that to you, my dear, in the next lesson.
[A] This lesson, together with the two following lessons, is taken from a little book, called “Juvenile Philosophy,” published by Messrs. A.S. Barnes & Co., 51 John-street, New York. It consists of nine conversations, between a little girl and her mother, on the subjects, Rain, Color, Vision or Sight, the Eye, Light, Fire, Heat and Wind.
The same subject, continued.
Mother. Did you ever see a person rub his hands together, when he was cold?
Daughter. O yes, mother, a great many times. I have seen father come in from the cold, and rub his hands together, and afterwards hold them to the fire and rub them again, and then they get warm.
Mother. And now, Caroline, take your hand and rub it quickly backwards and forwards, over that woolen table-cloth, on the table in the corner of the room, and tell me whether that will make your hand warm.
Daughter. O, yes, dear mother; I feel it grow warmer, the faster I rub it.
Mother. Here are two small pieces of wood. Touch them to your cheek, and tell me whether they feel warm now.
Daughter. They do not feel warm, nor cold, mother.
Mother. Now rub them together quickly a little while, and then touch them to your cheek.
Daughter. O, dear, mother! they are so hot that they almost burnt my cheek.
Mother. Yes, Caroline; and do you not recollect, when you read Robinson Crusoe, that his man Friday made a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together?