Mary's scrap book

Preface

What child is not fond of flowers, birds, and butterflies? These most beautiful of Nature’s works are the first objects which delight and in¬ terest their minds. As soon as a child is old enough to be led into the fields, with what eager joy will it stop to gather each flower that appears in its path, loading its little basket with these new-found treasures ; and with what intense in¬ terest will it watch the sweet warbler as it flutters from spray to spray, or the brilliant butterfly as it flutters gaily before it in the sunshine ! How it

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PREFACE.

longs to examine more nearly that soft plumage, and those beautiful velvet wings !

Then, when returned from one of these joyous excursions, the child will still find something to interest and engage his attention, in the contents of his basket. Seated on the floor, with his gathered favourites scattered around him, he may now be seen earnestly and thoughtfully engaged in the examination of one of them, — carefully picking off the petals one by one, with his little fat fingers ; and then, after their removal, peeping curiously into the calyx, to see what hidden won¬ ders are now brought to light.

As soon as children are old enough to make these observations by themselves, they are old enough

PREFACE.

V to be led to observe and inquire into the uses of objects around them; and the sooner they are ac¬ customed so to exercise the powers of their mind, (in any manner which is pleasing and interesting to them), the more easily will the habit for obser¬ vation and inquiry be instilled into them.

To encourage in them a taste for searching and examining into the beautiful and wonderful works of the Creation, will be providing them with a source of innocent amusement and delightful gra¬ tification through every period of their lives : and what is a more important advantage, perhaps, in thus directing their early thoughts, it is through this happy channel, where their strongest feelings of joy and admiration are called forth, that they

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PREFACE.

may be led to look to the Creator of all that is beautiful and wonderful, and to feel love and gra¬ titude towards Him, for these proofs of his great goodness to them.

A wish to assist (in however trifling a degree) in thus directing the minds of the young, was the writer’s motive for publishing this little volume : but a wish, at the same time, to write in a style that would make it pleasing and interesting to the minds of some dear little relatives and friends, yet too young to read even these pages by themselves, has caused her to introduce some subjects and remarks, more calculated to amuse and interest the minds of the very young, than to instruct; and to touch but lightly on some subjects, on which much more might have been said.

PREFACE.

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The occupation of writing it has been a source of great interest to her; and should she ever have the pleasure of seeing these pages cause one smile of interest, or one look of animated inquiry, in any one of those dear faces, she will feel all the gratification she could wish.

MARY’S SCRAP-BOOK.

Chapter I

One day, as little Mary was sitting by her Mamma, drawing houses on her slate, the footman brought a large square parcel into the room, which he said had just arrived by the coach. Mary was very much surprised and delighted to find that the parcel was for her, and wondered much what could be in it, and who could have sent it ; she begged her Mamma to open it for her directly, and her Mamma very kindly laid down her work, and with her scissors cut the string with which the parcel

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was tied, and opened it, — when great was Mary’s delight to find it contained a large book, on the cover of which was printed, in gilt letters, Mary’s Scrap Book. The leaves of the book were of different coloured papers, and on them were stuck a variety of drawings of birds, flowers, and many other things that were pretty or curious. There was also a note in the parcel for Mary ; and then she found that the book was a present from her kind Aunt, who said that she thought, if Mary asked her Mamma, she would sometimes tell her about the drawings, as she sat at work, after Mary had said all her lessons. Her Mamma readily pro¬ mised to do so, but said she could not begin till to-morrow, as she had then a long letter to read : so Mary sat very quietly looking at the book by herself till tea-time, when she put it by, and said she would not look at it again till after she had mary’s scrap-book.

said all her lessons the next morning, and her Mamma was able to look at the pictures with her, and tell her something about them.

The next morning, as soon as Mary had finished her lessons, she said to her Mamma, — 66 Mamma, you promised me, if I said all my lessons well this morning, you would look at my new scrap-book with me, and tell me something about the pretty drawings that are in it.”

Mamma. So I did, my love ; and you have been so attentive this morning, that you have finished your lessons half-an-hour earlier than usual ; so, if you will bring your book here, I will fulfil my promise to you at once.

Mary. What do you mean, by saying you will fulfil your promise to me ?

Mamma. I mean that I will do as I promised

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you I would do : I promised to look at your new book with you, and tell you what I could about the drawings in it ; when I have done so, then I shall have fulfilled my promise to you. Now, let me see what is the first drawing. Oh ! it is a bird ; a very curious bird, too, called the Grenadier Weaver.

Mary. But here are two birds called the Gre¬ nadier Weaver, though they are so very different; why do they call two such different birds by the same name. Mamma ?

Mamma. Ah ! I do not wonder at your think¬ ing that these drawings are of different birds : but that is not the case, they are the same bird ; only in one picture it has on its gay summer dress, and in the other, it is clothed in its winter dress of quiet brown; for the Grenadier Weaver (like many other foreign birds) moults, that is, sheds its mary’s scrap-book.

feathers, twice a year ; and one half of the year it is brown, like this drawing, while during the other half of the year it is dressed in the gay plumage of this drawing. Can you tell me what I mean by calling it a foreign bird ?

Mary. You told me this vase was called foreign, because it came from a different country from this we live in ; so I suppose this bird came from another country : did it come from China, where the vase came from. Mamma?

Mamma. I am glad you remember what I told you about the vase : this bird did not come from China, or from the same quarter of the world China is in, which is, you know, Asia ; but from the Cape of Good Hope, in Africa. This bird was one of Grandpapa’s pets, and a very amusing and wonderful little bird it was, too. But I will tell you all about it, and then you shall tell me if

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you do not think so. One day, soon after Grand¬ papa had it, he put some long pieces of grass into its cage, thinking it would, perhaps, like to pick them about a little. Soon after he had done this, he passed the cage again, when he saw the grass was nicely wroven in and out the wires of the cage, like basket-work. Grandpapa wondered who could have been amusing themselves with tw ining the grass about the cage in this manner, and took it out again. A few days after this, when next he hung the cage in the verandah, he gave the bird some more grass, and presently, when he passed the cage, he found some of that woven in and out of the wires of the cage, as nicely as the other had been ; and nowr he began to suspect that the bird itself must have done it, for he was almost certain that no one had been near the cage since he had hung it out there ; so he determined to wratch the bird from a place that he thought it could not see him, and very shortly, he saw the little fellow as busy as possible twining the grass in and out of the wires of its cage, with its beak, as neatly and closely together as any one could have done it.

Mary. Dear ! how very curious ! Who had taught it to weave, Mamma ?

Mamma. No one had taught it, my love. It is the natural habit of these birds to weave, as it is the natural habit of sparrows to build their little round nests of moss, hair, and feathers, and of doves to build their rough nests of sticks; and, indeed, of all animals to do something or other, each dhferent from the rest. The great God, who made the world and all that is in it, did not give animals power to think, and find out different ways of doing things, as He did us ; but He gave them different habits and ways of living, and mak-

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ing their houses or nests, which have continued the same with them ever since.

Mary. I suppose Grandpapa did not know, at first, that it was a weaver bird ?

Mamma. No; he did not know what was its proper name until he found it could weave ; after that. Grandpapa used to supply it with grass, coloured ribbon or string, or anything else he thought the bird could manage, that it might amuse itself whenever it pleased, and a very curious-looking cage it made with them. It was so industrious, that I think it would, in a short time, have twined them all over its cage, making it into a snug, close house, (just leaving a window or two to look out of, perhaps), if Grandpapa had not undone its work from time to time ; for he did not like that it should shut itself up so that no one could see it.

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Mary. But was not the bird very much disap¬ pointed when Grandpapa pulled its work to pieces so often ?

Mamma. No ; it was quite as happy and con¬ tented as it would have been had it been allowed to finish its house ; and would chatter and sing away as merrily as possible ; though I can hardly call the noise it made, singing, for it was just such a noise as is made with grinding knives or scissors on a grindstone.

Mary. What a very odd noise for a bird to make. I think I should have admired its weaving more than I should its singing ; but I should like to hear it once, and so I should like to see it weave, very much. May I, Mamma, when next I go to see Grandpapa ?

Mamma. I am sorry to say the poor little Weaver-bird is dead; but I believe that its cage has mary’s scrap-book.

still the grass and ribbon woven in it, just as the little bird left it, and we will ask Grandpapa to show that to us, when next we see him, shall we ?

Mary. Oh! yes, if you please, Mamma. I should like to see it very much. I am sorry I shall not be able to hear its funny sort of singing ; but when next the old knife-grinder comes here, I will listen to the noise his grindstone makes, and fancy it is the Weaver-bird singing, — and that will do almost as well. The next drawing in my book, is the nest of the Tailor-bird. Is it not a pretty little nest, Mamma? lying so snugly among the leaves of that beautiful plant. But why is it called a Tailor-bird, I wTonder ; it cannot work, of course.

Mamma. Yes it can, though, and very nicely too: if you look closely at the leaves round the nest, you will see they are sewn together; well, that is the work of the Tailor-bird. Now, do not mary’s scrap-book.

you think that this sewing is as wonderful as the bird’s weaving ?

Mary. I think it is still more curious. But how can the bird sew ? Where can it get a needle and thread from ?

Mamma. This little bird manages to sew very well without a needle, and the thread it makes itself : I will tell you how. It gets some wool from the cotton tree, and with its beak and claws twists it into thread; then, with its long, sharp beak (which serves it for a needle), it makes holes through the leaves it is going to sew together ; then it takes the end of the thread with its beak, and, with the help of its middle claws, it passes through the holes, and draws the leaves together closely, thus joining them as securely as possible. I have never seen a Tailor-bird at work, but this is the way I understand they manage it.

MARY^S SCRAP-BOOK.

Mary. How very curious. How much I should like to see one make its thread and then sew with it. Is the Tailor-bird a foreign bird, Mamma ?

Mamma. Yes ; Hindostan is the native country of the Tailor-bird I believe. Can you tell me where Hindostan is ?

Mary. I cannot remember ; but I think if you will tell me which quarter of the world it is in, I can find it out on the map.

Mamma. It is in Asia — and here is a map of the World; I should like you to find it out, and then you will not be likely to forget it again. Yes, there it is, at the south of the Chinese Em¬ pire. Now, before we close the map, shall we look for the Cape of Good Hope, where the W eaver-bird came from ?

Mary. Yes; I remember where that is. It is this point of Africa nearest to the south. Mamma.

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And now will yon tell me about the Cotton-plant, for that is the next drawing? You said the Tailor-bird made its thread with the Cotton-plant : perhaps this is the plant you mean ; but I cannot think how thread can be made of a plant.

Mamma. Then you will be surprised to learn, that the muslin frock you have on, and this nice smooth cotton you work with, these chintz win¬ dow-curtains, and many other useful things, are all made of the Cotton-plant.

Mary. Dear, Mamma, can this be true ? Do tell me all about it ; and will you show me a Cotton-plant ? I should like to see one very much.

Mamma. I cannot show you a plant, because they will not live in this country, excepting in hot-houses ; and I know of no hot-house near where there is one ; but in the East and West

MARY^S SCRAP-BOOK.

Indies, and other warm countries, there are large fields of it cultivated ; that is, planted with cotton-plants, and properly taken care of, for use. There are several sorts of cotton-plants; some grow as high as the lilac and laburnum trees, but the plant which is most commonly cultivated does not grow higher than the seat of this chair. This plant has a pretty, pale yellow flower, and when this flower dies off, it leaves a small pod, which contains the seed. You know, many sorts of flowers have their seeds in pods; the poppy is one, and the sweet pea is another. Well, the pod of the Cotton-plant, when it has grown to about the size of a walnut, and is quite ripe, bursts open ; and then may be seen inside of the pod, a soft white cotton (such cotton as that your shells are laid upon), and in the cotton the seeds of the plant lie buried.

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Mary. What a soft, warm bed for them, Mamma. But do tell me how my frock can be made of this plant ; 1 should so like to know all about it.

Mamma. The soft, white cotton, is the part, and the only part of the plant which is used for these things ; but there must be a great deal done to the cotton before it can be made into a frock or a curtain : — First, it must be all nicely picked from the plant, then cleaned, and what is called carded : after that has been done, it is spun into very fine thread, — I do not think I can explain to you very well how.

Mary. I think I know, Mamma ; for I went to a cottage with Papa the other day, where an old woman was very busy at work with something she told me was a spinning-wheel, and then I saw, that as the wheel went round, the lump of wool, mary’s scrap-book.

which was fixed near it, was drawn off into a fine thready which the woman let pass through her fingers on to a reel; which was spinning round very fast all the time; on the other side of the wheel (which was going round as well); and so the reel kept winding the worsted (for it was worsted the woman was making) on to itself as fast as it was made. I liked watching it so much; that I was quite sorry Papa did not stay longer. Per¬ haps you will take me to see the old woman again, some day; Mamma.

Mamma. YeS; my dear little girl; that I will; if I am able. You have described to me so well what you saw5 that you deserve such an indulgence; as it shows me that you made good use of your time whilst you were there; and learned what you could ; so I shall be very glad to take you; and explain to you any thing more that I can about the spinning-wheel.

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Mary. Thank you, Mamma; and I should so like to try and spin a little myself ; it seemed very easy.

Mamma. Ah ! I recollect when I was about the same age that you are, I thought the same, and begged my Aunt, wdio used to spin every evening, to let me try. She told me she knew7 I should not be able to manage it ; but I could not help fancying that I should be able to do it very well, for I had w7atched her so very often, and had observed exactly how she put her foot up and down, to make the wheel turn round ; and how she rolled the thread backwards and forwards between her finger and thumb, as the reel wound it up, that I could not help thinking I should be able to do it just the same. I begged so very hard, that at last, my good-natured Aunt said she would let me try : so dowTn I sat in her seat, placed my c mary’s scrap-book.

foot upon the board, and took hold of the thread with my finger and thumb. But, alas ! I soon found that to know how a thing was done, and to be able to do it, are two very different things < When I pressed my foot upon the board to make the wheel turn round, I found I had not strength to press it hard enough to make the wheel go quite round ; so first it ran round a little one way, then it turned back again ; then snap went the thread, and I did not know how to join it ; and so there was an end of my spinning. I remem¬ ber, my Aunt laughed very heartily to see my surprise and dismay at things going on so differ¬ ently from what I had expected ; but I did not see any thing to laugh at, for 1 felt rather ashamed at being so certain that I should be able to spin ; and as I did not at all like being laughed at, I never asked if I might try to spin again ;

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but often since, when I have seen others doing any thing which appeared to be very easy, but which I had never tried to do, I have remembered my first attempt at spinning, and thought it best not to be at all sure that I could do a thing, till I had tried, for that I very likely might be as much mistaken about that, as I was about the spinning.

Mary. Then I think I had better not ask the old woman to let me spin, for fear I should get her work into confusion ; and I do not think I should much like being laughed at, either. And now, will you tell me what is done with the cot¬ ton after it is spun into thread.

Mamma. A great many hundreds of these fine threads are then placed side by side, in a machine called a loom, to be woven into calico, or muslin of some kind.

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Mary. What is a machine, Mamma ?

Mamma. Any thing which has been built together, writh power to be useful in making or doing something else, is a machine. The spin¬ ning-wheel is a machine for making cotton, wool, or flax, &c., into thread ; a mangle is a machine for pressing rough linen smooth ; and the loom is a machine for w eaving threads of any kind into muslin, or cloth, or calico, or flannel, or such things. I am afraid I cannot explain to you, very well, how the man who works at the loom wTeaves the threads so nicely together, with the shuttle of thread he holds in his hand; but I hope I shall be able to take you to see a person wreave, some day, and then you will understand all about it. Here is a piece of calico, which is cotton woven together ; pull out one of the threads slowly from the edge of it, and then you will see mary’s scrap-book.

how regularly it is woven in and out the threads which lie across the other way. Here is my mag¬ nifying-glass ; look at the calico through this, and you will be able to see the threads much plainer.

Mary. Ah ! how much larger the threads look through the magnifying-glass. Now I can see how they pass over and under, very well ; just as you said the weaver-bird passed the grass and string over and under the wires of its cage.

Mamma. Yes; only when you have seen a weaver at work, you will see he manages his threads in rather a different way from what the weaver-bird does its grass : the bird works more like a basket-weaver, I think. But hark ! I hear the dinner-bell ; so shut up your book, my love, till to-morrow.

Mary. How quickly the time seems to have passed. I do so like hearing you tell me about

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these curious things^ Mamma; I hope you will be able to look at some more of the drawings to¬ morrow. I wonder whether Sarah knows that my frock is part of a plant ; I will go and tell her all about it.

Chapter II

The next morning, after breakfast, Mary ran to get her books, that she might say her lessons in good time, to hear some more about her Scrap¬ book before dinner ; but her Mamma said to her, just then, that she should have to go out early that morning, to a cottage some distance off, and she hoped Mary would finish her lessons in time to go with her ; so Mary did not say any thing about her book, for she knew that if her Mamma could have indulged her, she would ; but she sat down to learn her lessons as quickly as she could, that she might be ready to go out as soon as her

MARY^S SCRAP-BOOK.

Mamma wished to go. It was a beautiful morn¬ ing in springs and many a little bird was singing its sweetest song ; and Mary soon felt quite glad to think that she should have a walk in the beauti¬ ful country, with her dear Mamma, that morning. Her lessons were all finished before her Mamma was ready to go, and she ran to put on her bon¬ net, and to get her basket ; for her Mamma had told her that she should have a bundle of linen rag for her to carry.

And now Mamma was ready, and off they set through the garden, which led into the pleasant lane. As they were walking along, Mary asked her Mamma if they were going to see any one who was ill, or who had been hurt, that they were carrying this bundle of rag with them.

Mamma. We are going to see a poor girl who has burned herself very sadly, I understand. Her

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mother sent this morning to beg for some linen to lay over the burns, and I said I would take it to her, for I thought I could then see if I could do any thing more for her.

Mary. Poor thing ! How did she burn herself. Mamma ?

Mamma. They tell me, that as she was lighting

the fire yesterday morning for her poor mother,

who was ill in bed, her apron caught fire : she did

not see it at first, and when she did see it, she was

so frightened, that instead of lying down on the

apron and smothering the flame, she ran out of

the house screaming to a neighbour for help : the

draught of wind quickly spread the flames as high

as her neck, and she would soon have been burned

to death, had not the neighbour run out with a

large cloak, and wrapped it close round her; but the poor girl’s arms and neck are sadly burned,

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they say ; and I fear she will suffer for a long time.

Mary. Poor girl ! How very shocking ; and how frightened the poor mother must have been.

Mamma. Yes ; and she is too ill to nurse her poor girl, which must be a sad trouble to her. But here we are at the cottage : tap gently at the door, and wait till some one opens it.

When they entered the cottage, they found poor Betsey, (for that was the name of the little girl who had burned herself,) lying in a little bed in one corner of the room, and moaning sadly, for the pain was very great. Marys’s Mamma talked kindly to her, and said she would send her some¬ thing nice for dinner. Mary asked her Mamma if she might save a piece of her pudding for her; her Mamma said she might, and if she liked, she might walk there with Sarah in the afternoon,

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and bring it to her, herself. Mary was much pleased at this, and left the cottage quite happy to think she should be able to give poor Betsey some¬ thing that she would like to have.

As they were walking home again. Mamma said, “ Ah ! if I had known of the poor girPs ac¬ cident directly it happened, I would have sent some cotton wool to be wrapped closely over all the burns, and that would have saved her much pain, and healed the sores much sooner ; but now that they have put salve and grease, nothing must touch the burns but linen.”

Mary. Is not linen made of the cotton-plant, Mamma ?

Mamma. No ; but is made of a plant, though ; a little plant, which is called flax.

Mary. Do tell me all about it, if you please. Mamma, as you did about the cotton-plant, yesmary’s scrap-book.

terday. Has it a pod of soft cotton as that has ?

Mamma. No; it is a very different-looking plant from the cotton-plant, in eveiy respect ; it is much smaller, not branching at all, but has a straight, slender, smooth stem, with small green leaves on it; and the flowers, which branch out from the top of this stem, are of a delicate blue colour ; but I think I can show you a plant of it when we return home, for I saw one in flower, growing on a heap of rubbish near the garden, when we came out.

Mary. Ah ! that will be very nice, to see the real plant ; but does it grow wild. Mamma ?

Mamma. It grows wild in some parts of England, though not any where near here, I believe. I dare say, the plant I saw this morning has sprung up from a linseed (which is the seed of mary’s scrap-book.

flax), which has been thrown there with other rubbish, by accident.