CHAPTER VII.
“Well, my little girl,” said Mr. Ashton to Helen, one morning, when the breakfast-things had been removed, “I suppose by this time Edward and Lewis have shown you all that is worth seeing in this gay place, and have made you nearly as wise as themselves. I am quite at leisure this morning; but I am afraid there is nothing left for me to do as a chaperon.”
“Thank you, dear uncle,” said Helen, laughing; “you could do a great deal for us, I assure you; but only see how very fast it is raining!”
“Yes,” said Lewis, in a disconsolate tone, “there will be no going out to-day; the clouds are coming up thicker and faster.”
“I believe you are mistaken there, my boy: even your weather-oracle, Tom Price, tells me, he thinks it will be fine; but if it should prove that he is mistaken for once, we will try to make ourselves happy within doors, and not waste our time in unavailing regrets. The rain is much needed, and the country will look more beautiful after it.”
“Do you not think, papa,” asked Lewis, who was not at all disposed to look on the bright side of the picture this morning, “that it would be much pleasanter if the weather were always bright and calm. I am sure, if rain and storms are useful, they do a good deal of mischief sometimes, and often disappoint us of pleasure.”
“Why, Lewis,” said his father, smiling, “one would think you had been studying some of the ancient poets, who wrote so much in praise of such a state as you have been supposing. But really, I cannot say I agree with you, in thinking that it would at all add to our comfort, constituted as we are, to be exempted from changes of weather and climate; even imagining that such a thing were possible. It is true, there is much enjoyment in the peace and quiet of a tranquil summer’s day, when we can leave the busy haunts of men for some secluded glen or mountain-path, while the sky above is blue and cloudless, and the broad sea looks still and beautiful. It is delightful then to listen to the sweet notes of the birds, and the low murmuring of the breeze; or even to watch the insects that sport in the sun-beams, as if they too rejoiced in their existence. But, do you think we should enjoy these pleasures, or prize them as we ought to do, if no changes in the elements disturbed the unvarying calmness of the scene? No doubt we should soon become listless and weary, tired of the sameness that reigned around, and longing for the hopes and fears that are now our motives to exertion, and add interest to labour. Even the sea which you have often looked at with so much delight, would cease to charm, if its aspect were always the same. And in all the works of the beneficent Creator we may observe, that with perfect beauty, endless variety and change are combined.”
Mr. Ashton could not tell whether his little boy was convinced of the truth of his remarks, for Lewis was very busily employed in twirling the tassel of the window-blind, as though his whole thoughts were engrossed in the employ. Helen sat down to her needle, and her uncle took up the newspaper, and began to read. Helen saw that Lewis was sorry for this; and she asked her uncle if he were reading any thing very interesting. “No, my love,” replied he; “I hope you will not interrupt me by speaking or asking questions.”
Lewis gave his cousin a look, which plainly said, thank you, Helen; and going up to his father, he exclaimed, “Dear papa! I am convinced that I was wrong—very wrong. I might have known that I should have been one of the first to complain, if things were as I seemed to wish them to be: and, papa, you need not tell me of how much use the rain is to us, and the wind too, which sends vessels from one port to another, and turns the sails of mills, and does a great deal more beside, I dare say. But now, papa, if you really do not want to read, may I ask you what it was that occasioned the thick mist, which seemed to hang over the sea last night, when mamma told us it was not fit for us to go out.”
Mr. Ashton was pleased with Lewis’s frank confession of his fault; but he did not praise his little boy for doing his duty; he knew that the feeling of satisfaction that attended it, would be a sufficient reward.
Laying down the paper, and shaking him kindly by the hand, he said, “Tell me, Lewis, what do you imagine water to be?”
“I suppose,” said Lewis, “it is a simple fluid. I mean, papa, that it is not composed of several ingredients; unless it be the water of the ocean, which you know is very salt; and sometimes part of the soil through which water runs, mixes with it and changes its colour.”
“Many substances,” said his father, “were once thought to be simple, which the knowledge of chemistry has since taught us are formed by the union of other bodies, very opposite in their natures—water is one of these: you will understand more of its properties, I hope, when we have time to study chemistry together. But now I will only tell you, that water is composed of two airs or gases; one of them is lighter than any substance we are acquainted with; it is very inflammable, and burns when flame is applied to it; the other is that part of the atmosphere which is absolutely necessary to the existence of living creatures, whether in air or water. These two gases form water, by combustion.”
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Lewis, “for water, you know, papa, extinguishes fire.”
“It is, indeed, astonishing, Lewis: there is no end to the wonders which the knowledge of chemistry reveals, and no doubt will continue to reveal to us. But, now tell me, Lewis, have you ever seen water in any other than a fluid state?”
“Oh! yes, papa, frozen water is quite solid; it then becomes ice.”
“And,” interrupted Helen, “heated water becomes steam or vapour; though I recollect mamma’s telling me, that it was a fluid still; and that even the air which surrounds us is a fluid, like water, only much less dense; for when I moved her fan backwards and forwards, I could feel the resistance of the air very plainly.”
“Well done, my little philosopher!” exclaimed Mr. Ashton. “Lewis, I dare say you have not forgotten all this.”
“Oh! no papa,” said Lewis, “I often wish those days would come again, when Edward and I were always at home with you, and when we used to try experiments together.”
“Well, Lewis, such days may come again,” said his father; “but, now let us attend to the present subject. To make it clearer to you, I must ask you one more question about our experiments:—do you recollect what took place when I held a cold plate, for some time, over the boiling water in the tea-urn?”
“Yes, papa,” answered Lewis, “the steam which rose from the urn was condensed; for, as you said, the particles, which had separated, again united as soon as they came in contact with the cold plate, and ran off in little streams of water.”
“And what caused the separation of the particles of water?” inquired his father.
“Heat,” said Lewis, “and cold, which you told us means only the absence of heat, caused them to unite again.”
“Ah! now, papa, I think I understand what you mean. Yesterday the weather was very hot; and I suppose the mist which we noticed was produced in the same manner as steam is; only that it is the sun’s heat which turns the particles of water into vapour. But, papa, what becomes of it all then? for if this watery vapour is lighter than the air, it would continue to rise till it had quite disappeared.”
“When the string of your kite broke, Lewis, and it soared far away, for a short time, higher than it had ever been before, what do you suppose occasioned it to fall again?”
Lewis thought for a moment, and then said, “Partly because I had no string to guide it, and partly, I suppose, papa, because the air above might be lighter, and not able to support its weight.”
“Yes,” said his papa, “the atmosphere becomes less dense as it is more distant from the earth; so that the vapour, which the sun causes to exhale, rises until it reaches a region of its own weight; here it remains stationary for a time, till the accumulation of fresh vapours forms clouds, and these at length becoming too heavy for the air to support, descend in copious showers of rain, to refresh and fertilize the earth.”
Lewis thought he could quite understand this. “But is this wonderful process,” he asked, “always going on? for, if so much rain and moisture falls upon the earth and sinks into it, does it not injure it? I should think the sun and wind would only dry the surface.”
“Have you ever seen a spring?” asked Lewis’s father.
Lewis said, he had seen several: there was the spring in the hill-side, which supplied the brook that ran at the bottom of his uncle’s garden; and the chalybeate-spring; and his papa had once shown them how the men, who were digging in a gravel-pit were troubled with the little springs, which kept rising out of the earth. They were obliged to work night and day, to pump the water out into slanting wooden troughs, by which means it was carried down to the river.
“And the brook at the bottom of the garden,” said Helen, “runs into the same river. I have often watched it, winding through the green meadows, till it joined the broad stream of the Lea.”
“But, Helen,” asked Mr. Ashton, “is this little stream always flowing?”
“I do remember once,” Helen said, when she had thought a little while, “that the brook was quite dry: we had had no rain for many weeks; the grass was dry and brown; and old Godfrey had to drive the cows a long way to the river-side, to let them drink. At last, there was a storm of thunder and lightning, and the rain came down in torrents. I recollect saying to papa, if I were Godfrey, I would put out some tubs to-night to catch the rain, that I might not have such a long journey to take to-morrow; but papa told me, there would be water again in the brook very soon, he had no doubt. Well, it did nothing but rain for several days, till I was tired of the sight of clouds. At last they cleared away; and as soon as the grass was dry, I ran down to my favourite seat by the brook, which was bubbling on just as it always used to do.”
“Then, papa,” said Lewis, “the water which sinks into the ground rises out of it again in springs, I suppose; and springs supply rivers, and rivers flow on till they reach the sea. Can it really be the same water that comes back to the ocean again, after forming in turn clouds, rain, springs, and rivers?”
“Yes, Lewis,” said his father, “this is indeed the case; and if you will take the trouble to follow it through all these various and wonderful changes, you will not fear the earth’s becoming saturated by the quantity of water that falls upon it; but you will clearly perceive, that it does not contain more water now than it did at the time of the creation. There is much more connected with the subject of water, which you may at some other time be interested in thinking about. But now run for your domino-box, and I will have a game with you and Helen; I was busy when you asked me to play last night.”
“Thank you, papa,” said Lewis, “shall I call Edward?”
“No, do not call him; I dare say he is very happy; he is helping mamma. We will have one game, and then Helen may put on her things, and you shall go with me to the National Schools.”