“‘No—not the bark either.’
“‘The roots?’
“‘I know of no peculiar virtue in its roots more than those of the oak, ash, or any other large timber trees.’
“‘What then, mamma? It has no flowers, I am sure; nor fruit neither, except little seeds with wings upon them like a spider-fly.’
“‘Those are its fruit.’
“‘Oh! what use could we make of them? I have seen just the same, or very like them, growing on the common sycamore.’
“‘You are right there, for the common sycamore, as you call it, is a tree of the same family. But I did not say we could make any use of these winged seeds. Can you think of nothing else that belongs to every tree?’
“‘Nothing! Let me see—yes—yes—the sap?’
“‘Ha! the sap!’ repeated his mother, with a peculiar emphasis.
“‘What, mother!’ cried Frank, ‘a maple?’