The Story of Silk

by Sara Ware Bassett

"And these artificial silks of which you were telling me—are they good for anything else but for making braids?"

"Yes, indeed. Nitro and viscose silks are more brilliant and lustrous than are real silks. They have no such soft feeling, however. They feel more like the harsh, loaded silks made from thread which has been chemically weighted. But they are coming into demand more and more for such purposes as the warp and filling of various sorts of fabrics, rugs, silk stockings, and upholstery materials. Here in this country, where electricity is in general use, artificial silk is a blessing, for it serves as a substitute in the insulating of electric light wires, and the manufacture of mantles for lights."

"How clever people were to find anything that could be used instead of the real, carefully nurtured cocoon silk," mused his mother.

"I know it. I suppose chemists worked at the problem a long time before they solved it. That is the way most of the great discoveries were made. Still, the wild silk made by the moths of India is not carefully grown. From it the Oriental Tussah silk is made; then there is Eria silk, also an uncultivated product from India; the Fagara silk from China; and the Yamamai silk from Japan, which is next to domestic silk in value. All these are manufactured from silk spun by silkworms that have had no care. The foreman was telling me about it the other day."

There was a pause.

"What did you mean, Pierre, when you spoke of loaded silk?" questioned his mother. "I have heard the term used many times, but I have never understood it."

Pierre looked at her with amusement.

"Anybody would think that I was your schoolteacher, Mother mine!" he returned. "I feel very silly telling you things when you are so much older and wiser than I."

"I certainly am older; and I used to be a little wiser," replied his mother humorously, "but I shall not be so long. You see, dear, I never had much education and I am now too old to learn. But you are accumulating knowledge every day. You are like a sponge, Pierre. You seem to soak up every bit of information that you hear."

"I must get my schooling this way, Mother, since I can secure it in no other," answered the boy soberly. "And perhaps it is a good way after all, for since I am eager to know something I try and remember every scrap I hear. I may want to use it later."