“Because they are pieces of solid matter,” answered Harry. “To make a flame shine, there must always be some solid—or at least liquid—matter in it.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Bagges—“solid stuff necessary to brightness.”
“Some gases and other things,” resumed Harry, “that burn with a flame you can hardly see, burn splendidly when something solid is put into them. Oxygen and hydrogen—tell me if I use too hard words, uncle—oxygen and hydrogen gases, if mixed together and blown through a pipe, burn with plenty of heat but with very little light. But if their flame is blown upon a piece of quick-lime, it gets so bright as to be quite dazzling. Make the smoke of oil of turpentine pass through the same flame, and it gives the flame a beautiful brightness directly.”
“I wonder,” observed Uncle Bagges, “what has made you such a bright youth.”
“Taking after uncle, perhaps,” retorted his nephew. “Don’t put my candle and me out. Well, carbon or charcoal is what causes the brightness of all lamps, and candles, and other common lights; so, of course, there is carbon in what they are all made of.”
“So carbon is smoke, eh? and light is owing to your carbon. Giving light out of smoke, eh? as they say in the classics,” observed Mr. Bagges.
“But what becomes of the candle,” pursued Harry, “as it burns away? where does it go?”
“Nowhere,” said his mamma, “I should think. It burns to nothing.”
“Oh, dear, no!” said Harry, “every thing—every body goes somewhere.”
“Eh!—rather an important consideration that,” Mr. Bagges moralized.