_Fire,[A]--a Conversation between a Mother and her little Daughter._
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_Daughter._ Mother dear, you told me, the other day, that nobody knows
what _light_ is, except the Great Creator. Now, can you tell me _what
fire is_?
_Mother._ I fear, my child, that you have asked another question which I
cannot directly answer. What fire is, is known only by its effects.
_Daughter._ And what are its effects, mother?
_Mother._ Some of its effects are as well known to you, my dear, as they
are to me; and I shall, in the first place, call to your recollection
what you yourself know about _fire_, before I attempt to give you any
further information in relation to it.
_Daughter._ Why, mother, I am sure I do not know what fire is.
_Mother._ No, Caroline, I know that you do not know what fire is;
neither do I, nor does any one, except the Great Creator himself. This
is one of his secrets, which, in his wisdom, he reserves for himself.
But you certainly know some of the effects of fire. For instance, you
know that when you have been out into the cold, you wish, on your
return, to go to the fire. Now, can you tell me what you go to the fire
for?
_Daughter._ Why, certainly, mother; I go to the fire to warm myself.
_Mother._ And how does the fire warm you, my dear?
_Daughter._ Why, it sends out its heat, mother; and I hold out my hands
to it, and feel the heat.
_Mother._ And where does the heat come from, Caroline?
_Daughter._ Why, the heat comes from the fire, mother.
_Mother._ Then, my dear, you know at least one of the effects of fire.
It produces, or rather sends out, heat.
_Daughter._ But does not the fire make the heat, mother?
_Mother._ If you had a little bird, or a mouse, in a cage, and should
open the door and let it out, should you say that you _made_ the little
bird, or the mouse?
_Daughter._ Say that I made them, mother?--why, no; certainly not. I
only let them go free. God made them. You told me that God made all
things.
_Mother._ Neither did the fire make the heat. It only made it free,
somewhat in the same manner that you would make the bird or the mouse
free, by opening the door of the cage.
_Daughter._ Why, mother, is heat kept in cages, like birds or mice?
_Mother._ No, my dear, not exactly in cages, like birds or mice; but a
great deal closer, in a different kind of cage.
_Daughter_ Why, mother, what sort of a cage can heat be kept in?
_Mother._ I must answer your question, Caroline, by asking you another.
When Alice makes her fire in the kitchen, how does she make it?
_Daughter._ She takes some wood, or some coal, and puts under it some
pine wood, which she calls kindling, and some shavings, and then takes a
match and sets the shavings on fire, and very soon the fire is made.
_Mother._ But does she not first do something to the match?
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_Daughter._ O, yes; I forgot to say that she lights the match first, and
then sets fire to the shavings with the lighted match.
_Mother._ But how does she light the match, my dear?
_Daughter._ Why, mother, have you never seen her? She rubs one end of
the match on the box, where there is a little piece of sand-paper, and
that sets the match on fire.
_Mother._ Is there any fire in the sand-paper, Caroline?
_Daughter._ Why, no, mother; certainly not.
_Mother._ Was there any fire in the match, before she lighted it?
_Daughter._ Why, no, mother; if there had been, she would have had no
need to light it.
_Mother._ You see, then, that fire came when she rubbed the match
against the sand-paper; and that the fire was not in the sand-paper, nor
in the match.
_Daughter._ Yes, mother, but I did not see where it came from.
_Mother._ I am going to explain that to you, my dear, in the next
lesson.