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\ BOOK. 

Thomas Fisher 
Rare Book Library 


{ 215 

1 *%- 

L O^N JD 0> » 



J © 3* S ® 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2018 with funding from 
University of Toronto 







What child is not fond of flowers, birds, and 
butterflies? These most beautiful of Nature’s 
works are the first objects which delight and in¬ 
terest their minds. As soon as a child is old 
enough to be led into the fields, with what eager 
joy will it stop to gather each flower that appears 
in its path, loading its little basket with these 
new-found treasures; and with what intense in¬ 
terest will it watch the sweet warbler as it flutters 
from spray to spray, or the brilliant butterfly as it 
flutters gaily before it in the sunshine ! How it 



longs to examine more nearly that soft plumage, 
and those beautiful velvet wings ! 

Then, when returned from one of these joyous 
excursions, the child will still find something to 
interest and engage his attention, in the contents 
of his basket. Seated on the floor, with his 
gathered favourites scattered around him, he may 
now be seen earnestly and thoughtfully engaged 
in the examination of one of them,—carefully 
picking off the petals one by one, with his little 
fat fingers; and then, after their removal, peeping 
curiously into the calyx, to see what hidden won¬ 
ders are now brought to light. 

As soon as children are old enough to make these 
observations by themselves, they are old enough 



to be led to observe and inquire into the uses of 
objects around them; and the sooner they are ac¬ 
customed so to exercise the powers of their mind, 
(in any manner which is pleasing and interesting 
to them), the more easily will the habit for obser¬ 
vation and inquiry be instilled into them. 

To encourage in them a taste for searching and 
examining into the beautiful and wonderful works 
of the Creation, will be providing them with a 
source of innocent amusement and delightful gra¬ 
tification through every period of their lives : and 
what is a more important advantage, perhaps, in 
thus directing their early thoughts, it is through 
this happy channel, where their strongest feelings 
of joy and admiration are called forth, that they 



may be led to look to the Creator of all that is 
beautiful and wonderful, and to feel love and gra¬ 
titude towards Him, for these proofs of his great 
goodness to them. 

A wish to assist (in however trifling a degree) 
in thus directing the minds of the young, was the 
writer’s motive for publishing this little volume: 
but a wish, at the same time, to write in a style 
that would make it pleasing and interesting to the 
minds of some dear little relatives and friends, yet 
too young to read even these pages by themselves, 
has caused her to introduce some subjects and 
remarks, more calculated to amuse and interest 
the minds of the very young, than to instruct; 
and to touch but lightly on some subjects, on 
which much more might have been said. 



The occupation of writing it has been a source 
of great interest to her; and should she ever 
have the pleasure of seeing these pages cause one 
smile of interest, or one look of animated inquiry, 
in any one of those dear faces, she will feel all the 

gratification she could wish. 




One day, as little Mary was sitting by her 
Mamma, drawing houses on her slate, the footman 
brought a large square parcel into the room, which 
he said had just arrived by the coach. Mary was 
very much surprised and delighted to find that the 
parcel was for her, and wondered much what could 
be in it, and who could have sent it; she begged 
her Mamma to open it for her directly, and her 
Mamma very kindly laid down her work, and with 
her scissors cut the string with which the parcel 




was tied, and opened it,—when great was Mary’s 
delight to find it contained a large book, on the 
cover of which was printed, in gilt letters, Mary’s 
Scrap Book. The leaves of the book were of 
different coloured papers, and on them were stuck 
a variety of drawings of birds, flowers, and many 
other things that were pretty or curious. There 
was also a note in the parcel for Mary; and then 
she found that the book was a present from her 
kind Aunt, who said that she thought, if Mary 
asked her Mamma, she would sometimes tell her 
about the drawings, as she sat at work, after Mary 
had said all her lessons. Her Mamma readily pro¬ 
mised to do so, but said she could not begin till 
to-morrow, as she had then a long letter to read: 
so Mary sat very quietly looking at the book by 
herself till tea-time, when she put it by, and said 
she would not look at it again till after she had 

mary’s scrap-book. 


said all her lessons the next morning, and her 
Mamma was able to look at the pictures with her, 
and tell her something about them. 

The next morning, as soon as Mary had finished 
her lessons, she said to her Mamma ,— 66 Mamma, 
you promised me, if I said all my lessons well this 
morning, you would look at my new scrap-book 
with me, and tell me something about the pretty 
drawings that are in it.” 

Mamma. So I did, my love; and you have been 
so attentive this morning, that you have finished 
your lessons half-an-hour earlier than usual; so, 
if you will bring your book here, I will fulfil my 
promise to you at once. 

Mary. What do you mean, by saying you will 
fulfil your promise to me ? 

Mamma. I mean that I will do as I promised 



you I would do: I promised to look at your new 
book with you, and tell you what I could about 
the drawings in it; when I have done so, then I 
shall have fulfilled my promise to you. Now, let 
me see what is the first drawing. Oh! it is a 
bird; a very curious bird, too, called the Grenadier 

Mary. But here are two birds called the Gre¬ 
nadier Weaver, though they are so very different; 
why do they call two such different birds by the 
same name. Mamma ? 

Mamma. Ah ! I do not wonder at your think¬ 
ing that these drawings are of different birds : 
but that is not the case, they are the same bird; 
only in one picture it has on its gay summer dress, 
and in the other, it is clothed in its winter dress 
of quiet brown; for the Grenadier Weaver (like 
many other foreign birds) moults, that is, sheds its 

mary’s scrap-book. 


feathers, twice a year; and one half of the year it 
is brown, like this drawing, while during the 
other half of the year it is dressed in the gay 
plumage of this drawing. Can you tell me what I 
mean by calling it a foreign bird ? 

Mary. You told me this vase was called foreign, 
because it came from a different country from this 
we live in; so I suppose this bird came from 
another country: did it come from China, where 
the vase came from. Mamma? 

Mamma. I am glad you remember what I told 
you about the vase: this bird did not come from 
China, or from the same quarter of the world 
China is in, which is, you know, Asia; but from 
the Cape of Good Hope, in Africa. This bird 
was one of Grandpapa’s pets, and a very amusing 
and wonderful little bird it was, too. But I will 
tell you all about it, and then you shall tell me if 



you do not think so. One day, soon after Grand¬ 
papa had it, he put some long pieces of grass into 
its cage, thinking it would, perhaps, like to pick 
them about a little. Soon after he had done this, 
he passed the cage again, when he saw the grass 
was nicely w r oven in and out the wires of the cage, 
like basket-work. Grandpapa wondered who 
could have been amusing themselves with tw ining 
the grass about the cage in this manner, and took 
it out again. A few days after this, when next he 
hung the cage in the verandah, he gave the bird 
some more grass, and presently, when he passed 
the cage, he found some of that woven in and out 
of the wires of the cage, as nicely as the other had 
been ; and now r he began to suspect that the bird 
itself must have done it, for he was almost certain 
that no one had been near the cage since he had 
hung it out there; so he determined to w r atch the 

mary’s scrap-book. 7 

bird from a place that he thought it could not see 
him, and very shortly, he saw the little fellow as 
busy as possible twining the grass in and out of 
the wires of its cage, with its beak, as neatly and 
closely together as any one could have done it. 

Mary. Dear! how very curious ! Who had 
taught it to weave, Mamma ? 

Mamma. No one had taught it, my love. It is 
the natural habit of these birds to weave, as it is 
the natural habit of sparrows to build their little 
round nests of moss, hair, and feathers, and of 
doves to build their rough nests of sticks; and, 
indeed, of all animals to do something or other, 
each dhferent from the rest. The great God, who 
made the world and all that is in it, did not give 
animals power to think, and find out different 
ways of doing things, as He did us; but He gave 
them different habits and ways of living, and mak- 



ing their houses or nests, which have continued 
the same with them ever since. 

Mary. I suppose Grandpapa did not know, at 
first, that it was a weaver bird ? 

Mamma. No; he did not know what was its 
proper name until he found it could weave; after 
that. Grandpapa used to supply it with grass, 
coloured ribbon or string, or anything else he 
thought the bird could manage, that it might 
amuse itself whenever it pleased, and a very 
curious-looking cage it made with them. It was 
so industrious, that I think it would, in a short 
time, have twined them all over its cage, making 
it into a snug, close house, (just leaving a window 
or two to look out of, perhaps), if Grandpapa had 
not undone its work from time to time; for he did 
not like that it should shut itself up so that no 
one could see it. 

mart’s scrap-book. 


Mary. But was not the bird very much disap¬ 
pointed when Grandpapa pulled its work to pieces 
so often ? 

Mamma. No ; it was quite as happy and con¬ 
tented as it would have been had it been allowed 
to finish its house; and would chatter and sing 
away as merrily as possible; though I can hardly 
call the noise it made, singing, for it was just such 
a noise as is made with grinding knives or scissors 
on a grindstone. 

Mary. What a very odd noise for a bird to 
make. I think I should have admired its weaving 
more than I should its singing; but I should like 
to hear it once, and so I should like to see it 
weave, very much. May I, Mamma, when next I 
go to see Grandpapa ? 

Mamma. I am sorry to say the poor little 
Weaver-bird is dead; but I believe that its cage has 


mary’s scrap-book. 

still the grass and ribbon woven in it, just as the 
little bird left it, and we will ask Grandpapa to 
show that to us, when next we see him, shall we ? 

Mary. Oh! yes, if you please,Mamma. I should 
like to see it very much. I am sorry I shall not be 
able to hear its funny sort of singing; but when 
next the old knife-grinder comes here, I will listen to 
the noise his grindstone makes, and fancy it is the 
Weaver-bird singing,—and that will do almost as 
well. The next drawing in my book, is the nest of 
the Tailor-bird. Is it not a pretty little nest, 
Mamma? lying so snugly among the leaves of 
that beautiful plant. But why is it called a 
Tailor-bird, I w T onder; it cannot work, of course. 

Mamma. Yes it can, though, and very nicely 
too: if you look closely at the leaves round the 
nest, you will see they are sewn together; well, 
that is the work of the Tailor-bird. Now, do not 

mary’s scrap-book. 


you think that this sewing is as wonderful as the 
bird’s weaving ? 

Mary. I think it is still more curious. But 
how can the bird sew ? Where can it get a needle 
and thread from ? 

Mamma. This little bird manages to sew very 
well without a needle, and the thread it makes 
itself: I will tell you how. It gets some wool 
from the cotton tree, and with its beak and claws 
twists it into thread; then, with its long, sharp 
beak (which serves it for a needle), it makes holes 
through the leaves it is going to sew together; 
then it takes the end of the thread with its beak, and, 
with the help of its middle claws, it passes through 
the holes, and draws the leaves together closely, 
thus joining them as securely as possible. I have 
never seen a Tailor-bird at work, but this is the 
way I understand they manage it. 



Mary. How very curious. How much I should 
like to see one make its thread and then sew with 
it. Is the Tailor-bird a foreign bird, Mamma ? 

Mamma. Yes ; Hindostan is the native country 
of the Tailor-bird I believe. Can you tell me 
where Hindostan is ? 

Mary. I cannot remember; but I think if you 
will tell me which quarter of the world it is in, I 
can find it out on the map. 

Mamma. It is in Asia—and here is a map of 
the World; I should like you to find it out, and 
then you will not be likely to forget it again. 
Yes, there it is, at the south of the Chinese Em¬ 
pire. Now, before we close the map, shall we 
look for the Cape of Good Hope, where the 
Weaver-bird came from ? 

Mary. Yes; I remember where that is. It is 
this point of Africa nearest to the south. Mamma. 



And now will yon tell me about the Cotton-plant, 
for that is the next drawing? You said the 
Tailor-bird made its thread with the Cotton-plant: 
perhaps this is the plant you mean; but I cannot 
think how thread can be made of a plant. 

Mamma. Then you will be surprised to learn, 
that the muslin frock you have on, and this nice 
smooth cotton you work with, these chintz win¬ 
dow-curtains, and many other useful things, are 
all made of the Cotton-plant. 

Mary. Dear, Mamma, can this be true ? Do 
tell me all about it; and will you show me a 
Cotton-plant ? I should like to see one very 

Mamma. I cannot show you a plant, because 
they will not live in this country, excepting in 
hot-houses; and I know of no hot-house near 
where there is one; but in the East and West 



Indies, and other warm countries, there are large 
fields of it cultivated; that is, planted with cotton- 
plants, and properly taken care of, for use. There 
are several sorts of cotton-plants; some grow as 
high as the lilac and laburnum trees, but the 
plant which is most commonly cultivated does not 
grow higher than the seat of this chair. This 
plant has a pretty, pale yellow flower, and when 
this flower dies off, it leaves a small pod, which 
contains the seed. You know, many sorts of 
flowers have their seeds in pods; the poppy is 
one, and the sweet pea is another. Well, the pod 
of the Cotton-plant, when it has grown to about 
the size of a walnut, and is quite ripe, bursts 
open ; and then may be seen inside of the pod, 
a soft white cotton (such cotton as that your shells 
are laid upon), and in the cotton the seeds of the 
plant lie buried. 

mary’s scrap-book. 


Mary. What a soft, warm bed for them, 
Mamma. But do tell me how my frock can be 
made of this plant; 1 should so like to know all 
about it. 

Mamma. The soft, white cotton, is the part, 
and the only part of the plant which is used for 
these things; but there must be a great deal done 
to the cotton before it can be made into a frock or 
a curtain :—First, it must be all nicely picked from 
the plant, then cleaned, and what is called carded : 
after that has been done, it is spun into very fine 
thread,—I do not think I can explain to you very 
well how. 

Mary. I think I know, Mamma; for I went to 
a cottage with Papa the other day, where an old 
woman was very busy at work with something she 
told me was a spinning-wheel, and then I saw, 
that as the wheel went round, the lump of wool, 


mary’s scrap-book. 

which was fixed near it, was drawn off into a fine 
thready which the woman let pass through her 
fingers on to a reel; which was spinning round 
very fast all the time; on the other side of the 
wheel (which was going round as well); and so the 
reel kept winding the worsted (for it was worsted 
the woman was making) on to itself as fast as it 
was made. I liked watching it so much; that I 
was quite sorry Papa did not stay longer. Per¬ 
haps you will take me to see the old woman 
again, some day; Mamma. 

Mamma. YeS; my dear little girl; that I will; 
if I am able. You have described to me so well 
what you saw 5 that you deserve such an indulgence; 
as it shows me that you made good use of your 
time whilst you were there; and learned what you 
could; so I shall be very glad to take you; and 
explain to you any thing more that I can about 
the spinning-wheel. 

mart’s scrap-book. 


Mary. Thank you, Mamma; and I should so 
like to try and spin a little myself; it seemed very 

Mamma. Ah ! I recollect when I was about 
the same age that you are, I thought the same, 
and begged my Aunt, wdio used to spin every 
evening, to let me try. She told me she knew 7 I 
should not be able to manage it; but I could not 
help fancying that I should be able to do it very 
well, for I had w 7 atched her so very often, and had 
observed exactly how she put her foot up and 
down, to make the wheel turn round; and how 
she rolled the thread backwards and forwards 
between her finger and thumb, as the reel wound 
it up, that I could not help thinking I should be 
able to do it just the same. I begged so very hard, 
that at last, my good-natured Aunt said she would 
let me try : so dow T n I sat in her seat, placed my 



mary’s scrap-book. 

foot upon the board, and took hold of the thread 
with my finger and thumb. But, alas ! I soon 
found that to know how a thing was done, and to 
be able to do it, are two very different things < 
When I pressed my foot upon the board to make 
the wheel turn round, I found I had not strength 
to press it hard enough to make the wheel go 
quite round ; so first it ran round a little one way, 
then it turned back again ; then snap went the 
thread, and I did not know how to join it; and 
so there was an end of my spinning. I remem¬ 
ber, my Aunt laughed very heartily to see my 
surprise and dismay at things going on so differ¬ 
ently from what I had expected ; but I did not 
see any thing to laugh at, for 1 felt rather 
ashamed at being so certain that I should be able 
to spin ; and as I did not at all like being laughed 
at, I never asked if I might try to spin again ; 

mary’s scrap-book. 


but often since, when I have seen others doing 
any thing which appeared to be very easy, but 
which I had never tried to do, I have remembered 
my first attempt at spinning, and thought it best 
not to be at all sure that I could do a thing, till 
I had tried, for that I very likely might be as 
much mistaken about that, as I was about the 

Mary. Then I think I had better not ask the 
old woman to let me spin, for fear I should get 
her work into confusion ; and I do not think I 
should much like being laughed at, either. And 
now, will you tell me what is done with the cot¬ 
ton after it is spun into thread. 

Mamma. A great many hundreds of these fine 
threads are then placed side by side, in a machine 
called a loom, to be woven into calico, or muslin 
of some kind. 


mary’s scrap-book. 

Mary. What is a machine, Mamma ? 

Mamma. Any thing which has been built 
together, w r ith power to be useful in making or 
doing something else, is a machine. The spin¬ 
ning-wheel is a machine for making cotton, wool, 
or flax, &c., into thread; a mangle is a machine 
for pressing rough linen smooth ; and the loom is 
a machine for w eaving threads of any kind into 
muslin, or cloth, or calico, or flannel, or such 
things. I am afraid I cannot explain to you, 
very well, how the man who works at the loom 
w T eaves the threads so nicely together, with the 
shuttle of thread he holds in his hand; but I hope 
I shall be able to take you to see a person w r eave, 
some day, and then you will understand all about 
it. Here is a piece of calico, which is cotton 
woven together; pull out one of the threads 
slowly from the edge of it, and then you will see 

mary’s scrap-book. 


how regularly it is woven in and out the threads 
which lie across the other way. Here is my mag¬ 
nifying-glass ; look at the calico through this, and 
you will be able to see the threads much plainer. 

Mary. Ah ! how much larger the threads look 
through the magnifying-glass. Now I can see 
how they pass over and under, very well; just as 
you said the weaver-bird passed the grass and 
string over and under the wires of its cage. 

Mamma. Yes; only when you have seen a 
weaver at work, you will see he manages his 
threads in rather a different way from what the 
weaver-bird does its grass: the bird works more 
like a basket-weaver, I think. But hark ! I hear 
the dinner-bell; so shut up your book, my love, 
till to-morrow. 

Mary. How quickly the time seems to have 
passed. I do so like hearing you tell me about 



these curious things^ Mamma; I hope you will be 
able to look at some more of the drawings to¬ 
morrow. I wonder whether Sarah knows that my 
frock is part of a plant; I will go and tell her all 
about it. 


The next morning, after breakfast, Mary ran to 
get her books, that she might say her lessons in 
good time, to hear some more about her Scrap¬ 
book before dinner ; but her Mamma said to her, 
just then, that she should have to go out early 
that morning, to a cottage some distance off, and 
she hoped Mary would finish her lessons in time 
to go with her; so Mary did not say any thing 
about her book, for she knew that if her Mamma 
could have indulged her, she would; but she sat 
down to learn her lessons as quickly as she could, 
that she might be ready to go out as soon as her 



Mamma wished to go. It was a beautiful morn¬ 
ing in springs and many a little bird was singing 
its sweetest song; and Mary soon felt quite glad 
to think that she should have a walk in the beauti¬ 
ful country, with her dear Mamma, that morning. 
Her lessons were all finished before her Mamma 
was ready to go, and she ran to put on her bon¬ 
net, and to get her basket; for her Mamma had 
told her that she should have a bundle of linen 
rag for her to carry. 

And now Mamma was ready, and off they set 
through the garden, which led into the pleasant 
lane. As they were walking along, Mary asked 
her Mamma if they were going to see any one 
who was ill, or who had been hurt, that they were 
carrying this bundle of rag with them. 

Mamma. We are going to see a poor girl who 
has burned herself very sadly, I understand. Her 



mother sent this morning to beg for some linen to 
lay over the burns, and I said I would take it to 
her, for I thought I could then see if I could do 
any thing more for her. 

Mary. Poor thing ! How did she burn herself. 
Mamma ? 

Mamma. They tell me, that as she was lighting 

the fire yesterday morning for her poor mother, 

who was ill in bed, her apron caught fire : she did 

not see it at first, and when she did see it, she was 

so frightened, that instead of lying down on the 

apron and smothering the flame, she ran out of 

the house screaming to a neighbour for help: the 

draught of wind quickly spread the flames as high 

as her neck, and she would soon have been burned 

to death, had not the neighbour run out with a 

large cloak, and wrapped it close round her; but 


the poor girl’s arms and neck are sadly burned, 



they say; and I fear she will suffer for a long 

Mary. Poor girl! How very shocking; and 
how frightened the poor mother must have been. 

Mamma. Yes; and she is too ill to nurse her 
poor girl, which must be a sad trouble to her. 
But here we are at the cottage : tap gently at the 
door, and wait till some one opens it. 

When they entered the cottage, they found poor 
Betsey, (for that was the name of the little girl 
who had burned herself,) lying in a little bed in 
one corner of the room, and moaning sadly, for 
the pain was very great. Marys’s Mamma talked 
kindly to her, and said she would send her some¬ 
thing nice for dinner. Mary asked her Mamma if 
she might save a piece of her pudding for her; 
her Mamma said she might, and if she liked, she 
might walk there with Sarah in the afternoon, 



and bring it to her, herself. Mary was much 
pleased at this, and left the cottage quite happy to 
think she should be able to give poor Betsey some¬ 
thing that she would like to have. 

As they were walking home again. Mamma 
said, “ Ah ! if I had known of the poor girPs ac¬ 
cident directly it happened, I would have sent 
some cotton wool to be wrapped closely over all 
the burns, and that would have saved her much 
pain, and healed the sores much sooner; but now 
that they have put salve and grease, nothing must 
touch the burns but linen.” 

Mary. Is not linen made of the cotton-plant, 
Mamma ? 

Mamma. No ; but is made of a plant, though; 
a little plant, which is called flax. 

Mary. Do tell me all about it, if you please. 
Mamma, as you did about the cotton-plant, yes- 


mary’s scrap-book. 

terday. Has it a pod of soft cotton as that 
has ? 

Mamma. No; it is a very different-looking 
plant from the cotton-plant, in eveiy respect; it 
is much smaller, not branching at all, but has a 
straight, slender, smooth stem, with small green 
leaves on it; and the flowers, which branch out 
from the top of this stem, are of a delicate blue 
colour; but I think I can show you a plant of it 
when we return home, for I saw one in flower, 
growing on a heap of rubbish near the garden, 
when we came out. 

Mary. Ah ! that will be very nice, to see the 
real plant; but does it grow wild. Mamma ? 

Mamma. It grows wild in some parts of 
England, though not any where near here, I 
believe. I dare say, the plant I saw this morning 
has sprung up from a linseed (which is the seed of 

mary’s scrap-book. 


flax), which has been thrown there with other 
rubbish, by accident. 

Mary. But pray, Mamma, what part of the 
plant can be made into linen ? I cannot think. 

Mamma. The stalk. 

Mary. The stalk! the smooth, stiff stalk! 
Can they make such fine soft linen as that I car¬ 
ried this morning, with the stalk ? 

Mamma. Yes, when the stalk has been pro¬ 
perly prepared; and I will now try and explain to 
you all about it; for you may suppose there is a 
great deal to be done with it before it can be 
woven into cloth. Large fields are sown with the 
seed of the plant, and it is left to grow till the 
plants have flowered, and begin to turn yellow; 
they are then pulled up and tied in bundles to 
dry; after that, they are put into ponds of water 
for five or six days, till the bark (which is the 


mary’s scrap-book. 

outside of the stalk) is sufficiently rotted, to strip 
easily from the reed (which is the inside of the 
stalk). When they are taken out of the water, 
they are put in an oven, or some w T arm place, to be 
dried again; and when they are quite dry, the 
bark is peeled off and put by itself, for that is the 
useful part of the plant, and is what is called flax, 
when it has been beaten hard with hammers on a 
block, till it is quite divided into threads,—fine, 
smooth-looking threads; and this flax may be 
spun into thread, and afterwards woven together 
in a loom, in the same way that I have told you 
cotton is done. 

Mary. I wonder who first thought of making 
the stalk into thread. I do not think I should 
ever have thought of such a thing. But here we 
are just home again: now can you show me 
where the flax grows ? 

mart’s scrap-book. 


Mamma. Yes; look yonder, among that ground¬ 
sel, and if you are not very blind, you will soon 
spy it out, I think. 

Mary. You must mean this pretty blue flower. 
Mamma. Why, the stalk does not look different 
from the stalks of many other plants; could they 
not make thread of them as well ? 

Mamma. There is a plant called hemp, which 
is cultivated also for the sake of its thread; but 
the thread is much coarser, and only fit to make 
string, or rope, or very coarse cloth with. And 
there are other plants from wdiich thread might be 
made, I dare say, but flax and hemp are found to 
be the best, so they are the only two sorts which 
are cultivated. 

Mary. Why, I do think. Mamma, that this 
plant is just like a drawing in my Scrap-book ; and 
now I remember, that is called flax. 

mary 5 s scrap-book. 


* J w 

Mamma. Yes, my love, it is the same, for I saw 
the drawing as you were turning over the leaves of 
your book yesterday, and thought, when I saw 
tliis plant this morning, that it would do nicely 
for us to talk about as we walked along; for I 
knew you were wishing to hear about some more 
of your drawings. 

Mary. So I was. Mamma, and am very much 
obliged to you for thinking of it. I was rather 
disappointed when you told me we must go out 
this morning; for I thought you would not be 
able to tell me any more about my book, and after 
all, you have told me a great deal about it. I am 
very glad that I finished my lessons in time to go 
out with you, for it has given me three pleasures: 
the pleasure of walking with you;—the pleasure 
of knowing I may take some of my pudding to 
poor Betsey ;—and the pleasure of hearing about 
another drawing in my Scrap-book. 

mary’s scrap-book. 


Mamma. Ah! how much happier you have 
been, than you would have been, had you put 
yourself out of humour this morning, because 
you were disappointed; and so had not finished 
your lessons in time to go out with me. But, my 
love, you must now run in and take off your bon¬ 
net as quickly as you can, for it is your dinner¬ 



When Mary returned from her second walk to 
the cottage, she found her Mamma seated at work 
in the drawing-room. “ Oh, Mamma,” said Mary, 
ee Betsey liked her pudding so much. She said it 
was the nicest pudding she had ever tasted.” 

Mamma. I am very glad she liked it, my love; 
you may, if you please, take her another piece to¬ 

Mary. Thank you, Mamma, I should like it 
very much; and I should like to take something 
to her every day till she is well, if I may. 

M amma. You may take her something every 

mary’s scrap-book. 


day that the weather is fine enough for you to 
walk out. And now, Mary, I was just thinking 
that I shall have half an hour to spare for your 
Scrap-book this afternoon; so if you would like 
to hear any more about the drawings, bring the 
book to me at once. 

Mary. Oh! thank you. Mamma; I should like 
it very much, indeed. First, let us look at the 
drawing of the flax. Look, Mamma, here it is. 
Is it not just like the plant we found? 

Mamma. Yes, that is the common flax; and 
here is one of its smooth, shining brown seeds, 
drawn by the side of it, I see. I do not think I 
have told you anything about the seed yet: that 
is useful in many ways, as well as the bark. 

Mary. No, you have not told me anything 
about the seed; but will you, if you please ? for 
I should like to know all that is made of this use- 


mary’s scrap-book. 

ful little plants very much. I wonder what these 
little, hard seeds can be used for. Are they good 
for food, Mamma? 

Mamma. Only for cattle, I believe. Linseed 
has been used for food sometimes, when people 
could get nothing better to eat; but it was very 
disagreeable food, and not at all wholesome, 1 
understand. But there is something made from 
this seed which is very useful, and by which you 
often benefit: every evening, indeed, during the 

Mary. What can you mean, Mamma? I did 
not think that I had ever seen or heard of linseed 
before now. 

Mamma. How could you find your way from 
the drawing-room to the nursery, in the winter 
evenings, if there were no lamp-light in the 


mary’s scrap-book. 


Mary. Why, I must have a candle, I suppose. 
But why do you ask me that? We were not 
talking about lights; we were talking about lin¬ 

Mamma. And I was thinking about linseed 
when I asked you that question; for the lamp in 
the hall is lighted with oil, and that oil is got from 

Mary. Oil got from linseed, Mamma ! I should 
never have guessed that; and I wondered why 
you should talk about the lamp-light, just when 
I was wishing to know how linseed was useful to 
me. Ah, Mamma, I know you said that just to 
puzzle me ; now, did you not ? 

Mamma. Why, I did not expect you would be 
able to guess what the lamp-light had to do with 
the linseed, certainly ; but I think, now, you will 
never forget. Do you think you shall ? 



Mary. No. I think, now, whenever I see a 
lamp burnings I shall think of linseed and flax, 
and all you have told me about it. But how do 
they get the oil out of all these little seeds, 

Mamma. There are large mills, called oil mills, 
built on purpose to do this work. A large quan¬ 
tity of the seed is placed in the mill, and there it 
is smashed and pressed, under heavy stones, until 
all the oil is squeezed out of it. As the oil is 
pressed out, it runs into something placed there 
on purpose to catch it; and then, when it has 
been strained off quite clear, it is fit for use. 

Mary. Well, they manage to get the oil out 
more easily than I had thought they could. Do 
they get oil from any other seeds, Mamma ? 

Mamma. Oh, yes, from a great many different 
sorts; but, I believe, the linseed is the only seed 

mary 5 s scrap-book. 


in England from which they collect oil for burn¬ 
ing. The candles I sometimes burn of an evening 
are partly made of the oil of the cocoa-nut. The 
salad oil we use at dinner is the oil of the olive, 
the fruit of a tree which grows in Provence, 
Languedoc, and other warm countries. Then 
there is oil of almonds, which you took in an 
emulsion you had, when you had that sad cough; 
and oil of cloves, which I put to my tooth when it 
ached so terribly; and a great many other oils, all 
useful for some purpose or another, which I cannot 
tell you about now. 

Mary. I think I know of another oil, Mamma; 
and it is from a plant which grows in almost 
every garden too. When you w r ere putting the 
oil to my hair the other day, you said it was 
scented with oil of lavender. I did not think 
about it at the time; but I suppose that must be 



oil pressed from the seeds of the lavender, is it 

Mamma. You are right in thinking that sweet 
scent came from the lavender which grows in the 
gardens; but that oil is not pressed from the 
lavender seeds in a mill, as I told you the linseed 
was, but it is extracted—that is, drawn—from the 
flowers of the lavender. These flowers are gathered 
and put into water in a particular-shaped vessel 
called a still; then the water is made hot, and, as 
it gets hot, the oil comes out of the flowers and 
floats on the top of the* w ater. They then skim it 
carefully off the water, and put it into bottles. 

Mary. How I should like to have some of that 
sweet scent! Do not you think you could make 
some oil of lavender, if I were to gather you a 
great many flowers, Mamma ? 

Mamma. Not unless I had a still, w r hich is the 

mary’s scrap-book. 


name of the vessel in which it must be done; 
and then it would cost more time and trouble in 
doing than I should think it was worth, so we 
had better be content to buy it at the shops. 
There are many more of your favourite garden 
flowers from which oil is extracted for the sake of 
their sweet scents, and these sweet-scented oils 
are called essences. There is essence of jasmine, 
essence of violet, and essence of rose, which is 
generally called otto of roses, because that is the 
name it is called by in the country from which 
we have it. 

Mary. What useful things plants are, as well 
as being so sweet and so beautiful! How many 
different things you have told me of, which are 
made from plants! 

Mamma. And there are many, many, more 
useful plants which I have not yet told you any 


mary’s scrap-book. 

thing about; but I have something more to say 
about the linseed, and I think I had better say it 
at once., for I must soon go and dress for dinner. 
I told you that the oil was pressed out of the lin¬ 
seed in a mill. Well, after they have pressed all 
the oil they can get out of the seed, they make 
what is left of the seed into large, flat cakes, called 
oil-cakes; and these are good food for sheep and 
other cattle, for it makes them very fat, and they 
are very fond of it; and now I think I have told 
you the principal uses of this plant. Do not you 
think it is one of the most useful little plants you 
ever heard of? 

Mary. Yes, indeed. I did not think, when I 
looked at this drawing yesterday, that it was of 
any use, only to look pretty in the garden. Now, 
let me see, how many things have you told me of 
that can be made from this plant ? First, there 

mart’s scrap-book. 


is the flax, which can be made into thread and 

Mamma. Yes, and lace and cambric, and damask 
table-cloths, the patterns of which you so often 
admire; and string, which is made of the coarser 
pieces of flax, and a great many more useful things 
of the same kind. 

Mary. And then the seed gives oil, which is 
burned in lamps. 

Mamma. And which is also used by painters 
to mix their colours in, and colours so mixed are 
called oil-colours. Linseed oil is also used in 
medicine; and the seed is very good for poultices, 
when boiled. 

Mary. Oh, how' many things this plant is good 
for! And then the seed, after the oil has been 
pressed from it, is good food to fatten sheep and 
other cattle with. I wonder whether there is any 


mary’s scrap-book. 

other plant which can be made into so many dif¬ 
ferent useful things as this flax can. 

Mamma. I will some day tell you about a plant 
which grows abroad; and when I have told you 
all the different useful things the natives make of 
it, you shall tell me which you think is the most 
useful plant of the two — the flax or that foreign 
plant. But now I must say good-bye to your 
book for the present, for it is past five o’clock. 

Mary. But, Mamma, before you go, if you 
please, will you just tell me what you mean when 
you say the natives ? Do you mean the birds ? 

Mamma. No, my love, I mean the people of 
that country in which the plant grows; for people 
are called natives of the country to which they 
belong, as well as birds and other animals. You 
and I are natives of England, French people are 
natives of France, and German people are natives 

mart’s scrap-book. 


of Germany; and now, my little native of Eng¬ 
land, come and see whether your supper is ready, 
for I think it must be. 


Many days passed before Mary could hear any 
more stories about her Scrap-book. First, her 
Mamma went from home, and when she returned 
she brought friends with her, and she was too 
much engaged with them, during their stay, to 
have any time to spare to Mary and her book ; 
but now the friends had left them, and Mary was 
again walking alone with her Mamma to the 
cottage to see Betsey, who was now so much 
better as to be able to sit up and amuse herself 
with working and reading; and Mary was taking 

mary’s scrap-book. 47 

her some pieces of print to make patchwork with, 
and one of her favourite books for her to read. 

As they walked along, Mary said, ee Do you 
know, Mamma, whenever I walk this way I think 
of the little flax plant, because, you know, we 
were walking in this lane the first time you talked 
to me about it.” 

Mamma. And now you have reminded me of 
something more I have to tell you about the flax, 
which I forgot to tell you when we were talking 
about it before. There is another very useful 
thing that is made of it—something as useful as 
any thing I have yet told you of. 

Mary. Something more made of flax! Dear 
Mamma, what can it be ? Is it made from the 
flax, or the seed, or from any other part of the 
plant ? 

Mamma. It is from the flax; but it is very dif- 


mary’s scrap-book. 

ferent from any thing I have yet told you of. 
I will describe it to you, and see if you can find 
out what it is. 

Mary. I dare say it is something or other sold 
in a linendraper’s shop, which I do not know the 
name of. 

Mamma. It is made of a great many different 
sorts of articles sold in linendiapers’ shops, all 
mixed together. 

Mary. Dear Mamma, what an odd-looking 
thing it must be! Do tell me what it is. I am 
so wondering what it can be. 

Mamma. It is not at all an odd-looking thing; 
and though made of so many different pieces, you 
cannot see any joins in it, but it is quite smooth 
and thin, and will tear very easily. Now I will 
tell you one thing more about it, and then I 
think you will be able to guess what it is. You 

mart’s scrap-book. 


look at it every morning when you read, and learn 
your lessons ; and when you write your copy, or 
look at your Scrap-book. 

Mary. I think you must mean paper, Mamma. 
Ah, I see by your smile that I am right. But is 
that made of all sorts of things which are to be 
got at a linendraper’s shop ? 

Mamma. Yes; paper is made of all different 
sorts of old rags, and those, you know, are 
pieces of such things as are sold in linendrapers’ 

Mary. But I cannot fancy that paper can be 
made of old rags. How r can rags be changed into 
nice, smooth, white paper? 

Mamma. By boiling them. After the rags 
have been washed quite clean, they are cut up 
into little pieces, and boiled over and over again, 
till they are boiled into a soft mass called pulp, 



mart’s scrap-book. 

which, mixed with the water, looks more like 
gruel than any thing else. 

Mary. And can they make paper of that pulp? 

Mamma. Yes; and I will tell you how. When 
the pulp has been boiled enough, it is poured into 
a large, square tub, called a vat; then a man 
takes a frame the size the sheet of paper is to be, 
dips it into the vat, and takes out as much pulp 
as will make a sheet of paper; then he shakes the 
frame to spread the pulp smooth over it, and to 
let all the water run through the bottom of the 
frame. Now the pulp looks like a sheet of very 
wet paper, and in this state it is taken out of the 
frame, and placed between two pieces of felt. 

Mary. I wonder they can manage to take it 
out of the frame without tearing it. 

Mamma. Ah, I dare say if you or I, who are 
not used to the work, were to try to take it out, 

mary’s scrap-book. 


we should tear it; but paper-makers have learned, 
by practice, how to handle it. Well, after a great 
many sheets of paper have been placed between 
felts, and piled up one above another, they are 
pressed together very hard to squeeze all the water 
out they can, and then taken out from between 
the felt, and hung up to dry 

Mary. I should not think they would dry very 

Mamma. No; after this, the paper is made wet 
again by dipping it into what is called size. 

Mary. What is the use of dipping it into size. 
Mamma ? 

Mamma. We could not write on it if it were 
not sized, but the ink would spread as it does on 
blotting-paper, which has no size in it; and now, 
after the paper has been sized, it is pressed again, 
and then it is finished. 


mary’s scrap-book. 

Mary. How curious to think that such a nice 
useful thing as paper is,, should be made of pieces 
of old rag, which are of no use to any body. Is all 
paper made of linen rags, Mamma ? 

Mamma. Oh no: cotton rags are used for many 
sorts; and coarse, brown paper is made of old 
ropes chiefly, I believe; and rope, you know, is 
made of hemp. 

And now they had arrived at the cottage, where 
they found Betsey smiling, and happy to see her 
kind friends again, and her poor mother much 
better than she had been, and very grateful for all 
their kindness. After they had given the work 
and book, and sat and talked with them a little 
while, they left the cottage to return home 


It was a beautiful summer’s day, and the fields 
and hedges were full of sweet flowers. Mary re- 

mart’s scrap-book. 


marked that, in almost every open flower, there 
was a bee busy gathering the honey out of it. 

Mamma. Yes, here they are, little, industrious 
creatures, making the most of a sunshiny day! 
They remind me of your pretty hymn :— 

“ How doth the little busy bee 
Improve each shining hour. 

And gather honey all the day 
From ev’ry opening flower. 

Mary. How skilfully she builds her cell. 

How neat she spreads her wax, 

And labours hard to store it well 
With the sweet food she makes.” 

I suppose the sweet food she makes is the honey; 
but I can never see any honey in the flowers, 

Mamma. I dare say not, for there is such a 
very little, tiny drop in each flower, that you 



would scarcely be able to see it if you knew where 
to look for it; but if you were to pick off one of 
the blossoms of that white nettle, and put the 
bottom of the white part into your mouth, you 
would find it taste very sweet. 

Mary. So it does, Mamma, just like honey ; 
and I suppose if I were to taste other flov T ers I 
should find them as sweet. 

Mamma. A great many are as sweet, but not 
all; and remember, some flowers are poisonous; 
so do not taste any without asking me first 
whether you may. 

Mary. But the bee manages to get the honey 
out without spoiling the flower, as I have done. 
How r can it get its head down so far into these 
little flowers ? 

Mamma. The bee has a little trunk growing 
below its mouth, and with this it can suck the 

mary’s scrap-book. 55 

honey out from the very lowest part of the flower. 
Look at that bee; how laden it is with the yellow 
powder it has collected from the little stamens 
which grow out of the middle of the flowers : that 
is not to make honey with, but is for food for the 
young bees. 

Mary. I thought they ate nothing but honey: 
then there are two useful things which they get 
from flowers. But where do they get the wax 
from, that they make their little cells with ? 

Mamma. The wax is made from honey which 
they swallow, and let it remain till it is turned into 
wax (which it will be in about twenty-four hours), 
when they bring it up again, and spread it out 
into thin sheets of wax, which they afterwards 
join together, and make into beautiful honey¬ 
comb, such as I have showed you. 

Mary. Oh, what wonderful little creatures, 


mary’s scrap-book. 

and useful too; for what nice food their honey is, 
and so good for coughs and sore throats. How 
thankful the poor people are for it when they 
are ill. 

Mamma. And think of how many useful things 
there are made of the wax. Candles, which give 
a brighter and clearer light than any other sort 
of candles; and sealing-wax is partly made of 
bees’-wax; and many different salves and oint¬ 
ments, and polishes for furniture, have bees’-wax 
in them: and there is another very pretty thing 
made of wax, which little girls are generally very 
fond of, and which I have seen make my Mary 
dance for joy when she has had one given to her; 
and what can that be ? 

Mary. I think you must mean a wax doll. 
Mamma; but I did not think that beautiful wax 
was bees’-wax. 

mart's scrap-book. 


M amma. Yes it is, properly cleaned and co¬ 
loured. Now, do not you think that little girls 
should be particularly obliged to bees ? 

Mary. Yes ; I shall always think, when I look 
at them so busy among the flowers, that perhaps 
they are helping to make me a new wax doll. 

Mamma. And when you look at the sweet 
flowers, you must remember it is they which 
supply the honey with which the bees make the 

Maiu. ,0 it is! then I think I should be the 
most obliged to the flowers, after all. 

Mamma. And who made the flowers, with their 
sweet honey ? and who taught the bees to make 
that sweet honey into wax?—None but the Great 
God above could contrive any thing so wonderful 
and beautiful as this little insect and these deli¬ 
cate flowers! What a kind Heavenly Father we 



have, to supply us with so many things that are 
sweet and lovely, as well as all that is useful and 
necessary for us! And it is He whom we must 
thank and praise for all these good things. 


The next day, when Mary came in from the gar¬ 
den, where she had been very busy at work in her 
own little piece of ground, she found her Mamma 
seated at work in the drawing-room, quite alone ; 
and she thought to herself, this would be a nice 
opportunity for hearing another story about some 
drawing in her Scrap-book; so she said ,—“ I 
think, Mamma, you look very much as if you 
could tell me about some more of the pictures in 
my book, if I were to bring it to you now ? ” 
Mamma. Why? Because I am sitting alone 
with my work? Well, that is the case generally 


mart’s scrap-book. 

when I tell you stories, certainly; and I am quite 
at leisure to attend to you now, if you like to 
bring your book here : but first those little fingers 
must be washed; they look very much as if some¬ 
body’s garden gloves had holes in them, I think. 

Mary. Yes, Mamma, they have terrible holes 
in them; garden gloves get holes in them very 
soon, somehow. 

Mamma. And when holes come, little girls 
should ask Sarah or some one to mend them, if 
they are not old enough to mend them themselves: 
but if they forget to do that, they must not mind 
the trouble of washing their hands when they 
come in from the garden : so run along, my love, 
and make yourself clean and tidy, and then come 
down again as quickly as you can, that we may 
have time for a long chat before I am likely to be 



After a few minutes, Mary returned with clean 
hands, smooth hair, and a smiling face; and 
taking her Scrap-book from the shelf, placed it on 
the table before her Mamma. 

“ Do you know, Mamma/’ she said, as she 
turned over the leaves to find the drawing she 
wished, “when I was working in the garden, I 
saw a butterfly settle on a flower near me, which 
I think was like one in this book. Yes; here it 
is: and I think it is just like it, too. Look, 
Mamma, is not this a pretty drawing ? Here is a 
butterfly, and a branch with currants on it, and a 
caterpillar; and something else lying near it 
which looks very like a bee, or a wasp of some 
kind, without any wings or legs. What is it. 

Mamma. That is a chrysalis ; and what you 
call a butterfly, is the currant-moth, I see. 



Mary. What is a chrysalis, Mamma? Is it an 
insect ? 

Mamma. No, it is not an insect; it is only a 
case from which a moth like that came out. Per¬ 
haps you do not know that all moths and butter¬ 
flies are first caterpillars, then chrysalises, and then, 
out of these chrysalises, come the pretty moths 
and butterflies. 

Mary. No, I never heard of it before. How 
can they change into such different looking 
things ? 

Mamma. God, who made the beautiful flowers, 
and the wonderful little bees, can also cause these 
wonderful changes in the caterpillars; and most 
curious and interesting it is to watch these little 
creatures, and see how all these changes take 

Mary. How I should like to see a caterpillar 

mary ? s scrap-book. 


change, and a butterfly come out of the chrysalis: 
that must be a beautiful sight, I think. 

Mamma. And you can see these changes, if 
you do not mind the trouble of feeding the cater¬ 
pillars with fresh leaves every morning; and 1 
will give you a proper sort of box for keeping 
them in. 

Mary. Oh ! thank you. Mamma. I shall like 
feeding them very much, and seeing every morn¬ 
ing how much they have eaten. But where can 1 
get any caterpillars from ? 

Mamma. I dare say, if you look among the 
gooseberry and currant bushes, you will find some 
like this one, for they are very common; indeed, 
there are sometimes so many of them, as to eat 
every leaf off' the bushes. 

Mary. Then the gardener will be much obliged 
to me if I take some away, I dare say. I shall 


mary’s scrap-book. 

pick out the youngest I can find; that I may see 
them grow. 

Mamma. We should look about for some eggs 
of the moth, and then we shall see the changes 
from the very beginning. 

Mary. Eggs, Mamma ? Do caterpillars come 
from eggs ? 

Mamma. Yes; but not quite such large eggs as 
birds’-eggs; the eggs of the currant-moth are 
about the size of the head of a small needle. 

Mary. Dear! what sweet little things they 
must be. I hope I shall be able to find some. 

Mamma. I once had some eggs of a moth, 
which I saved in a little box, in hopes that they 
would hatch; and every morning I used to look, 
the first thing, to see whether there was any 
change in their appearance; after watching them 
a great many mornings, without seeing any differ- 

mary’s scrap-book. 

6 ;> 

ence in them, I thought, one morning, they looked 
darker than usual; so I got some leaves and put 
into the box, and when I went to look at them 
about an hour afterwards, the little caterpillars had 
come out of their eggs, and were feeding on the 

Mary. What little tiny things they must have 
been, Mamma. 

Mamma. Yes, they were. I used to look at 
them through my magnifying glass at first: they 
were such beautiful little things, of a pale yellow 
colour, with fine black silky hairs about them, and 
two little black tufts upon their back. 

M ary. Were they the caterpillars of the cur- 
rant-moth ? This one does not seem to have any 
tufts upon it. 

M amma. No ; they were the caterpillars of the 
drinker-moth; and are very handsome indeed 



mary’s scrap-book. 

when full grown. Caterpillars change their coats 
several times while, growings and after each change 
they appear in a brighter coat than before. When 
the drinker-caterpillar was full grown,, it had a 
beautiful velvet-looking coat of brown and orange, 
with black, silky stripes down the sides, and two 
long tufts of black upon its back, one at each 

Mary. How very handsome they must be ; I 
think I should like to have one of them very 

Mamma. Very likely we shall be able to find 
some in the spring; for they are rather common 
then, as they live through the winter, and so may 
be found full-grown before many other sorts are 

Mary. Then I suppose many sorts do not live 
through the winter. W^hat becomes of them then ? 

mary’s scrap-book. 67 

Do they change into such a thing as this ?—I for¬ 
get what you call it. 

Mamma. A chrysalis. Most caterpillars change 
into the chrysalis state in the autumn, and remain 
so through the winter, till sweet flowers and warm 
sunshine come again; when the chrysalis case 
bursts open, and out comes the beautiful butterfly, 
or moth, to enjoy itself in the fresh, sweet air, 
amongst its favourite flowers. 

Mary. Butterflies always look so happy in the 
fields and gardens, fluttering about among the 
flowers. But why do you call some butterflies and 
some moths ? 

Mamma. Butterflies are different from moths in 
many respects. All butterflies fly in the day¬ 
time ; while nearly all moths fly of an evening, 
and remain hid in the day-time ; then, the moths 
have in general much thicker bodies, and longer 

f 2 


mary’s scrap-book. 

down upon them, than butterflies, though this is 
not always the case : that currant-moth, for in¬ 
stance, has a thin body, and is in shape altogether 
like a butterfly; and it also flies by day, as do 
butterflies. But I will show you how you may 
always know a moth from a butterfly. Do you see 
these two horns which grow out of its head ? 

Mary. Yes ; they are like two black hairs. 

Mamma. Well, all butterflies and moths have 
two horns growing out of their heads: but the 
horns of butterflies are thicker at the tip than at 
any other part, while the horns of moths are always 
thinner at the tip than they are at any other part; 
and they generally curl round in the way these do, 
whilst the horns of butterflies always stand out 
quite straight. 

Mary. Yes, I see. I think I shall always re¬ 
member the difference between a moth and a but- 

mary’s scrap-book. 


terfly now: but will you tell me, if you please, 
how a caterpillar changes into a chrysalis. 

Mamma. Different sorts of caterpillars change 
in different ways : but 1 will first tell you of the 
currant-moth, as we have the drawing of the 
chrysalis here to look at. Do you see the cater¬ 
pillar is hanging from that leaf by a tine thread ? 
Well, that thread is spun by the caterpillar, with 
something it brings out of its mouth: when the 
time is come for it to turn into a chrysalis, it will 
crawl into some snug corner, generally among 
pailings, and fastening itself there with this fine 
thread, it sheds its skin for the last time, working 
it gradually off over its head ; and then its body is 
without legs or head that can be seen, and gradually 
turns to this dark brown and yellow chrysalis. 

Mary. How very curious ! Then I suppose the 


mary’s scrap-book. 

inside of the chrysalis keeps changing and chang¬ 
ings till it has turned into a moth. 

Mamma. Yes; but this change does not take 
place quite so quickly as the caterpillar’s change 
into a chrysalis does : that change takes place in 
the course of a days but the chrysalis remains 
quite still, and looking just the same all through 
the autumn and winters till the Aveather becomes 
warm agains as I have told you. 

Mary. And how long does it live as a moth ? 

Mamma. Oh ! not many weeks: its happy life 
is soon at an end; but before it dieSs it lays its 
eggs in some safe places near currant or gooseberry 
bushess that the little caterpillars may have proper 
food to feed upon when they are hatched. 

Mary. How curious that they should know 
where to lay their eggs. Do all moths and but- 

mary’s scrap-book. 71 

terflies take care where to lay their eggs near the 
proper sort of food ? 

Mamma. Yes. God has made them all to know 
the proper place for laying their eggs; and many 
butterflies cover their eggs carefully over with the 
down from their own bodies., which some pick off 
in a very curious way. Moths and butterflies have 
no mouthy excepting a long tube, that is, a trunk 
like the bee’s, only longer, with which they suck 
honey out of the flowers; but some moths have 
something growing at the end of the tail, almost 
the shape of a pair of sugar tongs, only very , very 
tiny; and with this it can pick the down off its 
body and lay it over its eggs, very quickly and 
very nicely: others use their legs for the purpose, 
which they make as useful as we do our hands. 

Mary. How very curious. I never thought, 
till now, that moths and butterflies could do any 

mart’s scrap-book. 

thing but suck the honey from the flowers* and fly 
about; or that caterpillars did any thing but eat 
the leaves and flowers: and now* what wonderful 
things you keep telling me about them. Pray, 
Mamma, what sort of a chrysalis did the drinker- 
caterpillar make ? 

Mamma. Oh! that made itself a beautiful little 
case with its silken thread, which it spun from its 
mouth in the same way that the currant-caterpillar 
makes its little rope. When the caterpillar wanted 
to turn into a chrysalis, it crawled up into one 
corner of the top of the box it was in, and then 
began to spin its thread, fastening it to the top, 
and then to the side of the box, then back again, 
backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, 
till it was cpiite hid within it. 

Mary. How many times it must have passed 
the thread across and across, before it could have 
made it thick enough to hide itself. 

mart’s scrap-book. 73 

Mamma. Yes ; and after it was hidden, I could 
still hear it at work inside, spinning the thread 
round its own body till it was quite shut up in a 
little house, not so large round inside as my 
thimble, but a little longer; and then it turned 
into a black chrysalis, about twice as large as this 
one, in which state it remained till the spring, 
when, one morning, I found the new moth had 
eaten its way through one end of the spun case, 
and walked out. 

Mary. I should like to see such a chrysalis 
case as that, very much. 

Mamma. Such a case as that is called a cocoon. 
Many caterpillars spin themselves such cocoons as 
these; so I dare say we shall be able to find one 
before very long. Then there are many sorts of 
caterpillars which bury themselves in the earth, 
and turn to chrysalises there. 


mary’s scrap-book. 

Mary. I have got another drawing of butter¬ 
flies or moths somewhere in this book. Shall I 
find it, and then perhaps you will be able to tell 
me what sort of chrysalises they came out of. 
Here they are : do you know them ? 

Mamma. Ah ! yes : they are old favourites of 
mine. Now can you tell me whether they are 
butterflies or not ? 

Mary. Let me see if I can. The large one is 
a butterfly, I think; for the ends of its horns are 
much thicker than the other part: and I think the 
horns of the other one are rather thicker at the 
tip; but it has such a thick, downy body, that 
it looks more like a moth than a butterfly, 1 

Mamma. Ah! I thought that one would puzzle 
you: and no wonder; for it is neither a common 
moth nor a butterfly, but is what is called a 

mary’s scrap-book. 


sphinx-moth, which I have not yet told you about. 
You see its wings are very long and narrow, not 
so deep as the body is long, and the body is very 
thick. Well, all moths of this shape are called 
sphinx-moths ; and many of them, though not 
all, have the horns thicker at the tip : but you 
may easily know them from butterflies and other 
moths, from their thick bodies, and their wings 
being so long and narrow. 

Mary. Yes, I think I understand the differ¬ 
ence. But what are the names of these two 
beauties. Mamma? 

Mamma. The sphinx is called the humming- 
bird-moth : and shall I tell you why it is called 
so ? There are some beautiful little birds abroad, 
which feed upon honey, and when they take the 
honey from the flowers with their long, thin 
beaks, they do not settle upon the plant, but sup- 

mart’s scrap-book. 


port themselves in the air, before the flower, by 
fluttering their wings very quickly,—so quickly, 
that they make a slight humming noise; and so 
these little birds are called Humming-birds. Well, 
this moth, when it sucks honey from flowers, sup¬ 
ports itself in the air the same way as the hum¬ 
ming-bird does, and so it is named after that. I 
have seen one darting from flower to flower, and 
from bush to bush, so quickly, and without settling 
at all, that it seemed hardly possible for it to get 
any honey out in the time : but I suppose it was 
having a nice supper, though I could not see it 
take the honey; for this is the way they always 

Mary. I hope I shall see one some day : I 
shall like to watch it very much. And what sort 
of a caterpillar has this moth? and what sort 
of a chrysalis does it turn to ? 

mart’s scrap-book. 

/ / 

Mamma. The caterpillar is of a delicate green 
colour, with white stripes and little white dots 
down each side: when it turns to a chrysalis, it 
buries itself in the ground, or makes itself a cocoon 
on the surface of the earthy with little bits of 
leaves, or stems of plants, and earth, all fastened 
nicely together. 

Mary. Well, that is another sort of chrysalis 
case; different from any you have told me of before, 
is it not ? 

Mamma. Yes; and this butterfly, which is 
called the Red-Admiral, comes out of a chrysalis, 
which is also of a different shape from that or any 
I have yet told you of. The caterpillar, before it 
changes to a chrysalis, crawls to the under part of 
a leaf, or branch, and fastening just the tip of its 
tail with its web, securely to the branch, hangs 


mary’s scrap-book. 

with its head downwards, slips off its skin for the 
last time, and then remains hanging as a chrysalis, 
till the butterfly comes out. Look here : this is 
the chrysalis, hanging to the rose-stalk. 

Mary. So it is: I did not see it before. But 
when all the leaves fall off, what will the poor 
chrysalis do then ? 

Mamma. The red-admiral, and many other but¬ 
terflies, do not remain in the chrysalis state all 
the winter, but only for two or three weeks; so, if 
you are anxious to see the different changes as 
quickly as possible, we had better look about for 
some of those butterfly caterpillars which change 
in a few weeks. 

Mary. Oh yes, do let us, if you please. Mamma; 
for I was thinking it would be a long time to have 
to wait all through the winter, before the moths 

mary’s scrap-book. 


came out. What a nice long story you have told 
me about the moths and butterflies this afternoon, 
and what wonderful and beautiful things they are ! 
But I do not think they are of any use, are they, 

Mamma. The birds would tell you that they 
were of great use to them, for many birds feed on 
them and other insects entirely. 

Mary. The birds eat the beautiful butterflies! 
Oh, Mamma, I do not think I shall like birds if 

they do that. 


Mamma. I wonder how the beautiful birds like 
you for eating them up ! 

Mary. I eat the birds, Mamma ! Oh, I would 
not hurt them on any account. 

Mamma. But you have no objection to a piece 
of chicken or duck, or partridge or pheasant, when 
there is any for you at dinner-time, have you ? 


mary’s scrap-book. 

Mary. No: no more I have. I did not think 
about those birds; but I should not like to catch 
and kill them myself at all. 

Mamma. No, I dare say not; but do not fancy 
that those who do kill them are more cruel than 
yourself for doing so. God has kindly given us 
all animals for our use; and we may kill any of 
them we want for any purpose, only we must be 
careful not to put them to more pain than neces¬ 
sary : if we hurt any poor dumb animal, when we 
need not have done so, then we are cruel. But 
you were saying just now, that you did not think 
that moths and butterflies were of any use to us. 
I can tell you of one moth which is as useful to 
us as the flax and cotton plant are. 

Mary. Dear, Mamma, how can moths and 
butterflies be useful to us ? 

Mamma. In spinning silk for us. There are 

mart’s scrap-book. 


caterpillars called silkworms, which spin their 
cocoons with tine, smooth silk: well, all the 
beautiful silks and satins, ribbons and velvets, 
which are made, are made of the silk of these 

Mary. Are they indeed ? How many cocoons 
there must be to give enough silk to make so 
many things with! 1 should have thought that 

if there had been cocoons on every tree and plant 
in the fields and gardens, there would hardly have 
been enough, and yet I never see any about any¬ 

Mamma. They do not belong to this country, 
but to China, Persia, and other warm countries, 
where they feed on the mulberry-trees, which 
grow wild there; and there are large plantations 
of mulberries on purpose for the silkworms to feed 




upon, and to spin their cocoons on; and there are 
a great many people employed in collecting the 
cocoons as soon as they are made, that they may 
wind the silk off them before the moths come out. 

Mary. Why, would not the silk be as good 
after the moths had come out of the cocoon ? 

Mamma. No ; the moth would eat its way 
through the cocoon, and so divide the silk into so 
many short pieces that it would be of no use. 
They like to wind the silk off in one long piece, 
as the caterpillar has spun it. The silk of one 
cocoon will measure as much as six miles long! 
Only think of a little caterpillar, not longer than 
your finger, spinning six miles of silk, and that it 
will do in three days too! 

Mary. Why, six miles is much farther than I 
have ever walked. How wonderful it seems that 

mary’s scrap-book. 


a little caterpillar can spin such a long, long silk 
as that! What colour do they spin their silk, 
Mamma?—all the different beautiful colours we 
see silks and satins made of? 

Mamma. No: their cocoons are generally yel¬ 
low, sometimes very pale, and sometimes a dark 
orange ; but the silk is always bleached—that is, 
made white — and then it can be dyed of any 
colour that is wanted: and now tell me if you do 
not think the silkworm a very useful little insect 
to us ? 

Mary. Yes, indeed! though I can hardly yet 
believe that so many things can be made of silk 
spun by a little caterpillar. All the silk gowns 
and pelisses, and ribbons and handkerchiefs we 
see, made from the silk of a little moth ! 

Mamma. Yes; moths and plants give us the 
greater part of our clothes, and many other useful 


mary’s scrap-book. 

things besides. But I must leave off talking 
about moths and plants now, for it is very nearly 
dinner-time. I see. 

Mary. Then it is very nearly my supper-time, 
I suppose, and I am glad of it, for I begin to feel 
rather hungry. What a nice long afternoon we 
have had with my book to-day! have not we, 

Mamma. Yes; and this is the last time that 
we shall look at it, and talk about it together, for 
a long time, I believe. 

Mary. Oh why, Mamma? I am so sorry to 
hear you say so. 

Mamma. Are you? I rather think that sor¬ 
rowful look will be changed to one of joy, when 1 
tell you the reason why. 

Mary. What can the reason be ! Do tell me. 


mary’s scrap-book. 


Mam ma. Why, the reason is, that if to-morrow 
he fine, your Papa will take you to see your dear 
Grandpapa and Grandmamma; and if you are a 
good girl, you are to stay with them for some 

Mary. Papa take me to see Grandpapa and 
Grandmamma to-morrow ! I can hardly believe 
it! Oh ! how delightful that will be ! 

Mamma. Ah, I thought you would not be very 
sorry to give up your Scrap-book for a few weeks, 
to pay a visit to Grandpapa. 

Mary. But what a secret you have kept it. 
Why did not you tell me of it before, Mamma ? 

Mamma. I did not know on what day you 
would go till just before you came in from the 
garden; and then I thought I had better not tell 
you any thing about it till we had had our chat 
about the butterflies, for I guessed the news would 


mary’s scrap-book. 

make you so happy you would not be able to 
think of any thing else after you had heard it; 
and now you have got something pleasant to talk 
and think about while you are at supper, which is 
now ready for you, I dare say. 

Mary. I do not think I could eat any supper 
just now : I do not feel at all hungry. 

Mamma. Why, I thought you told me a few 
minutes ago, that you were getting very hungry ? 
What! has this happy news taken away your 
appetite ? 

Mary. I suppose it has, for I do not feel at all 
hungry now; but I should like to go with you 
into your room, and talk to you a little about my 
journey and my visit, if I may. 

Mamma. Yes, you may come with me, if you 
like, and I will tell you how you are to travel; and 
we will settle what books and work you shall take 

mart’s scrap-book. 


with you, for it would not do for you to forget 
what you have learned, or to pass the days in 
idleness. If you wish to enjoy your visit, try to 
perform your duties each day, as you would do 
them if you were at home with me; for we cannot 
be happy if we neglect to do what we ought to do. 



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