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_Geo._ No—have they any?

_Tut._ Yes—at the bottom of every scale lie two winged seeds; but when the scales open, the seeds fall out: so that you can seldom find any in those you pick up.

_Har._ Are the seeds good for anything?

_Tut._ There is a kind of pine in the south of Europe called the _stone-pine_, the kernels of which are eaten, and said to be as sweet as an almond. And birds pick out the seeds of other sorts, though they are so well defended by the woody scales.

_Har._ They must have good strong bills then.

_Tut._ Of this tribe of trees a variety of species are found in different countries, and are cultivated in this. But the only kind native here is the _wild-pine_ or _Scotch-fir_. Of this, there are large natural forests in the Highlands of Scotland; and the principal plantations consist of it. It is a hardy sort, fit for barren and mountainous soils, but grows slowly.

_Geo._ Pray, what are those very tall trees that grow in two rows before the old hall in our village?

_Tut._ They are the _common_ or _spruce fir_, a native of Norway, and other northern countries, and one of the loftiest of the tribe. But observe those trees that grow singly in the grounds opposite to us with widespread branches spreading downward, and trailing on the ground, thence gradually lessening till the top of the tree ends almost in a point.

_Har._ What beautiful trees!

_Tut._ They are the Pines called _Larches_, natives of the Alps and Apennines, introduced into this country about the middle of the last century, for the purpose, at first, of decorating our gardens, and of which extensive plantations for timber have since been made, both in England and Scotland. These are not properly evergreens, as they shed their leaves in winter, but quickly recover them again. Then we have besides the _Weymouth pine_, which is the tallest species in America—the _silver fir_, so called from the silvery hue of its foliage—the _pinaster_—and a tree of ancient fame, the _cedar of Lebanon_.

_Geo._ I suppose that is a very great tree?

_Tut._ It grows to a large size, but is slow in coming to its full growth.

_Geo._ Are pines and firs very useful trees?

_Tut._ Perhaps the most so of any. By much the greatest part of the wood at present used among us comes from them.

_Har._ What—more than from the oak?

_Tut._ Yes, much more. Almost all the timber used in building houses, for floors, beams, rafters, and roofs, is fir.

_Geo._ Does it all grow in this country?

_Tut._ Scarcely any of it. Norway, Sweden, and Russia, are the countries from which we draw our timber, and a vast trade there is in it. You have seen timber-yards?

_Geo._ O yes—several.

_Tut._ In them you would observe some very long thick beams, called balks. These are whole trees, only stripped of the bark and squared. You would also see great piles of planks and boards, of different lengths and thickness. Those are called _deal_, and are brought over ready sawn from the countries where they grow. They are of different colours. The white are chiefly from the fir-tree; the yellow and red from the pine.

_Har._ I suppose there must be great forests of them in those countries, or else they could not send us so much.

_Tut._ Yes: the mountains of Norway are overrun with them, enough for the supply of all Europe; but on account of their ruggedness, and the want of roads, it is found impossible to get the trees, when felled, down to the seacoast, unless they grow near some river.

_Geo._ How do they manage then?

_Tut._ They take the opportunity when the rivers are swelled with rains or melted snow, and tumble the trees into them, when they are carried down to the mouth of the rivers, where they are stopped by a kind of pens.

_Har._ I should like to see them swimming down the stream.

_Tut._ Yes—it would be curious enough; for in some places these torrents roll over rocks, making steep waterfalls, down which the trees are carried headlong, and do not rise again till they are got to a great distance; and many of them are broken, and torn to pieces in the passage.

_Geo._ Are these woods used for anything besides building?

_Tut._ For a variety of purposes; such as boxes, trunks, packing-cases, pales, wainscots, and the like. Deal is a very soft wood, easily worked, light, and cheap, which makes it preferred for so many uses, though it is not very durable, and is very liable to split.

_Har._ Yes—I know my box is made of deal, and the lid is split all to pieces with driving nails into it.

_Geo._ Are ships ever built with fir?

_Tut._ It was one of the first woods made use of for naval purposes; and in the poets you will find the words _pine_ and _fir_ frequently employed to signify _ship_. But as navigation has improved, the stronger and more durable woods have generally taken its place. However, in the countries where fir is very plentiful, large ships are still built with it; for though they last but a short time, they cost so little in proportion, that the profit of a few voyages is sufficient to repay the expense. Then, from the great lightness of the wood, they swim higher in the water, and consequently will bear more loading. Most of the large ships that bring timber from Archangel, in Russia, are built of fir. As for the masts of ships, those I have already told you are all made of fir or pine, on account of their straightness and lightness.

_Geo._ Are there not some lines in Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ about that?

_Tut._ Yes: the spear of Satan is magnified by a comparison with a lofty pine.

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine, Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great admiral, were but a wand.

_Har._ I remember, too, that the walking-staff of the giant Polypheme was a pine.

_Tut._ Ay—so Homer and Ovid tell us, and he must have been a giant indeed, to use such a stick. Well, so much for the wood of these trees. But I have more to say about their uses.

_Har._ I am glad of it.

_Tut._ All of the tribe contain a juice of a bitterish taste and strong fragrant smell. This, in some, is so abundant as to flow out from incisions; when it is called _turpentine_. The larch, in particular, yields a large quantity. Turpentine is one of the substances called resinous; it is sticky, transparent, very inflammable, and will not mix _with_ water, but will dissolve in spirits of wine.

_Geo._ What is it used for?

_Tut._ It is used medicinally, particularly in the composition of plasters and ointments. It also is an ingredient in varnishes, cements, and the like. An oil distilled from turpentine is employed in medicine, and is much used by painters for mixing up their colours. What remains after getting this oil is common _resin_. All these substances take fire very easily, and burn with a great flame; and the wood of the pine has so much of this quality, when dry, that it is often used for torches.

_Har._ I know deal shavings burn very briskly.

_Geo._ Yes; and matches are made of bits of deal dipped in brimstone.

_Tut._ True,—and when it was the custom to burn the bodies of the dead, as you read in Homer and other old authors, the pines and pitch-trees composed great part of the funeral pile.

_Har._ But what are pitch-trees? Does pitch grow upon trees?

_Tut._ I was going on to tell you about that. _Tar_ is a product of the trees of this kind, especially of one species, called the pitch-pine. The wood is burnt in a sort of oven made in the earth, and the resinous juice sweats out, and acquires a peculiar taste and a black colour from the fire. This is tar. Tar when boiled down to dryness becomes _pitch_.

_Geo._ Tar and pitch are chiefly used about ships; are they not?

_Tut._ They resist moisture, and therefore are of great service in preventing things from decaying that are exposed to wet. For this reason, the cables and other ropes of ships are well soaked with tar; and the sides of ships are covered with pitch mixed with other ingredients. Their seams, too, or the places where the planks join, are filled with tow dipped in a composition of resin, tallow, and pitch, to keep out the water. Wood for paling, for piles, for coverings of roofs and other purposes of the like nature, is often tarred over. Cisterns and casks are pitched to prevent leaking.

_Har._ But what are sheep tarred for after they are sheared?

_Tut._ To cure wounds and sores in their skin. For the like purposes an ointment made with tar is often rubbed upon children’s heads. Several parts of the pine are medicinal. The tops and green cones of the spruce-fir are fermented with treacle, and the liquor, called _spruce-beer_, is much drunk in America, particularly for the scurvy.

_Geo._ Is it pleasant?

_Tut._ Not to those who are unaccustomed to it. Well—I have now finished my lesson, so let us walk.

_Har._ Shall we go through the grounds?

_Tut._ Yes; and then we will view some of the different kinds of fir and pine more closely, and I will show you the difference of their leaves and cones, by which they are distinguished.

ON DIFFERENT STATIONS IN LIFE.—A DIALOGUE.

Little Sally Meanwell had one day been to pay an afternoon’s visit to Miss Harriet, the daughter of Sir Thomas Pemberton. The evening proving rainy, she was sent home in Sir Thomas’s coach; and on her return, the following conversation passed between her and her mother:—

_Mrs. Meanwell._ Well, my dear, I hope you have had a pleasant visit?

_Sally._ O yes, mamma, very pleasant; you cannot think how many fine things I have seen. And then it is so charming to ride in a coach!

_Mrs. M._ I suppose Miss Harriet showed you all her playthings?

_Sally._ O yes, such fine large dolls, so smartly dressed as I never saw in my life before. Then she has a baby-house, and all sorts of furniture in it; and a grotto all made of shells, and shining stones. And then she showed me all her fine clothes for the next ball; there’s a white slip all full of spangles, and pink ribands; you can’t think how beautiful it looks!

_Mrs. M._ And what did you admire most of all these fine things?

_Sally._ I don’t know—I admired them all; and I think I liked riding in the coach better than all the rest. Why don’t we keep a coach; and why have I not such fine clothes and playthings as Miss Harriet?

_Mrs. M._ Because we cannot afford it, my dear. Your papa is not so rich by a great deal, as Sir Thomas; and if we were to lay out our money upon such things, we should not be able to procure food and raiment and other necessaries for you all.

_Sally._ But why is not papa as rich as Sir Thomas?

_Mrs. M._ Sir Thomas had a large estate left him by his father; but your papa has little but what he gains by his own industry.

_Sally._ But why should not papa be as rich as anybody else? I am sure he deserves it as well.

_Mrs. M._ Do you not think that there are a great many people poorer than he, that are also very deserving?

_Sally._ Are there?

_Mrs. M._ Yes, to be sure. Don’t you know what a number of poor people there are all around us, who have few of the comforts we enjoy? What do you think of Ploughman the labourer? I believe you never saw him idle in your life.

_Sally._ No; he is gone to work long before I am up, and he does not return till almost bedtime, unless it be for his dinner.

_Mrs. M._ Well! how do you think his wife and children live? should you like that we should change places with them?

_Sally._ O, no! they are so dirty and ragged.

_Mrs. M._ They are, indeed, poor creatures; but I am afraid they suffer worse evils than that.

_Sally._ What mamma?

_Mrs. M._ Why I am afraid they often do not get as much victuals as they could eat. And then in winter they must be half frozen for want of fire and warm clothing. How do you think you could bear all this?

_Sally._ Indeed, I don’t know. But I have seen Ploughman’s wife carry great brown loaves into the house; and I remember once eating some brown bread and milk, and I thought it very good.

_Mrs. M._ I believe you would not much like it constantly; besides, they can hardly get enough of that. But you seem to know almost as little of the poor as the young French princess did.

_Sally._ What was that, mamma?

_Mrs. M._ Why, there had been one year so bad a harvest in France that numbers of the poor were famished to death. This calamity was so much talked of, that it reached the court, and was mentioned before the young princesses. “Dear me!” said one of them, “how _silly_ that was! Why, rather than be famished, I would eat bread and cheese.” Her governess was then obliged to acquaint her that the greatest part of her father’s subjects scarcely ever eat anything better than black bread all their lives; and that vast numbers would now think themselves very happy to get only half their usual pittance of that. Such wretchedness as this was what the princess had not the least idea of; and the account shocked her so much, that she was glad to sacrifice all her finery to afford some relief to the sufferings of the poor.

_Sally._ But I hope there is nobody famished in our country.

_Mrs. M._ I hope not, for we have laws by which every person is entitled to relief from the parish, if he is unable to gain a subsistence; and were there no laws about it, I am sure it would be our duty to part with every superfluity, rather than let a fellow-creature perish for want of necessaries.

_Sally._ Then do you think it was wrong for Miss Pemberton to have all those fine things?

_Mrs. M._ No, my dear, if they are suitable to her fortune, and do not consume the money which ought to be employed in more useful things to herself and others.

_Sally._ But why might she not be contented with such things as I have; and give the money that the rest cost to the poor?

_Mrs. M._ Because she can afford both to be charitable to the poor, and also to indulge herself in these pleasures. But do you recollect that the children of Mr. White the baker, and Mr. Shape the tailor, might just ask the same questions about you?

_Sally._ How so?

_Mrs. M._ Are not you as much better dressed, and as much more plentifully supplied with playthings than they are, as Miss Harriet is than you?

_Sally._ Why, I believe I may, for I remember Polly White was very glad of one of my old dolls; and Nancy Shape cried for such a sash as mine, but her mother would not let her have one.

_Mrs. M._ Then you see, my dear, that there are many who have fewer things to be thankful for than _you_ have; and you may also learn what ought to be the true measure of the expectations of children, and the indulgences of parents.

_Sally._ I don’t quite understand you, mamma.

_Mrs. M._ Everything ought to be suited to the station in which we live or are likely to live, and the wants and duties of it. Your papa and I do not grudge laying out part of our money to promote the innocent pleasure of our children: but it would be very wrong in us to lay out so much on this account as would oblige us to spare in more necessary articles; as in their education, and the common household expenses required in our way of living. Besides, it would be so far from making you happier, that it would be doing you the greatest injury.

_Sally._ How could that be, mamma?

_Mrs. M._ If you were now to be dressed like Miss Pemberton, don’t you think you would be greatly mortified at being worse dressed when you came to be a young woman?

_Sally._ I believe I should, mamma; for then perhaps I might go to assemblies; and to be sure I should like to be as smart then as at any time.

_Mrs. M._ Well, but it would be still more improper for us to dress you then beyond our circumstances, because your necessary clothes will then cost more, you know. Then, if we were now to hire a coach or chair for you to go visiting in, should you like to leave it off ever afterward? But you have no reason to expect that you will be able to have those indulgences when you are a woman. And so it is in everything else. The more fine things, and the more gratifications you have now, the more you will require hereafter: for custom makes things so familiar to us, that while we enjoy them less we want them more.

_Sally._ How is that, mamma?

_Mrs. M._ Why, don’t you think you have enjoyed your ride in the coach this evening more than Miss Harriet should have done?

_Sally._ I suppose I have; because if Miss Harriet liked it so well, she would be always riding, for I know she might have the coach whenever she pleased.

_Mrs. M._ But if you were both told that you were never to ride in a coach again, which would think it the greater hardship? You could walk, you know, as you have always done before; but she would rather stay at home, I believe, than expose herself to the cold wind, and trudge through the wet and dirt in pattens.

_Sally._ I believe so, too; and now, mamma, I see that all you have told me is very right.

_Mrs. M._ Well, my dear, let it dwell upon your mind, so as to make you cheerful and contented in your station, which you see is so much happier than that of many and many other children. So now we will talk no more on the subject.

[Illustration:

EVENING VIII. ]

THE ROOKERY.

“There the hoarse-voiced hungry rook, Near her stick-built nest doth croak, Waving on the topmost bough.”

These lines Mr. Stangrove repeated pointing up to a rookery, as he was walking in an avenue of tall trees, with his son Francis.

_Francis._ Is that a rookery, papa?

_Mr. Stangrove._ It is. Do you hear what a cawing the birds make?

_Fr._ Yes; and I see them hopping about among the boughs. Pray, are not rooks the same with crows?

_Mr. St._ They are a species of crow; but they differ from the carrion crow and raven in not living upon dead flesh, but upon corn and other seeds, and grass. They indeed pick up beetles and other insects and worms. See what a number of them have lighted on yonder ploughed field, almost blackening it over.

_Fr._ What are they doing?

_Mr. St._ Searching for grubs and worms. You see the men in the field do not molest them, for they do a great deal of service by destroying grubs, which, if they were suffered to grow to winged insects, would do much mischief to the trees and plants.

_Fr._ But do they hurt the corn?

_Mr. St._ Yes, they tear up a good deal of green corn, if they are not driven away. But upon the whole, rooks are reckoned the farmers’ friends; and they do not choose to have them destroyed.

_Fr._ Do all rooks live in rookeries?

_Mr. St._ It is the general nature of them to associate together, and build in numbers on the same or adjoining trees. But this is often in the midst of woods or natural groves. However, they have no objections to the neighbourhood of man, but readily take to a plantation of tall trees, though it be close to a house; and this is commonly called a rookery. They will even fix their habitations on trees in the midst of towns; and I have seen a rookery in a churchyard in one of the closest parts of London.

_Fr._ I think a rookery is a sort of town itself.

_Mr. St._ It is: a village in the air, peopled with numerous inhabitants; and nothing can be more amusing than to view them all in motion, flying to and fro, and busied in their several occupations. The spring is their busiest time. Early in the year they begin to repair their nests or build new ones.

_Fr._ Do they all work together or every one for itself?

_Mr. St._ Each pair, after they have coupled, build their own nest; and instead of helping, they are very apt to steal the materials from one another. If both birds go out at once in search of sticks, they often find at their return, the work all destroyed, and the materials carried off; so that one of them generally stays at home to keep watch. However, I have met with a story which shows that they are not without some sense of the criminality of thieving. There was in a rookery a lazy pair of rooks, who never went out to get sticks for themselves, but made a practice of watching when their neighbours were abroad, and helped themselves from their nests. They had served most of the community in this manner and by these means had just finished their own nest; when all the other rooks in a rage, fell upon them at once, pulled their nest in pieces, beat them soundly, and drove them from their society.

_Fr._ That was very right—I should have liked to have seen it. But why do they live together if they do not help one another?