"But what _is_ it--what _can_ it be that you have to tell me, George?"

said f.a.n.n.y; "I'm out of breath to know the secret."

"Be patient, and you shall know it in the right time," replied her brother.

"Oh! how can you be so cruel as not to tell me _now_?" said f.a.n.n.y. "How long have you known the secret without letting me know it, too? I shan't be able to go much farther, if you keep it from me. My heart is all in a flutter."

"I don't want to tell you, with your heart all in a _flutter_. You should be calm, so as to hear what I say, and to enjoy the sight I have to show you," said the young philosopher.

"I am calm, now, and I have been patient," said f.a.n.n.y. "Come, dear Georgie, do tell me."

Georgie kept silence, and proceeded a few paces, when he paused; and lifting a long, leafy branch, disclosed to the eye of the delighted girl a beautiful nest, full of young birds, so closely snuggled in their little round cell, that they looked as if, from below the neck, they grew together.

In momentary surprise at the sudden flood of light that poured upon them, the nestlings put up their heads, as if to ask what was meant by it, and who it was that had unroofed them. They had never received anything but what came from care and kindness; they were innocent, and therefore they knew no fear. Putting forth their open beaks at the strange visitants, they cried, "Petweet-tweet, petweet-tweet," as if their mother had hung over them with their morning gift of food.

f.a.n.n.y was for a moment as much surprised as they. Then, in an ecstacy of delight, she sprang forward, and would have dislodged the nest from its place, to take the birds, and examine them with her fingers, as well as her scrutinizing eye, had not her brother checked her motion, and stood between her and his casket of living jewels.

"Oh! I want to touch them!" said she. "But how long have you known of this nest?"

"Ever since it was begun to be built," said George.

"And didn't tell _m-e_!" said f.a.n.n.y, in a whimpering tone.

"No," replied George, "but I will tell you the reason why I did not.

Had I told you then, f.a.n.n.y, we should never have seen these little birds here. You haven't the art of keeping a secret belonging to your own concerns or another's, long enough for anything depending on its being kept to come to pa.s.s. You will surely, in some way, let it slip too soon. You would not tell it if you promised not to do so; but by some air or act, or mysterious manner, you would show them that you knew something that was unknown to others, and set them to watching and studying for it. If I had told you of the nest, you would have wanted to be running out every little while to see how it went on, till the bird would have found herself watched, and forsaken it, to build somewhere else. Or you would have wanted to break the blue sh.e.l.ls, to see if the insides of the eggs were growing into birds; just as you dug up your flower-seeds, to know if they were sprouted; and broke open the green rose-buds, to find out if the under leaves were turning red. So your seeds never came up, and your roses didn't bloom; all for your impatience and curiosity. If you had not done this, your continual coming would have drawn the attention of some of the boys or girls, to learn what was here, till they would have found the nest, and robbed it. You have too much _curiosity_, f.a.n.n.y. If you choose, tell your own secrets, and take the consequences. But they who cannot keep their own, are not very likely to be trusted with those of others. And as to coming at them by prying, I should feel as if I was 'tiefing,' as the Frenchman told his little boy he had been doing, when he cut the shoot from grandpapa's English walnut-tree, to make him a _rattan_. If I discovered, by accident, what concerned another, and was not designed for my knowledge, I should feel sorry, and that I had no more right to tell or expose it, than I should have to spend a piece of money that I saw another drop. This secret was the _bird's_--and I should have caused her great distress by telling it.

It is the kind of curiosity which makes you want to know what others are about, what they have, and so on, that gets you into your worst troubles, sister. You saw John bring in a covered basket, and put it on a shelf in the cellar closet. The next that was heard was the basket, eggs and all, smash upon the brick floor; and sister f.a.n.n.y shouting lamentably and crying, 'Oh, dear, dear, they are all over my feet!' So none of us had pudding that day. Then, when you saw your mother wet her eyes with clear water from a phial, and thought you'd try it too, you found the sal volatile not quite so cooling to yours, as the rose-water to hers. No wonder that they wept!

"Now, f.a.n.n.y, since I've played minister, and preached you such a sermon on curiosity over this nest, I know you'll prove so good a hearer as not to show that you know anything about the secret, till the birds are a few days older, and can fly away.--Then they'll come and do the singing part of the service, from the trees around our house."

f.a.n.n.y looked thoughtful and solemn, and only replied, "I'm glad I didn't break the bird's eggs. There never would have been any music nor pretty birds come from these if I did break them. They would have been made into a pudding; the pudding would have made me heavy and sleepy, so that I should not have got my lesson so well, and I should have been mortified at school."

SCIENCE OF THE HUMAN FRAME.

THE SKIN.

FATHER. It is pleasant and profitable, my children, to learn the uses of various parts of the human body; for when we understand the uses of any member of the body, and the manner in which it is composed, we shall be better able to avoid all things which would interfere with those uses.

It seems to me that it would be useful for you to give your attention to these subjects, and I will give you all the a.s.sistance that I am able.

ALBERT. I wish to learn the use of a great many parts of my body that I do not now fully understand; for I have been told that the human form is the most perfect of all material things; and it seems to me that we ought to give much more attention to it than we have yet given.

CHARLES. It seems to me that it would be a good plan, if you are willing, father, to spend a part of each evening in teaching us these things. Albert and I can ask some questions, and you can answer them, and give us any other information that you think may be useful to us.

FATHER. I think that this is a good plan; and as we are now together, we will begin this evening. We will begin with the _skin_,--for though the skin covers the whole body, and is so exposed to view, there are many things concerning it with which you are not familiar.--The skin is that thin covering which is spread over the whole surface of the body. It serves to bind together and to protect from injury the more delicate parts which are beneath it. Come, Albert, tell me some of the things which you have observed respecting the skin.

ALBERT. The skin differs in its appearance in different animals, and in different parts of the body. With young people and females it is soft, smooth, and delicate; it is firmer and more resisting in middle age, and with males; it appears loose and wrinkled in old age, and after some diseases; it is puckered or disposed in folds in places where it would otherwise interfere with the proper movements of the limbs, as over the finger-joints, and in the palm of the hand.

FATHER. Very well, my son. Should you suppose, Charles, that the skin is one sheet, or that it is composed of layers?

CHARLES. I have observed that a very thin coat of the skin has sometimes risen in blisters, from being rubbed when I have been working, or from a burn, or slight scald; and sometimes I have peeled it off, as I can the outside bark of a birch tree; and from these things I suppose the skin is composed of thin layers.

FATHER. It is so. The skin is composed of three membranes, or layers.

The outside layer is called the "cuticle," or "scarf-skin." There are some other names for the three layers of the skin besides those that I shall use; but if you remember those which I give, it will be sufficient until you are old enough to understand more fully the good books which have been written concerning the different parts of the body. The cuticle has no blood-vessels. It is very thin. There is still some doubt whether the scarf-skin has any nerves or not. Perhaps it has nerves which are so unsusceptible to external impressions, that we do not notice their effects.

ALBERT. If there were nerves in the scarf-skin as sensitive as those in some parts of the body, we should be in constant pain; we could not take a single step without extreme pain; for the scarf-skin is, I suppose, a protection to the parts which are tender; and unless its nerves were blunt, it would not answer this purpose. I never thought of this before; but this, as well as the structure of every part of the body, shows us the kindness and wisdom of our Creator.

CHARLES. And if there were blood-vessels in the scarf-skin, we should continually be in danger of being covered with blood, since a slight blow is sufficient to break this skin. I have also observed, father, that those parts of the body which are the most exposed to pressure and friction, such as the palms of the hands and soles of the feet, are provided with a scarf-skin much thicker than that on other parts of the body.

FATHER. Yes, my son. The difference in the thickness of the cuticle in different parts of the body is apparent even at birth. But the farmer and blacksmith, who are constantly engaged in manual labour, need a thicker scarf-skin to protect their hands, than would be convenient for a student or a merchant; and it has, for this reason, been so provided, that the scarf-skin increases in thickness when it is much used, and decreases when it is but little needed.

CHARLES. If we have got through with talking about the scarf-skin, I should like to ask about the next layer, for you told us there are three coats.

FATHER. Yes, there are three coats. Immediately beneath the scarf-skin, is what is called the _mucous coat_. The mucous coat is chiefly remarkable as the seat of the colouring matter of the skin.

ALBERT. Then I should think that persons of dark complexion must have much thicker mucous coats than those of light complexion.

FATHER. They have. It can scarcely be seen with those who are of a very light complexion, but in the negro it is thick. If the mucous coat were the same in all persons, all would be of one colour. The mucous coat is very bright in those fishes and other animals whose skins have beautiful, variegated colours, and is the cause of their brilliant appearance. The mucous coat, like the cuticle, is dest.i.tute of blood-vessels, and of very active nerves.

ALBERT. As it is not yet late, let us talk about the third layer, and then we shall have some idea of the composition of the skin.

FATHER. The third, or inmost layer, called the _true skin_, is much thicker than either of the other layers of the skin. The true skin seems to be a complete network of extremely small blood-vessels and nerves.

CHARLES. I can see that this is so; for I cannot p.r.i.c.k entirely through the skin, even with the point of the finest needle, without giving some pain, and drawing some blood; and I suppose that the pain is caused by piercing a nerve, and the bleeding by opening a blood-vessel.

FATHER. You are right, my son. There are so many nerves in the true skin, that in amputating a limb, the princ.i.p.al pain is always in the skin.

ALBERT. I suppose we should not be able to distinguish different things by the touch, unless the true skin were furnished with nerves.

FATHER. One of the great uses of the skin is to remove from the body the impure matter which is constantly collecting. You both have, when warm, perceived drops of sweat, or perspiration, on your faces and other parts of your bodies. Much impure matter is removed in that way, which, if not removed, would be very injurious to the health.

CHARLES. It seems to me that but very little impure matter can be conveyed away in the perspiration which falls from us.

FATHER. Even when we cannot perceive the perspiration, there is what is called _insensible_ perspiration, by which, in a state of health, about twenty ounces of waste matter are daily removed. When a person takes a sudden cold, this perspiration is checked, and the waste matter acc.u.mulates, and causes sickness. Perspiration takes place with much more regularity when the body is kept perfectly clean, than when it is allowed to remain dirty; and from this we can see how necessary it is to bathe the body thoroughly and frequently, and also that we ought to avoid exposing ourselves to take cold.

ALBERT. I thank you, father, for explaining these things, and will try to remember them.

CHARLES. And so do I: and I hope that another evening we shall learn much more.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

VOICES FROM NATURE.