Agnes now began to be interested in the wheat-fields they were passing; and her mamma made her observe the curious curved knife called a sickle, which is used in reaping corn; and the manner in which the corn was tied up in sheaves after it was cut, and the sheaves afterwards placed together in shocks, with their heads leaning towards each other, and a sheaf reversed over the top to keep the grain dry. “But why do women reap?” asked Agnes; “you told me mowing was too difficult for them, and surely it is nobler to cut corn than grass.” “Reaping requires less strength than mowing, as the sickle is neither so heavy nor so cumbrous as the scythe.” “What part of the wheat produces the flour?” “Can you not guess?” Agnes hesitated, and then said, timidly and blushing, “I am not quite sure, but I think it is the seed.” “Right,” cried Mr. Merton, who, being an excellent botanist himself, was always glad to turn his daughter’s attention to the peculiarities of plants. “Now tell me if you know any thing particular about the straw.” “I believe it is hollow and jointed.” “It is; and, what is more, it is not composed entirely of vegetable matter, but partly of stone; for every wheat straw contains enough flint to make a glass bead.” “Oh, papa,” cried Agnes, “now you must be joking.” “Indeed I am not. If a wheat straw be held in the flame of a candle, it will first turn to white ashes; and, if these ashes be still exposed to the flame, they will gradually melt into an imperfect sort of glass. When hay-ricks are burnt, there is always left a mass of dark, flinty matter, which closely resembles the dross sometimes thrown out of a glass-house.” “How very curious!” cried Agnes. “Did you ever see wheat in flower, my dear,” asked Mr. Bevan. “Never, sir,” replied Agnes; and then, turning to her father, she said: “I suppose the gentleman wishes to make game of me; for wheat has no flowers,—has it papa?” “Certainly, it has flowers, for it has perfect seeds; and all plants that have perfect seeds must have flowers. The flowers of the wheat are, however, inconspicuous, as they have no petals.” While this conversation was passing, the train had kept whirling on, and Mrs. Merton had remarked two or three things that she thought worthy of the notice of her little daughter: she now called her attention to the windings of the river Mole, which has received its strange name from the manner in which it creeps along, and occasionally appears to bury itself under ground, as its waters are absorbed by the spongy and porous soil through which it flows. Agnes was very anxious to hear more of this curious river.