_Mother._ And how does the fire warm you, my dear? _Daughter._ Why, it sends out its heat, mother; and I hold out my hands to it, and feel the heat. _Mother._ And where does the heat come from, Caroline? _Daughter._ Why, the heat comes from the fire, mother. _Mother._ Then, my dear, you know at least one of the effects of fire. It produces, or rather sends out, heat. _Daughter._ But does not the fire make the heat, mother? _Mother._ If you had a little bird, or a mouse, in a cage, and should open the door and let it out, should you say that you _made_ the little bird, or the mouse? _Daughter._ Say that I made them, mother?--why, no; certainly not. I only let them go free. God made them. You told me that God made all things. _Mother._ Neither did the fire make the heat. It only made it free, somewhat in the same manner that you would make the bird or the mouse free, by opening the door of the cage. _Daughter._ Why, mother, is heat kept in cages, like birds or mice? _Mother._ No, my dear, not exactly in cages, like birds or mice; but a great deal closer, in a different kind of cage. _Daughter_ Why, mother, what sort of a cage can heat be kept in? _Mother._ I must answer your question, Caroline, by asking you another. When Alice makes her fire in the kitchen, how does she make it? _Daughter._ She takes some wood, or some coal, and puts under it some pine wood, which she calls kindling, and some shavings, and then takes a match and sets the shavings on fire, and very soon the fire is made. _Mother._ But does she not first do something to the match? [Illustration] _Daughter._ O, yes; I forgot to say that she lights the match first, and then sets fire to the shavings with the lighted match. _Mother._ But how does she light the match, my dear? _Daughter._ Why, mother, have you never seen her? She rubs one end of the match on the box, where there is a little piece of sand-paper, and that sets the match on fire. _Mother._ Is there any fire in the sand-paper, Caroline? _Daughter._ Why, no, mother; certainly not. _Mother._ Was there any fire in the match, before she lighted it? _Daughter._ Why, no, mother; if there had been, she would have had no need to light it. _Mother._ You see, then, that fire came when she rubbed the match against the sand-paper; and that the fire was not in the sand-paper, nor in the match. _Daughter._ Yes, mother, but I did not see where it came from. _Mother._ I am going to explain that to you, my dear, in the next lesson. FOOTNOTE: [A] This lesson, together with the two following lessons, is taken from a little book, called "Juvenile Philosophy," published by Messrs. A.S. Barnes & Co., 51 John-street, New York. It consists of nine conversations, between a little girl and her mother, on the subjects, Rain, Color, Vision or Sight, the Eye, Light, Fire, Heat and Wind. LESSON XVII. _The same subject, continued._ _Mother._ Did you ever see a person rub his hands together, when he was cold?