On the fourth day Josef said:

"Now it is time that we investigated and found out whether the worms are really dead."

He thereupon took a few cocoons and cutting them open proceeded to examine the chrysalis inside. It was motionless and dry. Again he looked at it, this time touching it with the point of a needle. Still it did not move.

"It is quite dead," he remarked. "And the others must be so too. What wonder, when they have been so steadily exposed to this broiling sun? I should be dead if I were to lie in it day after day without protection, and so would you. We can now safely gather the lot into baskets and put them away until Monsieur Leclerq, the buyer, comes for them at the end of the week."

So once again the cocoons were collected to await their purchaser, and the silk-raisers sat down with sighs of content to anticipate the payment of the money they had so faithfully earned, and speculate as to what they should do with it.

"I don't believe you are any more glad to rest than your silkworms are!" reflected Josef. "When you consider that each one of them spins between three and four hundred yards of thread you can't blame it for wanting to sleep when its work is done."

"Do they spin as much as that?" gasped Marie.

"Indeed they do—some of them more. Certain of the finest varieties will even turn out as many as six hundred and twenty-five yards. But that is a high figure. They usually average less."

"It is all wonderful, isn't it?" replied Madame Bretton. "And to think these tiny creatures are responsible for the silk the whole world uses!"

"I know it," agreed Josef. "Of course there are other spinners in the universe, however. The spider, for example, is a most industrious spinner, and I have read that in the past scientists tried to see if some of the larger spiders could not be utilized for silk-making. The velvety pouch, or bag, was removed and by some skilful process the greyish thread inside it was carded off. But the experiment was unsuccessful, for the silk thus made was far less firm and strong than that which came from the silkworm. After this failure another set of men tried to make silk by using the filament of the pinna."

"What is a pinna, Josef?" questioned Marie.

"The pinna is a variety of shell-fish not unlike the mussel; it fastens itself to the rocks and from between its shells gives out threads something like those of the spider or silkworm. By means of them it spins a tough fibre by which it joins itself to any object to which it wishes to cling."

"And did they succeed in making pinna silk, Josef?" demanded Marie eagerly.

"They certainly did!" nodded Josef. "Along the Mediterranean were several places where they manufactured pinna thread. They even spun some fine, silky fabrics from it. But they never could get enough of the filament to make the industry practical, although in 1754 they did send to Pope Benedict XIV some stockings made from pinna silk. They were spun from very fine thread, and were so closely woven and so hot that I doubt if he cared to wear them unless in cool weather. Since then the weaving of pinna silk has been abandoned, although now and then one sees bits of it in some old fabric, or on exhibition somewhere. It is chiefly regarded as a curiosity."

"What a lot you know, Josef!" murmured Marie, astonished.

Josef laughed.

"I just happened to see that in a book your father gave me," he said. "It interested me because it told of something I wanted to learn about. I don't care for reading as a rule. Most books are about things I never heard of and are no use to me."

"But don't you like to learn about new things?" inquired Marie.

"Why, no, I don't think I do. What good is it?" interrogated the old servant. "I'm not ever going out of this valley. Why, I'm 'most seventy years old already! It is well enough for you to learn things—you're young. As for me, the learning I have has stood by me up to now, and I guess it will do me the rest of my days."

With a smile on his simple face the venerable man turned away.



CHAPTER VIII

PIERRE MAKES A FRIEND

The buyer who came to Bellerivre from the Gaspard silk mills was a lively little Frenchman whom Pierre had often seen before.

"So it is you, my young friend, who this year raises the cocoons!" cried the merchant cordially. "Who would have thought it possible? But yesterday you were a baby in your father's arms. And now——" the little man shrugged his shoulders. "Eh bien, le bon chien chasse de race! N'est pas, Madame?"

Madame Bretton smiled.

"The lad is but doing his best to fill his father's place," she answered quietly.

"That is as it should be with all good French boys, too," the merchant assented. "And have you ever visited our silk mills at Pont-de-Saint-Michel? No? Ah, but you should do so. It is only an hour's journey, and if you are to raise silk you must learn all you can about it. If I should give you a letter to our foreman would not Madame, your mother, be willing you should go?"

Pierre glanced up eagerly.

His eyes sparkled.

"Would you, Mother? It would not cost very much, would it?" He turned apologetically to the silk buyer. "You see," he explained, "in these war days we must be very saving, for every franc that we can spare goes to my father and my uncle, who are in the army."

"I know," sighed the agent. "Wherever I go it is the same. All the men are at the front. But the cost of the trip I suggested is very little, and I myself should be glad to——"

"No, Monsieur Leclerq," interrupted Madame Bretton. "I know what you would say, and I thank you; but we are well able to pay Pierre's expenses to Saint Michel, since you are so kind as to invite him. I am sure the excursion would more than repay us. It would not be like taking the money for a mere pleasure tour. Pierre shall go. It will be another step toward making a silk merchant of him."

"I wish I could go, too," whispered Marie.

"You are not to be a silk merchant, cherie," answered her mother gently. "We women are the stay-at-homes, who do all we can to help our men forward in their careers; that is our work."

And so the next day Pierre, very happy and important, and with a large box of luncheon under his arm, set out upon the train for the Pont-de-Saint-Michel silk mills. To be going on such a long journey all alone was a novel undertaking for the lad, who seldom left his own green valley. It was almost as wonderful as if he were starting for Marseilles, or indeed Paris itself. The place where he was going did not, however, possess the glamour of either of these great cities. On the contrary it was merely a sort of depot or centre to which all the cocoons bought up in the vicinity were sent to have the silk reeled from them; there were also at this plant some extensive throwing mills, but no weaving was done there. Instead the thrown silk was sold to the great weaving factories at Lyons, Tours, or other silk-making cities of France; and the raw product was sent to Marseilles, from which market it was either distributed to French mills or shipped to England or the United States for manufacture.

The day was a beautiful one. Massive white clouds hung low over the distant mountains; but the valley was flooded with golden sunshine that illumined it like some vast search-light. The vineyards never looked greener, the hillsides more velvety and cool, or the river more sparkling. Now the train skirted the banks of the stream, now shot past meadows of fertile farming land; or of a sudden it crossed a noisy mountain torrent and crept up the hillside until the vegetation became low and stunted, and the rocky peaks of the Pyrenees seemed but an arm's length away. Then slowly down over a trestle of airily poised bridge-work it descended to the valley again. Was ever a journey such a marvel? To the French boy who had seen little of the outside world it was an Arabian Night's dream.

All too soon Saint Michel was reached, and Pierre set out for the silk mills, where he presented the card that Monsieur Leclerq had given him. Then for a few minutes he waited in a small office where the jar of machinery and the whirr of wheels caused a monotonous and unceasing vibration.

Presently a giant foreman with sleeves rolled to the elbow came hurrying out.

He regarded Pierre with surprise.

"They told me that one of our silk-growers wanted to see me," faltered he uncertainly. "There has doubtless been some mistake. You are but a boy."

"I am nevertheless a silk-grower," smiled Pierre modestly. "It is because the men of our household are in the trenches that I——"

Impulsively the foreman thrust out his hand.

"I too have relatives in the battle line," he said. "My brother and cousins are there, and I should be with them now were it not for an ugly wound I got at the Marne. They will not take me back to fight, even though I have begged to go. And so here I am—restless and half angry that I must remain boxed up at Saint Michel and make silk instead of being where the firing is going on. Yet some must stay behind and carry on the country's industries. Perhaps I can still do my bit here. I have tried to be philosophical about it and work as hard as I can, for I feel that those who cannot help in one way can, maybe, help in another."

He glanced at the card Pierre had brought.

"Bretton is your name?"

"Pierre Bretton."

"Monsieur Leclerq says your shipment of cocoons was a good contribution to the prosperity of France."

Pierre flushed.

"I am glad if it seemed so. We must support ourselves—my mother, sister, and I—and not be a burden to the country while my father is away."

"That's the right spirit," answered the foreman heartily. "And so you want to see your silk reeled off—yours, or somebody's else? Well, you shall. I am busy myself and so cannot go with you; but Henri, one of our boys, shall take you with him and tell you all you wish to know. Do not fear to ask questions if you do not understand, for Henri is well able to answer them. He knows everything that anybody can about silk reeling."

As he beckoned to a tall, slender boy who sat at a desk opposite the foreman smiled kindly down at Pierre.

"Henri," he continued when the employee approached, "I want you to show this young silk-raising friend of ours, Monsieur Bretton, how we sort cocoons and reel them off. Tell him everything you can, for he is a grower and has the right to know."

"Mais, oui, avec beaucoup de plaisir," answered the boy. "I will do my best." He bowed to the foreman, who, after shaking Pierre by the hand, turned away. "Now Monsieur Bretton——"

"My name is Pierre. No one ever called me Monsieur Bretton before, and I do not like it," protested Pierre smiling. "I am but a boy like yourself. Please call me by my first name—if you do not mind."

Henri beamed on him.

"I should like it much better," he replied cordially. "And I am Henri St. Amant. Now it is all understood, is it not? Shall we begin then our journey through the filature? We will go into the sorting rooms first, where the cocoons that are sent to us are classified. Most of them have already been cured, or baked, for the majority of our customers do that for us. When they do not we have to expose the cocoons in our own ovens."

"Don't most of your cocoons come to you sorted?" questioned Pierre.

"Most of them are roughly classified," nodded Henri. "But the grading must be much more finely done. Only experts can sort cocoons thoroughly."



As he spoke he led the way into a long room, where on every hand girls were moving in and out among heaps of cocoons that were either piled high on tables or massed upon squares of canvas on the floor. The room and everything in it was spotless.

"We try to keep the cocoons from getting soiled, you see," explained Henri.

"Is the sorting done by girls?" questioned Pierre, astonished.

"Since the war, yes. We have had to train them to take the places of those who have gone to be soldiers. It is not, of course, heavy work, but it requires skill and judgment since the many varieties of cocoons need different treatment. Here, for example, are dupions, or double cocoons, which as you doubtless already know have more floss on the outside than do others, and must be well cleaned before any attempt at reeling can be made. Often they cannot be run off at all because the two caterpillars that worked together to make the single cocoon have intertwined the threads until they break all to bits when we try to separate them. Here is another species of cocoon." Henri pointed to a pile on the next table. "These are of beautiful texture, smooth and satiny. But they must be treated with tepid, not hot, water, as are a good proportion of the others, and the accumulation of gum mixed with the filament must be soaked out with soap-suds. This will give you an idea how many things there are to think of in reeling. Some cocoons give off their silk too easily, and unless put into cool water will snarl; others fail to give off the thread at all and instead must be treated with hot water, which aids in loosening it. Another difficulty we sometimes encounter is that the reelers cannot catch the end of the thread to begin their work; this usually indicates that the water into which the cocoons have been put is too cool. On the other hand if the silk ruffs up and comes off in snarls upon the brush, the matted masses indicate that the water is too hot. All this the reelers must learn by experience, and they must learn it, too, without wasting our silk. Two general laws underlie this feature of silk-reeling: hot water makes the silk run faster, and cold water retards its progress. Your problem is to see which treatment your cocoons require."

"Of course those who sort the cocoons can tell nothing of that," ventured Pierre.

"Oh, no. The sorters simply put into one place those cocoons that are of the same kind. The way the cocoons behave in the water is the business of the reeler. We have tanks or basins of a graduated temperature, and the operators soon learn into which one to put a cocoon of a certain type."

"I did not dream one had to know so much just to reel off the silk," murmured Pierre. "I had always supposed it would be an easy matter; but now I see it isn't."

Henri laughed.

"But I have not told you half our troubles yet," he answered mischievously. "Thus far I have spoken only of the cocoons. In addition there is the water to consider. That must be the right sort, too. It must be as pure as we can get it, both chemically and in color. And even then the high temperature necessary to bring the silk off the cocoons will cause any sandy sediment there may be in it to rise to the surface and cut the filament as we reel it off. We have to be prepared for that emergency as well as the others. And now to return to the sorting of the cocoons. Do you see that pile over there? Those are what we call perfect ones. The thread from them will go into the finest quality silks and satins, as the filament has neither spots nor flaws."

"But those cocoons are very small," objected Pierre.

"Yes. The best cocoons are not always the largest, by any means. It is quality, not size, that counts." Henri passed on. "Here now," he continued as he paused before another lot, "are some more pointed at one end than at the other. We know from bitter experience that they will reel badly, because the silk which runs smoothly at the beginning will prove to be weak in some places and break. We toss them aside and reel them separately. These cocalons, as we call this other kind, are also thrown out because they are hard to wind."

"They are much larger," observed Pierre.

"You are right. Nevertheless they have no more silk on them. The reason they look bigger is because the worm spun them less compactly; unless they are put into cold water they will tangle and mat when reeled."

"And that next lot?"

"Soufflons? They are the most imperfect cocoon made. The silk is so loosely spun that it cannot be wound at all, and is good only for floss."

Pierre shook his head despairingly.

"I thought I knew quite a lot about cocoons," he said. "But by the time I go home I shall feel I don't know anything. Why, I never could learn to sort all those kinds if I kept trying for years."

"Only those who have handled thousands of cocoons can," returned his guide consolingly. "I couldn't begin to do it. Here is a pile now! They have a hole in the end and cannot be reeled because every time the thread comes to the perforation it is broken. Probably the moth was allowed to escape and injured the filament. They must be used for floss, too, for they are good for nothing else."

The boys wandered on down the room.

"In this pile you will see what we call good choquettes," resumed Henri. "I must tell you about them, for the species is peculiar. The worm inside them died before finishing its work and stuck onto the inside of the cocoon." He took one from the heap and shook it. "It does not rattle, you see. Nevertheless the filament on it is of excellent quality—not very strong, perhaps, but of fine texture. In contrast to these good choquettes is this tableful of bad choquettes. Like the others the silkworm died during his spinning, but this time he rotted away inside, leaving the cocoon black and mottled."

"Healthy worms make the best cocoons, of course," Pierre rejoined.

"Not at all," contradicted Henri. "Here is what is known as a calcined cocoon made by a worm which had a peculiar disease that turned it to powder. You would not think that such a creature could spin the best quality of silk there is, would you? Yet it is so. Listen to the queer rattle the cocoon has."

Holding it to Pierre's ear he shook it gently.

"These cocoons not only have excellent silk on them, but they have more of it than if they had been spun by a healthy worm. As a result they command the highest price and buyers are eager to find them."

"I guess I don't know anything about silkworms or cocoons either," announced Pierre in dismay.

Both boys laughed.

"It is amazing how much there is to know about almost anything when you once start to learn about it from top to bottom," declared Henri. "I came into this filature when quite young, and it has taken me years to find out even the little I know now."

"I think you know a lot," Pierre returned admiringly. "I'd be happy if I knew even half as much."

"Oh, no you wouldn't," was the prompt retort. "You'd want to know a great deal more, just as I do—that is, if you were any good. There are a thousand things I want to find out. The silk business, you see, is to be my trade. I have an uncle in the weaving mills at Lyons, and some day when I know more he is to find a place for me there. So I am learning all I can about the classifying and reeling of cocoons; and I have also raised a few silkworms so as to be familiar with the very beginnings of the industry. Soon I am to go into the filature to help with the reeling; and after that they have promised to send me on into the throwing mills, where the filament is twisted into thread preparatory to weaving. Then I shall be ready to go to Lyons and see how silks, satins, and velvets are made. Lyons, you know, is a famous silk-making city. It was there that Philippe de la Salle, the great silk designer, lived. Because he did such beautiful work he was decorated by Louis XVI with the Order of Saint Michel and was given a pension of six mille livres. Think of that! Alas, such things do not happen now. That was long ago—between 1723 and 1803. His good fortune did not, however, last long, for the Revolution came, and the court which gave him his money went out of power. Still the people of Lyons were proud of him and despite the fact that he had been a court favorite they provided for him lodgings in the Palais Saint Pierre, where he lived for the rest of his life."

"I am afraid I do not know much about what he did," said Pierre with engaging frankness.

"Why, it was Philippe de la Salle who designed the silk hangings for the chamber of Marie Antoinette, and who originated the Empire motif of the wreath of laurel; he also designed silks gorgeous with garlands intertwined with ribbon; or decorated with baskets of fruit and flowers; and sometimes he made use of great birds. He has done some of the finest silk designs ever woven. My uncle told me, however, that years and years before that wonderful silks were made; and that fragments showing beautiful designs are in the museums of Berlin and Nuremberg, as well as in our own Cluny Museum, and the great museums of London. He said there were also marvelous church vestments of even earlier date and also some very ancient Byzantine silks splendid with griffins, eagles, and lions. Some day, perhaps, I shall go to see them, and maybe I myself may learn to weave such fabrics. Who knows? And what are you going to do, Pierre?"

"I suppose I shall just go on raising silkworms," was the quiet reply. "It is hard work, but I see nothing else ahead for me. However, when my father and uncle return from the war there will be time enough for me to think what I will do."

"Ah, but you have a plan already; I can see that!" Henri cried.

Pierre nodded gravely.

"Yes, I have a plan—or perhaps I better call it a dream. I should like to go to America. One can earn more money there. My mother's brother is at Paterson, New Jersey, which is in America, and I have some young cousins there also."

"Yes, yes, I know," exclaimed Henri eagerly. "There are great silk mills at Paterson where they make fine silks and ribbons—some of them as beautiful as any we make in France. Maybe some day you will go there."

"I'm afraid not," returned Pierre. "Even should the war end and my father and uncle come home again I have no money to go to America."

"Don't give up so easily," Henri said, placing a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "We never can tell what will happen. My mother says that if we do the best we can every day sometimes the thing we wish most will come to us; if not, Le Bon Dieu will send something else which may be even better."

"I am trying to do my best," Pierre answered bravely. "And anyway so long as my father and uncle are safe nothing else really matters."

The boys exchanged a smile and passed on into the filature, as the factory where the reeling was done was called.



CHAPTER IX

HENRI MAKES A SUGGESTION

"It is now dry weather, and as this is the best time to reel silk we are working very hard," explained Henri as they went along. "Every machine we have is running overtime. But before we inspect the reels themselves suppose we see how the cocoons are soaked and made ready. The important thing is to get the gum which the silkworm has blended with the silk out of it, and for this purpose we use soft water, having found that it loosens the filament better than anything else. That is what they are doing here. They begin by raising the water to the boiling point, and afterward reduce its temperature by means of cold water if they find it necessary. Care must be taken to submerge each cocoon evenly so that its entire surface will be covered; otherwise one end will be softened and the other end remain hard, in which case it cannot be reeled off."

"But why do the girls stir the cocoons with those whisks of peeled birch?" inquired Pierre curiously. "What are they trying to do?"

"The stirring frees the ends of the filaments, and the brush of twigs serves to collect them," answered Henri. "When the ends have been caught in this way they are passed on to the reeler; but if after trying this method the girls find the ends do not free themselves they put such cocoons into a different temperature of water, or else toss them out entirely and leave them to the employees who handle the lots that require special treatment. They cannot stop here to fuss with cocoons that fail to wind off readily; not only would such troublesome ones retard the work, but they would be likely to snarl the others. Frequently we find cocoons with uneven places in the thread, spots where the silkworm has been interrupted in its spinning and stopped, afterward going on with its work and making a lump or knob where the filament has been joined. Such cocoons wind badly, as you can well imagine, and they, too, cannot be reeled with the general lot."

"I notice those boys are taking the empty cocoons out of the tanks after the silk has been reeled from them. Is it necessary?"

"Yes. We never allow the discarded cocoons, or shells as we call them, to stand in the water with those that are soaking, because they not only spoil the sheen of the silk on the unreeled cocoons but discolor it," Henri replied. "Now let us watch the reeling. Shall we?"

The boys turned toward the whirling machinery.

"I had no idea they reeled so fast," declared Pierre, speaking loudly so his companion could hear.

Fascinated he stood watching the flying threads pass over the glass rods.

"The speed of the reels can be regulated, of course," answered Henri. "It is not often, though, that the filament snaps because the reel is moving too fast. When the thread does break it is more frequently because the regular motion of the machinery wears it until it parts. This cannot always be avoided. All filatures count on some loss by winding. But the percentage in a modernly equipped filature is very small. We use the glass rods to prevent the thread from being caught or roughened. The process of winding cocoons has been so carefully studied that now our French reelers can turn off silk of fifteen or twenty fibres and lose only one or two per cent. of it by waste. In Turkey the loss runs as high as six or eight per cent.; in Syria it is fifteen or twenty per cent.; and in other countries where the people have less mechanical skill the rate of loss is much higher. Successful silk reeling is a matter of good machinery, practice, and deftness. An experienced reeler knows his business too well to waste material."

"All this is amazing to me," said Pierre. "I thought the men just took the end of the thread and wound it off without any trouble."

Henri shook his head.

"No, indeed. I wish it were as easy as that. A reeler needs judgment, judgment, judgment at every turn. Not only must the floss be removed from the outside of the cocoon before it is reeled, but also the first part of the filament, which usually is weak and too fine for use, must be wound off until the firm, strong thread is reached. You see, the caterpillar has to work a little while before it gets under way and does its best spinning. All that poor filament on which it experiments or gets started must be broken off and saved for embroidery floss, since it is fit neither to be woven into broad goods or twisted into sewing silk. The reeler begins to wind where the end of the filament becomes strong. He then must combine enough fibres of the same size and strength to make a thread uniform in size. And this is not so easy as it sounds, since there is great diversity in the coarseness and fineness of the filament on the cocoons. He cannot always put the same number of filaments together. In addition to this fact he is often required to reel silk of various sizes. The coarseness or fineness demanded all depends on the purpose for which the silk is to be used. But always each kind must be of uniform size throughout."

"And how does he join the fresh cocoons to the others? By tying?"

"No. He runs them in so skilfully that the joining cannot be detected. Every moment he must be on the watch to add new filaments when he sees any of his cocoons giving out. As one cocoon takes the place of another its filament blends unnoticed in the thread. You can see that it would never do to join a lot of new ones all in the same spot."

"I suppose the cocoons run in uneven lengths, anyway, don't they?" ventured Pierre. "Scarcely any of them would contain the same number of yards of filament even were they all to be started together."

"Precisely. So the reeler keeps adding fresh fibres, being careful always that his thread is running uniform all the time. If he uses fibres of fine quality there must be more of them; if coarser fibres not so many. He can't turn out thread that is thick in one place and thin in another."

"That is what you or I would do," laughed Pierre. "Or at least I should. I never could reel so fast, either."

"It winds better fast," replied Henri. "It has not so much time to loosen or get caught. It just has to keep moving right along. If we can get cocoons soon enough so they can be wound off before the moth has time to come out, instead of having them cured first, they reel far more easily. The curing affects the silk. Of course in most cases it is unavoidable, for it would require very quick work for our agents to buy up the products of outlying silk-raisers and get them to us before the chrysalis matured. We should be taking a big chance of having our silk ruined, since one never can predict exactly how long it will be before the moth will come out. Varying conditions bring different results. It is a pity, however, that they have to be cured. Still, the curing has one advantage—it decreases the weight of the cocoons about twenty-five per cent."

"I didn't realize that curing caused shrinkage."

"Oh my, yes. And perhaps you did not know what a difference there is in the weight of individual cocoons. This depends not alone on the species of silkworm raised, but also on the care that has been given it. A carefully fed caterpillar will grow larger and make a bigger cocoon. The same law holds with well cultivated flowers or with well tended live stock. Even persons show the results of proper nourishment. It is just so with silkworms. Cultivation tells. And not only does good care result in larger caterpillars and finer cocoons, but also in more silk. So the number of cocoons necessary to total a pound of raw silk vary. We cannot compute that, except roughly. But we do estimate that broadly speaking it takes about an acre of full grown mulberry trees to produce forty pounds of raw silk."

"How interesting!" exclaimed Pierre. "I never thought of measuring silk in mulberry trees."

"Not precisely in trees, but in their leaves," corrected Henri. "If you were a scientific sericulturist, as many men are, you would know just how many pounds of leaves you used each day; and you would work to economize them so as to get the largest possible yield of silk from the smallest possible outlay of leaves. All the big silk-growers manage their business that way."

Pierre sighed.

"My mother said that too," he returned. "But you see, we do not know enough to plan things so closely. However, it does not make much difference, for we have plenty of mulberry trees. With the number of silkworms we raise we never could use them all up. Years ago my father set out our grove, and each season he has added new trees to it until now it stretches from behind our house far down to the river."

"It would bring you in a lot of money if you ever wanted to sell it."

"Sell it!"

"Yes."

"But we'd never sell it!" retorted Pierre. "Pray, how should we live if we gave up raising silkworms?"

Henri shrugged his shoulders.

"I only meant that your grove is valuable," he explained kindly. "Do not forget that. Some time you might want money. I did not know whether you realized how much a big grove of full grown mulberry trees is worth."

"I never thought anything about it," was Pierre's thoughtful reply. "Our trees have never seemed to me anything I could sell. I thought only of gathering the leaves for our own use."

"Well, just remember that your silk-house and your trees are worth a good sum to a silk-grower. In these uncertain days of war one can never tell when money may be needed. Of course you might not be able to get such a good price for your property now, because France is poor, and everything is selling for less than usual—everything except food. Still, if you found the right customer you should be able to make a good many francs out of your homestead."

"It isn't mine," Pierre answered gaily, as if suddenly coming to himself. "It belongs half to my uncle and half to my father. What do you suppose they would say when they came back from the war if they found I had sold their mulberry grove and silk-house?"

"If you needed money for your mother and little sister they would probably feel you had done wisely, even though it caused them disappointment to see their cherished possessions in the hands of others. And if," added the elder boy gravely, "anything happened to them how glad they would be that those they loved were not left penniless."

"Anything happen to them!" Pierre's face paled. He had never, strangely enough, pictured such a calamity. His father! His uncle! True, other men were injured fighting for France, thousands of them. But surely no harm could come to his family. Those he loved would return when peace came; take up life where they had left it; and the home would once more be united.

The boy glanced up to find Henri studying his face sympathetically.

"I did not mean to make you sad, little brother," declared the elder lad softly. "The father and uncle will without doubt come again just as you say. But must we not all be brave enough to look at things squarely and with courage? Now that your father is gone to the war you have a man's work to do. Surely you are going to meet life like a man, not as a child. Forgive me if what I have said has hurt you."

With instant friendliness Pierre put out his hand.

"You have not hurt me," he returned quickly. "You have just set me to thinking. I'm afraid I have been pretty thoughtless. My mother must have had fears and have been worrying; yet so bravely has she kept it to herself that she has shown Marie and me only her joyous side. I might have helped her had I realized this before. She has always treated my sister and me as children, keeping from us everything that was hard. But I'll prove to her in future that I, at least, am no longer a child. Thanks to you, Henri, I will go home to Bellerivre not only wiser about silk-growing but wiser, I hope, about life."

"Perhaps, then, our talk has been fortunate," answered Henri, gazing earnestly into the upturned face. "I hope so. And maybe some time you will write to me and let me know how you are getting on. If I could ever help you about your silk-raising I'd be glad to. There might be something you'd like to ask. Henri St. Amant is my name, remember; and I am always here at Pont-de-Saint-Michel."

With a cordial clasp of the hand the two boys parted.

Little did Pierre know what a loyal friend his chance acquaintance of the morning was to prove.



CHAPTER X

THE AWAKENING OF THE CHRYSALIS

When Pierre returned home he had much to tell his mother and Marie, you may be sure, of his visit to Pont-de-Saint-Michel, and of the new friend he had made at the Gaspard mills.

Now that the rush of handling the cocoons was over the days were not so crowded, and although there was still plenty to keep the Bretton family busy, Pierre and Marie resumed their normal routine of life, having daily lessons with Monsieur le Cure, and aiding their mother in the regular round of household tasks. There was a thorough cleaning of the silk-house that it might be in readiness for the coming season; then there was the money from the cocoons, the wonderful shining francs which the family had earned together, to be invested. Part of them were laid aside for living expenses; and part were spent in comforts for the loved ones who were in the fighting line.

As she now had more leisure Madame Bretton went each day to the village church to work with the other women at stripping and rolling bandages; and when at home her deft fingers were never idle but flew to and fro at her knitting. Marie, too, had learned to knit and although she complained that her needles refused to click as did her mother's, she nevertheless was already able to make a sock and fashion its toe and heel without help. As for Pierre, he split the wood, cared for the cow and the goats, toiled in the field, brought hay from the hillsides, and assumed much of the heavy work which his father and uncle had been accustomed to do. A new manliness had crept into his bearing, causing his mother to regard him with puzzled surprise, and not a little satisfaction.

"You are a great comfort to me, Pierre," she would exclaim a score of times a day.

Once the lad had flushed with pleasure at overhearing her say to Monsieur le Cure:

"What should I do without my good son, my brave Pierre, to lean upon?"

Thus nearly two months sped past, and the moths within the cocoons that had been laid aside for breeding began to hatch out and force themselves through the small apertures they rent in their silken houses.

Marie viewed the first arrivals in consternation.

"They will fly all about the house and we shall lose them!" she cried. "What can we do with them?"

But Pierre only laughed.

"Have no fear, little sister," he answered reassuringly. "Josef says they will but flutter far enough to find their mates, and when their eggs are laid they will die."

"Alas," sighed the girl, "what a wee time they have to enjoy the glory of their new wings! Is it not sad, Mother?"

Madame Bretton regarded the child gravely for a moment; then she shook her head and smiled into her little daughter's troubled eyes.

"It is not so sad as it seems," she answered gently. "The silkworm has completed its work, and there is no need for it to live longer. It is so with all of us. Each is put into the world with a task to finish, and there can be no greater happiness than to know that that work—whatever it was—has been faithfully accomplished. To me the lesson of these tiny creatures' lives is an inspiration."

Marie smiled faintly, but was still unconvinced.

"But to have it all end just when they have got their wings, Mother!"

"But it does not end, cherie," was the quiet reply. "The moths leave behind them their eggs, which hatch into another family of silkworms. The work goes on, don't you see; it does not stop."

The girl's face brightened.

"It is so with children," continued her mother. "They live after their parents are gone, and carry forward the family name and the good principles their fathers and mothers have left in their keeping. You and Pierre will, I hope, take out into the world all the good things your father and I have attempted to teach you. Try to live always so that the name you bear shall be honored. We have been poor French peasants but we have never done anything that could cause you shame. And now in addition to that knowledge you will have it ever to remember that your father was a soldier of France, and when trouble came to our beloved land he gladly offered his life to serve her."

A light of exaltation glowed in the woman's eyes.

Pierre, who had stolen unnoticed into the room, thought he had never seen his mother so beautiful. There was something in her face that brought to his mind the Jeanne d'Arc statue in the village square.

Softly he bent and kissed her cheek.

With the gesture Madame Bretton seemed to rouse herself, and her grave mood instantly shifted into playfulness.

"Dear, dear!" she cried. "How serious we all are getting! It was your moths, Pierre, that set me moralizing this way. Our work with them is not yet done, either, for we must spread out the sheets of paper on which they are to lay their eggs. Then we can move the pairs of moths onto them."

She rose briskly.

"But how can we, Mother?" queried Marie. "When we touch them they will surely fly away, won't they?"

"No, dear. After the moths have found their mates they can be moved very easily. I have often seen your father take them gently by the wings and put as many couples as he could on large sheets of white paper. There they remained, and after their eggs were laid we removed the moths and folding the papers of eggs put them away for next season's hatching. The eggs were fastened so firmly to the paper that there was no danger of losing any of them. Now where shall we spread the papers for our own moths? They must be put well out of the sun and the strong light and also where there is nothing to disturb the butterflies—no mice or insects for example—or they will not lay eggs for us. Suppose we spread our papers in Uncle Jacques' room. It is not in use now and it is on the shady side of the house."

Rising, she crossed the floor and threw open the door of a vacant bedroom.

Pierre noticed a shade of sadness flit across her face.

"Uncle Jacques would be glad to think we are using his room, Mother," said the boy quickly. "He has always been so interested in the silkworms. Perhaps by the time the mulberry trees leaf again we shall have peace, and he and Father will be once more at home helping us hatch out these very eggs. Who knows?"

"Who knows indeed, dear? Only the good God who is watching over their lives! It may be as you say. The spring may see them back again. We must do our part to be ready for their coming."

From a drawer she brought out some large flat sheets of white paper and spread them upon table, bureau, bed, and chairs. As the room was long there was plenty of space.



"Now see how careful you can be in bringing in the moths. Go on tiptoe and move gently."

Slowly the pairs of greenish white butterflies were transferred to the papers. Scarcely one did more than flutter feebly.

"How long will it take before the eggs are laid, Mother?" inquired Pierre.

"From twenty-four to thirty-six hours—usually not longer than that. Each female moth will lay three or four hundred eggs."

"Shall we have room for so many?"

"Oh, yes," nodded Madame Bretton. "You recall how small they are—only about the size of the head of a pin."

"In the meantime what are we going to give the moths to eat?" asked Marie.

"Nothing. They are not hungry like silkworms. After they leave the cocoon they eat no food, and they will live but a few days after their eggs are laid. We must then gather up the sheets of eggs as quickly as we can, for if they are left exposed to the light and air they will hatch at once and then where should we be?"

"The entire crop would be lost!" gasped Pierre.

"Yes. Your father had a friend to whom that misfortune happened. He was careless and left the newly laid eggs too long in the light, and when he came back from the hills where he had gone on a few days' journey to cut hay the tiny silkworms were hatched and he had nothing on which to feed them. At that season the young mulberry leaves had gone by and, in fact, the trees were nearly bare. It was a good lesson to him; but it was a sad one, for the next spring he had to buy silkworm eggs, and they cost him many francs."

"We will be more careful than that, won't we, Mother?" Marie said.

"I certainly hope so, for we can ill afford to waste our money."

And the Bretton family were more careful. Within a day or two the great sheets of eggs were folded and put away in a dry, dark place where they would be safe until the spring when, as the children insisted, Father and Uncle Jacques might be at home again to share in the hatching and direct the raising of the new crop of silkworms.



CHAPTER XI

PIERRE TAKES ANOTHER JOURNEY

During the next few weeks many a letter passed between Pierre and his new friend Henri St. Amant; and by and by came an invitation for Pierre to come again to Pont-de-Saint-Michel and spend the day visiting the Gaspard throwing mills, where the raw silk was twisted and prepared for weaving. The boy was all eagerness to go and his mother, too, favored the trip, for Pierre had been working very steadily and now had few pleasures. It seemed impossible to complete the never-ending round of duties, although with uncomplaining zeal Pierre kept patiently at them. Marie, it is true, helped with some of the lighter work; but she was not strong enough to do much outside the house. As for Josef, faithful as he was, the old man was aging rapidly and could do little more than potter about the place and direct things. Therefore the cutting of trees for fuel, the drawing of water, the building of fires all fell to Pierre's lot.

What wonder that with such constant use the boy's strength was daily increasing until he was becoming a veritable young giant? With no small satisfaction he beheld the muscles of his arms tighten and stand out; and when he swung his axe and brought down a sturdy sapling it was with a glow of pleasure that he heard it crash to the ground. Certainly there were compensations in hard work! Moreover was not every French boy who was too young to serve in the army being a man at home? He was but doing what all his friends were. Nevertheless the thought of a holiday did fill him with anticipation. To get into something beside his workaday clothes, and to mingle for an entire day amid new scenes, to say nothing of seeing Henri St. Amant again—what a delight it would be!

Madame Bretton caught a reflection from his happiness and that nothing should be left undone that should enhance the joy of her son's outing she broke over her rules of strict frugality and packed a luncheon for him, to which she added a few of the little luxuries which for a long time the family had denied themselves.

And so in high spirits Pierre set forth for Pont-de-Saint-Michel. How familiar every step of the journey seemed this time! And how good it was to find Henri St. Amant awaiting him in the office of the Gaspard mills!

"I have been working over time all the last week, so they are letting me have this morning to show you about the throwing mills," he explained, his eyes shining into Pierre's still brighter ones. "And at noontime when we have finished our round of the factory we can go down by the river, and while we eat our luncheon we can talk together. Therefore suppose we do not waste precious moments in visiting now, for we shall scarcely have time to see all I want to show you before the noon whistle blows."

Accordingly Pierre's box of lunch was stowed away in Henri's locker, and speeding across the little bridge that connected the filature with the throwing mills, the two boys entered the great factories.

"Before we go another step there is one question I must ask you," said Pierre, stopping in the doorway. "I want you to tell me why the twisting of raw silk into thread is called throwing."

"I'll try to explain it as well as I can, Pierre," answered Henri. "Maybe you have stuck me on the very first question you've asked," he added smiling. "All I know is that the operation of twisting, or throwsting, the fibres of raw silk has come to be abbreviated into throwing. The workmen are known as silk throwsters. It is an old trade. At the beginning of the sixteenth century there were throwing mills at Bologna which were so good that it is from them our present day machinery has been copied and perfected. Usually the work is done on commission—the manager, or throwster, receiving orders from weaving mills for exactly the sort of thread they wish to use."

"Isn't it all alike?"

"No, indeed! It varies in size according to the number of threads in a strand, and the number of twists and turns to the inch. Some materials that are to be woven require heavy, loosely twisted thread; others, that which is fine and tightly twisted. And in addition to these differences some thread is not made from pure silk, or even from silk of the best quality; raw silk which is imperfect can just as well be used for certain purposes, or silk that is twisted with a strand of cotton or some other filling. There are a great many qualities and kinds of thread and each one has to be specified."

Pierre opened his eyes.

"Organzine, for example, is used for the warp of woven silk materials and is generally spun from the best quality raw silk, the threads being firm and strong. Tram, on the other hand, is silk of a second grade and is composed of a greater number of fibres. Many of the mills manufacturing woven silks prefer not to own throwing mills. Often their plants are in large cities where land is expensive and they must economize space; or the manufacturers estimate that they can get thread thrown for them cheaper than they can do it themselves. Anyway, they either send their own raw silk here to be thrown according to certain specifications, or they tell us to get the raw silk ourselves and throw it into the varieties required. If the firm sends its own silk it comes to the throwster in bulk with an order to throw a certain proportion of it into organzine of so many threads and twists; and the rest into tram of specified size, the price being computed by the pound."

"I understand."

"The throwsting of silk is a great test of the reeling. If the reeling has been well done, and the size of the strand is uniform, we have no trouble; but if the reeling has been poor, and the gum not thoroughly soaked out of the filament, the threads will snarl and break when they are put on the machines. Frequently there is great loss from poorly reeled cocoons, as I think I told you. And you must keep in mind that the cocoon gives us two kinds of silk thread—the reeled silk, which is of the best quality and is the continuous filament wound from the cocoon requiring no textile machinery to prepare its fibres; and the spun silk, which is made from the loose floss taken off before the cocoon is reeled, or comes from cocoons that were too imperfect to be wound off by the reelers. The latter variety must be treated much as are the fibres from the cotton plant, or those of sheep's wool. By that I mean that the short lengths have to be twisted and spun together before they can be woven on a loom. Do you see the difference?"

Pierre nodded.

"Reeled silk comes direct from the cocoon, leaving the filatures on spools, as you saw when you were here before. After that it is brought to these mills and wound over into hanks or skeins of a specified length—usually from 333 to 500 yards. The foreman told me that long ago they had to employ one person to attend to every reel; but now with modern machinery a single girl can watch twenty-four spools at once. One of the interesting things is that all the finest reels used in France, Italy, China, and Japan, come from America."

"But why don't the Americans reel their own raw silk, then, instead of importing it?"

"They have no cocoons. My father says they tried raising silk in America, but it was not successful. Mulberry trees will grow in some parts of the country, but there is no cheap labor to be had over there as here, and therefore it costs too much to feed and care for the silkworms, and reel the raw silk. It is far less expensive for American merchants to import the reeled silk for their looms. But they can beat us at making machinery, if not at raising cocoons."

Henri chuckled.

"My father says," he went on, "that the Americans did not perfect the reeling machines so much for our good as for their own. They used to get all kinds of silk thread from the different parts of Europe; and it could not be woven on their looms, which are finely adjusted and require material of uniform size and strength. So they perfected machinery for the preparation of silk thread, and practically insisted that if they were to buy of us in Europe the material ordered must be made as they wanted it. Most of the countries over here were glad enough to comply with their demands, for the Americans are not only enormous buyers, but their machines are much better than ours."

"Why couldn't they have cocoons shipped to them in bulk?" speculated Pierre.

"They could not be easily packed, for they are not in form to ship. It would be foolish. Besides, there is the same old problem of the lack of cheap labor. You see, reeling silk is often slow work. Different breeds of silkworm turn out, as you know, different qualities of thread. You wouldn't believe how it varies as to size, cleanliness, lustre, and perfection of filament. The Americans cannot afford to pay people to classify all these varieties; nor stop their machinery at irregular intervals to pick out the imperfections, or slugs, as we call them; also the many knots must be tied by hand. It is fussy work. It would cost an American manufacturer lots of money to get the sort of thread he wants. You remember, too, how some of the best reelers that you saw when you were here before sometimes had to take as many as five or more filaments from different cocoons to get raw silk of a necessary coarseness; even then, in spite of all their care, the skeins have to be sorted and sometimes re-reeled to perfect the thread and make it acceptable to American buyers. Our weavers over here would not begin to be so particular; and in fact they often rate as fair stuff that the Americans consider poor, and refuse to take. You can readily see that all this preparation of the material can be done for less price in Europe, where workmen do not expect such high wages."

"What a lot of trouble the caterpillar makes people before his silk is ready for the loom!" exclaimed Pierre laughing.

"I guess you'll think so when you see all we have to do to it," agreed Henri. "I hope you won't mind the smell of the factory. It is horribly stifling, and makes some of the men sick at first. It is the oil and water in the silk. Silk must be damp for winding and spinning, otherwise it breaks. It is never, even at best, thoroughly dry, for it has the faculty of absorbing and holding moisture. Some time you'll learn more about how they have to allow for the moisture in silk when they weigh and ship it. Raw silk will often take up as much as thirty per cent. of its weight in moisture without any one suspecting it. Therefore, in order to be fair to the buyer who purchases his material by weight, they have in all great silk centres what they call silk-conditioning houses, where they test the goods to find out how much water is in it. This is done by an apparatus known as a desiccator, which tells what the silk would weigh if dry. To this estimate they add a definite percentage, ordinarily about eleven per cent., to total what the raw silk would weigh with a normal percentage of moisture. Every purchaser must expect to pay for some moisture in his material—that is, pay more for it than the silk itself actually weighs."

Pierre regarded Henri mischievously.

"There seems to be so much to learn that I do not believe I shall get through this mill to-day. Maybe I'll have to spend the night here."

"I wish you could!" cried Henri. "Why didn't you plan to come home with me and stay until to-morrow?"

"I couldn't be away over night, Henri," answered Pierre, "although it is kind of you to ask me; there is so much that I have to do at home."

"Let us make haste then," Henri cried. "You have not seen anything yet, and the morning is passing."



CHAPTER XII

THE HOME-COMING

"There are about a dozen different processes which taken together are known as throwing," explained Henri. "First the silk reeled from the cocoons must be wound; then cleaned of all gum; picked—which means that the uneven lumps must be removed; doubled, to make the thread stronger; twisted, to make it still firmer; rewound; and finally reeled all over again into silken yarn. Then it is ready to be put into any form desired, in accordance with orders received from the weaving companies. Sometimes it is made into what we call singles, one thread being given a twist to make it stronger. Sometimes, as I told you, it is made into tram, two or three threads being twisted lightly together just enough to hold them; tram, as I said, is used for the filling or woof of woven materials. Or perhaps organzine, which forms the warp threads of woven goods and is composed of two or as many more singles as desired, is ordered. Organzine can, of course, be made in any size specified, its coarseness or fineness varying with the strength necessary; and it can also be twisted any number of times to make it loose or tight. It must, however, be twisted in the opposite direction from the twist given it when the thread is made into singles or else that twist would come out and do no good. And just here is an amusing point and one that nettles the American buyers not a little. The moment raw silk is twisted even once, transforming it into singles, the custom-house officials on the other side of the water cease to regard it as a raw product although nothing in the way of actual manufacture has taken place in its preparation. The difference in its rating makes a difference in the duty levied on it. Odd, isn't it?"

"How do you come to know all these things, Henri?" demanded Pierre. "You seem to have studied everything there is to learn about silk."

"Indeed I haven't! But when you hear silk-making talked on every hand you can't help picking up more or less information about it. Let me be set down in a weaving mill, though, and I should be ignorant as a baby. The problems of weaving are not in my line. Here in Pont-de-Saint-Michel almost every one is employed in the Gaspard filature, or in the throwing mills; and if not, the people raise silkworms. Since the men have been called to the colors practically all the work of this big manufacturing plant is being done by women, boys, and children. The few men we have who are operating the heavier machines have either been sent home from the front because they were wounded or else they are not strong enough to fight. So you see, silk is the language of the whole village."

Henri gave a little shrug to his shoulders.

"It seems as if France must turn out enough silk for herself and all the world," observed Pierre, motioning to the great bales heaped in a near-by shipping-room.

"The output is, of course, very small now in comparison with what it usually is," answered the elder boy. "The war has made a great difference. Normally France does provide a good share of the world's silk. But other countries do as much, if not more. For a long time Asia sent most of the silk to the United States. Labor was very cheap in China, as well as Canton and Shanghai. The natives, however, employed very primitive methods in preparing their material and did it very poorly, often winding the raw silk on bamboo sticks that roughened or broke it. Frequently the thread would be a mass of dirt and slugs. Merchants would not stand for this, and now American manufacturers have gone to China and set up their own filatures equipped with American machinery."

"How stupid of China to lose a chance like that for trade!"

"The Chinese are the slowest of all the big nations to adopt new ideas, my father says; but they are waking up. They have been so clever in the past, and the foremost to discover so many things that it is a pity others should take from them the fruits of their learning. It is to China, people say, that we owe the entire silk industry. And careless preparation of their raw silk has not been their only or greatest crime."

For a moment Henri paused.

"No. About 1870 the Chinese silk dealers got it through their heads that what the American manufacturers demanded was a heavy silk thread. Now instead of selecting more carefully the cocoons from which they wound their raw silk and reeling it more perfectly, they set their ingenuity to work to increase the weight of the fibre itself by loading it with acetate of lead."

"I should think the Americans would have been pretty angry at that!"

"They were. They told the Chamber of Commerce at Shanghai that the United States would refuse to buy silk of China unless this practice was stopped. That scared the people, and for a while the adulteration of the material ceased. But the reform was not for long. From time to time the natives went back to their old tricks until by and by not only America, but even the greater part of Europe, got all out of patience with them. When they finally remedied the evil it was too late. Other countries had learned the art of silk-raising and had stepped in and snapped up most of the trade. My father says that now America, which is the largest silk consumer of the world, buys only about a quarter of her raw silk from China."

"So the evil-doer does not always prosper," laughed Pierre.

"Evidently not. In contrast to China's actions see what Japan did. That nation was enterprising enough to cultivate silk and foster its reeling; and when America sent the Japs machinery they set it up and soon had tremendous filatures run by their own people. There were thousands of factories where whole Japanese families were employed in reeling silk from the cocoons. The Japanese raw silk, however, was not always free from gum, and in time there was so much complaint about this from America that conditioning houses were established at Yokohama where the goods of each Jap merchant were examined and his personal trade-mark attached to his wares so if they did not come up to the standard they could be traced back to the owner who shipped them. Now more and more Japanese silk is sold, and in the main it is good, although America sometimes complains that it drops below the standard. Certainly no one can begrudge Japan her prosperity, since she had the wit to grasp her opportunity for commerce."

"Surely not."

"I think the trading of different nations one with another is all very interesting, anyway," went on Henri. "Why, we are like one big family—or ought to be! My father has no patience with war. He thinks we should try and overlook the other's faults as we do at home, and live together in peace. We all need each other, and the products peculiar to each land. No one of us can get on without the rest, for as yet no one country has been able to turn out everything its people require. It takes every climate and every national characteristic to bring together the produce of the globe. Besides, trade brings the different races closer together. One of the greatest pities of this war is its interference with commerce through which avenue we were all building up bonds of universal friendship and sympathy. It stands to reason that we understand the people of China or America better if we have dealings with them and meet them sometimes, than if we always stay here in France and read about them, doesn't it? And surely trade brings about greater prosperity everywhere."

"It was to bring back to France that prosperity and peace that your family and mine went to the war," murmured Pierre gently.

"Yes. And if this can be accomplished, and this frightful war be the last war of the world it will be worth all that we have sacrificed," returned the older boy fervently. "But peace is a long time in coming."

He sighed.

"And prosperity will be still longer, I fear," added Pierre soberly.

There was an instant of tense silence.

Both boys were thinking.

"Speaking of commerce," resumed Henri, breaking in upon the serious tenor of the moment and speaking in his former tone, "you doubtless know that before the opening of the Suez Canal London was the great raw silk centre of the world; now our own Marseilles leads, or did before this fighting began. And we must not leave out Italy when talking of silk-growing nations, for our neighbors, the Italians, have done as much if not more silk exporting as has France. You see their climate is ideal for raising silkworms; and when they are not beset by a plague that destroys their crops, as it did between 1864 and 1878, the industry prospers wonderfully with them. The thread from the Italian cocoons seems to be naturally stronger than ours, and some of the best quality raw silk in the world comes from small Italian villages. Then, too, of course Italian labor is cheap. While in France we pay unskilled reeling operatives from twenty to twenty-five cents a day Italian workmen doing the same thing get only fifteen or twenty cents. There is not so much American machinery used in Italy as here, however, and therefore some merchants in the United States prefer French to Italian thread. But generally speaking the very finest and highest priced silks made in America are manufactured from French or Italian material. For many purposes where less perfect thread is required the Americans use silk from the East. It is cheaper, and manufacturers cannot afford the more costly Italian and French thread for everything they make. Importing the material in bulk, even compactly as it is shipped, is enormously expensive. For you see there is always the chance of loss in the silk business."

"Why?"

"Because although silk is necessary in the manufacture of certain indispensable articles it is for the most part a luxury, and the demand for it fluctuates. When times are hard people go without silk gowns and silk stockings; nor do they expend their money in silk, satin, brocade, or velvet hangings. The fashion, too, has much to do with the demand. Some seasons women wear only satins and that throws back on the manufacturers the silks they have on hand; or velvets are worn and the satins have to be shelved. The vogue of certain colors also often causes loss. It is a great lottery to be a silk merchant, my father says."

"Certainly the silkworm creates lots of business for people," declared Pierre smiling.

"And the thread for weaving sarsnet—or sateen, taffeta, satin, and velvet, as well as providing the fibres for sewing-silk is not all the little caterpillar gives, either. Had you thought of the oiled silk, used for a thousand and one purposes? Or of the silk-gut we use near the hooks of our fish-lines?"

"I fish with just a string," replied Pierre.

Henri chuckled.

"You are not an expert fisherman then, Pierre," he answered. "Still, one can land a very good fish with a pole and string; I have done it scores of times. But professional fishermen have a bit of silk-gut to connect the hook with the line. Not only is it very strong, but it is invisible when under water. Most of the silk-gut is made in Italy or Spain, the Spaniards surpassing all others at manufacturing it. Valencia is the chief centre for the industry."

"And how is it made? Spun from silk fibres?"

"Not at all. You remember how, before the silkworm begins to spin, the viscid secretion is stored in the two long ducts at each side of the little creature's body. It is that material which it unites into a single thread in the spinaret, you know. Well, before the worm has a chance to spin, it is put into vinegar and this jellied silk is extracted. It is first soaked in cold water and afterward in a caustic solution so that its outer covering can be loosened and taken off. Then the yellowish gum is dried in a shady place and bleached white by means of sulphur fumes. You can see that it is expensive because so many silkworms must be sacrificed, and because the thread produced is so small. Why, I have read that it takes as many as twenty or thirty thousand strings to make a pound."

Pierre gasped.

"No wonder I don't use silk-gut on my fish-line!" he exclaimed.

In the meantime the boys were passing on amid the stifling atmosphere and whirling machines.

Suddenly the noon whistle blew and the busy wheels of the mill became still.

Pierre and Henri were only too glad to emerge with the others from the close, steamy air of the factory into the coolness of the outdoor world. Down by the river's bank they unpacked their luncheon, a royal feast, for Madame Bretton had sent enough food for both hungry boys. They were in jubilant spirits.

"If I had a line with some silk-gut on it I might perhaps land a trout," said Pierre mischievously.

Henri shook his head.

"There are no fish in this stream, because the waste from the mill flows into it. But some day in the spring, when I have a holiday, I can show you a brook up in the hills where you can catch as many trout as you like—silk-gut or no silk-gut," he said.



"There are fishing-holes at Bellerivre, too," retorted Pierre proudly. "Why should you not make the next visit? You could then see my mother and my sister Marie; and I could show you our silk-house."

The sounding of the whistle cut short further conversation and warned the boys that their day together was at an end. Henri had to go back to the mill and resume work at his machine from which the kindly foreman had released him in the morning; and Pierre must take his train home.

But what a perfect day it had been!

As the engine hurried him toward Bellerivre Pierre busied himself thinking how much he would have to tell his mother and Marie. The village was reached almost before he realized it, and as he descended from the train he was surprised to find Monsieur le Cure standing on the platform to greet him.

The face of the priest was pale, and with apprehension Pierre made his way toward him.

"My son!" was all the old man could say.

Instantly Pierre knew.

"You have bad news, Father," he cried quickly. "It is from the war. Tell me! Do not fear. I am no longer a child."

Trembling, the kindly friend put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"It came this morning—the message," he said. "I did not tell your mother, but waited for you. There has been another great battle and——"

"My father?"

"He is missing, Pierre."

"And Uncle Jacques?"

"He will come no more, my son. He has given his life for France."



CHAPTER XIII

PIERRE TAKES THE HELM

Silently Pierre received the news. He neither trembled nor cried out. In a vague way he realized that ever since that day long ago when Henri St. Amant had first presented this possibility to his mind he had unconsciously been bracing himself to meet with courage some such emergency. And now the blow had fallen, and it was he who must break the news to his mother, and be the strong prop on which she might lean. So busy was he with these thoughts that he scarcely sensed the presence of the faithful old priest who walked beside him. A score of confused reveries were surging over the boy, and out of the chaos of grief, reminiscence, and wonder, clearer ideas began to form themselves.

"We must sell the place," he declared, thinking aloud. "That will give us some ready money to start on."

"I, too, think that might be well."

It was the quiet voice of Monsieur le Cure.

"Forgive me, Father," said the lad. "I had forgotten——"

"Do not reproach yourself, my son," replied the priest gently. "I did not accompany you to be a burden in your sorrow—only that I might help if I could."

He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.

Pierre glanced into his eyes gratefully.

"About the selling of the home—you think it would be wise?" he asked.

"It seems to me now to be the best plan; but I should wish to consider the matter more carefully before I gave a final decision. Advice must not be given too hastily."

"You see," continued Pierre, still formulating his ideas, "the constant care of a large crop of silkworms is too hard for my mother and Marie. We have been able to manage it one season, and we might even do it two; but to feel we must work as hard as that forever—it is not to be thought of. If we are to take up sericulture permanently we must have more help, and with the comparatively small margin of profit we are able to make we are not in a position to do that. When my father and uncle were at home it was a very different thing. Of course I have Josef, but he can do only the lightest part of the work. I am glad to do my share, more than my share; but I am only a boy, Father, and not so wise nor so strong as my father was. Nor have I his knowledge. If our crop of cocoons should fail some season either through my lack of skill or because of some unavoidable calamity, we should be without money on which to live. It would be terrible. The thought fills me with fear. Help me, Father. You are older than I. Give me your counsel. Do you think I am right, or only a coward?"

"To face the truth is never cowardly, Pierre," answered the priest. "You reason well, my son. To take upon yourself in future the care you have borne this year is far too much for a lad. It is a work for several able-bodied men. That you and your mother and Marie have been able to do it even this once is little short of a miracle. Of course you have each thrown your entire heart and strength into it. Then, too, the season has been ideal. No calamities have befallen your crop. Nevertheless misfortunes do come. There are distempers that ravage the silkworms; bad weather that wrecks the mulberry foliage; a thousand possible accidents which at any moment may sweep away your income. Such a reverse would be a dire catastrophe to you and your family." The cure paused thoughtfully. "But if you were to sell the place," he went on a second later, "what would you do? Surely the sum you would receive for it, even if it was a generous one—a thing we can hardly expect in war time—would not be sufficient for you all to live upon."

"I should not try to live here," answered Pierre promptly. "Long ago I made up my mind that if anything befell my father and my uncle I would persuade my mother and Marie to go with me to America."

"America!"

"It is not so far away."

"It is at the other side of the world!" asserted the simple priest.

Pierre laughed.

"No, indeed, Father. America is but a ship's journey away. Besides we have relatives there. My mother's people are all at Paterson, New Jersey. My plan would be to take part of the money we get for our home and with it pay our passage to America. There I could find work at good wages, and take care of my mother and sister."

Monsieur nodded silently.

"All this," continued Pierre, "is in case my father is not found. You tell me he is missing. What does that mean, Father?"

"It may mean any one of several things," returned the cure. "Your father may have been wounded and carried to some enemy's hospital; he may be a prisoner in some war camp; or——"

The old man faltered.

"Or——" persisted Pierre. "Speak, Father. Do not be afraid."

"Or he may have fallen, and be lying unclaimed on some distant battle-field."

"And what do you think is the chance of his being heard from?"

Unflinchingly the boy put the question.

"We cannot tell. He is in God's hands. I should wait for a time, my son. Then if no message comes we must——"

Again the kindly voice wavered.

"We shall know he has been lost," put in Pierre in a whisper.

"I fear so."

Stillness fell between the two. Each was thinking.

"Then for the present I will not speak yet to my mother of selling the home," said Pierre at last. "We will wait and hope for good news. It is cruel to distress her unless we must. All may yet be well. Surely she has grief enough as it is, for she was very fond of my uncle."

"You are a wise lad, Pierre," exclaimed the cure. "Do as you have said. Console your mother with the hope of good tidings from the front. They may come—who knows? And if not, her sorrows will at least come singly and not all at once."

And thus it came about that through the great grief that overwhelmed the Bretton home it was Pierre who was his mother's stay and comfort. He it was who counseled hope and patience; he who took up the burden of acting both as father and son.

But despite his courage the message so eagerly longed for did not come. Days, weeks, months dragged on. The winter passed and faint hints of spring began to steal into the landscape. The river, foaming with the melted snows from far up the Pyrenees, dashed with deafening roar through the mountain gorges. There was a new brilliancy in the noonday sunshine.

To Pierre the worst had now become a certainty. His father would never again be heard from. Somewhere in a camp or battle-field far from home like a true son of France he had given up his life for his beloved country. With sinking heart the boy faced this reality. He had not sensed until now how subtly a secret anticipation that the facts might prove otherwise had buoyed him up. But now hope was gone. How should he tell his mother? How break in upon the dream she was cherishing, and rudely force upon her the need for action?

How would she receive the plan for selling the home? To leave the spot she loved so much would be an overpowering blow to her, for had she not come as a bride to her present dwelling? Nay, more; she had been born in Bellerivre and had never ventured beyond its confines. What would she say to breaking every tie of her old life and setting forth from the valley she loved to end her days in a strange and unknown country? For Marie and himself it was well enough; they were young and their days stretched far before them. But for his mother it would mean only the severing of every familiar association.

Poor Pierre! Many an anxious hour did he spend wondering how he was to present his plan so that it would not seem cruel.

Then one day he suddenly saw how useless had been his worry. It was his mother herself who spoke and made the very suggestion he had been hesitating to voice. How calmly and with what courage she did it! Ah, Pierre need not have feared that she would fail to meet the great issue when it came! Madame Bretton was too much of a woman for that. Instead she had a long talk with her children and afterward a letter was dispatched to the relatives in that mystic land, America. Soon a reply came back. Madame Bretton had come of fine peasant stock, and her brother had carried with him into the new land of which he had become a citizen his native loyalty and bigness of heart. He now wrote urging his sister and her fatherless children to come to Paterson and share his home until such time as they could find work and settle themselves in some convenient community.

And when this was agreed upon who should come forward to Pierre's aid but Henri St. Amant! He it was who found at Pont-de-Saint-Michel a customer ready to purchase for a good price the Bretton homestead, with its well-equipped silk-house, and its grove of thriving mulberry trees. Together with Pierre and the cure he worked out every detail of the Brettons' departure, acting with a wisdom that was amazing in so young a lad. The faithful Josef was to have a home with the old priest; nothing was forgotten. Certainly Henri was a friend in need!

Therefore one sunny morning the Brettons started south across France for the seaport from which, a week later, they were to set sail for that untried world toward which many another hapless exile had journeyed, and within whose borders the refuge of a home was offered.



CHAPTER XIV

PIERRE AS A TEACHER

It appalled Pierre to see how much of the little fortune received from the Bretton homestead had to be expended in reaching America. The money which had seemed such a fabulous sum in Bellerivre evaporated in the new land like the dew before the sun. Madame Bretton was too independent to consent to live with her brother's family and be a burden to them longer than was absolutely necessary, and therefore the renting and furnishing of a simple apartment became unavoidable. After this expenditure but a small bank account remained, and this the family agreed must not be cut in upon; something must be left in case of illness or disaster. In consequence the only way left to meet the expenses of daily living was for all three of them to take positions in the great silk mills, where so many hundreds of others were employed.

This was a great mortification to Pierre. Not that he was ashamed to have his family rated as working people. Every one in the world, at least those who were useful, worked in one way or another. His humiliation lay in the fact that he who had thought himself able to be the breadwinner for both mother and sister, was in reality nothing but an unskilled laborer, whose services for the present commanded but slight remuneration. The discovery was not only disconcerting but galling. It was bad enough to have Marie enter the mill. But his mother——! To think of his mother, at her age, becoming a mill operative!

If the step was as repugnant to Madame Bretton as to Pierre she at least made light of it. They must all live, she cheerily explained, and living in America was a far different problem from what it had been in the green valley of Bellerivre. And after all they were but doing what many another household in Paterson was doing. Why should it be any less dignified for her to labor in a mill than at raising silkworms? Besides, it might not be for long. When Marie and Pierre learned and became more expert maybe they would earn enough so that she could retire and stay within doors like a lady of fortune, keeping the home and—she jestingly added—dressing in some of the very silk she had helped to make. Thus with affectionate banter Pierre's objections were quieted if not overcome, and through the influence of Mr. Gautier, Madame Bretton's brother, who was a superintendent in one of the larger mills of the plant, good positions were found for the entire family.

Fortunately both Marie and Pierre were of an age to pass the Child Labor Laws of the State, an important detail of which Pierre had previously been in ignorance. Many children who applied for places, he learned, were constantly being turned away because they were too young; and because much of the work formerly done by them was now performed by women or girls.

Among the toilers in the vast manufactory almost every country was represented. There were more Italians than any other nationality; and ranking after them came Germans, Irish, and Dutch, with a scattering of French and Poles. It made the Brettons feel quite at home to find themselves among some of their own countrymen.

But what a different place Paterson was from the fertile valley they had left behind them! There were the great blackened factories—a city in themselves—with their tall chimneys and whirring wheels, which one came to hear almost in one's sleep. And there were the homes huddled closely together into which humanity was herded. Even the blue of the sky was dimmed by a veil of heavy smoke. What wonder that it took all the Brettons' courage to be cheerful under such conditions; or what marvel that many a time they sighed in secret for that far-away land where they had been born? But there must be no looking backward. Resolutely they crushed the homesickness that surged up within them, and began to learn all they could of this strange new country which in future was to be their home.

Paterson, their Uncle Adolph explained, had become the greatest silk centre of the United States, because it was so near New York, the city where most of the raw silk from European ports was received.

"But I do not understand why the factories are not built in New York itself," remarked Pierre.

"Taxes are too high and land is too expensive to afford the necessary area for such great mills as these," explained his uncle. "Small silk goods which can be made in little space are manufactured in New York; in fact, the headquarters for American laces, fringes, trimmings, and tassels is there. To have an ideal location factories must be so situated as to be near a large city which will assure the selling of goods, their shipment, and the chance to secure plenty of labor for the mills. Moreover, they must be built where, as I said, land is comparatively low priced and plentiful, and the taxes moderate. Such a combination is not easy to find. It explains why so many cities have in them the kinds of manufactures they have. It is an interesting study to follow out. Here in New Jersey, for example, we have throwing and spinning mills, large dyeing establishments, and we weave the finest of ribbons as well as broad goods."

"What do you mean by broad goods?"

"The term applies to dress materials and the silks that are sold in the shops by the yard," answered his uncle.

"Pennsylvania, too, is a large silk-making community," went on Mr. Gautier, "because fuel is cheap in that State; and because, since so many of the Polish, Irish, and German men work in the mines silk mills afford a livelihood for the great numbers of unemployed women, girls, and young boys in their families. In fact the State of Pennsylvania often gives to companies that will come into the mining districts and put up silk mills not only the land for their factories, but also sites for the homes of their employees. That is one thing that has brought so many silk mills into Pennsylvania. Quantities of ribbons and broad silks are made there, as well as velvets and upholstery goods. It is a great throwing and spinning centre."

"Tell me something about the other States," demanded Pierre, his eyes wide open with interest.

"Well, there is Connecticut—that is a large silk-making district. About two-thirds of the machine twist is manufactured there; and they turn out both narrow and broad goods—silks, velvets, plushes. At South Manchester some of the finest and most artistic American silks are made. Massachusetts stands at the front in the manufacture of sewing-silks, which require finely equipped plants and much heavy machinery; embroidery silks, wash-silks, and trimmings are made there, too."

Mr. Gautier paused a moment.

"Then there is Rhode Island," he continued. "That is a silk manufacturing State also, although it does not turn out anywhere near so much material as do the others that I have mentioned. If you want to be in the largest silk-making spot in America Paterson is the right place," he added, smiling down at his nephew. "There is no end of chance for a bright boy to rise in these mills. But you must be quick and work hard. You seem to be able to do both those things, Pierre. Just go to it, my boy, and you need not fear but you will be earning good wages soon."

In spite of his French ancestry Monsieur Gautier had caught the American slang.

Pierre glanced up into his face.

"I shall do my best for my mother's sake, if for no other," he replied.

"Well, you'll certainly have your chance to work here," laughed his uncle. "There is variety enough to please you, too. We have throwing mills; a place where we dye silk in the skein; a winding and weaving plant; another plant for dyeing goods in the piece; and a big printing and finishing plant. If you do not find something to suit you by the time you have worked through all these it will be your own fault. Of course women have the monopoly of certain parts of the work; but there is plenty left to go 'round, so do not worry."



With a twinkle in his eye Monsieur Gautier went into his office.

During the weeks that followed many new experiences did the Bretton family have, and much did they learn of silk-making. From every source available they gleaned information, for being versed in silk-raising they were eager to know all they could of the rest of the process, especially Pierre. He found there were hand-looms for the making of finer varieties of silks which were manufactured in smaller quantities and were of individual design. On American power-looms, which were surprisingly light of construction and were handled with great ease, most of the other goods were made. It was remarkable that a machine costing comparatively little and so simple to operate should be so accurate in weave, and turn out so much work. As for the old Jacquard loom that in a former day had transformed the industrial world—it had been so altered and improved as to be hardly recognizable. Formerly, he learned, looms of Swiss and German manufacture had been employed in America; but these had speedily given place to the American high-power automatic loom, especially for the making of ribbons which were woven the same way as were broad goods, except that the shuttle was not a flying but a fixed one, that moved from side to side like a sewing-machine. So clever was the construction of these looms that they seemed to be little short of thinking creatures; when plain ribbon was to be turned out the operatives who were paid so much for the cut or ten yard piece, had little to do beyond seeing that there was plenty of thread on the spools, and that the ends were tied when broken.

For the more expensive and elaborate ribbons, however, more involved machinery was required. One device after another had been added to eliminate human labor, but even then these machines needed more persons to operate them. As a result of their complexity the speed of these intricate machines was less, and in consequence the price of making the goods was increased. Nevertheless there was a vast improvement over past conditions, when all overshot and embroidered effects had to be worked out on hand-looms. It enabled Americans to turn now to home manufacture for their ribbons. It was nevertheless true, Mr. Gautier explained, that much of the home market was created by the high tariff on the French ribbons still manufactured on hand-looms; these continued to be of choice design and of greater variety of pattern than were the American goods that had to be turned out in larger quantities on power-looms. Were it not that the American ribbons could be bought cheaper the French ones would probably, in many cases, be preferred.

About one half of the total silk output of America, Pierre was told, was in dress goods. Many of these were rich in quality, but many were not. The American women eagerly followed the fashions and were, as a class, far more concerned about having silk of a fashionable color than possessing that which would wear a long time. In fact, they did not wish materials to wear too long. Most of them were fairly well-to-do and were able to discard a garment when a passing fancy had been gratified, and after a thing was passe they would rather toss it aside than wear it out. In consequence shopkeepers, who studied the market as if it were a thermometer, refused to cumber their counters with expensive goods which must only be shelved after their color or design was out of date. Such conditions had created an American market for cheap silks such as was unknown in Europe where quality was a far greater factor in the sale of silk materials. In the United States these flimsy dress goods could be turned out with little expense on American power-looms by unskilled workmen, whereas in other countries experienced men were needed to make them.

As for the soft satins or messalines, they were made almost entirely in Europe because the cost of American labor was too great for them to be produced here. The operatives making them were paid by the piece and the process of weaving was a slow one. The heavy brocades and tapestries for upholstery were usually of such elaborate design and so interwoven with gold thread that to manufacture them on power-looms was practically impossible; and as hand-looms were required European hand-loom work was cheaper than American.

"The flaw in our power-loom is that double threads cannot be handled," explained Mr. Gautier to Pierre. "Any goods requiring such treatment must of necessity be made on hand-looms."

So little by little Pierre's knowledge grew.

Military and upholstery trimmings, he ascertained, could be turned out in large quantities on power-looms; but dress and cloak trimmings, which were more elaborate, were made in America only in comparatively small quantities and again because of their intricate patterns and gold threads Europe could produce them cheaper on hand-looms. If, however, the pattern desired was sufficiently simple, and a large enough quantity of it was ordered to make it pay the manufacturer to bother with setting it up it could be made on the American power-loom. Fancy braids were made chiefly in Europe from the floss or spun silk taken from the outside of the cocoon; but plain braids, Pierre was interested to know, were made in America as cheaply and well as in Europe, most of them being manufactured from artificial silk.

It was a great surprise to Pierre to find there was such a thing as artificial silk.

"I knew there were artificial flowers and artificial—well, almost everything," laughed Pierre to his mother. "But artificial silk!"

He gasped.

"What is it made of, Pierre?" questioned Madame Bretton, who had come to regard with wonder the fund of information her big son was acquiring.

"The man who told me about it said that cotton and the pulp from soft wood were used for one sort," he answered. "Another kind comes from dissolving cellulose in chemicals, and forcing this mixture through long tubes into some sort of a bath that makes the material come out in threads; these threads can then be wound, spun, washed, soaked, and dyed. Here in America most of the artificial silk which, by the way, is known as viscose, has cellulose in some form as its base, afterward being treated with different combinations of chemicals."

"What shall we do with you, Pierre, if you learn so much?" questioned Madame Bretton mischievously.

Pierre smiled.

"I'm going to learn every bit I can, so that I may soon work up to earning lots of money," he said. "Then you and Marie can leave the mills, and I can take care of you."

"You are a good son," his mother answered with an odd little catch in her voice. "But do not be distressed because we are in the mills. Indeed we are very happy there."

"You would make the best of anything you had to do, Mother; you're that sort," replied the boy, taking her hand in his. "But I know well it is hard for you to work at a machine all day when you have never been accustomed to it, and I do not mean you shall do it one moment longer than I can help."

"There, there, son——" his mother's eyes filled, and to change the subject she said briskly:

"And these artificial silks of which you were telling me—are they good for anything else but for making braids?"

"Yes, indeed. Nitro and viscose silks are more brilliant and lustrous than are real silks. They have no such soft feeling, however. They feel more like the harsh, loaded silks made from thread which has been chemically weighted. But they are coming into demand more and more for such purposes as the warp and filling of various sorts of fabrics, rugs, silk stockings, and upholstery materials. Here in this country, where electricity is in general use, artificial silk is a blessing, for it serves as a substitute in the insulating of electric light wires, and the manufacture of mantles for lights."

"How clever people were to find anything that could be used instead of the real, carefully nurtured cocoon silk," mused his mother.

"I know it. I suppose chemists worked at the problem a long time before they solved it. That is the way most of the great discoveries were made. Still, the wild silk made by the moths of India is not carefully grown. From it the Oriental Tussah silk is made; then there is Eria silk, also an uncultivated product from India; the Fagara silk from China; and the Yamamai silk from Japan, which is next to domestic silk in value. All these are manufactured from silk spun by silkworms that have had no care. The foreman was telling me about it the other day."