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Title: The Boys' And Girls' Library
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The Boys' And Girls' Library" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.



by The University of Florida, The Internet
Archive/Children's Library)



                                 THE

                            BOYS AND GIRLS

                               LIBRARY

                           BY PETER PARLEY

                            [Illustration]

                               LONDON.

                     Published by H. G. Collins.



                                 THE

                      BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY;

                              CONTAINING

                 A VARIETY OF USEFUL AND INSTRUCTIVE
                    READING, SELECTED FROM EMINENT
                          WRITERS FOR YOUTH,

                           BY PETER PARLEY.

                            [Illustration]

                               LONDON:

                   H. G. COLLINS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

                               MDCCCLI.



                              CONTENTS.


            Childhood 7

            The Old Year and the New Year 9

            The Story of Edward Lyon;

            To my good Angel 16

            Self-Denial 17

            Henry and his Sister 24

            Anna and her Kitten 26

            Faithfulness 28

            The Great Man 41

            Philosophy in Common things.--The
              Air Thermometer 43

            The Rabbit 52

             " Sleigh Ride 55

            Story of a Greyhound 61

            The Truant 63

            A Summer morning Ramble 67

            The Hottentots 71

             " Whispering Figure 76

            A Story of the Sea 79

            The Old Slate 85

            Children, a poem 90

            Lizzy; a Fairy Tale 91

            Ellen. A true story 109

            Philosophy in common things.--Corking
              the kettle spout up 111

            The Lost Children 114

            Forgiveness 123

            The two Nosegays 124

            Camgno; or, the tame Roe 127

            The Secret 131

            Science of the Human Frame.--The Skin 136

            Voices from Nature 142

            King Alfred 145

            Grace Middleton 148

            Shells 153

            Emulation.--A conversation between
              Harry and his father 155

            A Nurse's Song 160

            The Shepherd and the Fairy 161

            Simple Pleasures 165

            The Robin's "Good Bye" to little Araminta 171

            The Baby House 174

            Fidelity and Obedience 183

            Bessie Lee 186

            The Stars.--Orion 200

             " Apple 204

             " New Singing School 208

            The Balloon 215

            Curious Little Painters 217

            The Upas; or, Poison Tree 225

            Disobedience, and its consequences 227

            The Game of Weathercocks 233

            James Cartier.--An early traveller
              in America 235

            Anselmo's Escape; or, the Dog St. Bernard 239

            To my Boy Tom, on giving him
              his first Spelling-Book 245

            Second Story of the Sea 247

            The Child at Prayer 251

             " Child Angel 257

             " Storm 259

            Something about Dogs 262

            The Morning Walk 265

             " Ostrich 271

             " Violet.--Modesty 274

             " Elephant 277



                                 THE

                      BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY.



CHILDHOOD.

    "Heaven lies about us in our infancy."
                           WORDSWORTH.

    "My heart leaps up when I behold
      A rainbow in the sky;
    So was it when my life began,
      So is it now I am a man,
    So let it be when I grow old,
                  Or let me die."
                           IBID.


The angel that takes care of the tender lambs and sprinkles dew upon the
flowers, in the still night, takes care of thee, dear little one, and
lets no evil come to thy tender years.

Fair child! when I gaze into thy soft, dark eyes, _my_ childhood
returns, like a bright vision, and I think of the time when every sight
and every sound in nature gave to me such sweet delight, and all seemed
_so_ fair. I almost fancy I hear thy gentle voice breathing forth thy
joy in sweet and happy words, such as little children are wont to use
when they first begin to look up into the blue sky, to gaze upon the
rainbow, or the bright clouds that float over the moon.

The bright sun, the moon and stars, the murmuring rivulet, the broad
ocean heaving to and fro in the sunlight, the thunder and the storm, the
quiet glen where I listened to the busy hum of the insects, the joyous
song of the birds, as they flew from spray to spray, the odour of fresh
flowers--all filled my breast with heavenly love and peace; and when I
look into _thy_ face, dear Sophia, I feel my soul return to join you,
and I forget the present, and live only in the past.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW YEAR

BY RUFUS DAWES.


    An old man, wrinkled with many woes,
    Went trudging along through the wintry snows;
    'Twas the thirty-first of December, at night,
    He had travelled far and was worn out quite.
    The clock was just on the click of twelve,
    When the old man stopp'd and began to delve:
    And he made a grave in the broad highway,
    To be trampled upon on the coming day.
    Then in he crept, and had hardly strength,
    To stretch himself out at his utmost length,
    When the clock struck _twelve!_--at the solemn tone,
    The old man died without a groan.

    Just then a youth came tripping by,
    With a holiday look and a merry eye;
    His back was loaded with books and toys,
    Which he toss'd about to the girls and boys.
    He gave one glance at the dead old man.
    Then laughed aloud, and away he ran.
    But when he comes back, let him laugh, if he dare,
    At the following lines which are written there.

    "Beneath the stone which here you view,
    Lies EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-TWO.
    His grandfathers blundered so sadly, that he
    Inherited only their penury,
    With a few little play-things he's left for his heir,
    Who will frolic awhile, and then die of care.
    He lived, a wretched life, we're told.
    And died at last, _just twelve months old_!"



THE STORY OF EDWARD LYON;

OR,

CONFESSING A FAULT.


"I don't like James Parker, and I'll never play with him again as long
as I live," said a little boy, warmly, whose name was Edward Lyon.

His father, hearing the words of his son, called him, and said,

"Edward, my son, what has happened to cause you to speak so unkindly of
your little playmate? I thought you liked James very much."

"So I did, father; but I don't like him now."

"Why not?"

"Because he got angry with me to-day, and struck me."

"Struck you, my son!"

"Yes, indeed! he did so,--but I struck him back for it!"

When Edward's father heard this, he was very much grieved. Taking his
boy upon his knee, he asked him to tell him all about his difficulty
with James Parker, and why James had struck him.

"Why, you see, father," began Edward, "he was building a house with the
blocks you told us we might have from the building, and had got it up
very high, when I told him, in fun, that I would knock it down, and
threw a great stone at it, just by way of make believe. Somehow or
other, the stone slipped in my hand, and struck his house, and knocked
it all to pieces. But I didn't mean to do it. And then he came up to me,
with his face as red as blood, and struck me with all his might."

"And then you struck him back again?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then what did he do?"

"He doubled up his fist, as if he was going to hit me again."

"But didn't do it?"

"No. He stopped a minute, and then began to cry, and went off home."

"Suppose he had struck you again--what would you have done?"

"I should have hit him back."

"Like a wicked boy, as you were, then."

"But he was wicked, too, father."

"Not so wicked as you, I think. In the first place, it was wrong in you
even to pretend that you were going to knock his house down. Wrong in
two ways. First, you told an untruth in saying that you meant to knock
it down, when you did not intend to do so. And then you took pleasure in
seeing him troubled, lest his house, the building of which gratified him
so much, should be wantonly destroyed. Both the feeling and act here
were evil. And my son, in indulging the one and doing the other, was not
under good influences. And then, can you wonder that James, after what
you had said, should have believed that you knocked his house down on
purpose? You said that you meant to do it, and then did do it. What
better evidence could he have had of your unjustifiable trespass upon
his rights? Pleased with his house, its destruction could only arouse
within him feelings of indignation against the one who had wantonly
thrown it down. Put yourself in his place, and think whether you would
not have felt as angry as he did; perhaps much more so. Carried away by
this feeling, he struck you. This was wrong, but not half so much as the
fact of your returning the blow. You knew that you had given him cause
to feel incensed at your conduct, and you ought to have borne his blow
as a just punishment for what you had done. But, instead of this, you
made the matter ten times worse by striking him back. The fact, that he
did not return your blow, but resisted the impulse he felt to strike you
again, shows that he is a much better boy than you are, Edward; for you
have declared, that if he had struck you again, you would have returned
the blow, and have fought with him, I doubt not, until the one or the
other of you had been beaten."

"I am sorry I knocked his house down," Edward said, as soon as his
father ceased speaking, and he hung his head and looked ashamed and
troubled. "And I was sorry the moment I saw that I had done it."

"Then why did you not tell him so at once?"

"I would, if he had given me time. But he doubled up his fist and hit me
before I could speak."

"Still, knowing that you had provoked him to do so, you ought to have
forgiven the blow."

"And so I would, if I had only had time to think. But it came so
suddenly"--

"You have had time to think since, my son, and yet you have declared
that you do not like James, and never intend playing with him again."

"I didn't feel right when I said that, father. I was angry at him. But I
don't suppose he will ever play with me again after what has happened."

"Why not?"

"Of course he is very angry with me."

"More angry with himself for having struck you, I expect."

"Oh, if I thought so, I would go at once and ask him to forgive me for
knocking his house down, and for having struck him," Edward said, his
eyes filling with tears.

"That ought not to be your reason for asking his forgiveness, Edward."

"Why not, father?"

"You should go to him and ask his forgiveness because you are conscious
of having injured him. You ought not to think anything about what he may
think or feel, but go to him and confess your wrong, simply because you
have acted wrong."

"But how do I know that he will take it kindly?"

"That you must not think of, my boy. Think only of the fact you have
injured James, and that simple justice requires of you to repair that
injury in the best way you can. Surely, the least you can now do is to
go to him, and tell him that you are sorry for what you have done."

For a time, pride and shame struggled in the breast of Edward, but at
length he made up his mind to do as his father had proposed. He not only
saw clearly that he had been wrong, but he also felt that he had been
wrong. James Parker lived only a little way from his father's house, and
thither he at length turned his steps, though with reluctance, for he
did not know how James would receive him.

As he came into the yard of the house where James' father lived, he saw
his little playmate seated quietly in the door, with his face turned
away, so that he did not notice him, nor seem to hear the sound of his
footsteps, until he was close to him. Then he turned quickly, and
Edward saw that he had been weeping.

"James," he said, holding out his hand, "I am sorry that I knocked your
house down--but I didn't mean to do it. And I am more sorry still that I
struck you."

"And I have been so sorry that I struck you, that I have cried ever
since," James said, taking the offered hand of his young friend. "I
might have known that you did not mean to knock my house down when you
threw the stone,--that it was an accident. But I was so angry that I
didn't know what I was doing. I'm so glad you have come. I wanted to see
you so bad, and tell you how sorry I was; but was afraid you would not
forgive me for having struck you."

From that day Edward and James were firmer friends than ever. Each
forgave the other heartily, and each blamed himself to the full extent
of his error. And besides, each learned to guard against the sudden
impulse of angry feelings, that so often sever friends, both young and
old.



TO MY GOOD ANGEL.


    Hail, protecting spirit, hail!
      Guardian of my being here;
    Though my faltering footsteps fail,
      And I sink in doubt and fear,
          Still to cheer me
          Thou art near me,
    All unseen by mortal eye,--
      All unheard by mortal ear;
    Thou, a spirit of the sky,
      Dost protect and guide me here.

    Hail, immortal spirit, hail!
      When the storm is in my breast,
    And the foes of peace assail,
      Thou canst calm my soul to rest.
          Then to cheer me
          Still be near me--
    Guardian angel, to me given,
      Guide me still till life be o'er,
    Then to that long looked-for heaven,
      Let my happy spirit soar.



SELF-DENIAL.


There were two little boys, named James and William. One day, as they
were about starting for school, their father gave them two or three
pennies a-piece, to spend for themselves. The little boys were very much
pleased at this, and went off as merry as crickets.

"What are you going to buy, William?" James asked, after they had walked
on a little way.

"I don't know," William replied. "I have not thought yet. What are you
going to buy with your pennies?"

"Why, I'll tell you what I believe I'll do. You know ma' is sick. Now, I
think I will buy her a nice orange. I am sure it will taste good to
her."

"You may, if you choose, James. But I'm going to buy some candy with my
money. Pa' gave it to me to spend for myself. If ma' wants an orange,
she can send for it. You know she's got money, and Hannah gets her
everything she wants."

"I know that," James said. "But then, it would make me feel so happy to
see her eating an orange that I bought for her with my own money. She is
always doing something for us, or getting us some nice thing, and I
should like to let her see that I don't forget it."

"You can do as you please," was William's reply to this. "For my part, I
don't often get money to spend for myself. And now I think of it, I
don't believe pa' would like it if we were to take the pennies he gave
us for ourselves, and give them away,--or, what is the same thing, give
away what we bought with them. Indeed, I'm sure he would not."

"I don't think so, William," urged James. "I think it would please
him very much. You know that he often talks to us of the evil of
selfishness. Don't you remember how pleased he was one day, when a poor
chimney-sweeper asked me for a piece of cake that I was eating, and I
gave him nearly the whole of it? If that gave him pleasure, surely my
denying myself for the sake of ma', who is sick, would please him a
great deal more."

William did not reply to this, for he could not, very well. Still, he
wanted to spend his pennies for his own gratification so badly, that he
was not at all influenced by what his brother said.

In a little while, the two little boys came to a confectioner's shop,
and both went into it to spend their money.

"Well, my little man, what will you have?" asked the shop-keeper,
looking at William, as he came up to the counter.

"Give me three pennies' worth of cream candy," William said.

The cream candy was weighed out, and then the man asked James what he
should get for him.

"I want a nice sweet orange, for a penny," said James.

"Our best oranges are twopence," was the reply.

"But I have only a penny, and I want a nice orange for my mother, who is
sick."

"Do you buy it with your own money, my little man?" asked the
confectioner.

"Yes, sir," was the low answer.

"Then take one of the best, for your penny, and here is some candy into
the bargain. I love to see little boys thoughtful of their mothers." And
the man patted James upon the head, and seemed much pleased.

William felt bad when he heard what the man said, and began to think how
very much pleased his mother would be when James took her the orange
after school.

"I wish I had bought an orange too," he said, as he went along, eating
his candy, which did not taste half so good as he had expected it would
taste.

Do you know why it did not taste so good? I will tell you. His mind was
not at ease. When our thoughts trouble us, we take little or no pleasure
in anything. To make this still plainer, I will just mention the case of
a boy, who thought it would be so pleasant if he could play all the
time, instead of going to school. So much did he think about this, that
one morning, he resolved that he would not go to school when sent, but
would go out into the woods, and play all day, and be so happy.

So, when he started off, with his dinner in a little basket, instead of
going to the school-room, he went to the woods.

"Oh, this is so pleasant!" he said, on first arriving at the woods--"No
books nor lessons--no sitting still all day. Oh, I shall be so happy!"

As he said this, the thought of his parents, and of their grief and
displeasure, if they should find out that he had played truant, came
into his mind, and made him feel very unhappy. But he endeavoured
to forget this, and began to frisk about, and to try his best to
be delighted with his new-found freedom. But it was of no use. His
thoughts would go back to his parents, and to a consciousness of his
disobedience; and these thoughts destroyed all the pleasantness of being
freed from school. At last, he grew weary of everything around him, and
began to wish that he was again at school. But he was afraid to go now,
it had become so late; and so he had to stay in the woods all day. It
seemed to him the longest day he had ever spent, for the thoughts of his
disobedience, and the fear of his parents' displeasure, if they were to
find out what he had done, prevented him from taking any enjoyment. Oh,
how glad he was, when the sun began to go down towards the west! But it
seemed to him that it never would get to be five o'clock. Every man he
saw with a watch he asked the time of day, and every answer he received
disappointed him, for he was sure it must be later.

At last the time came for him to go home. As he drew near, he began to
tremble, lest his parents should have made the discovery that he had not
been to school. They did not know it, however, until the little boy, to
ease his troubled mind, confessed his fault.

Now this little boy could not enjoy himself in the woods because his
mind was not at ease. He was not satisfied with himself. He could not
approve of his own conduct.

So it was with William. He felt that he had been selfish, and that this
selfishness would appear when his brother carried home the orange for
their sick mother. It was for this reason that his candy did not taste
so good to him as he had expected that it would. But James ate his with
much satisfaction.

"I wish I had bought ma' an orange with my pennies," William said, as
they were going home from school.

"I wish you had, too," replied his unselfish brother, "for then we
should have two to give her, instead of one."

"See, ma', what a nice sweet orange I have bought you," he said, as he
arrived at home, and went into his mother's sick chamber.

"It is, indeed, very nice, my son, and it will taste good to me. I have
wanted an orange all the morning. Where did you get it?"

"Pa' gave me a penny, this morning, and I bought it with this. I thought
you would like to have one."

"You are very good, my son, to think of your sick mother. And you
wouldn't spend your penny for cake or candy; but denied yourself, that
you might get an orange for me? Mother loves you for this manifestation
of your _self-denial_ and love for your parent." And she kissed him.

William heard all this, and it made him feel very bad indeed. Oh, how he
did wish that he had bought something for his mother with the pennies
his father had given him! But it was too late now.

The pain he felt, however, was useful to him. It taught him to know that
we may often obtain far greater happiness by denying ourselves for the
sake of others, than in seeking alone the gratification of our own
appetite; and he seriously resolved he would _try_ in future to do
better.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



HENRY AND HIS SISTER.


    Said Henry, one day,
      As from school he came in,
    "Don't you think, sister dear,
      A good boy I have been,
    Such a beautiful book to have gained?

      "Just look at these pictures,
        The bird on the tree,
      These lambs in the meadow,
        This flower, and this bee,
    With its honey from blossoms obtained.

      "And here is a story,
        And here is a song;
      Let me read the story,
        It won't take me long;"
    And so the nice story he read.

      "Oh, what a nice story!"
         And little Jane's smile
      Played on her face,
        Like a sunbeam, awhile--
    "I'm so glad you were good!" then she said.

[Illustration]



ANNA AND HER KITTEN.


Little Anna has a very pretty grey kitten; and she loves the kitty very
much; and the kitty loves her. Sometimes when Anna is playing with her
doll and nine-pins, kitty puts out her paw and rolls all the playthings
about the room, but Anna does not mind that; she knows the little pussy
does it all for play.

One day, when Anna was alone with the kitty, in the parlour, she made
scratches on the window; and that was a very naughty trick. When her
nurse came into the room, she asked Anna, "Who made these scratches on
the window?" Little Anna felt ashamed of the mischief she had done; and
she did not speak a word.

The kitten was asleep in the chair; and the nurse said, "I suppose this
naughty puss did it;" and she took the kitten out of the chair, and told
her she must box her ears, for scratching the window; but little Anna
began to cry; and she ran up to her nurse, saying, "Oh, don't whip
little kitty; she did not scratch the window. I did it."

And so the nurse did not strike poor puss; and Anna took the kitty in
her arms, and smoothed her soft grey fur, and made her very happy.
Anna's father and mother and her grandmother loved their little girl
very much, because she told the _truth_, and was so kind to her good
little kitten.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



FAITHFULNESS;

OR,

THE STORY OF THE BIRD'S NEST.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.


One fine spring morning a poor boy sat under a tree, watching a flock of
sheep which were feeding in a meadow, between a clear, dancing,
trout-brook, and an old oak wood.

He held a book in his hand, and was so much engaged with it, that he
scarcely looked up, excepting that from time to time he cast a quick
glance toward the sheep, to make himself sure they were all safe, and
within bounds.

Once, as he looked up from his book, he saw standing near him a boy, not
much larger than himself, dressed in the richest and most graceful
manner. It was the prince--the eldest son of the king, and heir to the
throne.

The shepherd-boy did not know him, but supposed him to be the son of the
forester, who often came on business to the fine old hunting-tower,
which stood near by.

"Good morning, Mr. Forester," said the shepherd-boy, taking off his
straw hat, which, however, he instantly replaced; "can I do anything for
you?"

"Tell me, are there any birds' nests in these woods?" said the prince.

"That is a droll question for a young forest man," said the boy. "Don't
you hear the birds singing all around? To be sure there are birds' nests
enough here. Every bird has its own nest."

"Then, do you know where there is a pretty one to be seen?" said the
prince.

"Oh, yes; I know a wonderful fine one," said the boy. "It is the
prettiest nest I ever saw in my life. It is made of yellow straw, and is
as smooth and neat inside, as if it had been turned in a lathe; and it
is covered all over the outside with fine curled moss, so that you would
hardly know there was a nest there. And then, there are five eggs in
it. Oh, they are so pretty! They are almost as blue as the bright sky,
which shines through those oak leaves over head."

"That is fine!" said the prince; "come, show me this same nest. I long
to see it."

"That I can easily believe," said the boy, "but I cannot show you the
nest."

"I do not wish you to do it for nothing," said the prince, "I will
reward you well for it."

"That may be," said the boy. "But I cannot show it to you."

The prince's tutor now stepped up to them. He was a dignified,
kind-looking man, in a plain dark suit of clothes. The little shepherd
had not before observed him.

"Be not disobliging, my lad," said he. "The young gentleman here has
never seen a bird's nest, although he has often read of them, and he
wishes very much to see one. Pray, do him the kindness to lead him to
the one you have mentioned, and let him see it. He will not take it away
from you. He only wishes to look at it. He will not even touch it."

The shepherd-boy stood up respectfully, but said, "I must stick to what
I have said. I cannot show the nest."

"That is very unfriendly," said the tutor. "It should give you great
pleasure to be able to do anything to oblige our beloved prince
Frederick."

"Is this young gentleman the prince?" cried the young shepherd, and
again took off his hat; but this time he did not put it on again. "I am
very much pleased to see the prince, but _that_ bird's nest I cannot
show any one, no not even the king himself."

"Such a stiff-necked, obstinate boy I never saw in my life," said the
prince, pettishly. "But we can easily find means to compel him to do
what we wish."

"Leave it to me, if you please, my dear prince," said the tutor; "there
must be some cause for this strange conduct." Then, turning to the boy,
he said, "Pray tell us what is the reason you will not show us that
nest, and then we will go away and leave you in peace. Your behaviour
seems very rude and strange; but if you have any good reason for it, do
let us know it."

"Hum!" said the boy; "that I can easily do. Michel tends goats there
over the mountains. He first showed me the nest, and I promised him that
I never would tell anybody where it was."

"This is quite another thing," said the tutor. He was much pleased with
the honesty of the boy; but wished to put it to further proof. He took a
piece of gold from his purse, and said--

"See here! this piece of gold shall be yours, if you will show us the
way to the nest. You need not tell Michel that you have done it, and
then he will know nothing about it."

"Eh! thank you all the same," said the boy. "Then I should be a false
rogue, and that will I not be. Michel might know it or not. What would
it help me, if the whole world knew nothing about it, if God in heaven
and myself knew that I was a base, lying fellow? Fie!"

"Perhaps you do not know how much this piece of gold is worth," said the
tutor. "If you should change it into coppers, you could not put them all
into your straw hat, even if you should heap them up."

"Is that true?" said the boy, as he looked anxiously at the piece of
gold. "Oh, how glad my poor old father would be, if I could earn so
much!" He looked thoughtful a moment, and then cried out, "No--take it
away!" Then, lowering his voice, he said, "The gentleman must forgive.
He makes me think of the bad spirit in the wilderness, when he said,
'all this will I give thee.' Short and good, I gave Michel my hand on
it, that I would not show the nest to any one. A promise is a promise,
and herewith fare well."

He turned, and would have gone away, but the prince's huntsman, who
stood near and listened to what passed, came up, and clapped him on the
shoulder, said, in a deep bass voice, "Ill-mannered booby! is this the
way you treat the prince, who is to be our king? Do you show more
respect to the rude goat-herd over the mountains, than to him? Show the
bird's nest, quick, or I will hew a wing out of your body." As he said
this he drew his hanger.

The poor boy turned pale, and with a trembling voice cried out, "Oh,
pardon! I pray for pardon!"

"Show the nest, booby," cried the hunter, "or I will hew!"

The boy held both hands before him, and looked with quivering eyes on
the bright blade, but still he cried, in an agitated voice, "Oh, I
cannot! I must not! I dare not do it!"

"Enough! enough!" cried the tutor. "Put up your sword and step back, Mr.
Hunter. Be quiet, my brave boy. No harm shall be done you. You have well
resisted temptation. You are a noble soul! Go, ask the permission of
your young friend, and then come and show us the nest. You shall share
the piece of gold between you!"

"Good! good!" said the boy, "this evening I will have an answer for
you!"

The prince and tutor went back to the castle, to which they had come the
day before, to enjoy the season of spring.

"The nobleness of that boy surprises me," said the tutor, as they went
along. "He is a jewel which cannot be too much prized. He has in him the
elements of a great character. So we may often find, under the thatched
roof, truth and virtues which the palace does not often present to
view."

After they returned, the tutor inquired of the steward if he knew
anything about the shepherd-boy.

"He is a fine boy," said the steward. "His name is George. His father is
poor, but is known all around for an honest, upright, sensible man."

After the prince's studies were ended for the day, he went to the
window, and immediately said, "Aha, the little George is waiting for us.
He tends his small flock of sheep by the wood, and often looks toward
the castle."

"Then we will go and hear what answer he brings us," said the tutor.

They left the castle together and went to the place where George tended
his sheep.

When he saw them moving he ran to meet them, and called out joyfully,--"It
is all right with Michel; he called me a foolish boy, and scolded me for
not showing you the nest at first, but, it is better that I should have
asked his leave. I can now show it to you with pleasure. Come with me,
quick, Mr. Prince."

George led the way, on the run, to the oak wood, and the prince and
tutor followed more slowly.

"Do you see that yellow bird on the alder twig, that sings so joyfully?"
said George to the prince. "That is the manikin! the nest belongs to
him. Now we must go softly."

In a part of the woods where the oak trees were scattering, stood a
thicket of white thorns, with graceful, shining green leaves, thickly
ornamented with clusters of fragrant blossoms, which glittered like
snow in the rays of the setting sun.

Little George pointed with his finger into the thicket, and said,
softly, to the prince, "There! peep in once, Mr. Prince! the lady bird
is sitting on her eggs."

The prince looked, and had the satisfaction of seeing her on her nest.
They stood quite still, but the bird soon flew away, and the prince,
with the greatest pleasure, examined the neat, yellow straw nest, and
the smooth, blue eggs. The tutor made many excellent remarks, and gave
the prince some information in the meantime.

"Now come with us, and receive the money we promised you," said the
tutor to George. "But the gold piece will not be so good for you as
silver money."

He took out his purse and counted down on a stone, before the astonished
George, the worth of the gold piece in bright new shillings.

"Now divide fairly with Michel!" said the prince.

"On honour!" answered George; and sprang, with the money, out of their
sight.

The tutor afterwards inquired whether George had divided the money
equally with Michel, and found he had not given him a piece too little.
His own part, he carried to his father, and had not kept a penny to
himself.

Prince Frederick went every day to the bird's nest. At first, the birds
were a little afraid of him, but when they saw that he did not disturb
them, they lost their fear, and went and came freely, before him.

The prince's delight was full when he saw how the little birds crept
from their shells. How they all opened their yellow bills and piped
loud, when the parents brought their food. How the young nestlings grew,
were covered with soft down, and then with feathers; and at length, one
day, amid the loud rejoicings of the parents, they ventured their first
flight to the nearest twig of the thorn-tree, where the old birds fed
them tenderly.

The prince and his tutor often met little George as he tended his sheep,
while they strayed,--now here, now there. The tutor was much pleased to
observe that he always had his book with him, and spent all his spare
time in reading.

"You know how to amuse yourself in the best manner, George," said he to
the boy. "I should be pleased to hear you read a little from that book
which you love so well."

George read aloud, with great zeal, and although he now and then
miscalled a word, he did his best, and the tutor was pleased.

"That is very well," said he. "In what school did you learn to read?"

"I have never been in any school," said George, sadly. "The school is
too far off, and my father had no money to pay for it. Besides, I have
not any time to go to school. In summer I tend the sheep, and in winter
I spin at home. But my good friend, Michel, can read very well, and he
has promised to tell me all he knows. He taught me all the letters, and
the lines of spelling. This is the same book that Michel learnt from. He
gave it to me, and I have read it through three times. To be sure, it is
so worn out now, that you cannot see all the words, and it is not so
easy to read as it was."

The next time the prince came to the woods, he showed George a beautiful
book, bound, in gilded morocco.

"I will lend you this book, George," said the prince, "and as soon as
you can read a whole page without one mistake, it shall be yours."

Little George was much delighted, and took it with the ends of his
fingers, as carefully as if it had been made of a spider-web, and could
be as easily torn.

The next time they met, George gave the book to the prince, and said, "I
will try to read any page that you may please to choose from the first
six leaves." The prince chose a page, and George read it without making
a mistake. So the prince gave him the book for his own.

One morning the king came to the hunting castle on horseback, with only
one attendant. He wished to see, by himself, what progress his son was
making in his studies. At dinner, the prince gave him an account of the
bird's nest, and the noble conduct of the little shepherd.

"In truth," said the tutor, "that boy is a precious jewel. He would make
a most valuable servant for our beloved prince; and as God has endowed
him with rare qualities, it is much to be wished that he should be
educated. His father is too poor to do anything for him; but with all
his talents and nobleness of character, it would be a pity, indeed, that
he should be left here, to make nothing but a poor shepherd like his
father."

The king arose from table, and called the tutor to a recess of one of
the windows, where they talked long together. After it was ended, he
sent to call George to the castle.

Great was the surprise of the poor shepherd-boy, when he was shewn into
the rich saloon, and saw the dignified man, who stood there, with a
glittering star on his breast. The tutor told him who the stranger was,
and George bowed himself almost to the earth.

"My good boy," said the king in a friendly tone, "I hear you take great
pleasure in reading your book. Should you like to study?"

"Ah!" said George, "if nothing was wanting but my liking it, I should be
a student to-day. But my father has no money. That is what is wanting."

"Then we will try whether we can make a student of you," said the king.
"The prince's tutor here has a friend, an excellent country curate, who
takes well-disposed boys into his house to educate. To this curate I
will recommend you; and will be answerable for the expenses of your
education. How does the plan please you?"

The king expected that George would be very much delighted, and seize
his grace with both hands. And, indeed, he began to smile at first, with
much seeming pleasure, but immediately after, a troubled expression came
over his face, and he looked down in silence.

"What is the matter?" said the king; "you look more like crying than
being pleased with my offer, let us hear what it is?"

"Ah! sir," said George, "my father is so poor what I earn in summer by
tending sheep, and in winter by spinning, is the most that he has to
live on. To be sure it is little, but he cannot do without it."

"You are a good child," said the king, very kindly. "Your dutiful love
for your father is more precious than the finest pearl in my casket.
What your father loses by your changing the shepherd's crook and
spinning-wheel, for the book and pen, I will make up with him. Will that
do?"

George was almost out of his senses for joy. He kissed the king's hand,
and wet it with tears of gratitude, then darted out to carry the joyful
news to his father. Soon, father and son both returned, with their eyes
full of tears, for they could only express their thanks by weeping. When
George's education was completed, the king took him into his service,
and after the king's death, he became counsellor to the prince--his
successor.

His father's last days were easy and happy, by the comforts which the
integrity of the poor shepherd-boy had procured him.

Michel, the firm friend, and first teacher of the prince's favourite,
was appointed to the place of forester, and fulfilled all his duties
well and _faithfully_.

[Illustration]



THE GREAT MAN.

WRITTEN FOR VERY YOUNG READERS.


I will tell you a tale of a great man who loved _justice_.

He had two sons whom he also loved.

Now, he had himself made a law, that whoever sought to harm the peace of
the country where he lived, should die.

There was a sad cabal against the peace of the country soon after the
law was made:

And the great man's two dear sons were at the head of this wicked party.
Their names were in the list of bad men.

This great man loved justice more than he loved his two sons.

He, therefore, made firm his heart, and sat upon his rich throne, and
gave the word that his two sons should be brought before him;

And he passed sentence on them, as he would have done on strangers:

For, he thought, why should they not suffer for their faults?

We punish the poor and ignorant for their crimes:

So, it is just that we should punish the rich and those who know better,
too.

And this great man gave orders that his sons should be beaten with rods;
and that then their heads should be cut off.

And there he sat upon his seat, as judge,--pale and cold, but firm and
brave.

And when all was past--when both his sons were dead, and their warm
blood lay shed on the ground before him:

Then, when the _judge_ had done his _duty_, but not before, he gave way
to the love of the father.

He arose and left his seat;

He went to his own house, and there wept and mourned many days.

The name of this great man was Brutus.

Think upon his name, but think more of the true love of _justice_ and
judgment.

This little tale is a fact that happened at Rome.

You have heard of Rome, I dare say; and you will know more of it as you
grow up.



PHILOSOPHY AT HOME.

THE AIR THERMOMETER.


It is a very good amusement for ingenious boys at home, in the long
winter evenings, to construct such philosophical instruments, or perform
such experiments, as are practicable, with such materials and means as
are within their reach. It is true, that this may sometimes make parents
or an older sister some trouble, but with proper care on the part of the
young philosophers, this trouble will not be great, and parents will
generally be willing to submit to it for the sake of having their
children engaged in an entertaining and instructive employment. We
shall, therefore, give our readers such lessons in practical philosophy,
as we suppose may be of use. In this article we will show them how they
may, with few materials and ordinary ingenuity, construct an _Air
thermometer_.

The materials which will be wanted are these:--a glass phial,--one that
is broad at the base in proportion to its height, so as to stand firm,
is desirable,--a glass tube of small bore, six or eight inches long,--a
cork to fit the mouth of the phial,--a little sealing-wax, a lamp,
and a small pitcher of water. The work may be safely done upon the
parlour-table, provided that the materials are all placed upon a large
tea-tray, with an old newspaper, or a sheet of wrapping-paper spread
over it. The paper will then intercept any drops of hot sealing-wax
which may chance to fall, and which might otherwise injure the tray, and
the tray itself will receive whatever may be spilt.

The only article of the above materials in regard to which the reader
will have any difficulty, is the tube. Such a tube, however, can usually
be procured at an apothecary's, at a very trifling expense. One about
the dimensions of a pipe-stem will be best. In constructing the
instrument, this tube is to be passed down through the cord, which is to
be placed in the neck of the phial, the lower end to go below the
surface of a little water, which is to be put in the bottom of the
phial.

The appearance of the instrument, when completed and fitted with a
scale, as will be explained hereafter, is represented in the annexed
wood-cut. In constructing the instrument, the operations, or the
_manipulations_, as the philosophers call them, are,

First, to bore a hole through the cork, to receive the tube.

Second, to cement the tube into the cork.

Third, to cement the cork into the phial.

[Illustration]

1. The first thing is to bore a hole through the cork, and this must be
just large enough to admit the glass tube.--After turning in the gimlet
a little way, it should be drawn out straight, by which means the chips
will be drawn out, and then it should be put in again. For a gimlet will
not clear its own way in cork, as it will in wood. By drawing it out,
however, in the manner above described, taking care to operate gently,
so as not to split the cork, and to guide the gimlet straight through
the centre of the cork, the hole may be bored without much difficulty.
If the hole is not quite large enough, it may be widened by a penknife
which has a narrow blade, or it may be burnt out to a proper size with a
hot knitting-needle, or a piece of iron wire. And thus the hole is bored
through the cork.

2. The next thing is to cement the tube to the cork. In order to do
this, the water is first to be poured into the phial. About one quarter
or one fifth as much as the phial will contain, will be sufficient. When
this is done, the neck of the phial inside should be wiped dry, for the
cork is to be sealed into it, and unless the glass is dry, the
sealing-wax will not adhere. Then the tube is to be passed through the
cork, and the cork put into its place, and the tube slipped down until
the lower end reaches below the surface of the water, and nearly touches
the bottom of the phial. Observe, then, at what part of the tube the
cork comes, for this part is to be heated, and covered with sealing-wax,
in order to seal it into the cork. It may be marked with a touch of ink
from a pen, at a point just above where it issues from the cork. Then
take out the cork with the tube from the phial, and slip the cork along
down towards the lower end of the tube, so that you can put the wax upon
the glass.

In order to cover the part of the tube, which is to pass through the
cork, with sealing-wax, it must be heated; for sealing-wax will not
adhere to glass, or any other smooth or hard substance, if it is cold.
To heat glass requires some care. It must be heated gradually, and one
part must not be made very hot, while the adjoining parts remain cold;
for glass will not bear sudden changes of temperature, or a great
difference of temperature in contiguous parts. Therefore, in heating the
glass, you must proceed gradually. Hold the part over the flame of a
lamp, but not so as to touch the flame, and move it backward and
forward, so as to warm a portion of one or two inches in length,
equally. Then you can hold it more steadily, in such a manner as to
heat the central portion. As you do this, hold a stick of sealing-wax,
so as to touch the hottest part of the glass with it occasionally, that
is, the part immediately below the ink mark. When the glass is hot
enough to melt the sealing-wax, the glass will coat itself with the wax.
After holding it a moment over the flame, turning it round and round, so
as to melt all parts of the wax equally, the cork is to be slipped back
again over it into its place, where it will become firmly fixed, as the
work cools. Thus the tube will be cemented into the cork.

3. Nothing now remains but to cement the cork into the neck of the
phial. The cork ought to be of such a size, that it will go well down
into the neck of the phial, so as to have the top of it a little below
the upper part of the neck. For the whole of the upper part of the cork
ought to be covered with sealing wax, in order to make it air tight,
and this can be best done if the glass rises a little above the top of
the cork. If necessary, therefore, the upper part of the cork must be
carefully removed with a penknife, and then, when it is properly
fitted, the sides may be covered with sealing wax, by heating the wax
in the lamp and rubbing it on all around. When it is covered with a
thin coat of wax, it should be held over the lamp a moment, turning it
round and round, until it is melted in every part; and the neck of the
phial should be heated in the same gradual and cautious manner
recommended in the case of the tube. When both are of the proper
temperature, the cork must be pressed down into its place. Before the
wax cools, see that the bottom of the tube does not quite touch
the bottom of the phial, and observe also that the tube stands
perpendicular. If it does not, it may be gently pressed to one side or
the other, as may be required, and held so until the wax has cooled,
when it will retain its position. The top of the cork must then be
covered with sealing wax, and the surface smoothed by holding it over a
lamp until its inequalities run together. Thus the cork will be
cemented into the phial, and the air thermometer completed, with the
exception of the scale. And the following experiments can be performed
with it:--

Exp. 1. On examining the instrument, it will be observed that there is a
portion of air closely confined in the upper part of the phial. It
cannot escape up the tube, for the water covers the lower end of the
tube. If now the instrument is put into a warm place, so as to expand
this body of air within the phial, the force of the expansion will press
against the water, and cause a portion of it to rise in the tube. When
so much water has thus ascended as is necessary to allow such a degree
of additional space within, as will enable the expansive force of the
air within exactly to balance the pressure in the top of the tube from
without, the water will remain at rest. If now the air is warmed still
more, the expansion will cause the water to rise still higher, until the
two forces are again in equilibrium.

Exp. 2. When the water has been forced into the tube as high as it will
rise under the greatest heat to which it is safe to expose it, it may be
carried again into a cool place. The heat which was in the air and the
glass will now pass off, and the air within will lose some of its
expansive force, and will evince a tendency to return to its former
dimensions. This will be shown by the subsidence of the water in the
tube. Thus by carrying the instrument successively into warm and cold
places, the surface of the water in the tube will be found to rise and
fall, thus indicating, by the level at which it stands, the temperature
of the air around it, at its several places of exposure. A scale for
this thermometer may be formed of pasteboard, and fastened to the tube
by threads or slits in the pasteboard, or, in any other convenient
manner.

Exp. 3. When the instrument is cooled, the water in the tube does not
simply fall by its own weight. It is forced down by the pressure of the
outward atmosphere. For although the expansive force of the air within
is diminished by the cold, there is still force left, far more than
sufficient to counteract the weight of the water. So that the water
descends, not by its own weight, but by the pressure of the atmosphere
without, acting upon the surface of the water in the tube. This may be
proved in the following manner. Raise the water in the tube as high as
possible, by placing the instrument before the fire, and then stop the
upper end of the tube with the thumb, or a little hot sealing-wax. Now,
if the thermometer be taken to a cool place, it will be found that the
water will not fall. The pressure from above in the tube being taken off
the water is kept up by the expansive force which still remains in the
air within. When the stopper is removed from the tube, so as to allow
the external atmosphere to press upon the water again, it will
immediately subside.

Exp. 4. Whatever may have been the temperature of the room where the
thermometer was made, the water in the tube will be, when at that
temperature, just level with the water in the phial; and of course, when
it begins to rise, it will be some little time before it gets up above
the neck of the phial. Now as it can be seen better above the neck of
the phial than below, it is convenient to have the instrument so
adjusted, as to have the surface of the water in the tube always kept
above. This can be effected by forcing a little more air into the phial,
thus increasing the expansive force within. A few bubbles of air may be
blown in with the breath, by applying the mouth to the top of the tube.
This will add to the force within, so that, even when the thermometer is
cold, the water will stand in the tube above the neck of the phial, and
all the changes that take place will be above that level, where they can
be easily seen.

Exp. 5. Place the mouth at the top of the tube, and blow down into it as
long and as hard as you can. By this means you will force air in, until
the expansive force within is increased so much that you cannot any
longer overcome it. Then, before taking the mouth away, stop the upper
part of the tube with the thumb. You will now have so great a quantity
of air within, that it will probably have force enough to raise the
water higher than the top of the tube. If so, on taking away the thumb
the water will spout out at the top, in a jet,--doing no harm, however,
except to sprinkle the spectators. After a few such experiments, you
will find that the water has spouted itself all out, and you will be
sadly puzzled to know how to get more in without taking out the cork.
There is a very easy way, if you only had philosophical knowledge enough
to discover it.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



THE RABBIT.

A STORY FOR LITTLE READERS.


"Henry, dear, do come out to walk, this beautiful afternoon. _I_ am
going, and do not want to go alone; _please_ come, won't you?"

"Supposing I should say, No; I won't go; what would you do, sister?"

"I should say, well, suit yourself, brother Henry, and I'll try to go
alone; but I _do_ wish you would go with me, it is so pleasant to have
_some_ one, and I would rather have you than any one else."

"Well, you are a darling, good little girl, and I _will_ go with you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Henry," said Caroline; and they were
soon in the shady lane which extended from their father's house to their
uncle's, who was their next neighbour.

Caroline and Henry wandered on, admiring the beautiful things which
surrounded them, and now and then stopping to pick a flower. Often
Caroline would leave Henry, examining some plant, (for he was quite a
botanist,) and walk along without him.

"Come, Henry; let us walk as far as the brook, and then we'll go home."

"Just wait till I see what this curious flower is," said Henry. But
Caroline did not mind him, and continued walking slowly along, that he
might catch up with her, when he was ready. Presently she stopped; her
eyes sparkled, and she almost screamed with delight; for, on the ground
before her, was a beautiful white rabbit. She held her breath for fear
of frightening it; but though she drew nearer the dear little creature
did not seem disposed to run away; and she soon perceived that it had
hurt its foot very much, so that it _could_ not walk. Caroline took the
rabbit in her arms, and as she was quite near the brook, she thought she
would give it some water; so she stepped on the little bridge, but when
there, she found that she had no means of getting any, and she called
aloud:

"Henry, come quick; I have found a rabbit almost dead; come quick."
Henry was soon at her side. "Let me see," said he; and he bent forward
to look at it. "Poor little thing, we will take you home and nurse you
till you are well again."

"Don't you think, brother, that it would drink some water?"

"No, no; we had better take it home at once, and _mother_ will tell us
what to do." And the two children hastened home with all speed. Their
kind mother gave them directions for their new-found pet, and in a week
it was quite well, and their parents gave them leave to keep it to play
with, after they had learned their lessons, and as long as they were
kind towards this curious little creature.

[Illustration]



THE SLEIGH RIDE.


"Oh, I'm afraid! I'm afraid!" William Jones cried, shrinking back, as
his father took his hand, in the act of leading him forward to lift him
into a beautiful sleigh, that had just drove up to the door, and in
which his mother and elder sister were already seated; their feet
comfortably wrapped up in a warm buffalo robe.

"Afraid! what are you afraid of?" Mr. Jones asked, in a tone of
surprise.

"Oh, I'm afraid the horses will run away--or that the sleigh will break.
Indeed, I'd rather not go."

"Do you not think that your mother, and sister Ellen, and myself, will
be in just the danger you fear?"

"Yes."

"And is not my son willing to share that danger with those he loves?"

"But why do you go, father, when there is danger?"

"We do not think that we shall be in any more real danger, while riding
with two gentle horses, than we would be if we were sitting in the
house, or walking in the street. But come, William; I cannot stand
talking to you here; and it is quite necessary that you try to overcome
your fears. So jump in, and take your place alongside of sister Ellen."

"But, indeed, I would rather not go, father," William urged, holding
back.

Mr. Jones said no more, but took his boy up gently, though firmly, and
placed him beside his sister. Then he got in himself,--took hold of the
reins,--spoke to his two fine horses, and at once the whole party began
to move off; the sleigh bells jingling a merry tune.

Poor little William clung, frightened, to his sister; and it was a good
while before he could get over the idea that the very next moment they
would all be thrown over and dashed to pieces. After a while, however,
he got used to the motion of the sleigh, and seeing that they passed on
so smoothly, safely, and merrily, the idea of danger gradually faded
from his mind; and long before he reached his uncle's house, he was
enjoying the ride as much as the rest.

William's cousins were all delighted to see him, and he spent with them
one of the happiest days in his life.

And when the time came for Mr. Jones and his family to return, William
parted, with a feeling of reluctance, from his happy playmates. As he
again stood by the sleigh, and looked at the two stout horses that were
harnessed to it, he felt his old fear stealing over his mind. But he was
not only now ashamed of that fear, but felt that to indulge in it was
not right. So, with his best effort, he restrained it--stepping
resolutely into the sleigh.

The last "good-byes" said, Mr. Jones gave the word, and off they went.
When about half of the way home, and at a time when even the lingering
remains of William's timidity had passed away, two wild young men, half
intoxicated, came dashing along in another sleigh, at a most furious
rate. Bent on mischief, and thoughtless of the harm they might occasion,
they appeared determined to frighten the horses attached to other
sleighs, and thereby cause those who were in them to be thrown out into
the snow-banks.

It so happened that the sleigh in which were Mr. Jones and his family,
were passing near a steep declivity, at the time these young men came up
to them, and ran their horses so close upon those of Mr. Jones, that he
was compelled either to be rolled down the bank, or receive the shock of
their sleigh against his own. He chose the latter alternative. As the
two vehicles struck each other, that of Mr. Jones was nearly thrown
over, and it so happened that Ellen, who was much alarmed, lost her
balance, and but for the fact that William, himself dreadfully
frightened, seized hold of, and clung to her with all his strength, she
would have been thrown down a very steep hill, and, perhaps, have been
killed. As it was, however, no one was injured.

"If it hadn't been for me," William said, while they were all talking
over the matter, on arriving at home, "Ellen would have been pitched
head foremost down that steep bank."

"But if you had staid at home," his father remarked, "it would not have
been in your power thus to have saved, perhaps, your sister's life. And
now, an't you glad, my son, you were with us?"

"Yes, father, I am very glad now."

"Suppose, William," Mr. Jones asked, in a serious tone, "that in the
effort to save your sister, you had yourself been thrown out of the
sleigh, and badly hurt, would you then have been sorry that you went
with us?"

William paused for some moments, with a thoughtful countenance. He was
weighing the fear of bodily pain against his love for Ellen. At last he
said, with the moisture dimming his eyes,

"No! I would not have been sorry, father."

"Why not, William?"

"Because, I would only have been badly hurt; while, if I had not been
along with her, sister might have been killed."

"Very true, my dear boy! And now, you remember how often I have talked
to you about selfishness, and what an evil thing this selfishness is?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, this feeling of timidity, which you indulge so much, is a selfish
feeling."

"Selfish, father! How can that be?"

"Because there is nothing in it of self-sacrifice for the happiness or
comfort of others."

"I cannot understand you, father."

"I do not know that it will be in my power to make you understand me
fully, William. But I will try. You knew, this morning, that it would
give your father and mother pleasure to have you with them, and also
that your cousins would be delighted to see you. But your idle fear,
lest some accident should happen, made you unwilling to go. You would
not risk anything for the sake of others. If the great and good General
Washington, when called upon to take command of the American army, had
refused to do so, because there was danger of his being killed; cannot
you see that in that feeling there would have been a strong principle of
selfishness?"

"Oh, yes. If he had done so, he would have been very selfish. He would
have thought more of personal safety than the good of his country."

"Just so, William, will you think, when you grow up to be a man, if you
do not conquer this timid feeling, which you now indulge. You must
learn, for the good of others, to risk personal danger, and to be
willing to bear pain of body as well as mind, if called upon to suffer
while doing your duty to others. Of danger, it is not our place to
think, when fully satisfied we are doing right; knowing that the Lord's
providence is over all, and that He will not suffer any harm to befall
us that is not really for our good. Learn, also, this harder lesson,--a
willingness to encounter bodily pain, and even great danger, for the
good of others."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



STORY OF A GREYHOUND.


Llewellyn, son-in-law to King John, had in his possession one of the
finest greyhounds in England. His name was Gelert. One day Llewellyn,
going out to hunt, called all his dogs together; but his favourite
greyhound was missing, and nowhere to be found. He blew his horn as a
signal of the chase, and still Gelert came not. Llewellyn was much
disturbed at this, but at length pursued the chase without him.

For want of Gelert, the sport was limited; and getting tired, Llewellyn
returned home at an early hour, when the first object that presented
itself to him at his castle gate, was Gelert, who bounded with his usual
transport to meet his master--having his lips besmeared with blood.
Llewellyn gazed with surprise at the strange appearance of his dog. But
on going into the apartment where he had left his infant son asleep, he
found the bedclothes all in confusion, the cover rent, and stained with
blood. He called on his child, but no answer was made: from which he
concluded that the dog must have devoured him, and, without waiting to
reflect, or examine, plunged his sword to the hilt in Gelert's side. The
noble dog fell at his feet, uttering a dying yell which awoke the
infant, who was sleeping beneath a heap of mingled bedclothes; while
under the bed lay a great wolf, covered with gore, which the faithful
and gallant hound had destroyed.

Llewellyn, smitten with sorrow and remorse for the rash and frantic deed
which had deprived him of so faithful an animal, caused an elegant
marble monument, with an appropriate inscription, to be erected over the
spot where Gelert was buried, to commemorate his fidelity and unhappy
fate. The place, to this day, is called Beth-Gelert, or "The grave of
the greyhound."

[Illustration]



THE TRUANT.


I received part of my education at a beautiful town on the banks of the
river Trent. It was here, while a boy, that I first learned the danger
of disobedience. The precept had been instilled in my mind a thousand
times, and I knew it was the command of heaven that we should respect
and obey our parents and teachers; but I had never felt either the
danger or the criminality of a disregard of the Divine command till
after the following event.

It was December; and the river, on whose beautiful banks the academy was
situated, was frozen over, so that people could travel, and sport upon
it in safety. It was a favourite diversion of the students, most of whom
were between ten and fifteen years old, to play ball upon the ice, upon
skates; and many times nearly the whole school, consisting of fifty
youths, was collected in one game on the glassy surface of the frozen
stream. We grew, at length, so fond of this recreation, that we began to
encroach upon the hours of study. The bell rang unheeded, and when we
came into school, we were, as we deserved to be, reprimanded by our good
and indulgent preceptor; and many of our number, ashamed of their
behaviour, refused to offend in like manner again. It was not so with us
all.

One day, a part of our number having staid out upon the river more than
a quarter of an hour after the bell had done ringing, one of the boys
was sent for us; but we soon forgot that we had been called, and
continued our game. Shortly we saw the preceptor, himself, coming down
to the river. We were then alarmed; and all, but myself and Nathaniel
Beecher, ran, by a round-about way, to the shore and to school. _We_
resolved to stay the whole afternoon. The preceptor came out upon the
wharf, and called to us to come to him. Fearing that we should be taken
back to school and punished, we resolved not to answer, and pretended
not to hear him. After repeatedly calling us, and receiving no answer,
he came upon the ice; but when he had walked a short distance from the
shore we saw that we were in no danger of his catching us, as the ice
was very smooth. At length, in an attempt to catch me, the preceptor
slipped and fell heavily upon the ice. I stood still, and dared not go
near, for fear he would punish me; but I was now very sorry for what we
had done. Our preceptor had always been kind to us, and my feelings
were hurt to think I had been so ungrateful. Meantime he had got up,
and with a painful effort walked to the shore. I followed him, and Nat
went off towards the other side of the river. As I approached the
shore, I turned to see where he was going, continuing to skate
backwards as I looked. Suddenly I found myself in the water. I had
fallen into a hole which had been cut for fishing. As I dropped I threw
out my arms, and thus saved myself from going under; but the current
was very strong, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I could
hold myself above the water. I felt as though some evil spirit beneath
the water was dragging me under, and my heart sunk within me. At length
I was drawn out of the water by my preceptor. He spoke kindly to me,
and said he would take me home, that I might change my clothes. I was
very much affected. I had prepared myself to bear my well-merited
punishment; but when I heard his kind and gentle tones, and saw that he
was not angry, I burst into a passionate flood of tears, and, dropping
on my knees, begged his pardon for my bad behaviour. He took me up at
once, and told me never to kneel but to the Lord, that he would forgive
me. We had nearly reached the shore, when I looked round for Nat. He
was looking towards us, and skating along with his arms folded, and all
at once dropped beneath the ice and disappeared. He had, while looking
at us, skated into an air-hole. I involuntarily screamed, and started
with all speed for the place. The preceptor followed, having guessed
the cause of my exclamation.

The accident had been seen from the shore, and many persons came
hurrying to the spot, and among them the father of the boy. He was told,
on shore, that it was his oldest son; and rushing to the spot, and
putting his head down in the hole, held it there a long time, looking,
but all was in vain. The rapid tide had borne him far down the river,
and his body was never more seen.

The events of this day taught me the lesson of _obedience_. It stamped
upon my mind the truth, that the first great duty, next to our devotion
to our Maker, is respect and obedience to those who are placed in
authority over us. I never again _played truant_.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



A SUMMER MORNING RAMBLE.

    Oh! the happy summer hours,
    With their butterflies and flowers,
    And the birds among the bowers
      Sweetly singing;
    With the spices from the trees,
    Vines, and lilies, while the bees
    Come floating on the breeze,
      Honey bringing!

    All the east was rosy red
    When we woke and left our bed,
    And to gather flowers we sped,
      Gay and early.
    Every clover-top was wet,
    And the spider's silky net,
    With a thousand dew-drops set,
      Pure and pearly.

    With their modest eyes of blue,
    Were the violets peeping through
    Tufts of grasses where they grew,
      Full of beauty,
    At the lamb in snowy white,
    O'er the meadow bounding light,
    And the crow just taking flight,
      Grave and sooty.

    On our floral search intent,
    Still away, away we went,--
    Up and down the rugged bent,--
      Through the wicket,--
    Where the rock with water drops,--
    Through the bushes and the copse,--
    Where the greenwood pathway stops
      In the thicket.

    We heard the fountain gush,
    And the singing of the thrush;
    And we saw the squirrel's brush
      In the hedges,
    As along his back 'twas thrown,
    Like a glory of his own,
    While the sun behind it, shone
      Through its edges.

    All the world appeared so fair,
    And so fresh and free the air,--
    Oh! it seemed that all the care
      In creation
    Belonged to God alone;
    And that none beneath his throne,
    Need to murmur or to groan
      At his station.

    Dear little brother Will!
    He has leapt the hedge and rill,--
    He has clambered up the hill,
      Ere the beaming
    Of the rising sun, to sweep
    With its golden rays the steep,
    Till he's tired and dropt asleep,
      Sweetly dreaming.

    See, he threw aside his cap,
    And the roses from his lap,
    When his eyes were, for the nap,
      Slowly closing:
    With his sunny curls outspread,
    On its fragrant mossy bed,
    Now his precious infant head
      Is reposing.

    He is dreaming of his play--
    How he rose at break of day,
    And he frolicked all the way
      On his ramble.
    And before his fancy's eye,
    He has still the butterfly
    Mocking him, where not so high
      He could scramble.

    In his cheek the dimples dip,
    And a smile is on his lip,
    While his tender finger-tip
      Seems as aiming
    At some wild and lovely thing
    That is out upon the wing,
    Which he longs to catch and bring
      Home for taming.

    While he thus at rest is laid
    In the old oak's quiet shade,
    Let's cull our flowers to braid,
      Or unite them
    In bunches trim and neat,
    That, for every friend we meet,
    We may have a token sweet
      To delight them.

    'Tis the very crowning art
    Of a happy, grateful heart
    To others to impart
      Of its pleasure.
    Thus its joys can never cease,
    For it brings an inward peace,
    Like an every-day increase
      Of a treasure!

[Illustration]



THE HOTTENTOTS.


At the southern part of Africa, a great many years ago, there lived a
simple race of uncivilized people,--to whom the name of Hottentots has
been since given,--who supported themselves in their rude way, and kept
sheep and herds, whose milk served them for food, and whose skins kept
them warm.

The Dutch people, who were very fond of sailing about in their ships,
came to this part of the world, and finding the country pleasant, and a
great many delicious fruits in it, they resolved to make a settlement,
and have a town of their own there.

The Hottentots did not like very much to have a new kind of people
settling down among them, and as they had been used to fighting with
wild beasts, and were quite brave, they did all they could to keep the
people away.

[Illustration]

But the Dutch had so much more skill and knowledge than the poor
Hottentots, that they soon got the better of the savages, and the
natives were obliged to allow them to settle in their country.

The Europeans, when they heard of this pleasant, warm country, came in
great numbers, and each emigrant was allowed to receive for his farm as
much land as an officer appointed for the purpose, could walk across in
an hour. They probably always tried to get a tall man, who could take
pretty long steps. Whether they asked the poor natives' consent to this
arrangement, the history does not say; but at the end of a hundred and
fifty years, the Hottentots had been deprived of all their land, and
were compelled to work for their invaders, except that some of the more
ferocious and bolder tribes retreated to the deserts, and remain in a
savage state to this day.

The colony afterwards fell into the hands of the British, and about
eighteen years ago, the Hottentots of the Cape, about thirty thousand in
number, were made free, and allowed to have all the privileges enjoyed
by the white inhabitants.

Christian missionaries have visited this part of the world, and many of
the native inhabitants are said to have been brought under the gentle
influence of Christianity. The Moravian missionaries, some years ago,
collected a number of the Hottentots into a village, built a church,
and instructed them in many of the arts of civilized life. They were
taught several kinds of manufactures, and travellers speak of their
establishment as being in a very flourishing state.

In the year 1811, this place was visited by a severe earthquake, which
alarmed the people greatly, as nothing of the kind had occurred since
the settlement of the town. It does not appear from the accounts, that
any lives were lost, but many of the buildings were cracked, and in part
thrown down.

The Hottentots are said to be kind and gentle in their natures, and
hospitable to strangers. Those who have been converted to Christianity,
have left off, for the most part, their rude sheepskin dress, and wear a
more civilized attire.

The picture at the beginning of this article represents a native
Hottentot, in his sheepskin cloak, but the rest of his dress appears to
be after the European fashion. The more savage Hottentots, who have
never joined the colony, lead a wandering life, living on wild roots,
locusts, and eggs, toads, lizards, mice, and such other food as can be
obtained in the deserts. They use, as weapons of defence, the javelin,
and bows and arrows. Their arrows are small, but they are tipped with
poison, so that a wound from them is generally fatal.

They teach their children early the use of the bow and arrow; and some
travellers say, that, to do this, they sometimes put a little boy's
breakfast, probably a nice toad, or half a dozen ant's eggs, or some
other of their favourite kinds of food, up into the high branches of a
tree, and then make the boy shoot his arrows at it, until he brings it
down. This gives him a good appetite, and teaches him early the use of
the bow and arrow.

[Illustration]



PHILOSOPHY AT HOME.

THE WHISPERING FIGURE.

ILLUSTRATING THE PROPAGATION OF SOUNDS.


Sound is propagated through a confined channel of air, as for instance,
a long tube, very perfectly. It is not uncommon in large establishments,
where it is necessary to pass many orders to and fro, to have such tubes
laid in the walls, so that words can pass through them from room to
room. The experiment may be tried in a leaden pipe, laid down for an
aqueduct, before the water is admitted, and it will be found that the
slightest whisper can be heard for a distance of half a mile or more.
This tendency of a confined channel of air to increase the distinctness
of the sound passing through it, may be shewn by a tube formed by
rolling up a large sheet of paper and whispering through it. If the tube
is gradually enlarged towards the outer end, it greatly increases the
loudness of the sound transmited through it, as in the case of the
horn, the speaking trumpet, &c.

When the sound of a voice passes in this manner through a tube, the
voice always appears to come from the end of the tube where the sound
issues, and not from the end where the words are really spoken. This has
given rise to an ingenious contrivance called the whispering figure,
which is sometimes fitted up in museums for the entertainment of
visitors. It is as follows:--

[Illustration]

A large dog or other image is placed upon a stand at a little distance
from the side of the room. There is a tin tube within the figure, one
end of which is opposite the mouth, and the other passes down through
the floor, and thence along under the floor, as represented by the
dotted line in the cut. After passing the partition, it is turned up,
and opens in a funnel-shaped extremity in the next room. If now a person
speaks or whispers at the outer end of the tube, the persons who are in
the room with the figure will hear the sound coming through its lips, as
if the figure itself were speaking. The tube being entirely concealed
within the dress of the figure, and under the floor, the spectators, not
suspecting such a communication with the next room, wonder by what
contrivance an image can be made to speak.

This experiment is sometimes performed by children in private, by
placing a board across the tops of two chairs, and covering it with
cloth, so as to represent a table. The tube comes up through this board
into the body of some image placed upon the table, as a doll, a figure
of a dog or cat, or a grotesque effigy made by means of a mask. In this
case a person is concealed under the table to whisper into the tube, in
answer to such questions as the spectators address to the figure. Of
course, all these arrangements are made before the spectators are
admitted to the room.

[Illustration]



STORY OF THE SEA.


Captain Albert had recently returned from a long and perilous whaling
voyage, and was seated beside a bright blazing fire at his own hearth.
His wife sat opposite, with her youngest child in her lap, while the two
sons, Edward and William, stood on each side looking earnestly in his
face, that they might be quite sure their father had indeed returned,
and that they were not still deceived by one of those pleasant dreams
with which they had been so often visited during his absence.

"Oh, father," said Edward, "the next time you go, take me with you, do!"

"Tell us a story of the sea, will you not, father?" said William, at the
same time.

"Very well, my son, I will try," replied their father; "and that will,
perhaps, change Edward's mind about going with me the next time.

"One day, in the great Southern ocean, we had followed a fine whale
farther south than we had ever before been. The whale was enormously
large, and I saw in a moment that if we could take it there would be
oil enough to fill our casks, and enable us to return home. Its motions
were very rapid, and we followed it as swiftly as we could, but, after
all, it escaped. I believe the creature swam under water till it was
out of the reach of my glass. While I was looking out to try to get a
sight of it again, I espied something which appeared to be an island,
to the south, but while I was looking at it I was sure it moved. It did
move, and we soon came near enough to see what it was distinctly. It
proved to be an iceberg, shooting up to a great height, like one of the
sharp-pointed Alps, and spreading out to a wide extent, on all sides.
At the same time, the whole ocean, as far south as the eye could reach,
was covered with floating ice.

[Illustration]

"The situation was full of danger, but the wind was in our favour, and I
prepared to press all sail, in hopes of escaping, when suddenly a shower
of hail and sleet rushed upon us with such fury that some of the men
were beaten down to the deck, and all found it difficult to stand under
it. The sails, shrouds, and sheets, were all cased in ice, stiffened,
and almost as immoveable as if they had been made of iron.

"I now began to blame myself severely for suffering the whale to tempt
me so far into those regions of ice and storms. I looked with bitter
regret toward those faithful sailors who had trusted their lives to my
care, and who were now exposed to unnecessary hardships and dangers by
my boyish rashness. The noble fellows never uttered a word of complaint,
but _their_ generous fortitude did not help to reconcile me to myself.
Full of anxiety, I took my glass to look out again for the iceberg.
While I was looking towards it, I spied something among the cakes of
ice, which appeared like some small craft; but I could not believe a
vessel of that size could have reached a latitude so far south. A
vessel, it certainly was--a small schooner, sailing among the cakes of
ice, as if it knew how to pick its way alone, for I could not see a
person moving on her deck. We steered, as well as we could, directly
towards her. My ship was new and strong, and well prepared, so that I
did not much fear the loose cakes of ice. When we were near enough, I
hailed the little craft, and thought I heard a distant shout in reply.
As we came nearer, I saw a young man alone, and sitting upon the helm,
apparently managing it with the motions of his body, so as to steer his
little vessel safely through.

       *       *       *       *       *

"We all stood looking for a moment at the brave young man, with wonder
and admiration; but as soon as I ordered out a boat, the sailors rushed
to the side and began to work with a will, although everything they
touched was cased in ice, and terrible to handle. Down went the boat,
and was manned in an instant. It was not long before the young man was
on board our ship, but he would not leave the schooner until he had
seen a rope rigged to tow her after us. The poor fellow was almost dead
with cold and hunger; he had not tasted any food for more than
twenty-four hours, as he told us afterwards. He could hardly speak a
word, and as soon as he felt the warmth of the stove, he fainted
entirely away. We put him into a hammock, and did all we could for him,
and soon had the pleasure of seeing him revive. After he had taken some
warm tea, he fell asleep, and slept till I began to fear he would never
awake again; but Providence had provided him the refreshment he needed,
and when he awoke, the next day, he was well and lively. I inquired how
he came into so strange a situation, when he told me that four young
men, without much consideration, had purchased the vessel, and fitted
her up for a voyage of discovery into those far-off seas. They had
encountered a furious storm, which drove them among the ice, near the
place where they were found. They had suffered very much with cold and
want of sleep, while the vessel was every moment in danger of being
crushed to pieces.

"In this distress his companions began to drink spirits to warm them.
They offered him some, and urged him to drink, but he replied it would
make him worse, and reminded them of a ship which was cast away one very
severe winter, among the rocks near his own native town, when all the
sailors who drank rum were frozen, while those who did not drink,
escaped. His companions, however, would not listen to his advice, but
continued to drink, and were soon unable to move, and were all frozen to
death, and were still on the deck, covered with ice and sleet. Robert
(this was the young man's name,) was saved by not drinking any of the
rum, but by using it outwardly, pouring it into his boots, and a part
into his bosom."

"But how did you escape that terrible iceberg, and get out of that
dreadful sea?" said Edward: "were any of your men frozen?"

"No," replied Captain Albert; "we suffered very severely, but we did not
use any 'fire-water,' and every sailor who went out in the ship,
returned in good health; still, all that we were able to do would have
been no more than the fluttering of a leaf in a whirlwind, without the
help of Him, who, you will remember, was once in 'a little ship when a
great storm arose,' and who said, 'Peace be still, and there was a great
calm.'"

[Illustration]



THE OLD SLATE.


"I have a great mind to break this stupid old slate," said little Charlie
Fidget, one morning, as he sat over his first sum in subtraction.

"Why, what has the poor slate done?" asked the pleasant voice of his
sister Helen, behind him.

"Nothing; just what I complain of; it won't do this plaguy sum for me;
and here it is almost school-time!"

"What a wicked slate, Charles!"

"So it is. I mean to fling it out of the window and break it to pieces
on the stones."

"Will that do your sum, Charlie?"

"No; but if there were no slates in the world, I should have no
good-for-nothing sums to do."

"Oh, ho! that does not follow, by any means. Did slates make the science
of arithmetic? Would people never have to count or calculate, if there
were no slates? You forget pens, lead pencils and paper: you forget all
about oral arithmetic, Charlie."

"Well, I don't love to cipher, that's all I know."

"And so, you hasty boy, you get angry with the poor harmless slate, that
is so convenient when you make mistakes and want to rub them out again.
Now that is the way with a great many thoughtless, quick-tempered
people. They try to find fault with somebody or something else, and get
into a passion, and perhaps do mischief, when if they would but reflect
a little, it is their own dear selves who ought to bear the blame. Now,
Charlie, let me see what I can do for you."

So Helen sat down in her mother's great easy-chair; she tried to look
grave and dignified, like an old lady, though she was but eighteen.
Charlie came rather unwillingly, laid the slate in her lap, and began
to play with the trimming on her apron. "Why, what is all this?" said
she; "soldiers, and cats, and dogs, and houses with windows of all
shapes and sizes!"

Charlie looked foolish. "Oh, the sum is on the other side," said he,
turning it over.

[Illustration]

"Ah, silly boy," said Helen; "here you have been sitting half an hour
drawing pictures, instead of trying to do your sum. And now, which do
you think ought to be broken, you or the slate?" and she held it up
high, as if she meant to strike at him with it.

Charlie looked up, with his hands at his ears, making believe he was
frightened, but laughing all the while, for he knew she was only playing
with him. Presently, however, she put on a serious face, and said, "Now,
my little man, you must go to work in good earnest to make up for lost
time."

"Oh, Helen, it wants only twenty minutes to nine; I can't possibly do
this sum and get to school by nine. I shall be late. What shall I do?
Miss Fletcher will certainly punish me if it is not done. Can't you,
just this once, Helen?"

"No," said Helen.

"Oh, do, there's a dear, good sister; just this once."

"No, Charlie; there would be no kindness in that. You would never learn
arithmetic in that way."

"Just once," still pleaded Charlie.

"No," answered Helen, in a kind, but resolute tone: "if I do it once,
you will find it harder to be refused to-morrow; you will depend upon
me, and sit playing and drawing pictures, instead of ciphering. I will
keep you close at it till you perform your task."

So she passed her hand gently round him, and though Charlie pouted at
first, and could hardly see through his tears, she questioned him about
his rule, and then began to show him the proper way to do his sum, yet
letting him work it out himself, in such a pleasant manner, that he was
soon ashamed of being sullen. First she held the pencil herself, and put
down the figures as he told her to do; and then she made him copy the
whole, nicely, on another part of the slate, and rub out her figures.

After all this was finished patiently and diligently, Charlie was
surprised to find he should still be in good time for school.

"Now, to-morrow, Charlie," said Helen, "don't waste a moment, but go to
your lesson at once, whatever it is, and you will find it a great
saving, not only of time, but of temper. You won't get into a passion
with this clever old slate of mine. It went to school with me when I was
a little girl, and I should have been sorry if you had broken it for
not doing your work. Generally, Charlie, when you see a person fidgety
and angry, and complaining of things and people, you may be sure he has
either done something he ought not to do, or left undone something he
ought to do."

Away ran Charlie to school, thinking to himself, "Well, I suppose I was
wrong both ways. I ought not to have been drawing soldiers, and I ought
to have been ciphering."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



CHILDREN.

    The early lark, that spreads its wings
      And mounts the summer air,
    Obeys its Maker while it sings
      In morning carols there.

    The skilful bee from flower to flower
      Pursues its nectar'd store,
    Nor has it instinct, skill or power
      To please its Maker more.

    But children, born with nobler powers,
      In paths of vice may stray,
    Or rise to virtue's fragrant bower
      In realms of endless day.

    Then let me shun those wicked ways
      Which lead to sin and shame,
    So shall my heart be taught to praise
      My Lord and Saviour's name.

[Illustration]



LIZZY; A FAIRY TALE.


Lizzy was walking in a wood one day, and as she stooped under a tree to
gather some flowers that grew at its foot, she heard a loud tapping high
up in the tree; she looked up, and there she saw, clinging to a dead
bough that industrious and happy bird, the woodpecker. "Are you going
to dig out a chamber for yourself there?" asked Lizzy. "That bough is
too small, I should think."

[Illustration]

"Oh! I am not doing carpentry work now," said the bird; "there are some
nice little insects under this bark,--sweet things!--which I love as
well as you love the lambs."

"And yet you intend to make a meal upon them--barbarous bird!"

"Yes, as good a meal as you make upon the lamb,--barbarous child! But
let us forgive each other; we must eat to live. You would love to eat
me if I were nicely cooked, and I should relish you exceedingly if I
could only change you into a beetle-bug, or a grub of some sort."

"Do not talk so, Mr. Carpenter: I would rather go without my dinner than
to have you killed and cooked for me."

"Ah! do you love me so well? Then I will confide in you, and tell you a
secret. My chamber is in the trunk of this tree, and my six eggs lie on
the floor of it. Jump up here, and I will show it to you."

"I could not jump twenty feet into the air," said Lizzy.

"Why! are you not twenty times longer than I am?"

"Oh, more; and more than forty times heavier?"

"Well, well, I will go down and help you up."

"I should like to know how you expect to help me," said Lizzy.

"We shall see;" and the woodpecker flew down;--but where is he? Lizzy
looked about, and she could not see him anywhere.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed a voice close by her ear; and Lizzy turned, and
saw a pretty little fairy figure standing close beside her. "I was only
acting the woodpecker for my amusement. We fairies are very fond of
masquerading."

"Then I cannot see the woodpecker's nest," said Lizzy. "It is too bad
to disappoint me so, when I did so want to see his pretty eggs."

"Oh, if you wish to see some pretty eggs. I can show you some as
pretty as the woodpecker's. I have hundreds of them stowed away in a
woodpecker's hole, up in this very tree. I had come here this morning to
deposit some, and this is what made me think of acting the woodpecker
just now."

"Where did you get so many eggs? Do you rob birds' nests?"

"Oh, no, indeed! they are not birds' eggs; they come down in the rain,
and we use the large flower-cups to catch them in."

"And what will hatch from them?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell as yet. I will give you some of them,
and they will hatch just such kind of creatures as you tell them to."

"That is a very likely story,--but give me some, do; and I will tell
them to hatch most beautiful birds and butterflies."

"Stay; let me explain a little, before you count your unhatched birds
and butterflies. I will tell you how to hatch them. Put them in your
bosom, and they will be hatched by its warmth; but what is hatched from
them must depend entirely upon what kind of feeling shall warm your
bosom, and upon what deeds you do. If you have a wicked feeling, an ugly
creature will begin to form within one of the eggs; and if you let that
feeling cause you to do anything wrong, then the egg will hatch. Are
you willing to take the risk of having spiders and scorpions in your
bosom, for the sake of the hope that they may be pretty birds and
butterflies?"

[Illustration]

"Oh, yes!" said Lizzy; "I do not think I ever have such bad feelings as
spiders and scorpions are made of."

"Come, then," cried the fairy; and she led Lizzy round to the other side
of the tree, where she saw, high up in the trunk, a woodpecker's hole.

"Run up," cried the fairy.

"How can I? There is nothing but an ivy-vine to cling to."

"You mistake," said the fairy; and she touched the ivy-vine with her
wand, and there was a nice rope-ladder leading up to the woodpecker's
hole. It was almost full of small, pearly white eggs.--"Take out three
or four," said the fairy, "and put them in your bosom, and before you
reach home, they will very likely all be hatched."

"Oh, what pretty little things!" cried Lizzy, as she took them out;
"they shall certainly hatch something pretty."

She was going to put them all in her bosom at once; but the fairy told
her she had better put only one in at a time, and the others in one of
the pockets of her apron; for it would be rather worse if there should
be several spiders running about in her bosom, than only one.

"Oh, there will not be any," said Lizzy; "there will be a pretty bird
hopping about there--but I will do as you advise." She ran down the
ladder, and the fairy tripped along after her, and when Lizzy turned to
bid her good morning, she saw the ivy-vine clasping the tree, and the
woodpecker tapping away at the bark.

Lizzy ran along through the wood, hoping that something would happen
to arouse in her breast a good affection of some sort,--for there was
nothing there now but a mingled feeling of pleasure and dread,--for a
sweet-brier bush, for what purpose is not known, caught hold of her
dress, and thus occasioned a frightful rent; and sweet-brier bushes,
if they do bear sweet roses, do also love to play off their jokes upon
people, in quite as unbenevolent a way as the blackberry and thorn.
But Lizzy thought it no joke at all. What barbarous cruelty to tear
her dress so, and then to hold upon it so relentlessly! and whilst
she was trying to force the thorns to let go their hold, she became so
angry that she cried out, "Oh! I wish there was not a sweet-brier bush
in the world, I do! and I wish this was dead and burnt up." But before
she had released herself from the bush, she felt something moving in
her bosom. Putting her hand in, she pulled out an empty egg-shell,
while the wasp, which had just been hatched, flew around her face. She
brushed it away with her handkerchief. She looked at the sweet-brier
roses,--those little rosy cups all arranged so garland-like on the
bending boughs,--and said, "I wonder it was not a scorpion. Poor
little roses! I do not wish you to wither; I want you to flourish, and
breathe out your sweet breath;" and she bent her head over them, and
while they breathed forth their sweet breath, they looked so much like
little infants, that the tears came into Lizzy's eyes, while she said,
"May the Lord that made you, forgive me!"--When she lifted up her
head, she saw a wasp fall to the ground, and then a pretty bird came,
and picked it up and swallowed it. Lizzy then took another egg from
her pocket, placed it in her bosom, and walked on, taking care to keep
at a safe distance from sweet-briers and brambles.

[Illustration]

She had not gone far when she saw a little sparrow fly from a low shrub,
making a sound as if he had a nest there. When he had gone so far away
that she thought he would not see her, she peeped in amongst the
leaves, and there she espied the little home, with its three inmates;
not three little birds as yet--but, what she knew were quite as dear to
the parents, two speckled eggs. "Ah!" thought Lizzy, "how I should like
to see if I could not hatch a sparrow's egg. I should be sure that a
wasp would not come out of a sparrow's egg." And she put her hand very
slily into the nest, and stole away one of the sparrow's speckled
treasures, and laid it in her bosom by the side of the fairy egg. As she
left the bush, she turned to see if the sparrow went to look at it; and
while she stood watching him, she felt a strange nestling and fumbling
in her bosom, that she thought both eggs must have hatched. Looking in,
she saw a small snake writhing about most energetically. "I will put the
sparrow's egg back," thought she, for she was struck with horror.

[Illustration]

Throwing the snake upon the ground, in an agony of disgust, she felt
for the sparrow's egg; but, alas! the empty shell was alone there,--the
snake had sucked the egg. "How I wish I had not stolen away the
sparrow's egg! The snake has eaten what would have been a pretty bird. I
would give the sparrow one of my fairy eggs, if I thought he would like
it, but perhaps he would not. Vile snake!" she cried, stepping back as
she saw the snake writhing on the ground close by her feet. Her words
seemed to give him a death-stroke; he lay still, as though lifeless; she
touched him with her foot, but he did not move. There was a little
frog-pond near by, and to make sure that he should not come to life
again, Lizzy took the snake on a stick, and threw it into the pond and
then put another egg into her bosom. As she stood by the pond, lashing
the water with the stick, she began to fear she was not quite so
delightful a child as she had imagined herself to be, and to wonder
what she should do to make the egg hatch a pretty creature. "Let me
think," said she, "what have I to do before dinner? I have some sewing
to do, and two lessons to study. Now, if I go directly home, and do
these things well, instead of staying here to play, perhaps I shall
find, after I have finished my tasks, some bright bird, or shining
insect, in my bosom. To be sure, that ought not to be my only reason for
doing well, and it is not my only reason." This was quite true; for
Lizzy began to feel so penitent for the unpleasant things she had done,
that she felt a desire to make amends of some sort. "I believe I will,"
said she, "go directly home, and see how much I can do before dinner.
Oh! see the tadpoles! how they run and wag their tails, queer creatures!
but I must not stay." A frog then leaped into the water, from amongst
the grass at the other side of the pond. "Ah! father long-legs! what a
water-nymph you are! I must just go round and see if there are not some
more frogs there; I do love so to see them leap into the water with such
a plash." And she walked round the water, frightening the frogs from the
grass; and when they had all leaped into the water, she thought she must
sit down quite still for a few moments, just to see if one would not
jump out again. She waited a few moments,--and then a few more,--and
then a few more. "Oh, dear!" she cried, "I will wait till one--just
one--comes, if I wait till night, I am determined." But it seemed as if
the frogs were determined to be revenged upon Lizzy for frightening them
in, for not one lifted his head above the water, for more than a quarter
of an hour; and Lizzy began to feel a little frightened, and to wish she
had made no promise. At length one, more courageous or less obstinate
than the rest, leaped upon the bank. "Oh; and there is another!" Now
Lizzy must just go and drive them in again, because it is still better
to see them leap in: for you then have the pleasure of seeing them swim.
As she stood watching them swim, she thought the egg in her bosom felt
cold; this reminded her of her good resolution, and she walked straight
homewards.

It was dinner time when she reached home.--Ah! where were the lessons
and the sewing? and why had not the egg hatched? It was a great while
since she put it into her bosom. She did not believe it was going to
hatch at all, for it still felt cold, and she thought she would break
the shell, and see if there was anything in it. Yes, there was
something, and something very pretty, too. A small, shining, green bee;
but it was dead. Oh! those amusing frogs!

"Well, this one," said Lizzy, as she put the last egg into her bosom,
"shall hatch a beautiful bee; for, as soon as dinner is over, I will sit
down and be as industrious as a bee on a summer's morning."

"Lizzy," said her mother, while they were sitting at table, "what was
that you put into your bosom, just now?"

"What, mother? when?" asked Lizzy; for she did not feel as if the story
she had to tell about the eggs would be one much to her credit, and she
was too proud to be willing to tell it.

"As you were sitting down, I observed you put something into your bosom;
what was it?"

"Oh, I--just happened to put my hand into my bosom."

"Lizzy, you had something in your hand; I saw it."

"Why, mother, you are mistaken. I--I--"

"Tell me what it was, my child."

"Why, mother, it was only my--my thimble."

As the falsehood came out of Lizzy's mouth, a black bat crept out of her
bosom, and, spreading out his filmy wings, fluttered about her
head.--Every one started up from the table; Lizzy screamed, and tried to
brush the impish-looking creature away, but he persisted in fluttering
around her head. She ran from the room; but before she could shut the
door behind her, the bat was out also, and sailed round and round her
head. Her mother followed her out, and tried to drive the bat away,
while she reproved Lizzy for putting such ugly things in her bosom, and
expressed very great grief that her daughter should have told a
falsehood; and she told her that the falsehood would haunt and trouble
her mind till she confessed the truth, and begged forgiveness, just as
the black bat now troubled her by flying around her head.

"I will confess all," said Lizzy; and she burst into tears, and throwing
herself into her mother's arms, told her morning's adventures, without
sparing herself at all.

The bat dropped down dead upon the floor.

"Ah!" said Lizzy's mother, "now, how good it is to confess and beg
forgiveness, and how pleasant it is to forgive. See! he is dead, and I
trust you will never more put any such 'thimbles' into your bosom."

"Oh, mother," said Lizzy, smiling, as she dried her tears, "I have no
doubt it was beginning to be a pretty little bee when I put it in; but I
will be one myself now;" and she took her sewing work, and sat down; and
happening to look up from her work to the spot where the bat had fallen,
she was delighted to see, instead of the bat, a bee creeping along on
the floor. Presently he flew up, and crawled on her arm, while she
worked.

"Well," said Lizzy, the next morning, "I really did not know I was so
bad a girl. Only think of my causing the existence of such disagreeable
creatures, when I thought I should bring out such delightful ones. But I
will do better, certainly.--I wish I had some more of these eggs." And
she resolved to go again into the wood, and seek out the fairy. She had
been strolling about for some time, looking for the tree on which she
had seen the woodpecker, when she saw, on the ground before her, a brown
beetle, or May-bug, lying upon his back. She took him up, and turned him
over.

"That is a kind girl, Lizzy," said a small voice.

"Ah! the fairy!"

"How are you, this morning? I have not seen you since last evening, when
I was bobbing about in your room, striking my head against the ceiling,
and then falling bounce upon the floor. I was lying here on my back,
just to see if you would have the kindness to pick me up. And now, tell
me, what was the fate of the eggs? Have you got some pretty bird, bright
butterflies, and shining beetles, to show me?"

"Ah! I am ashamed of myself," said Lizzy; "all your pretty eggs were
wasted, but one."

"No wasted," said the fairy; "you know yourself better than you did
yesterday--do you not?"

"Indeed, I do; and therefore I think I shall succeed better to-day, if
you will give me some more eggs."

"Oh, yes," said the fairy; and taking the form of a squirrel, she ran up
the tree in which the eggs were concealed, and which was not far
distant, and presently returned with five of them in her cheeks, which
she gave to Lizzy, and then ran up the tree again, and sat chattering on
a high bough. As Lizzy walked on her way homewards, she passed by a low
meadow, where she saw a little girl gathering cowslips, or May-blobs for
greens. She had a peck-basket beside her, and Lizzy asked her if she
meant to fill that great basket with greens. The girl told her she
should have to fill it twice, and carry them into town to sell. A glad
thought leaped into Lizzy's heart. "I mean to try and help her to gather
them," said she to herself. When she offered to do it, the little girl
seemed quite pleased, and so Lizzy went to work very industriously, and
broke off the leaves and buds of the May-blobs, and the little girl's
basket began to fill very fast; and they talked together while they
picked, and the little girls soon became very well acquainted with each
other. The little girl told Lizzy how many brothers and sisters she had,
and how many hens and chickens, and what all their names were; and Lizzy
told the little girl how many brothers and sisters she had, and how many
rabbits and Canary birds, and what all their names were; and the little
girl told Lizzy how many funny things her hens and chickens did; and
Lizzy told the little girl many knowing things that her canaries did;
and Lizzy felt as happy while she picked the May-blobs, as the bright
yellow blossoms themselves looked. And now the basket is full, and the
little girl is glad her morning's task is done, before the sun is up so
high as to be too warm; she is not going to pick another basket till
towards night;--and now Lizzy feels the egg-shell crack in her bosom,
and she and the little girl laugh to see a full-grown yellow-bird fly
out, and, alighting upon Lizzy's shoulder, pour out his pleasant song.

"How he sings!" said the little girl.

"He is thanking me for his existence," said Lizzy; for she had told the
little girl all about the fairy eggs. "Come now, let me take your
basket, if you are going the same way that I am; for I know you are
tired, and I am not."

"That is where I live," said the little girl, pointing to a house about
an eighth of a mile distant.

"Ah!" said Lizzy, "that is not much out of my way; I think I shall be
home in good time." And she put another egg into her bosom, and taking
the basket, accompanied the little girl home, telling her she would
perhaps come and help her again at night; and just as the children were
saying good-bye, a hen yellow-bird flew out of Lizzy's bosom, and the
other one which had followed on, went gladly to meet her. "Ah! there is
a little yellow mate for him," cried Lizzy; and she held out her arm,
and the hen yellow-bird alighted upon it, and sat there while her mate
stood by her side and gave her his prettiest song. The little girl went
into the house, and Lizzy, first putting another egg into her bosom,
walked on, the two birds flying around her as she went, and the male now
and then stopping to trill his notes upon a shrub or tree. When Lizzy
reached home, she was met by Hero, her brother's dog, and not in the
most pleasant manner imaginable. He had just come out of a muddy ditch,
and with his wet, black paws, up he leaped upon her nice, clean apron.
"Be still, Hero; down, down, sir," said Lizzy; but Hero's expressions of
joy were not so easily quieted. Lizzy took up a stick and was going to
beat him, for she felt very angry; but she controlled herself, and
throwing down the stick, took hold of Hero's collar and held him down
till he became more quiet. When she went into the house the two
yellow-birds flew up and alighted upon a cherry tree, which was close by
her chamber window, and when she went into her chamber, how pleasant was
the song that met her ear! But why did not the other egg hatch! Lizzy
waited and waited, and towards night her patience became exhausted, and
she broke the shell. Oh, how glad she was it did not hatch! how glad she
was that she did not beat poor Hero, because he welcomed her rather too
rudely. A dead hornet was in the egg shell.

Lizzy's heart was full of gratitude and love when she laid herself down
to rest at night. She loved the little girl she had helped, and she felt
penitent and humble when she thought how angry she had been with Hero,
and grateful when she thought of the escape she had made; and she felt
very grateful and happy when she thought of the two yellow-birds she
should have to sing at her window. She took the two remaining eggs in
her hands and held them up against her bosom, and while she was going to
sleep, sweet thoughts of love and beauty floated about in her mind; and
when the song of her yellow-birds awoke her in the morning--Oh, what was
she pressing to her bosom? A pair of white doves! and they nestled and
cooed in her bosom, and when she arose she let them play around the
chamber. Unlike the dark, filmy wings of the bat, their white pinions
whistled as they flew, and Lizzy thought, "Oh, how sweet it will be to
have these to nestle in my bosom every night, and the yellow-birds to
awaken me in the morning!"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



ELLEN.

A TRUE STORY.


      She looked into my eyes,
      Her own were filled with tears;--
    A loving and a thoughtful child,
      Disturbed by dreamy fears.

      She said--"Oh! mother dear!
      I dread that I shall die
    Too soon, and go to heaven alone,
      And leave _you_ here to cry!"

      "My darling! if you do,
      You will be always blest;
    The angels there will play with you,
      And lull you, love, to rest!"

      "Oh, no! it may be bright,
      A pleasant place and fair;
    But how can I be glad, and play?
      _I'll have no mother there!_"

      "My Ellen! if you stay
      In this sad world of ours,
    You'll often weep woe's bitter tears
      Above its fairest flowers!"

      "Dear mother! _yet_ I'd stay;
      For oh! so much I love you,
    I'd rather grieve with _you_, on earth,
      Than joy, in heaven, above you!"

[Illustration]



PHILOSOPHY IN COMMON THINGS.

CORKING THE KETTLE SPOUT UP.


MR. W. Tom, have you brought the small cork I told you to bring?

TOM. Yes, father; here it is.

MR. W. Put it in the kettle spout.

TOM. Why, it blows it out again, as soon as it is in.

MR. W. You did not half press it in. Hold it fast--press with all your
strength.

TOM. See there--the lid is blown off!

MR. W. Blown off! How is this?--nobody has put gunpowder into the
kettle!

ELLA. I am sure there is nothing but clean water; I saw it put in.

MR. W. But, is it not very extraordinary that simple, clean water,
should blow the kettle lid off?

TOM. Not at all, father. When you told us about the expansion of cold
water below forty degrees, we wondered, because we could not think ice
was more bulky than water; but there seems no reason to doubt, that the
hotter water becomes, the more room it takes up.

MR. W. How does the heat of the fire do this?

TOM. By expanding it.

MR. W. We know that; but how?

TOM. By driving the particles of steam farther and farther asunder.

MR. W. Precisely. The moment the particles of a drop of water become
steam, they occupy eighteen hundred times as much room as they did
before.

TOM. And press the lid eighteen hundred times more forcibly than water?

MR. W. Its force is altogether irresistible. If this kettle were
composed of iron, an inch thick or more, if steam could not escape, it
would burst it with ease.

TOM. Is that the reason why steam boilers burst?

MR. W. It is one reason, but not the principal one. If the water in the
kettle were all boiled out, and it was full of steam, and we corked it
tightly up, and soldered the lid down, and still kept the fire blazing
fiercely about it, it would burst at the weakest part: perhaps the lid
would fly off, or the side burst: the steam would rush out, and, if we
were near, we might be scalded.

TOM. Then, when a boiler grows old and thin, if the pressure is very
great, it bursts in the weakest part?

MR. W. Just so; and ingenious men have made some portion of the boiler
of a weaker metal--so that, if it burst from the pressure of the steam,
it should hurt no one.

AMELIA. I cannot understand what you mean.

MR. W. You see this kettle on the fire:--if we cork up the spout, and
fasten the lid down, and let it boil, it will, probably, blow the cork
out, and hit some of you; but if, at the back part of the kettle that
touches the chimney, we have a part of it made of lead, or tin, it will
explode there.

AMELIA. Oh! I see now.

TOM. But, father, this cannot account for the tremendous explosions, by
which the boiler itself is thrown a great distance, and even factories
are blown down.

MR. W. I think not. I will try to make you understand this, to-morrow.

[Illustration]



THE LOST CHILDREN.

A TRUE STORY.


Philip and Jessie went to school every day through a pretty lane that
led to a small school-house in the country. It was not far from their
mother's house, and it did not take them many minutes to get there, when
they did not stop to play by the way. There were a great many flowers
growing in the field, on each side of the path, and they often started a
little earlier in the morning, to gather some of the freshest to carry
to their kind teacher.

Philip was only eight years old, but he felt like a man, when he thought
he was two whole years older than Jessie; and they had a little brother,
Willy, who was just three. Jessie was very fond of taking care of "the
baby" as Willy was still called. How fast the little fellow used to run
when he saw Philip and Jessie coming up the hill from school; and Philo,
Philip's dog, would bark, and run quite out of sight in a minute, and
then back again, and Jessie would put her basket in his mouth, and he
would walk along by her side, while she led Willy to the house.

Willy often asked to go to school with his brother and sister; but Mrs.
Morton, their mother, was not willing to let him go in, though his nurse
often took him to the door, and then brought him back, for fear he
should make a noise and disturb the children at their lessons.

One fine afternoon, it was Philip's birth-day, his mother said they
might take Willy with them to see "Aunt Ellen," as they used to call
their teacher. He promised to sit still by Jessie, and not speak one
loud word; and he kept his promise, too, though he whispered and laughed
so much, and looked so pretty, that the little girls did not do much
work that afternoon. However, Aunt Ellen dismissed the school half an
hour earlier than usual; and as they ran out, shouting and jumping, she
stooped and kissed Willy, and told Jessie to say, to his mother, that he
had been a very good boy in school, and that she hoped soon to have him
for a scholar.

Mrs. Morton had charged Philip to come straight from school, and not
stop by the way for anything, and he had promised her to do so;--but the
sun was so high, and shone so pleasantly, that they did not walk very
fast at first, for Willy would stop to pluck every flower he saw, to
carry home, he said, to mamma.

So they went along, and did not attend to the time, but began to gather
blackberries, and were delighted to see Willy eat them, and put them
into their basket. They were all so busily engaged, that they entirely
forgot what their mother had told them when they left home, and had
wandered a good way from the path, when Philip looked up, for it was
becoming quite dark. The sun had gone under a cloud, and it began to
rain; so Philip tied on Jessie's hat, and they both took Willy by the
hand, and ran, as they thought, towards home, but it was quite another
way. The rain came down, now, very fast, and it thundered at a distance,
which frightened them a little. Poor Jessie pulled Willy along, who
began to cry, for his shoe was coming off. She could not stop to tie it
on; and then they both fell over the stump of a tree, and Jessie spilt
all her blackberries over her dress and Willy's apron, which were
already wet with the rain. Then Jessie could not help crying too; but
Philip helped him up, and told him they would soon get home now.

As they were near the woods, that were very thick, Philip said they had
better stop a little while till the rain ceased, and then go on; but it
grew so dark, and kept on raining so fast, they could not see which way
to go. They sat down on a great stone under a thick grape-vine that kept
off the wet, and Jessie took "the baby" in her arms, and tied her
handkerchief around his neck.

"I want to go to mamma," he cried. "Take me home,--I want to go to
mamma!"

So did Jessie too, but she tried hard not to cry to keep Willy still.

"Do you think we are lost, Philip?" she said.

"I am afraid so," replied Philip. "But, Jessie, I have often read about
lost children, and that some good person came to take care of them."

"But if Willy should die like one of those babes in the wood, that nurse
Annie sings about, all stained with blackberries--Oh, Philip! we were so
naughty to pick blackberries!" and the tears came so fast she could not
speak.

The rain was now over, and the stars shone brightly, and Philip thought
perhaps they could hear him at home if he called; so he went out of the
wood a little way, and called out as loud as he could, "Father! Mother!
we are here!" He repeated it till he was quite hoarse, but he could not
make them hear. He saw an old shed not far off, and he told Jessie that
he thought they had better go there, and stay till some one found them.

They took their brother in their arms between them, and reached the
shed, where they found some hay, and Philip made a bed for Jessie and
Willy as well as he could, and put his coat over it. Jessie took off
Willy's apron and hung it up inside the shed to dry, and took off his
wet stockings and one shoe, for he had lost the other, and held his feet
in her lap, to keep them warm. As she sat down beside him on the ground,
she began singing him to sleep--

    "Hush my dear, lie still and slumber,
      Holy angels guard thy bed,
    Heavenly blessings without number
      Gently fall upon thy head!"

She could not sing any more, for she thought of her mother, who sung
this hymn to them every night, and of the quiet little room where she
slept with Willy so warm and comfortable, and father and mother and
Philip near; and now they were all in the dark, and lost in the wood!

Philip was as sad as Jessie, but he did not cry, and he said,--

"Jessie, may be, if we pray to God, he will send some one to find us,
and take us home. Don't you remember how often aunt Ellen has told us
that God sees little children, and everybody, in the night as well as in
the day, and that good angels are around us, though we cannot see them?
I was a very naughty boy to stop when mother told me to bring Willy
straight home from school, and I will pray to God to forgive me, and
find you and me and the baby!"

So they both kneeled down, and took hold of each other's hands, and said
their prayers.

Willy was fast asleep now, and Jessie laid down beside him, and put her
arm around his neck--but she could not sleep, and hearing a noise close
by, she got up and went to Philip, and asked him what he thought it
could be.

"I will go and see," said Philip.

He went out, and soon coming back, told her it was only a horse quietly
feeding on the short grass that grew in the wood, and that he was tied
to the shed by a long rope, to keep him from running away.

"Philip," said Jessie, "don't you think some one may come in the morning
to get the horse, and find _us_?"

"Yes! to be sure they will," said Philip; "and I will tell them my name
is Philip Morton, and may be they may know my father, and then they can
show us the way home."

And so these little children found comfort in thinking they would not be
deserted, even though away from their parents, and lost in the thick
wood; for their Father in heaven was watching over them, and allowing
the good angels to put this thought into their head, to cheer them, so
that they were not afraid.

All this while their parents and friends were out looking for them
everywhere; for Mrs. Morton, seeing the dark cloud arise, and finding
that the children did not come home, was very uneasy. At first, she was
sure that they would be in directly, as Philip had always been so
obedient to her, and so careful of his brother and sister. But night
coming on, and seeing nothing of them, she became greatly alarmed. She
went out herself with nurse Annie, and looked and called in vain. When
Mr. Morton came home, he found her in the deepest distress, for all her
children were gone, she knew not whither, and it was dark and raining,
and there was a mill-race and pond not far off, where the children had
often walked with her and their father,--and oh! if they had lost their
way and fallen in there! Mr. Morton, and some gentlemen in the
neighbourhood, who kindly lent their assistance, took lanterns, and all
went out, some on foot and some on horseback, to search far and near for
them.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when the children thought they
heard some one calling them. They listened--no! they could not mistake
their father's voice calling, "Philip! Philip! Jessie!"

Oh! how their hearts beat! Philip ran farther into the wood and called
again, "Father! Father! here we are!"

But no answer was returned. Just then they saw a light through the
trees, at a distance, and Philip, running in the direction, saw his
father, and their old man Tom, and Philo. Presently Philo barked, and
Philip knew, by the sound, that they were all coming towards them.

"Don't leave me, Philip!" cried out little Jessie. "I will take the baby
up, if you will help me."

So Philip ran back to the shed, and called again. His father heard him
now, and came directly up to where they were. There he found Willy fast
asleep, and Jessy trying to put on his apron and shoe.

Old Tommy had a bundle of shawls, and some cakes for them, that their
mother had put up.--They were so glad to see their father, and to know
that they were found, that they did not care for the cakes; but Jessie
took a shawl for herself, and her father wrapped one around Willy, who
opened his eyes, and seeing his father had him, fell asleep again.

They were soon on their way home,--Philo running on before them, as if
to be the first to announce their coming; and Tommy, with Philip on one
side,--and Jessy, holding her little school-basket in her hand, on the
other; and Mr. Morton with the baby.

Mrs. Morton ran to meet them, and I cannot say who were the happier,--the
children, to be once more safe at home, or the mother to hold again her
darlings in her arms!

"Mother, I am afraid you will never trust Willy with me again," was the
first thing Philip said.--"But, indeed, I will never disobey you again.
I did not know what a terrible thing it is to be naughty!"

His mother could not speak--she wept; but it was with joy and gratitude
to God for restoring to her her children.

"Don't cry so; indeed I think God will make me a good boy, after this,
always," said Philip, looking up earnestly in his mother's face.

"May He indeed do so, my dear boy, and ever bless, and strengthen you!"
said his mother. "May you never forget to obey your father and mother,
now you are young, and I am sure you will be a good _man_."

Philip never forgot the night in the woods. He is now grown up, and what
his mother said was true. He is a good man, because he learned to be a
good boy.

[Illustration]



FORGIVENESS.


    A very little child, one day,
      Too young to know the harm it did,
    Trampled, with his small naked foot,
      The place in which a violet hid.

    The violet sighed its life away,
      Embalming, with its last faint breath,
    The little foot, that thus, in play,
      Had put its soft, blue flower to death.

    Ah, was it not a tender flower,
      To lavish all the wealth it had,
    Its fragrance, in its dying hour,
      Mild, meek, forgiving, mute, though sad.

    My little girl, the lesson learn;
      Be thou the violet--love _thou_ so;
    Retort no wrong; but nobly turn,
      And with thy heart's wealth bless thy foe.

                                          SNOW DROP.



THE TWO NOSEGAYS.


One fine summer evening, as the mother of Virginia and Maria was
walking with them in the garden, she observed that, from time to time,
they went away by themselves, and whispered mysteriously together; and
whenever she went towards them, to inquire into the subject of their
conversation, they stopped, and began to play about.

This conduct disturbed her very much; for she knew that when girls have
anything which they wish to conceal from their mothers, there must be
something wrong about it.

This case, however, was an exception to the general rule, Virginia and
Maria had nothing improper in their minds; but the next day was their
mother's birth-day, and they wished to think of something which would be
a suitable present for them to make her.

Virginia was two years older than Maria, and the two sisters were very
different. Virginia was lively, quick, and graceful; Maria was quiet,
modest, and loving.

"Let us make mamma some present which will prove which of us possesses
the finest taste," said Virginia. "In our garden and the meadow the
flowers are all striving to see which will excel in beauty. Let us
choose, from among them, the flowers we like best, and make a nosegay,
each by ourselves; and then see which our mother will prefer."

Maria agreed to her sister's proposal, and, early on the next morning,
they went, by different paths, through the meadow and garden, to make
their choice. All the flowers smiled upon them, and seemed to invite
attention: but they flew, like butterflies, from one to the other,
uncertain where to choose. At length the early morning was gone, and it
was time for them to return to breakfast.--They both knew that a want of
_punctuality_ would displease their mother, more than any nosegays could
give her pleasure. So they broke off their flowers hastily, and carried
them to the house, without even suffering each other to see what they
had.

Soon after breakfast, Virginia approached her mother with a smile of
satisfaction, and very gracefully presented her a bunch of fresh
moss-roses, in a little basket curiously woven of the green leaves of
the bush.

"Dear mother!" said she, "see how, from this little basket of leaves,
this full-blown moss-rose lifts up its head in the centre, with a colour
so lively and so soft. This beautiful rose is you, mother, and this
little bud beneath its shadow is your Virginia."

Maria approached with a timid step, and spoke in a low, hesitating
voice:

"Mother, here is my nosegay. It is not so beautiful nor ingenious as
Virginia's rose-basket.--It is only a bunch of honeysuckle blossoms,
from the vine which twined around the nut-tree, as I would rest on you."

When Maria said this, she threw her arms around her mother's neck, and
wet her cheeks with tears of quiet love.

The beauty and ingenuity of the rose-basket had delighted the eye of the
happy mother, but Maria's present touched her heart; and tears filled
her eyes, as she returned the embrace of her affectionate child.

"My dear children," said she, "your gifts are like yourselves, and you
shall both be precious to me."

As she said this, she took the rose-bud from the basket, and twining it
with the honeysuckles, put them both into her bosom.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]



CAMGNO; OR, THE TAME ROE.

A TRUE STORY.


And now, little girls, I am going to tell you of the life and history of
a young roe-deer. It is quite a true story, as I have very good reason
to know.

When Fanny Grey was about seven years old, one day her father opened the
door of the room where she sat, and said, "Come here, Fanny, and look at
the beautiful present I have brought you."

So she got up in great haste, and followed her papa to the lawn, and
there, in a nice square box, was a young roe.

"It is for you, my child, as a reward for your attention to your
studies."

[Illustration]

I wish you could have seen Fanny's joy. She danced about, and clapped
her hands, and ran to the dairy to get some milk for the little
stranger. When she had taken it out of the box, she could see it much
better: she could see the white spots that make the coat of roe-deer,
when they are very young. She could see its pretty little graceful feet,
and its soft, black eyes; and Fanny was so happy, that she said she
should like it better than any of her pets. She had birds, and dogs, and
a beautiful grey horse, but this dear little roe was better than all.
She gave it the name of Camgno; and by this name it would come whenever
she called.--She made a velvet cushion for it to sleep upon, and every
day she thought it grew more pretty. After some time Camgno became quite
strong, and Fanny had a silver collar made for it; and the gamekeeper
made a "nice little house" for her favourite, where it could sleep every
night. Camgno would always come when Fanny called, and they loved each
other very much. But Camgno was taken sick, and it was necessary to
carry him to the pheasant-house, where the gamekeeper could take care of
him; for Fanny was not old enough to take all the care of her little
pet, when he was so sick, and so she consented to its being removed.

One day her father came home and told her a sad tale, that Camgno could
not live. Oh! how sorry she was!--the tears came into her eyes, and she
ran away, as fast as she could, to see her poor roe. When she came to
the pheasant-house, Camgno was lying on the ground, and looked quite
dead.

"Oh, my poor Camgno!" she cried.

Camgno opened its black eyes at the sound of her voice; and Fanny sat
down by the roe, and raised its little head, and laid it upon her
knee.--She staid a long time beside her dear little pet, till her father
said he was afraid she would catch cold, and she must now go home.

The next morning she got up very early, and went to the gamekeeper; but
just before she reached the house, she met James, who said, "It is of no
use; Camgno is dead; but if I live till another spring, I will get you
another roe."

"Thank you James," said Fanny; "but I shall never want another roe; it
might die too; and it makes me very sorry: but I will thank you to dig a
grave for my _pet_, and help me to bury it."

So Fanny covered the grave with flowers, and resolved that she would try
and not love anything so much again that could be taken away from her;
but she was always kind to all animals, and every living thing,--and,
after this, she was led to think of and love such things as could not be
taken away from her: and that made her truly happy.

[Illustration]



THE SECRET.


"Come, Fanny," said George Lewis, "put on your hat, and go out with me
among the trees and bushes. It is a bright, glorious morning, and I have
a secret to reveal to you, sister, when we get where nobody will
overhear us."

"Oh, that's grand," cried Fanny, with her face kindling up with joy, and
her curiosity, like herself, all on tiptoe. "I love to find out
secrets."

She took her brother's hand, and away they hied, running and leaping,
over the field, past the new hayricks, across the rivulet, and into the
flowery border of a thicket. Here was a little silvery fountain, gushing
from a mossy rock, and flashing to the light over its pebbly basin; and
there a green, arching bough, hung with clusters of wild berries, and
trembling from the weight and motion of their light-winged gatherer;
while the air was filled with sweet perfume, and the songs of the
feathered warblers sounded from shrub and tree on every side.

"But what _is_ it--what _can_ it be that you have to tell me, George?"
said Fanny; "I'm out of breath to know the secret."

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

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

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

"I am calm, now, and I have been patient," said Fanny. "Come, dear
Georgie, do tell me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," replied George, "but I will tell you the reason why I did not.
Had I told you then, Fanny, we should never have seen these little
birds here. You haven't the art of keeping a secret belonging to your
own concerns or another's, long enough for anything depending on its
being kept to come to pass. You will surely, in some way, let it slip
too soon. You would not tell it if you promised not to do so; but by
some air or act, or mysterious manner, you would show them that you
knew something that was unknown to others, and set them to watching
and studying for it. If I had told you of the nest, you would have
wanted to be running out every little while to see how it went on,
till the bird would have found herself watched, and forsaken it, to
build somewhere else. Or you would have wanted to break the blue
shells, to see if the insides of the eggs were growing into birds;
just as you dug up your flower-seeds, to know if they were sprouted;
and broke open the green rose-buds, to find out if the under leaves
were turning red. So your seeds never came up, and your roses didn't
bloom; all for your impatience and curiosity. If you had not done
this, your continual coming would have drawn the attention of some of
the boys or girls, to learn what was here, till they would have found
the nest, and robbed it. You have too much _curiosity_, Fanny. If you
choose, tell your own secrets, and take the consequences. But they who
cannot keep their own, are not very likely to be trusted with those of
others. And as to coming at them by prying, I should feel as if I was
'tiefing,' as the Frenchman told his little boy he had been doing,
when he cut the shoot from grandpapa's English walnut-tree, to make
him a _rattan_. If I discovered, by accident, what concerned another,
and was not designed for my knowledge, I should feel sorry, and that
I had no more right to tell or expose it, than I should have to
spend a piece of money that I saw another drop. This secret was the
_bird's_--and I should have caused her great distress by telling it.
It is the kind of curiosity which makes you want to know what others
are about, what they have, and so on, that gets you into your worst
troubles, sister. You saw John bring in a covered basket, and put
it on a shelf in the cellar closet. The next that was heard was the
basket, eggs and all, smash upon the brick floor; and sister Fanny
shouting lamentably and crying, 'Oh, dear, dear, they are all over my
feet!' So none of us had pudding that day. Then, when you saw your
mother wet her eyes with clear water from a phial, and thought you'd
try it too, you found the sal volatile not quite so cooling to yours,
as the rose-water to hers. No wonder that they wept!

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

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



SCIENCE OF THE HUMAN FRAME.

THE SKIN.


FATHER. It is pleasant and profitable, my children, to learn the uses of
various parts of the human body; for when we understand the uses of any
member of the body, and the manner in which it is composed, we shall be
better able to avoid all things which would interfere with those uses.
It seems to me that it would be useful for you to give your attention to
these subjects, and I will give you all the assistance that I am able.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]



VOICES FROM NATURE.


                  CHILD.

    "River, river, stay and tell me,
    Whither going with such speed?"

                  RIVER.

    "No, I cannot stop, for onward
    I must go, the sea to feed.
    I am one of many others,--
    To the same great deep we go,
    Pouring into it for ever,
    Yet it doth not overflow."

                  CHILD.

    "Little brook, stay still a moment,
    Dancing neath the summer sun,
    With such sweet and pleasant music,
    Tell me, whither do you run?"

                  BROOK.

    "I am hastening to the river,
    And I cannot longer stay,
    I am one of many others,
    Who must feed it day by day."

                  CHILD.

    "Little rill, which down the mountain,
    Like a silver thread dost flow,
    Tell me now before you leave me,
    Why you are in haste to go?"

                  RILL.

    "Downward, downward, little maiden,
    Is a voice that bids me speed,
    Where a little brook is waiting,
    Which my limpid drops must feed.
    I am one of many others,
    And when Spring's first hours awake,
    Into life and motion springing,
    To the plains our course we take."

                  CHILD.

    "Rain-drops, which so fast are falling,
    Patter, patter, on the ground,
    Much I love to stand and watch you,
    Much I love your merry sound;
    But I pray you stop and tell me,
    On what mission you are bound?"

                  RAIN.

    "Humble as our mission seemeth,
    Maiden, to your thoughtful eye,
    Yet for good, by God's appointment,
    Drop by drop, I fall from high;
    And, without me, mightiest rivers
    Soon would leave their channels dry."
    Musing, then, the little maiden,
    Inward for a moral turned,
    Where, to light the spirit temple,
    Truth upon her altar burned.
    "Rain," she said, "from heaven descending,
    Feeds the little fountain rill:
    Onward, onward, all are hastening,
    Never for a moment still.
    Rill, and brook, and mighty river,
    All to the deep ocean go;
    All the thirsty river swallows,--
    Yet it doth not overflow."
    Child, thou seekest from this a moral,
    Ask of Truth, and thou shalt know.

[Illustration]



KING ALFRED.


Alfred was one of the early kings of England, distinguished for his
wisdom and virtue. In his childhood he was very much indulged by his
parents, and his education was neglected, but he engaged in study of his
own accord, and became an eminent scholar in his youth; although in
those days there were no printed books, and few means of instruction of
any kind.

When he became king, after the death of his father, his country
was suffering from the invasion of the Danes; and Alfred spent a
considerable part of his life in wars with them. These Danes came over
in swarms from the continent of Europe, under different leaders; and
they succeeded in defeating the armies sent out against them, one after
another, and in extending their ravages over so many parts of the
kingdom, that the people of the island were reduced to despair. The army
was dispersed, and Alfred had to fly and conceal himself, to save his
life. He finally went to service in the family of a herdsman,--a sort
of farmer, who had care of the cattle,--where he was once well scolded
by the herdsman's wife for letting some cakes burn. Hume, the historian,
relates the story in the following language:--

"The wife of the neat-herd was ignorant of the condition of our royal
guest, and observing him one day busy by the fireside, in trimming his
bow and arrows, she desired him to take care of some cakes which were
toasting, while she was employed elsewhere, in other domestic affairs.
But Alfred, whose thoughts were otherwise engaged, neglected his
injunction; and the good woman, on her return, finding her cakes all
burnt, rated the king very severely, and upbraided him, that he always
seemed very well pleased to eat her warm cakes, though he was thus
negligent in toasting them."

After this, Alfred contrived to collect some of his followers, and to
conceal himself with them in the centre of a vast tract of swampy land.
The piece of firm ground on which he established his company, contained
only about two acres. Here he remained a year, though he often went on
excursions against the enemy. Finally, his strength increased, so that
he was prepared to adopt still more decisive measures. He accordingly
formed a plan for a general mustering of the forces of the kingdom, in
order to make a combined and effectual attack upon the Danes. At this
time, another incident occurred, which has helped to make Alfred
famous. He concluded, before summoning the army together, that he would
go into the camp of the Danes, in disguise, in order to see what their
strength and condition were. So he procured a harp, and dressed himself
in the disguise of a harper. In those days, harpers were accustomed to
wander about towns and armies, playing for the amusement of those who
would pay them. Alfred seems to have acted his part very successfully.
He not only entertained the soldiers and officers with his harp, but he
amused them with tales and jokes, and finally he made his way into the
tent of Guthrum, the general. There, Alfred learned all he wished to
know, and then returned to his own camp. This was a very dangerous
experiment, for if anything had occurred even to arouse the suspicions
of the Danes, he would have been hung at once.

Immediately after this, Alfred sent messengers through the kingdom and
called his army together, and, after several battles, expelled the Danes
from the country. He then evinced great wisdom in the arrangements which
he made for reducing the kingdom to regular order. He founded the most
useful institutions, and restored the dominion of law and public
tranquillity. He has been always regarded as a great benefactor of the
English nation.

[Illustration]



GRACE MIDDLETON.


Grace was returning from a distant part of the country to her own loved
home; she had been living with a relation, and a long time had passed
since she had heard from, or listened to the gentle voice of her
parents; (there was no mail in that part of the country;) and as she
drew near to each loved haunt of her early childhood, her heart beat
quick with sweet anticipations of delight. She fancied her brother and
sister very much grown, but still as loving and happy as when she last
sported with them on the grass-plat by the cottage door. It was evening
when Grace descended the long, sloping hill, at the foot of which was an
extensive avenue of tall oak trees, leading directly to the cottage, and
the declining sun cast a melancholy shadow over the face of this
well-remembered spot, once resounding with the shouts of happy infancy.

The heart of Grace grew sad as she drew near the cottage, and she
wondered very much that no one was in sight. At length she hears the
well-known bark of old Carlo;--"but where are my parents, my brother and
sister! I thought to find them _all_ here; where are they?"

Alas! alas! she soon ascertained they were all gone; all, save her
aged grandfather, who comes with feeble step to embrace and welcome
her. "The Lord bless you, my child, and blessed be his name for
restoring you to me in my old age; come with me, and let us give
thanks to our heavenly Father, for all his blessings. It is true he
has seen best to remove those we love most from us; but it is all
right, my child, all right;" and he led her into the cottage, where
the evening meal was spread for them by the kind old housekeeper; but
it was a sad meal for Grace, and she soon hastened to her chamber to
weep and meditate on the change which had taken place in her absence,
and to think of what she ought to do.

It was the spring of the year--and when Grace arose from her bed the
next morning, and looked forth from the window of her little room, and
saw all Nature smiling with beauty, she felt refreshed; and as she gazed
on the beautiful flowers that grew beneath her window, and listened to
the songs of the birds, and the gentle murmurs of the little stream
which watered the garden, she felt that she had much to be thankful for,
and that good spirits were near to make her happy; and when she met her
old grandfather in the library, where it was the custom to assemble the
family for morning prayers, her eyes expressed the peace and devotion
which she felt; and while they partook of the repast prepared for them,
in the well-remembered breakfast-room, they talked over the trying
events of the past with humble resignation. Grace was very thankful to
find that she could, in various ways, make herself useful to her only
relation; and in arranging the occupation of her time, the garden was to
be under her care--to employ and amuse her as one of her principal
things; and in a short time, she had made so many improvements, that her
grandfather said it was quite a little paradise.

The rivulet, which flowed through the garden, had many flowers growing
on its borders; and here Grace delighted to ramble, for it reminded her
of other and happy days, when she had been used to gather the flowers,
with her little sisters, to make nosegays for her parents.

One day, when she was walking beneath the trees of the garden, she saw a
beautiful bird building its nest on one of the branches. This was a new
source of delight to her; and when the nest was finished, and a little
brood of beautiful birds were heard chirping in the trees, Grace thought
there was but one thing more she desired, and that was a pleasant seat
for her grandfather, where he might sit in the heat of the day, and
enjoy his nap, or read his favourite book undisturbed; so she built him
a bower, and planted the choicest flowers about it, and watered them
morning and evening, that they might grow and flourish; and while she
did so, she prayed that _good affections_ might grow in her own heart,
and expand like these flowers; and they did so, for, as she grew in
years, she grew in wisdom and love.

       *       *       *       *       *

Several years passed in this peaceful retirement and the care of her
good grandfather,--who was now quite old, and whose white locks and
feeble step reminded her that _he_ would be called to join those who had
gone before him. But for this she was prepared; for he had often spoken
to her of death--he had made this subject familiar to her, and he had
tried as much as possible to elevate her mind above the grave, that she
might think of her departed friends as near to her, and still living in
a more perfect state; and she knew it would be far better for him to go
and live with his heavenly Father, than to remain in this world, even
though they might continue to be very happy together; and when his last
hour on earth _did_ come, it was so full of peace and holy confidence in
the Saviour of man, that she was assisted to feel and say, "Father, thy
will be done;" and as she knelt by his bed-side to receive his blessing,
she felt conscious that ministering angels were present, and gently
removing his spirit from earth to heaven.

[Illustration]



SHELLS.


"Well, Henry, where have you been? I have not seen you this morning."

"I have been with papa, and he has given me this little box full of
shells. Look, mamma, how very pretty they are. Papa says they are found
in the sea, and that little fish live in them! Can fish live in these
very small ones, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear, a fish has lived in each of these little shells. I have
sometimes picked them up on the beach with the fish in them; but they
are generally washed on shore when the sea is rough, and the fish dies
and falls out of the shell before it is picked up; as fish, you know,
cannot live out of the water. Some day I will show you a very beautiful
shell, which I have in my cabinet; it is the shell of the paper
nautilus, which is a very curious little fish. I have heard that it was
this fish which first gave men the idea of building ships to sail on the
sea. These fish have two arms, or horns, which they put out of their
shells, and stretch a kind of skin across them, which makes a little
sail, just like the sail of a ship. They then stretch two more arms out
of the shell, which they use as oars or paddles; and when the sea is
calm they amuse themselves by sailing about on the water, and look very
pretty; but if a storm comes on, they draw in their horns and their
little sails, and sink to the bottom."

"Have you ever seen them sailing about, mamma?"

"No, Henry, I have not, because I have not been much on the sea; but
they are often seen by sailors, who, you know, are almost always at sea.
There are a great many curious fish in the sea, some very large indeed,
and others very small; about many of which I shall be happy to tell you
more at some future time."

[Illustration]



EMULATION.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HENRY AND HIS FATHER.


"What is the matter, Henry?" asked Mr. Carey of his son, who looked more
sober than usual, one day, after his return from school.

"I don't feel happy," Henry replied, looking up into his father's face
with an effort to smile. "But I suppose it is my own fault, although I
can't help it."

"Has anything very particular happened?"

"No, sir. Nothing very particular. Only I've been next to head in my
class for a week."

"Next to head! Why, I thought you had been at the head of your class for
the last three or four months."

"So I have been until within a week. But, since then, do all I can,
Herbert Wellmore keeps his place above me."

"And this is the reason of your unhappiness?"

"Yes, sir."

"But do you think it is a just cause of unhappiness?"

"I always feel bad if I am not first in everything, father."

"Do you think it right to feel so, Henry?"

"Is it not right, father, for me to excel others in every way?"

"Yes, if it is in your power to do so; for then you can be more useful
than any one else. But, it seems that Herbert Wellmore can excel
you--and I suppose he does so fairly."

"Oh, yes. It is fair enough--and that is just what I don't like. It
shows that he can do better than I can."

"Then he will have it in his power to be more useful to his fellow-men
than you. And should not this make you glad instead of discontented?"

"I didn't think anything about that, father."

"So I supposed--if you had so thought, you would, probably, never have
been willing to have seen your school-fellow. But why does this
circumstance make you unhappy?"

"I don't like any one to get ahead of me."

"Why?"

Henry tried to determine in his own mind the reason, but was unable to
do so. Mr. Carey saw this, and added:

"Don't you think that selfishness has something to do with it?
Wounded self-love, I have before told you, is a frequent cause of
our unhappiness. Now, think again, and try if you cannot determine
the reason why you wished to excel all others in your class."

"That I might be thought to be the smartest boy in it, I suppose."

"Would you not call that a mere selfish feeling?"

"I suppose so. And yet ought I not to try and keep ahead?"

"Certainly, as I have said before. But you should not feel the slightest
pain if another boy excels you fairly. Suppose every boy were to be
disturbed in mind, as you have been, because other boys were in
advance;--don't you see that every boy in a class, but one, would be
unhappy? And would that be right? None of us, my son, have minds alike.
This, you know, I have before explained to you, and also the reason why
it is so. Now, do you remember that reason?"

"It is because in society there are various uses, all requiring a
different order of talent. Is not that the reason?"

"Yes, my son; that is the reason, and I am glad you have remembered so
correctly what I told you a few days ago. From this you may see that
there is always something that one person will be able to do better than
another; and, of course, one kind of knowledge that he will be able to
acquire more easily than another. Have you not, yourself, noticed, that
while one boy excels in penmanship, another, who cannot learn to write
even a fair hand, will far outstrip this one in arithmetic?--and a
third go ahead of the other two in acquiring a correct geographical
knowledge?--A fourth delights most in the study of navigation and
surveying, while a dull boy, in almost everything else, can acquire a
knowledge of chemical laws more rapidly than any in his class. You have,
of course, observed all this?"

"Oh, yes, frequently. There is Thomas Wiley, for instance, who, in
spelling, reading, and writing, is always behind every one else; and yet
no one can answer more questions in geography, or project so beautiful a
map, as he can. Charles Lee has no trouble at all with the hardest
question in algebra; but is deficient in grammar, and hates his Latin
and Greek more than any punishment or reprimand the teacher can give.
And, now I think of it, I don't know any two boys in school who are
alike in regard to learning their lessons."

"Do you not think that it would be very foolish in Thomas Wiley to make
himself unhappy because he could not write so pretty a hand as you do?
Or for Charles Lee to forget all his skill at solving algebraic
problems, in making himself miserable because he was behind another boy
in Latin and Greek, whose mind was peculiarly fitted for the acquirement
of language, while his was not?"

"I certainly think it would, father."

"Then bring this home to yourself. Is there no one thing in which you
can excel Herbert Wellmore?"

"Yes, sir. I can solve a problem in half the time it takes him to do it
in. But, then, he is always correct--and so gets as much as I do from
the teacher, who does not seem to take into account my superior
quickness."

"In this, I need hardly point out to you, my son, the selfish principle
that influences you. Instead of feeling grateful to your heavenly Father
for having given you the ability to work out a difficult problem with
half the labour it costs another, you are unhappy because this superior
ability is not praised, and you, in consequence, held up to view as
deserving of more commendation than Herbert; when, in fact, he is the
one who should be praised for his steady perseverance in overcoming
difficulties that are as nothing to you."

"I believe I have permitted myself to indulge in wrong feelings," Henry
said, after remaining silent for a few moments. "But I think you have
told me that emulation is not to be condemned."

"It certainly is not, my son. I would have you, as now, emulous of
superior acquirements; but, at the same time, aware, that in this
emulation there would be no jealousy or unkind feelings. Be first
in everything, if possible,--and yet willing to see others excel
you,--remembering, that in so excelling they will have the power to be
more useful to mankind; for the true power that resides in knowledge
is the power of doing good."

[Illustration]



A NURSE'S SONG.


    The voice of children is heard on the green,
      And laughing is heard on the hill;
    When my heart is at rest within my breast,
      And everything else is still.
    "Now, come home, my children, the sun is down,
      And the dews of night fall fast;
    Come, leave off play, and let us away,
      Till the morning appears in the east."
    No, no, let us play, for it is yet day--
      And we cannot go to sleep;
    Besides, in the sky, the little birds fly,
      And the hills are all covered with sheep.
    "Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
      And _then_ go home to rest."
    The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
      And all the hills echoed for joy.



THE SHEPHERD AND THE FAIRY.


A shepherd, who was of an unfortunately discontented turn of mind,--one
who was much fonder of reclining lazily on a sunny bank, than of viewing
his own lot on its sunny side--was one day moodily watching his flock,
wishing himself all the while its owner instead of guardian; in other
words, a happier man. His faithful dog lay beside him, and every now and
then licked the hand of his master, as it hung listlessly by his side,
and then looked up into his face, as if to read his thoughts. But the
shepherd was in no humour to stroke the shaggy hide of his friend,
Keeper--his envious musings having been diverted to the sleek coat of
his master's hunter, which had just bounded, with its wealthy rider,
over an adjacent hedge. The sullen tender of flocks was all at once
roused from his reverie by the small, silvery voice of a sprightly
little fairy.

"What ails thee, my good man?" said she, tapping his shoulder with her
wand; "you seem mighty melancholy. Have you met with any disaster?--lost
anything?--perhaps your wife!"

"No such luck."

"Or some of your sheep?"

"What should I care--they're my master's."

"Your purse, then?"

"Purse!" growled the shepherd, "no great loss, if I had, for it's always
empty."

[Illustration]

"Ah! I think I can guess what's the matter," said the fairy: "you are
wishing to be rich, and discontented because you are poor. But, prithee,
now listen to me. Once upon a time, when we fairies used to mix much
more with mankind than we do at present, we learnt many of their
pernicious customs; and seeing the high store they set by money, and the
uses to which they applied it, we (in an evil hour) resolved to have
money of our own. Nature had ready coined it to our hands, in the gold
and silver seeds of flowers, and these we stored up, and made our
circulating medium. Then came amongst us, envy, avarice, dishonesty.
Instead of being, as heretofore, the protectors of the beautiful
flowers, we became their ravagers; instead of the most benevolent and
happy little creatures in the world, we became a discontented,
malevolent, and restless race. We began to dislike our native dells and
dingles, and to haunt, more than ever, the habitations of man. We knew
well enough, however, that the cause of all our misery had been our
foolish imitation of their practices; and with a view to revenge, many a
sorry trick and mischievous prank did we delight to play them--as,
doubtless, you may have often heard. This, however, availed us nothing;
and, at last, growing tired of such profitless vengeance, we made up our
minds to return entirely to our shady recesses, and, what was better, to
our ancient habits. Truly, it cost some of us not a little to part with
our stores of golden treasure; but at last we all agreed to throw away
our money; and having then no further use for our purses, we hung them
up, as memorials of our folly, upon the most ugly and worthless weeds
we could discover, where you may even now behold them."

The fairy, as she spoke, pointed out to the shepherd some mean,
ragged-looking plants which grew beside him; and, sure enough, there he
saw suspended, the little triangular pods or purses, of which she had
been speaking.

They proved more useful to him than they had done to their former
possessors; for the common weed to which they were attached, could never
in future, cross his path, without reminding him of the lesson of his
fairy monitress; taught by which, he soon found that, in the enjoyment
of a contented mind, a light purse need not always make a heavy heart.

      NOTE.--Shepherd's purse, or wedge-shaped treacle-mustard, one
    of our commonest road-side weeds, varying greatly in the size
    and form of its leaves. "It flowers from spring to the end of
    autumn, and ripens copiously its triangular pole or pouches,
    whence its name,--distinguished from all other British plants.
    The root is tapering, and exhales a peculiar scent when pulled
    out of the ground. Small birds are fond of the seeds and young
    flowers."--[_Sowerby's English Botany._

[Illustration]



SIMPLE PLEASURES.


Far, far down in the pass of the Clara mountains I dwelt with my sister
Joanna. We lived with an old aunt, who took us home after our father's
death. She was not in good health, and so could not do much for us. We
were generally left to an old woman, who had the charge of us; but she
was a little severe, and a little sharp, and very deaf; so that we did
not have many pleasant days with her. Nevertheless, we tried to amuse
ourselves as well as we could. We had tamed a little rat, so that when
we laid a bit of sugar on the stone by the stove, he would come out and
eat it, while we stood in the other corner of the room. It is true that
we dared scarcely breathe, but yet we were a little flattered by his
confidence in us.

Bits of sugar were, however, in these times, rare treasures for us; and
not more than two pieces a week, could we have for the rat and for our
own eating. Sundays were great holidays for us, for then we had Cologne
water on the corners of our handkerchiefs, butter to our potatoes at
breakfast, and roast meat at dinner.

It was also among our pleasures that we could, twice in the week, walk
an hour in the court-yard. But, as people are seldom content with what
they have, we were not satisfied with our amusements; and when summer
arrived, and all the great people came out to their estates in the
country, we took great pleasure in the idea of making a country
residence for ourselves. We had sometimes followed the old woman to the
cellar, and we had observed a place in the corner, on which the light
struck from a certain air-hole, open towards the garden. There we
planted a pea, one fine morning towards the end of May. For three weeks
we went every day, and sought out the place, removing the earth a little
about it, to see whether the pea had not begun to sprout.

Our delight was great, when, on the twenty-fourth day, after the
planting, we saw a little swelling up of the pea, beautifully green and
very shy, just peeping up with an expanded leaf.

We danced round it and sang for joy. Near this plantation we then placed
a little pasteboard house, and before it a small bench, on which we put
some paper gentlemen and ladies. And no one can have a livelier
enjoyment in his country residence than we had in ours.

We lodged in a dark and very small room. But from my bed I could see a
little bit of sky in the morning, and the chimney of our neighbour's
house. But when the smoke rose from the chimney, and was coloured red
and yellow by the rising sun, under the dome of the blue sky, then I
thought the world up there in the air must be very beautiful, and I
longed to go thither.

I conceived a great desire to fly, and confided this wish to Joanna. We
made ourselves paper wings, and as these could not lift us up, we tried
whether they would not at least sustain us, if we let ourselves go,
without holding on to anything, from the stove, chest of drawers, or
whatever we had climbed up upon.

But besides that, we got many bruises in these attempts, we made such a
noise by falling to the floor, that it brought in the old woman, who
gave a hearty scolding to the clumsy angels. Meanwhile, we thought of
still another means of sustaining ourselves as we hovered over the
earth. We selected suitable sticks, which we used as stilts, and on
these we went round about the court yard, imagining all the time that we
were flying.

Would that we had been content with this! But the desire to know more of
the world without, threw us into misfortune. The house which we lived in
was situated within a court-yard, and was separated from the street by a
high wooden fence. A part of the enclosure was a garden, well fenced in
and belonged to a notary. He was a severe man, and we were much afraid
of him.

The temptation to evil came this time in the shape of a little pig. We
saw, one day, when we were passing our play hour in the court-yard, a
fortunate pig, who was enjoying himself in the most riotous manner in
this garden. Spinach, tulips, strawberries, and parsley, all were thrown
around him, as he dug with his snout in the earth.

Our anger at this was very great, and not less our wonder how the pig
could have got into the garden, as the gate was shut and the fence was
so firm. We looked about carefully, and at last discovered a hole, which
had been nearly covered by a few old boards placed against it, but which
the little pig had instinctively found out, and through which he had
forced his way.

We thought it of the greatest importance to get the pig immediately out
of the pleasure garden, and we could see no other means of doing so than
to creep through, in at the same hole by which he had made his way; and
now we hunted with great zeal our poor guide, and then put in order, as
well as we could, what he had scattered about.

We closed the hole in the fence with a board, but could not resist the
desire to let it serve us, now and then, as an entrance to this
paradise. As we did not mean to hurt, or even meddle with anything in
the garden, we thought it would not be wrong to take a breath of fresh
air now and then. Every Sunday, in particular, we crept in by the pig's
hole, which we always closed carefully after us. All around, within the
garden fence, there was a hedge of syringa bushes, which hindered us
from being seen from without.

However, it was very wrong in us to go into another person's garden
without leave; and we soon found that every wrong thing brings its
punishment with it sooner or later.

There was a little summer house in the garden, near that part of the
fence which separated it from the street. There were some bushes so near
that Joanna and I took the bold resolution to climb up by them, so as to
get on the roof of the summer house, and there to look over the fence
into the street. Thought, said, done.

Proud, triumphant, and glad, we found ourselves, after a quarter of an
hour's labour, on the much-promised roof, and richly were we repaid for
our trouble. We had a full view of the street. We saw, now and then, an
old woman with a milk-cart, sometimes a gentleman in a chaise, and when
we were in great luck, a lady with a parasol; and, still better, we had
even a distinct perspective of King street, and had the indescribable
delight of seeing a crowd of walkers and idlers, on horseback and in
carriages, passing by. The whole world seemed to be moving there. After
we had once seen this, we could not live without seeing it again.

One day,--I remember it as if it were yesterday,--one day we had taken
our high post, and were looking curiously upon the world in King street.
All at once we saw a stately rider on horseback, and directly after him
a pair of white horses, drawing a splendid carriage. That must be the
queen!--perhaps the king himself! Out of our senses with delight, we
began to clap our hands and hurra loudly. At the same moment we heard
the notary coughing in the garden. We were dreadfully frightened. We
wanted to get down quickly from the roof, and hide ourselves among the
trees; but, in our alarm, we could not find the right places for our
hands and feet. Joanna rolled like a ball over the notary's strawberry
bed, and I remained hanging by the chin to a great nail in the plank,
and screaming as if out of my senses. See! here is the scar by the nail,
it can be seen even now.----

These youthful adventures were related to amuse two little girls, who
were suffering under a disappointment, having been prevented from going
out to see an exhibition of fire-works. When their governess had reached
this point in her story, a more than delicate supper was announced, and
the children ran off to enjoy it, without stopping to inquire farther
about the scar on the good lady's chin.

(From the President's Daughters by F. Bremer.)

[Illustration]



THE ROBIN'S "GOOD BYE" TO LITTLE ARAMINTA.


                  ROBIN.

    Good bye, good bye! I'm going away!
      I'll come again next spring, clear!
    I scarce can find one leafy spray,
      On which to plume my wing, dear.

                 ARAMINTA.

    Dear Robin, are you going south,
      To pass the coming season?
    This chill air don't agree with you--
      You're ill?--Is that the reason?

    Your doctor thinks you cannot stay
      With safety in this climate?
    Advises you to travel? hey?
      (That word--how shall I rhyme it?)

                  ROBIN.

    I have no doctor. I'm as well
      As you are, Araminta;
    But I've relations at the south,
      With whom I pass the winter.

    We birds, that have no clothes or fire,
      Must fly this stormy weather;
    Good bye!--my friends are setting out;
      We always go together.

                 ARAMINTA.

    Stay just a moment! Tell me how
      You're going? _Wings_ will weary;
    And there's no steamboat in the sky;
      The way is long and dreary.

                  ROBIN.

    There's One above, who will not see
      A sparrow fall unheeded;
    He, 'Minta, will watch over me,
      And give me strength when needed.

    I'm going where the orange glows,
      Like gold, thro' the emerald leaves, love;
    I'm going where its richest rose
      The laughing summer weaves, love.

                 ARAMINTA.

    But tell me, Robin, how you'll find
      The route you want to glide on;
    There are no sign-posts in the air,
      Not even a road to ride on!

                  ROBIN.

    Ah, little one! I cannot err,
      With His true hand to guide me;
    His care is ever o'er my way,
      His helpful love beside me.

[Illustration]



THE BABY-HOUSE.


Are there any of you, my young friends, so young or so ignorant as to
believe that, if you might go to the beautiful toy shops, and had but
money enough to buy just what toys you fancy, you should be quite happy?

You have heard of Napoleon, the great Emperor of France, and perhaps you
have heard of his wife, the lovely Empress Josephine. She had a
daughter, Hortense, who was married to the King of Holland, Napoleon's
brother. The Queen of Holland had children, dearly beloved by their
grandmother Josephine. One year, as the Christmas holidays approached,
she sent for those artisans in Paris who manufacture toys, and ordered
toys to be made expressly for her grandchildren, more beautiful and more
costly than any that were to be bought. Her commands were obeyed--the
toys arrived in Holland at the right time, and on Christmas morning were
given to the children. For a little while they were enchanted; they
thought they should never see enough of a doll that could speak, wild
beasts that could roar and growl, and birds that could sing.

But, alas! after a few hours, they were tired of a doll that could say
nothing but ma--ma, pa--pa, of beasts that growled in but one tone, and
the birds that sang the same note. Before evening the toys were strewn
over the floor, some broken, all neglected and deserted; and the mother,
on coming into the apartment, found one of the little princes crying at
a window that overlooked a court, where some poor children were merrily
playing.

"Crying _to-day_, my son?" she exclaimed. "Oh! what would dear
grandmamma say?--what are you crying for?"

"I want to go and play with those children in that pretty dirt, mamma."

This story was brought to my mind last Christmas eve. I went to see a
very good neighbour of ours, Mrs. Selby, a carpenter's wife. The whole
family are industrious and economical, and obliged to be so, for Mr.
Selby cannot always get work in these times. He will not call them
_hard_ times. "It would be a shame to us," he says, "to call times hard
when we never go hungry, and have decent clothes to cover us, and have
health on our cheeks, and love in our hearts."

And, sure enough, there was no look of hard times there. The room was
clean and warm. Mrs. Selby was busy over her mending basket, putting a
darn here, a button in this place, and a hook and a eye there, to have
all in order for Christmas morning. Her only son, Charles, was very busy
with some of his father's tools in one corner; not too busy, though, to
make his bow to me, and draw forward the rocking-chair. I wish I could
find as good manners among our drawing-room children, as I see at Mrs.
Selby's. Sarah and Lucy, the two girls, one eleven, the other ten years
old, were working away by the light of a single lamp, so deeply engaged
that they did not at first notice my entrance. "Where is little Nannie?"
I asked. "She is gone to bed--put out of the way," replied Mrs. Selby.
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed the girls. "Well, then--have not you banished
her?" "Banished? No, mother--Oh! mother is only teasing us;" and they
blushed and smiled.

"Here is some mystery," said I; "what is it, Sarah?" "Mother may tell if
she pleases, ma'am," said Sarah. Mother was very happy to tell, for all
mothers like to tell good of their children.

"You know, ma'am, the children all doat on little Nannie, she is so much
younger than they--only five years old--and they had a desire to have
some very pretty Christmas gift for her; but how could they, they said,
with so little money as they had to spend? They have, to be sure, a
little store. I make it a rule to give each a penny at the end of the
week, if I see them improving in their weak point." "Weak point! what is
that, Mrs. Selby?" "Why, ma'am, Charles is not always punctual at
school; so I promised him that if he will not be one half minute
behindhand for a week, he shall have a penny. Sarah, who is a little
head over heels, gets one for making the beds and dusting neatly. And
Lucy--Lucy is a careless child--for not getting a spot on her apron. On
counting up Charles had fifty-one pennies Sarah forty-eight, and Lucy
forty-nine."

"No, mother," said Lucy; "Sarah had forty-eight, and I forty-seven."
"Ah, so it was; thank you, dear, for correcting me." "But Lucy would
have had just the same as I, only she lost one penny by breaking a
tea-cup, and it was such cold weather it almost broke itself."

I looked with delight at these little girls, so just and generous to one
another. The mother proceeded: "Father makes it a rule, if they have
been good children, to give them two shillings each, for holidays; so
they had seventy-five pennies a-piece."

"Enough," said I, "to make little Miss Nannie a pretty respectable
present."

"Ah, indeed, if it were all for Nannie? but they gave a Christmas
present to their father and to me, and to each other, and to the poor
little lame child, next door; so that Nannie only comes in for a sixth
part. They set their wits to work to contrive something more than their
money would buy, and they determined on making a baby-house, which they
were sure would please her and give her many a pleasant hour when they
were gone to school. So there it stands in the corner of the room. Take
away the shawl, girls, and show it to Miss----. The shawl has been
carefully kept over it, to hide it from Nanny, that she may have the
pleasure of surprise to-morrow morning." The shawl was removed, and if
my little readers have ever been to the theatre, and remember their
pleasure when the curtain was first drawn up, they can imagine mine. The
baby-house was three stories high--that is, there were three rooms, one
above the other, made by placing three old wooden boxes one on the
other. Old, I call them, but so they did not appear: their outsides had
been well scoured, then pasted over with paper, and the gum arabic was
put on the paper, and over that was nicely scattered a coating of
granite-coloured smalt. The inside wall of the lower room, or kitchen,
was covered with white paper, to look like fresh white wash; the parlour
and chamber walls were covered with very pretty hanging-paper, given to
the children by their friend, Miss Laverty, the upholsterer. The kitchen
floor was spread with straw matting. Charles had made a very nice
dresser for one side, and a table and a seat resembling a settee, for
the other. The girls had created something in the likeness of a woman,
whom they called a cook; the broom she held in one hand,--they had made
it admirably,--and the pail in the other was Charles' handy-work. A
stove, shovel and tongs, tea-kettle and skillet, and dishes for the
dresser they had spent money for. They were determined, first, to get
their _necessaries_, Sarah said, (a wise little house-wife,) if they
went without everything else. The kitchen furniture, smalt and gum
arabic, had cost them eighteen-pence--just half their joint stock. "Then
how could you possibly furnish your parlour and chamber so beautifully?"

"Oh, that is almost all our own work, ma'am. Charlie made the frames of
the chairs and sofas, and we stuffed and covered them." "But where did
you get this very pretty crimson cloth to cover them, and the materials
for your carpet and curtains?" The parlour carpet was made of dark
cloth, with a centre piece of flowers and birds, very neatly fashioned,
and sewed on. The chamber carpet was made of squares of divers coloured
cloth.

The cloth for the centre-table was neatly worked; the window-curtains
were strips of rich coloured cotton sewed together; the colours matched
the colours of the carpet. To my question to Sarah, where she had got
all these pretty materials, she replied, "Oh, ma'am, we did not buy them
with _money_, but we bought them and paid for them with labour, father
says."

These little girls were early beginning to learn that truth in political
economy, that all property is produced and obtained by labour. "Miss
Laverty, the upholsteress, works up stairs; we picked hair for her, and
she paid us in these pieces."

"The centre-table, bedstead, and chairs," said the mother, "and the
wardrobe for the bed-chamber, Charlie made. The bed-sheets, pillows,
spreads, &c., the girls made from pieces _fished_, as they say, out of
my piece-basket. The work was all done in their play hours; their
working time is not theirs, and therefore they could not give it away."

"I see," said I, looking at some very pretty pictures hanging around the
parlour and chamber walls, "how these are arranged; they seem cut out of
old books, pasted against pasteboard, and bound around with gilt paper;
but pray tell me how this little mamma doll was bought, and the little
baby in the cradle, and this pretty tea-set, and the candle-sticks, and
the book-case and flower-vase on the centre-table, and the parlour
stove. Charlie could make none of these things; you could not contrive
them out of Miss Laverty's pieces; and surely the three sixpences left
after your expenditure for the kitchen, would go very little way towards
paying for them."

"To tell the truth, ma'am," said Mrs. Selby, "the girls were at their
wits' ends. Miss Laverty could not afford to pay them money for their
work. I had got almost as much interested in fitting up the baby-house
as they, and would gladly have given them a little more money, but I had
not a shilling to spare. Sarah and Lucy laid their heads together one
night after they went to bed, and in the morning they came to me and
told me their plan.

"We have always a pudding-pie on Sunday instead of meat. 'Can't you,
mother,' said they, 'reckon up what our portion of the pie costs?--Make
one just large enough for you, and my father, and Nannie, and we will
eat dry bread, and then, with the money saved, added to our three
sixpences, we will get what we can.' At first I thought it rather hard
upon the children, but my husband and I talked it over together, and we
concluded, as it was their own proposal, to let them do it. We thought
it might be teaching them, ma'am, to have love, as one may say, stronger
than appetite, and work their little self-denial up with their love, and
industry, and ingenuity. Poor people, such as we, cannot do what rich
people can, for the education of their children. But there are some
things we can do, which rich people can't--our poor circumstances help
us. When our children want to do a kindness, as in this matter of the
baby-house, they can't run to father and mother, and get money to do it
with; they are obliged to think it out, and work it out, as one may say:
and I believe it is the great end of education, ma'am, to make mind,
heart, and hand work."

Again I looked at the baby-house, and with real respect for the people
who had furnished it. The figures on the carpet, the gay curtains,
tables, chairs, &c., were all very pretty, and very suitably and neatly
arranged, but they were something more,--outward forms, into which
Charles, Sarah, and Lucy had breathed, a soul instinct with love,
kindheartedness, diligence, and self-denial.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, I ask my young friends to compare the gifts of the poor carpenter's
children to those of the empress. Hers cost a single order, and a great
deal of money,--theirs, much labour and forethought. If the happiness
produced in the two cases, to both giver and receiver, were calculated,
which would be the greatest amount? And which, in reality, were the
richest--the rich empress's grandchildren, or the poor carpenter's
little family?

[Illustration]



FIDELITY AND OBEDIENCE.


"Isabelle: Isabelle! where are you?" but no Isabelle answered; and Mrs.
Howard, her mother, was just going to send some of the servants after
her, when Bruno, a large Newfoundland dog, rushed into the hall, and
caught hold of her dress in his mouth. He was wet, and seemed very
anxious for her to follow him; accordingly, Mrs. Howard called the
gardener, and followed Bruno, who seemed delighted.

There was a large pond at the foot of the garden, and it was towards
this that the dog ran; and as they were proceeding along, a suspicion
entered the mother's mind, which caused her to hurry forward; need I say
that it was of her child she thought--her darling Isabelle? Soon they
reached the pond, and there, on the bank, lay her daughter; but her eyes
were closed, and her cheeks so white that she seemed dead. Mrs. Howard
uttered a shriek of mingled joy and anguish--joy, that she was out of
the pond, and fear that she might not live.

She sprang forward and raised her from the ground--she put her hand on
her child's heart--and, oh! happiness! she felt it beat. Isabelle was
immediately carried home, and a physician was sent for, and he said that
she was not hurt in any way,--that fright, only, had caused her to
faint.

Bruno, the faithful Bruno, was given to Isabelle for her playmate and
protector; and often might the two be seen bounding over the lawn, and
through the meadows; and when the little girl was tired, Bruno would
seat himself under the shade of some tree, while Isabelle would make him
her pillow, and when she was rested, away they would run again. But this
was on holidays; for Isabelle was a studious little girl, and did not
spend all her time in play.

I suppose my little readers are all this time wondering why I do not
tell them how Isabelle came to fall into the pond: I must beg pardon for
my neglect, and repair the error by telling them. Well, Isabelle had
leave to play in the garden with Bruno, and, as she was rambling by the
pond, she saw a beautiful tuft of blue violets; and as she knew her
mother was very fond of violets, she wished very much to get them for
her; and though she had been told never to walk near the edge of the
banks, she thought she should be able to get the flowers without danger;
but in reaching for them, her foot slipped, and she fell over into the
water.

Bruno immediately plunged in, and brought her safe to the bank, as we
have seen; but Isabelle learnt a good lesson, which she never forgot,
and that was, obedience to her parents; for with obedience to their
commands, they will be always more pleased and happy, than with the most
lovely flowers in the field.

[Illustration]



BESSIE LEE.


In an old school-house in one of our rural villages, one beautiful
summer's day, a group of merry children were assembled. Some were
hurrying with their lessons, while others were turning listlessly from
their books to gaze with anxious faces upon the clock, which ticked
loudly (and very slowly on this particular day) in the corner. An
afternoon holiday had been promised, and an excursion to a not far
distant wood, for the purpose of gathering berries. No wonder, then, all
looked pleased and happy.

At length, the long-wished-for hour arrived. A waggon appeared at the
door to convey the younger children and the basket to the entrance of
the wood, and the elder scholars tripped gaily on--each one with a
well-filled basket in hand to contribute to the repast "under the
greenwood tree." It was not long ere they reached the wood.

"Oh, how cool!" one exclaimed, as the breeze sighed through the trees
and rustled the green leaves; "and how shady!" another cried, as she
walked beneath the spreading branches.

Near the entrance of the wood, meandered a clear stream, and the soft,
rich grass sloped gently to the bank, while the branches of an old elm
tree fell partly on the water, and formed a fairy-like nook; and here
the children stopped,--'twas the very spot for their feast, before they
gathered their berries. The baskets were quickly opened, and the
contents spread upon the mossy bank. But who was to do the honours of
the table? Their choice quickly fell upon a beautiful girl, the daughter
of the minister. Bessie Lee was indeed beautiful; her golden hair
clustered round her face, and her eyes, of the colour of the noonday
sky, shaded by their dark lashes, gave an unusually lovely expression to
her countenance;

    "And her laugh, full of life, without any control,
    But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul."

No wonder, then, she was loved by all--rich and poor, young and old. A
wreath of wild flowers was twined by the happy subjects, and the lovely
queen was crowned. And then they separated to gather the berries, going
in different directions, but intending to meet by the spring ere they
returned home.

Bessie hurried eagerly on towards the interior of the woods, but she
went not alone; her cousin, Harry Morton, about her own age, accompanied
her to help to fill her basket. Hand in hand they wandered, ever and
anon stopping to gather the clustering berries, or the bright flowers,
that grew in their path. They heard the voices of their companions, but
soon the sound died away in the distance. Yet they pressed on,
conversing gaily;--but the baskets were filled, and should they not
return, asked Harry of his cousin. She looked up,--the sun was shedding
his declining rays through the trees, and the woods were flooded with
golden light.

"I did not know it was so late," exclaimed Bessie: "we shall be missed,
and our schoolmates will be waiting by the spring; we shall have to walk
fast."

They turned to retrace their steps and hastened on. "Surely," said
Henry, "this is not the way we came; the trees are closer together, and
I do not see the big chestnut we said we would have for a landmark."
"Oh," cried Bessie, "that is farther on; it was just where the two roads
met;--we shall soon be there--don't you think so?" The poor boy did not
answer; he felt that they had lost their way, and he feared to tell his
cousin, for timid as a fawn she had always been.

"Are you tired, Bessie?" He looked into her face; the flush of hope had
disappeared, and her faltering steps could scarce support her. He
placed his arm around her slender waist; "Lean upon me, cousin; you are
fatigued."

"Oh, Henry!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears; "we are lost; and my
poor mother, how will she feel? We shall never see her again; we shall
have to stay in this dark place all night--and the bears and lions--oh,
what shall we do?"

"Do not cry, dear cousin; there are no wild animals here now; there is
nothing to hurt us here. The woods in this part are free; and don't you
know what we read this morning,--there were no lions in this country?"

And so he tried to comfort her, and poor Bessie dried her eyes and tried
to smile. "We are like the 'Babes in the Wood,' Harry; only I am afraid
there are no pretty robins who will cover us up with leaves, and watch
over us."

The last rays of the sun faded away, and the golden-fringed clouds
melted into blue. The full moon rose high in the heavens, and the bright
stars shone calmly down on the lost ones. Exhausted, the cousins sank
upon the grass, under an old tree, whose friendly branches stretched far
and wide to shelter them.

"I can go no farther," cried Bessie; "my head aches, and I feel so
tired. Oh, if I could only see mother,--she will be so frightened. Do
you think any one will come to find us?"

"Do not feel so bad," said Henry; "nothing will hurt us. God will take
care of us, and it will soon be morning, and then we can easily find
our way out of the woods. Your father will send some one for us, or he
may come himself, who knows?"

"Hark!" cried Bessie, springing to her feet; "did you not hear a noise?
Something rustled in the grass; I am sure it was a snake." She clung
closer and closer to Harry, and it was with difficulty he could soothe
her. He told her how groundless were her fears; that a protecting
Providence watched over them, and they would not be harmed.

He wrapped her shawl closer around her, for the night air was chilly to
her tender frame. "The soft grass shall be your bed, Bessie, and I will
watch over you; but first let us say our evening prayer, just as if we
were at home." Together the cousins knelt down and offered their humble
petition to the Most High, and then they lay down on their mossy bed to
sleep,--Bessie, with her head pillowed on the breast of Harry; his arm
supported her, and so they slept. Sweet visions of home haunted their
dreams, and their parents' loved faces smiled upon and blessed them.

It was morning; the sun was just rising, and a faint light was diffused
through the trees, and the birds were carolling forth their matin songs.
Bessie still slept--the innocent sleep of childhood. Henry lay in the
same position, for he would not disturb her. For hours he had lain
listening to every sound.

At length Bessie awoke; she looked around,--"Where am I?" were the first
words that escaped her lips. She looked at Henry. "Oh! I remember now;
we have been here all night. Do you think we shall get home to-day?"

"Oh, yes;" said her cousin, gaily. "I am so glad you have rested so
well. We will soon set out, and perhaps we shall get home to breakfast.
But eat some of the berries, Bessie, and then we will try to find our
way out of the wood."

She tasted the berries, but pushed them aside. "I cannot eat; I feel,
Harry, if we do not soon get home, I shall never eat again."

"Oh! do not grieve so, dear, dear Bessie. Look, the sun is shining
brightly through the trees; so _that is_ east, and you know the woods
lie west of the school-house; so we will walk towards the sun, and then
we will soon see dear home." He placed his arm carefully around her, and
they set out, her steps still faltering.

Mile after mile they thus walked, for they had wandered far the
preceding night. At times the trees grew thinner, and they would
congratulate themselves they were almost home; but then again they could
hardly find their way through the overgrown path.

"I cannot go much farther, Harry; for my head throbs almost to bursting,
and I am so dizzy, I can hardly see." Bessie stopped and leaned for
support against a tree; her hat fell back and revealed her face deadly
pale. Poor Harry gazed upon her in despair. What if she should die there
in the wood, away from all that loved her? The thought was agony,--the
scalding tears started to his eyes. He took hold of her hand; "Bessie,
speak to me; lean upon me--we will soon be home, only think so."

At that instant, a plunge was heard in a neighbouring bush. Bessie, too,
heard it; it recalled her fleeting senses. She looked up,--a beautiful
dog came bounding towards her. She stretched out her arms; "'Tis Carlo;
dear, dear Carlo!" The dog crouched at her feet. She stooped to embrace
the animal--the tear-drops glistened in her eyes and fell warm upon the
faithful creature. "Oh, Harry! he has come to save us; we shall see home
once more."

But she was too weak to walk, and how was he to bear her home?
Delicately formed himself, and worn out with fatigue and watching nearly
the whole night, he could scarce bear his own weight. Carlo bounded
gaily on, inviting them to follow. A voice was heard in the distance,
calling on their names,--"Bessie! Harry!" He tried to answer, but his
voice was low and feeble. "Bessie, let me help you; I hear voices; let
us try to meet them; I will support you." He raised her from the ground
and tried to bear her on. The voices approached nearer and nearer;
again he essayed to answer,--this time he was heard. They saw some one
coming rapidly towards them, and recognised Bessie's father. He hurried
on, and received the almost insensible form of his child in his arms. He
was accompanied by some of his neighbours, who supported Harry home.
Scarce half an hour elapsed, ere Bessie was laid in her mother's arms.
Carlo, half maddened with joy, frisked and gambolled round them. In vain
poor Bessie tried to tell her story, but tears and sobs choked her
voice.

They had wandered very far into the woods. On the return of their
schoolmates without them, the anxious father, accompanied by some kind
neighbours, had spent the night in search of them; but had been unable
to trace them, and returned wearied and alone. Another party had
immediately formed, and the bereaved father had insisted on again
accompanying them. Carlo, Bessie's little favourite, had followed, and
it was the instinct of the faithful animal that led the father to his
children. And now they were safe in their own loved home; and many a
fervent prayer of thanksgiving for the recovery of the lost ones
ascended that night to heaven, from the humble dwelling of Pastor Lee.



THE STARS.--ORION.


"O Father," said Rollo, looking up; "look at the sky; see how full of
stars it is."

The sky was indeed very full of stars. The galaxy, or the milky way, as
it is sometimes called, was very bright. Rollo looked at the stars a
moment, and then he got into the sleigh. His father advised him to take
a seat with him, behind; but Rollo said he wanted to sit with Jonas, and
see the pond, when they came to it.

"I am afraid you will be cold," said his father.

"No, sir," said Rollo; "I don't think it is cold."

So Rollo took his place, by the side of Jonas, on the front seat, and
they rode along. After going at a brisk pace for a few miles, they came
to the top of a hill, where the pond first appeared in sight. It looked
like a great level field covered with snow. They could see a dark line
winding along in a gently-serpentine direction across the surface of it.
Jonas said that this was the road they were to take in crossing the
pond.

The horse went rapidly down the hill, and before long they were upon the
pond. There was not much wind, but a light breeze blew keenly towards
Rollo's face, and made his nose and cheeks cold. So he said he meant to
turn round towards his father.

His father proposed to him to come and sit upon the back seat; but he
said he should be warm upon the front seat, if he only turned round. So
he put his feet over the seat, and enveloped them in the buffalo skins
which were down in front of the back seat, and the buffalo skin which
had been before him, he threw over his shoulders, so that now he had a
very good place indeed. He could see, all around him, the shores of the
pond, with the lights in the farm houses on the land, and all the
constellations which were spread out before him in that quarter of the
heavens at which he was looking.

"O father," said Rollo, "I see three stars all in a row. I wish I knew
the names of them. Could you look round and see, father?"

"Why, not very well," said his father. "I cannot look round, I am so
muffled up."

Rollo, being seated on the front seat, with his back to the horse, of
course was looking at that part of the sky which was behind the sleigh,
so that his father could not see the constellation in that quarter of
the heavens.

"Let me see," said his father; "we must be going nearly west, so that
that part of the sky is the eastern part. Orion must be rising about
this time. Perhaps the stars which you see are the stars in the belt of
Orion."

"In the belt of Orion?" repeated Rollo.

"Yes," said his father. "The most beautiful constellation in the sky is
Orion; and early in the winter it rises in the evening. Orion was a
hunter, and he has a belt: and in his belt are three beautiful stars,
all in a row."

"Well, father," said Rollo, "tell me some other stars that ought to be
near, if it is really the belt of Orion that I see, and then I will tell
you if they are there."

"Very well," said his father. "If they are the three stars in the belt
of Orion, they lie in a line one above the other, not one by the side of
the other. I mean by that, that, if there was a line drawn through them,
and continued each way, it would be a line running up and down in the
sky, not a line extending from one side to the other."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo; "this row of stars is in a line up and down."

"And off on each side of the little row of stars are two other bright
stars, on each side."

"How far off, sir?" said Rollo.

"About twice as far, I should think, as the little row of stars."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo; "I see one of them. Yes, I see them both. One is
on one side, and the other is on the other side."

"Yes: then I have no doubt it is Orion that you see. One of the stars
that you last found is in his foot, and the other is in his shoulder."

"I wish I could see his shape," said Rollo, "all drawn out in the sky."

"It would be very convenient, I have no doubt," replied his father.
"Pretty near the lowest of the three stars in the row, there is a faint
cluster of stars, towards the south."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo; "I see them."

"They are in Orion's sword," said his father.

"I see them," said Rollo.

"Now, look at all the stars in the constellation again, and notice
how they lie in respect to each other, so that you will know the
constellation when you see it again."

[Illustration]



THE APPLE.


Little Anna bent over a quiet brook, and smiled with pleasure at what
she saw there. A beautiful living picture was reflected from the clear
water. There, bright clouds seemed to sail slowly along, through the
clear blue sky, and the leaves of the trees seemed to flutter in the
soft summer air. In the midst of these pleasant appearances stood the
image of a beautiful little girl, with laughing blue eyes and brown
curled hair, which hung down over her white frock, as she stooped
forward, as if to look back upon Anna, with a good-natured smile.

While Anna was looking and wondering at the beauty of this picture, an
apple fell with a rush into the water, and spattered her face with small
water-drops.

"What is that?" said she, wiping her eye-lashes with her little hand.
"Oh, it is an apple, covered with bright red cheeks. It is swimming off
down the brook, but I will see whether I cannot stop it." She broke off
a blue iris, with a long stem, and after trying many times, she at
length drew the apple to the shore, and taking it up with a smile, she
turned it round and round, to look at its red streaks.

"Little apple!" said she, with a soft voice, "little red striped apple.
I should never have dared to break you from the tree, because the tree
does not belong to my father, but to good neighbour Ackerman; but a kind
wind has blown you down, into the brook, and now that I have drawn you
out with the flag blossom, would it not be best for me to try whether
you are as good as you are pretty?"

She sat down on the grass, under the tree, and after she had wiped the
apple, she ate it with a very good relish.

Before she had finished, another apple fell directly into her lap. She
wondered very much at this last wind-fall, but was much pleased, and
thought it still more beautiful than the first. Soon after, a twig fell
into her lap, with three apples upon it. Much astonished, she looked up
to the tree, and among the thick boughs she saw little Fritz looking
down upon her with roguish eyes. He was a bright boy, but he loved
mischief better than work or study. He had gone to the garden of
neighbour Ackerman a little before Anna, not to look into the brook, but
to climb the tree where the sweet red apples grew. He saw Anna looking
into the brook, and mischievously threw an apple to disturb the water.
He was very much amused to observe Anna's surprise, and her innocent
belief that the wind had broken off the apple, although it was a calm
summer day, and no air was stirring.

When Anna saw Fritz in the tree, she understood what made the apples
fall. She grew almost as red as the apples, and cast down her eyes.

Fritz longed to talk with her, but did not know how to begin. At length
he said,--

"Was it good, Anna?"

Then he slid down the smooth stem of the tree and stood close beside
her, but he did not know how to begin a conversation there, any better
than he did in the tree.

Suddenly, farmer Ackerman appeared from behind a clump of bushes, and
looked earnestly at them. He was an old man, and was much loved and
respected by all his neighbours.

Anna and Fritz coloured and looked frightened. They would have slipped
away, but he called to them,--

"What disturbs you so, my little ones? What must I understand from those
eyes, which turn away from mine, the sudden colour of your cheeks, and
these unquiet doubtful looks? Did you come under my apple tree to enjoy
the cool shade, or were you enticed by the apples?

"I am not surprised to see Fritz here, but you, Anna, whom I have always
considered so innocent, how could you encourage this little rogue to
rob my tree, and receive the apples after he had stole them?"

Anna made no answer, but the tears rolled down her cheeks, and her bosom
swelled with grief. Fritz could not bear the sight of her distress.

"She has done nothing wrong," said he; "I am the only one to blame."

He then told the farmer how it had all happened, and confessed his
dishonest intentions in climbing the tree. The farmer kindly said, "A
fault confessed is half amended." He then wiped little Anna's eyes, with
the corner of her apron, and gave her the handsomest apple he could find
on his tree. Anna thanked him, with a sobbing voice and said, "If I see
another apple in the brook, or in the road, I will not touch it till I
know whose it is, and how it came there!"

[Illustration]



THE NEW SINGING SCHOOL.


    Do re mi fa sol la si do,
    Do si la sol fa mi re do.
    Come, begin and follow me,
    'Tis down upon the board, you see;
    Young ladies turn your heads this way,
    Look on the board, the board, I say!

                  PUPILS.

    Do mi re fa sol si la do,--

                  MASTER.

    Stop! now is that the way you'd go?
    Where are your eyes and ears to-night?
    Cannot you sing two notes aright?

          A SWALLOW ON THE EAVES.

    What is the matter down below?
    What dreadful clatter, do you know?

              SWALLOW'S MATE.

    It is a singing school, my dear,
    There's do re mi, pray don't you hear?

                 SWALLOW.

    Is that the way folks learn to sing?
    I ne'er imagined such a thing.
    Ah me! why what a time they make!
    They really make my ear-drums ache;
    Why, what a dreadful noise they keep--
    They waked me from a nice sound sleep.

                  MASTER.

    Beat! beat your time, and mind the board,
    Was such a discord ever heard?
    Put up your chestnuts, boys, and beat,--
    You did not come to school to eat.
    Come, if you can't sing do re mi,
    Follow as I sing one, two, three.

                   BOYS.

    One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,--
    He! he! he!--eight, nine, ten, 'leven.

                  MASTER.

    Boys! mind your manners, or go home,
    And learn them ere again you come.

                  PUPILS.

    One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

                  MASTER.

    Why, really, now you've sung it straight;
    Now answer, if you can, and tell,
    What is the first note in the scale?

                 FIRST BOY.

    Don't know,--b'lieve 'tis h or i.

                  MASTER.

    Shame! I should think the seats would cry,
    "Shame on you!"

                 FIRST BOY.

      Well, I know that I
    Was, am, and will be, number one;
    And 'tis by that the scale's begun.

                  MASTER.

    And now the third?

                 SECOND BOY.

    The third is mi.

                 FIRST BOY.

    It is not me then,--He! he! he!--
    'Tis you, not me, I'm third to none,
    I'll be always number one.

                  MASTER.

    Take care, boy, how you jest with me;
    Again, what note is number three?
    Now do the best that you can do.

                 FIRST BOY.

    I rather think 'tis w.

                  MASTER.

    Sirrah! you know, and know full well,
    There's no such letter in the scale.
    The third note is the letter e,
    And, mind, the syllable is mi.

                 FIRST BOY.

    _Me_, is it? Oh, if that be true,
    Then, I am sure 'tis double _you_.

                  PUPILS.

    Ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! he! he!

                  MASTER.

    Oh, Apollo, pity me!--
    Young Miss, I've not yet heard you sing,
    Have you a cold, or anything?
    "Don't know?" Oh, you feel bashful; boys!
    Look on your notes, and stop that noise.
    Do mi sol do, do sol mi do.

                  PUPILS.

    Do mi sol do, do sol mi do.

                  MASTER.

    Out of tune is the way we go;
    I'll sing, and in Apollo's name,
    Now try if you can do the same.

                 SWALLOW.

    Oh, were it day, and I on wing,
    I would teach them how to sing;
    But this is shocking; even twitter,
    Twit, twit, twit, were surely better.

          CHORUS OF YOUNG SWALLOWS.

    Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit!
    Boys and girls have little wit.

                 SWALLOW.

    Do hear our young ones, how they sing!
    They find it quite an easy thing.
    They ne'er beat down, up, hither, thither,
    And never saw the blackboard, neither.

                  MASTER.

    And now you have sung one, two, three,
    Perhaps you'll say your a b c;
    Come, say it,--c d e f g,--

                   BOYS.

    H i j k l m n.--

                 SWALLOWS.

    Oh, defend us! what a din?
    How hard they try to learn to sing
    'Tis really an amusing thing.

                  MASTER.

    Enough! enough! you may sing now
    "Old Hundred" once, then you may go.

             CHORUS OF SWALLOWS.

    That's pretty well, but might be better;
    Not so good as twitter! twitter!
    Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit!
    Boys and girls have little wit.

[Illustration]



THE BALLOON.


"Oh! brother, what is that?" exclaimed little Mary to her brother James.

"What do you mean, sister?"

"Why, that thing, away up in the sky,--what is it?" And Mary pulled her
brother by the arm as she looked up at the strange-looking object.

"Oh, that thing so far up in the sky; well, it is an odd looking
creature. I wonder if it is a bird; let us ask John the gardener;
perhaps _he_ knows."

"John! John!" cried both children at once, "what is that wonderful-looking
object, up there?"

John looked up very wise, shook his head, and looked again,--"Oh! it is
a _balloon_."

"Well, pray, sir, will you tell us what a balloon is made of," said
James, "and how it enables one to go up into the air so great a
distance?"

"The balloon is made of oiled silk, or of silk prepared with a solution
of India-rubber, made perfectly air tight, and is filled with air,
lighter than the common air we breathe."

"But where can this air be obtained?" said James.

"There are many ways of obtaining it, but the easiest is to go to the
gaslight company, and purchase as many gallons as may be wanted to make
the balloon rise."

"This is, indeed, curious," said Mary; "I never thought air was bought
and sold."

"What is the _use_ of a balloon?" asked James, who was very fond of
asking questions about everything.

"I don't know that it is of _any_ use, at present," replied John, "but
it may possibly be made of use at some future time."

"I should like to go up in it," said James; "it must be so beautiful to
sail through the air, and look down on the cities and villages, and
green fields, and woods."

"Oh, dear!" cried Mary; "_I_ should not like to go;--only think, we
might fall out."

"Well, sister, I don't think there is much chance of our ever trying it,
though I should not be afraid. But let us go and inquire further about
the matter, for it is certainly a very wonderful affair. I dare say
father will be able to tell us a great deal more than John can, and we
may meet with some one who has been above the clouds in one of these
ærial cars or baskets."



CURIOUS LITTLE PAINTERS.


The next afternoon, when Catherine found her mother at leisure, she came
and stood close by her, and looked in her face for some time.

"What are you looking at me for, so steadily?" said Mrs. Nelson.

"I am trying to see the pictures in your eyes, mother; and don't you
remember, that you said you would tell me more about these curious
little painters, as you call them? Is it only that small dark spot in
the middle of your eye that sees?"

"That little place, my dear, is a sort of window, which lets in the
light that makes the picture upon the back part of the eye. It is called
the _pupil_, and it is what is meant by 'the apple,' which you recollect
being puzzled with in the Psalm that you read for your Sunday lesson. Do
you remember it?" After a while, Catherine said, "Oh, yes;" and repeated
this verse, "Keep me under the apple of thine eye, hide me under the
shadow of thy wings."

"By this little round window the light enters the eye, and passes
through to the back part of it, and represents there, upon what is
called the retina, everything that we see. So you perceive that if
anything happens to the pupil of the eye, no light can enter it, and we
should see nothing of all this beautiful and glorious world around us;
we should be in perpetual darkness."--"And now, mother, I understand the
Psalm; for it is necessary that these two little windows should be kept
very safe, as safe as we pray that God would keep us. But is that a
little hole in the eye, mother?"

"No, my dear, this precious part of the eye has a covering over it like
the chrystal of a watch; this is properly called the _cornea_, a Latin
word that means _like horn_, because it resembles thin horn that the
light can shine through,--as you may ascertain by asking the cook to
show you a fish's eye, and looking at this part."

"And is the eye all hollow, mother? or what is between the pupil and the
place on the back part of the eye where the picture is painted, that you
called--I forget what you called it, mother?"

"The _retina_, my dear, from a Latin word that means anything by which
another thing is _held_ or _retained_, as this part of the eye holds or
retains the picture of things. You ask me what is between the pupil and
the retina. There are in the eye three different substances, called
humours, all transparent. A transparent substance means anything that
can be seen through. The first one, directly back of the pupil, is
called the _acqueous_, from a Latin word, that means _watery_: it is a
thin liquid, like water. The second, behind that, is called the
_crystalline_ humour, from its clearness and brightness. It is formed
like the glasses they use in telescopes, and is fastened at the edge by
the delicate transparent substance that covers it, called a _membrane_.
The one beyond this, and next the retina, is called the _vitreous_
humour, from its resemblance to glass. All these substances assist in
forming the images of objects on the back of the eye; but you are not
old enough to understand how, at present, my child."

"Then, mother," said Catherine, "our eyes are as curious as grandfather's
telescope, or as the camera obscura, that he gave us to see pictures
with."

"They are far more curious my dear; and it is by imitating the eye that
they can make them so well. I remember, Catherine, when your grandfather
sent that camera obscura to you the other day, and your father showed
you the pictures in it, that you and Lucy and James capered about the
room with joy, saying, 'Oh, how good grandfather is to give us such a
beautiful thing!'--and now, my dear, when you go into a garden and dance
with joy at the sight of the flowers; when you look up with so much
wonder and delight at the beautiful moon sailing through the clouds, and
at the bright twinkling stars; when, after having been even one day
away from your father and mother, you feel so happy at looking in our
faces, and reading in them our love for you,--of whose goodness ought
you to think? Who has given you eyes to see all these delightful things?
Whom should you then love? Of whom then should you speak, and say, 'Oh,
how good He is?'"

Catherine felt and understood what her mother said, and answered her,
that it was God.

"I have yet much more, my dear," said her mother, "to tell you about the
eyes, that is very wonderful. This beautiful little round window grows
larger and smaller as you want more or less light. When there is a great
light, it contracts so as to take in but little; and when the light is
faint, it becomes nearly twice as large, so as to take in more."

"Why, mother," said Catherine, "how can that be?"

"Shut the shutter," said Mrs. Nelson, "and then look in my eye." She did
so; and she saw the pupil of her mother's eye grow larger and larger.
"Now open it," said her mother. She did so, and it gradually became
smaller. "Oh, it is very curious," said Catherine. "But, mother, is not
that pretty rim round the pupil of any use?"

"That is what it called the iris," answered her mother, "which is the
latin name for _rainbow_, I suppose from some fancied resemblance to
it. It is thought that by means of it the pupil of the eye is enlarged
or contracted. If you remember, my child, the pain you feel in your eyes
when you come from the dark suddenly into the light, you will understand
the use of this, and see what a beautiful contrivance it is. In the dark
your pupils become very large, so as to catch all the light they can.
When the light comes before they have time to grow smaller, they take in
more light than they can bear without pain.

"There is another thing that you never thought of. You know that if your
eyes were fixed fast, as your ears and nose are, you could only see
straight forward, or you would have to keep your head twirling about
continually. But the eye is set loose in the head, and surrounded with
little muscles, things with which we can turn it up, or down, or in any
way, just as we wish. You know how long it takes grandfather to fix his
telescope; but our eyes are ready, quicker than we think.

"You perceive, my dear, that this beautiful and curious thing, the eye,
is very delicate, and easily injured, and if anything destroys our
sight, it is a great calamity, and that the eye ought to be carefully
protected. And so you will find that it is. It is placed in a deep
socket, surrounded by bone, and lined with something very soft. It
shelves over on the upper part, so as to form the eye-bow, which is a
great protection to it. It is important that it should be kept clear and
bright, and there is a little vessel close to it, full of salt water,
called tears, to wash it clean, whenever we open or shut the eye; and
there is a little hole in the bone of the nose to carry off the water
after it has washed the eye. Then it has a nice cover, which we call the
eyelid, with a beautiful fringe on the edge of it to shut the eye up
tight, away from the dust and air when we do not want to use it: and
which, moves so quick, that it shuts up in an instant if anything
touches or alarms the eye. Indeed, it seems to be always employed in
watching over and protecting this precious instrument of knowledge.

"There is still another thing, my dear, to be remembered about the eye.
It is so made that sight is pleasant to it. The blue sky, the green
grass, the flowers, the rainbow, all give it pleasure.

"A baby, you know, loves to look about, though it knows nothing. Our
Father in Heaven has made it a great happiness to us merely to open our
eyes upon the beautiful world he has made."

After a short silence, Catherine said to her mother, "You told me that
these curious painters, as you call them, drew the pictures of
everything in that wonderful book that you described. How is that done,
mother?"

"All we know," answered Mrs. Nelson, "is, that the back part of the eye,
where the pictures are painted is connected with the brain, and that by
this means we become acquainted with the appearance of things."

                                    WELL SPENT HOUR.

[Illustration]



THE UPAS, OR POISON TREE.


This curious and wonderful tree is found in the forests of Java; the gum
which it yields is a rank poison, and, indeed, so strong and powerful is
the poison of this tree, that the effluvia from it prevents any tree,
plant, or shrub, from growing within ten or twelve miles of it. The
country is perfectly barren; not a living thing, or even a blade of
grass, is to be seen. The chiefs and grandees of the country poison the
points of their arrows and daggers with the poison of this tree; but as
it is certain death to approach the tree, the task of collecting the gum
is given to people who have committed some very wicked act, and are
condemned to suffer death. After sentence of death has been passed on
them, they are allowed to choose whether they will be executed, or go to
the upas tree for a quantity of the gum.

"If they were to ask me, mamma, I would go to the tree."

"Many of them do go, Henry; but I believe not more than two out of
twenty escape death. Before the criminals commence their journey, they
are furnished with a box for the gum, a pair of very thick leather
gloves, and a kind of leather cap, which is drawn over the face and
reaches down to the waist. They wear this cap to prevent them as much as
possible from inhaling the air, which, as I mentioned before, is
poisonous for some miles round the tree; there are two glasses fixed in
the cap, to enable them to see without removing it; they are usually
accompanied by a priest for the first three miles of their journey, who,
when he takes leave of them, blesses them, and informs them in which
direction they are to travel, and also advises them to proceed as
speedily as they can, as that is the only chance they have of saving
their lives."

"I should think, mamma, it would be much better to do without poison, as
it is only used to kill people."

"You are mistaken, Henry, in imagining that poisons are only used for so
bad a purpose. Some of our most valuable medicines are poisons; but
mixed with other drugs, and properly administered, they cure many
painful diseases. Many poisonous herbs are also used in dying different
colours. There is another poison tree, which grows in this country; it
is found in damp, marshy places, and resembles the ash. It never grows
very large. The wood of this tree is poisonous, if you either touch or
smell it, but it is not fatal; the effects of the poison go off in a day
or two. If a piece of the wood is put into the fire, the smell of it
will poison some persons, and cause them to swell and itch all over,
whilst others are not in the least affected by it, and can even taste
the wood without being hurt by it. It is as cold as ice to the feel, so
that if you take up a piece with a handful of other sticks, you would
discover it immediately. Little children should be very careful never to
pick or eat the berries of any tree. I have often heard of little boys
being very ill, and even dying, from having eaten the berries of trees
growing in the hedges, mistaking them for fruit."

[Illustration]



DISOBEDIENCE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.


"I want you to come over to our house, after dinner, and play with me,"
said Alfred Barlow, one Saturday morning, to a little fellow, named
Wilson Green. "Father has just put us up a swing. It is made with two
ropes tied to a limb of the great oak tree, and has a basket at the
bottom, big enough to hold two. And then we have got a good many other
things to play with. Won't you ask your father to let you come?"

"Oh, yes! And I'll come right away after dinner," said Wilson, full of
delight at the thought of spending an afternoon with Alfred.

When Wilson went home, he asked his father to let him go over to Mr.
Barlow's, and play with Alfred. But his father told him that he did not
wish him to go there.

This was a sore disappointment to the little boy. He did not ask his
reason why he refused to let him go; for this he knew would be of no
use. But he was so very desirous of going, that he soon began to think
about disobedience.

"He'll never know it," he said to himself, as he saw his father leave
the house. "He never comes home from the mill until night, and I can be
back long before that time."

Something whispered to Wilson that to disobey his father would be to do
a very wicked thing; but he quickly turned from the warning thought, and
in a little while determined that he would run over to Alfred Barlow's
for a short time.

Wrong as this was, Wilson so far forgot his duty to his parents, as
actually to go over to Mr. Barlow's very soon after his father had gone
away. Instead, however, of spending the delightful afternoon as he had
anticipated, he found all the family in much alarm for Alfred's little
sister, who had been taken very ill since morning. Of course, all
thoughts of play were banished from the mind of Alfred, who loved little
Anna very much, and could not be persuaded to leave her bed-side a
moment.

As soon as Mrs. Barlow found Wilson in the chamber of her sick child,
she told him that he had better run home, as the doctor feared that Anna
had the scarlet fever, and she did not wish any of her neighbours'
children to be exposed to the danger of taking it.

Slowly did Wilson Green leave the house in which he promised himself so
much delight, and turn his steps homeward with no very happy feelings.
He had disobeyed his father, deliberately, and got nothing for that
disobedience but an exposure to a terrible disease, of which he might
die.

When his father came home at night, he felt almost afraid to look at him
in the face. It seemed as if he must know all about what he had done.

"Wilson, come here, my son;" he said, in a serious voice.

And Wilson went up to him with a sinking heart.

"When I told you, at dinner time, that I did not wish you to go and see
Alfred Barlow," the father began, "I neglected to say, as a reason for
denying your request, that Doctor Ayres had mentioned to me that little
Anna was very sick, with all the symptoms of a dangerous attack of
scarlet fever. This dreadful disease is thought by many contagious, and
it was for this reason that I denied your request."

Wilson said nothing, but he was very unhappy. A frank confession of his
fault arose to his tongue; but, before he could make it, his heart
failed him. Not that he dreaded his father's displeasure so much as the
distress his act of disobedience would give him.

For more than an hour that night, did the unhappy boy lie awake, after
he had retired to bed, vainly regretting his act of wickedness and
folly. It is said, "of wickedness," for deliberate acts of disobedience
to parents are wicked. He was likewise troubled, lest he, too, should
be attacked with scarlet fever, and die--and all because he had not
obeyed his father.

On the next day, when he learned that the doctor had declared Anna
Barlow's disease to be really the scarlet fever, and her case a very bad
one, Wilson was more troubled than ever. How often did he wish that he
had been an obedient boy. But no sorrow could recall the act.

It was several days afterwards, when the boy's fears had nearly all
subsided, that he awoke one morning with a violent headache, a sore
throat, and a general uneasiness, with considerable fever. The day
afterwards, his skin became dry and burning, and his throat so sore that
he could swallow only with great difficulty. On the third day the
physician pronounced the case one of decided scarletina, or scarlet
fever, accompanied by some very alarming symptoms.

From that time for nearly two weeks the sick boy was conscious of little
more than great bodily distress. When the fever at last gave way, he was
just upon the brink of the grave. The slightest neglect on the part of
those who attended him with more than the care that a new-born infant
requires, would have proved fatal. But the skill of his medical
attendant, and the unwearying care of his parents, were the means of
saving his life.

About a week after the crisis of the disease had passed, when Wilson
could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, as his father sat by him, he
said, in a penitent voice, while the tears came into his eyes:

"I have been a very wicked boy, father; and that is the reason why I
have been so sick."

"How so, my child?" asked Mr. Green, in surprise.

"You remember having told me that I could not go over to see Alfred
Barlow, one day when I asked you. Well, I wanted to go so bad, that I
disobeyed you. I found little Anna Barlow very sick--so sick that Alfred
could not play with me. As soon as his mother saw me by Anna's bed, she
told me to go right away home at once. And so I did, without having had
any of the pleasure, to gain which, I had done what you had told me not
to do. It was the scarlet fever that Anna had, and no doubt I took it
from her. But I have been severely punished for what I did."

"Severely, indeed, my dear boy!" Mr. Green said, wiping a tear that came
to his eye. "But not too severely, if it prove the means of restraining
you from ever doing so wrong an act in future. To disobey your parents,
is to do yourself one of the worst of injuries. For if, in early years,
you are not obedient to your parents, you will not be truly obedient to
just laws when you grow up to be a man; nor, above all, obedient to GOD.
And if not obedient to Him, you never can be happy. It is not from any
selfish desire to command your obedience, that I forbid your doing
certain things at times. I have only your good at heart. I know, much
better than you can possibly know, the evil that you ought to shun--and
much better than you can know, the good effects which will be produced
in your mind by obedience. But I need not, I trust, say more now. You
have had a practical lesson that you can never forget, and which will, I
am sure, have upon you a most salutary influence."

"Indeed, father, I can never forget it," Wilson replied, with much
feeling. "No one knows how much I have suffered, in mind as well as
body, for my faults. From the hour I disobeyed you until this moment, I
have been unhappy. And I believe, until I had told you all, I should
never again have been happy."

"Repentance and confession are the only means of obtaining peace after a
wrong act," the father said.

[Illustration]



THE GAME OF WEATHERCOCKS.


The company arrange themselves, and give to the four corners of the
room, or the part of the park where they are playing, the names of the
four cardinal points. To avoid disputes, it is best to place the words
east, west, north, south, in writing, at the points agreed upon. One of
the players, and it should be a lively, gay person accustomed to the
game, takes the part of EOLUS. All the other players arrange themselves
in one or more rows. When it is possible, a lady should have a gentleman
on each side, and a gentleman, a lady. After having ordered silence,
Eolus points to one of the corners designated by name, it is no matter
which, and from which he means to have the wind blow. When the god of
the winds points one way, the company must all turn in the opposite
direction.

It is a party of WEATHERCOCKS, and consequently each one must turn his
back upon the wind, to show which way it blows. When Eolus cries
_south_, everybody faces north, and in the same way at all the points.
When he says _tempest_, everybody must whirl round three times, and come
back to the same place. At the word _variable_, they must balance them,
first on one foot, then on the other, until the god of the winds names
one of the four points. If he says _variable west_, then they vacillate
towards the east, but not rapidly, as most of the motions of the game
are made, for the wind is changeable, and often, as soon as they have
got round to a certain point, Eolus gives a shout which sends them all
round to another.

When the capricious deity is pleased to name a point directly opposite
to the one where the company is placed, they must all remain motionless.

It may easily be imagined that this opposition of order and motion, the
variety, the multiplicity of movements, must give occasion for forfeits
to be paid whenever a mistake is made. The game affords a great deal of
sport.



JAMES CARTIER.

AN EARLY TRAVELLER IN AMERICA.


James, or as he is commonly called, Jacques Cartier, was the first who
explored the shores of Canada to any extent, and the first to discover
the existence of that great river, communicating between the Atlantic
Ocean and the great North American lakes, the St. Lawrence. The Indians
called the river Hochelega, and told him that they had never heard of
any one who had reached its source.

Cartier sailed up the river, and anchored his vessels near the island of
Orleans, below the place where Quebec now stands. It was in the summer
of 1535, when he sailed up the river, and he found Orleans island nearly
covered with loaded grape-vines, from which circumstance, as well as
from the beauty, variety, and luxuriance of its vegetation, he named it
the Island of Bacchus.

All the early navigators to this continent were in search of a
north-west passage to India, by which they thought they might reach the
East Indian islands by a shorter voyage than that in use. They were
formerly obliged to sail along the coast of Africa, and around the Cape
of Good Hope, when they had still another, the Indian Ocean, to cross
before they reached China. This was a very long and a very dangerous
voyage, and they wished for a shorter one; and the learned men of those
days were of opinion that there existed a passage somewhere in North
America, which joined the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans together.

When Henry Hudson discovered the bay which bears his name, he thought
that he had found the desired object, and Cartier indulged the same
hopes, when sailing up the noble river Hochelega, which he called the
St. Lawrence, because he had discovered it on the day of the festival in
honour of the saint of that name, the 10th day of August. On the 15th,
he discovered the island now known by the name of Anticosti. At Bacchus
island he was visited by the principal chief of the neighbouring tribes,
whose name was Donnacona. The chief and his attendants were very
hospitable to the navigators, and in a solemn assembly he welcomed them,
in the name of five hundred of his warriors, to the shores of the
Hochelega. Donnacona had his residence and chief town at Stadacona,
which occupied part of the place where Quebec now stands.

Cartier had already made numerous and surprising discoveries; but the
great object of his expedition had not been certainly attained, although
he had strong hopes of ultimate success. Stadacona neither satisfied his
curiosity, nor limited his progress. The Indians informed him that there
was a town of much greater importance farther up the river; but when he
intimated his intention of visiting it, they were displeased, and
resorted to every artifice to divert him from his project. One of them
was very curious. The savages were themselves superstitious, and
imagined their visitors to be so likewise. They dressed up three men in
black masks and white dog-skins, with their faces blackened and great
horns on their heads. They were put into a canoe, with oars, in such a
situation as to be carried near the ships by the flowing of the tide.
Their appearance was awaited by the Indians, who lay concealed in the
woods. When the canoe neared the ships, the white men were harangued by
one of the three ugly creatures, who stood up in the boat; and as soon
as they reached the land, they fell down, as if dead, and were carried
off by the Indians into concealment. Some of the Indians immediately
came on board to Cartier, and, feigning the greatest consternation,
explained to him the meaning of what he had seen. Their god had sent
these three emissaries to signify that there was so much ice and snow,
in the far country, that whoever ventured there would surely perish.

Notwithstanding their predictions, Cartier determined to explore the
river farther, and, equipping two long-boats for the purpose, he
commenced his voyage. He was delighted with the scenery on both sides of
the river, and the natives cheerfully furnished him with what they could
procure to supply his necessities. At Lake St. Peter, the French were
much perplexed by the shallowness of the water, and their ignorance of
the channel. On the 2nd of October, 1535, Cartier effected a landing,
six miles from the town, below the rapids of St. Mary's, which were
becoming difficult and dangerous. Here they were met by more than a
thousand of the natives, who received them with every demonstration of
joy and hospitality, in return for which Cartier made them many simple
presents.

The next day, having engaged three Indians as guides, Cartier, with a
number of his own people, entered for the first time the Indian village
of Hochelega, which stood on the site of the present city of Montreal.
Cartier remained among these people for a short time, when the cold of a
Canadian winter began to approach, and he returned in his boats to St.
Croix, and afterwards to France. He came again to Canada, in the course
of a few years, with Roberval, but did not stay long, and returned to
France, where he soon after died.



ANSELMO'S ESCAPE;

OR, THE DOG SAINT BERNARD.

[Illustration]


In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a rich farmer, named
Pierre, with his wife Mary, and son Anselmo. When Pierre was very young,
he had been found, almost dead, in the snow, by one of the monks of St.
Bernard, and his dog; and he felt so grateful that, now he was rich, he
had sent to the Convent of St. Bernard for one of those large dogs which
are so famous for saving people that are lost in the snow; for Pierre
was a good man, and he wanted to have one of the dogs himself, so as to
be able to save any traveller who might have lost his way. So one of the
monks who had taken care of him brought him a little puppy, and he
trained it so well, that even in the first year he had brought home
several travellers; but the first life he saved was Pierre's own son,
Anselmo.

The little fellow had been sent across the hill to a distant village; it
was a clear, frosty day, and if he had minded what his mother had said,
and come home quickly, he might have been home long before dark; but
Anselmo did not think of this;--now he stopped to make snow-balls, and
roll them before him, till they were larger and higher than himself;
then he would push them over the rocks, and watch them, as they bounded
from one part to another, breaking to a thousand pieces on their way;
now he wandered from the path to follow the track of an Izard, that
perhaps had passed hours before, and that he well knew would never allow
him to come within sight of it. And so the time passed on, and when he
ought to have been there, he was not even half-way. When he did reach
the village, there were too many little boys ready to play with him, for
Anselmo to leave it soon; so that it was already getting dark when he
stood alone on the top of one of the highest hills between him and his
home.

The wind had begun to blow, and the snow was drifting around him; he
grew cold and frightened, and at last sat down and burst into tears.
Now, for the first time, he thought of all his kind mother had told him,
and remembered that in disobeying her, he had offended God. The longer
little Anselmo sat in the snow the more cold he became, until at last he
seemed to fall asleep--a sleep from which he would never more awake, had
not God, from whom he had asked forgiveness for his disobedience,
watched over him in the hour of danger.

Many hours before this, his mother had gone, again and again, to look
for his return, and now when the wind began to blow, and the grey light
of evening come on, she trembled to think that her child was alone on
the hills, with snow on every side.

Pierre had been away from home two days; he was to return that night.
And oh! how she feared it might be to find Anselmo gone, his little boy
lost to him for ever; for she thought that if he should miss the path in
the drifting snow, he would never find it again.

"Here, St. Bernard," said she to the dog, "go and find Anselmo; go and
seek for my child, my brave dog!" and she burst into tears, and threw
her arms round his neck. Well did St. Bernard understand her words; he
sprang from her hold, and darting through the door, was out of sight in
a moment.

The poor woman smiled. "It will be a comfort to him," she said, "to see
his good dog, and will cheer his heart and give him strength for the
rest of the way." Poor Mary! little did she think that already her boy
was stretched upon the snow, stiff and cold, and almost without life.

An hour had passed; but neither Pierre, Anselmo, or St. Bernard, had yet
returned. Again and again she wandered round the house and looked down
the path. At last a figure was seen, and as it came nearer, she saw it
was Pierre, and that he had his child in his arms, and that St. Bernard
was at his side. "Thank God! thank God!" she said; and she ran down the
hill to meet them. Anselmo is tired with his long walk, thought she, and
no wonder. Pierre must be tired too; I'll carry the boy myself. But as
she came near, she stopped; for a sudden fear seemed to have struck her,
and she covered her face with her hands.

"He is not dead, Mary," shouted Pierre; "he is better already; see, he
looks up to you," and the child tried to raise his hand, but it fell by
his side.

Anselmo was laid in a warm bed--they rubbed his hands and feet; and soon
he began to revive, and to look about him, and then to thank his father
and mother, and to tell them that he felt better.

After Pierre and Mary had knelt by the bedside of their child, and
thanked God for his mercy in restoring him to them, his mother for the
first time asked how it had all happened, and where he had been found.

Anselmo turned his face away, and for a moment did not answer; then he
said: "Mother had sent me to the village, and I staid too long there; I
had played by the way too as I went. So it was getting dark, and I lost
my way, and was cold long before I could reach home; so I sat down,
meaning to rest a little, and began to cry, but I do not know anything
after that. I think I remember feeling very sleepy, and I suppose I did
fall asleep, but I do not know; my father can tell you best, mother, for
he found me."

"No," said Pierre, "I did not find you, my dear boy; I was close to the
foot of the hill, thinking that I should meet you all well, and at home,
when I saw something moving on the snow; it stopped; and then I heard
St. Bernard's bark; it seemed wanting my help, and I hastened up the
hill. He was coming to meet me, his head high in the air; his step
through all the drifting snow was firm and sure, and I saw that he
carried a child in his mouth; but when he laid the child at my feet, I
saw it was Anselmo, my own son!"

"Then it was St. Bernard, good, kind, St. Bernard," cried the boy, "who
carried me all the way from the top of that high hill, for I am quite
sure it was there I sat down."

Whether this lesson cured the little boy of _loitering_ on his way, I
cannot tell. I hope and think it must have done so, but this I know, St.
Bernard became more than ever a favourite,--more than ever loved and
valued by the whole neighbourhood, and he continued showing his
wonderful instinct and bravery, in many ways.

[Illustration]



TO MY BOY TOM,

ON GIVING HIM HIS FIRST SPELLING-BOOK.


    Poor Tom, they're heathen Greek to you--
      Those curiously-formed letters;
    But you must learn them all, my boy,
     And break the dunce's fetters.

    Ay, there they stand, from A to Z,
      Like prophets sent on mission,
    To point the way in Wisdom's path
      With accurate precision.

    Or rather, they are like old nurse,
      Aiding the first gradation,
    The Alpha-_Bet_ and leading-strings
      To better education.

    And having totter'd, step by step,
      Till stronger grown in knowledge,
    Why, then, my boy, you'll run alone
      Through this, your infant's college.

    Ay, puzzle on--that's A, this B;
      Ne'er mind a few erratics:
    The big round O, and upright I,
      Will lead to mathematics.

    Your little book is just like life
      In its progressive stages;
    You'll find the spelling harder grow,
      As you turn o'er the pages.

    Two letters--three--and then comes four
      Then syllables united,
    Till six or seven in columns stand,
      To render you affrighted.

    But, having conn'd your lesson o'er,
      With true pronunciation,
    The task's performed, and you will gain
      A parent's approbation.

    Just so in life our troubles rise,
      Getting from rough to rougher,
    For man is like the grammar verbs,
      _To be, or do, or suffer_.

[Illustration]



SECOND STORY OF THE SEA.


The tea-table was cleared away, the shutters were closed, a bright wood
fire blazed on the hearth, and Captain Albert, with his family, were
seated round it.

"Now, father," said Edward, "tell us another story of the sea, if you
please. How did you get your ship out of the ice?"

"It was brought out without much exertion of mine," said his father. "If
you had been there, my son, you would have felt that all the power of
man could have done little to relieve us. The ice gathered around us
thicker and closer, the wind died away, and it was a dead, freezing
calm. The ship did not move an inch, and the thoughts of my mind
troubled me by continually bringing up an account I had read in my
youth, of a vessel which had been caught in the ice near the south pole
and all the crew frozen, where they stood on duty--

    "To the cordage glued the sailor,
    And the steersman to the helm!

"I began to feel as if we had little prospect of escaping a similar
fate, and looked about to see what part of the ship could be spared for
fuel, in case of necessity. I also examined the provisions and water,
and calculated how long they would last. My faithful crew were sensible
of the danger we were in, but uttered no complaint. The whales appeared
to understand our helpless condition, and came around us, as if in
mockery, dashing about the ice with their powerful flooks, and exulting
as it were, in showing us how much more they could do for themselves
than we could. One of them even ventured to rub his monstrous sides
against our ship.

"In this melancholy situation, Robert (spoken of in our first story) was
a valuable addition to our ship's company. He was a young man of bright
natural talents, and possessed a good share of wit and power of
imitation. Besides which, he had received an education much superior to
that of sailors generally. He was a fine singer, and had a great share
of good songs, so that he became the life of the whole ship. We had very
little to do, and the men were very fond of sitting down on the
berth-deck, among the hammocks, with a lantern in the centre, to hear
Robert give an account of himself, and relate the wonderful adventures
he had met with.

"After we had been some time in the helpless situation I have described,
one morning, about day-break, I was awakened from a troubled sleep by
the sound of a rushing wind, and rushing up, I went on deck. A violent
rain was falling, and the wind was rising at the same time, which is a
very uncommon circumstance. It blew in a direction to favour our escape;
and think, my dear ones, what was my joy and thankfulness, when I saw
the ice dividing before us, and leaving a broad, clear path, as far as
the eye could reach. The rain loosened the ice from the sails, and it
fell on the deck in thin sheets; the sails filled, and we began to move
rapidly toward home. Did I not tell you right, when I said Divine
Providence helped us out without much aid from us?

"We had prepared to tow the schooner (to which Robert belonged) behind
us, but considering that she would check the speed of our ship, and
feeling the necessity of making all possible haste to escape from the
regions of ice, I put three of our most capable hands into her, with
Robert, and directed them to follow my ship as near as they could. When
we were in the open sea, it was a pleasure to look back and see the
little craft clipping along through the waves, following on like a
greyhound in the chase, leaving ice and icebergs far behind.

"Our voyage home was prosperous and pleasant. The remembrance of dangers
and sufferings, made every blessing more thankfully acceptable, and I
hope we all returned better and wiser men."

[Illustration]



THE CHILD AT PRAYER.


As the Lady of Lindorf entered the chapel, she beheld a little girl,
of about eight years old, alone, and dressed entirely in black,
kneeling upon the steps of the altar. The child prayed so fervently,
that she paid no attention to what was passing by her. Tears were
streaming down her blooming cheeks, and her beautiful and innocent
countenance had an expression of melancholy resignation and pious
fervor beyond description.

The lady felt the sincerest pity and greatest good-will towards the
praying child. She would not disturb her in her devotions; and only when
the little girl arose did the lady approach her:--"You are very
sorrowful, dear child," she said softly; "why do you thus cry?"

"Alas!" answered the child, and tears flowed afresh down her cheeks; "a
year ago this very day I lost my father, and this day last week they
buried my mother."

"And for what have you prayed to God?" asked the lady.

"That he would take pity upon me," answered the child; "I have no refuge
but Him. True, I am still with the people with whom my parents lodged,
but I cannot stay there; the master has told me again that I must go
to-morrow. I have a few relatives in the town, and wish very much that
one or the other would take charge of me. The good priest, also, who
often visited my mother in her illness, and showed her a deal of
kindness, told them plainly that it was their duty to do so, but they
cannot agree among themselves which of them is to take the care of
bringing me up: nor can I complain, for they have many children, and
nothing but what they earn by their daily labour."

"Poor child! it is no wonder that you are sorrowful."

"I came here very sorrowful," replied the child; "but God has suddenly
removed all grief from my heart. I now feel comforted. I have no further
anxiety than to live ever after His will, so that He may take pleasure
in me."

The words of that innocent child, and the sincerity that appeared
through her tearful eyes, went to the heart of the noble lady.
She looked at her with the tenderness of a mother, and said "I
think that God has heard your prayer, dear little one; keep to your
resolution--remain ever pious and good, and be comforted, and you
will find help. Come with me."

The good child looked at the lady with astonishment:--"But where?" asked
she. "I must not; I must go home."

"I know the good priest who you said had been so kind to your mother,"
said the lady. "We will go to him, and I will arrange with him how to
help you."

Saying this, she took the child by the hand, who went joyfully with her.

The excellent curate, a man rather advanced in years, and of a venerable
aspect, rose from his writing-table on the approach of the lady. She
told him how she had just become acquainted with the child; and then
desired the little one to leave her with the curate, and amuse herself
in the garden awhile, as she wished to speak to him privately.

"My dear sir," said she, "I have a great desire to take this child, and
supply to her the place of a mother. My own children all died at a
tender age, and my heart tells me that I can love this little one.
Still, I wished to know whether you, who knew the parents well, would
advise me to do so. What do you say to it? I wish to mark my short
course on earth by some benevolent action. Do you think that the
benefits I mean to bestow on that child will be well conferred?"

The good man lifted his eyes to heaven, and tears of joy were glistening
in them, as, folding his hands, he said, "The holy providence of God be
ever praised! You could not, lady, do a greater act of mercy; neither
could you easily find a more pious, well-behaved, and intelligent child,
than the little Sophy. Both her parents were honest people, and true
Christians. They begun to give this, their only one, a good education,
but, alas! they did not live to finish it. I shall never forget with
what grief the dying mother looked upon this dearly beloved child, who
was sobbing upon her death-bed; with what confidence, nevertheless, she
looked towards heaven, and said; 'Thou Father in heaven wilt also be a
father on earth, and wilt give my daughter another mother: I know this,
and die comforted.' The words of the good parent are now come to pass,
and it is obvious that the Divine Providence has selected you, gracious
and worthy lady, to be this child's second mother: for this you were
called to this town--for this, God put it in your mind to visit His
temple before your departure. It is evidently his work; let his holy
providence be gratefully acknowledged!"

The worthy curate now called in the poor orphan, and said, "See, Sophy,
this kind and devout lady wishes to be thy mother:--this is a great
happiness that God bestows upon thee. Wilt thou go with her, and be to
her a good daughter?"

"Yes," answered Sophy gladly, and tears of joy prevented her saying
more. She thanked her benefactress with her looks, and kissed her hand
in silence.

"See, my child," continued the curate, "how God cares for thee: when
thy late mother was lying on her death-bed He had already conducted
thy second mother here, unknown to us, nor has He allowed her to
depart without having first found thee, and adopted thee. Know,
in this, His fatherly care;--love with all thy heart the good and
merciful God, who so evidently takes care of thee--trust in him, and
keep his commandments. Be as good and obedient a child towards this
thy new mother, which He has given thee, as thou wast towards thy
mother which is now dead, and then this kind lady will rejoice in
thee, and thou shalt prosper. One thing remember especially,--in thy
future life, sorrow and misfortune cannot be kept entirely aloof; but
when it does come, pray with the same child-like trust with which thou
hast been taught; and as God has helped thee now, he will help thee
again."

The child's relatives were now summoned, and made no sort of objection
to the arrangement; on the contrary, they were well pleased. Their
satisfaction was still more increased by the Lady of Lindorf's declaring
she would take Sophy as she was, and leave her mother's little legacy,
together with her own clothes, to them and to their children. Sophy only
wished for a few religious books as a remembrance of her mother, and
these were willingly granted to her.

Early the next morning the Lady of Lindorf departed for her castle,
accompanied by Sophy.

[Illustration]



THE CHILD ANGEL.


    "Come, come," said the bright angel,
      In a whisper sweet and low,
    "To yonder stream so lonely
      Together let us go."

    And the child made haste to follow
      The guide she could not see,
    For she said, "A sweet child angel
      Is whispering to me."

    The morning sun shone brightly
      Through the branches overhead,
    And summer leaves upon the ground
      Their dancing shadows spread.

    And still, upon the cool, green earth
      The trembling dew-drops lay,
    And fell in showers, beneath her touch,
      From every leaf and spray.

    Yet onward, onward went the child
      Without a thought of fear,
    For the voice of the sweet angel
      Still sounded in her ear.

    And now the path is hidden
      By branches bending low,
    And, pausing there, she listens
      To hear the waters flow;

    And from the opening blossoms,
      That smile beside her feet,
    She twines, with ready fingers,
     A wreath, for angel meet.

    The deep and waveless river
      Spread out before her lies,
    And she sees the fair child angel
      Look fondly in her eyes.

    One cry of joy she utters,
      Her arms extending wide
    To clasp the lovely phantom
     Beneath that treacherous tide.

    Weep not, thou childless mother,
      Above that beauteous clay,
    For the voice of blessed angels
      Has called the soul away.

    Think, when thy lips are pressing
      That pure and marble brow,
    In heaven thy own child angel
      Is living for thee now.



THE STORM.


You have heard of Switzerland, my dear young readers. You have heard
of its high mountains--its lovely streams--its pretty flowers--and
bright sunshine in summer. You have heard, too, of its deep snows in
winter--its frozen waters--and its fearful storms;--its beautiful
lakes--one moment calm, soft and bright--the next changed into furious
commotion, throwing its angry waters high into the air. There, many a
little boat, that had gone out upon its smooth waters, confident that
there could be no danger, has been lost, after struggling long and
fearlessly with the waves, and sunk to rise no more.

One night I stood alone upon a high rock, which projected over the Lake
of Lucerne, and saw what I have imperfectly described to you.

I had been on the mountains all day--a bright, beautiful day. I had
climbed the hills, where nothing was to be seen but grey stone; I had
passed on to others, and found them covered with lovely flowers--growing
in every spot where they could find any soil--and some large trees,
that, spreading wide their branches, allowed me often to sit down in the
cool shade to watch the gay butterflies around me, and to contemplate
that glorious and almighty Parent--the Creator of all that is beautiful
and good, and the Author of all good feelings and affections, and who
enables us to enjoy all which He has made.

The sun was setting, and there was a bright red glow over the lake, that
lay like a large sheet of glass, smooth and bright; and that was only
stirred when the trout leaped high in the air--as if to look once more
upon the sun before it went to rest; and then sinking down, they left a
bright round ring on the lake, that soon passed away, leaving all smooth
again.

In a little time the waters began to move, and there was a low sound of
wind, that soon rose into a storm; and then the waves dashed furiously
against the cliffs, as I have before described; when a boat, with a man
and a child, which I had been watching for some time before, sailing
gently on the water, was now high on the crested wave--now cast suddenly
down; and each time I feared it was lost. All I could do was, to pray to
Him, who could say to the wind, and the storm, "Be still!" But their
time had come, and God saw it best to take this father and child to
Himself. I watched the boat till it came very near,--so near that I
could see every stroke of the oar--every look of the poor man, who
seemed to use all his force--but in vain.

The little child, who was seated in the bottom of the boat, looked up
into his father's face, as if to learn there, what hope was left; but he
neither moved, nor uttered one cry of fear. At last, when every chance
of saving their lives was past--when each moment brought them nearer and
nearer the fatal rock, on which it must be dashed to pieces, the oars
dropped from the father's hand; and throwing his arms around his child,
in one moment they were gone below the wave--and I saw them no more.
They went down into the deep waters together--and together they will
rise, I doubt not, to live in heaven with _their_ Saviour, and our
Saviour for ever; for the man had lived, as I afterwards learned, the
life of a true Christian, and was now removed, with his child, to a
state of existence where the "wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest."

[Illustration]



SOMETHING ABOUT DOGS.


"Come, little boys and girls, and let us have some talk about that kind
and useful creature, the Dog.

[Illustration]

"_The Shepherd's Dog_ takes care of the sheep as they graze on the hills
and plains; at night he drives them safely into the fold; and if a sheep
or a lamb were lost, he would not rest till he had found it, and brought
it back to the flock.

"_The Esquimaux_ sits in his sledge, wrapped from head to foot in warm
fur, and his dogs draw him swiftly along many miles over the ice and
snow.

[Illustration]

"_The Hound_ is used to hunt the sly fox, that steals our chickens.

"_The Newfoundland Dogs_ are so fond of water, and are so large and
strong, that they have saved many people from being drowned. If one of
them were to see a child fall into the water, he would immediately jump
in after it, and quickly bring it to land.

[Illustration]

"Then we must not forget the pretty _Spaniel_:--he has silky ears, and
a curly tail;--or _Little Shock_, whose long bushy hair nearly covers
his eyes. These are great favourites with children, and play almost as
many pranks as their young masters.

"Dogs are so fond of those who are kind to them, that they would do
anything to protect them from harm.

"Sometimes they will not leave their master even after he is dead, but
will sit by the body as long as they can, and moan very sadly, and at
last lie down on the grave and die too."

OLD OAK CHEST.

[Illustration]



THE MORNING WALK.


"Come, George! come, my little son," said Mrs. Hope to her sleeping boy,
one bright morning in June, laying her hand upon him, and endeavouring
to awake him.

George roused up for a moment, and then fell off again to sleep. He felt
heavy and dull.

"Come, George!" urged his mother, again disturbing him. "Emily is up and
dressed for a walk. And the sun is up, too."

This time the little boy opened his eyes, rubbed them, stretched
himself, half arose from his pillow and then sunk down again and went to
sleep.

"A little more sleep and a little more slumber," said Mrs. Hope,
smiling. "Ah, George! I'm afraid you will be a sad sluggard. Come! come!
this will never do!" and she shook him harder than before.

"Don't you see, George, that your sister is all dressed, and that the
sun is streaming in at the window?" she continued, as her boy started
up quickly. "Come, be quick now, or every bright dew-drop will be
kissed from the leaves and blossoms before we can get into the fields."

"I don't care about going, mother," replied George, sinking back upon
his pillow. "You and Emily can go this time. To-morrow morning I will go
with you."

"And to-morrow morning you will feel just as dull and sluggish as you do
now. No, no, George; now is the time. So, come, rouse yourself up, and
don't keep us waiting for you any longer."

As the mother said this, she lifted her little boy from his bed, and,
seating him on her lap, first of all washed his face in a basin of cool,
clean water. This made him as bright as a new shilling. In a little
while he was all ready for the walk; and then mother, George, and Emily,
accompanied with gay little Fido, who went barking before them, started
off for their morning walk.

"An't you glad, now, that you got up to go with us, George?" asked
Emily, as they tripped along, and drank in the pure morning air.

"Oh, yes. I wouldn't be in that warm bed, feeling as dull as I did, for
anything. I'm so glad that mother made me get up."

"It was because I knew what was best for you, my son, that I made you
get up. I knew that the fresh morning air would not only be good for
you, but that when you once breathed it, and exercised in it, you would
feel like a new person."

"Oh, see that beautiful butterfly!" Emily exclaimed, pausing near a
sweet-briar bush, upon one of the delicate blossoms of which reposed a
large butterfly, with wings glowing in colours the richest and most
varied, gently fanning the pure air.

"Shall I catch it, mother?" eagerly asked George, taking off his cap,
and beginning to move stealthily towards the sweet-briar bush.

"No, my child," said Mrs. Hope, laying her hand gently on the boy's arm,
and detaining him.

"But, mother, it is such a beautiful one, I should like to take it home
and shew it to father."

"And what do you think your father would say, if you were to take him
that gay insect?"

"He would call it very pretty, I am sure, and say I was a good boy for
bringing it to him."

"No, George," replied his mother. "He would more probably say,--'George,
my dear boy, I am grieved that you have crushed, and soiled, and hurt
this pretty creature. See, how the beautiful colours have already faded
from its wings! See, how it droops in my hand, unable to fly as it did a
little while ago from flower to flower, a gay and happy thing. You were
wrong, my dear boy, to have touched so delicate a creature, born only
for the sunshine and the flowers, and too fragile to be handled by
anything ruder than a summer breeze.'"

"But I won't hurt it, mother."

"You could not possibly touch it, my dear, without hurting the delicate
thing. Your little fingers, that to my hands are soft and smooth, would
be so rough to the wings of a butterfly, as to rasp off the rich
painting that adorns them, and even to crush their delicate frame-work.
And I am sure my boy would not wish to hurt any of God's creatures."

"Oh, no, mother! I wouldn't hurt that butterfly for the world. But see,
it has risen up from the flower, and now away it goes, floating along
like a pretty blossom with wings. And there goes Fido, barking after it.
Foolish dog! You can't catch the pretty butterfly."

"See, mother, here is a bee, right in the middle of this large flower,"
said George, looking up into his mother's face with a glow of pleasure
upon his own. "He is getting honey, is he not?"

"Yes, dear. The bee is a very industrious little creature, and when the
blossoms are out he is up with the sun, and works all through the day,
busily engaged in procuring honey for his winter's store. You never find
him asleep after the sun is risen, as my little boy was this morning."

"But then, mother," said George, as they all walked on, and left the bee
and the sweet-briar bush, "I don't have to gather honey as the bee does.
I am a little boy, and don't have to work to lay up bread in the
winter."

"Can't you teach your brother a better lesson than that, Emily?" said
Mrs. Hope, turning to her little girl. "Don't you remember the talk we
had yesterday about the use of learning, and how necessary it was for
us, like the bee in spring and summer, to lay up a store of knowledge in
our minds, against the winter of old age?"

"O, yes, mother, I remember that I said, just as George did just now,
that it wasn't as necessary for me to work as the bee, for I had kind
parents who provided everything for me. And then you told me that I had
been made very different from the bee; that the bee had not a mind as I
had; and, therefore, that it only required food to supply the natural
wants of its body, which food it industriously obtained and stored up in
the season when it could be found. You then told me that I had a
spiritual body as well as a natural body, and that my spiritual body
required food as well as my natural body; that to learn about everything
that my parents and teachers wished me to learn about, was the way to
store up food for this spiritual body, which would require more and more
food, the older I grew; and that, at last, when I became very old--when
the winter of life came, I would not be able to store up food as in
early life, but would have to live upon that already laid by."

By this time the mother and her children had extended their morning walk
as far as was intended, and then they turned their steps towards home.
In passing the sweet-briar bush, the bee and the butterfly were recalled
to the minds of the children; and George said, that whenever he passed
that bush he should remember that his fingers were too rough for a
butterfly's wings; and that, like the bee, he must diligently store up
food for the mind, in early years, that he might have a full supply when
the winter of old age should come upon him.

At the breakfast table they met their father, and George told him all
about what they had seen, and what their mother had said to them, and
how determined he was to be like the diligent bee.

[Illustration]



THE OSTRICH.

[Illustration]


There are many large and respectable birds;--the long-legged stork, the
crane, the bustard, the heron, the eagle, the vulture, the cassowary;
but all these are mere dwarfs compared with the _ostrich_. This bird is
often nine or ten feet in height, and is as remarkable for its great
strength and swiftness, as for its size. Neither the swiftest horse nor
fleetest hound can compete with the ostrich in speed; but, fleet as the
whirlwind, he sweeps over the sandy wastes of Africa. And this is indeed
fortunate for him, since, although a bird, he is unable to fly. He has
feathers only upon his wings and tail, the rest of his body being
covered with hair. The ostrich has eyelashes upon the upper lid, and
can, like quadrupeds, see a thing with both eyes at once; although other
birds look sideways, and use but one eye at a time. His bare, plump feet
are furnished with only two toes or claws; and his stomach can digest
the hardest substances,--wood, stone, leather, metals, and glass.

It was imagined that the ostrich was a very stupid bird, because, when
pursued, it thrusts its head into the nearest hole, apparently imagining
that when _he_ sees nobody, he cannot himself be seen. The fact,
however, is, that when quite exhausted by a long pursuit, it shields its
head, because it is the most tender and weakest part, and surrenders the
rest of the body to its pursuers. Had the ostrich been in any way as
stupid as the goose, the race would long ago have been extirpated, as it
has many enemies both among men and animals. It is, on the contrary, a
very prudent bird, and in a clear field extremely difficult to catch,
for it takes flight the moment its quick sight threatens it with the
slightest danger; and as it lives in the deserts of Arabia and Africa a
few minutes is sufficient to carry it beyond the sight of its pursuers.

As the ostrich belongs to the same species as fowls, it leads, as they
do, a domestic life. Every ostrich family consists of one male bird
and five females, who keep constantly together. These birds have a
common nest, which consists merely of a hole in the sand, protected
by a wall of sand. Every egg stands upon its pointed end, in order to
take as little room as possible. When there are from ten to twelve
eggs in the nest, they begin to sit upon them alternately, the female
by day and the male by night; as, from his superior strength, he is
better able to guard the nest from the attack of the wild-cats, which
are allured by the eggs; and that he understands how to protect it,
is proved by the dead bodies of these animals being found in the
neighbourhood of the nests. During the brooding, the female continues
to lay until the nest is full; and it generally contains about thirty
eggs. They also lay eggs on the outside of the nest, with which to
feed the young ostriches, which, as soon as hatched, are as large as
full-grown fowls; and, like fowls, immediately begin to eat greedily.
The parent birds break one egg after another, until the young are
strong enough to find their own food. The size of the egg is in
proportion to the size of the bird; it is as large as a child's head,
and yields as much nourishment as four-and-twenty hen's eggs. Four
hungry men may make a good meal on one. The shell is so extremely hard
and close, that it remains fresh for a considerable time; and in the
desert countries is a real treasure.



THE VIOLET.--MODESTY.


The fragrance of the violet is noticed when the flower itself is not
seen--just as benevolent persons' actions are sometimes known and felt,
while the _actors_ remain out of sight.

Four hundred years ago, some gentlemen of rank, who were very fond of
poetry, were walking at Toulouse; one of them remarking the beauty of
the violet, all agreed to write some verses on it, as a sort of trial of
skill. At the end of the week, the poets met, and each read the verses
he had written, and the umpire decided which of the poems was the best.
Wishing to extend a love of poetry, those gentlemen, with some others,
drew up a circular letter in rhyme, and addressed it to all the poets of
Languedoc, inviting them to come to Toulouse on the first of May, and
read their verses, promising a golden violet to him who should compose
the best poem. This society continued until the middle of the last
century, when it became more celebrated from an incident connected with
Marmontel, the French poet. He was the child of very poor parents, but
being very fond of study, he gave his life up to it. After contending
with great difficulties, he obtained admittance into a college, and
hearing of this annual challenge, resolved to enter the list of the
Toulousian writers. He was very fond of his mother, and, for _her_ sake,
more than anything else, he determined to obtain the prize of the golden
violet.

The hall was filled with the gentry, and the young students of the
university were present. When the successful candidate was announced,
the hall resounded with the sounds of music and the shouts of the
audience.

Marmontel had been kept in great suspense during the time of the
decision by the judges. It was first announced that the prize for the
ode had been withheld; and as he had offered an ode to the academy, and
had been the author of an unsuccessful idyll, everybody pitied the youth
for his disappointment. But when the poem which gained the prize was
proclaimed, Marmontel stood up and received it. Some were glad of this,
and said, "Poor fellow, he missed twice--but he did not fail a third
time; he has more than one string or arrow to _his_ bow." He retired to
his seat, but only to be called up the second time for the second prize;
again he retired, and again returned to receive the other prize, amid
the redoubled and enthusiastic applause of the multitude. But, in the
midst of this applause, the young poet looked around among the vast
multitude, and there he beheld two arms stretched out to receive him;
they were those of his tutor. Close beside stood his mother, shedding
tears of joy. He rushed forward through the crowd,--"My father!" said
he, "my mother!--take them all,--they are yours;" and so saying, he
threw all the prizes, together with himself, into the arms extended to
receive him.

"Ah! my children;" said he, when he became an old man, "that which
interests the heart is always sweet. I care nothing for the golden
violet now. But the feelings of love which burned in my heart for my
mother and good old tutor, are as fresh as ever, and survive the blight
of other things, as the fragrance of the violet survives its withered
leaf."

[Illustration]



THE ELEPHANT.

[Illustration]


The elephant is by far the largest and strongest quadruped in the world.
He is capable of carrying a burden of several thousand pounds' weight;
and when tamed, one of the most sagacious and teachable of all animals.
He is of great service to Eastern nations, particularly in time of war.
A sort of turret is fastened on his back, in which are men with their
fire-arms. His amazing strength renders him a fearful enemy.

It is related, that, by some accident, a large cannon had fallen into a
ravine, where it stuck fast. An elephant was taken to the spot to draw
it out; but he shook his head and gave evident signs that he thought it
beyond his strength. His keeper, however, fastened him to the cannon,
and he tried, but in vain, to pull it up, and was sent away. But, as
there appeared no other way of getting the cannon out, the elephant was
again fastened to it; he showed symptoms of displeasure at being
required to do what was beyond his power, but when urged forward by his
keeper, he strained with all his might, and pulled the cannon out of the
ravine and dropped down dead.


                               _FINIS._


               H. G. Collins, Paternoster Row, London.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


The following changes have been applied to the text:

   Page 21: But James ate{original had eat} his with much
   satisfaction.

   Page 31: "Eh! thank you all the same," said the boy.{original had
   an additional closing quotation mark here}

   Page 36: "You know how to amuse yourself in the best manner,
   George,{original had period here}" said he to the boy.

   Page 46: and the cork put into its place, and the tube
   slipped{original had slippped} down until the lower end reaches
   below the surface of the water,

   Page 58: And now, an't{original unclear, possibly a'n't or ain't}
   you glad, my son, you were with us?"

   Page 93: "{original omitted quotation mark}I was only acting the
   woodpecker for my amusement. We fairies are very fond of
   masquerading."

   Page 116: They sat down on a great stone under a thick grape-vine
   that kept{original had keept} off the wet,

   Page 117: and he told Jessie that he thought they had better go
   there, and stay till{original had still} some one found them.

   Page 125: and then see which our mother will prefer."{original
   omitted closing quotation mark}

   Page 126: As she said this, she took the rose-bud from the
   basket, and twining it with the honeysuckles, put them both into
   her bosom.{original had superfluous quotation mark here.}

   Page 131: "Come, Fanny,"{original omitted this quotation mark}
   said George Lewis, "put on your hat, and go out with me among the
   trees and bushes.

   Page 132: Putting forth their open beaks at the strange
   visitants, they cried, "Petweet-tweet, petweet-tweet,"{original
   omitted this quotation mark}

   Page 133: You haven't{original had havn't} the art of keeping a
   secret belonging to your own concerns or another's,

   Page 149: At length she hears the well-known{original had
   well-know} bark of old Carlo;

   Page 150: and when Grace arose from her bed the next morning, and
   looked forth from the window of her little room, and saw
   all{original had ll} Nature smiling with beauty,

   Page 162: "No such luck."{original omitted closing quotation
   mark}

   Page 163: and having then no further{original had farther} use
   for our purses,

   Page 177: so they had seventy-five pennies a-piece."{original
   omitted closing quotation mark}

   Page 177: "Enough," said{original had an additional comma here}
   I, "to make little Miss Nannie a pretty respectable present."

   Page 178: The kitchen furniture, smalt and gum arabic, had cost
   them eighteen-pence--just half their joint stock.{original had a
   superfluous closing quotation mark here}

   Page 202: "{original omitted quotation mark}And off on each side
   of the little row of stars are two other bright stars, on each
   side."

   Page 211: _Me_, is it{original had i}?

   Page 224: "If they were to ask me, mamma, I would go to the
   tree."{original ended with a single quotation mark}

   Page 230: How often did he wish that he had been an obedient boy.
   But no sorrow could recall{original had recal} the act.

   Page 235: The Indians called the river Hochelega{original had
   Holchelega}

   Page 262: "Come, little boys and girls, and let us have some talk
   about that kind and useful creature, the Dog.{original had a
   comma here}

   Page 262: "{original omitted this quotation mark}_The Esquimaux_
   sits in his sledge, wrapped from head to foot in warm fur,

   Page 265: "Emily is up and dressed for a walk. And the sun is up,
   too."{original omitted closing quotation mark}

   Page 266: As the mother said this, she lifted her little boy from
   his bed, and, seating him on her lap, first of all washed his
   face in a basin{original had bason} of cool, clean water.

   Page 268: And I am sure my boy would not wish to hurt any of
   God's creatures."{original omitted closing quotation mark}

   Page 275: and as he had offered an ode to the academy, and had
   been the author of an unsuccessful idyll{original had idyl},
   everybody pitied the youth for his disappointment.

The following words appear with and without a hyphen. They have been
left as in the original.

    bed-side/bedside
    eye-lashes/eyelashes
    play-things/playthings
    sealing-wax/sealing wax

The following words have variant spellings. They have been left as in
the original.

    acqueous
    chrystal
    ecstacy
    transmited
    waggon





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