Julia and the Pet-Lamb - or, Good Temper and Compassion Rewarded

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Title: Julia and the Pet-Lamb - or, Good Temper and Compassion Rewarded
Author: Anonymous
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Julia and the Pet-Lamb - or, Good Temper and Compassion Rewarded" ***

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in memory of our friend and colleague Emmy

* * * Mentor extraordinaire, and so much more * * *

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FRONTISPIECE

[Illustration: _It cried as if it was in pain._

_vide page 8_]

JULIA

AND

THE PET-LAMB;

GOOD TEMPER AND COMPASSION

_REWARDED_.

------------------

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR DARTON, HARVEY, AND DARTON,
_No. 55, Gracechurch-Street_.

-------

1813.

Printed by Darton, Harvey, and Co.
Gracechurch-Street, London.

JULIA

_AND_

_THE PET-LAMB_.

“NOW, mamma, I have finished my work: is it well done?” said little
Julia, as she showed the pocket-handkerchief she had just hemmed to her
mother. Her mother replied, “Yes, my love, very well done: fold it
neatly up, put it into my work-bag, and then go to play.”

JULIA. May I go into the garden? The sun is in the west, but he is not
set. Look, mamma, how beautiful the sky is! The clouds are like gold!
And see, the fields and trees, a great way off, are of a beautiful
purple colour; while the elm trees here, on this side of the garden,
look almost yellow, because the sun shines on them. Mamma, may I go to
the bottom of the lane, behind the elm trees? I shall have time to go
there before the sun is quite gone.

MRS. VINCENT. Why, Julia, do you wish to go there?

JULIA. Because the bank, near the end of the lane, is covered with
primroses, and violets, and cowslips. You know, mamma, Mary, my dear
Mary, will come home to-morrow. Now I should like to pick a great many
flowers, and put them into her room, to look pretty and to smell sweet.
Mary is fond of primroses, violets, and cowslips. May I go, mamma? I
will not be gone long: I will run very fast all the way there, and all
the way back. May I go, mamma?

MRS. V. Yes, my dear, you may: you may stay out half an hour—not longer.

JULIA. Oh, thank you, mamma! Half an hour is very long: I shall come in
sooner than that. I am sure I shall not stay out so long, so very long,
as half an hour.

MRS. V. I do not desire you to come in sooner; but if you do not take
care, you will, perhaps, stay beyond the time I have mentioned. Half an
hour will pass very quickly, whilst you are busy gathering your nosegay.

JULIA. I believe you are right, mamma; for I never know when it is an
hour, or when it is half an hour. When I am doing any thing that is
disagreeable, the time seems so long; but when I am talking with you, or
doing any thing that is very agreeable, an hour seems like a minute. How
shall I know when to come in? Can you tell me, mamma?

MRS. V. It is now half past six o’clock; when the church clock strikes
seven, come in.

JULIA. Oh, yes! thank you, mamma. I can hear the church clock strike
very well, from the place where the primroses grow; and I can listen all
the time I am gathering the flowers.

MRS. V. Well, put on your hat; make haste. If you go on chattering here,
the half hour will be over before you get to the bank.

Julia put on her hat, her tippet and her gloves, and ran as fast as she
could down the lane. When she reached the spot where the flowers grew,
she was tired and out of breath. She sat on the bank, for a few minutes,
to recover her breath: she was soon rested. Then she jumped up, and
began to look about her. She looked round for the largest and freshest
flowers, as she wished to have a beautiful bow-pot. She had only
gathered three primroses, a few violets, and had her hand on a fine wild
hyacinth, to pluck it, when she heard a rustling noise behind her: she
looked to see what occasioned it. As she turned her head, something
large, white, and heavy, fell over the hedge, from the field on the
other side, rolled down the bank, and lay quite still. Julia wondered
what it could be. At first she thought it was a large stone; but she did
not see or hear any person who could have rolled it over the hedge; and
stones cannot move by themselves. She stood looking towards the place
where the white thing lay, unable to decide what it was. In a few
moments she heard the faint bleat of a lamb. Now she guessed it was a
poor lamb, which had been frightened. She supposed that, in its haste to
get away from the cause of its terror, it had fallen down the high bank
into the lane. She feared it was much hurt; for it cried, as if it was
in pain, and did not attempt to move. She went up close to it: it lay
quite still: she patted its back—it bleated piteously—it tried to lick
her hand. She was surprised to find it so gentle, till she observed a
blue ribbon about its neck: then she thought it was Miss Beauchamp’s
pet-lamb. She had been told that Miss Beauchamp had a favourite lamb,
which was so tame that it fed out of her hand. She recollected,
likewise, that the field next the lane belonged to Sir Henry Beauchamp;
that his house was very near, a few yards to the right. She therefore
felt quite sure it was Miss Beauchamp’s lamb. Julia was sorry the poor
animal was hurt: she wished somebody would come and take it home; but
she feared, that if she ran to tell the people at Sir Harry Beauchamp’s
to fetch it, the church-clock would strike seven before she had finished
gathering her bow-pot. She turned to go back to the flowers. The poor
lamb bleated again, very piteously, and seemed, to implore her to have
compassion for its sufferings. Julia stopped: she said, “Mary is kind
and humane: she would not leave any animal in distress, without trying
to assist it. Besides, when I read, to-day, how God made the world and
all things in it, mamma told me he was good and merciful; that he loved
all the creatures he had made: she said too, we ought to endeavour to
imitate him, that he may love us.—No; God will not love me, if I am
cruel to this poor little lamb. Well, I will go and tell somebody at the
house where it is. Perhaps, after all, I shall have time to get a small
bow-pot.”

Away Julia ran; but in a moment she heard the barking of a dog: she saw
the lamb make an effort to rise and run away; but it could not stand, it
fell down directly.

“Poor little lamb!” said Julia, “how terrified it is: no doubt that is
the dog which hunted it. If I go away, the cruel dog may find it, and
worry it to death, before any person can come to its assistance. Oh! I
see the dog running across the field yonder. What can I do? I will try
to carry the lamb home: it is only a little way to Sir Henry Beauchamp’s
house.”

Julia returned to the lamb, and after two or three endeavours, succeeded
in getting it up into her little arms. It was very heavy: it was as much
as she could carry. When it bleated, she said, “Do not cry, pretty
little lamb: I try not to hurt you; but you are very heavy, and if I do
not hold you tight, you will fall to the ground. I am carrying you home,
where you will be taken care of. I will make haste: I will walk as fast
as I can—but you are very heavy.”

[Illustration: _“I will walk as fast as I can—but
you are very heavy.”_]

The lamb could not understand what the little girl said; however, it was
accustomed to be petted and caressed, therefore her kindness and
fondling soothed and pleased the poor animal. It lay quietly in her
arms: it neither kicked nor struggled to get away.

Julia walked as fast as she could; yet she got on very slowly, for she
was soon tired; so tired, that she would have sat down to have rested,
had she not feared the dog might jump from the field into the lane, and
follow her. Besides, if she did not make haste, there was no chance of
her having time to gather the primroses before seven o’clock. She went
on, therefore, only stopping a moment, now and then, to recover breath.
At length she reached the end of the lane. She turned to the right; but
before she had gone as far as the gate that opened into Sir Henry
Beauchamp’s park, she saw several people come through it, and come
towards her. A little girl ran on before the rest of the group: when she
was near Julia, she exclaimed, “It is my lamb! The moment I saw you, I
knew you! Dear, naughty lamb, why did you run away from me?—Thank you
for bringing him to me. You look very tired. Give him to me now, if you
please: I will carry him to his own house.”—“Take care,” replied Julia,
“how you hold it; for it is badly hurt, I fear. It is not a naughty
lamb, I believe. I think it has been hunted by a dog. I was gathering
flowers in the lane, when it fell over the hedge: its leg is cut so
badly, that it cannot stand. See, how it bleeds! I was coming to tell
you or somebody to fetch it; only I saw a dog at a distance, and I
feared he would bite it, if I came away, so I have brought it with me. I
made haste, lest the dog should overtake us, if he got into the lane.
See, he has found us out! Look, he is running towards us!—I am glad the
lamb is safe. No, no, dog; you cannot get the lamb now.”

By the time Julia had finished speaking, Sir Henry and Lady Beauchamp,
with two servants, who were all in search of the lamb, came up to her.
“See, mamma,” said Miss Beauchamp, “this kind little girl has brought my
lamb home. He is very much hurt. Poor Bello! you are very heavy: I can
hardly hold you. Mamma, there is the dog which frightened Bello!”

Lady Beauchamp desired one of the servants to carry the lamb into the
house, and the other to find out to whom the dog belonged, and to tell
his master to keep him at home, that he might not do any more mischief.

Sir Henry Beauchamp returned to the house, to examine the poor lamb’s
leg, and to see what could be done for it. Miss Beauchamp went likewise,
to assist in nursing her favourite.

Lady Beauchamp took Julia by the hand, and said, “I am much obliged to
you, my dear, for all the trouble you have taken. Come with me, and eat
some strawberries and milk, to cool and refresh yourself: you appear
fatigued and heated.”

JULIA. Thank you, ma’am; I should like to rest myself, for I am tired;
but I do not think mamma would be pleased, if I went with you without
her permission; and she only gave me leave to go into the lane to pick
flowers. Besides, I am to go into the house again at seven o’clock; and
I wish very much indeed to get some primroses and violets, to ornament
Mary’s room against to-morrow.

LADY B. You are right, my dear, not to do any thing your mamma would
disapprove. What is your name, my love? Where does your mamma live? I
should like so good a child to come and play with my little girl. If I
ask your mamma, perhaps she will allow you to come, some evening, and
drink tea with us. I do not think you would dislike strawberries and
milk for supper, if your mamma approved it. Should you?

Julia, smiling, answered, “Oh, no, ma’am! I like strawberries very much.
I used to eat them, last summer; but I did not know there were any ripe
now: we have none in our garden. The strawberry-plants are only in
blossom.”

LADY B. I have none ripe in the garden. Those I shall give you will come
out of a hot-house. Where do you live, my dear? What is your name?

JULIA. My name is Julia Vincent, ma’am: mamma lives at the top of the
lane.

LADY B. At the pretty white cottage, which stands in a garden? I
recollect it. Mrs. Vincent has not lived there long, I think?

JULIA. No, ma’am; only a little while. We lived in London before. I do
not like London. Mary will come down to-morrow, for the first time. I
forget, I shall not be able to gather the flowers for her, if I do not
make haste. Good bye, ma’am.

LADY B. Who is Mary?

JULIA. My sister. She is very good. I try to be like her. I hope I may
be as good and as wise as Mary, when I am as old. Mamma came here
because London made her ill. She brought me with her, but Mary staid
with my aunt. To-morrow they will both come here. Then I shall be happy;
for I love Mary, she is so kind to me. Mary likes primroses, cowslips,
and violets. She will be pleased to see her room so pretty: she will not
expect to find so many flowers blown, for there are none in London.

As Julia ended her speech, the church-clock began to strike: she added,
in a melancholy tone, “So, it is seven! I must go in: Mary will have no
flowers.”

LADY B. I am sorry, my love, your kindness to Bello has been the cause
of this disappointment to you.

Julia added, more cheerfully—“Perhaps I shall have time to-morrow to get
some, before she comes. It is my own fault: if I had gone back directly,
I should have been able to have gathered a few. I have lost the time
chattering. If I chatter any more, mamma will wonder where I am. Good
evening. I hope the lamb will soon be well.”

Julia ran home. Her mother was surprised to see her return empty-handed.
“Where are your flowers, Julia?” asked Mrs. Vincent: “I expected to have
seen a bow-pot almost as big as yourself.”

JULIA. Oh, mamma! just as I was beginning to gather it, a poor lamb fell
over the hedge. It was so badly hurt, that it could not walk—it could
not stand. It was very tame, and had a collar of blue ribbon round its
neck. So I guessed it belonged to the young lady who lives at the large
house in the park. You know, mamma, Mrs. Thomson, who called to see you
yesterday, talked a great deal about Miss Beauchamp, and her pet-lamb,
which fed out of her hand.

MRS. V. Yes, I remember she did. Now tell me what became of the lamb.

JULIA. Mamma, I carried it home:—no, not quite home; because I met Miss
Beauchamp, and her papa and mamma, before I reached the gate. The lamb
was very heavy: I could not walk fast whilst I had it in my arms. By the
time the servant took it from me, and that I had talked a little, the
church-clock struck seven, and I was obliged to come in without the
flowers. I am very sorry—very sorry, indeed; because Mary will come home
to-morrow.

MRS. V. Very sorry, for what, Julia? because the lamb is hurt? because
you have no flowers? or because Mary will come home to-morrow?

JULIA. Oh, no, mamma, not that. I am glad my dear Mary will come home
to-morrow. I am sorry I have no flowers to put into her room. I wished,
so very much, to ornament her room with flowers, to surprise her, that
though I was sorry to see the lamb in pain, and bleeding, do you know,
mamma, I was near leaving it where it was, and gathering the bow-pot,
instead of carrying it to Miss Beauchamp.

MRS. V. What determined you, my dear, to assist the lamb?

JULIA. Why first, mamma, I thought it was not like Mary, to leave it in
its distress. Then I remembered, she would know nothing about the
matter, so I fixed to gather the primroses; but just as I settled so to
do, I recollected that you told me, this morning, that God was merciful
and kind to all things, and that we ought to endeavour to resemble Him:
I mean, to resemble Him as much as we can. You know, mamma, if we try
and try for ever, we shall never be as good as God is. I was afraid God
would be displeased if I were cruel to the poor lamb. Now, though Mary
would not know I had been naughty, I was sure God would, as he sees and
knows all that is done in the world. Did I think rightly, mamma?

MRS. V. You did, my dear.

JULIA. Are you glad, mamma?

MRS. V. I am; I am always glad when you are good. I am pleased you
remember what you read, and what you are taught. I rejoice too, to find
that you make a proper use of the knowledge you possess. It is of no use
to know that God sees and hears us at all times, if we do not take care
to act in a manner that is pleasing to him.

Mrs. Vincent then kissed her little daughter, and patted her rosy cheek,
Julia stood by her mother’s side a few minutes, without speaking, and
then said,

“After all, my being good was of no use, mamma?”

MRS. V. How so? I do not understand you, Julia.

JULIA. Do not you recollect, mamma, I told you, Sir Henry and Lady
Beauchamp, and two servants, as well as Miss Beauchamp, were all come
out to look for the lamb. They would have turned up the lane where the
lamb was; so that if I had gathered my bow-pot, Bello (that is the name
of the lamb) would have been taken care of, just the same. It would have
been the same thing—no, not the same thing, for I should have had the
flowers for Mary.

MRS. V. Stop, Julia; let us consider a little before you proceed.
Perhaps it would not have been the same thing to the lamb; certainly it
would not have been so to you. First, it is possible Sir Henry and Lady
Beauchamp might not have turned up the lane where the lamb was; they
might have walked straight on. Supposing, after they had looked in other
places, they had, at last, found the poor animal, the length of time it
might have lain without assistance, would have added greatly to its
sufferings. The other day, when you fell off the stile, cut your hand,
and beat the gravel into the wound, I fancy it would not have been the
same thing to you, whether I had attended to it or not? If, instead of
returning directly to the house, soaking your hand in warm water,
cleaning it from the stones and dirt, and putting sticking plaster over
it to keep the air from it, I had first finished my walk and had left
your hand bleeding, with the gravel sticking in it, for an hour or two,
you would have suffered a great deal more pain.

JULIA. Yes, mamma, indeed I should. My hand smarted sadly, and hurt me
extremely at first; but after you had dressed it, and tied it up so
neatly, it was soon easy. We had a charming walk afterwards. I am sure I
should not have enjoyed the walk, or any thing else, whilst the pain
continued. Pain is very disagreeable. Well, if I saved the lamb some
misery, I am glad; though by doing so, I have lost the flowers. I do not
think Mary would have admired them when she found out that I had left
Bello in order to gather them. Every time she looked at them, she would
have thought more of the poor animal, than of their pretty colours or
sweet smell. Every time she spoke to me, I should have feared she had
discovered the truth. When she said, “thank you, dear Julia, for these
flowers, I like them very much,” I should have thought, You would not
love me, if you knew all. I should not be your dear Julia, if you knew I
had been cruel and unkind to a dumb animal, on purpose to get this
bow-pot. So, after all, mamma, it is well I did not gather the flowers:
they would not have made me happy. Mamma, you said, just now, that
certainly it would not have been the same thing to me, if I had left the
lamb. Why not, mamma?

MRS. V. Goose-cap! why ask that silly question? Reflect on what you have
yourself said, and find out the reason if you can.

JULIA. Oh, now I guess, mamma! Because, though the lamb might have been
taken care of, I should not have had any merit: I should have been cruel
all the same, though chance might have brought some one else to its
assistance.

MRS. V. True, my dear; you would have been conscious of having acted
improperly.

JULIA. Mamma, if I get up early to-morrow morning, may I go and gather
the primroses, violets, and cowslips, before breakfast?

MRS. V. You may; I am glad this idea has occurred to you. I hope you
will still enjoy the pleasure of ornamenting Mary’s room.

JULIA. Why do you say _hope_, mamma? I am now sure of the flowers, as
you have given me permission to gather them.

MRS. V. You considered yourself sure of them, this evening, when you
left me; yet, Julia, you were disappointed. No one is sure of the
future. It is possible, something we do not at present foresee may again
disappoint you.

JULIA. I do not think so: Miss Beauchamp has no more pet-lambs to fall
over the hedge.

MRS. V. Are Miss Beauchamp’s pet-lambs the only things in the world?
Suppose it should rain to-morrow morning, I should not then allow you to
go out in the wet: I should fear you would catch cold, and be ill, as
you were in the winter.

JULIA. Do you think it will rain, mamma?

MRS. V. No, Julia; I do not expect a rainy day to-morrow. The appearance
of the evening promises a fine morning. I do not think you will be again
disappointed: I hope not. I only said, it was possible you might not be
able to accomplish your wishes.

JULIA. Oh dear! If I am disappointed again, what shall I do, mamma?

MRS. V. Bear the trial well, my love. If you should not have all you
wish for, you will still have a great deal to make you happy. Do not
look sorrowfully, Julia. You are not disappointed yet. It will be time
enough for that dismal face, when the evil is come. It is wise to
resolve to behave well when we are tried: it is silly to fret about
misfortunes which may never happen. You told me you talked a little—to
whom?

JULIA. To Lady Beauchamp.

MRS. V. What did she say to you? What did you say to her?

JULIA. She thanked me for carrying the lamb home: she asked me to go
with her, to eat strawberries and milk.

MRS. V. Did you go?

JULIA. No, mamma. Might I have gone? I thought you would not approve of
my going, without your knowing where I was.

MRS. V. You judged correctly. I should not have confidence in you, if,
when I permitted you to go to one place, you went to another, without my
knowledge. I should not then trust you out of my sight.

JULIA. I am glad you have confidence in me: but, mamma, do you know,
Lady Beauchamp said she would ask you to give me leave to spend an
evening with her little girl. Shall you permit me to go, mamma?

MRS. V. I cannot decide now, my dear: when Lady Beauchamp fixes a time
for your visit, I shall be able to judge whether it will be convenient
and proper for you to accept the invitation or not.

JULIA. I hope it will be convenient and proper. I dare say I should be
very happy, and spend the evening very agreeably. Do not you think so,
mamma?

MRS. V. Yes, most probably you would.

JULIA. Mamma, did you know strawberries were ripe?

MRS. V. It is too early for them in the open air. Those that are ripe at
this season of the year, must be forced.

JULIA. Yes, Lady Beauchamp said they grew in—in some house.

MRS. V. In a hot-house.

JULIA. Yes, yes, in a hot-house; that is what she said. What is meant by
a hot-house, mamma?

MRS. V. A house built on purpose to hold plants. The top and sides are
made of glass, in frames, something like windows, which shut tight to
keep out the cold air. At one end there is a stove for a fire, to heat
the air within the house. Round the walls are flues, to let the heat
from the fire reach every part. Flues are passages left in the inside of
the walls: they are somewhat like pipes. When the frames are shut, no
cold air can get into the house from the outside, so the gardener can
keep the plants as warm as he chooses. The flowers and fruit blow and
ripen in a hot-house, as they do in the gardens in summer. This is
called forcing them; that is, making them more forward than they would
naturally be at this season. When you go to see Lady Beauchamp, perhaps
she will allow you to look at her hot-house; then you will understand
better what I have said.

JULIA. Thank you, mamma; I believe I understand you. But why is so much
glass used? If it be necessary to keep a hot-house very warm, I think
brick walls would answer better than glass: bricks are thicker than
glass.

MRS. V. True, they are so; yet glass excludes the air as perfectly as a
brick wall does. The frames are made to open and shut like windows; and
this circumstance enables the gardener to let in fresh air when proper.
Brick walls could not be moved about at his pleasure. Besides, glass
admits the light: it is transparent. Flowers and trees require light, in
order to make them grow, as well as air. They would never come to
perfection if they were shut up in darkness.

JULIA. How strange, mamma! They could grow as well in the dark, I think:
they do not want light to show them how to grow. Why will they not grow
in the dark?

MRS. V. I cannot tell why, Julia; but that plants require light to make
them thrive, is a fact which has been proved by many experiments. When
you are old enough to read natural history, you will find many other
curious things. The world is full of wonders. The works of God are
extremely curious and wonderful. The more you see and hear of them, my
dear, the more cause you will discover to love the Almighty for his
mercy and goodness, and to adore and admire his infinite wisdom and
power.—Now, my dear little girl, kiss me, and go to bed: it is past
eight o’clock.

JULIA. Good night, my dear mamma. I shall get up very early to-morrow
morning. If it be fine, I may gather the flowers before breakfast,
without waiting to ask you: may I not, mamma?

MRS. V. You may. Good night, my love!

As soon as Julia awoke, the next morning, she recollected the bow-pot.
She jumped up and washed and dressed herself. Though Julia was a little
girl, not quite seven years old, she could dress herself. Her mother did
not wish her to be helpless, and had therefore taught her to do many
things for herself, that some children, of her age, are obliged to have
done for them. The little gown she wore in the morning fastened in the
front, therefore she could button it without assistance. She was glad
her clothes were made in a way that enabled her to put them on without
help. If she could not have dressed herself, she would have been forced
to have staid in bed till the servant had been at leisure to attend to
her. She made haste to get ready, said her prayers attentively and
devoutly, and then ran off merrily. Her mother had taught her that it
was right to pray to God repeatedly; and she was too good ever to forget
this important duty. She never allowed her pleasure, or her business, to
make her forget her prayers. Every night, before she lay down, she
entreated God to forgive all her faults, and thanked him for the
blessings she had enjoyed. Every morning, before she left her room, she
returned him thanks for the refreshing sleep she had had, and prayed him
to watch over her, and enable her to do what was pleasing in his sight.

When she reached the bank, she was sadly disappointed: all the finest
flowers were gone: only a few faded ones were left, which were hardly
worth the trouble of gathering.—“Oh dear, what a pity!” said poor Julia,
“I wonder who has been here! I wish I had got up earlier. However,
perhaps it was last night that they were plucked. I saw some boys and
girls at a distance, as I went home: probably they came this way and
took the primroses. I wish they had not touched them. I dare say they
did not want them as much as I do: but I will pick some of these, and
ask mamma if she thinks Mary will like them. I fear she will not, for
they look half dead!”—The disconsolate Julia walked slowly back, with
the faded nosegay in her hand. She met her mother, who was coming down
to breakfast, in the passage.

JULIA. Oh, mamma! you were right in saying we could not be sure of the
future. I have lost my bow-pot, notwithstanding it is a fine morning:
all the good flowers are gone! See, mamma, only these shabby things were
left. Did you think, last night, somebody would take them before I went
to gather them?

MRS. V. No, Julia, I did not: I am very sorry for this second
disappointment; particularly as you bear it with good humour, and do not
indulge in fretful repinings. These flowers, in their present faded
state, would be no ornament to your sister’s room. But I believe I can
assist you in your distress. On Monday, when we walked through the lane
on the other side of the church-yard, I observed a profusion of wild
flowers in the hedges; and in the fields adjoining there are primroses
and cowslips. It is too far for you to go alone; but after breakfast I
will accompany you there. I hope that, after all, you will have the
bow-pot you are so desirous of. You have conducted yourself very well,
my love, both last night and this morning. Yesterday you gave up your
own pleasure to assist the poor lamb; and now you support the loss of
the flowers with good temper. I am glad it is in my power to make you
some amends.

Whilst at breakfast, Julia expressed her fears that Mary might arrive
before she returned from her walk. “At what o’clock, mamma, will my aunt
and Mary be here?” said she. “I cannot tell exactly,” replied Mrs
Vincent. “Not so early, however, as you seem to expect. London is more
than twenty miles from this village. Your aunt will, I believe, set off
soon after her breakfast; but we can walk to the church-lane, and back
again, in a shorter time than she can travel twenty miles. I expect you
will be able to do a great deal of business before they arrive. I think
you will have time to ornament Mary’s room, say your lessons, and work,
all before they come. I do not suppose they will be here till nearly
three o’clock.” “Not till three o’clock!” exclaimed the little girl:
“that is a long time.”—“It will not appear long, if you employ
yourself.”

When breakfast was finished, Mrs. Vincent put on her hat and cloak, to
walk with her little daughter. Julia fetched her clogs, and just as she
was tying them on her mother’s feet, she heard some one knock at the
hall-door. “Oh, mamma, I do believe they are come! I am so glad!“ She
was so delighted at the thoughts of seeing her sister, that she did not,
even at that moment, recollect the bow-pot. ”May I open the door to let
them in, mamma?“ said Julia.

MRS. V. You may open the door, Julia, though I do not imagine it will be
to let Mary in: it is much too early.

Julia opened the door, but instead of Mary, she saw Miss Beauchamp,
holding a large bow-pot, and a servant, who was with her, carrying a
beautiful rose-tree, in full bloom, in her arms. Julia exclaimed, in
raptures, “What lovely flowers!”

MISS B. I am glad you admire them. They are yours. Mamma sends them to
you, with her love. All these hot-house flowers mamma sends you; but
these primroses, violets, cowslips, and blue-bells, I give you. Mamma
gave me permission to get up very early this morning, to gather them for
you. I did not know the gardener had been desired to bring in a nosegay,
so I arose very, very early, and gathered all these. I do not mean I
picked them every one myself: no, Charlotte, who went with me, helped
me. Do you know, whilst I was at breakfast, this bow-pot was brought
into the room. Mamma put it into my hands, and said, “Emily, you may
carry these flowers, with my love, to your little friend, who kindly
took care of Bello last night.”

[Illustration: _The Bow-pot & Rose Tree._]

Julia was lost in admiration: she nearly forgot to thank Miss Beauchamp.
She took the flowers to her mother, and asked if she had ever before
seen any so extremely beautiful: “Pray smell them; they are very
fragrant.” Then she turned to Miss Beauchamp, and said, “I thank you,
very much: pray tell your mamma, I am very much obliged to her. I am
sure Mary will be surprised: she will never expect to see such beauties?
Is the lamb well, to-day? How is its poor leg? Does it bleed still?

MISS B. No, it does not bleed now. Papa dressed it last night, and he
thinks it will soon heal: it is getting well; but it is still sore. Poor
Bello cannot skip about the lawn, as he used to do. I nurse him, and
bring him fresh grass and flowers to eat, as he cannot go in search of
them himself. I hope he will soon be strong again. Will you come and see
him? Mamma told me she should be happy to see you, whenever it is
convenient to Mrs. Vincent to spare you. Bello will soon know you, if
you play with him. He will eat out of your hand. I dare say he will be
fond of you:—he ought to be so, you were so kind to him last night.

JULIA. I shall like, very much, to feed him and play with him.

MISS B. Will you, ma’am, allow Miss Vincent to come and spend this
evening with me, or to-morrow evening? Mamma said, any evening that was
agreeable to you. I hope it will be convenient to you to permit her to
come soon.

MRS. V. Julia, my dear, what are your own wishes?

JULIA. Thank you, mamma; not this evening, I shall have so many, many
things to tell Mary, and to hear from her.—If you will give me leave to
go to-morrow, I shall be very happy.

MRS. V. I will trouble you then, my dear, to return Lady Beauchamp my
thanks for her kindness to my little girl, who will be happy to accept
her ladyship’s invitation for to-morrow evening.

MISS B. Good morning, ma’am. Mamma told me not to stay long, lest I
should be troublesome. Good bye. Pray come early to-morrow evening: I
have a great many pretty things to show you, that I think you will like
very much.

On turning to go out she saw the rose-tree, and returning, added, “I had
forgotten the rose-tree. I brought it to help ornament your sister’s
room. See, there are several buds on it, besides the full-blown roses.
If you take care to water it, and give it fresh air, it will continue
blowing a long time. It is my own tree, so I may give it to you.”

Julia was delighted with her presents. She knew not how to express
sufficiently her thanks. She repeated, “thank you, thank you,” many
times. She smelled the nosegay again and again.—She jumped and danced in
ecstacy.—She exclaimed, “Mary will be quite astonished! I wonder what
she will say! My dear Miss Beauchamp, I am greatly obliged to you. I
will take care of the rose-tree, after all the roses are gone. I shall
always love it, because you have given it to me. I never thought, last
night, when I went to gather some primroses, that I should enjoy all
this pleasure.—Pray do not forget to tell your mamma, I thank her very,
very much indeed. How good she is!—Kiss the lamb for me, and give him my
love: I hope he will be very well by to-morrow evening.—I dare say we
shall be very happy.”

As soon as Miss Beauchamp was gone, Julia begged she might put the
flowers into water immediately, before they began to droop. Her mother
was kind enough to lend her a large flower-pot and two small ones, and
to offer her assistance in arranging her treasure, that the various
colours might appear to the greatest advantage.—“Dear mamma, that water
is still warm, I am sure!” exclaimed Julia, in amazement, on observing
her fill the large flower-pot out of the urn which was standing on the
table: “though it is a long time since the urn was brought up for
breakfast, I do not think the water can be quite cold yet.”

MRS. V. Neither do I wish that it should be quite cold, Julia.

JULIA. You are not going to put the flowers into warm water, mamma! I
always put mine in cold water. I never remember your putting any into
warm water before!

MRS. V. Probably not, my dear: you never have been accustomed to flowers
out of a hot-house. Hot-house flowers live longer after they are
gathered, if they are put into water with the chill off. They have been
reared in the warmth, and the sudden change from heat to cold is not
good for them.

JULIA. How shall we manage, mamma, to keep the water warm? I shall
forget, perhaps, to add a little now and then; and what you have put in,
will become cold soon. How shall we keep it warm?

MRS. V. It is not necessary it should continue warm: it will cool
gradually, and the flowers will, by degrees, be familiarized to the
temperature of the water, as well as of the room—that is, familiarized
to the heat of the air which is in the room. The degree of heat or cold
of any thing, is called its temperature.

Julia carefully untied the bass, which was wound round the stalks in
order to hold them together. She displayed the whole of her treasure on
the table, and consulted with her mother, to determine what flowers
would go best together, and how to form the prettiest groups.—“Only
smell this rose!—Look at this sprig of myrtle! See how delicate this
lilac is! These lilies of the valley are quite lovely!—Did you ever see
a brighter yellow, mamma, than this jonquil! Look at this hyacinth—and
this—and this! I do not know which is the finest. Which do you admire
most? the white, the pink, or the blue? I will place your favourite in
the centre—here, just in front. That does very well. But, mamma, do not
you think it will be better to have a little more green? Shall I put
these geranium leaves here, at the back?—Oh, thank you! that does
beautifully!—There, that flower-pot is full.—I wish I could draw. I dare
say Mary will copy some of these beauties: I will ask Mary to teach me
how to copy flowers.—Well, now we may begin to fill another flower-pot.”

In this manner did little Julia chatter on, as busy as a bee, till this
important affair was finished. Then she assisted in carrying the
flower-pots and rose-tree into the small parlour, which was set apart
for Mary’s room. It was a pretty, cheerful room: the window opened into
the garden. The prospect of the country beyond was rich and fertile. The
inside was fitted up with shelves, on which Julia had ranged all her
sister’s books. There were likewise drawers for work, &c. and convenient
places for writing and drawing implements, as well as maps of different
kinds. It was in this room that Julia expected to spend many delightful
hours. She could amuse herself quietly, without disturbing her sister
when she was engaged; and therefore she was often allowed to remain the
greatest part of the morning with her. She was very attentive, and
desirous of learning; and therefore her sister willingly instructed her,
and, when at leisure, was in the habit of reading and conversing a great
deal with her; teaching her geography and other useful things, which
afforded her much amusement. The two small flower-pots were placed on
the chimney-piece, by Julia’s direction: the large one stood on a high
green basket. The rose-tree was placed on a small table, opposite the
door, that Mary might see it the moment she entered the apartment.—Julia
went out and came in again, that she might judge of the effect on first
opening the door.—“Do, mamma, be so good as to come here. Will not Mary
be delighted?—will she not be astonished?” she repeatedly asked.

MRS. V. Yes, Julia; I expect this grand display will surprise her. You
will wish to enjoy the pleasure of showing her the house, particularly
this room, yourself; therefore I advise you to begin your lessons, that
you may be at leisure when she arrives.

JULIA. It is early yet, mamma. There is no hurry. I need not walk to the
church lane now, you know, mamma.

MRS. V. Very true; yet, admiring these flowers, and settling them and
the room to your satisfaction, has taken up more time than the walk
would have done. It is now past twelve.

JULIA. Past twelve!—I should think you are mistaken, mamma.

Mrs. Vincent showed her watch.

JULIA. So it is—five minutes past twelve!—I could not have believed I
had been more than two hours with the flowers. Well, mamma, I will run
and fetch my books: they shall be ready by the time you get back into
the breakfast-room. You shall see I will be very good and attentive.“

Julia was very attentive: she did all her lessons well; she wrote a
copy; cast up two sums in addition, without a single error; read a
little French, and did some grammar.—When the grammar was finished, she
sat down to work. She asked her mother if she might talk to her while
she was hemming her handkerchief. Her mother said she might.

JULIA. Pray, mamma, why do you not have a hot-house, as well as Lady
Beauchamp? It would be very agreeable to have flowers and fruits at this
season of the year, when there are none in the open air. Do not you
think so, mamma?

MRS. V. Yes, certainly, it would be agreeable.

JULIA. Then why do not you have one?

MRS. V. Because I am too poor.

JULIA. Oh! now, mamma, you seem to be joking: you are not poor—not very
poor.

MRS. V. I did not say I was very poor; but still, I am too poor to have
a hot-house, with propriety. Hot-houses are extremely expensive: the
glass costs a great deal of money to keep it in repair; for it is so
brittle that it is frequently broken. Coals are likewise very expensive;
and the constant fires which are necessary to bring the fruits and
flowers forward, during winter, consume a great quantity. Then the wages
of the gardeners would be very high. All these things would be more than
I could afford.

JULIA. But still, mamma, I do not think you poor. I call Mrs. Jones, who
lives in the cottage at the end of the lane, poor.

MRS. V. No, certainly, I am not as poor as Mrs. Jones is: she and her
husband are obliged to work hard, to earn enough to buy coarse food and
clothes for themselves and children. When the poor man was ill, in the
winter, and could not labour, the family were almost starved. Do not you
recollect, Mrs. Jones told me her husband would have died, and herself
and children would have perished through want, if Sir Henry and Lady
Beauchamp had not sent medicines to Jones, when he was so ill with the
rheumatic fever, good warm flannel to clothe him, meat to make him
broth, and plenty of potatoes and rice, for the children to eat, till he
was well enough to earn his wages again? Sir Henry Beauchamp and his
lady are also kind to a great many other poor people, and assist them
when they are ill and unable to work. They are very rich, and are
therefore able to do all this good, and at the same time have hot-houses
and other expensive things.—I could not.—If I were to attempt to have a
hot-house, I should have no money to pay the butcher and the baker for
bread and meat. Besides, it is not right to spend all we have on
ourselves: we should always take care to save some of our money, to give
to those who are in distress, and who are still poorer than ourselves.

JULIA. I am sorry you are not very rich, mamma!

MRS. V. Why, Julia?

JULIA. It would be so pleasant to have money enough for every thing.

MRS. V. My dear little girl, if we do not learn to be contented with
what we have, we shall never be happy. Even Sir Henry and Lady
Beauchamp, whom at present you consider the richest people in the world,
would not be happy if they encouraged a discontented disposition. No
one, my dear Julia, has every wish gratified; but each person has reason
to be grateful to God for many blessings. Jones and his family, though
poor and miserable, have great reason to be thankful that their rich
neighbours are so kind and attentive to them. Reflect, my dear child,
how many blessings _you_ enjoy. You have all that is necessary, and even
much more—you have many pleasures that thousands of others cannot
obtain.

JULIA. Yes, mamma; yet, do not you think I should be a little happier if
I had flowers all the year round? I am sure the flowers this morning,
have made me very happy.

MRS. V. These flowers are a novelty to you; that is the reason you
admire them so extremely. Hot-house flowers do not afford Miss
Beauchamp, who is accustomed to them, more pleasure than common roses
give you, in the midst of summer: and, last summer, how often you passed
a rose-tree without bestowing a thought on it. To-morrow night it will
be the same—you will be delighted with many things which she disregards.
But is all the happiness you feel on the present occasion, produced by
the beauty of the nosegay? Try and discover, if you can, some other
source of delight.

JULIA. I believe one reason that I am so gay and merry, is, because I
expect Mary will be pleased and surprised.

MRS. V. Yes, my dear, I am sure the thought of giving Mary pleasure
makes you happy. But reflect again. Perhaps the cause of Lady
Beauchamp’s kindness has some share in your happiness.

JULIA. Oh, mamma! I guess what you mean—about the lamb.

MRS. V. True, Julia. The consciousness of having done a humane action,
is always pleasing. If you had lost your bow-pot entirely, you would
still have had the comfort of reflecting that you had acted properly.
Recollect, we settled last night, that you were happier without the
flowers than you would have been with them.

JULIA. So we did, mamma; but I am glad I have this beautiful nosegay, as
I did not get it by cruelty.

MRS. V. So am I, my love: I rejoice that your compassion has been
rewarded. You must not, however, expect it will always be the case. Many
humane and benevolent actions are not recompensed in this world. We must
endeavour to do our duty, without thinking whether the immediate
consequences will be agreeable or not. Though we may sometimes lose a
pleasure, we shall enjoy the happiness of possessing the approbation of
God, and of our own conscience.

Little Julia thanked her mother for having talked so much to her, and
said she hoped she should always be good, that God might love her. She
had now finished her work, and her mother desired her to fetch her book
to read. She did as she was bid to do, immediately, sat down, and read
the following story.

------------------

THE RED-POLE.

A little girl, whose name was Emma, was anxious to have a bird; but her
mamma refused to give her one, as she disapproved of confining the
pretty little creatures in cages.—“Mamma,” said Emma, one morning, “I
know a great many little girls who have birds.” “Very probably,” replied
her mother: “it is not uncommon to keep them in cages; but that
circumstance does not make it less wrong. When you are older, if you do
what other people do, without considering, you will often do wrong. You
must think for yourself. If you were to catch one of those happy little
birds, which are flying about from tree to tree, and hopping from branch
to branch, chirping so gaily and singing so sweetly, you would render it
miserable.” “Indeed, mamma,” interrupted Emma; “I have seen canary
birds, goldfinches, and many other kinds, which are very cheerful, and
seem to enjoy themselves very contentedly.” “But,” said her mother,
“they do not pass their lives in the same degree of enjoyment, as if
they were flying about.”

A few days after this conversation, Emma’s cousin came to spend a few
days with his aunt, before he returned to school. He had a very pretty
bird called a Red-pole: he had reared it from the nest. It was very
tame. He had taught it many tricks: it would eat out of his hand, and
stand perched on his finger whilst he walked about the house. Emma was
extremely fond of it, and wished, more than ever, that her mamma did not
think it improper for her to have a bird. She spent much time, every
day, with her favourite: it grew fond of her quickly, and appeared to
know her as well as it did its master. The day before her cousin went to
school, Emma entered her mother’s dressing-room with the red-pole on her
finger. “Mamma,” said Emma, fixing her eyes anxiously on her mother’s
face, “Cousin Edward says, he must not take red-pole back to school with
him. Dr. Barton desired him not. He said it took up too much of his time
and thoughts. So he told me, just now, that he was glad red-pole loved
me, and that he would give it to me. Poor red-pole, it is of no use your
loving me, I fear! I may not keep you.—I suppose you must fly
away!”—“No, Emma,” answered her mother; “we must do the best that we can
for it now. The poor creature has been rendered so helpless, that it
would perish from want: you may therefore keep it. Remember, however,
you undertake a great charge. Children are little to be trusted: they
frequently neglect their pets. Many unfortunate favourites perish, from
the carelessness of their thoughtless masters and mistresses. Let me see
that, in this instance, you will act wisely and humanely.” “Oh!” cried
Emma, eagerly, “I never shall forget my dear little red-pole! Thank you,
mamma.”

Emma did, indeed, pay attention to her bird for the first week. At
length she grew tired of seeing the same tricks over and over, without
the smallest variety. She was constantly trying to teach it something
new. Unfortunately, one day it occurred to her, that it would be
entertaining to see how it would behave in the water. Emma forgot it was
winter, and that the weather was very cold. She determined to try the
experiment. She chirped, and held put her finger. Poor red-pole, as
usual, hopped on it. She carried him to a pitcher of water, which
unluckily was in the room, and plunged him, head foremost, into it. The
bird struggled violently. Emma took him out. How great was her horror to
see blood gushing from his beak and eyes. He writhed, kicked in agony,
and in a few moments expired.

Emma burst into tears. “Oh, mamma,” exclaimed she to her mother, who at
that instant entered the chamber, “I have killed my bird! You are
right—children are not to be trusted! I never will have another bird! Oh
my poor red-pole! my dear red-pole, which I loved so tenderly!”

* * * * *

Julia talked with her mother some time about the tale she had just read.
When she had finished her observations on Emma’s conduct, she put the
book on the proper shelf in Mary’s room. She returned to her mother, and
as she passed the window she saw a carriage drive to the door of the
house. “They are come! they are come!” cried the happy Julia, jumping
and clapping her hands, in ecstacy: “how fortunate, mamma, I have
finished all my business!”—As soon as the joy and bustle of the meeting
were a little over, Mrs. Vincent smiled and said, “Now, Julia, you may
show your sister the different apartments of the house. Your aunt and I
will follow. Lead the way.”

Julia took her sister by the hand, and led her, in silence, through the
passage.

“Mary, this is to be your sitting-room,” cried the little girl, as she
threw open the door of the important room.

“My room!” exclaimed Mary: “how beautiful!—it is full of flowers! Dear
mamma, how good of you to ornament my room with these lovely flowers.—A
rose-tree too, in full bloom.—These are hot-house flowers. Have you a
hot-house, mamma.” “No, my dear, I have not,” replied Mrs. Vincent; “nor
are you indebted to me for these rare and lovely flowers: they were all
given, this morning, to Julia.”—“They are yours now, my dear Mary,”
interrupted Julia; “I give them to you.”—Mary kissed her sister, and
added, “I thank you very much, my love, for so beautiful a present. But
I am curious to learn whence you had them.” Julia coloured, threw her
arms round Mary’s neck, and whispered, “Lady Beauchamp gave them to me.”
Mrs. Vincent smiled and said, “I permitted Julia the pleasure of
introducing you to your apartment—she merited that gratification; but I
shall not allow any one to rob me of the happiness of relating to you
the story attached to these flowers. You, my dear Mary, who have
assisted me in instructing our little Julia, have a right to share the
delight her behaviour has afforded me.”—Mary’s curiosity was strongly
excited, and her mother immediately related to her the whole transaction
about the lamb.

THE END.

------------------

_Printed by Darton, Harvey, and Co._
_Gracechurch Street, London._

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Note

Punctuation has been normalized. Variations in hyphenation have been
retained as they were in the original publication. The following changes
have been made:

Page Original As Corrected

18 pleasad pleased
25 cut your head cut your hand
39 if she think if she thinks
56 sat down so work sat down to work
57 necessaay necessary

Italicized words and phrases are presented by surrounding the text with
_underscores_.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Julia and the Pet-Lamb - or, Good Temper and Compassion Rewarded" ***

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