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Title: A Tale of Two Monkeys and other stories
Author: Anonymous
Language: English
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                                 A TALE
                              TWO MONKEYS
                           AND OTHER STORIES


                       THE METHODIST BOOK CONCERN
                        NEW YORK      CINCINNATI


                         A TALE OF TWO MONKEYS.

The late Dr. John Torrey, of Columbia College, was extremely fond of
pets, and expressed admiration for the pretty little Brazilian monkeys
with gentle, human faces and velvety, mouse-colored coats. A gentleman
who heard it went shortly afterward to Brazil. Upon his return, he
presented the doctor with a choice pair. A cage was provided for them,
and they soon became members of the family, petted by all, and tenderly
loved by the doctor, in whose study they lived.

One Sunday, the entire family went to church and the monkeys were left
at home in their cage. When the churchgoers returned they found the
stay-at-homes on the top of the folding doors of the parlors, trembling
and crying piteously—and for reasons, as they soon discovered. The
little mischief-makers had forced open the door of their cage, and,
finding themselves free, had proceeded to enjoy themselves in a manner
that was scandalous.


In the cellar a bag of hops and ten baskets of strawberries were dumped
together and hopelessly mixed; the pans of milk were without cream, and
there was unmistakable evidence that the monkeys had skimmed them with
their tails! A cistern in the yard offered a fine opening, and the
little mischiefs gathered some clothes from the line, the cook’s aprons
from the kitchen, and plumped them all in.

An open watch belonging to a daughter of the house attracted one of the
monkeys. He removed the hands, took it down stairs and carefully covered
the face with mud, and then brought it back and placed it on her bed.
Not so carefully did they pull the cover from her writing table,
bringing ink and papers with it, and spilling the ink; and when it came
to the pulling down of muslin curtains and bed hangings, and tearing
them into strips, the fun must have risen to frenzy, for they proceeded
to do up the parlor window draperies in the same style. The dining room
table next engaged their attention, and the fact that they made a salad
of the flowers in the center with the pepper, salt, and mustard may have
accounted for their tearful state when they were found perched above the

The little penitents were forgiven, for they seemed really sorry. But
soon afterward one of the midgets carefully removed the glasses from the
doctor’s spectacles, twisted the bows and put them in the stove, from
which they both took ashes and sprinkled round the room. Fortunately
there was no fire in the stove, for the next thing in order was the
discovery of a gross of matches, which they scattered over the floor.

This began to look like danger, so the doctor was obliged to sell them
to Mr. Barnum. But, whenever he went to visit them, as he often did,
they greeted him with unmistakable signs of delight and affection.

                      THE OLDEST CHRISTMAS STORY.


What is the most beautiful Christmas story in the world? It is found in
the gospels of Matthew and Luke. Matthew tells the story of the wise men
and the star, and Luke of the shepherds and the angels; and Luke’s story
is the longest, but together they make the most wonderful story that
ever was written. It is a great truth, so great that we cannot learn it
all, and the heart of that truth is love. God our Father is a great
Spirit, filling the earth and heavens, and we, his children, are spirits
made in his likeness, living in earthly bodies, and he has made all
things that are. When his children were forgetting their Father, and
losing their likeness to him, he so loved them that he said, “I will go
down and live among them, and teach them how to live and how to love.”
So he began to live just as we all begin to live in this world, by being
a helpless little child. He was first loved by Mary, the mother, and
then Joseph and the shepherds, and the wise men all adored him.



As he grew up many wondered at his words, and loved him so much that
they left all to follow him. At last he laid down his life for us all.
Then his children began to understand who he was and how he loved them,
and many gladly suffered and died for his sake, and the story of the
holy Child is now read by those who love him around the whole world, and
they now begin to understand his words when he said, “I and my Father
are one.” Is not this the most beautiful Christmas story in the world?


And the hero of this great Christmas story still lives in heaven, and
hears our prayers and watches over us so lovingly. He is glad when we
are like him and grieved when we forget his teachings.

                       THE ELEPHANT’S TOOTHACHE.

A dentist tells this story of an elephant that belonged to a circus. He
was very good-natured, but one day when his keeper went near him he made
a vicious switch at him with his trunk.

The keeper knew the elephant so well that he said at once that the
elephant was sick; something was the matter with him. He sat at a safe
distance from the elephant and watched him.

The elephant trumpeted loud and acted as though he was very angry, but
no one could decide what was the cause of the change in this good
elephant’s disposition. This continued for three days. At the end of
that time one of the men said, “Why, when Jack” (that was the elephant’s
name) “lies down he keeps rubbing one side of his head; I think he has
got the toothache;” and everybody immediately said, “Yes, that’s what’s
the matter.”


The elephant was chained safely to posts and iron rings, so that he
could not move, and the dentist was sent for. The dentist looked in his
mouth and saw that one tooth was badly decayed. He touched it, and the
elephant trumpeted as though in great pain; then the dentist went to
work and filled the tooth.

After a time the elephant seemed to understand that the dentist was
trying to do something for his pain, and he gave every evidence of
appreciating the attention. Some weeks later the dentist visited the
winter quarters of the elephant and the elephant recognized him. It was
rather an expensive operation, for it cost one hundred dollars to fill
that one tooth. Doubtless, then, the elephant’s toothache is a larger
ache than either you or I ever know when our teeth ache.

There is an old story, something like this, about a lion which showed
gratitude to a man who had taken a thorn out of his foot. Do you
remember it?

                        WHERE ARE THE SWALLOWS?

                There’s a swallow in the air
                It is on its way to me
                Over land and over sea,
                Over pine and over palm,
                Through the storm and through the calm,
                And it finds the summer fair

                Swallow, bring the stork with you,
                      Swallow, do!
                Bring the bird of paradise,
                And the parrot, bright and wise,
                Birds in scarlet, gold, and green,
                Such as we have never seen;
                Bring the crested cockatoo,
                      Swallow, do!


                        A CURIOUS KIND OF BEAR.

These little animals are called ant-bears, though no respectable father
bear or mother bear would own for a cub such a queer, sharp-nosed,
bushy-tailed creature as this. The ant-bear hasn’t a tooth in his head,
and any little Goldilocks might eat his porridge, sit in his chair, and
lie in his bed as long as she pleased without being afraid of him. The
Creator has given to the ant-bear a taste for insects—he prefers
ants—and has fitted him with a long and prying snout. Out of his mouth
he can dart a very long, threadlike tongue, which is so sticky that the
ant which it touches is caught fast and must go down the red lane,
whether he will or not.

There are various kinds of ant-eating birds and animals on the globe, in
feathers, fur, and scales, but this ant-bear lives in the New World
only. Can you tell in what part of it we should look for him?


  A Pair of Ant-bears.

                            ROVER IN CHURCH.

          ’Twas a Sunday morning early in May,
          A beautiful, sunny, quiet day,
          And all the village, old and young,
          Had trooped to the church when the church bell rung.
          The windows were open, and breezes sweet
          Fluttered the hymn books from seat to seat.
          Even the birds in the pale-leaved birch
          Sang as softly as if in church!
          Right in the midst of the minister’s prayer
          There came a knock at the door. “Who’s there,
          I wonder?” the gray-haired sexton thought,
          As his careful ear the tapping caught.
          Rap, rap, rap, rap—a louder sound.
          The boys on the back seats turned around.
          What could it mean? for never before
          Had anyone knocked at the old church door.
          Again the tapping, and now so loud,
          The minister paused (though his head was bowed),
          Rappety-rap! This will never do;
          The girls are peeping, and laughing too!
          So the sexton tripped o’er the creaking floor,
          Lifted the latch, and opened the door.
          In there trotted a big black dog,
          As big as a bear! With a solemn jog
          Right up the center aisle he pattered;
          People might stare—it little mattered.
          Straight he went to a little maid,
          Who blushed and hid, as though afraid,
          And there sat down, as if to say,
          “I’m sorry that I was late to-day;
          But better late than never, you know.
          Besides, I waited an hour or so,
          And couldn’t get them to open the door
          Till I wagged my tail and bumped the floor.
          Now, little mistress, I’m going to stay,
          And hear what the minister has to say.”
          The poor little girl hid her face and cried!
          But the big dog nestled close to her side,
          And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly,
          Wondering what the matter could be!
          The dog being large (and the sexton small),
          He sat through the sermon and heard it all,
          As solemn and wise as anyone there,
          With a very dignified, scholarly air!
          And instead of scolding, the minister said,
          As he laid his hand on the sweet child’s head
          After the service, “I never knew
          Two better list’ners than Rover and you!”



                            “LITTLE PETER.”

The sailors call this bird “Little Peter” because he is always trying to
walk on the sea. Strangely enough, he does not care to live on the land,
or even very near it. He even tucks his head under his wing and goes to
sleep with a wave for a cradle. He is a feather ball, so oily that the
water cannot wet him, and so light that he cannot sink. The petrel is
sometimes called “Mother Carey’s Chicken,” and follows the ships to get
the bits of food that are thrown overboard. He is very fond of fat, and
so he follows the whaling ships for the bits of “blubber” that are
thrown overboard. They get very fat themselves, and the people of the
Faröe Islands catch them to make candles of them. Think of it! They draw
a wick through the fat little body and hang them up in their huts to
give light at night. Poor “Little Peter!”

If you think that it is strange to use a bird for a candle, what do you
think of the Indians of Alaska who take a greasy little fish and run a
wick through and use that to light their little huts. Those who have
seen the candlefish and smelled him burning prefer the electric light.

                          A BRAVE LITTLE GIRL.

There is a story, in a beautiful book called _The Queens of England_,
about a little girl who saved her father’s life. It happened a long time
ago, when a woman named Mary was queen. Lord Preston, the father of the
little girl, loved King James, who had been sent out of England, and
wanted him to be king again. So there was a trial, and they said he must
die. While the trial was going on the little Lady Catherine, only nine
years old, was left in the queen’s room in Windsor Castle. The next day
after the trial the queen found the little girl in a picture gallery,
looking earnestly at the picture of King James which hung there. “Why do
you look at my father’s picture so strangely?” asked the queen.

“I was thinking,” said the child, “how hard it is that my father must
die for loving yours.”


The queen was so touched by the reply that she pardoned Lord Preston and
gave him back to his loving little daughter, to the great joy of both.

                             ONE AFTERNOON.

           Papa and mamma went out to row,
           And left us three at home, you know—
             Roderick, James, and me.
           “My dears,” they said, “now play with your toys,
           Like dear little, good little, sweet little boys,
             And we will come home to tea.”

           We played with our toys the longest while,
           We built up the blocks for nearly a mile—
             Roderick, James, and I;
           But when they came tumbling down, alas!
           They fell right against the looking-glass—
             O how the pieces did fly!

           Then we played the stairs were an Alpine peak,
           And down we slid with shout and with shriek—
             Roderick, I, and James;
           But Jim caught his jacket upon a tack,
           And I burst the buttons all off my back,
             And Roderick called us names.

           Then we found a pillow that had a rip,
           And all the feathers we out did slip—
             Roderick, James, and I.
           And we made a snowstorm, a glorious one,
           All over the room. O wasn’t it fun,
             As the feathery flakes did fly!

           But just as the storm was raging around
           Papa and mamma came in and found
             Roderick, James, and me;
           O terrible, terrible things they said!
           And they put us all three right straight to bed,
           With the empty pillowcase under our head,
             And none of us had any tea.




                       A STORY ABOUT A STARLING.

A starling had been taught to answer certain questions, so that a
dialogue like this could be carried on:

“Who are you?”

“I’m Joe.”

“Where are you from?”

“From Pimlico.”

“Who’s your master?”

“The barber.”

“What brought you here?”

“Bad company.”


  A picture of the Jewish Tabernacle which the Israelites had instead of
    a church. It was made of skins and beautiful cloth—purple and fine
    linen—and could be folded together and carried about from place to
    place during the forty years in which the Israelites were wandering
    in the wilderness.

Now it came to pass one day that the starling got out of his cage and
flew away to enjoy his liberty. The barber was troubled. Joe was the
life of the shop; many a customer came because he had heard of the bird,
and the barber saw his custom falling off. Then, too, he loved the bird,
which had proved so apt a pupil. But all efforts to find the stray bird
were in vain.

Meanwhile Joe had been enjoying life on his own account. A few days
passed very pleasantly, and then, alas! he fell into the snare of a
fowler, in truth.

A man lived a few miles from the barber’s house who made the snaring of
birds his business. Some of the birds he stuffed and sold. Others,
again, were sold to the hotels near by, to be served up to guests.

Much to his surprise Joe found himself one day in the fowler’s net, in
company with a large number of birds as frightened as himself. The
fowler began drawing out the birds one after another, and wringing their
necks. Joe saw that his turn was coming, and something must be done. It
was clear that the fowler would not ask questions, so Joe piped out,
“I’m Joe!”



“Hey! What’s that?” cried the fowler.

“I’m Joe,” repeated the bird.

“Are you?” said the astonished fowler. “What brings you here?”

“Bad company,” said Joe, promptly.

It is needless to say Joe was soon given back to his master.

                       ORIGIN OF THE NAME PUSSY.

Did you ever think why we call the cat “puss?” A great many years ago
the people of Egypt, who have many idol gods, worshiped the cat. They
thought she was like the moon, because she was more active at night, and
because her eyes changed, just as the moon changes, which is sometimes
full and sometimes only a little bright crescent, or half moon, as we
say. Did you ever notice your pussy’s eyes to see how they change? So
these people made an idol with the cat’s head, and named it Pasht, the
same name they gave to the moon; for the word means “the face of the
moon.” That word has been changed to “pas,” or “pus,” and has come at
last to be “puss,” the name which almost everyone gives to the cat. Puss
and pussycat are pet names for kitty everywhere. Whoever thought of it
as given to her thousands of years ago, and that then people bowed down
and prayed to her?


                              PATSY BRYAN.

Patsy Bryan was a little street peddler. Patsy was always ragged, often
hungry, yet kept a brave heart and wore a happy look.

His father was dead, his mother drank, and Patsy’s scanty earnings went
a long way toward maintaining the family, which consisted of his mother,
himself, a younger sister, and a cripple brother. Poor Patsy had never
been to church or Sunday school, and was little better than a heathen.

One Sunday afternoon, however, Patsy strayed by a large building in
which a mission Sunday school was in session, and hearing the singing,
he stepped in to see what was going on. He was kindly invited to enter a
class, and soon found himself quite at home amid a number of boys of his
own age.

After that Patsy became a regular attendant, and when, in the summer
time, a company of children were sent into the country for a few weeks
by the benevolence known as the Fresh-Air Fund, Patsy found himself one
of the fortunate number.


  Jamie has a Little Talk with Piggie-Wig.

This was one of the great events of his life. Never before had he seen
the beautiful country. How rapidly the days passed! What fun it was to
roam the green fields and to gather fruits and flowers without the fear
of the ever-present “cop,” and then what royal fare—vegetables fresh
from the gardens, plenty of nice, fresh milk, berries, and fruit without
any stint! The days flew by only too swiftly, and soon Patsy returned to
the great city and his daily work. But he returned with a new color in
his cheeks and with new ideas and hopes in his mind, and there is every
prospect that, keeping good company and refraining from bad habits, he
will grow into a useful and happy man.



                           TWO LITTLE GIRLS.

            That little girl is very rich,
            With an old doll like a perfect witch,
            A broken chair and a bit of delf,
            And a wee cracked cup on the closet shelf.
            She can play with only a row of pins;
            Houses and gardens, arks and inns,
            She makes with her chubby fingers small,
            And she never asks for a toy at all.
            Poor little girl and rich little girl,
            How nice it would be if in Time’s swift swirl
            You could—perhaps-not change your places,
            But catch a glimpse of each other’s faces;
            For each to the other could something give,
            Which would make the child-life sweeter to live,
            For both could give and both could share
            Something the other had to spare.

                         PRINCE AND PIGGIE-WIG.

Jamie had no brothers or sisters, so he made friends with everything
about his father’s farm. He loved the trees because he could climb them
and sit among the branches.

Prince, his dog, was his constant companion, who always felt it his duty
to keep his eye upon everything about the premises, for when anything
went wrong he knew it, and had to help make it right.


One day Jamie and Prince were playing tag; Prince stopped and began to
growl. He heard something stir in the cornfield, and soon found that the
mother pig had worked her way out of the sty and was rooting up the
beautiful corn. Prince knew what to do. He pulled the mother pig’s ear
until she was glad to go back again, and Jamie fastened her safely in.
“Where is little Piggie-Wig?” said Jamie; “he is out too.” They found
him in Prince’s kennel fast asleep. Prince soon hustled him out, and
Piggie-Wig sat down upon the garden walk to rest. Jamie threw himself
down before him to have a little talk with him. Piggie-Wig opened his
pink eyes and lifted his funny nose and looked at Jamie.

“Well,” said Jamie, “you thought you had found a fine little house when
you got into Prince’s kennel, I suppose.”

Piggie-Wig grunted and lay down upon the walk.

“You are a lazy fellow,” said Jamie; “boys are sometimes lazy—you like
to pull weeds, though, and I don’t.” Piggie-Wig grunted again.

After having a little talk together Jamie and Prince took Piggie-Wig
home, which was not a very easy thing to do, and went to the house for a


                           GRANDMAMMA SPIDER.

          Grandmamma Spider is building a nest
            Right there by the crack in the wall;
          Look sharp, little friends, the threads are so fine
            You hardly can see them at all.

          Two little birds—see them up in that tree?—
            Are singing a beautiful song,
          All about grasses, and flowers, and leaves,
            And summer that waited so long.

          The wind is a lullaby, soft and sweet;
            Miss Pussy is purring a tune;
          Towser is happy—he’d talk if he could;
            Sir Cricket chirps loud, for it’s June.


  Pods and Blossoms of the Vanilla.


Most of the vanilla which goes into American cake and ice cream comes
from Mexico. It is made from the beans and pods of a climbing plant
which grows wild in that country, and is also cultivated on great
plantations. It is a sort of orchid, and has flowers of a greenish
white. After these come the pods, which are from six to twelve inches
long and dark brown in color. When these are ripe enough they are picked
off and treated with heat and moisture until they begin to “work,” or
ferment. When the “vanillin” has been extracted from them it is
dissolved in alcohol and bottled for use.


                           Holy Jesus,
                             Heavenly Friend,
                           Let thy word
                             My soul defend.



Africa is the hottest country in the world, because it lies in that part
of the world where the burning sun shines straight down upon it. The
beautiful snow, which falls about us every winter, is unknown there,
except on the highest mountain peaks. There lies across that country a
belt of great forest trees, forming a jungle so dark and dense that no
man has yet been able to pass through it. Only wild beasts hide there to
get away from the heat of the sun. But north and south of this great
forest are beautiful woods and palm trees and wild flowers. In such
places the natives live in rude huts, and sometimes huddle together in
villages. Their food is mostly bananas, dates, African maize, goat’s
milk, roots, and barks.



                               JACK DAWE


              Jack Dawe a new idea possessed
              That would not let that young man rest;
              He watched with care his grandpapa
              Indulging in a big cigar,
              And argued, “Smoking is, I guess,
              The outward sign of manliness.”


              So from the box abstracting one,
              He took good care his prep. to shun,
              And perched upon a shady stile,
              He puffed away with sickly smile;
              But soon slid down with aching head,
              Stole home “quite cured,” and crept to bed.



                   “Hurrah, boys, the early morning
                   Is the time for play!
                   Faithful Donald stands in waiting;
                     Let us haste away.”

                         TWO PAIRS OF FETTERS.

Eighty years ago a fierce war was waged in India between the English and
Tippoo Sahib. On one occasion several English officers were taken
prisoners. Among them was one named Baird. One day a native officer
brought in fetters to be put on each of the prisoners, the wounded not
excepted. Baird had been severely wounded, and was suffering from pain
and weakness.

A gray-haired officer said to the native official, “You will not think
of putting chains upon that wounded man?”

“There are just as many pairs of fetters as there are captives,” was the
answer, “and every pair must be worn.”

“Then,” said the noble officer, “_put two pairs on me_; I will wear his
as well as my own.”

This was done. Strange to say, Baird lived to gain his freedom—lived to
take the city—but his noble friend died in prison.

A noble act—to bear a heavy burden for another which that other could
not bear for himself. Thus our Saviour showed his love for the world.
“When we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the
ungodly” (Rom. v, 6).


  Mount Hermon.

                      STORY OF THE CENTURY PLANT.


  The Century Plant.

The century plant, as we call it, though it does not live much longer
than fifty years, is a kind of cactus. The cactus family—or the “cacti,”
for we never say cactuses—numbers fully forty members, and you are
pretty sure to find them growing in those parts of the far south where
the sun and sand dry up every other green thing.

The true century plant, or agave, is found chiefly in Mexico. It is
composed of a clump of thick and fleshy leaves, each having a hard,
sharp, thorny point at its extremity, as well as an edging of prickly
spines growing the whole length of the leaf.

At the flowering time a tough, tall stem grows from the center of the
plant, rising to the height of ten or fifteen feet, and producing a
blossom of a yellowish-green color.

It is said that the century plant has been put to no less than one
hundred uses. For example, the fiber of the plant is spun into thread
and made into garments; the thick, fleshy leaves produce an extract
which is used as a substitute for soap; while the tough flowering stem,
when withered, serves the purpose of a razor strop. The pointed thorns
at the tip of each great leaf are used by the natives as needles, and
the leaves themselves are made into shingles. It seems possible to make
paper out of almost any substance, and this plant is not an exception.

Just at the time when this juicy, pulpy plant begins to flower the
flower-bearing stem is cut off, together with the thick leaves
immediately around it. A basinlike hollow is made in the center, into
which all the rich sap or juice flows. A single plant will, for two or
three months, produce at the rate of two gallons of this fluid each day.
It is collected in vessels of raw-hide, and kept until it ferments. Many
Mexicans get drunk on this “pulque.” The city of Mexico contains eight
hundred and twenty shops in which this beverage is sold. Eighty thousand
gallons are consumed daily throughout Mexico.

                             NESTING TIME.

             “’Tis June, ’tis June, my sweet, sweet mate.”
               “I know it, I know it,” said she.
             “The sun is bright and the sky is fair,
             The sheltering leaves are everywhere;
               It is time to build,” said he.

             “O joy, joy, joy! Let us build our home
               On a rock-a-bye bough,” said she,
             “Where our baby birds may safely rest
             Till they get too big for the little nest.”
               “We will, my sweet,” said he.

             “My little nest is full to the brim,
               And my heart with song,” said she.
             “Our baby birds are ready, I know,
             To try their wings, so let us go
               And see the world,” said he.


                            THE DEAD TURKEY.

“Mrs. Wells, here is your little turkey, and it is dead,” said a pitiful
voice. Little Eddie, the ministers son, who was Mrs. Wells’s next-door
neighbor, held the limp turkey in his hand as he stood in the door.

“O, I’m so sorry,” said kind Mrs. Wells, and Edward went home with a
troubled face. Something hurt him so.

“What is the matter with my little boy?” said Eddie’s mother. “All the
sunshine has gone out of his face.”

Eddie gave a deep sigh; then he looked up. “I’m going to tell you all
about it, mamma,” he said; “you know Mrs. Wells’s dear little chickies
and turk-a-lurks? They looked so cunning that I just picked up one
little turkey and hugged it a little bit, and it was dead. The old
mother turkey was ’most crazy. I carried the poor little turkey chick to
Mrs. Wells and told her it was dead, and—and something hurts me so right
in here,” and he clasped his little hands over his heart.

“Was that all you told Mrs. Wells, Eddie?” asked his mother, gravely.


“Yes’m,” said Eddie; but a little later she saw him trudging toward Mrs.
Wells’s door. “I killed your turkey, I squeezed it so hard. Will you
please to forgive me?” said little Eddie.

Mrs. Wells said, “Yes, dear; you didn’t mean to kill it, I know.”

When Eddie came home the sunshine was in his face again. “I told her the
whole truth, mamma, and the hurt is gone,” he said, gleefully.


  A General Smash-up.


There is nothing which will make a man angry so quickly as to be told
that he is not a gentleman. But one becomes a true gentleman by
beginning early to practice gentle deeds.

On a crowded trolley car going out of Boston, one evening, an old woman
was packed in the crowd in the narrow aisle where the standing room was
all taken. She was bent with age and was very feeble. Her shabby dress
and worn shawl told of her poverty. She carried a large basket, and it
seemed to grow heavier and heavier as she changed it from one arm to the
other. Seated where this woman was standing sat two persons—one whose
tailor-made clothes of expensive fabric showed he was a well-to-do man.
The other was a ragged newsboy. Tired from his work, the little fellow’s
head now and then dropped on his shoulder and his weary eyelids closed.

Awaking from one of these naps, he saw standing near him the shabby old
woman with her heavy basket, and he put his little hand out on hers and
said, very gently, but manfully: “You must be tired. Take my seat. I’ll
hold your basket.”

There was the making of a splendid gentleman in that boy.


  So Many Letters to Write!

                             THE BROTHERS.

There was a time when the world was very young, and the first people
were like children who cannot understand how to worship God, so they
were allowed to offer sacrifices upon an altar. You have heard about
Cain and Abel, the two sons of Adam and Eve. One was gentle and good,
and he kept the flocks. The other, the elder, took care of the ground
and the fruit trees. When they came to offer their sacrifices Abel
brought a lamb and Cain brought grain and fruit. The Lord looked upon
the hearts of Cain and Abel, and he saw true worship in Abel’s heart, but
in the heart of Cain he saw selfishness and sin. So he did not accept
his offering. Then the sin in Cain’s heart rose into his tongue as he
talked angrily with his brother, and by and by it crept out into his
hand, and he struck his brother and killed him. The seed of murder,
which is hate, had sprung up quickly in Cain’s heart.


  The Two Altars.

                               HIS WORK.

One time a man came to one of the men who worked for him, gave him a big
stone, and said, “Now cut in this stone leaves just like the ones in
this picture.” The stone did not look very pretty, and the man said, “I
will do just the very best I can, but I wish I could cut in this
beautiful marble here.” So he toiled away with his sharp tools, and,
after much work, he finished the leaves according to the pattern.

When he finished this the master brought him another just like it, and
told him to cut a branch in it. So for weeks he worked on these big,
rough stones, and he did not know what they were for.

One day, when he was walking down town in the large city, he saw a
beautiful building. He went over to look at it, and there, in front of
that large building, were all those big, rough stones upon which he had
been working for so long; but they were all put together now to form a
most beautiful picture. The man looked at it a long time and then said:
“O how glad I am I did it well! Now I see what the master meant.”

                           FORGIVE THE WRONG.

                 Dear child, has some one done you ill?
                   Don’t hasten to resent it;
                 Oft those who seek a swift revenge
                   Find leisure to repent it.

                 Though anger loud for vengeance cries,
                   Again, again deny it;
                 Two wrongs will never make one right,
                   Howe’er you multiply it.


                             THE STORYBOOK.

                   “I have a little storybook;
                     I love to read it too;
                   It tells about the fairy folk,
                     And what they say and do,

                   “And how they sleep in lily bells
                     And scare away the bees,
                   And visit birdies in their nest,
                     And do just what they please.”


                         “WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?”

Said a little girl: “It is easy enough to remember that the old woman
who lives down in the Row is my neighbor, for she is very poor and lives
in a poor house, and when I carry her things mamma sends she says,
‘Bless you, my little lady;’ but it isn’t so easy to remember that my
own grandma is my neighbor when she wants me to run up stairs after her
spectacles, or hold some yarn for her just when I’m playing.”


  The Man with the Gridiron Collar.


  Five O’clock Tea.


                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

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