UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00022228938 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://archive.org/details/lovetokenforchilOOsedg 
 
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 RECENTLY PUBLISHED. 
 
 THE LIN WOODS ; or, Sixty years since in America. 2 vols. 
 12mo. 
 
 THE POOR RICH MAN AND THE RICH POOR MAN 
 18mo. 
 
 LIVE AND LET LIVE; or, Domestic Service Illustrated. 
 18mo. 
 
LOVE TOKEN FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 DESIGNED FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL LIBRARIES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE LIN WOODS," "LIVE AND LET LIVE,* 
 "POOR RICH MAN," &c, &c. 
 
 ■ There be things which are little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise." 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-ST. 
 18 44. 
 
[Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1837, by 
 
 Harper & Brothers, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New- York.] 
 
TO 
 
 ELIZABETH HOWARD, 
 
 OF BOSTON, 
 THIS LITTLE BOOK, WRITTEN AT HEB BEQUEST, 
 
 is instxibzXi, 
 
 BY HEB AFFECTIONATE FBIEND. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pago 
 The Widow Ellis and her son Willie ........ 9 
 
 The Magic Lamp 34 
 
 Our Robins 40 
 
 Old Rover .53 
 
 The Chain of Love 69 
 
 Mill-hill 78 
 
 Mill-hill (Part Second) ' 95 
 
 The Bantem 137 
 
THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 HER SON WILLIE. 
 
 OVERCOME EVIL WITH GOOD. 
 
 I have known few happier people than the Widow 
 Ellis and her son William, or Willie, as he was 
 called in the neighbourhood. Do you imagine 
 Widow Ellis was rich 1 Do you think she lived in 
 a big house, and that she had plenty of handsome 
 furniture, and horses, and carriages, and a large 
 garden, and plenty of people to serve her, and rich 
 relations, and troops of friends ? And do you think 
 Willie, my bright, happy little friend Willie, had 
 quantities of clothes, new books whenever he de- 
 sired them, a printing-press, paint-box, pencils, a 
 magic lantern, and all the toys, useful and useless, 
 that are lavished by loving friends on rich boys ? 
 Think you he had a pony to ride ? a Newfound- 
 land dog to play with, and allowance-money in his 
 purse to buy what he liked ? No, none of these 
 things made the happiness of the Widow Ellis and 
 her son Willie. On the contrary, they wero al- 
 
10 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 most the poorest people, save those miserable be- 
 ings the town's poor, in our village. 
 
 When Mrs. Ellis was first married, many years 
 ago, she moved to the West. She had six chil- 
 dren. • She lived in a sickly place, and one after 
 another died, and last of all her husband. None 
 of her family were left but the youngest, Willie. 
 Her own health was wretched ; and, believing no- 
 thing could cure her but coming back to the old 
 place, she sold her little property, paid her debts, 
 doctor and all, came back to our village, and had 
 just enough to buy that little old brown house on 
 the slope, at the turn above the river, where those 
 noble elm-trees hang their sweeping branches over 
 the road, so imbowering it that our village-girls 
 (who always choose that way for their twilight 
 walks) call it the arbour. There is a small patch 
 of land on the east side of the widow's house, it 
 may be the tenth of an acre, which she made into 
 a garden. She often says, it is well for her it is 
 no larger, for it is just big enough for her and Wil- 
 liam to plant, and sow, and keep in order. It is 
 wonderful how much she gets out of it ! Plenty of 
 potatoes for breakfast and dinner all the year round, 
 and often a good mess for the cow. The widow's 
 money held out to buy a cow, and well for her that it 
 did ; for this cow, till she lost it, half supported her. 
 But I was telling you how full her garden was. 
 She had parsnips, carrots, onions, turnips, and here 
 and there a cabbage or a squash-vine, cucumbers, 
 and a little patch of melons. How could I forget 
 the asparagus which Mrs. Ellis said was " some- 
 thing to give away, for everybody did not raise as- 
 paragus, and folks, especially old folks, were very 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. ^11 
 
 fond of it." There was a row of currant-bushes, 
 and, latterly, a bed of strawberries. In one corner 
 there were medicinal herbs ; country people make 
 great use of these ; and when sage and balm could be 
 found nowhere else, Widow Ellis had always " some 
 to spare." There was a row of never-to-be-forgot- 
 ten, caraway, dill, and fennel. The old women 
 and children who passed that way on Sunday were 
 in the habit of asking a few heads of these aromatic 
 seeds to chew at meeting ; a rustic custom, which, 
 we are happy to observe, is falling into disuse. 
 Round the widow's door — the side-door opens into 
 the garden — there were rose-bushes, pinks, and 
 heart's-ease ; and throughout the garden, here and 
 there, from May till October, you might see a 
 flower, looking as pleasant among the cabbages, 
 turnips, &c, as a smile on a labourer's face. In- 
 deed, the Widow Ellis's garden put to shame the 
 waste places called (by courtesy) by our farmers 
 gardens. They make many excuses for these slov- 
 enly places which we cannot now stop to examine ; 
 but, in passing along to the story of little Wiljie, 
 we will just repeat what Widow Ellis often said 
 when busy in her garden. " I call this women's 
 work. I have been weakly for many years ; and, 
 but for my garden, I believe I should have been 
 under ground long ago. There's nothing does me 
 so much good as smelling the fresh earth. I be- 
 lieve, if our farmer's girls would take care of their 
 gardens, they would look fresher than they do now, 
 and feel a deal better, besides , getting a world of 
 comfort for the family, and a nice present for a 
 neighbour now and then out of it. Besides," 
 added the Widow Ellis, " it's so teaching ; I seem 
 
12 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 to see God's power and goodness in everything 
 that grows." 
 
 The next house to the Widow Ellis, between 
 her and the river, a large brick building, is Captain 
 Nicholas Stout's. You may see by the good fences 
 round it, and the big barns, corn-crib, sheds, &c, be- 
 hind it, all snug and sound, that the captain is a 
 wealthy, industrious, pains-taking farmer. An hon- 
 est man, too, is the captain ; that is, as honest as 
 a man can be who is selfish, and crabbed, and 
 thinks so much of his own property and rights as 
 to care very little for his neighbour's. A man is 
 called honest that pays his debts, and does not 
 cheat his neighbours ; but there is a higher, nobler 
 honesty than that, and a short rule for the practice 
 of it, viz., "do unto others as ye would that others 
 should do unto you." The captain dijd not come 
 up to this, as we shall see. He was a rough, 
 hard-favoured man, and had a crusty way of speak- 
 ing, particularly to children, that made them all 
 dislike him ; and I believe this was the reason the 
 captain was so apt to have his early apples and 
 his watermelons stolen. The Widow Ellis had 
 one pear-tree in her garden ; delicious pears it bore, 
 too ;' and I have heard her say she didn't believe one 
 pear had ever been stolen from it ; indeed, I think 
 the boys in our village would as soon have cut off 
 their fingers as have stolen one of her pears. Was 
 it right to steal cross Captain Stout's ? Oh no ; but 
 the fact that his were stolen and hers were not, 
 shows how one person doing wrong leads to an- 
 other doing it too. 
 
 The captain had a large garden, or rather a 
 large garden-spot ; like most of our farmer's gar- 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. 13 
 
 dens, it was much overgrown with weeds, and 
 had little besides potatoes, cabbages, and a few 
 flaunting hollyhocks in it. To have seen the veg- 
 etables on the Widow Ellis's table and the cap- 
 tain's, you would have taken her to be the richer 
 person of the two. 
 
 Some years ago, when Willie was about eleven, 
 his mother let him hire himself to one of our farm- 
 ers for a few of the busy spring weeks. The people 
 who employed him were much pleased with his in* 
 dustry and kindness ; and when he was coming 
 away, Mrs. Hart, the farmer's wife, said, " Willie, 
 you have always been very good-natured and obli- 
 ging to me, and you have set an excellent example to 
 my boys ; I want to make you some little present 
 that will please you." Then she brought out of her 
 pantry four duck's eggs, carefully laid on wool, in a 
 basket. "You know," she continued, "that our 
 ducks are a rare breed. They were sent to me 
 by my cousin from the seashore. I have but the 
 one pair ; and the duck is just, as you know, going 
 to set upon ten eggs. I have taken four of them 
 out for you, Willie." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! Mrs. Hart, how much I thank you. 
 I had rather have these than almost anything you 
 could have given me." 
 
 " I thought they would please you, Willie, and I 
 wanted to give you something you would value ; 
 and now, if you have good luck with them, they 
 may be worth a great deal to you, for Squire Clif- 
 ford has offered me a dollar a pair for ducks of this 
 breed." 
 
 " Has he 1 A dollar a pair !" Willie looked at 
 the eggs, and he thought of something he wanted 
 B 
 
14 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 very much to buy for his mother, and his thoughts 
 jumped forward to the time when the ducks would 
 be hatched, and sold, and a little black silk shawl 
 bought for mother to wear to meeting in the place 
 of that old one she has worn every Sunday since 
 father died. Well, he took his eggs home with him, 
 and showed them to his mother, and she was full 
 as pleased as he was when she heard that they 
 were given to him as the reward of his good beha- 
 viour ; and Willie said, " Mother, you never saw 
 such handsome ducks ; when they turn their necks 
 to the sun they look as if .they were made of pre- 
 cious stones." 
 
 " They will look more beautiful than precious 
 stones to me, Willie, for they will put me in mind 
 of my little son's good conduct, and what are pre- 
 cious stones to a mother compared with that? 
 They have come just in time ; the old white hen 
 is just going to set. You must take away her own 
 eggs, and put these under her. Hens are like the 
 very best of stepmothers ; they are just as kind to 
 others' offspring as to their own." 
 
 Willie, like other little boys, was impatient for 
 he time to arrive when the ducks should come 
 forth from their shells ; but, cautioned by his mother, 
 he did not worry the hen with going to the nest. 
 He only took care she should find food and water 
 at hand when she came off the nest in search of 
 it. At the end of four weeks the faithful step- 
 mother came forth with four ducklings, each egg 
 having produced a healthy living bird. I cannot de- 
 scribe Willie's joy. A proud and happy boy he was 
 that day. Gladly did he go a mile, morning and 
 night, with Mrs. Gray's cow to pasture, to earn 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. 15 
 
 money to buy food for his little pets. They were, 
 like all ducklings, very greedy, and led their mother 
 about from morning till night scratching for food 
 for them ; but the little vagabonds, above all things, 
 delighted in going to the river and running into it, 
 while the poor mother would stand fluttering by, 
 calling them in vain to come back. Willie would 
 clap his hands, and call the hen an old goose, 
 and wonder that, when she had seen them time 
 after time return in safety, she could be so fright- 
 ened. And then Willie remembered he had read 
 in a book that animals could not reason ; that their 
 minds were made of instincts ; and that they obeyed 
 this instinct better than man obeyed his reason. 
 
 There is no having possessions in this world 
 without trials coming along with them. So Willie 
 found ; for his young family, on passing Captain 
 Stout's garden on their way to the river, would 
 sometimes run under the fence, and had once or 
 twice been seen by the captain himself ononis 
 premises. 
 
 Once, finding them helping themselves to a few 
 of his peas, he flew into a passion ; and, calling to 
 Willie, who was passing by, he told him if he did 
 not keep his ducks out of his garden he would 
 Avring their necks for them ! The bare thought of 
 such a catastrophe made Willie tremble ; and that 
 very hour, with the help of a kind friend, he made 
 a coop for his hen, and shut her up. Willie, now 
 seeing the ducklings persecuted, loved them better 
 than ever. His leisure moments were spent with 
 them. He watched their different dispositions, 
 and named them accordingly ; and one cross one, 
 who was for getting all the food to himself, and 
 
16 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 pecking at the others, he named " Captain Stout" 
 Every day they grew larger and handsomer; and 
 Willie thought their colours were even brighter 
 than their parents' at Mrs. Hart's. His favour- 
 ite among them, by-the-way, he had named Mrs. 
 Hart, and the most generous of little ducks she 
 seemed, always sharing her portion, or giving it 
 all up rather than quarrel for it. After a few days, 
 Willie took it into his head that the young things 
 were getting poor, and pining to go to the river ; and 
 he let the hen out, taking care to attend them, lest 
 they should trespass on the captain. One day,, 
 as he was returning from watering his ducks, his 
 mother called him to go in haste of an errand. He 
 left the ducks on their way home. When he was 
 returning he saw Captain Stout, with a club in 
 his hand, running through his garden. Willie's 
 heart misgave him. " Oh, my poor little ducks !" 
 thought he, and he hastened forward. Bob Smith 
 and^Jam Briggs, two of his best friends, called 
 after him that they had something to tell him, but 
 he did not even turn his head ; and they, wondering 
 what could be the matter, followed after him. 
 Willie reached the garden-fence just in time to 
 see the old hen fly over it, calling, in her own 
 way, with all her might and main, to the young 
 ones to follow. But they, poor things, could not 
 fly so high ; and in attempting to run under the 
 fence, they were entangled in some currant-bushes 
 that grew very thickly there ; and before they could 
 extricate themselves, before Willie could get his 
 breath to plead for them, the captain caught one 
 after the other, and, wringing their necks, tossed 
 them gasping over the fence ; and then, merely say- 
 
AND HER SON WILLlfc. 17 
 
 ing " I gave you warning," he turned and walked 
 back to his house. Willie said not one word. It 
 seemed to him as if he should choke. He took up 
 his darlings one after the other, and put them in 
 his apron ; they were warm, and their little breasts 
 yet heaving, and Willie ran towards his home. 
 He did not stop to hear Sam and Bob, who, en- 
 raged at the captain's cruelty, called him all sorts 
 of names. " I'd kill him !" says Sam. " I'd burn 
 down his house for him!" said Bob. Not one 
 word said poor Willie ; but his cheeks looked as if 
 the blood would burst from them, and he bit his lips 
 till they bled; and so he appeared before his moth- 
 er, and, dropping his apron, the dead ducks fell at 
 her feet, and he burst into loud cries, "Captain 
 Stout has killed them all — he is a cruel wretch, 
 mother — he is ! I wish he was dead ! I do wish 
 he was dead !" 
 " Willie !" 
 
 " I can't help it, mother ; I do wish so ; he is an 
 awful, hateful man ! he might have left me one — 
 just one," and then, throwing himself down on the 
 floor, he took one after the other, stroked down 
 their feathers, held up their poor broken necks, and 
 burst out into a fresh peal of crying. As soon as 
 she could sooth him into a little composure, his 
 mothejr inquired into all the particulars, and she 
 too shed some tears, for it grieved her to see Willie 
 grieve ; and she certainly did think he had been most 
 unjustly as well as unkindly treated. " It is a pity I" 
 she said, stroking Willie's head with one hand and 
 laying her other hand on the favourite duck, poor 
 little Mrs. Hart, whom Willie was holding fast to. 
 his bosom. Willie felt a little comforted when he 
 B2 
 
18 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 saw that his mother felt with him, and he stopped 
 his loud crying, but his tears still came as fast as 
 he could wipe them. "If he had only killed the 
 captain," he said, "I would not have minded it; 
 but Big-breast, and Fanny, and dear, dear little 
 Mrs. Hart ! I am sure he ought to be hung ; and 
 I wish he was." 
 
 « Willie !" 
 
 " Well, mother, was not it just like murder ?" 
 
 "No, my son, not nearly so bad as murder." 
 
 " I'm sure I think it was ; they did not mean to 
 do him any harm, and they were the prettiest little 
 ducks that ever lived, and the best, especially Mrs. 
 Hart. I think it was just as bad as Herod killing 
 the innocents. They were just as good, and ten 
 times handsomer than any babies that ever lived. 
 Can't Captain Stout be punished any way, mother?' 
 
 " I believe not, Willie." 
 
 " I am sure^ie ought to be. Mrs. Hart told me 
 my ducks would be worth a dollar a pair, and I 
 meant to have sold one pair of them — oh dear," 
 and Willie thought of the silk shawl he meant to 
 have bought for his mother, and he burst into a 
 fresh flood of tears, and said he should hate Cap- 
 tain Stout as long as he lived. 
 
 " Willie," said his mother, " let us go and bury 
 the poor little ducks under the pear-tree, and when 
 they are out of your sight you will feel better." 
 Willie did not think he ever should feel better ; but 
 he began to busy himself about nailing up a box to 
 put the ducks in, and digging a grave, and his 
 mother helped him, and they covered the grave 
 with green sods, and Willie's mother took up some 
 violets and set round the sods, and Willie did 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. 19 
 
 feel a little better. When they went back to the 
 house his mother asked him which he had rather, 
 be, the man that killed the little ducks, or the little 
 boy whose ducks were killed. 
 
 * I had rather be myself, a million times, moth- 
 er." 
 
 * Then the person that suffers wrong, my son, 
 is much better oif than he that does it." 
 
 " Yes, mother, I suppose so, but it's dreadful to 
 bear." 
 
 "Then should not you be sorry for Captain 
 Stout?" 
 
 " Sorry for him ! I can't feel so, if I ought to." 
 
 " Perhaps you will, Willie, when you think a 
 little more about it. Captain Stout was angry 
 when he killed your little ducks, and the moment 
 the deed was done he felt, I am sure he did, that 
 he had done as one neighbour should not do to 
 another, as an old man should not do to a little boy ; 
 and, whenever he sees you or thinks of you, he 
 will feel uncomfortable." 
 
 " I hope he will ! I hope he will feel awfully." 
 
 " Don't say so, my son, or, rather, don't feel so. 
 Do you remember those texts you wrote off into 
 the first leaf of your Bible-book ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " What were they V 
 
 " Love your enemies, bless those that curse you, 
 pray for those that despitefully use you, overcome 
 evil with good, and so on." 
 
 " What did you copy them off for V 
 
 " So that I might remember them." 
 
 " Why do you wish to remember them V 
 
20 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 " You told me I must, mother, so as to act ac- 
 cordingly, if ever I had a chance." 
 
 '* Have not you a chance now, Willie V 
 
 Willie did not reply, and his mother went on. 
 *' We never should lose the opportunity of obeying 
 these laws which Christ has given us. You have 
 now a great occasion. This is a great trial to you; 
 and, if you can earnestly and sincerely pray God to 
 bless Captain Stout, this trial, that seems so griev- 
 ous to you, will prove a blessing ; and, after you 
 have so prayed, you will feel better, and you will 
 be prepared to rejurn good for Captain Stout's evil, 
 if ever you have a chance. But don't pray for 
 him because I have told you this, Willie ; for it 
 is not saying the words God cares for, but he 
 looks into your heart to see whether the feeling is 
 there." 
 
 William considered for some time in silence, 
 and at last he said, " I hope I shall pray for Cap- 
 tain Stout, but I don't feel as if I could now." 
 When a child hopes he shall do right, he has taken 
 the first step towards it. Willie was very much 
 in the habit of doing what he thought was his duty, 
 and all day he was thinking over his troubles ; he 
 often repeated to himself those texts he had copied, 
 and he ended with, " I hope I shall feel like pray- 
 ing for him." At night, as usual, he knelt down 
 by the bedside. His mother saw he remained on 
 his knees longer than usual, and, when he crept 
 into bed, " Come here, mother," he said. She went 
 to the bedside. " Oh, mother," said he, " it is just 
 as you always tell me. I feel a great deal better 
 for doing right. It seems as if a load was taken 
 off from me ; and now I really don't want Captain 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. ' 21 
 
 Stout to be punished, and I do feel almost sorry for 
 him, for I know he must feel awfully when he thinks 
 of the little ducks. I was not sure even when I 
 knelt down that I could sincerely and earnestly pray 
 for him ; but, when I was saying that part of my 
 prayer, ' forgive us our trespasses as we forgive 
 those that trespass against us,' I seemed, for the 
 first time, to feel what it was to b*e forgiven, and 
 that we could not be if we did not forgive, and 
 how much God every day forgave me ; and I re- 
 membered what a dreadful passion 1 was in to-day, 
 and it seemed to me a very little thing, when' God 
 is all the time forgiving me, to forgive Captain 
 Stout just for one bad thing; and, as soon as I had 
 done praying for myself, I did pray for him — real 
 prayer, mother — and now I don't hate him a bit, nor 
 wish anything bad to happen to him." 
 
 " My dear son, I am glad and thankful, and I 
 hope you will always look to your heart; for, when 
 that is right, all goes well, let others do us good or 
 evil. If we only obey the Divine laws which Je- 
 sus Christ has given to us, we shall, in all proba 
 bility, overcome the evil of others with our good ; 
 and, if not, we shall certainly build up the kingdom 
 of heaven in our own hearts." 
 
 Not many days after the affair of the ducks, 
 Mrs. Ellis asked Willie to take his basket full of 
 salt to the pasture, to salt the cow.; and, "maybe," 
 she said, " Willie, you will find a little calf beside 
 her." Willie went off eagerly, running and whis- 
 tling. The cow, I believe, he loved better than 
 anything in the world but his mother. He had 
 taken care, and good care, of her for two years, 
 driven her to pasture morning and night, in sum- 
 
22 • THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 mer and in winter, foddered her, and carried her 
 out her little mess of boiled potatoes and carrots, 
 and such messes as his careful mother could save 
 in her small and frugal family. The cow was a 
 gentle creature, and kind-tempered ; there . is as 
 much difference in the disposition of cows as ol 
 children ; and besides, the cow was the best prop- 
 erty the Widow Ellis owned. Nearly all the money 
 she got was from the sale of the butter and milk 
 of this good cow, and Willie often heard her say, 
 when any new thing was bought, " we must thank 
 the cow for this, Willie." On Willie went, think- 
 ing how pleasant it would be to have a calf with 
 the cow, and how much pleasure the cow would take 
 with it, for cows are fond mothers. As soon an he 
 got over the bars into the pasture he saw the cow, 
 but she seemed to be lying very stupidly ; he saw, 
 too, the little calf, walking feebly and slowly about 
 the mother, and making a low sound. He ran for- 
 ward, calling " co, co ;" but the cow did not, as usual, 
 obey the call, and Willie's heart sank within him. 
 He ran on, and, when he came to the poor animal, he 
 found her stretched on the grass, quite dead. Poor 
 boy ! you would have pitied him if you had seen 
 how sorrowful he was ; how he sat down by the 
 cow, and thought of his mother, and burst into tears, 
 and said, " Now all is gone — my pretty ducks and 
 mother's cow ! — what shall we do ? Poor Mooly ! 
 I never shall drive you home any more ! I never 
 again shall keep my fingers warm holding on to 
 your nice warm tail ! I never shall feed you again ! 
 you never again will look round at me and lick 
 my hand ! oh dear ! I must go home and tell 
 mother— that is the worst of it. What shall we 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. 23* 
 
 do with the poor calf? we've no milk to give her;" 
 and, thus pondering, Willie went slowly home- 
 ward. As he came to the turn in the road by Cap- 
 tain Stout's field of winter wheat, he saw that sev- 
 eral young cattle had broken into the field, and were 
 making their way rapidly towards the wheat. Cap- 
 tain Stout's beautiful wheat, the most promising in 
 the county, and already put up by the captain for 
 the prize to be given by the agricultural society 
 for the best winter wheat. 
 
 Willie looked at the cattle. He saw they were 
 about to do great injury to Captain Stout. And do 
 you think there was a voice at the very bottom of 
 his heart, saying, " Well, let them ; it's just good 
 enough for him !" No, Willie had for ever silenced 
 such a voice when he made that real prayer for 
 Captain Stout. Willie was a quick-witted boy. He 
 thought, if he ran after the cattle, they would tram- 
 ple down the wheat in spite of all he could do ; 
 then it occurred to him to lure them back with the 
 basket of salt ; so he let down the bars they had 
 leaped over, and, going gently towards them, he 
 called to them and showed them the salt. They 
 came towards him. Just at that moment Sam 
 Briggs, his friend, who had witnessed the wringing 
 of the ducks' necks, appeared in sight. "What 
 are you about, Will ?" he cried out. 
 
 " Getting these steers out of the captain's wheat- 
 field." 
 
 " The more fool you ! don't you remember the 
 ducks ?" 
 
 " I guess I never shall forget them." 
 
 " Then why don't you let the cattle be ? I am 
 sure it's none of your business to get them out. 
 
24 THE WIDOW EXLIS 
 
 If, I was in your place I would like no better fun 
 thjan to see the captain's wheat trod down, every 
 blade of it-; I would not budge an inch to drive 
 them out." 
 
 " But, then, I should lose the opportunity, Sam," 
 replied Willie ; who, all the time his friend was 
 speaking, was luring the cattle towards the bars, 
 and now, having got them on the oukside, was put- 
 ting them up, while they were licking up the salt 
 he had strewed around. 
 
 " ' Lose the opportunity !' Will — what do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 " Mother says — I mean the Bible says you 
 should -take the first opportunity to return good for 
 evil, and then you will overcome other people's 
 evil with your good." 
 
 " That's sound doctrine, I declare !" said Sam's 
 father, who at this moment joined them. " You 
 are a good boy, Willie, and I wish Sam would take 
 pattern by you — Sam and all the other boys ;- as 
 to that, there's many a man might be the better for 
 such an example. A pretty spot of work, Mr. 
 Sam, I should have had if Willie had gone accord- 
 ing to your advice ; I suppose you did not see 
 they are our cattle, and I should have had the 
 damages to pay. But how in the world, Will, did 
 you contrive to get them out so nicely!" Willie 
 explained, and this led to telling the news of the 
 cow's death. 
 
 lt \ I declare !" said Mr. Briggs, " I am sorry for 
 your loss, Willie, and your mother's. One good 
 turn deserves another. Our old dun has lost her 
 calf ; so you drive yours up to my little pasture, 
 and she may run with her ; she'll have plenty of 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. 25 
 
 milk, and be worth raising by the time she is six 
 weeks old." 
 
 " Oh, thank you — thank you, sir," said William ; 
 and, his heart lightened of half its load, he ran 
 home to tell all his news, bad and good, to his 
 mother. 
 
 William was scarcely out of sight before Cap- 
 tain Stout came down to look at his darling tvheat- 
 field ; and when he saw the prints of the cattle's 
 hoofs, he sputtered away as he always did when 
 in a passion. It was some time before he could 
 listen to Mr. Briggs's account of how skilfully they 
 had been driven out by'William Ellis. 
 
 " William Ellis ! William Ellis !" exclaimed the 
 old man. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Sam Briggs ; "maybe you know 
 something about William Ellis's ducks, if you don't 
 know William Ellis. I know some boys that, in 
 "Willie's place, would have turned the cattle in in- 
 stead of out /" 
 
 " You are a sarcy boy !" said the captain, turning 
 on his heel and walking briskly away. Though 
 he said this, I rather think that, on reflection, he 
 was much of Sam's opinion. 
 
 Willie found his mother submitted to the calam- 
 ity of losing the cow with that gentleness and pa- 
 tience with which she took all the inevitable evils, 
 small and great, of her lot. This was a better les- 
 son to her child than if she had talked to him a 
 month about the duty of submission. 
 
 " I am very glad you an't sorrier, mother," said 
 William ; " I was afraid you would feel dread- 
 fully." 
 
 " I am sorry, Willie — very sorry — it is a great 
 C 
 
26 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 loss to us, but 'tis not that distressing kind of sor- 
 row I should feel if you had been doing wrong ; 
 nor that heart-sickness I should have felt if any- 
 thing evil had happened to you, my dear boy." 
 
 " Instead of that, something good has happened 
 to me, mother." William then told his mother how 
 lucky he had been in seeing the cattle just in the 
 nick of time. " Sam says," concluded Willie, 
 " that captain will never so much as thank me ; but 
 I don't care for that, for it's just as you say, mo- 
 ther ; it makes you feel somehow so happy to feel 
 you have done right because it was right, not be- 
 cause you want anybody to pay you, or thank you, 
 or praise you for it." 
 
 " That happy feeling, my dear child, is God's 
 reward, and it is not like men's pay, and thanks, 
 and praise ; they may fail us, but this happy feel- 
 ing we are sure of when conscience tells us we 
 have done right ; and it is quite reward enough for 
 our best actions." 
 
 " So I know it is, mother." 
 
 Not long after this Mrs. Ellis asked William to 
 go to the fulling-mill to get their cloth. This was 
 a piece of cloth for a cloak for Mrs. Ellis, and a 
 new suit of clothes for William. Mrs. Ellis had 
 spun the yarn, died it, and woven it herself. No 
 one can feel the worth of a garment as the diligent 
 woman does who has manufactured it herself; I 
 believe it gives her ten times the pleasure a fine 
 lady gets from a new dress from Paris ; so, though 
 its cost is far less, the poor woman is the richer of 
 the two. Willie fancied he knew the value of the 
 homemade cloth, " You and I, mother," he sai^, 
 " I guess, will know how to prize our new things. 
 
AND HER SON WILLLE. 27 
 
 I shall think how many clothes you washed for 
 Miss Seaman to buy the wool, and then how we 
 picked it by the light of the pine knots, then how 
 you carded it nights when you were teaching me 
 hymns, and so on, and so on, and so on. Oh, it 
 seemed to me as if everything never would be 
 done to it; but, as you say, mother, brick upon 
 brick builds the house at last." Off Willie set at 
 a quick pace, for he had a long way to go, and he 
 knew it would be night before he could get home. 
 He had to wait a long time, and, when he got 
 the cloth, a stout roll it was, he trudged home- 
 ward with it a happy boy. Before he got to Cap- 
 tain Stout's the clouds gathered and shut in the 
 stars, and the wind rose and roared, and the naked 
 trees cracked in the blast, but Willie feared no- 
 thing. What should he have feared ? he saw the 
 candle shining through his mother's window ; a 
 pleasant light is that which comes from a kind 
 mother's home. But what bright light is that flash- 
 ing through Captain Stout's stable-door? That 
 stable-door opened towards the street, the barn- 
 yard gate opened upon the street, and Willie was 
 just passing it. The stable was at one end of the 
 barn, and the barn was connected with the house 
 by a shed and woodhouse. Willie screamed with 
 all his might, " fire ! fire !" and ran towards the 
 barn. The stable-door was ajar. Luckily, Captain 
 Stout had sent away one pair of horses that day 
 with a load, so that two of the stalls were empty, 
 and the manger where the fire had taken had but a 
 whiff of hay in it, but that would soon have com- 
 municated with the full manger where the horses 
 
28 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 were. They were already terrified with the sud- 
 den light, and pulling back and kicking furiously. 
 
 Willie entered the stable, and shut the door after 
 him ; he then unrolled his cloth and threw it down 
 upon the manger. The flames had not yet reached 
 the hay at the horses' heads, nor blazed up to 
 the loft above. As well as he could, he pressed 
 down the cloth ; but, in spite of him, the flames 
 would flash out, first at one end, then at the other. 
 His cries, however, had alarmed Captain Stout 
 and his family, and they were soon on the spot 
 with pails of water. The fire was quickly extin- 
 guished, but fire and water had ruined poor Wil- 
 lie's new cloth. Captain Stout bade him come 
 into the house, and inquiries and explanations fol- 
 lowed. It seemed that Nat Boyle, a careless little 
 fellow who lived with the captain, remembered 
 after dark that, instead of hanging up the bridle as 
 he had been told always to do when he put up a 
 horse, he had left it on the stable-floor ; and so, 
 taking a candle without a lantern (which he had 
 been bidden never to do), he crept out to hang up 
 the bridle, and thus save himself from the scolding, 
 or, perchance, whipping he might breakfast on next 
 morning. He could not reach the nail to hang the 
 bridle on without setting down the candle, and he 
 set it in the manger "just for a quarter of a sec- 
 ond," he said ; " he had no thought it could do any 
 harm." Oh this no thought, how many buildings 
 it burns ! 
 
 " And how came you, Willie Ellis, to be out at 
 this time of night ?" asked Captain Stout. 
 
 Willie told his errand, and said the clothier had 
 detained him. " Lucky for me he did," said the 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. 29 
 
 captain ; " but now tell me, how upon aarth such a 
 shaver as you knew how to go the right way to 
 work to put out the fire V 
 
 M I can tell you that, sir," replied Willie, smi- 
 ling ; the first time he had smiled since he saw 
 the scorched ruined cloth ; " you know, sir, there 
 is only mother and I ; and, when I was a little boy, 
 she had sometimes to leave me alone in the house, 
 and she was dreadfully afraid of fire, so she often 
 told me how to manage in case anything took fire. 
 She bade me not open a door, for that would make 
 a draught, and, if possible, I was to throw some 
 woollen thing on the fire* If my clothes caught, 
 she bade me throw myself flat on the floor and 
 wrap myself in the hearth-rug ; and she has often 
 taken a cotton-rag, and showed me how much 
 quicker it burnt when you held it up than when 
 you laid it down." 
 
 " Well, well, your mother is a 'raculous woman, 
 and you are a 'raculous child to remember all this 
 in time of need. I might have told Nat forty mil- 
 lion of times, and he never would have thought of 
 it. Stop your bellowing, you son of Belial, it will 
 do you no good. I will give you such a thrashing 
 to-morrow morning as you never had, and turn you 
 out on the wide world to burn other folks' barns, 
 you careless rascal ! I say, Will Ellis, you are a 
 boy worth having, and I have thought so ever since 
 you turned them steers out of my field. Gome in 
 here, Will." William followed to an inner room. 
 " I an't always so crossgrained as I seem," con- 
 tinued the captain ; " you've made me kind o' feel, 
 William Ellis, you've made me respect you, and 
 that is more than ever I could say of any other boy 
 C2 
 
30 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 in the univarse, for I never could surmise what 
 boys were made for ; but I do respect you, and 
 your mother too ; here, take this cloth home," and 
 he gave him a roll larger and better than his own, 
 " and tell your mother I shall be down by sunrise 
 to see her ; good-night, my boy." William thanked 
 Captain Stout, but the captain fancied he did not 
 look quite satisfied ; and he said, " Don't think, Will, 
 this is all I mean to do for you ; I believe in my 
 conscience you have saved barn, house, and all, for 
 all would soon have gone this gusty night, and I tell 
 you I'll reward you ; I don't do my jobs, good or 
 bad, by halves, as you knew once to your cost and 
 mine too, for I've wished the plaguy little ducks 
 alive a hundred times since ; but what is the mat- 
 ter, boy ? speak out." 
 
 " I don't wish any more reward, sir," said Wil- 
 lie ; " but there is one thing, Captain Stout, if you 
 would only please to do — " Willie paused and 
 hesitated. 
 
 "What do you boggle about, boy? don't he 
 afeard." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Willie ventured to say, " I 
 wish, sir, when you say your prayers to-night, you 
 would pray God to forgive Nat's carelessness, and 
 then you would feel like forgiving him yourself, and 
 returning ' good for his evil.' " 
 
 Captain Stout walked twice across the room, and 
 then, suddenly stopping, he said, "Did you pray 
 for me, Willie Ellis, when I wrung your ducks' 
 necks ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Did you? You are a 'raculous boy!" The 
 tears rolled down Captain Stout's cheeks, and, for 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE. 31 
 
 the first time in his life, he did that night, before 
 he went to bed, pray for one who had offended and 
 injured him. 
 
 The next morning, bright and early, Mrs. Ellis 
 heard footsteps ; and, looking out, she saw coming 
 towards her door the captain, attended by Nat, 
 who was driving before him one of the captain's 
 best cows. " The captain seems," thought she, 
 " to be walking and talking with Nat in a friendly 
 way ; if the captain has taken the right turn, I shall 
 be glad for the poor boy." 
 
 The poor boy, Nat Boyle, who thus excited the 
 commiseration of the kind widow's heart, was the 
 son of a miserable vagrant woman who, five years 
 before, had died in passing through our village, and 
 left this boy to the charities of the public. He had 
 been a neglected, untaught child, but he was hon- 
 est and good-tempered, and Captain Stout had ta- 
 ken him a few months before from the poorhouse 
 on trial. " Good-morning to you, widow," said the 
 captain, in a pleasanter voice than Mrs. Ellis had 
 ever heard from him before ; " Nat Boyle has driven 
 down a cow for you, widow, as something towards 
 settling accounts with your boy." Mrs. Ellis be- 
 gan to express her thanks. " Hush up, widow," 
 said the captain, interrupting her, " it's only a debt 
 I am paying, and that don't require thanks ;" and 
 then, after relating over and over again every par- 
 ticular of the fire, he said, " You have reason to 
 be proud of your boy, widow, and thankful too — 
 and, as to that, so has Nat Boyle, for he has saved 
 him from worse than a thrashing, and I am bound 
 to him far more than any of you ; for, old as I am, 
 I have learned the best lesson from that young babe, 
 
32 THE WIDOW ELLIS 
 
 as it were, that ever I learned in my life. He has 
 learned me to return good for evil. So, after taking 
 Will's advice, I don't feel like turning off this des- 
 olate boy ; and, if you'll spare me your son, I think, 
 with my teaching and his sort of examples, we may 
 make something of Nat Boyle yet." 
 
 Captain Stout then proposed that William should 
 live with him. He offered many privileges, but that 
 which William valued above every other was the 
 promise that he should sleep at his mother's. Mrs. 
 Ellis gladly accepted the captain's offer. She 
 knew William would be thoroughly taught farming 
 at Captain Stout's. She was not one of those who 
 expect their children will be taught morals and man- 
 ners away from home ; this she knew was home- 
 work. Neither did she expect the captain's pres- 
 ent happy state of mind would be invariable., She 
 knew that a temper in which a man has stiffened 
 for years cannot be changed by a single impulse, 
 but she relied on William to bear and forbear with 
 the captain's infirmities. Good Mrs. Ellis had 
 found out, from her own observation, the truth ex- 
 pressed by a great moral writer, that " the nearer 
 we approach perfection, the easier do we bear with 
 the imperfections of others." 
 
 The captain concluded with reiterating the praises 
 of William. Mrs. Ellis listened with tears, and, in 
 reply \o the old man's repeated asseveration that 
 Will " was a 'raculous boy," she meekly replied, 
 " I have long thought, captain, if people would but 
 practise the laws of Christ, they would make a 
 change in this world that would seem miracu- 
 lous." 
 
 We assure those of our young friends who are 
 
AND HER SON WILLIE 33. 
 
 anxious to know how Willie Ellis fared at Captain 
 Stout's, that the old man's temper 'did soften by de- 
 grees under the constant influence of his fidelity 
 and gentleness. The soft south wind will melt the 
 hardest ice. We advise any who may have crusty 
 tempers to deal with to imitate Willie Ellis. 
 
THE MAGIC LAMP. 
 
 il Pray tell us a story, aunt," said half a dozen 
 young voices at once ; " it's Sunday evening, and 
 you know you always tell us a story Sunday even- 
 ing." 
 
 " Well, if I must I must — what shall it be about °" 
 
 "Oh, anything ! only let it end good," cried one. 
 " No, no. I say let it end horribly," exclaimed an- 
 other, " like your martyr stories. I like stories where 
 all the people are killed, some way or other." 
 
 "Well, I don't love to have people killed," said 
 tender-hearted little Haddy. 'I wish you would 
 tell us a fairy story ; but I suppose you won't Sun- 
 day night." 
 
 " No, Haddy, but I will tell you something like 
 a fairy story — a story about a magic lamp." 
 
 " Oh ! Aladdin's lamp I suppose you mean." 
 
 " No. My lamp belonged to a Christian country, 
 and was more useful, though not quite so entertain- 
 ing, as Aladdin's, I am afraid." The children, 
 however, were satisfied, and, gathering about their 
 aunt, she began. " There was once a mother, a 
 very young mother she was. She had in her 
 childhood, like you, Haddy, loved fairy stories, and 
 her mind was full of them ; and as she sat looking 
 at her infant daughter on her lap, ' Oh,' she thought, 
 ' how I should like to have lived in those times 
 when kind fairies were present at the birth of a 
 
THE MAGIC LAMP. 35 
 
 child, and each gave it some good gift ; but you, 
 my poor little girl, must plod on in the common 
 way, and work, mind and hands, for everything 
 you get.' As she paused she heard a sound as of 
 some one approaching. She saw no one, but 
 presently a voice whispered in her ear, ' Do not be 
 startled, I am Nature, your mother, and your child's 
 — the mother of all. To all my children I give 
 good gifts. Some bury them ; some neglect them ; 
 some cast them away ; some never find out that 
 they possess them ; and some, my faithful children, 
 make the most of them. To your child I have 
 given a most precious gift. It is an invisible lamp ; 
 you will only perceive it by its effects. If she is 
 faithful in keeping it trimmed and burning, I will 
 supply it with oil.' 
 
 " ' Oh, thank you, thank you,' said the surprised 
 and happy mother ; ' but pray tell me how, if she 
 does not see it, can she trim the lamp ? How can 
 she carry it unseen about her? May it not burn 
 her 1 ?' and many other questions she put which 
 Dame Nature, no doubt, thought quite idle ; for, 
 without answering one of them, she merely said, 
 1 Give yourself no concern about these matters ; ex- 
 perience will give your child all necessary instruc- 
 tions about the management of the lamp. If she 
 fulfil her duty, be sure the oil shall not fail. If the 
 lamp is kept in order, it will diffuse a light that 
 every one loves ; the old and the young, the happy 
 and the miserable, the sick and the well, the rich 
 and the poor, all will crave your daughter's pres- 
 ence. Be content, ask no more, but observe and 
 learn.' 
 
 " The voice was silent, and the mother saw, what 
 
36 THE MAGIC LAMP. 
 
 she wondered she had not before noticed, a pecu- 
 liar and beautiful light playing about her child's 
 countenance. It seemed to issue from her soft 
 bright eyes, and to beam from the smile into which 
 her pretty lips were for ever curling. ' This is in- 
 deed Nature's gift !' thought she ; ' how poor are 
 the imitations of art !' She named the little girl 
 Serena ; and feeling that a child endowed with so 
 precious a gift should have rare care, she did all 
 a mother could do to make her good ; she brought 
 her up in the ' nurture and admonition of the Lord. 
 As Serena grew, the light of her lamp waxed strong- 
 er and stronger. One of its marvellous properties 
 was, that, if not quite so powerful, its light was 
 more observed and more beautiful when any mis- 
 fortune befell its owner. Experience gave the 
 promised instruction. The arts of preserving it 
 were curious enough. Constant occupation, activ- 
 ity of body and mind, strict attention to the laws 
 of health, especially eating moderately and drink- 
 ing only pure wafer, were most conducive to its 
 clear burning. Serena soon learned that it was 
 miserably dimmed by disobedience to her mother, 
 by hurting the feelings of a friend, or by any wrong 
 doing whatever. These were the lessons that she 
 learned from that sternest and best of teachers, ex- 
 perience ; and most attentive was she in applying 
 her knowledge to the management of the lamp, and 
 well was she rewarded for her fidelity. The effect 
 of the lamp seemed, indeed, like magic ; she could 
 learn a lesson in half the time by it that others could 
 without it. By the light of her lamp she performed 
 all her tasks as if they were pleasures, while others 
 were grumbling and crying. She was better sat- 
 isfied with an old dress by this precious light than 
 
THE MAGIC LAMP. 37 
 
 other girls with the newest and prettiest without it. 
 One might have fancied the colour of everything 
 in life depended on the light that fell on it. Se- 
 rena would sit out an evening with an old grand- 
 aunt, deaf, and almost blind, she and the old lady 
 as happy as happy could he by the light of the 
 lamp, though Serena knew her companions were 
 amusing themselves with dancing and all manner 
 of gayety at the next house. She has stayed many 
 a day, and day after day, in this same aunt's sick- 
 room, and the old lady said, with grateful tears in 
 her eyes, ' While Serena's light falls on my pillow 
 my drinks refresh me, my food nourishes me, and 
 even my medicines taste less nauseous." 
 
 " At school every one liked to get near her. If 
 the girls were puzzled by a sum, or boggled in a 
 composition, or baffled by a difficult piece of music, 
 they would run to Serena, and they were sure, by 
 the light of her lamp, to be able to overcome the 
 difficulty. Even the domestics in her mother's 
 service found their work lighter when Serena was 
 present. Indeed, it was at home that the lamp 
 was brighest and most beautiful. 
 
 "As Serena grew up and took her part in the 
 pleasures and business of the world, the light of 
 her lamp was, of course, more diffused. It was 
 visible in the midday sun, and in the darkest night 
 how far it sent its beams ! It added a charm to the 
 most brilliant apartment ; and, when Serena visited 
 the humble dwellings of the poor and afflicted, it 
 shone on their walls, played like sunshine over 
 the faces of the children, and sent a ray of pleas- 
 ure to the saddest, darkest heart. 
 
 " Serena had just entered her nineteenth year 
 
38 THE MAGIC LAMP. 
 
 when she lost her mother ; the dear parent who 
 had supplied the place of father, brother, sister, 
 and friend to her. In the bitterness of her grief 
 Serena quite forgot her lamp. At her mother's 
 grave it went out. 
 
 " What a change was there now in her condition ! 
 She was alone in the home that had been so pleas- 
 ant to her. The charm of her lamp was gone. 
 She was so enveloped in gloom and darkness that 
 none came near her but such as were moved by 
 heavenly compassion. If she forced herself out, 
 and those that loved her tenderly approached her, 
 they gave her little pleasure, for she felt that, without 
 her lamp, she gave them none. Strangers turned in- 
 voluntarily from her ; and children who had always 
 nocked around her ran away at the first glimpse of 
 her slow moving form and sad countenance. She 
 lost all interest in life, and sat, with her hands 
 folded, the picture of indolent grief. If her friends 
 sympathized with her upon the loss of her lamp, 
 she said she cared not, for that it was fitting it 
 should go out for ever at her mother's grave. 
 
 " One day, when she was sitting alone, she took 
 up her Bible ; and, as she turned from place to place, 
 many a sentence sunk deep into her heart. She 
 felt that she had been unsubmissive to the will of 
 God, and that she was sinning against him in giv- 
 ing herself up to despair and uselessness. 
 
 " She now wished again for her lamp, that she 
 might go about doing good ; and as she meditated 
 with deep contrition and anxiety she heard a voice, 
 saying, " Serena, I pity thee. Thou hast, by thy 
 want of faith and resignation to the will of God, 
 lost the precious gift that Nature gave thee. Na- 
 ture has not the power to relight thy lamp. I have 
 
THE MAGIC LAMP. 39 
 
 My name is Religion. Stu/Iy that book on which 
 thy hand resteth ; obey its laws, and I will surely 
 relight thy lamp; and in proportion to thy obedience 
 will it become brighter and brighter, till it burns 
 among those lights where ' there is no night, and 
 where they need no candle, neither light of the sun, 
 for the Lord giveth them light.' 
 
 " Serena meekly bowed herhead, and, with per- 
 fect faith in the promises of religion, resolved to 
 obey her voice. She went forth to perform her neg- 
 lected duties, and at once a feeble light from her 
 rekindled lamp stole over her. All who knew her 
 now hailed with joy her approach. All observed 
 that the lamp burnt brighter, and with a steadier 
 light, than when the oil was supplied by Nature. 
 In due time she married ; she had children. Mani- 
 fold afflictions came upon her — who escapes them? 
 Her husband lost his property. She buried two 
 children in one grave. She became a widow. 
 Still her lamp went not out. Religion kept the 
 promise she makes to all who trust in her, ' I will 
 never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' 
 
 " Old age came at last, and then, when Serena's 
 eyes were dimmed and her limbs feeble, so that 
 she could no more walk abroad, how precious was 
 the light of her lamp ! Wherever she was, there 
 her friends desired to be. Children, too, delighted 
 to gather about her, and said they should love to 
 be old, if they could have such a light as hers to 
 enlighten them ; and, finally, she sank to rest, bless- 
 ing and blessed." 
 
 " Pray tell us, aunt," asked one of the girls, " what 
 kind of oil was that in the Magic Lamp ?" 
 " The oil of cheerfulness* my dear Grace," 
 
OUR ROBINS. 
 
 At a short distance from the village of S 
 
 on the top of a hill, and somewhat retired and shel- 
 tered from the roadside, lives a farmer by the name 
 of Lyman. He is an industrious, intelligent, and 
 honest man; and though he- has but a small farm, 
 and that lying on bleak stony hills, he has, by dint 
 of working hard, applying his mind to his labour, 
 and living frugally, met many losses and crosses 
 without being cast down by them, and has always 
 had a comfortable home for his children ; and how 
 comfortable is the home of even the humblest New- 
 England farmer ! with plenty to satisfy the physical 
 wants of man, with plenty to give to the few wan- 
 dering poor,- and plenty wherewith to welcome to his 
 board the friend that comes to his gate. And, add- 
 ed to this, he has books to read, a weekly newspa- 
 per, a school for his children, a church in which 
 to worship, and kind neighbours to take part in his 
 joy and gather about him in time of trouble. Such 
 a man is sheltered from many of the wants and 
 discontents of those that are richer than he, and 
 secured from the wants and temptations- of those 
 that are poorer. 
 
 Late last winter Mr. Lyman's daughter, Mrs. 
 Bradly, returned from Ohio, a widow with three 
 
OUR ROBINS. 41 
 
 children. Mrs. Bradly and I were old friends. 
 When we were young girls we went to the same 
 district school, and we had always loved and re- 
 spected one another. Neither she nor I thought 
 it any reason why we should not, that she lived 
 on a little farm, and in an old small house, and I 
 in one of the best in the village ; nor that she 
 dressed in very common clothes, and that mine, 
 being purchased in the city, were a little better and 
 smarter than any bought in the country. It was 
 not the bonnets and gowns we cared for, but the 
 heads and hearts those bonnets and gowns covered. 
 The very morning after Mrs. Bradly's arrival in 
 
 S her eldest son, Lyman, a boy ten years old, 
 
 came to ask me to go and see his mother. " Moth- 
 er," he said, " was not very well, and wanted very 
 
 much to see Miss S ." So I went home with 
 
 him. After walking half a mile along the road, I 
 proposed getting over the fence and going, as we 
 say in the country, " 'cross lots." So we got into 
 the field, and pursued Our way along the little noisy 
 brook that, cutting Lyman's farm in two, winds its 
 way down the hill, sometimes taking a jump of five 
 or six feet, then murmuring over the stones, or play- 
 ing round the bare roots of the old trees, as a child 
 fondles about its parent, and finally steals off among 
 the flowers it nourishes, the brilliant cardinals and 
 snow-white clematis, till it mingles with the river 
 that winds through our meadows. I would advise 
 my young friends to choose the fields for their 
 walks. Nature has always something in store for 
 those who love her and seek her favours/ You 
 will be sure to see more birds in the green fields 
 than on the roadside. Secure from the boys who 
 D2 
 
42 OUR ROBINS. 
 
 may be idling along the road, ready to let fly 
 stones at them, they rest longer on the perch and 
 feel more at home there. Then, as Lyman and I 
 did, you will find many a familiar flower that, in 
 these by-places, will look to you like the face of 
 a friend ; and you may chance to make a new ac- 
 quaintance, and in that case you will take pleasure 
 in picking it and carrying it home, and learning its 
 name of some one wiser than you are. Most 
 persons are curious to know the names of men and 
 women whom they never saw before, and never 
 may see again. This is idle curiosity ; but often, 
 in learning the common name of a flower or plant, 
 we learn something of its character or use ; " bit- 
 ter-sweet," *' devil's cream-pitcher," or " fever- 
 bush," for example. 
 
 4 ' Yqu like flowers, Lyman," I said as he scram- 
 bled up a rock to reach some pink columbines that 
 grew from its crevices. 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed I do like them," he said ; " but 
 I am getting these for mother ; she. loves flowers 
 above all things— all such sorts of things," he add- 
 ed, with a smile. 
 
 " I remember very well," said I, " your mother 
 loved them when she was a little girl, and she and 
 I once attended together some lectures on botany ; 
 that is, the science that describes plants and ex- 
 plains their nature." , 
 
 " Oh, I know, ma'am," said he, " mother remem- 
 bers all about it, and she has taught me a great 
 deal she learned then. When we lived out in Ohio, 
 I used to find her a great many flowers she never 
 saw before ; but she could class them ; she said, 
 though, they seemed like strangers, and she loved 
 
OUR ROBINS. 43 
 
 best the little flowers she had known at home, and 
 those we used to plant about the door, and mother 
 said she took comfort in them in the darkest 
 times." 
 
 Dark times I knew my poor friend had had — 
 much sickness, many deaths, many, many sorrows 
 in her family ; ^and I was thankful that she had 
 continued to enjoy such a pleasure as flowers are 
 to those that love them. 
 
 As we approached Mrs. Lyman's, I looked for my 
 friend, expecting she would come out to meet me, 
 but I found she was not able to do so ; and, when I 
 saw her, I was struck with the thought that she 
 would never living leave the house again. She 
 was at first overcome at meeting me, but, after a 
 few moments, she wiped away her tears and talked 
 cheerfully. " I hoped," she said, " my journey 
 would have done me good, but I think it has been 
 too much for me ; I have so longed to get back to 
 father's house, and to look over these hills .once 
 more ; and though I am weak and sick, words can't 
 tell how contented I feel ; I sit in this chair and 
 look out of this window, and feel as a hungry man 
 sitting down to a full table. Look there," she 
 continued, pointing to a cherry-tree before the 
 window, " do you see that robin ? ever since I can 
 remember, every year a robin has had a nest in 
 that tree. I used to write to father and inquire 
 about it when I was gone ; and when he wrote to 
 me, in the season of bird-nesting, he always said 
 something about the robins ; so that this morning, 
 when I heard the robin's note, it seemed to me like 
 the voice of one of the family." 
 
44 OUR ROBINS. 
 
 '* Have you taught your children, Mary," I asked, 
 " to love birds as well as flowers ?" 
 
 " I believe it is natural to them," she replied ; 
 " but I suppose they take more notice of them 
 from seeing how much I love them. I have not 
 had much to give my children, for we have had 
 great disappointments in the new countries, and 
 have been what are called very poor folks ; so I 
 have been more anxious to give them what little" 
 knowledge I had, and to make them feel that God 
 lias given them a portion in the birds and the flow- 
 ers, his good and beautiful creation." 
 
 " Mother always says," said Lyman ; and there, 
 seeming to remember that I was a stranger, he stop- 
 ped. " What does mother always say ?" I asked. 
 
 " She says we can enjoy looking out upon 
 beautiful prospects, and smelling the flowers, and 
 hearing the birds sing, just as much as if we could 
 say ' they are mine V " 
 
 " Well, is it not just so ?" said Mrs. Lyman ; " has 
 not our Father in heaven given his children a share 
 in all his works 1 I often think, when I look out 
 upon the beautiful sky, the clear moon, the stars, 
 the sunset clouds, the dawning day ; when I smell 
 the fresh woods and the perfumed air; when I 
 hear the birds sing, and my heart is glad, I think, 
 after all, that there is not so much difference in the 
 possessions of the rich and poor as some think; 
 ' God giveth to us all liberally, and withholdeth 
 not.'" 
 
 " Ah !" thought I, " the Bible says truly, ' as a 
 man thinketh, so is he.' Here is my friend, a wid- 
 ow and poor, and with a sickness that she well 
 knows must end in death, and yet, instead of sorrow- 
 
OUR ROBINS. 45 
 
 ing and complaining, she is cheerful and enjoying 
 those pleasures that all may enjoy if they will ; for 
 the kingdom of nature abounds with them. Mrs. 
 Bradly was a disciple of Christ ; this was the 
 foundation of her peace ; but, alas, all the disci- 
 ples of Christ do not cultivate her wise, cheerful, 
 and grateful spirit." 
 
 I began with the story of the robin-family on the 
 cherry-tree, and I must adhere to that. I went 
 often to see my friend, and I usually found her in 
 her favourite seat by the window. There she de- 
 lighted to watch, with her children, the progress of 
 the little lady-bird that was preparing for her young. 
 She collected her materials for building, straw by 
 straw and feather by feather ; for, as I suppose 
 all little people know, birds line their nests with 
 some soft material, feathers, wool, shreds, or some- 
 thing of the sort that will feel smooth and comfort- 
 able to the little unfledged birds. Strange, is it 
 not, that a bird should know how to build its nest 
 and prepare for housekeeping ! How, think you, 
 did it learn ? who teaches it ? Some birds work 
 quicker and more skilfully than others. A friend 
 of mine who used to rear canaries in cages, and 
 who observed their ways accurately, told me there 
 was as much difference between them as between 
 housewives. Some are neat and quick, and oth- 
 ers slatternly and slow. Those who have not - ob- 
 served much are apt to fancy that all birds of one 
 kind, for instance, that all hens are just alike ; but 
 each, like each child in a family, has a character 
 of its own. One will be a quiet, patient little body, 
 always giving up to its companions ; and another 
 for ever fretting, fluttering, and pecking. I know 
 
46 OUR ROBINS. 
 
 a little girl who names the fowls in ner poultry- 
 yard according to their characters. A lordly fel- 
 low who has beaten all the other cocks in regular 
 battle, who cares for nobody's rights, and seems 
 to think that all his companions were made to be 
 subservient to him, she calls Napoleon. A. pert, 
 handsome little coxcomb, who spends all his time 
 in dressing his feathers and strutting about the 
 yard, is named Narcissus, Bessie is a young hen, 
 who, though she seems very well to undei stand 
 her own rights, is a general favourite in the poultry- 
 yard. Other lively young fowls are named after 
 favourite cousins, as Lizzy, Susy, &c. But the best 
 loved of all is one called " Mother" because she 
 never seems to think of herself, but is always 
 scratching for others ; because, in short, she is, in 
 this respect, like that best, kindest, and dearest of 
 parents, the mother of our little mistress of the 
 poultry-yard. 
 
 To return to the robin. She seemed to be of 
 the quietest and gentlest, minding her own affairs, 
 and never meddling with other peopled ; never 
 stopping to gossip with other birds, but always in- 
 tent on her own work., In a few days the nest 
 was done* and four eggs laid in it. The faithful 
 mother seldom left her nest. Her mate, like a 
 good husband, was almost always to be seen near 
 her. Lyman would point him out to me as he 
 perched on a bough close to his little lady, where 
 he would sit and sing most sweetly ; Lyman and I 
 used to guess what his notes might mean. Lyman 
 thought he might be relating what he saw when 
 he was abroad upon the wing, his narrow escapes 
 from the sportsman's shot, and from the stones 
 
OUR ROBINS. 47 
 
 which the thoughtless boy sends, breaking a wing 
 or a log, just to show how he can hit. I thought 
 he might be telling his little wife how much he 
 loved her, and what good times they would have 
 when their children came forth from the shells. It 
 was all guesswork, but we could only guess about 
 such matters, and I believe there is more thought 
 in all the animal creation than we- dream of. 
 
 Once, when he had' been talking in this playful 
 way, Lyman's mother said, " God has ever set the 
 solitary birds in families. They are just like you, 
 children ; better off and happier for having some one 
 to watch over them and provide for them. Some- 
 times they lose both their parents, and then the 
 poor little birds must perish ; but it is not so with 
 children ; there are always some to take pity on 
 orphan children, and, besides, they can make up, 
 by their love to one another, for the love they have 
 lost." 
 
 I saw Lyman understood his mother; his eyes 
 filled with tears, and, putting his face close to hers, 
 he said, " Oh no, mother ! they never can make it 
 up ; it may help them to bear it." 
 
 When the young birds came out of their shells 
 it was our pleasure to watch the parents . feeding 
 them. Sometimes the father-bird would bring food 
 in his bill, and the mother would receive it and give 
 it to her young. She seemed to think, like a good, 
 energetic mother, that she ought not to sit idle and 
 let her husband do all the providing, and she would 
 go forth and bring food for the young ones, and 
 then a pretty sight it was to see them stretch up 
 their litte necks to receive it. 
 
 Our eyes were one day fixed on the little fam- 
 
48 OUR ROBINS. 
 
 ily. Both parents were perched on the tree. Two 
 young men from the village, who had been out spor- 
 ting, were passing along the road. " I'll bet you 
 a dollar, Tom," said one of them, " I'll put a shot 
 into that robin's head." " Done !" said the other ; 
 and done it was for our poor little mother. Bang 
 went the gun, and down to the ground, gasping 
 and dying, fell the bird. My poor friend shut her 
 eyes and groaned; the children burst out into cries 
 and lamentations ; and, I must confess, I shed some 
 tears — I could not help it. We ran out and picked 
 up the dead bird, and lamented over it. The 
 young man stopped, and said he was very sorry ; 
 that if he had known we cared about the bird he 
 would not have shot it ; he did not want it ; he 
 only shot to try his skill. I asked him if he could 
 not as well have tried his skill by shooting at a 
 mark. " Certainly !" he answered, and laughed, 
 and walked on. Now I do* not think this young 
 man was a monster, or any such thing, but I do 
 think that, if he had known as much of the habits 
 and history of birds as Lyman did, he would not 
 have shot this robin at the season when it is known 
 they are employed in rearing their young, and are 
 enjoying a happiness so like what human beings 
 feel ; nor, if he had looked upon a bird as a mem- 
 ber of God's great family, would he have shot it, at' 
 any season, just to show his skill in hitting a mark. 
 We have no right to abate innocent enjoyment nor 
 inflict unnecessary and useless pain.* 
 
 * Lord Byron somewhere says, that he was so much moved 
 by seeing the change from life to death in a bird he had shot, 
 that he could never shoot another. I may lay myself open to 
 the inculcation of a mawkish and unnecessary tenderness, but I 
 
OUR RSBINS. 49 
 
 The father-bird, in his first fright, darted away, 
 but he soon returned and flew round and round the 
 tree, uttering cries which we understood as if they 
 had been words ; and then he would flutter over 
 the nest, and the little motherless birds stretched 
 up their necks and answered with feeble, mourn- 
 ful sounds. It was not long that he stayed vainly 
 lamenting. The wisdom God had given him taught 
 him that he must not stand still and suffer, for 
 there is always something to do; a lesson that 
 some human beings are slow to learn. So off he 
 flew in search of food ; and from that moment, as 
 Lyman told me, he was father and mother to the 
 little ones ; he not only fed them, but brooded over 
 them just as the mother had done ; a busy, busy 
 life he had of it. " Is it not strange," said Lyman 
 to me, " that any one can begrudge a bird their 
 small portion of food ? They are all summer singing 
 for us, and I am sure it is little to pay them to give 
 them what they want to eat. I believe, as mother 
 says, God has provided for them as well as for us, 
 and mother says she often thinks they discern it 
 better, for they do just what God means them to 
 do." It was easy to see that Lyman had been 
 taught to consider the birds, and therefore he loved 
 them. 
 
 Our attention was, for some days, taken off the 
 birds. The very night after the robin's death my 
 friend, in a fit of coughing, burst a bloodvessel. 
 Lyman came for me early the next morning. She 
 died before evening. I shall not now describe the 
 sorrow and the loss of the poor children. If any 
 
 believe a respect to the rights and happiness of the defenceless 
 always does a good work upon the heart. 
 
 E 
 
50 OUR ROBINS. 
 
 one who reads this has lost a good mother, he will 
 know, better than I can tell, what a grief it is ; and, 
 if his mother be still living, I pray him to be faith- 
 ful, as Lyman was, so that he may feel as Lyman 
 did when he said, "Oh, I. could not bear it if I 
 had not done all I could for mother !" 
 
 The day after the funeral I went to see the chil- 
 dren. As I was crossing the field and walking be- 
 side the little brook I have mentioned, I saw Sam 
 Sibley loitering along. Sam is an idle boy,- and, 
 like all idle boys I ever knew, mischievous. Sam 
 was not liked in the village ; and, if you will ob- 
 serve, you will see that those children who are in 
 the habit of pulling off flies' wings, throwing stones 
 at birds, beating dogs, and kicking horses, are 
 never loved ; such children cannot be, for those 
 that are cruel to animals will not care for the feel- 
 ings of their companions. 
 
 At a short distance from the brook there was a 
 rocky mound, and shrubbery growing around it, 
 and an old oak-tree in front of it. The upper limbs 
 of the oak were quite dead. Sam had his hand 
 full of pebbles, and, as he loitered along, he threw 
 them in every direction at the birds that lighted on 
 the trees and fences. Luckily for the birds, Sam 
 was a poor marksman, as he was poor in every- 
 thing else ; so they were unhurt till, at length, he 
 hit one perched on the dead oak. As Sam's stone 
 whistled through the air, Lyman started from be- 
 hind the rocks, crying, " Oh, don't — it's our robin!* 
 He was too late ; our robin fell at his feet; he took 
 it up and burst into tears. He did not reproach 
 Sam ; he was too sorry to be angry. As I went 
 up to him he said, in a low voice, " Everything I 
 
OUR ROBINS, 51 
 
 love dies !" I did not reply, I could not. " How 
 sweetly," resumed Lyman, "he sung only last 
 night after we came home from the burying-ground, 
 and this morning the first sound Mary and I heard 
 was his note ; but he will never sing again !" 
 
 Sam had come up to us. I saw he was ashamed, 
 and I believe he was sorry too ; for, as he turned 
 away, I heard him say to himself, " By George ! 
 I'll never fling another stone at a bird so long as I 
 live." 
 
 It must have done something towards curing his 
 bad habits to see the useless pain he had caused 
 to the bird and the bird's friend ; and the lesson 
 sank much deeper than if Lyman had spoken one 
 angry or reproachful word, for now he felt really 
 sorry for Lyman. One good feeling makes way 
 for another. 
 
 To our great joy, the robin soon exhibited some 
 signs of animation ; and, on examination, I perceived 
 he had received no other injury than the breaking 
 of a leg. A similar misfortune had once happen- 
 ed to a Canary-bird of mine, and I had seen a sur- 
 geon set its leg ; so, in imitation of the doctor, I set 
 to work and splinted it, and then despatched Ly- 
 man for an empty cage in our garret. We moved 
 the little family from the tree to the cage. The 
 father-bird, even with the young ones, felt strange 
 and unhappy for some time. It was a very differ- 
 ent thing living in this pent-up place from enjoy- 
 ing the sweet liberty of hill and valley, and he did 
 not know our good reason for thus afflicting him 
 any better than we sometimes do of our troubles 
 when we impatiently fret and grieve. In a short 
 time he became more contented. The family said 
 
52 OUR ROBINS 
 
 he knew Lyman's footstep, and would reply to his 
 whistle ; sure am I Lyman deserved his love and 
 gratitude, for he was the faithful minister of Provi- 
 dence to the helpless little family. They never 
 wanted food nor drink. When, at the end of a 
 very few weeks, he found them all able to take care 
 of themselves, he opened the door of the cage and 
 said, "Go, little birds, and be happy, for that is 
 what God made you for." 
 
 The birds could speak no word of praise or 
 thanks ; but happiest are those who find their best 
 reward, not in the praise they receive, but the good 
 they do. 
 
OLD ROVER. 
 
 " A MERCIFUL MAN IS MERCIFUL TO HIS BEAST W 
 
 There were two boys in the town of B ■ 
 
 who were born on the same day of the same year. 
 They were friends, as their fathers were before 
 them, though one was - a rich lawyer and the other 
 a labouring man, who literally earned his living by 
 the sweat of his brow. And why should not the 
 rich and the poor be friends? There is in this 
 country no frightful distance* between them. Our 
 laws and institutions do not, like the laws and insti- 
 tutions of other countries, favour the rich and great. 
 There the property may be secured to the son of 
 the rich lord, though he be idle and vicious ; here 
 the son of the rich man must be industrious, pru- 
 dent, and moral, or he falls down to the lowest 
 place in society ; and the son of the labouring man, 
 if he be industrious, prudent, and moral, may mount 
 up to the highest. But there are better reasons 
 than those that begin and end in this world why 
 the poor and the rich should be friends — they are 
 brothers ; all children of one family. Some have 
 places on earth that appear more, and some less 
 favoured ; but of one truth we may rest assured, 
 that, in the great day of account, that station will 
 E 2 
 
54 OLD ROVER. 
 
 prove to have been the happiest of which the du- 
 ties have been best performed. A man like Wash- 
 ington, who, on earth, was " first in war, first in 
 peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen," 
 may, in that great day, stand beside the labouring 
 man whose goodness was never heard of beyond 
 his own neighbourhood, and the poor woman whose 
 " patience in tribulation" was never known beyond 
 her own roof. 
 
 Then, seeing that every condition has its duties, 
 its respectability, happiness, and trials ; that, in our 
 country, no family is fenced into a certain place, 
 but that the low of one year may be the high of the 
 next, and the high the low ; that, at any rate, these 
 external differences are soon over, and we all stand 
 on even ground before our Father and our Judge, 
 with no distinctions but those which result from 
 obedience to his laws, let us be sure of that obedi- 
 ence by avoiding pride, envy, and hostility, and 
 loving one another like brethren here. 
 
 I am not sure that the two friends I have spoken 
 of ever once thought of loving one another as a 
 matter of duty. If you had asked them why, they 
 would probably have answered that they could not 
 help it. They saw their fathers respected each 
 the other. Dutcher, the working man, lived on 
 Mr. Sedley's farm, and near his house. The boys 
 were both pleasant-tempered and bright. They 
 went to the same school, hunted, fished, and played 
 ball together. In winter, when Roswell Dutcher 
 had leisure to read, Stuart lent him his books ; and, 
 in summer, often talked to him of what he was 
 reading ; and Roswell taught Stuart how to drive 
 horses, and harness them, how to hold a plough. 
 
OLD ROVER. 55 
 
 how to work in the hay, and various rustic opera- 
 tions, which to know practically makes a man feel 
 himself to be more a man. 
 
 The fathers of these boys lived through times of 
 great trial for such a friendship as theirs, when 
 those who love to make enmities, from which pro- 
 ceed wars and fightings, were busy in setting the 
 poor against the rich. 
 
 When the revolutionary war was finished, and 
 our independence was won by those, of all condi- 
 tions, who had banded together as brothers, a heavy 
 debt remained for the country to pay. This could 
 only be paid by laying taxes on all classes ; and 
 these, of course, fell most heavily on the poor. 
 There were persons foolish and ignorant enough 
 to believe, or, perhaps, only foolish and ignorant 
 enough to try to make others believe that it was 
 best to have an end of all law and government. 
 The leader of these people was one Shay, and from 
 him the insurrection which he headed was called 
 Shay's war. This was a big name for a short and 
 nearly bloodless contest ; for, though there were 
 several skirmishes between the government men 
 and the Shays' men, there were but few wounded, 
 and not more than two or three killed. Still, in 
 our peaceful country, the slightest alarm of war 
 strikes terror, and long were the particulars of this 
 strife remembered and related by their parents and 
 elders to the wondering children, to whom the in- 
 terest was much increased by the scene lying 
 about their own homes. That the followers of 
 Shay were, for the most part, honest, well-mean- 
 ing, and scrupulous men, may be inferred from the 
 very little mischief they did • but we know that, 
 
56 OLD ROVER. 
 
 when there is a rising against the government, the 
 idle and discontented, and such as had rather live 
 by pilfering than honest labour, rally around *he 
 disaffected. 
 
 I am not about to give the history of this war, 
 so my young readers must lay aside any expecta- 
 tions I have unwarily excited, and listen to a con- 
 versation between the boys Roswell Duteher and 
 Stuart Sedley, as they were returning together 
 from the district school, just as the sun was near- 
 ing the western hills. Fine places were district 
 schools in those times to knit together the hearts 
 of the children of employers and employed ; for 
 they sat on the same bench, often studied the same 
 books, played with the same ball, and, perchance, 
 were whipped with the same whip — so through 
 good and evil they went together. t 
 
 " Do see," said Roswell, " how Julius Smith is 
 laying the whip on his oxen, and how he bawls to 
 them ; he is not fit to speak to a dumb creature." 
 
 " All the town," said Stuart, " can tell when Ju- 
 lius Smith is driving his oxen. I wish he would 
 join the Shays' men." 
 
 " Father says he has not spirit enough ; he is 
 always ready to lick the feet of those above him, 
 and abuses everything below him ; his wife, chil- 
 dren, and dumb creatures — " Stuart laughed. 
 " What are you laughing at, Stuart ?" 
 
 "At your speaking as if Mrs. Smith, who is 
 such a nice woman, was not equal to her paltry 
 husband." 
 
 " You know I didn't mean that, Roswell, only 
 that Julius treats her so. I heard father say the 
 other day that your mean, low-spirited people al 
 
OLD ROVER. 57 
 
 ways treat their wives and children as if they were 
 beneath them — there, Julius is laying it on to his 
 oxen again." 
 
 " It seems to me, Roswell, that all the men and 
 all the boys scream at oxen." 
 
 " I am sure father and I don't, Stuart." 
 
 " No, because you and your father are such quiet 
 people — you never scream at anything." 
 
 '' Father says there is no occasion for screaming 
 at oxen ; he says they are the most docile as well 
 as faithful animals that we have ; and they know 
 a deal more than people think they do." 
 
 " I wish, Roswell, we knew what animals think 
 and feel. It seems to me, if horses could speak 
 they would be quite equal to us. In former times 
 there were persons who believed in the transmi- 
 gration of souls — that is, the passing of souls from 
 one body to another. Pythagoras, one of the wise 
 men of Greece, called the Samian sage, because 
 he was a native of Samos, taught this doctrine. 
 He believed that, when a man died, if he was not 
 worthy to be advanced to a higher state, his soul 
 was sent back into one of the inferior animals." 
 
 " Well, that is comical enough. I shall always 
 be thinking what kind of men our horses and oxen 
 were. I guess Deacon Bray's old Roan was one 
 of those stupid people that never fail to go to meet- 
 ing, but that is the end of it — they never think of 
 what they hear when they are there." 
 
 " Why that bright guess, Roswell f 
 
 "Why, dont you know, Stuart, that since the 
 deacon has pretty much done using old Roan, as 
 soon as he hears the second bell ring he trots 
 down to the meeting-house, and stands by the post 
 
58 OLD ROVER. 
 
 where the deacon used to tie him ; and, when the 
 meeting is dismissed, he trots home again." 
 
 "Does he? Poor old Roan! My father says she 
 has been a grand animal in her day ; and now the 
 good deacon is as tender of her as if she were a 
 friend.* I thought of Deacon Bray when I was 
 reading in my Plutarch to-day." 
 
 " Of Deacon Bray ! Why, Stuart, Plutarch tells 
 about the Greeks and Romans, don't he ?" 
 
 " Yes, Roswell, to be sure — but a good man now- 
 a-days does pretty much as a good man then did. 
 Plutarch says a good man will take care of his 
 horse and dog long after they are past service. 
 The Athenians, when they had finished their fa- 
 mous temple called the Hecatompedon, set at lib- 
 erty the animals that had done most service during 
 the building ; and they made a law that they should 
 never again be subjected to labour. One of these 
 came afterward, of his own accord, and placed 
 himself at the head of the working cattle. This 
 pleased the people, and they ordered that he should 
 be supported at the public charge as long as he 
 lived. There was a gentleman dining with us the 
 other day who told a marvellous story of one of 
 Washington's chargers. If it was exactly true," 
 added Stuart, smiling, " I rather think old Pythag- 
 
 * Deacon Bray is not the only person on record who cher- 
 ished worn-out horses. It is related of the benevolent Howard, 
 that he would not permit his superannuated horses to be killed, 
 but maintained several generously, and cherished them affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's love of animals was a striking and pleas- 
 ing feature in his character. Let it never be forgotten that he 
 would not permit his family to use their horses on Sunday — 
 thus honouring the command to let them rest on the Sabbath 
 day. 
 
OLD ROVER. 59 
 
 oras was right, and the soul of some proud old 
 warrior, an Achilles, maybe, was in this great 
 white horse. Washington rode him during a great 
 part of the war ; he was a favourite with his mas- 
 ter, and he has been known to groom him him* 
 self. The gentleman who told us the story was 
 one of General Washington's aids, and he said it 
 was quite a disgrace to any officer not to know 
 how to groom his horse. Some of the general's 
 attendants took a fancy to try the white charger in 
 harness, and they put him into a sulkey. He 
 seemed indignant as if he spurned the collar, and, 
 by one violent effort, freed himself completely, 
 and then stood perfectly quiet, with the shattered 
 carriage and broken harness about him ! This 
 may be true or may be not, but I am sure of the 
 truth of a far prettier story of our Rover. He was 
 standing before the door, waiting for my father, yes- 
 terday, our Charlie (Charlie was Stuart's brother, 
 just two years old) crept between his hind legs ; 
 and, when my father came out, he was stroking 
 them, and saying, ' Poor Rovy ! Poor Rovy !' and 
 Rovy stood as if he were cut in stone, and looked 
 round as quietly and lovingly as my father would. 
 You know he is such a fiery horse that nobody 
 but my father likes to mount him ; and yet, my fa- 
 ther says, if he takes up Charlie or any other child 
 before him, he is as gentle as a lamb. But, to re- 
 turn to Plutarch ; the graves of Cymon's mares, 
 with which he thrice conquered at the Olympic 
 Games, were to be seen in Plutarch's time near the 
 grave of their master. Those old heathen are an 
 example to us in some respects, Roswell." 
 
 " So I often thought last winter when I was read 
 
60 OLD ROVER. 
 
 mg Plutarch. I wish winter would come again ! 
 You are all the book I have in summer, Stuart." 
 
 " Oh, Roswell, you can't say that. Don't you 
 remember what the minister said last Sunday, that 
 Nature was a book, written all over by the finger of 
 God, open to all, and from which all might get 
 wisdom if they would but read it ? that, our experi- 
 ence was a book from which conscience every day 
 read us lessons ? and so on, and so on." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I guess I do remember it, for I 
 liked the sermon very much. I do love to hear 
 sermons that I can understand. I remember when 
 I used to feel just as our little Libby does. She is 
 very fond of the singing, but she says she wishes 
 they would leave out the ' preaching part.' " 
 
 " I should think even Libby might have under- 
 stood Mr. Allen when he preached to us about the 
 treatment of animals. 1 was just now, when we 
 were talking about them, reminded of that ser- 
 mon." 
 
 " What was it 1 I did not hear it." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know that I could tell you much 
 about it now, but it made me think and feel. He 
 said a great deal about the domestic animals being 
 one of the great trusts we received from the Crea- 
 tor. He asked how the thoughtless boy, who 
 whipped the tired horse up hill and down ; who 
 neglected to give him drink when he was thirsty 
 and provender when he was hungry, could answer 
 for this trust. How the young man who drove a 
 fine willing horse to the utmost of his speed, and 
 beyond his strength, just to gratify his own vanity 
 or impatience, could answer for his trust. How 
 the farmer who beats his oxen, and makes them 
 
OLD ROVEK. 61 
 
 work beyond their natural force, could answer for 
 it. He said that animals were broken down by 
 neglect, maltreatment, and cruelty, so that the ex- 
 istence that was designed by their Maker to be 
 filled with comfort and pleasure is a state of dep- 
 rivation and suffering. He asked us if any one 
 could calculate how great a proportion of the nat- 
 ural life of animals was curtailed by man ; and he 
 entreated the young people now, in the beginning 
 of their lives, to consider this matter wisely, and to 
 resolve that they would not abuse or neglect an 
 ox, a cow, a horse, or any animal dependant on 
 their care." 
 
 " Well, that was a good sermon ; but how in 
 the world could you remember so much of it ?" 
 
 " My mother has got me into the habit of attend- 
 ing, by requiring me to write down Sunday even- 
 ing whatever the minister says that I can apply to 
 my future conduct ; but, mercy upon us ! Roswell, 
 is not that old Roan ?" 
 
 The boys had arrived at a road that led up to 
 Deacon Bray's, and at this moment there issued from 
 it two men, apparently intoxicated, both mounted 
 on "old Roan," whom they were belabouring, whip- 
 ping, and kicking ; but, with all their cruel efforts, 
 they were unable to force the old creature beyond 
 a moderate trot, simply because she had not the 
 ability to go faster. Her nose was almost to the 
 ground ; she staggered under her unaccustomed 
 load, and seemed at every moment as if she would 
 fall. Running alongside the mare was little Simon 
 Bray, the deacon's grandchild, and, at no great dis- 
 tance behind, followed good old Mrs. Bray, both 
 calling after the men, and entreating them to stop 
 F 
 
62 OLD ROVER. 
 
 beating Roan. " She'll go as fast as she can with- 
 out kicking or whipping," said little Simon ; " grand- 
 father never whips her — never — never — never I" 
 
 " Stop !" cried Roswell, springing forward and 
 seizing the forward rider's whip, and " Stop, if ye 
 are men !" cried Stuart, seizing Roan's bridle. 
 
 " We are men, and Shays' men !" they both re- 
 plied, in one breath ; but they had scarcely uttered 
 the words when poor old Roan, nearly spent be- 
 fore, and quite overcome by the sudden check, fell 
 to the ground ; and the men, having extricated 
 themselves, began beating her to make her rise. 
 Simon cried bitterly. " Oh, stop !" exclaimed Stu- 
 art ; " pretty fellows, you, indeed, to talk of right- 
 ing things, and go about stealing horses, and beat- 
 ing them." 
 
 " Stop your sarce, you young chap," replied the 
 most violent of the two men, " or I'll beat you." 
 
 Roswell had not begun right ; never excite the 
 temper when you mean to inspire a sense of jus- 
 tice. But the boys did not consider, but only ex- 
 pressed their feelings, which were roused to the 
 highest pitch. 
 
 "You may beat me too," said Roswell, "fori 
 ,say it is no better than highway robbery to steal 
 the deacon's horse, and I hope you will live to be 
 put in jail for it." 
 
 " Hoot toot, young upstart, we a'nt going to 
 have no more jails." 
 
 " My father says the day will come when there 
 will be more thieves than honest men." 
 
 " Who is your father 1 W 
 
 " His father is Mr. Sedley ; a name you have 
 
OLD ROVER. 63 
 
 iieard before, and will hear again, I guess," an- 
 swered Roswell. 
 
 " I guess we shall, by the same token that our 
 captain has ordered us to rendezvous at Squire 
 Sedley's." The boys exchanged looks of alarm. 
 " Come, Jem," continued the speaker, " the old 
 horse is no better than a dead dog, so we may as 
 well 'be off upon Shanks's mare." 
 
 So off they went. " Oh," said Roswell, looking 
 after them, " I wish it did not take so long to 
 grow to be a man. If I had but half my father's 
 strength, what a dressing I would give them !" 
 
 "We have something else to think of now," 
 said Stuart. " They are going to our house to 
 meet others there. Thank Heaven, my father is 
 gone, so they cannot take him prisoner, and they 
 say they do no harm to women and children ; but 
 come home with me, Roswell, my mother will be 
 frightened out of her wits." Roswell readily ac- 
 companied him, but not till he had loosened Roan's 
 girth, and, by stroking and patting, coaxed her to 
 rise, and given her into the hands of little Simon, 
 who led her home, he on one side and his grand- 
 mother on the other, cheering her way, and de- 
 scribing their feelings. " Oh, Simon," said the old 
 lady, " I felt awfully when they took my silver 
 shoe-buckles, and my spoons that I had when I 
 was a girl, for they were dreadful near to me ; but, 
 when they took the old mare, it seemed almost as 
 if your grandfather was going." 
 
 " I know it, grandmother — so it did ; and when I 
 looked into his empty stall, and thought I should 
 never help grandfather spread the clean straw for 
 his bed again, and never carry him his mess of 
 
64 OLD ROVER. 
 
 oats — how glad I was I never forgot them ! — and 
 never ride him down to the watering-trough again ; 
 I felt so bad I could not help crying." 
 
 While this conversation was going on, our young 
 friends were making all haste to Mr. Sedley's. 
 When they arrived there they found the house full 
 of Shay's people, and the family in the greatest 
 consternation, excepting Bet, a coloured woman. 
 M You need not pay no respects to them, boys," 
 said she ; " there's no 'casion to b.e scared at them. 
 I know them all, Tim Smith, Jem Brown, Jed 
 Lovejoy, and Pete Pease, every mother's son of 
 them, and I could fend them all off with a kettle 
 of boiling beer." 
 
 Stuart inquired for Jo, a coloured servant, the 
 only man in the establishment. " He was hidden 
 in the smoke-house ! The only thing about the 
 house that nobody would take or give a thankye to 
 keep," Bet said. She professed to feel no anxiety 
 for anything but Rover ; but she had heard one of 
 the men suggest to the captain — " Pete Pease a 
 captain !" — that if he took the squire's horse, his 
 would be to spare — to spare to him, of course. 
 After some consultation it was agreed that Stuart 
 should go to his mother, that she might feel as if 
 she had something like a protector. Roswell kept 
 a general lookout upon the proceedings, and Bet, 
 who had secured about her own person some small 
 articles of plate, watches, and other valuables, at- 
 tended the men in their marauding over the house, 
 sometimes scoffing at them, sometimes deluding 
 them, and, in various ingenious ways, preserving a 
 great portion of the property.* 
 
 * The tearless woman here alluded to was one of the most 
 
OLD ROVER. 65 
 
 Bet's only fear was soon realized. Rover was 
 led forth, saddled and bridled, for the captain. Bet 
 was moved to the bottom of her heart. She dis- 
 dained to entreat, but she declared that " Rover 
 would break the dum neck of any one of them who 
 dared to mount him !" 
 
 There was a piazza running across the back of 
 the house. There the Shays' men were collected. 
 The family were assembled in a room that over- 
 looked the piazza. The blinds were closed. Bet 
 stood on the ground in front of the steps, her arms 
 akimbo, and Roswell leaned against one of the 
 posts of the piazza, his heart throbbing with indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " Never say T did not warn you beforehand, Pete 
 Pease," said Bet to " the captain, 1 ' as he was about 
 to mount ; " Rover knows you from his master as 
 well as I do, and he treats* every one according to 
 their desarvings." 
 
 The captain, nowise alarmed by this menace, 
 sprung into the saddle ; but scarcely had he touched 
 it when he was lain sprawling on the ground. 
 
 " That's you, Rover !" shouted Bet, clapping 
 her hands, " back him again, Pete Pease !" Ros- 
 well, who had done his best to keep back his tears, 
 now laughed with all his heart ; the men swore ; 
 
 effective persons in saving the property exposed to these depre- 
 dators. At. one time, when it was deemed prudent that the 
 family in whose service she lived should abandon thehvhouse, 
 she remained, and, retaining with her one of the children, a 
 sickly favourite, she hung a large kettle of beer over the fire, 
 declaring she would scald to death the first Shays' man that 
 entered the house. Her dauntless spirit was too well known for 
 any one to be bold enough to provoke a salute from the beer- 
 kettle. This mode of domestic defensive warfare may remind 
 some of our readers of Jennv's " het brose." 
 
 F2 
 
66 OLD ROVER. 
 
 the blind of Mrs. Sedley's window was cautiously 
 opened, and Stuart's, and half a dozen female faces 
 were seen peeping out. The captain again mounted, 
 but more cautiously than before, and not without 
 evident anxiety. And need was there for it ; for, 
 the instant Rover felt his weight, he seemed in- 
 stinctively to know it was no rightful hand upon 
 the bridle ; he snorted, pawed, kicked, and reared, 
 and again the captain was laid in the dust. " The 
 d — 1 is in the horse !" cried the men. 
 
 " There's more sense in him than in all of you," 
 said Bet ; " but try him again, Pete — three times 
 and out !•" 
 
 " Yes, captain, try him again !" echoed the boys. 
 The captain would fain have desisted. He felt 
 sundry bumps and bruises that admonished him not 
 to tempt his fate a third time ; but he was stung 
 by the exultation of the " black witch," as he called 
 Bet, and, raising a club, he beat the noble steed 
 till the blood poured down his white flanks. At 
 this sight every face disappeared from the window ; 
 Bet uttered a sound between a growl and a groan, 
 and Roswell sprung to the horse's side, and, stand- 
 ing against him as a shield, told Pease to strike 
 again if he dared. Pease raised his arm ; but, see- 
 ing Roswell did not flinch a hair, he let it fall, 
 saying, " Well, well, boy, I'll not strike again if 
 you'll hold him while I mount — you are acquainted 
 with him — come, come, be neighbourly." 
 
 " No, no, I'll not coax him into your hands," said 
 Roswell. 
 
 u Then stand out of my way, you rascal !" re- 
 torted the captain ; and, pale with passion and fear, 
 he once more sprung upon the horse, and was a 
 
OLD ROVER. 67 
 
 third time rejected. This time his head fell against 
 the well curb, and he was senseless. While his 
 companions were rendering him necessary assist- 
 ance, Stuart, who, at the gallant movements of his 
 friend, had jumped out of the window and placed 
 himself at RoswelFs side, now mounted Rover. 
 Without putting his feet in the stirrups, and scarcely 
 touching the bridle, and only speaking to him in 
 his well-known voice, he rode him several times 
 about the yard, and then, dismounting, led him to 
 his stable amid the acclamations of Rover's friends, 
 and without any interference from the captain's 
 men, who, by this time, as well as their leader, 
 were convinced it was safest to leave him to his 
 lawful owners. 
 
 I am telling what all children love, a true story ; 
 and I assure them that I have departed in nothing 
 material from the facts, as they have been often 
 related to me by an eyewitness ; that truly great 
 woman, who, in a humble station, was the hero- 
 ine of that as of many other interesting occasions. 
 
 Rover lived to do many years' good service ; and, 
 when old age came upon him, and his natural 
 strength abated, and his eyes became dim, he was 
 honoured and cared for. He suffered for several 
 of the last years of his life from an incurable disease, 
 called the poll evil, which was only alleviated by 
 bathing his neck with spirits. Twice every day 
 the emollient was applied, and barrels of liquor 
 were lavished to abate the sufferings of this old 
 member of the family, for so " Old Rover" truly 
 seemed. 
 
 Poor fellow ! his roving days were then over. 
 His outgoings were confined to bearing a rantipole 
 girl some' hundred roods to her school ; even then 
 
68 OLD ROVER. 
 
 he seemed to sympathize with her gay young 
 spirits, and splashed through the muddy street as 
 if his old limbs felt the beatings of her bounding 
 heart ! 
 
 I fear I may have tired my young readers, and 
 they may reproach me with palming off on them 
 as a story what, after all, is none ; but I shall not 
 have written, nor they read in vain, if I have in- 
 duced any one to be more considerate of animals, 
 more studious of their characters, and more just, 
 forbearing, and kind to them. It will be among 
 the pleasant things to remember when they come 
 to the close of life, that they have never abused 
 one of the brute creation. I had forgotten to say 
 that old Jo remained safely ensconced in the 
 smokehouse, and that he afterward took precious 
 care of himself through the dangers of a long life. 
 When he was in his last sickness, and fast going 
 down to the grave, I was reading the Bible to him, 
 and chanced upon that passage, " a merciful man is 
 merciful to his beast !" " That's what I have 
 been," said he, interrupting me. " No dumb beast 
 can ever have a word to say against me ! Many 
 a time have I been up till midnight, when our folks 
 have been out, but never did I leave my horses till 
 they were rubbed down, watered, and fed ; to be 
 sure, I have been ugly enough to folks, but never 
 to a dumb beast ; I have done my duty complately 
 to them." Poor old Jo, we can recommend his 
 example only as far as relates to the brute crea- 
 tion ; but we hope that our young friends, when 
 they come to the close of life, will be not only as 
 sure as he was that no dumb beast will ever speajt 
 a word against them, but that many a tongue that 
 can speak will bear them good testimony. 
 
THE CHA-IN OF LOVE. 
 
 " HE THAT LOVETH NOT, KNOWETH NOT GOD ; 
 FOR GOD IS LOVE." 
 
 A traveller gives the following account of an 
 unknown country, an immense island. It would 
 be in vain to look for it, as it is not yet laid down 
 on any geographical map or chart. Our traveller 
 called the island Probation, and represents its face 
 as resembling countries with which we are well 
 acquainted. He says there are there large, un- 
 subdued, and, indeed, unexplored tracts of land, 
 mountains that have not yet been surmounted, and 
 rivers not yet explored. 
 
 A considerable portion of the island is cultivated, 
 and embellished by a company of sturdy youths, 
 called Industry, Enterprise, Skill, and Perseve- 
 rance. These have cut down forests, planted 
 fields, made roads, dug canals, erected manufac- 
 tories, constructed bridges, built cities, and, in 
 short, made the Island of Probation look much 
 like our own flourishing land. There are circum- 
 stances, however, peculiar to the people of Proba- 
 tion, which we shall endeavour to give in the trav- 
 eller's own words. 
 
 ** On making some inquiries about the govern- 
 ment of this island," he says, " I was told that it 
 
70 THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 
 
 had a sovereign of unlimited power and perfect 
 goodness, whose laws, if obeyed, ensured health 
 and happiness to his people. His home, styled 
 1 the City of the King,' was in a high mountain, 
 whence, unseen by them, he could look down upon 
 all the dwellers in his wide domains. This mount- 
 ain appeared to the spectators below to be girt 
 about with clouds and darkness ; but, in reality, 
 neither darkness nor storms of any kind approached 
 it. There were changes, but always from one 
 kind of beauty to another, from one degree of ex- 
 cellence to a higher. The access to this lovely re- 
 gion, from which those who once entered it never 
 departed, was open to every subject of the king, 
 but it was only by exactly obeying his directions, 
 and following the guides he sent, that it could be 
 attained. His subjects were born on the outside 
 of the wall that surrounded this earthly paradise, 
 and thence were sent forth by their sovereign to 
 perform certain labours on his territory. The sov 
 ereign, at their setting out, bound aroimd them an 
 elastic and flexible chain, which, no way impeding 
 "iheir movements, was firmly attached to his throne. 
 This was called the Chain of Love. It had many 
 marvellous properties. By it they could always 
 Keep up a communication with him ; they received 
 infallible intimations of his will, and sure aid in 
 doing it. None were conscious of the folds of the 
 chain but those who drank from a certain spring 
 called Faith, which, issuing from within the cloud- 
 enveloped circle, gushed out at the mountain's 
 side, and spread in little rills over the whole island. 
 " It was curious to see how perfect the links of 
 the chain were around the infant j what a myste- 
 
THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 71 
 
 rious but obvious connexion there was between it 
 and the soul-beaming eye ; the arms outstretched in 
 fondness, and the love-kindled smile. You will have 
 a clearer idea of the chain if I confine my descrip- 
 tion to a particular family, which I marked more 
 than any other in the island. They were numer- 
 ous, and not rich, but, for the most part, respectable 
 and laborious. The parents would have felt the 
 children a burden to them ; but, as soon as they 
 were born, the Chain of Love appeared around them, 
 and then all was light and easy. At the birth of 
 each child the father cheerfully toiled the harder, 
 and the mother was never wearied with watching 
 and tending, such wonderful strength did they get 
 from the chain. If the child were sick, the broth- 
 ers and sisters would tread lightly around the cra- 
 dle, and be ready, each one, to do some kind office,; 
 and then I saw link added after link, and sparks 
 flying from them in every direction, giving a cheer- 
 ful light. 
 
 " It is true that the children in this family, like 
 others, were of various dispositions. There was 
 one called Passionate. I heard, and often too, his 
 chain go snap ! snap ! and then it would fall off, 
 and he would have been quite separated from his 
 brothers and sisters but for one of them, Sweet-tem- 
 per, who would pick up the broken links, and beg 
 the rest to help her mend the chain with the ce- 
 ment of forgiveness. This they did so perfectly 
 that I could scarcely perceive where it had been 
 broken ; but, as it proved, each break made it more 
 liable to break again. 
 
 " One of the girls, named Detraction, was squint- 
 eyed. She was as incapable of reporting right as 
 
72 THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 
 
 of seeing straight. Whenever she spoke corro- 
 sive drops fell from her lips, which would so 
 eat off the chain that it would no longer have 
 served to bind the family together ; but, luckily, 
 two of her brothers, two watchful, honest little 
 fellows they were, Candour and Truth, washed off 
 the drops as they fell. Truth often had to scour 
 the chain afterward, and I observed it never failed to 
 become stronger as well as brighter under his hand. 
 All his care, however, could not preserve the chain 
 that bound Detraction to the rest of the family. 
 She could not abide the touch of Truths so her 
 chain soon dropped off. She was ever afterward 
 shunned by the wise and prudent ; for it was evi- 
 dent she never approached any company without 
 manifest danger to the Chain of Love. 
 
 There was one pleasant little girl called Cheer- 
 fulness. Every one liked to be neap her. Her 
 touch alone brightened the chain ; and, when any 
 one of the family had a heavy load to lift or a 
 hard task to perform, if she but laid her hand on 
 the chain all seemed light and easy. How differ- 
 ent was the influence of her brother Jealousy, 
 whose very breath dimmed the chain, and, if Can- 
 dour did not wipe off the stains, they became rust, 
 and ate the links apart. As the family proceeded 
 their chains became stronger and his weaker, till 
 he too fell off and strayed from them. 
 
 " I watched," continued the traveller, " the fam- 
 ily's progress over the island. I saw them going 
 together into a deep sunless abyss called Adver- 
 sity. There was an east wind blowing, and tor- 
 rents of rain falling, and I expected the chain 
 would be rusted and ruined ; but, instead of this, as 
 
THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 73 
 
 they went down the craggy and sharp descent, 
 their feet bleeding and their frames shivering, I 
 saw that it was the chain alone that sustained 
 them. It bound one to another, and gave to each 
 the force of all. Then and afterward it was man- 
 ifest that the chain was capable of resisting every 
 external danger ; that it, indeed, became stronger 
 from external strain and pressure ; and that the only 
 danger of cracking and breaking it arose from the 
 character of those whom it encompassed. One 
 among them, a sturdy, hard-faced fellow, named 
 Resistance, endeavoured to turn back and to ward 
 off the storm. Instead of yielding to the pressure 
 of the chain, which constantly, as they descended 
 into the dark abyss, drew the others closer and 
 closer, and bound them more firmly together, he 
 pulled away ; and, looking up defyingly, when the 
 rest meekly bent to the earth, the storm beat in his 
 face and blinded him ; and then he turned every 
 way, throwing out his arms and stamping furious- 
 ly, till he severed the chain, and rolled, alone and 
 screaming with anger and pain, down the dark de- 
 scent. The rest trod cautiously, watching and 
 praying as they went ; they gradually disappeared, 
 being wrapped in the storm and quite lost to sight ; 
 but, when the tempest abated, they emerged, their 
 eyes all turned towards the high dwelling-place of 
 their king, and their faces shining with a dazzling 
 radiance, the reflection of the chain, that, enuring 
 their passage through Adversity, had, instead of 
 becoming dull, grown brighter and brighter. Now 
 they had a sure footing and a clear sky over their 
 heads ; food and healing fruits on every side of 
 them, with the shining Fields of Prosperity before 
 G 
 
74 THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 
 
 them. Now, for the first time, missing their 
 brother, two of the sisters, Pity and .Hope, Hope 
 leading the way, turned back in search of him 
 seeming to think nothing of their own suffering? 
 if thereby they might save their brother. The) 
 found him quite overpowered by the storm, alone 
 sullen, and despairing. Pity bent over him weep 
 ing, while Hope, with her .dancing eyes ana 
 cheering voice, urged him to rise and move for- 
 ward. Still he seemed deaf and motionless till 
 they bound around him their Chain of Love ; then, 
 leaning on Pity, he followed Hope, saying, ' Many 
 is the message I have received from our wise old 
 friend Reason, and many a menace of the king's 
 judgments has been shouted in my ear by those 
 who passed me by in the dark abyss ; but never, 
 my dear sisters, till I felt the touch of your chain, 
 was I inclined to change my name from Resistance 
 to Submission, and move forward with you.' 
 
 " I was sorry to observe," continued the trav- 
 eller, " that, when Resistance had rejoined his fam- 
 ily, who were moving on in a straight and narrow 
 path, he soon became again impatient of the diffi- 
 culties of the way. While all the rest seemed to 
 have been strengthened by their passage through 
 the abyss of Adversity, his vigour was abated, and 
 his eyesight was fearfully impaired by the blind- 
 ness he had suffered there, insomuch that he was 
 constantly stumbling and pursuing for substances 
 what every one else knew to be mere vapours. 
 He grew regardless and careless of his chain, too, 
 which could only be kept bright and strong by 
 1 words and deeds of love' done ' in the name of 
 the Lord.' The narrow path often led through 
 
THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 75 
 
 green pastures and beside still waters ; but though 
 skirting the Fields of Prosperity, it never entered 
 them. Broad openings there were that led into 
 them, and largely did travellers turn therein ; but 
 our family, knowing there was great heat as well 
 as light in these fields, and seeing that the chains 
 often melted off from those who passed through 
 them, wisely adhered to their narrow path, which 
 was often sufficiently lighted by gleams from the 
 Fields of Prosperity. 
 
 " But the foolish brother grew impatient of his 
 slow and difficult progress, and his frettings and 
 grumblings wore his chain thin ; and then, with a 
 sudden bound, he severed it, and made haste to- 
 wards the Fields of Prosperity. There the ex- 
 cessive light again blinded his eyes, which had 
 been much injured by his conduct in the abyss 
 of Adversity. He was beset by flatterers who 
 misled him, and he followed at random the calls of 
 Pleasure, who, taking advantage of his blindness, 
 always eluded him. At last he sunk down wearied 
 and disgusted. Soon there appeared to him a fiend- 
 like shape called Retribution, holding a scourge in 
 her hand, and unconsciously guided by the spirit 
 Mercy. Retribution inflicted her blows on our 
 foolish wanderer. Even Mercy could not mitigate 
 the strokes ; but she laid her hand on the eyes of 
 the sufferer, and he received his sight, and fled to- 
 wards the narrow path, pursued and still scourged 
 by Retribution. But his strength increased at ev- 
 ery step as he approached the path, and, as he 
 sprang into it, he was received in the arms of Pen- 
 itence, a sad-looking nymph, who, though she did 
 not allay the anguish- of his wounds, prevented 
 
76 THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 
 
 Retribution from inflicting more. Now the poor 
 wanderer cried out, ' Oh that I could again stand 
 among my brothers and sisters, and feel around 
 me that blessed chain !' 
 
 " ' I can do nothing more than I have done for 
 you,' said Penitence. ' I am stationary. No one 
 makes progress that depends on me alone. I can, 
 however, consign you to my sister Repentance, 
 who will lead you along the narrow way you for- 
 sook, and, if you faithfully obey her, you will find 
 yourself again attached to the great chain that 
 reaches to the throne of our king, and encompassed 
 with the links that bind your brothers and sisters.' 
 Hardly had she finished speaking when our wan- 
 derer's eye met the glance of Hope, who was beck- 
 oning him onward ; and, renerved by her smile, he 
 embraced Repentance, and set forward. 
 
 " Now, as he steadily moved on, he felt his chain, 
 and saw link added to link, and each glowing under 
 his hand, as, at a signal from Repentance, he stopped 
 to heal some wound he had" inflicted, or to repair 
 some mischief that, in his blind progress, he had 
 committed. His companion was stern and uncom- 
 promising, but he faithfully obeyed all her com- 
 mands, though hard sayings they were; and as 
 Hope, when she leads Repentance, never leads 
 astray, he soon found himself amid his brothers 
 and sisters, and again bound in the precious folds 
 of that chain of love which had been so pleasant 
 to him in childhood, so heedlessly and sinfully 
 broken, and whose touch now gave new life to his 
 soul." 
 
 Our traveller quite lost sight of Detraction and 
 Jealousy, and kriew not what became of them ; 
 
THE CHAIN OF LOVE. 77 
 
 but he was told by one who could discern between 
 the righteous and the wicked, between those who 
 served God and those who served him not, that 
 there was but one path, the straight and narrow 
 one, which led to the mountain of the Great King. 
 In that path the rest of the family steadily travelled, 
 performing the work their king had assigned them 
 by the way, and obeying the laws he had given 
 them. Death met one after another, and was re- 
 ceived as a friend, not as an enemy. It was cu- 
 rious to see how, 'at his approach, the chains that 
 bound them together drew them closer and closer ; 
 how they seemed to press them on to every act 
 that sustained or soothed ; and how the folds of that 
 chain, that reached to the bright mountain, wrapped 
 them round and round, and drew them nearer and 
 nearer to their final home, till they were lost in the 
 clouds and darkness that enfolded it. No eye could 
 pierce this curtain of clouds, but a voice was heard 
 from within, saying, " He that overcometh shall 
 inherit all things ; and I will be his God, and he 
 shall be my son." 
 
 G2 
 
MILL-HILL. 
 
 " SHE OPENETH HER MOUTH WITH WISDOM, AND IN 
 HER TONGUE IS THE LAW OF KINDNESS." 
 
 On the outskirts of the town of Vernon there is 
 a neighbourhood called Mill-hill, so named from a 
 sawmill that stands over a little brook which runs 
 murmuring down between the hills, and then passes 
 off through the lowlands. 
 
 There is a gentle slope, where the steeper part 
 of the hill ends, which has been fenced in for a 
 burying-ground, and here the people of Mill-hill 
 bury their dead, the village cemetery being four 
 miles distant. There are two or three marble 
 monuments among the graves, and no more ; for 
 the people of Mill-hill are far from being rich, and 
 cannot well honour their dead in this way. But 
 they love them as well as if they built marble tem- 
 ples over them ; and they have their own simple 
 monuments, which I like quite as well, and which 
 better prove their memory of the departed, for 
 these memorials require care from month to month, 
 and year to year. Each grave has a brown head- 
 stone, bearing the name, birth, and death of the 
 persons whose graves they mark. Then the little 
 mound is planted round with the wild roses, laurels, 
 
MILL-HILL. 79 
 
 and honeysuckles which grow in abundance over 
 the neighbouring hills, and the clematis, orchis, 
 and lobelia from the low grounds. Decked with 
 these love tokens, with the shadow of the hill fall- 
 ing on it, and the shining stream almost, belting 
 it, the Mill-hill burying-ground looks like a lovely 
 " sleeping-place," as the Greeks called their places 
 of interment ; or, rather, it seems to merit that still 
 more appropriate name which the Germans give to 
 their burial-places, " God's Field." 
 
 It is rare in our country to see shrubbery and 
 flowers about the grave. The neglected aspect of 
 many a village churchyard offends the eye. We 
 will not now stop to inquire into the reason of 
 this ; we will not ask why they are not hedge'd 
 around with trees, in the fall and spring so fit a 
 symbol of the decay and resurrection of man ; but 
 we will explain how it happened that at Mill-hill, 
 where the families all did their own work, and 
 must, therefore, do the planting and tending with 
 their own hands, that so much pains was bestowed 
 on what returned no harvest but to the heart. Ask 
 any one at Mill-hill whose thought it was thus to 
 beautify their burial-place, and you will be an- 
 swered, " Emma Maxwell's. Emma is so thought- 
 ful about the children, and she thinks, if there are 
 flowers about the graves, it will take off their gloomy 
 feelings, and they , won't be so shy about going 
 there. She says it's a teaching-place, for there 
 is always a still small voice comes up from the 
 grave ; and besides, since we have tried it, the 
 neighbours all say it's a comfort to do it." Should 
 you proceed in your inquiries, and ask " who 
 planted the trumpet-creeper that winds round and 
 
80 MILL-HILL. 
 
 round that old dead tree by the schoolhouse, and* 
 who trained the sweetbriers round the windows," 
 you will be answered, " the children did it, but Emma 
 has seen to it." "And who cut out the earth like 
 stairs to ' Prospect Rock' at the top of the hill?" 
 " The boys, but Emma Maxwell put it into their 
 heads." " And who keeps the Sunday-school for 
 those little Irish children from the shanties on the 
 railroad ?" " Emma Maxwell ; who but she would 
 take the trouble, when their folks did not care one 
 straw whether they were taught or not ?" 
 
 And so you might go on for an hour, and find 
 that Emma Maxwell did good deeds that others, 
 for want of thought (and perhaps faith) rather than 
 time or heart, do not do. 
 
 There are persons in this world who would al- 
 most seem to be deprived of the natural relations of 
 parents, brothers and sisters, husband and children, 
 that they may do the little odd jobs for the human 
 family left undone by the regular labourers. Emma 
 Maxwell was one of these, God's missionaries to 
 his children. Emma was an orphan. She lived 
 at her uncle's, where, though she paid her board, 
 she rendered many services that lightened the bur- 
 den of life to every member of the family. Per- 
 haps some of my young readers would like to know 
 how Miss Emma Maxwell looked. She was tall, 
 and not very slender, for she took good care of her 
 health, and had the reward of her care in strength 
 and cheerfulness, and the sign of it in the bright 
 bloom of her cheek. She had a soft blue eye, and 
 one of the sweetest mouths I ever saw. How 
 could it be otherwise ? for never any but kind 
 words and soft tones came from it. And she had 
 
MILL-HILL. 81 
 
 — do not be shocked, my gentle readers — red hair. 
 Depend upon it, all young ladies, be they good and 
 lovely, and even pretty (and pretty Emma undeni- 
 ably was), do not have — except in books — " auburn 
 hair," or " flaxen," or even " rich brown." Emma's 
 hair was so plainly and neatly arranged, that no 
 one noticed it except to say that ' k somehow red hair 
 did not look badly on Emma Maxwell." The light 
 that comes from within can make everything with- 
 out look agreeable in our eyes. Many wondered 
 why Emma Maxwell, who, at the date of our story, 
 was full four-and-twenty, was not married, and 
 she " so attractive and so excellent." The mothers 
 said, knowingly, " the right one''' had not asked 
 her ; and the young girls, with all their horrors of 
 an old maid, almost hoped that " the right one" 
 never would ask her away from Mill-hill. 
 
 Emma had escaped that worst evil, sometimes 
 the consequence of the early loss of friends, a dim- 
 inution of her affections. Hers were " set on 
 things above." Her heart went out to meet every 
 human being gently and silently, like the falling 
 of the dews of Heaven. There was no bustle, no 
 talk. By her fruit she was known. She often re- 
 sembled those flowers that, unseen, give out sweet 
 odours ; her kindness was enjoyed, and its source 
 never known. 
 
 When the new railroad that runs near Mill-hill 
 was to be made, the neighbourhood was alarmed. 
 They dreaded the Irish, whom they regarded as 
 savages ; and when Emma Maxwell said, at the 
 meeting of the " ladies' sewing society" on Satur- 
 day afternoon, " I do not think we shall have any 
 trouble from them if we only treat them right," 
 
82 MILL-HILL. 
 
 the good women replied, they "guessed Emma 
 would find herself mistaken for once." Emma, 
 however, maintained her own opinion. She had 
 always courage and hope when good was to be done. 
 
 The very next day after the sewing meeting, 
 late on Sunday afternoon, Emma was sitting alone 
 on a favourite shady seat near the brook, when four 
 men, carrying the coffin of a child, and followed by 
 a woman with an old cloak wrapped around her 
 head and all, and leading a little girl, passed her. 
 The child was crying aloud. Emma's eye followed 
 them. They entered the burying-ground, where 
 two of their friends, who had obtained leave to 
 bury their dead there, had dug the grave, and 
 awaited them. The last office was soon done, and 
 the men went their way. The woman lingered 
 with the child, who threw herself down on the 
 fresh sods, and seemed not to hear her, though 
 she commanded and entreated by turns. " Come, 
 Anny," she said, " what's the use, honey ? If ye 
 cry the salt ocean ye cannot bring her back. Ye 
 must just come, for Mike will be after wanting his 
 supper. Lord help the child ! she'll fret* the soul 
 out of her !" Emma rose, and, approaching the 
 fence, leaned against it near the new grave. " Lave 
 me here wi' Judy just a bit!" said the child, im- 
 ploringly. 
 
 M Let her stay — please," said Emma, " and 1 
 will see her safe home ; you live, I suppose, in 
 one of the shanties by the railroad ?" 
 
 " Yes, bless ye, miss," replied the woman, turn- 
 ing suddenly at the sweet sound of Emma's voice ; 
 
 * The Irish use fret for grieve. 
 
MILL-HILL. 83 
 
 and then, drawing near to her, she added, "keep 
 your eye upon her, miss ; I fears she'll be after 
 digging down to Judy ; they were as if they grew 
 together, poor things, and no wonder, they, the 
 last of their people. Mike, that same is my hus- 
 band, miss, Mike and I are only ship acquaintance, 
 but we'll not send her out upon the wide world, 
 though the Lord — blessed be his name ! — has given 
 us enough of our own. Anny, honey, when ye've 
 done fretting, come home — what's gone is gone." 
 
 With this poor and common comfort, after drop- 
 ping a courtesy to Emma, she took her way home ; 
 and Anny, believing herself alone, turned her face 
 to the sods, and cried bitterly. " Oh, Judy, Judy !" 
 she groaned, " I cannot live without ye. Why 
 can't I lie quiet in here ? If I were with ye I 
 would content me — I would — I would ; but I am 
 all alone ; father in the deep sea, and mammy, and 
 Bobby, and you, Judy, buried up in the ground, and 
 I never to see you more — never — never — never!" 
 
 So Emma sat down by the little girl, and put 
 her arm over her. " You will see them all again, 
 my child," she said ; " the grave will give up its 
 dead." 
 
 Anny looked up. She fixed her eye earnestly 
 on her, stranger as she was. Emma's compassion- 
 ate voice had reached her heart. " The grave give 
 back the dead !" she exclaimed ; then she laid her 
 head down again, crying, " No, no, they that die 
 never come back again — never — never !" 
 
 11 But, my child, have you never read in the Bi- 
 ble that they that die shall live again ?" 
 
 "Miss?" 
 
 " God tells us so by his word written in the Bi- 
 
84 MILL-HILL. 
 
 ble/' Anny did not answer; she did not seem to 
 hear; her head was again down on the sods, and 
 she was crying, and calling on Judy. " Oh, don't 
 you hear me ? oh, spake to me — spake one word 
 — say but Anny ! and I'll be quiet — I will — quiet 
 as you are, Judy ! Oh, she can't hear me !" 
 
 " There is One that hears and will answer you, 
 my poor child, if she cannot." 
 
 " No, no, none of them hears ; I have called 
 them all, day and night ; I cry, and none of them 
 answers ; no, not mammy, that always heard when 
 the life was in her." • 
 
 " Your Father in heaven, God, hears and pities 
 you, my child." 
 
 " No, no, he v does not hear me. Did not I cry 
 to him ? did not 1 beg him to leave me just only 
 Judy ? God forgive me — I can't help it— and did 
 he not take her from me just the like of the 
 others V 
 
 " But, my child, you must remember God's ways 
 are not as our ways." Anny did not understand 
 Emma Maxwell, but she felt that she pitied her, 
 and she looked earnestly at her. " I say, my child, 
 God's ways are not as our ways," she repeated ; 
 " he chasteneth whom he loveth." Still Anny 
 did not understand. She had never heard the Bi- 
 ble read and explained as the favoured children of 
 our Sunday-schools hear it every week, and its 
 language conveyed no idea to her mind. Emma 
 might as well have spoken to her in Greek. She 
 spoke plainer. " You know there is a God ?" 
 
 " They say there is, miss." 
 
 " You believe that he is good ?" 
 
 Anny shook her head. " If," she replied^ " he 
 
MILL-HILL. 85 
 
 had been so very good, would he have taken them 
 all away ; father, and mother, and poor little Bob- 
 by, and, lasi, of all, Judy ?" 
 
 "But, my child, if you were sure.it was for 
 Judy's good to die now ; if you were sure it was for 
 the happiness of your parents and little Bobby 
 that they were taken away from you, if you were 
 sure, I say, then would you not feel that God was 
 good r 
 
 '* I can't say, miss," replied Anny, rising up on 
 her knees, and resting her arms on Emma's lap. 
 
 "If you could see that by their deaths you were 
 to be made better and happier, then would you not 
 feel that God is good ?" 
 
 " Happier ! happier ! that can't be, miss." 
 
 " Oh, my child, ever since the world was made, 
 people have felt that it was good for them to be 
 afflicted. There are hard hearts that are never 
 softened till God sends death and takes away 
 something that is dear to them ; there are hearts 
 that are never softened till they feel death coming 
 upon themselves." 
 
 " That's true ! that's true ! for old O'Leary it 
 was that begged forgiveness of my poor father and 
 mother — God rest them ! — when he was dying, and 
 gave us back the money for the cow he had seized 
 for the rent. Yes, sure, God is good when he 
 sends death to take off the wicked people like 
 O'Leary." 
 
 " And when he takes the good away frdm all the 
 troubles of this world, Anny. God has made us to 
 live for ever. The time that we live in this world 
 is but just the beginning of our lives. This is all 
 we see, and we act as if this were all. Your friends 
 H 
 
86 MILL-HILL. 
 
 are living, Army, just as much as they were when you 
 could see them. The soul cannot die. It is only 
 the body that dies ; that is put down as we put off 
 our clothes when we go to bed ; but that part of 
 you which thinks and feels, which loves, which 
 remembers your parents, and hopes to meet them 
 again, that part cannot die. We put the body in 
 the ground, and we love to come to the place where 
 it is laid, because it was in this body that the soul 
 lived when we knew it ; and we are told in the 
 Bible that this body shall be raised up again." 
 
 " Then, sure, I shall see them again?" 
 
 " Surely you will ; and all, I hope, will be happy 
 together." 
 
 Judy looked for a few moments more tranquil, 
 and she laid her head on Emma's lap confidingly, 
 as if she had known her all her life. But she soon 
 heaved a deep sigh, and said, "How can they 
 come alive out of the ground again ?" 
 
 "How? — that I can't tell you, Anny; but He 
 who created us can certainly make us live again. 
 Did you never read the story of Lazarus ?" 
 
 " I cannot read." 
 
 " Did you ever hear that Jesus raised Lazarus 
 from the dead ?" 
 
 " Sure, and Father Burke must have told me, 
 but I don't mind anything now but them that's 
 gone." 
 
 "But do you not sometimes think of Jesus, out 
 Lord and "Saviour ?" 
 
 " That would I," she replied, taking from her 
 bosom a crucifix, and kissing it, and faltering and 
 blushing ; for, though Anny was very ignorant, her 
 conscience reproached her for forgetting everything 
 
MILL-HILL. 87 
 
 bu\ her losses. " Indeed, miss," she added, " I 
 have been so heart-full of trouble." 
 
 " He who sent the troubles, my poor child, sent 
 them as messengers to you, to tell you of His power, 
 and His love, and to draw you near to Him." 
 
 " Miss ?" said Anny, not at all understanding 
 words that, to an instructed child, would have seemed 
 very plain. 
 
 " I will tell you the story of Lazarus, Anny ; and, 
 when you hear of the power and the love of God 
 shown at his grave, you will feel more willing to 
 trust your friends, though dead to you, to that 
 power and love. 
 
 " There is a place called Bethany, about two 
 miles from Jerusalem, the city of the Jews. When 
 Jesus was on earth there lived in this Bethany a 
 family of three persons, two sisters and one brother. 
 They were Jesus's friends, and he loved them. 
 When he was absent from them he knew that Laz 
 arus sickened and died, and he determined to go 
 to Bethany. And when Martha, one of Lazarus's 
 sisters, heard that Jesus was coming, she went out 
 and met him, and afterward came her sister Mary 
 too. And both, knowing how many sick that no. 
 one else could cure Jesus had cured, said to him, 
 * If thou hadst been here my brother had not died ;' 
 and, though Lazarus had been four days in the 
 grave, Martha had faith to believe that Jesus could 
 restore him to life; for she said, * Even now, what- 
 ever thou shalt ask of God, God will give it 
 thee.'" 
 
 " Could he raise him from the dead— did he ?" 
 asked Anny, eagerly. 
 
m MILL-HILL. 
 
 H You shall hear. They went to the grave, and, 
 while Jesus stood there, he wept." 
 
 f And why did he so ? Sure I would not fret if 
 I could raise up Judy." 
 
 ''Because you think only of yourself, Anny. 
 Jesus thought of all the world. His heart was full 
 of compassion, and he remembered those who, 
 like you and I, had to be separated from those they 
 best love, and, with bitter tears, lie down on their 
 graves." 
 
 " Have you buried in the ground all your peo- 
 ple ?" 
 
 " All my own family, Anny." 
 
 " And yet ye said never a word of that, but spake 
 the kind word to me." 
 
 " That is one of the lessons, Anny, God teaches 
 us, by taking away our friends — how to feel for 
 others, and how to speak the kind word they need. 
 Jesus loved Lazarus as friend loves friend, and he 
 felt how much those must suffer who are separated 
 from their friends. But he had something to do 
 as well as feel — so have we all, Anny. His work 
 was to show forth the power of God, as the Bible 
 says, to ' bring life and immortality to light ;' to 
 show, by raising Lazarus r to you, Anny, and to 
 many, many, who, like you, ask 'how the dead 
 can come alive out of the ground again,' that all 
 things are possible to the power of God. His 
 power is his glory, because it is used for the good 
 of his creatures. Jesus says he had promised to 
 show them the glory of God. When he had said 
 that, he commanded Lazarus to come forth. And 
 he came — the brother rose and stood before his 
 sisters — the dead man was a living man again 
 
MILL-HILL. 89 
 
 among his friends. If Jesus stood here now, and 
 told you he could raise your sister from the dead, 
 would you believe him 1" 
 
 " Sure would I." 
 
 " And do you not believe what he has told us, 
 that all that are in their graves shall rise again ?" 
 
 " Yes, I do believe it." 
 
 "*Then, Anny, when those are taken from us that 
 we love, we should lay to heart this great truth, 
 that we shall meet again. Instead of giving our- 
 selves up to sorrow, we must try to use well every 
 minute of this life that we feel to be so very short. 
 We must try to make sisters and brothers of stran- 
 gers, as Christ did, by loving them, and doing good 
 to them. We must study the Bible, the word of 
 God, and endeavour to feel and to do as that teaches 
 us ; if we do all this, it will be good for us that we 
 have been afflicted." 
 
 After a pause of a few moments Anny said, 
 while the tears ran down her cheeks, " Sure I feel 
 better now while I'm thinking it's God's truth we 
 shall all meet again ; and I'll do my endeavours to 
 mind all ye've said to me — but — but — " 
 
 " But what, Anny ?" 
 
 " Och ! I fear I shall be after forgetting this 
 same when there's none to mind me of it — none to 
 spake the good word to me, and many bad words 
 is it 1 hear every day." 
 
 " Are not the people you live with good people, 
 Anny?" 
 
 " Truth are they — but not the like of you, miss. 
 God forgive me that I should say so, for didn't Katy 
 O'Neil nurse my mother, and Robby, and Judy? 
 H 2 
 
90 MILL-HILL. 
 
 and does she not give me bread from the same loaf 
 with her own childer ?" 
 
 " She must be very good and kind in her way, 
 then, Anny, though she may not know how to teach 
 you just as I do. But, after all, the best teaching 
 is good actions. The Bible says, Anny, 4 be kind 
 one to another ;' but, if I were to repeat those words 
 a hundred times, they would not sink so deep into 
 your heart as Mrs. O'Neil's kindness to you." 
 
 " That's truth, but — I love to hear ye spake the 
 words ; and, if I could live with the like of you, I 
 would not wish to be buried up in the gra\e w? 
 Judy." 
 
 Emma's heart was touched. She felt a great in- 
 terest in the forlorn little stranger. When Emma 
 had done one service to any person, she always felt 
 a desire to do more. She thought of a plan for 
 her ; but, as it depended on others besides herself, 
 she deemed it most prudent not to excite any ex- 
 pectations, and she merely said, " You and I belong 
 to one family. We are both orphans, and orphans 
 are God's peculiar family. Come, now, I will walk 
 down to Mrs. O'Neil's with you, and next Sunday 
 afternoon we will try to meet at Judy's grave 
 again." 
 
 Anny once more kissed the sods, and shed a fresh 
 flood of tears ; she then wiped her eyes, and, taking 
 Emma's offered hand, returned to the shanty with 
 a far less lonely feeling than she had come from 
 it. Emma had never before seen the inside of a 
 shanty ; and, though she was well acquainted with 
 the poorest abodes of our native people, she was 
 astonished to see so many human beings hale and 
 thriving in such a habitation. There was no table, 
 
MILL-HILL. 91 
 
 no chair save one broken one; boards fixed on 
 blocks served to eat and sit on. On her first sur- 
 vey Emma concluded there was no bed, but a 
 second view led her to believe that a heap of rub- 
 bish in one corner of the apartment had served 
 as a bed, and that there poor Judy had died. In 
 an opposite corner lay a bushel of potatoes. A 
 junk of pork and half a newly-killed calf hung 
 beside the door, while a bountiful mess was fry- 
 ing, and Dame O'Neil was stirring up a cake to 
 bake before the fire. She first perceived the ap- 
 proach of Anny with her new friend. " Be quiet, 
 Mike, and hold your tongues, men, will ye ?" she 
 said, to her husband and some half dozen men, 
 who, with a jug of liquor beside them, were all 
 talking in the same breath, " the lady is coming 
 with Anny Ryan. Och, Rose, take the babby's 
 hands out of the molasses. Biddy, move aside the 
 pan of milk that bars the door, will ye ? The Lord 
 above bless ye, miss," to Emma; "ye've had trouble 
 enough with her ?" 
 
 " Oh no," replied Emma, entering quietly, and 
 accepting with a kind look of acknowledgment 
 the seat offered her ; M Anny is trying her best to 
 feel and act right, and that's all we can any of us 
 do, Mrs. O'Neil." 
 
 " That's true, indeed, in trouble and out of it." 
 
 " She tells me, Mrs. O'Neil, that you have been 
 very kind to her and hers, and now she'll find it 
 a comfort to do for you." 
 
 " Lord help the poor child, miss, if she'll stop 
 fretting it's all I ask of her. She's always ready 
 to do little jobs for me ; it's enough I have to do, 
 my oldest being boys — make a bow to the lady, 
 Pat — and no help like to me." 
 
92 MILL-HILL. 
 
 " But rather a hinderance, I should think, Mrs, 
 O'Neil. Here's a school for boys near you, kept 
 by a very good young man, where you can send 
 those two little boys for twenty-five cents a week." 
 
 " Do you hear, Mike ?" asked Katy O'Neil. 
 
 "And where's the twenty -five cents to come 
 from ?" answered Mike, " when we are all fed the 
 week through, six of us, besides Anny Ryan, that 
 shall have her full male if the little reg'lars go 
 starved." 
 
 " Oh, there is no starving in this land, my good 
 friend, for the family of a stout working man with 
 a busy wife at home. But the mind must be fed 
 as well as the body, or it will not thrive and grow. 
 These are bright-looking boys of yours. They 
 will soon learn to read, write, and keep accounts, 
 if you will give them a chance. Is there nothing 
 for which you spend twenty-five cents a week that 
 you c^n as well do without <" 
 
 "It's the liquor you mane, miss," said Mike, 
 touching the jug with his foot ; " troth, it's not I 
 that cares for it ; but, when the other boys drink, I 
 must do my part." 
 
 " Perhaps the other boys have no children, and 
 they cannot have the pleasure you will have in 
 giving up drink for the good of your children. I 
 see you love those little fellows — I see it' by the 
 way they hang round you ; and there, the baby, as 
 if to make my words good, is stretching out his 
 arms to you. Surely, surely, Mr. O'Neil, those 
 that have children to play with when they come 
 in from their work don't need a drink to cheer 
 them." 
 
 " And that's true, miss." 
 
MILL-HILL. 93 
 
 "And then, when Sunday comes, it's good to 
 have a store of pleasant thoughts ; and what can 
 be pleasanter than thinking that, instead of drink- 
 ing up the money you have worked hard for, you 
 have been laying it up, as it were, in these little 
 boys' heads and hearts, to make them richer for 
 this world ; and, it may be, Mr. O'Neil, for the world 
 to come. And, besides, ought you not to do this 
 to show your gratitude to Him who gave you your 
 children ? — his very best gifts." 
 
 " Thank you, miss, thank you," replied O'Neil, 
 stroking his boys' heads and looking down, much 
 pleased with Emma's proposition, but not quite 
 prepared to accede to it. 
 
 " Good-night to you all," said Emma, and "good- 
 night to you, Anny. Don't put your apron to your 
 eyes again, my child; I will be sure to come and 
 see you before many days, and then, Mrs. O'Neil, 
 you can give me your husband's answer. Per- 
 haps," she added, looking at O'NeiPs companions, 
 " some of your friends, whose families are not yet 
 here, may have children they would like to send 
 to the school." 
 
 " I thank ye, miss," said one. " And ye'll be as 
 sure to find children where there is a shanty, as 
 bees where there's a hive," said another. Anny 
 followed to the door. "How many days will it 
 be ?" she asked. 
 
 "Very, very few, and do not forget our talk at 
 Judy's grave." 
 
 " Forget ! I'll forget everything else, and mind 
 nothing but Judy, and all ye said about her ;" and 
 she kissed Emma's gown as she stepped from the 
 door, and, murmuring prayers and blessings, sunk 
 
94 MILL-HILL. 
 
 down on the ground, and neither moved foot nor 
 eye till Emma turned the road that led up the hill 
 and was quite out of sight. As soon as she was 
 out of hearing, one of the men within said, " There's 
 not many the like of that young woman." " Her 
 heart's blood is as warm as if she were born at 
 home in old Ireland," said another. "And did 
 not she plade for my stranger boys as if they 
 were her own people's children!" asked Mike 
 O'Neil. 
 
 " Troth did she," answered his wife, who, by 
 this time, was setting a smoking supper on the 
 board; " and, if you'll take my mind, Mike, and all 
 of you, it's just this : We'll get a blessing to us if 
 we listen to what she said, for she spake for us 
 and our children, and not for herself, and by that 
 same we may know the word came from above ; 
 and, I ask ye, does she not look fit to send of the 
 Almighty's errands, so innocent and feeling-like, 
 for others, mind ye, and not for herself V* 
 
M I L L-H I L L. 
 
 (PART SECOND.) 
 
 " LOOK NOT EVERY MAN ON HIS OWN THINGS, BUT 
 EVERY MAN ALSO ON THE THINGS OF OTHERS." 
 
 Perhaps some of my young readers would like 
 to know what plan it was Emma Maxwell had in 
 her head for the poor little orphan stranger, Aniiy 
 Ryan. 
 
 Sunday evening, through the country parts of 
 New-England, is generally appropriated to quiet 
 social pleasures ; and, the evening that followed 
 Emma's interview with the O'Neils, there being a 
 fine moonlight, Emma's uncle proposed a drive 
 down to Vernon village to call on some of their 
 friends. Emma said this was just what she want- 
 ed very much to do ; and when she returned, her 
 aunt Huntly, who knew her object in going to the 
 village had been to find a place for Anny, asked, 
 " Well, what luck, Emma 1 was Mrs. Bement at 
 home F 
 
 " Yes, aunt ; but Mrs. Bement says she finds it 
 cheapest, in the long run, to have grown-up help." 
 
 "'Well, that's a reason I should expect from the 
 richest woman in the village. And Mrs. Brown ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Brown says she has had so many little 
 
96 MILL-HILL. 
 
 girls, and their mothers and friends are always in- 
 terfering, that she is tired of it. I acknowledged 
 this was a reasonable objection, and said I thought 
 it very wrong for mothers and friends to interfere 
 where a girl had a good place ; ' But,' said I, ' this 
 poor child has neither mother nor friends.' * Oh, 
 then,' she said, ' that was reason enough for not 
 taking her, for what could she do with her in case 
 she got sick, or she did not like her,' &c, &c. So 
 I went to Mrs. Allen's. Mrs. Allen said she did 
 not think it a good plan, with her large family of 
 children, to take one into the kitchen. I told her 
 I thought it gave an opportunity for the cultivation 
 of many virtues that could only be brought out by 
 such circumstances. ' Oh,' she said, ' she had 
 plenty of opportunities now, and I must excuse her, 
 but she could not think of it.' So on J went to 
 Mrs. Rawley's, who, as she has no children, I 
 hoped would be glad to shelter this poor lone thing. 
 But no ; ' There's nobody but my husband and If 
 she said, ' and we love to live just so, and it is a 
 great chore to bring up a child as she should be.' 
 I ventured to say it was a great happiness too, but 
 she answered that I did not know anything about 
 the troubles of housekeeping ; so I left her, and 
 went to Mrs. Tyler's. Mrs. Tyler said there was 
 not any profit in taking a child ; ' You know, Miss 
 Emma,' she said, ' we took Justyn Hill at your re- 
 quest, and he broke and destroyed, in three months, 
 what would pay half the wages of a man." 
 " I hope you stopped there, Emma." 
 " No ; I applied to Mrs. Hall. She, too, made 
 an excuse of poor Justyn, and half reproached me 
 with having induced her to take him. I ventured, 
 
MILL-HILL. 97 
 
 as she is a professor of religion, to say that we 
 should not be wearied in well doing ; but she said 
 she had set her foot down never to undertake with 
 another child." 
 
 " And we all know, Emma, if Mrs. Hall sets her 
 foot down, she won't take it up even for an angel's 
 bidding. I suppose you have quite given up ?" 
 
 "Not quite, aunt." Emma fixed her eyes on 
 her aunt with a look she half understood. 
 
 " You surely, Emma, can't expect — " 
 
 " No, aunt, not expect, but hope" — Emma paused 
 and blushed, and was afraid to proceed, lest her 
 hopes should vanish. 
 
 Mrs. Huntly, on whom her trembling hopes de- 
 pended, was a good woman ; but there are different 
 kinds and degrees of goodness, and hers was infe- 
 rior to Emma's. She was a good wife and good 
 mother ; but, quite taken up with the prosperity and 
 happiness of her own family, she would have per- 
 ceived no duty beyond it but for Emma, who saw 
 a brother and a sister in every needy member of 
 the human family. Two years before, Emma had 
 persuaded her to take Caroline Hill into her fam- 
 ily, Caroline was one of Emma's Sunday-schol- 
 ars. Emma saw she had good faculties. She 
 had the misery of having bad parents, and had 
 been dreadfully neglected. Emma believed she 
 might be reclaimed, and succeeded in inducing her 
 aunt to make the experiment, by setting before her 
 the happiness of saving a young creature from de- 
 struction, and making her a useful member of so- 
 ciety. " We are all," Emma said, " in some 
 sense, God's shepherds, and bound to look after 
 the wanderers from the flock." 
 I 
 
98 MILL-HILL. 
 
 Caroline, in Mrs. Huntly's virtuous and orderly- 
 family, had improved rapidly; but one fault she 
 had, that neither Emma's admonitions nor her ex- 
 ample had yet cured. She was selfish. Selfish- 
 ness checks the growth of every virtue, and casts 
 a shade over every charm. She became industri- 
 ous, efficient, good-mannerly, and orderly ; but no 
 one warmly loved her, and reason enough it was 
 that she was selfish. " Some are naturally so," 
 thought Emma, who always tried to find a reason 
 to palliate every one's faults, " and poor Caroline 
 has been so used to scrambling for everything she 
 got, in a disorderly and stinted family, that it will 
 take a great while for her to learn not to think first 
 and chiefly for herself." Miss Emma waited pa- 
 tiently " a great while," and then she concluded 
 that nothing but the grace of God implanted in 
 Caroline's heart would make her imitate Christ's 
 example, and seek first the good of others, or, rath- 
 er, make her own depend on that of others. But 
 we return to the conversation. " You cannot sure- 
 ly hope, Emma, that I will take another child into 
 our house. If there were no other objection, Car- 
 oline Hill is not a girl ever to get on peaceably 
 with another child — she is so selfish." 
 
 " Aunt, I think nothing would do Caroline so 
 much good as being obliged to give up, and having 
 the example of a good, generous-tempered child." 
 
 " Oh, Emma, you always see some encourage- 
 ment for trying to do good ; but, my dear, there is 
 no use in talking about this ; I can't think of un- 
 dertaking it ; in justice to my own children, Emma, 
 we ought not to take another child to support, and 
 your uncle would think so too." 
 
MILL-HILL. 99 
 
 " And so do I think, aunt. You have only- 
 guessed my plan, you have not heard it all. My 
 school pays all my expenses, and gives me fifty 
 dollars a year to lay aside — I am growing rich, 
 aunt. Besides my school, the odd jobs of tailoring 
 I do (oh how many times I have thanked you for 
 teaching me this business !) bring me in enough 
 to supply all my little wants." The most pressing 
 of Emma's wants was the want to supply others. 
 " Now I can pay Anny Ryan's board, and clothe 
 her. This, to be sure, is nothing in comparison 
 of your trouble ; but I know, aunt, you will feel 
 paid for that if we make good housewives and 
 good sempstresses of these two girls. They can 
 work in the house and go to school alternately. 
 You will teach them housework, and I will teach 
 them sewing and tailoring. Will you consider of 
 it, and talk with uncle about it ?" 
 
 " Uncle" was the kindest of men, Mrs. Huntly 
 the most reasonable of women; and Emma had 
 leave on Monday morning to go down to the 
 O'Neils, and fetch home Anny Ryan. Emma 
 went early, desirous to ascertain in season O'Neil's 
 decision in relation to his boys. Katy O'Neil met 
 her with a disturbed and perplexed countenance. 
 "It's Mike that's freely consented, with many 
 thanks to you, miss," she said, " and now it's the 
 boys that's bothering. Johnny says the Yankee 
 boys will laugh at him because he has yet never a 
 hat to his head, and poor Pat's coat is down to his 
 heels quite, being gived to him by a lady that took 
 pity on him, he having none. I tell them they are 
 foolish and wicked besides ; but you know, miss, it 
 
100 MILL-HILL. 
 
 takes a stouter heart than a child's to bide being 
 laughed at." 
 
 " The laughers are the most foolish and wicked," 
 replied Emma ; " and, as soon as they learn to feel 
 for others, they will leave off laughing. Patrick, 
 don't you wish to learn to read ?" Pat hung down 
 his head bashfully, and muttered a " Yes, miss." 
 " And if you had the money, Patrick, how much 
 would you be willing to pay for it ?" 
 
 i'Nor Pat nor myself is it," spoke up little John- 
 ny, a far brighter boy than his brother, " that will 
 ever own the money it's worth." 
 
 " Then, surely, it is worth bearing being laughed 
 at?" 
 
 " But it's not we will bear it — we'll tache 'em 
 to laugh !" And Johnny doubled his fist, to show 
 how the lesson was to be given. 
 
 "Ah, Johnny, my friend, we allow no such 
 teaching here. Boys that fight out their little 
 quarrels will choose Lynch law when they are 
 men. If a boy injures you, you must try and make 
 him your friend, and then he will never injure you 
 again." 
 
 " But sure, miss, I should flog him first, and 
 make him my friend after." 
 
 "No, no, Johnny, the flogging makes, an easy- 
 job a very hard one ; but we will talk of this some 
 other time. Now go with me to Mrs. Norton's, 
 who lives in the white house on the hillside ; if 
 you will work in her garden to-day, she will give 
 you an old cap of her boy's." 
 
 " Thank the lady," said Katy O'Neil, " and tell 
 her sure you'll do it." Johnny looked pleased and 
 grateful, the best thanks Miss Emma could have. 
 
MILL-HILL. 101 
 
 u . Now, Patrick," she said, " try on your coat, and I 
 will see what can be done with it." Pat put it on, 
 and a droll figure he was. The collar reached the 
 crown of his head, his hands were buried in the 
 sleeves, and the skirts almost touched his, heels. 
 His mother laughed, Johnny shouted, and even 
 Miss Emma smiled. But this did not anger Pat- 
 rick. He felt, though he could not have explained it, 
 the difference between a laugh of sympathy and a 
 laugh of derision. " I do not much wonder, Pat- 
 rick," said Emma, " that you do not wish to wear this 
 to school, but it is an easy matter for me to make 
 it fit you. If I give you my time you must pay me 
 with yours. , Time is money, you know — almost 
 all the money we have at Mill-hill. I have a bun- 
 dle to be carried two miles from here. If you will 
 carry it I will alter your coat." Patrick joyfully 
 acceded to the proposal. " You see, Mrs. O'Neil," 
 continued Emma, " time may be turned into money. 
 To be sure there must be labour too — we must put 
 a stamp on money, you know, or it will not pass." 
 
 " Sure, and it's truth, miss. Where we can get 
 plenty of work it is so. Well, it's good to be 
 larned ; Mike nor me never would have thought of 
 that, and I feel the richer already for thinking of 
 it." 
 
 While this conversation was going on, Anny 
 Ryan, who, at Emma's approach to the shanty, 
 had been the first to see and spring forward, began 
 to fear she was overlooked. She retreated, step 
 by step, till she sunk down on the floor behind a 
 big chest, and covered her face with her apron to 
 hide her tears. But Anny was mistaken ; and never 
 did any face change more completely than hers 
 12 
 
102 MILL-HILL. 
 
 when Emma, taking her hand, announced her plan 
 for her, and obtained Katy O'Neil's prompt acqui- 
 escence. A happier child there never was than 
 Anny Ryan. Severed from all her own people, 
 she clun'g to Emma as a creeping plant that has 
 been torn away from its support, and lies ready to 
 die on the ground ; when some kind hand raises and 
 props it, it stretches out its tendrils, and clings to 
 its new supporter as lovingly as if it had first grown 
 there. 
 
 " I wonder if Irish Anny is to sleep with me ?" 
 asked Caroline, the first night of Anny's coming to 
 Mrs. Huntly's. 
 
 " Before I answer you," replied Emma, " I beg 
 you not to call her Irish Anny again. She is not 
 the worse for being Irish, and you should not use 
 the word as if she were. Yes, you are to sleep 
 with Anny. Why do you look so dissatisfied ? is 
 she not clean ?" 
 
 " For once in her life, I suppose she is — any- 
 body might be clean if Miss Emma washed them 
 in a tub of warm water, and dressed them in new' 
 clothes from head to foot !" 
 
 " Oh, Caroline, don't you remember when I did 
 the very same thing for you ? and don't you remem- 
 ber the fable you learned, only last Sunday, about 
 the butterfly that forgot it had been a worm ?" 
 
 Caroline hung her head. She was thoroughly 
 ashamed ; but she was not ashamed an hour after, 
 when Mrs. Huntly, who had been baking, gave 
 each of the girls a cake, to say to Anny, " It's just 
 half as big as I commonly have ; that will be al- 
 ways the way now ; I shall have just half I used 
 to have of everything!" Nor was she ashamed. 
 
MILL-HILL. 103 
 
 when she undressed, to throw herself into the mid- 
 dle of the bed ; and when Anny, quite at a loss, 
 asked, "Which side shall I sleep?" she was not 
 ashamed to answer, " It's all on£ to me — I've got 
 the place I always have." 
 
 Anny thought of Judy, and how they had slept 
 lovingly in one another's arms ; and, as she laid 
 herself down on the very edge of the bed, she 
 thought, " Would not the cold bare earth be softer 
 and warmer with Judy's arm about me, than this 
 feather bed and blankets ? Oh, it's hard lying be- 
 side one that seems to have no love, but rather hate, 
 to me — to me that never did harm to her or hers. 
 God forgive her ! and God forgive my murmuring 
 when he has covered my head with the same roof 
 that's over Miss Emma's !" 
 
 Thus, Anny's good feelings naturally turning from 
 what was hard to what was merciful in her lot, 
 she brushed off the tears that Caroline's unkindness 
 had called to her eyes, and soon fell into a sweet 
 sleep, from which she was awakened by Caroline's 
 tossing and groans. In reply to Anny's question 
 of " What ails ye T" she said, " My head is aching 
 so, and I am so hot and thirsty !" 
 
 u It's a cup of cold water you are wanting, and 
 sure will I fetch it for you." 
 
 " If you just would, Anny — I'll do as much for 
 you ; but' maybe you are afraid to go out at night," 
 she added, touched \>y Anny's alacrity. 
 
 " Afraid ! have not I gone afar into the wood to 
 bring cold water from the spring for poor Judy, 
 when there were neither moon nor stars, let alone 
 the sun. that never shines at night when it's want- 
 ed!" 
 
104 MILL-HILL. 
 
 " "What should I have done if she had not slept 
 with me f thought Caroline. Anny soon returned 
 with the water ; and, while the feverish girl was ea- 
 gerly swallowing it, she took something from her 
 drawer, and saying, " I'll be here in a crack," she 
 again ran down stairs. When she returned, Caro- 
 line saw, by the light of the full moon, that her 
 face was full of meaning. "Did anything scare 
 you?" she asked. 
 
 " No, no ; wait a bit, and I'll tell you." Anny went 
 to the window, and stood there for a minute gazing 
 out, and then, as if relieved, she drew a long breath, 
 and said, " He has turned the corner, poor lad ! it's 
 my heart that always aches for them that's afraid 
 of daylight." Poor Anny, she remembered seeing 
 her own kindred at home driven by poverty and 
 oppression to deeds that made them steal about at 
 night to hide from the eye of justice. " You must 
 know, Caroline," she said, returning to the bedside, 
 " that, just as I was filling the cup for ye, a lad 
 taller than you started out from behind the house, 
 and asked for something to eat. Och ! he looked 
 famished, and ghostlike, and awful !" 
 
 " Did not you scream ?" 
 
 " And what for would I be after screaming 1 He 
 signed -to me to be quiet with his ringer on his lip ; 
 he was as white as the sheet over ye, and his voice 
 shook like a whipped child's. He said he was 
 drinking from the bucket when he. heard me com- 
 ing, and he begged for just a morsel to eat, and I 
 told him would he stay a bit 1 Good luck it was 
 for him that I saved the cake she gave me to fetch 
 to Biddy O'Neil, for I did not know where in the 
 
MILL-HILL. 105 
 
 house to look for food, let alone that I would not 
 take it without lave." 
 
 " Did you bolt the door while you came up for 
 the cake ? My cloak hangs just inside." 
 
 '* Och ! Car'line, you would never be after think- 
 ing of your cloak if ye'd seen him, he looked so 
 eaten up with trouble. I asked him was he sick. 
 He shook his head, and the tears came. I asked 
 him was it his people were all dead ; and he an- 
 swered would I tell him where the Hills lived 
 now." 
 
 " The Hills /" echoed Caroline. 
 
 " Sure it was the Hills ; but when I told him I 
 was a stranger here, and knew nobody, but I would 
 ask her that was sleeping with me, he shook his 
 head again, and thanked me, and turned awa*yi:" 
 
 Caroline rose and leaned on her elbow ; " What 
 coloured hair had he 1" she asked. 
 
 " Black — black as yours, and curled like yours, 
 but matted like." 
 
 Caroline sunk back on her pillow and groaned. 
 After a short silence she said, " Come, Anny, jump 
 into bed ; you shall have a fair half this time ; and 
 please say nothing of having been up in the night. 
 Mrs. Huntly will say I brought the sickness on 
 myself, for I ate a hearty supper of cucumbers 
 and cheese, and so on, and afterward ttoe hot cake 
 — -that it was that sickened me." 
 
 " Not that same was it, Car'line, honey ? My 
 mother always told Judy and me, if we got a sweet 
 bit, and did not share it, it was bad luck. It was 
 not sharing the cake that made it heavy on your 
 stomach, Car'line." By how many little obscure 
 rills are the waters of life distributed ! 
 
106 MILL-HILL. 
 
 Caroline slept off her fever. When she rose 
 she again begged Anny to say nothing of it, and 
 •by no means to let out a word of the meeting at the 
 well, even to Miss Emma. All day Caroline ap- 
 peared sad, fluttered, and anxious. She was often 
 at the window looking down the road ; if any one 
 knocked at the outer door, she started, and her "col- 
 our changed. Nothing, however, extraordinary 
 happened, and the next day and the next came and 
 went as usual at the Huntlys, all performing their 
 tasks with order and fidelity. Still some time 
 elapsed before Caroline recovered her usual tran- 
 quillity. She had good reason for anxiety. Car- 
 oline had a brother Justyn some two years older 
 than herself. His parents suffered him to loiter 
 about, Sometimes doing a hard day's work with his 
 father, and the next day swinging on the gate, or 
 doing little odd jobs that unfitted him for regular 
 employment. Emma Maxwell interested herself 
 for him, and, after convincing his parents of the 
 importance of getting a place for him, she procured 
 one. His temper was good, and his disposition 
 kind ; . but his bad habits soon exhausted his em- 
 ployer's patience, and Emma had to look for a 
 new place for him. Again and again this hap- 
 pened ; and at last, when he was well placed with 
 some good did people, who kindly bore with his 
 faults in the hope of curing them, he became dis- 
 satisfied, and accepted an offer of employment in 
 the western part of the State of New- York. He 
 had been heard from repeatedly, but he was always 
 changing places, and, of course, never going ahead. 
 Caroline was almost sure that the person at the 
 well was her brother Justyn. She feared he had 
 
MILL-HILL. 107 
 
 been guilty of something that made concealment 
 important to him. Her conscience bade her go 
 home, and inquire into the trouble in which her 
 family might be ; but Caroline was too selfish to 
 obey that law, " Bear ye one another's burdens." 
 Her family was the poorest and lowest in Vernon. 
 Her condition was now much elevated above theirs, 
 and, instead of trying to raise them, instead of ma- 
 king the favours she had received " go round," she 
 shunned her parents, brothers, and sisters ; she 
 could not bear to be reminded that they were hers. 
 There is too much of this selfish pride among us. 
 It is unchristian everywhere ; in our land, where 
 the only real distinctions are knowledge and good- 
 ness, it is a mark of ignorance and silliness for the 
 girl that works in her own father's house to keep 
 aloof from the respectable domestic that performs 
 the same labour in another man's ; for the factory 
 girl or the tailor's apprentice to pass her old ac- 
 quaintance and schoolmate on the other side. The 
 one spins or sews, and the other sweeps, or, per- 
 haps, cooks and washes for her living. But most 
 of all disgraceful is it when the duties imposed by 
 Him who has set us in families are violated, and 
 pride and selfishness sunder what God hath joined 
 together. 
 
 But to return to Caroline : after the practical 
 lesson she had from Anny on the night of her ill- 
 ness, she was for some days far more amiable. 
 It was not long, however, before she returned to 
 her usual selfish ways. " Why can't Anny sweep 
 the dwelling-room !" she would say* <; 1 can't bear, 
 to leave my sewing." " I should think Anny 
 might clean the knives ; it is such hateful work " 
 
108 MILL-HILL. 
 
 " That's my place, Anny" (if Anny by any chance 
 got the pleasantest seat in Miss Emma's workroom) ; 
 " I always sit there." " Miss Emma, mayn't Anny 
 bite off her threads ; I don't want her to use my 
 scissors?" " I don't think it's fair for Anny to go 
 down to O'Neil's, and leave me all the chores to 
 do." " I don't see why Anny need to have half 
 the drawers ; she has not half so many clothes as 
 I have ;" and once when she muttered, " I have not 
 had a real big bit of pie since Anny came here," 
 Emma Maxwell said, " Mrs. Huntly, be kind enough 
 to give Caroline a larger piece than any one else, 
 and I wiU share mine with Anny !" 
 
 Caroline's selflshnees, of course, greatly aug- 
 mented the trouble of having the two girls in the 
 family; and, if Mrs. Huntly had not taken them 
 more for their good than her own, she would cer- 
 tainly have dismissed one of them ; but Mrs. Huntly 
 was acting with a religious purpose, and she was 
 forbearing; and there was no exhausting Emma 
 Maxwell's patience in wisdom and well-doing. 
 My young friends, imitate her example — imitate 
 the sweet temper and generosity of little Anny 
 Ryan, and you will realize how much better it is 
 to cure the faults of others than to punish them ! 
 
 The month of June came ; in our northern coun- 
 try the loveliest month of all the year. The In- 
 dians called it by a word which signified, in their 
 language, the month of flowers ; because, in this 
 month, most wild flowers are in bloom. It was 
 strawberry time ; and on Saturday the children of 
 Mill-hill were going out to gather strawberries ; 
 some for their own families, some to sell. Mrs. 
 Huntly promised our little girls they should have 
 
MlLL-HtLL. 109 
 
 half they picked to dispose of as they liked. A 
 happy troop they set forth ; a dozen girls from six 
 to fourteen. Every one was in good humour ; the 
 weather was as fine as could be, neither too hot 
 nor too cold ; and Doctor Partridge, so fortunate a 
 weather-guesser that the good people of Vernon 
 he\d him for more than half a prophet upon this 
 most hidden of all mysteries — the doctor had as- 
 sured them there would be no shower that day. 
 Most of the company were strangers to Anny Ryan 
 when they set out ; but children soon make ac- 
 quaintance ; and her frank, pleasant ways quickly 
 ripened acquaintance to friendship. Her brogue, 
 too — she was the first Irish- person that some of 
 them had ever seen — amused them, but not one of 
 them noticed it in a way to hurt her feelings. 
 This was owing, in great part, to Emma Maxwell's 
 Sunday teachings ; for the children of Mill-hill were 
 like other children, and would have been very apt 
 to do carelessly what they would have condemned 
 upon reflection. It was Emma that taught them to 
 reflect before they acted ; to respect the feelings . 
 of others ; and led them to observe, by their own 
 experience, how trying it was to be laughed at, to 
 feel it to be wrong to laugh at others. So, though 
 they could not help smiling at Anny's brogue, 
 they looked straight forward, or looked down, and 
 did not exchange glances and shout, as children 
 generally do on such occasions. On they went, 
 talking, laughing, and singing ; scrambling over 
 fences, and picking their way around the edges of 
 ploughed fields ; now stopping to pin up a rent 
 frock, and now to drink from a crystal brook that 
 gurgled beside their pathway over the mossy stones. 
 
110 MILL-HILL. 
 
 Long were they in coming to the strawberry field ; 
 but, when there, it rung with exclamations of " Oh, 
 how thick they are !" " How big they are !" " How 
 ripe they are !" " Come here, girls, there's lots 
 of them here !" " Come here, will ye, all V cries 
 Anny; "this same is as red with 'em as Mrs. 
 O'Neills cloak !" 
 
 " Oh dear !" exclaims little Sally Lyn, the least 
 of the flock, " I have spilt all mine !" 
 
 " Never care for that," replied Anny ; " come by 
 me, will ye, and I'll soon fill it as full as ye had it, 
 for it's you can't pick with the like of us." 
 
 "Let's all throw a handful into little Sally's 
 basket," said Mary Fox, incited by Anny's example, 
 and all eagerly joined excepting Caroline, who, 
 from the first, had gone apart from the rest, and 
 who had taken very good care to give no one warn-' 
 ing when she found plentiful spots. It was true, 
 she had the pleasure of filling her basket before 
 the rest, and with finer strawberries ; but was that 
 worth the pleasure of the others ? was it worth 
 those merry shouts that came from the little com- 
 pany ? was it worth the pleasure that sparkled from 
 little Sally Lyn's eyes as she saw her basket quick- 
 ly filled, by willing hands, fuller than when she had 
 spilt it ? 
 
 " Love thyself last" said once a great man, who 
 was ruined by grasping at too large a portion of 
 the good things of this world. Rather say, in the 
 words of our blessed lawgiver, Jesus, " Love thy 
 brother as thyself," and then we shall be sure of 
 the greatest happiness to each and all. 
 
 " My basket is full !" cried one ; " And mine !" 
 "And mine!" cried others. "All are full but 
 
MILL-HILL. Ill 
 
 mine," said, sorrowfully, little Betsy Barton, who 
 had lost the use of two fingers. Half a dozen 
 voices at the same moment proposed joining and 
 filling Betsy's ; and even Caroline, who, with her 
 basket heaping full, had been for some time waiting 
 for her companions, assisted at this good work. 
 Now they all proceeded homeward, till, passing 
 along the brow of a certain hill, they perceived, 
 skirting the woods above them, clusters of pink 
 and white laurel, looking most tempting amid their 
 polished green leaves. 
 
 It was proposed, and immediately acceded to, 
 that they should set down their baskets and run up 
 the hill for some laurels. They were returning, 
 each with a bunch of these peerless flowers, when 
 one in advance of the rest screamed out, " Oh 
 there's one of our baskets turned over, and the 
 strawberries all spilled." . 
 
 " I am sure," cried Caroline, " it is not mine, 
 for I put mine in the best place !" 
 
 " Oh, I guess it's mine !" and " I am afraid it's 
 mine !" and " I know it's mine !" came from the 
 alarmed flock. " Now, stop all a bit, will ye ?" 
 said Amay Ryan ; " let's every one promise the 
 rest we'll fill the spilt basket, and 'then nobody 
 loses, ye see, don't ye ?" 
 
 " That's Irish arithmetic !" cried Caroline ; " I 
 see very plain that, in your way, instead of one lo- 
 sing, all would lose. No, no, I'll not agree to that 
 — it would not be fair, for my strawberries are the 
 largest and ripest." 
 
 " The rest of us are agreed," said one of the 
 girls, " and you, Caroline, will be the only loser ; 
 
112 MILL-HILL. 
 
 for Miss Emma says, what we give away is a 
 treasure laid up in Heaven." 
 
 " A mighty treasure to lay up in Heaven," replied 
 Caroline, tauntingly, " a few strawberries !" 
 
 "Ah, but, Caroline, Miss Emma says it is the 
 feeling of the giver that makes the gift a treasure-'' 
 Thus, not most harmoniously, they proceeded e.i- 
 gerly on to ascertain whose was the upset basket, 
 and behold, it was Caroline's ! The children exchan- 
 ged smiles ; they could not help it ; and one or two 
 murmured, u Good enough for her !" but when Car- 
 oline burst into tears of mortification and disappoint- 
 ment their hearts were touched ; and while some 
 were suggesting how the accident could have hap- 
 pened, others assisted in gathering up such as were 
 uninjured, and all stood ready to fill the basket from 
 their full ones. This done, Anny Ryan good-hu 
 mouredly shook up hers, saying, " It's only making 
 them lie a bit lighter, girls, and the basket is as 
 full as it was before." 
 
 " Irish arithmetic is best, after all, I think ; don't 
 you, Caroline ?" asked little Sally Lyn. Caroline 
 felt thoroughly ashamed, but she could not say so. 
 Confession of a fault is most healing to the wounds 
 of a generous mind, but most difficult to such a tem- 
 per as Caroline's. She was, however, profiting by 
 the hard lesson she had received ; and though, in 
 reply to Sally Lyn's home question, she only mur- 
 mured a half audible " Yes," she was secretly re- 
 solving to perform a deferred duty. They came 
 to a lane that turned from their road. Caroline 
 passed into it without being perceived by her com- 
 panions. She checked herself; and, thinking they 
 must miss her, she called out, '* I am going home 
 
Ml^L-HILL. 113 
 
 this way, girls, and — and — " it cost her an effort, 
 but she did add, "thank you, girls, all of you." 
 She pursued her way lighter-hearted for even this 
 acknowledgment. 
 
 " Was ever anybody served so right as she was, 
 to have the unlucky basket ?"' asked one of the 
 troop when Caroline was out of hearing. 
 
 11 Oh ! but we should not be after remembering 
 that same now she has thanked us," replied Anny 
 Ryan. 
 
 Caroline soon turned off the main road, and, get- 
 ting through some bars, went along a steril field 
 and a bit of woods, and came to a miserable hut, 
 such as the virtuous poor in our country are seldom 
 found in. As she approached the door she slack- 
 ened her steps, she trembled. She stopped and 
 listened, but she heard nothing to confirm or dissi- 
 pate her anxieties. There were children brawling 
 within, but that was a common sound in that disor- 
 derly dwelling. She did not hear the whining voice 
 of her mother, nor the hoarse tones of her father. 
 
 " What a fool I am to feel so," thought she ; " it 
 could not have been Justyn ; and, if it was, I don't 
 believe he is here !" So she plifcked up courage 
 and proceeded. When she opened the door she 
 found children only ; a little girl, some two years 
 old, was amusing herself scouring the floor with 
 greasy dish-water she had poured over it ; and 
 two boys, begrimed from head to foot, were lust- 
 ily fighting for a brass button. " Oh ! Car'y, are 
 you here V exclaimed one ; " won't you make 
 Jem give me my button ?" 
 
 " I say it an't Jem's, it's mine !" retorted his an- 
 tagonist. 
 
114 MILL-HILL. 
 
 "Stop, boys — pray stop, and tell me where 
 mother is ?" 
 
 " Well, make Jem give me my button, then." 
 
 "Do give it to him, Jem." 
 
 " I say it an't his ; and, besides, he don't know 
 where mother is more than I do." 
 
 " You don't know where mother is, Jem ?" 
 
 " No — I don't know nor don't care." 
 
 " Where is father V The boys' quarrel now 
 abated. They saw Caroline looked alarmed, and 
 they caught something of her feeling. "Father 
 has been gone this ever so many days," replied 
 Jem, " and I hope he never will come back, for 
 he eats up everything, and don't leave nothing." 
 
 "But mother — has she been gone long?" 
 
 " No — she keeps a going. She has been want- 
 ing me to go for you ; and Sam and I did go as far 
 as the bars yesterday, and Sam would not go any 
 farther, and I did not want to go alone ; and when 
 we came back mother flogged us, and then I would 
 not go. Mother went down this morning to get 
 some of Reuben Piatt's folks to go, but they were 
 all gone away. Come, give us some of your straw- 
 berries — mother picked some in a pint bowl, but 
 she would not give us any — she carried them all 
 off with her." 
 
 " Neither can I give you any, boys, for they are 
 half Mrs. Huntly's, and they are not yet meas- 
 ured." 
 
 " Well, if you won't give, we can take," rejoined 
 Jem, and he and Sam at the same moment grabbed 
 a handful. The little girl on the floor now for 
 the first time looked up from her seemingly fas- 
 cinating employment, and demanded a share ; and 
 
MILL-HILL. 115 
 
 when Caroline turned her off with two or three, 
 she clutched the basket, and came very near empty- 
 ing it upon the filthy floor. It was from such a 
 scene, such a family as this, that Caroline had 
 been rescued by Emma. Did she not imitate her 
 Master in going about to seek and to save that 
 which was lost ? And did she not well in pa- 
 tiently bearing with faults that had been deeply 
 fixed in Caroline's' character, in this sad school? 
 
 Caroline was at a loss what to do. Night was 
 near, and she had more than two miles to go to Mrs. 
 Huntly's. Still it seemed to her impossible to re- 
 turn without seeing her mother. All that she had 
 heard from the boys had increased her anxieties, 
 and she felt very sure that some dreadful evil had 
 happened to her family. " Oh, pray hush, chil- 
 dren !" she would say, and then go to the door and 
 look wistfully out ; and then, sighing, exclaim again 
 and again, " I wish mother would come !" The 
 children did become more quiet, and seemed, in a 
 degree, to partake her feelings ; and Jem said, " I 
 wish, too, mother would come, for Alvy Hubbard 
 has been here, and left a newspaper for her, and 
 says she must read the place he has marked round 
 with black — there it is, Car'y — you can look at it." 
 
 Caroline took the paper carelessly, and turned to 
 the marked paragraph ; but her eye was soon fixed, 
 and her heart throbbed as she read what follows 
 from the " Lemonville Star." 
 
 " It is our painful duty to record an event that 
 has filled the inhabitants of this town with grief 
 and dismay. The hotel was robbed and burnt 
 last night by two wretches in the employ of Mr. 
 Alger, the keeper of the house. One of the vil- 
 
116 MILL-HILL. 
 
 lains must have entered the room where Mr. A. 
 was sleeping, as his pocketbook, containing five 
 hundred dollars (known to have been received from 
 the bank the day before), was taken from* the 
 pocket of his coat, lying on a chair at the foot of 
 his bed. What else may have been taken is not 
 known, as the wretches, after the robbery, set fire 
 to the house and fled. The family was roused 
 from their sleep by the crackling of the flames. 
 They and the lodgers in the house just escaped 
 w r ith their lives, excepting two little boys, the only 
 children of a traveller, a widow. The children 
 had been put to sleep in an upper chamber, while 
 the mother occupied a room on the ground floor. 
 The cries of the mother, when she found it was im- 
 possible to rescue her little boys, were heart-rend- 
 ing. It is hoped the wretches who committed this 
 foul deed may be apprehended, and brought to the 
 condign punishment they have incurred. One was 
 a Spaniard, who called himself Martini, and who 
 had been a waiter at Mr. Alger's for about three 
 months ; the other a lad by the name of Justyn 
 Hill, formerly of Massachusetts. He has lived in 
 this neighbourhood for the last three years, and, 
 though rather an unsteady youth, he has not before 
 been known to offend against the laws of the land." 
 Then followed a particular description of the per- 
 sons of the culprits, their horses, &c, Sic. " Oh 
 dear !" said Caroline, throwing down the paper 
 when she had finished it, " what shall I do ! what 
 can be done I" 
 
 After a moment's reflection she determined to 
 return as quickly as possible to Mill-hill, to tell 
 Miss Emma all and take' her advice. Without 
 
MILL-HILL. 117 
 
 saying another word to the children, she darted out 
 of the door. " Car'y has left her strawberries," 
 exclaimed Jem, seizing the basket, " and I'll have 
 as many as I want now !" 
 
 " You shall give me as many as I want," cried 
 his brother. 
 
 ' I won't give you one without I'm a mind to," 
 retorted Jem. 
 
 " Then I'll call after Car'y ;" and, immediately 
 following up his threat, he ran out of the door, 
 screaming after his sister. 
 
 " Never mind — never mind !" answered Caro- 
 line, whose heart was now quite too full to care for 
 the strawberries ; " you may have the strawberries 
 — only pray be quiet." But Caroline was soon 
 summoned back by another voice, which she hastily 
 obeyed. A few yards from the hut occupied by 
 the Hills was another building of rough logs, which 
 was divided into a stable and hayloft. ' From this 
 building issued Mrs. Hill, treading softly, and, after 
 looking anxiously in every direction, she called 
 Caroline. Caroline turned, and quickly retraced 
 her steps. Mrs. Hill, who was at all times a sal- 
 low, slatternly, sickly, careworn-looking person, 
 was now the picture of misery and despair. She 
 had no cap on, and her thin, gray, snarled, and 
 dusty locks were partly confined by a few teeth of 
 a broken comb, and partly straggling over her face 
 and neck. Her gown, which had not been taken 
 off for a week, was slit in every direction by climb- 
 ing into the hayloft, and its greasy surface pow- 
 dered over with the chaff and dust of the place. 
 When Caroline came to her she seemed to lose the 
 power of speech, and only wrung her hands and 
 
1 IB MILL-HILL. 
 
 groaned. "Mother, you need not tell me," said 
 the poor girl, " I have read it all in the newspa- 
 per." 
 
 " In the newspaper ! — oh, speak lower — he will 
 hear you — if you had but come three days ago !" 
 and then she earnestly "whispered, and Caroline, 
 without making any other reply but " Yes — yes — 
 yes," set off at full speed towards Mill-hill. 
 
 She met Anny at the kitchen door, who, instead 
 of reproaching her with having stayed out and left 
 her to do all her chores* said, with a smiling face, 
 " And it's I that am glad to see you, Car'line — and 
 what were ye after staying so late ? But, bless 
 me, ye're white as a skinned potato — is it that ye've 
 sold all your strawberries, and brought never a one 
 home ? No 1 Are ye sick 1 Has anything hap- 
 pened to your people V Caroline burst into tears, 
 but spoke not a word. " Ah, that same is it," con- 
 tinued Anny, " that lies heaviest on the heart — go 
 up to Miss Emma — she is in her little room — make 
 a clane breast of it to her, Car'line, and if there's 
 one can help you it's she — both by word and deed 
 — for was not it she that made me look up when 
 my heart was down in the grave, quite, wi' Judy ?" 
 
 Caroline heard but half of Anny's kind sugges- 
 tions, for she was in Emma's room before they 
 were finished. Anny saw no more of her that night ; 
 but, after it became dark, and very dark it was, 
 Caroline retraced her way to her mother's hovel, 
 accompanied by Emma. Many young women 
 might have felt timid in going two miles late in 
 the evening, and far away from any public road ; 
 but Emma was not addicted to fears. She knew 
 there was nothing to fear from the inhabitants of 
 
MILL-HILL. 119 
 
 the town ; and when Caroline, who kept very close 
 to her, whispered, " Are you not afraid we may 
 meet some of those Irishmen ?" " And what if we 
 do ?" she replied ; " they are all good friends to 
 me." Well they might be, for there was not a 
 family among them she had not visited, to see the 
 sick, or persuade the children to come to Sunday* 
 school, or on some such errand as befits those 
 who would be about " their Father's business." 
 
 The Hills' hut was a dismal place to approach 
 at night. Fortunately, one dim handle burnt there ; 
 and we all know 
 
 " How far the little candle throws it's beams, 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world"." 
 
 "Keep close to me, Miss Emma," said Caro- 1 
 line, as she removed the boards that served instead 
 of a door to the stable ; " and pray be careful how 
 you step, for there are holes in the old floor. Oh, 
 what a place to bring you to ! Mother !" she 
 called, but scarcely above her breath ; " mother, 
 we are here." 
 
 A careful tread was heard above, and Mrs. Hill's 
 voice, saying, " Stand away from under while I 
 let down the ladder." A ladder was accordingly 
 let down, and they felt their way up it ; and then 
 Mrs. Hill, taking the arm of each, led them to the 
 extremity of the loft, where, till their eyes became 
 accustomed to the dim light, they could see nothing 
 distinctly. The angle where the sick boy was 
 lying was hung round with old clothes and quilts, 
 to prevent the light from penetrating the opening 
 between the boards, and thus leading to a discov- 
 ery of the hiding-place. A miserable candle was 
 
120 MILL-HILL. 
 
 placed in a tub laid on its side, so that the rays 
 only fell on the bed, and were scarcely at all re- 
 flected by the dark hangings against the walls. 
 " There is a chair I fetched for you, Miss Emma," 
 said Mrs. Hill, " for I felt as if you would come 
 when you knew how the case was. Car'y, you 
 can lop down on the straw with me. He'll soon 
 wake — poor boy, how he has listened and longed 
 for you !" 
 
 " Is he inclined to talk ?" 
 
 " Not now ; it's but a few words he can say ; 
 but, when he first came, I could not pacify him, he 
 hankered so to see you. I daresn't leave him, 
 and I could not make one of the boys go for you. 
 You know I have always had the fortin to have the 
 dontrariest of children. It did make me feel dread- 
 ful to see him feeling as if Miss Emma could do 
 something for him, and sit here hand and feet tied, 
 as it were." 
 
 If Mrs. Hill had not been the most shiftless of 
 women, she would have contrived some way of 
 getting Emma, and so thought Caroline ; but this 
 did not prevent her bitterly reproaching herself. 
 " Oh," thought she, " if I had only come home the 
 next morning after Anny saw Justyn — I knew I 
 ought to. I felt as if Justyn was in trouble, but I 
 thought I was clear of it, and I meant to keep so 
 — oh — oh, how sorry I am !" Caroline's thoughts 
 were drawn from herself by the story Mrs. Hill 
 told while Justyn slept. As Mrs. Hill prolonged 
 it unnecessarily, I shall relate it more concisely. 
 
 Justyn Hill's father was an ill-tempered and in- 
 temperate man ; his mother idle, shiftless, and slat- 
 ternly. These vices are quite enough to ruin any 
 
MILL-IIILL. 121 
 
 family, without the parents being false, dishonest, 
 or cruel, which last the Hills were not. There- 
 fore there was hope of the children, if, While young, 
 they could be removed from them ; and, therefore, 
 Emma Maxwell rejoiced when Justyn left Vernon. 
 But, unfortunately, Justyn took with him the habit, 
 in which his foolish parents had encouraged him, 
 of leaving his employers on slight grounds. At one 
 place the wages were too tow, at another the work 
 too heavy ; at one he was required to wait on table, 
 at another to .do the milking ; and on some such 
 frivolous grounds he would leave a good situation. 
 Foolish boy ! Was there ever a situation to which 
 there was not some objection, from the king in his 
 palace downward ? 
 
 Finally he got into the service of Mr. Alger, the 
 master of the hotel in Lemonville. There he made 
 acquaintance with Martini, a Spaniard, who first 
 entertained him with stories of his own wild ad- 
 ventures, and then instructed him in his own vices. 
 They were out late at night, and drank and gam- 
 bled till, having no more money for their sinful 
 pleasures, and Justyn being deeply in debt to Mar- 
 tini, Martini proposed the robbery ; and Justyn, 
 being prepared by previous steps in wickedness, 
 acceded to the proposition. Their plan was to get 
 what money they could, and proceed to New-York, 
 and thence to Texas. They made what they called 
 "a rich haul," having rifled from the landlord and 
 lodgers in the hotel upward of a thousand dollars. 
 They had ridden about four miles on horses stolen 
 from Alger's stable, when, on mounting a high hill 
 and looking back, they saw the hotel in flames ; 
 and Martini remembered he had left a lamp in a 
 L 
 
122 MILL-HILL. 
 
 pantry where there was an optn box of shavings. 
 Martini knew that their innocence of the intention 
 could never be proved ; he knew that burning a 
 dwelling-house was, in the eye of the law, arson, 
 and that arson was a capital offence. He was 
 sure the whole country would be up and in pursuit 
 of them; and, communicating his alarm to Justyn, 
 they put their horses to their speed, and rode till 
 the jaded animals were unahje to proceed a step 
 farther. They then turned them loose and pro- 
 ceeded on foot ; once, and only once, venturing to 
 stop at a farmhouse for refreshment. Martini grew 
 surly and quarrelsome'; and on some trifling word, 
 so trifling that Justyn could not recall it, Martini 
 assaulted him with a heavy walnut stick ; and, stri- 
 king him on the head, left him senseless. This 
 was at noon. On recovering his consciousness 
 next morning at dawn, he found Martini had robbed 
 him of his half of the stolen money, and had dragged 
 him into a thicket some yards from the roadside, 
 and left him there to die. His head was aching. 
 He was exhausted with hunger, pain, and loss of 
 blood. He now bitterly repented his folly and 
 wickedness, and would have laid him down to die ; 
 but, hearing the murmuring of water, and burning 
 with thirst, he crawled to it, drank, and was le- 
 freshed. Then returned the love of life. As 
 nearly as he could calculate, he was seventy miles 
 from home. There he decided to go. His mother 
 would screen him, if possible, and take care of him 
 till he could take care of himself. A mother is the 
 first on whom We depend, the last to desert us. 
 Mrs. Hill, with all her faults, was a loving mother. 
 Indeed, one of her worst faults was the perversion 
 
MILL-HILL. 1 4 ^3 
 
 of this love which induced her to indulge her chil- 
 dren, and withhold a just punishment from their 
 wrong doings. 
 
 Justyn washed his bloody garments in the brook, 
 and dried them in the sun, and then set out on his 
 journey. He was very ill and weak ; and such 
 throbbings, he said, he had in his head, that he 
 thought he should lose his senses. Oh how gladly 
 he would have returned to any of the places he had 
 so foolishly left, and patiently toiled there ! how 
 often did he feel that the way of the transgressor 
 is hard, harder than the hardest lot of the honest 
 working man. Fearfully and slowly he made his 
 way to the public road. He knew he risked being 
 arrested, but he knew, too, that he must eat or die, 
 and he was sure that he could never travel on foot 
 the distance to his home. It seemed to him that 
 every person he met was ready to seize him ; still 
 he ventured to enter a farmhouse and ask for food. 
 There were none but women at home. He told a 
 plausible story of his having been on a journey, 
 and belated at night — that his horse had taken 
 fright and thrown him ; and that, when he came to 
 himself, his horse was gone, and he in the misera- 
 ble condition they saw him. The pity of the wo- 
 men was excited. They dressed his wound, and 
 gave him the best refreshment the house afforded. 
 While he was eating a foot-traveller came in and 
 told the particulars of the fire at Lemonville. He 
 said he had passed the night at the hotel ; that, 
 luckily, he had slept in the barn, and that he was 
 the very last person who that night had seen and 
 talked with the lad concerned in the robbery. 
 
 Justyn involuntarily turned his eye towards tho 
 
124 MILL-HILL. 
 
 traveller, and recognised him ; but, fortunately, 
 owing, probably, to Justyn's extreme paleness (he 
 had naturally a ruddy cheek), the traveller did not 
 know him. When the man came to the description 
 of the widowed mother's distress at the horrid death 
 of her two boys, it was too much for Justyn ; he 
 dropped his knife and fork, fainted, and fell on the 
 floor. Discovery would now have seemed inevita- 
 ble ; but, when Justyn came to himself, he per* 
 ceived that no suspicion had been excited. The 
 kind-hearted women thought that such a story in his 
 weak state was quite enough to overcome him; 
 and their pitiful hearts were moved to ask a man 
 who was passing in a wagon to give the poor lad 
 a cast. The man cheerfully consented, and carried 
 him thirty miles on his way. Encouraged by his 
 safe progress, he ventured at evening into the bar- 
 room of a tavern. The first thing that struck his 
 eye was an advertisement in capital letters, headed 
 " One hundred dollars reward.'" This was offered 
 for the apprehension of Martini and himself; and, 
 following it, so accurate a description of his person, 
 that he wondered every eye that fell upon him did 
 not recognise him. As soon as he could escape 
 observation, he slunk out of the bar-room and pro- 
 ceeded on his journey. He entered a house but 
 once after this, and lived chiefly on lettuces, young 
 peapods, and other green vegetables which he took 
 from the gardens at night. At the end of three days, 
 and after much weariness, and a continually increas- 
 ing distress in his head, he arrived in his native 
 town. His last halt was made at Mrs. Huntly's 
 well, where, he said, he thought he must lay down 
 and die ; but the draught of water and kind little An- 
 
MILL-HILL. 125 
 
 ay's Cake revived him ; and, though unable to ob- 
 tain any information about his parents, he proceeded 
 to the old place, and there found his mother, who, 
 after hearing his dismal tale, undertook to conceal 
 him in the hayloft. There a violent fever and 
 racking pains had seized him. He dared not send 
 for a physician ; he could think of no one who 
 could help him, to whom he could venture to con- 
 fide his story, but Emma Maxwell. " Oh, mother !" 
 .mother !" he would cry out, " if you had only sent 
 me to Miss Emma's Sunday school when she 
 wanted me to go, I should never have got into this 
 trouble. I wanted to go, you know I did, mother, 
 for I loved Miss Emma, and so did all the children ; 
 but, somehow, my Clothes were never washed or 
 never mended, and so you were ashamed' to send 
 me, and I was ashamed to go ; and I went about 
 idling and playing, and that made me like to be 
 idle week-days. Oh dear ! dear ! if I could only 
 live it over again !" 
 
 Poor Justyn ! he was quite right. It was not 
 only the loss of Emma Maxwell's good lessons, 
 but, by habitually breaking that holy law which 
 commands us to remember the Sabbath day and 
 keep it holy, he came to disregard the other laws 
 of God. No one is hardened all at once, but by 
 degrees. If we venture to take one step from the 
 right path, we know not how far we shall wander, 
 nor when, if ever, we shall return ; therefore, my 
 dear child, whoever you may be that reads this 
 story, pray pause, and reflect, and think of poor 
 Justyn before you take the first wrong step. 
 
 " I don't know what you can do for him," said 
 Mrs. Hill to Emma, as she concluded Justyn a 
 L2 
 
126 MILL-HILL. 
 
 story ; " it's little, indeed, that can be done ; but he 
 had such a craving to see you that it seemed as if 
 you was to do something for him." 
 
 Justyn had Suffered from a " famine for bread," 
 and from a M thirst for water ;" but he had felt that 
 keener hungering and thirsting for the " word of 
 the Lord." That blessed word, which could in- 
 struct his ignorant mind and direct his soul in its 
 longings for pardon and acceptance. When he 
 awoke from his unquiet sleep it was but too evident 
 that the time was past when human ministry could 
 avail him. " Justyn," said the mother, " Miss 
 Emma Maxwell and Car'y have come to see you." 
 
 " Miss Emma Maxwell and Car'y," he repeated, 
 with a vacant stare. 
 
 " You know you wanted to see Miss Emma ter- 
 ribly, Justyn." 
 
 "Did I?" 
 
 " Why, yes, Justyn. Now she is here, don't 
 you know her ?" 
 
 " Know who ? I don't see anybody." 
 
 " Oh, my soul !" exclaimed the wretched mother, 
 " his sight is gone ! Justyn, don't you see Car'y V 
 
 " Car'y ? Car'y ? no — oh, mother, do take this 
 band off my head." 
 
 " There is no band there, Justyn," said Emma, 
 laying her hand on his burning forehead. 
 
 " Then it's fire — fire— but, oh, they burnt all up !" 
 
 " That is the way," whispered his mother, 
 " when he is out of his head, his mind is all the 
 while running on those children that were burnt 
 at Lemonville. Justyn, can't you rouse and speak 
 to Miss Emma !" 
 
 Justyn only groaned in answer, and Emma beg- 
 
MILL-HILL. 127 
 
 ged her to trouble him no further, saying it was 
 quite useless. She proposed going to the village 
 for a physician ; and, as Mrs. Hill's fear of exposure 
 was now swallowed up in a greater fear, she thank- 
 fully acquiesced. " Oh, pray, you stay here, Miss 
 Emma," said Caroline ; " you may do him some 
 good. I will go alone for the doctor." Caroline 
 was learning, by hard lessons, to think of others 
 before herself. 
 
 While she was gone Emma watched every vari- 
 ation of Justyn's countenance, in the hope of a 
 dawn of reason, but in vain. There were changes, 
 but such changes as indicated the rapid approach 
 of death. She knelt by his bedside and prayed for 
 him. The doctor came, but only to say that no- 
 thing could be done. He was in the last stage of a 
 brain fever, brought on by his wound, his subse- 
 quent journey, and dreadful anxiety of mind. " Had 
 I seen him when he first arrived," said the doctor, 
 " it is barely possible I might have saved his life." 
 These words wene daggers to Caroline. 
 
 He died before noon, and there existing no fur- 
 ther reason for concealment, he was removed to 
 his mother's house, and she was enabled, by the 
 kindness of the villagers, to bury him decently the 
 next Sunday. 
 
 It is one of the blessings and privileges of coun- 
 try life, that no one is so high or so low as to be 
 quite separated from his townsmen. The lawyer 
 and the merchant may live in big houses, drive 
 handsome horses, and have many luxuries, but still 
 they know the name, condition, and vocation of the 
 poorest labourer, and, for all external differences, 
 there is for the most part a kindly feeling between 
 
128 MILL-HILL. 
 
 them. The chain here and there hangs loosely, 
 but is nowhere broken. It is the sorest trial to be 
 cast off utterly, and it is a help and incentive to 
 amendment to the most degraded to feel that they 
 are cared 'for by the good and respected. When 
 Emma Maxwell and some others like her assem- 
 bled at Mrs. Hill's hut to attend the funeral solem- 
 nities, that miserable woman's heart was touched, 
 and, wringing Emma's hand, she said, " You do 
 not forsake us ?" 
 
 " No, Mrs. Hill— but look to God— he never 
 forsakes us." 
 
 Many of the Sunday scholars, and all Emma 
 Maxwell's class, attended the funeral. When they 
 turned from the grave Emma asked them to come 
 and sit with her on a bench under a cluster of lo- 
 cust-trees in one corner of the burying- ground. 
 There she loved to sit and instruct them, and there, 
 imitating the wisdom of our Saviour, she drew 
 from the objects before her a meet enforcement of 
 her lesson. A new-made grave is a pregnant text 
 to preach from, more especially if, knowing its ten- 
 ant, we do not shrink from the lesson it teaches. 
 
 Emma Maxwell's scholars, in earnest expectation, 
 waited for her to speak. There was many a wet 
 eye among them. Most of them had known Jus- 
 tyn, and they felt as human beings should feel for 
 the disgrace of their fellows, pitiful. 
 
 " It is a beautiful afternoon," said Emma, and 
 so it was ; but the children wondered Miss Emma 
 should be thinking of the beauty of the afternoon. 
 " The shower," she continued (an abundant shower 
 had fallen), " has done a good work for us ; every- 
 thing looks refreshed, and the leaves and the grass 
 
MILL-HILL. 129 
 
 have taken a new start. How beautiful is that 
 field of wheat waving under this wind, that gives 
 it just the exercise it needs, and this little brook 
 sparkling on its way to the river, and the river pur- 
 suing its course to the great ocean, * nurse of rains.' 
 The sun, and the wind, and the rain are God's 
 ministers ; they do his will ; they always obey 
 his laws. Is it not strange, my dear children, 
 that his rational creatures, those whom he has 
 made capable of voluntary obedience, should dis- 
 obey him?" 
 
 iC Do you mean folks, Miss Emma ?" asked one 
 of the little girls ; and " I guess she means Justyn," 
 whispered another. 
 
 " You are both right," answered Emma ; " I 
 mean those that have reason like you and I, and 
 poor Justyn — " 
 
 " But, Miss Emma, I think — " said one of the 
 boys, and there he stopped. 
 
 " What do you think, John ? I always like to 
 know what you think.'''' 
 
 "Well, I think, Miss Emma, Justyn was not so 
 very bad. He was freehearted, and he always 
 stood by the little boys." 
 
 " And, besides, Miss Emma," said another friend 
 of Justyn, " he had such a bad father, and such a 
 poor kind of a mother — it's blamed hard to be good 
 when your folks are all bad." 
 
 " This is true, my children. I am glad you 
 think of these palliations of Justyn's faults. Learn 
 to judge the living as kindly as you do the dead. 
 The grave should teach us this lesson. I do not 
 wish any more than you to recall Justyn's faults. 
 He is now with that Judge who judges righteous 
 
1 30 ItflLL-HILL. 
 
 judgment. We must improve by the lesson taught 
 by his life and' early death. Tell me what you 
 learn from it, my children. Life is our school, you 
 know." 
 
 " I can't think of anything," said little Sally 
 Lyn ; " only I am as sorry as can be for Justyn." 
 
 " y ery well, Sally. To feel sorrow instead of 
 dislike for those who have done wrong is a good 
 lesson to learn." 
 
 " I should think, Miss Emma," said one of the 
 boys, whose mind was very apt to dwell on the 
 wrong doing of others, " I should think Justyn's 
 parents would feel awfully. Father says they 
 never regulate their children any way ; and I have 
 seen Hill give Justyn rum to drink, and I have heard 
 him swear at Justyn, and Justyn swore back again." 
 
 " You are not studying your own lesson, Thom- 
 as," said Miss Emma. " It is for Justyn's parents 
 to remember these things ; and I am glad to tell you, 
 children, that poor Mrs. Hill is already profiting by 
 the lesson she has learned. She asked me yes- 
 terday to find places for her boys, and said she 
 would thankfully put them into any oneV hands 
 who would bring them up well. But tell me, 
 children, if Justyn could speak to you from that 
 grave, what advice would he give, think you ?" 
 
 " I guess he would advise to come always to 
 Miss Emma's Sunday-school," replied one of the 
 girls. 
 
 " But sure," said Anny Ryan, " it's not the dead 
 that need spake to advise us to do what we like 
 best to do of all things — and that same is coming 
 to Miss Emma's Sunday-school ; but it's he would 
 advise us to be after doing what Miss Emma laches, 
 
MILL-HILL. 131 
 
 and that's not so asy-like." The children smiled 
 and nodded an assent to Anny's suggestion. 
 
 " There is one lesson, Miss Emma," said Am- 
 brose, one of the larger boys, " that we can learn 
 from poor Justyn — to keep out of bad company. 
 My mother says she don't believe he would have 
 got into that difficulty if he had not been led on by 
 Martini." 
 
 " Thank you, Ambrose. I hope you will all 
 learn this lesson so well that you will be sure to 
 remember it when you are tempted to associate 
 with those you know can do you no good, but 
 harm." 
 
 " But, Miss Emma, you always tell us the good 
 should not forsake the bad ?" 
 
 " Nor should they, Ambrose ; but they should be 
 very sure that their motive in associating with them 
 is to do them good, not for their own pleasure or 
 indulgence in any way. Jesus Christ came to 
 seek and to save those who were lost. The phy- 
 sician visits the sick to heal them. As I said be- 
 fore, be sure of your motive, and then you are safe." 
 
 " But — but — Miss Emma — " 
 
 "But what, Anny Ryan ?" 
 
 " I can't just spake about the motive as you do ; 
 but what I mane is, the like of us children act first, 
 and then, if we get into trouble, we consider of it 
 afterward." 
 
 " That is what we call putting the cart before 
 the horse, Anny, which, you know, is no way to 
 get forward. You are, in part, right ; it takes chil- 
 dren some time to learn to consider before they 
 act — but they can learn it." 
 
 " Sure they can, Miss Emma ; for yesterday was 
 
132 MILL-HILL. 
 
 it, when I was home at Mrs. 'Neil's, that John 
 and Pat got into a bit of a spree, and John threw 
 Pat's ball into the brook, and Pat picked up a stone 
 to throw at Johnny, and let it fall again ; and one of 
 the boys says to him, ' Pat, for what don't you throw 
 it V 'I was thinking,' said Pat, ' what would Miss 
 Emma say, for did not she tell us last Sunday that 
 it was quite entirely against the Bible rules to 
 strike back again V " 
 
 " Thank you, Patrick," said Emma to the boy, 
 who looked as if thanks from her were reward 
 enough. " Oh, children," she continued, " you know 
 not what a happiness it is to me when I find you 
 acting the good you learn. But come, the sun is 
 getting near the mountain, and we are far away 
 from our subject. Can none of you think of any 
 more lessons to be learned from Justyn ?" 
 
 " I was thinking," said one, " that it was idle 
 habits that was the beginning of Justyn's ruin !" 
 
 " And I think," said another, " that we might 
 better learn to put up with what we think is pretty 
 hard, than to keep changing and roving. Mother 
 says, if Justyn had only been content to stay at 
 Mr. Lovejoy's, where he had nothing to complain 
 of but the old gentleman calling him up before light 
 to make the fires, he might be alive and well now." 
 
 Little Sally Lyn once more spoke. She seemed 
 to have the faculty of always getting the flowers 
 without the thorns. " Miss Emma," she said, 
 " mother says that, when I was a little girl" (she 
 was now six), " Justyn took me up in his arms and 
 carried me half a mile 'cause I was crying with 
 the cold and did not love to walk. Mayn't we 
 
MILL-HILL. 133 
 
 learn from that it is a great deal pleasanter to re- 
 member the kind things people do than the bad V* 
 
 Emma took Sally's hand. " It is far pleasanter, 
 Sally," she said ; and added, " you have been very- 
 satisfactory in your answers, children : and now, as 
 it is getting late, shall I tell you what I think you 
 may learn from Justyn ?" 
 
 " Oh yes !" " Oh yes !" they all replied. " And 
 Miss' Emma can always say what we can only 
 think" said one. 
 
 " That poor body, my dear children, which we 
 have seen laid in the grave, was so made as to be 
 capable of being the instrument of much usefulness, 
 and of receiving much comfort and enjoyment. It 
 had eyes to see the glorious firmament, the rising 
 and setting sun, the beauties of the changing sea- 
 sons, the hills, the fields, the running waters, all, 
 and much more than our eyes now rest upon with 
 such delight. It had ears to hear the singing of 
 birds, and all Nature's sweet sounds ; and that 
 sweetest of all sounds, the voices of dear friends. 
 It had the delicate organ of taste, to enjoy what 
 God has provided to nourish us ; and smell, which 
 performs many a useful and pleasant office ; and 
 feeling, without which that best of all tools, the 
 hand, would be useless. I might talk a year to you 
 without explaining all the qualities of the body, or 
 its fitness for the work it has to do in this world ; 
 but these few words, my dear children, may lead 
 you to think what a wrong it is to destroy, or even 
 impair it, by any act of our own ; what a pity, like 
 poor Justyn, by doing wrong, to lead to its destruc- 
 tion !" 
 
 " But, Miss Emma," interrupted one of the chil- 
 M 
 
134 MILL-HILL. 
 
 dren, " you forget. It was Martini's blow that 
 finally caused Justyn's death ; the doctor said so." 
 
 " Yes ; but if Justyn had gone straight on in the 
 path of duty, he would never have met Martini, cer- 
 tainly never have had any connexion with him. 
 The body is God's building, my children, and 
 worthy it is of him who made it, and made it to be 
 the dwelling-place of the soul. When you think 
 of that soul, to which the senses are but ministers 
 to supply it with knowledge and enjoyment ; when 
 you remember that it is a portion of God's own 
 spirit (for this is the meaning of our being made 
 in God's image) ; when you remember that it can- 
 not die, and that it is to be judged- according to 
 deeds done in the body, does not such a life and 
 death as Justyn's seem to you most sad and pitiful ?" 
 
 " Oh yes !" and " Yes, indeed, Miss Emma !" 
 echoed from every side. " Then, my dear chil- 
 dren, strive to obey the laws of God, difficult though 
 it may be. Do what you know to be right, and 
 avoid what you even suspect to be wrong. Re- 
 member what I have so often told you, and what is 
 verified in Justyn's life, that we are ourselves the 
 cause of almost all our sufferings. And remember 
 what I so frequently repeat to you, that you have 
 great privileges, and you will have to account for 
 them. Your existence is given to you in a land 
 that may be called the poor man's country In 
 other countries people are driven by ignorance to 
 vice, and by hunger to crime ; but here instruction 
 is offered to all ; here labour calls out for hands ; 
 here ingenuity and perseverance are sure of reward; 
 and here nothing but your own fault, no, not even 
 Buch parents as Justyn's, can keep you from the so- 
 
MILL-HILL. 135 
 
 ciety of the good and respectable. Then go ahead, 
 my dear children. Death, we know, must come to 
 all ; but death comes as a friend, and not an enemy, 
 to those, whether they be old or young-, who have 
 obeyed God's law ; and this they will do if they 
 love him, and Jesus whom he has sent ; for whom 
 we truly love we obey." 
 
 " So we just do," said little Sally Lyn, putting 
 her arm affectionately round Emma. 
 
 " If you love your earthly friends, Sally, you will 
 love your heavenly, who are far better. Now, 
 good-night, my children. It is quite time to be at 
 home." 
 
 " But our motto, Miss Emma ; you have forgot- 
 ten our motto !" Emma gave them each week a 
 motto, to which they might refer their conduct. 
 She replied, " No day without a deed to crown it I 
 that means a good deed, children." 
 
 M I guess that is Miss Emma's motto every 
 week !" said one, and " No day without a deed to 
 crown it !" was repeated by all as they went home- 
 ward. 
 
 Emma and Anny went in a different direction 
 from the rest ; and as they crossed the burying- 
 ground, they passed the little mound over Judy's 
 grave. Anny kneeled, kissed it, and crossed her- 
 self; then again giving her hand to Emma, they 
 proceeded, Anny saying, " Never will I forget the 
 lucky day I first met you here, Miss Emma, and 
 the words you spake to me, that I would be better 
 and happier for losing all my people. Forgive me, 
 Miss Emma, but strange words they seemed to me 
 to spake to a lone thing that had buried up the last 
 she loved. But now I see they were truth and no 
 
136 MILL-HILL. 
 
 mistake at all. I do not love them less, but it is 
 in my prayers every day I say the words you 
 said to me, * It is good that I have been afflicted." 1 " 
 These words might also be applied to Caroline's 
 experience, as they may to every one's who rightly 
 lays to heart the natural trials of life. By natural 
 trials I mean those that, like death, are of God's 
 appointment. Caroline is now humble, and no 
 longer the selfish girl she was, since she is will- 
 ing her faults should be here recorded for those 
 who will profit by example. 
 
THE BANTEM. 
 
 A STORY WRITTEN FOR WILLIAM T**###, A VERY 
 LITTLE BOY. 
 
 " DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY." 
 
 There was once a very little boy whose name 
 was Willie. Willie's mother read the Bible to him 
 before he could read himself, and when he did not 
 understand she explained it to him. She talked to 
 Willie about Jesus Christ, and Willie knew he 
 came from God to teach men, and women, and little 
 children, and that the oldest and the youngest ought 
 to obey what he commanded. One of the first of 
 Jesus's rules which Willie learned was, that you 
 should do to others what you would have others do to 
 you. When Willie first learned this golden rule 
 from the Bible he thought it would be very easy to 
 obey it, but he soon found it was not so very easy. 
 
 A little way from Willie's father there lived an 
 old woman quite alone. She had not one child, 
 not so much even as one grandchild to live with 
 her. Willie felt sorry for her, and so did Willie's 
 mother ; and if she got a pleasant new book she 
 would send it to Mrs. Bemis (that was the old 
 lady's name) to read ; and often, when she baked, 
 M2 
 
138 THE BANTEM. 
 
 she would send her a pie or a custard. Willie's 
 father, too, was kind to Mrs. Bemis, and often sent 
 her a basket of strawberries, or a mess of early 
 peas, or some other rarity from his garden. Mrs. 
 Bemis was not poor. She had plenty to eat. But 
 Willie's parents knew that it is a great pleasure to 
 die old and lonely to be remembered by the young 
 and happy. 
 
 One day Willie's mother gave him . a large 
 cookey. Willie was not hungry, but he began 
 eating, and ate on just because it tasted good. A 
 foolish reason for eating, is it not ? When he had 
 eaten half the cake his father came in with a basket 
 of early lettuces, and asked Will if he would carry 
 them up to Mrs. Bemis. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir," answered Willie ; " and, mother, 
 I will carry her this half of my cookey, and that," 
 he added, tossing up his head, and feeling very 
 grand and generous, " will be following the rule — 
 ' doing as I would be done by ;' won't it, mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear boy ; but it is very easy for you 
 to follow it now, and give away what you do not 
 want ; but, Willie, I hope you will obey it when 
 there is something which you ought to do for others 
 and do not like to do." 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother, I will," replied William, feel- 
 ing quite sure he should always be as good as he 
 ought to be. Willie had forgotten, perhaps he 
 never knew, that it is sometimes very difficult to 
 do the thing we ought ; but, the harder it is, the 
 better we feel when it is done. 
 
 Well, up Willie went to Mrs. Bemis. She was 
 very glad to get the lettuces ; they were the first 
 she had seen that summer, and she was very much 
 
THE BANTEM. 139 
 
 pleased with Willie's present, of the half cookey, 
 and she kissed him, and thanked him, and told him 
 she had been looking out for him. Willie could 
 not think why she had looked out for him, and he 
 asked her " why." " I will tell you, Willie — you 
 know my little bantems V* 
 
 " Oh, yes, ma'am — they are the prettiest ban- 
 tems in the world." 
 
 " In the world, Willie ? how many places in the 
 world did you ever hear of?" 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Bemis, I have heard of New-York, 
 and Stockbridge, and Lenox, and New Lenox — is 
 not that all the world ?" 
 
 Mrs. Bemis laughed. She did not say that was 
 all the world, but she said she was quite satisfied 
 if her bantems were the prettiest in all the world 
 that Willie knew. " The old bantem left her 
 chickens yesterday, Willie," she said; "you know 
 the mother always leaves the chickens as soon as 
 they are able to take care of themselves V 
 
 "Do they?" said Willie; "I am glad boys' 
 mothers don't ; I am old enough, to be sure, to take 
 care of myself, but I am not old enough to part 
 with my mother." 
 
 " Not quite old enough for either, Willie," said 
 Mrs. Bemis, smiling. " Boys at four years old 
 can't take as good care of themselves as chickens 
 at four weeks. But, Willie, I was going to tell 
 you that I took two of the chickens off the roost 
 last evening, and put them in a covered basket. 
 One I mean for you, and the other for your little 
 cousin George." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bemis — I like bantems, 
 and I like white bantems above all things — they 
 look so cunning." 
 
140 THE BANTEM. 
 
 " Well, here they are, Willie," said Mrs. Bemis, 
 bringing the basket from the door-step. " Carry 
 them home, deary, and take one out, and ask your 
 father to carry the other to cousin George when 
 he goes to his office — go straight home, Willie, 
 and don't take off the cover." 
 
 " Oh, yes, ma'am," said Willie ; and he was so 
 full of delight, and so full of the surprise and pleas- 
 ure that George would have, that he ran off with- 
 out thanking Mrs. Bemis ; but he soon recollected 
 himself, and ran back, saying, " Thank you, Mrs. 
 Bemis, a thousand times for my bantem, and thank 
 you for George's too ; but how shall I know which 
 is George's?" 
 
 " Oh, it's no matter which — they look just alike !" 
 
 Away again Willie ran. When he was half way 
 home he met Russel Sloane. " Oh, Russel," he 
 said, " guess what is in this basket." 
 
 " Guess ! I guess it's nothing." 
 
 "Well, I guess, Mr. Russel, it is two of the 
 completest little bantems you ever saw." 
 
 " I don't believe it, Will." 
 
 " Then you may just look for yourself," replied 
 Willie, and he pulled up the cover. " There, an't 
 they bantems ; see how white they are, and what 
 cunning short legs, and web-feet? Do you see, 
 Russel ?" While Willie lifted up the foot of one, 
 the other hopped out and would have escaped, but 
 Russel caught it. " Here, just put it in my apron, 
 Russel. I won't lift up the cover again. Mrs 
 Bemis told me not to, but I forgot." Russel did as 
 Willie asked him, and Willie ran on, till, stumbling 
 against a stone, he fell flat, on his face, and the 
 basket dropped and rolled some way down the 
 
THE BANTEM. Ml 
 
 hill. Willie was a little hurt and more frightened, 
 for he was afraid the bantem would get out of the 
 basket ; but it did not, and on he went. " Oh, 
 mother I" he screamed, as soon as he saw his 
 mother, " Mrs. Bemis has given me one of her 
 little white bantems, and one for George too — is 
 not she kind 1 Here is one in the basket and one 
 in my apron — see, mother!" and he opened his 
 apron to show it. " Why, what ails it ?" he said ; 
 " do see, mother, how its head hangs down — it don't 
 move — mother, do look — what is the matter?" 
 
 Willie's mother took the little bantem in her 
 hands, and, seeing it could not move, she said, " I 
 am afraid you held it too tight — you have smother- 
 ed it, my child." She blew in its mouth — that did 
 no good ; and then she saw its neck was broken. 
 She told Willie so, and asked how it could have 
 happened. Willie burst into tears, and said it must 
 have happened when he fell down. He cried bit- 
 terly, and his mother tried to comfort him. Sud- 
 denly he stopped crying, and said, " The dead ban- 
 tem is George's." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Bemis say that was George's, Willie ?" 
 
 " No, mother, but she said it was no matter 
 which." 
 
 " But it is now a great deal of matter which." 
 
 " I know it is, mother." 
 
 "Willie, supposing Mrs. Bemis had given George 
 the chickens to bring home instead of you, and sup- 
 posing he had run carelessly, as you did, and fallen 
 down, and killed the chicken, what would you think 
 he ought to do ?" 
 
 Willie hesitated — he blushed ; tears again came 
 into his eyes, and rolled over his cheeks ; he look- 
 
142 THE BANTEM. 
 
 ed at the dead bantem, he looked up in his mother's 
 face, and then he said, " I should think, mother, 
 he ought to give me the chicken ; and, mother, I 
 will do as I would be done by. George shall have 
 the live bantem ; but, mother," he added, sobbing, 
 " it is just as you said — it is not always very easy 
 to do as we would be done by." 
 
 "No, my child," replied his mother, kissing 
 him ; " but, now, which would you rather have, the 
 remembrance that, when it seemed very hard, you 
 did as you would be done by, or the bantem V 
 
 " The remembrance, mother, a thousand times ; 
 for that will last always, you know, and the live 
 bantem must die some time or other." 
 
 The bantem was sent to George, and which, 
 think you, was the happiest, Willie in sending or 
 George in receiving it ? 
 
 THE END.