tEfje Hibrarp of tfje Itaibertitp of Jlortf) Carolina Wtfi& fcoofe toag pregenteb ft? Ha' MEMORY. " I forgot to get my lesson this morning," said a "* pupil to her teacher. "Did you forget to come to breakfast ?" " No, Ma'am, I did not." " Then your body has a better appetite for food, than your mind for knowledge. " If you were sick you would not wish for break- fast. You would avoid the sight of food. Perhaps ' your parents would send for a physician. He would give you medicine. He would seek to remove the causes that had destroyed your appetite. What medicine will you take to restore the health of your mind ? " Did you not take some pains to prepare yourself for breakfast % You arose, and washed, and dressed, and said your prayers, and were ready to take your seat at the table. Did you bestow equal care on the lessons ot the day % For it seems you can remem- ber to take pains when you choose." " I cannot remember the sermon," said a boy to his father, " and my Sunday-school lesson is too long." " How came you to remember the story that was told you the other evening, and the adventures of Robinson Crusoe, which I heard you relate ? It • seems you can recollect what you like, even if it is long. Am I to conclude that you prefer amusement to religious instruction?" " Why did you not rise and place a chair for your grandfather when he came in ?" said a lady to a little girl. " I forgot it, mother." " How came you to remember to ask me for a new dress yesterday V J he girl's reading-book. 13 'Because you told me last summer, that I should have it this spring." " Have I not also told you to pay this mark of respect to your aged grandfather whenever he en- tered the room % Yet you forget it, though it has been often repeated. But you remembered the promise of a new dress which was made six months ago. Is the love of dress stronger than the love of duty?" Memory furnishes a key to unlock the secret cabi- net of feeling and principle. It reveals the hidden springs of character. If you forget moral duties, the memory of the heart is to blame. For the heart has a memory as well as the mind. Is the memory of your heart diseased ? Seek to that great Physician who made the heart. Memory is a criterion of moral taste. For if we naturally cherish those trains of thought which best please us. and if those which are most frequent- ly cherished leave the deepest impressions, then what we remember best, will shew the capacity and temper of our mind. We see one possessing an accurate knowledge of historical facts, with their dates and eras, and we say he has a taste for history. Another remembers nar« rative or poetry, and we say he has a taste for works of imagination. Another remembers fashions, amusements, pieces of scandal. Do they not each know, that to an attentive observer, they are hold- ing up a mirror of their mind ? But if it. is true, that we can remember what we please, and when we please, can we ^so remember 2 14 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. as mucn, as we please ? Not without labour. The quantity of what we remember, depends as much on industry, as the quality does on the taste and turn of mind. Do you find it difficult to remember what you study ? Quicken the motive. If a horse is dull, the rider touches him with the spur. Believe that your memory may be equally under your own control. But you must take pains to acquire that control. Think of the loss that you sustain in devoting time to the acquisition of knowledge, yet suffering that knowledge to escape. Suppose a farmer, after labouring through the season, should neglect to mow his grass, or to reap his wheat after it had ripened, or to gather his corn into the granary. Suppose a merchant should neglect to balance the accounts of iJhe year, or to call in what was due, or to invest his ^surplus money where it would be safe and profitable ? Would you not say that both the farmer and the mer- chant were exceedingly unwise ? Yet you are more so, if you go to school and neglect to store the trea- sures of knowledge. For to you, there can be no se- cond season of youth, in which to glean the sheaves you have neglected to gather, or the gold which should have been locked in memory's store-house for the winter of age. Sometimes you say that you cannot remember. Is it true? If it is, you will always be inferior to those who can. You will be ruled by them, as a blind person is subject to those who see. Are you willing it should be so? If not. open the eyes of your mind, and take good heed of what is written THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 15 in useful books, and of all that passes in the temple of science. It is not to scholars alone, that the retentive pow- er is important. ' Think of a housekeeper without a memory, — running hither and thither, — forgetting her own directions, and not able to find the articles which she daily needs. Would not her servants take advantage of her, and even her neighbours des- pise her? Is it indeed true that you have no memory? Then your mind is a cripple. Put it on crutches, and do with it as well as you can. But do not pro- claim its infirmities. Do not say I have forgotten, and feel no shame. You do not like to have your faults published. At least you are not bound to pro- claim them yourself, Let us rather believe that you have a good memo- ry, or at least that you wiH take pains to make it so. If you desired a boy to be active and healthy, would you confine him to the house and to walk always on a carpet? Would you not say to him, "go, and climb the rocks, and work in the open air." So, give your memory daily exercise, and do not shrink from that which is severe. When you read or hear what you wish to remem- ber, think of nothing else. Fix your attention, till you have done studying or listening. Think it over, and repeat it to yourself, till it is well committed. If it i3 a lesson, be prepared to recite it without mistake. If it is a lecture, or a sermon, or any thing addressed to the ear, speak of it to others, till it is rendereG zamiliar to yourself! 16 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. Every night, before you sleep, review what you have learned through the day. At the close of every week, call memory to account for what you have entrusted to her. Make brief hints in a note-book of the most important subjects, for future use. At the close of each month compare its gatherings with those of its predecessor. At the close of the year, or on your birth-day, read attentively in your note-book, what you have treasured through that year. Summon memory to draw the hints out at large, and embody them in language. Make a new note-book for the coming year, and write it neatly and legibly, that you may read it easily if you live to be old, and your eyes are dim. You need not confine this habit of writing brief notes, or texts for memory, to the time that you at- tend school. It would be jvell to continue it through life. For as long as we live, we have the privilege of being learners, and this life is a school in which we fit for a higher state of being. The hints which you will thus accumulate, will furnish good subjects of conversation with your family when you have one, and aid you in teaching your children. They will be as the book of recipes to a housekeeper, to which she refers for the comfort of those she loves. They will supply memory with texts from which she may preach many a profitable sermon when her pulpit is the arm-chair by the fire-side, and her audience a group of listening grandchildren. When you find iu your lessons, or in books that THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 17 you read, trains of thought that are difficult to re- member, class them with some recollections tha' are similar, or even in contrast. Associate them with some numerical statement. Cluster them like grapes, when you give them into the hand of memory. Like pearls on a string, they will be less liable to be lost, than when scattered abroad. I once heard a little girl say, " I have just learned that Jupiter has four moons. Now I will remember it by joining it with other things that have in them the number four. There are four seasons, four middle states, four asteroids, or little planets, and the other thing of four, shall be the moons of Jupi- ter." The child had discovered the principle of numerical association, which is a great help to memory. " Romulus slew his brother Remus," said a little boy, " and Cain slew his brother Abel. The first- born of Eden and the first king of Rome, were fra- tricides. One will make me remember the other.' Here was resemblance or similitude in fact, assisting the memory. Contrasted images may also be so associated, as to adhere strongly to recollection. Count no toil too great, that will give vigour to memory. She is to walk with you as a companion through life. It is important that she be healthful and fit for her work. She is the keeper of know- ledge. The wealth of the mind is in her casket. She has power over the fountains of pleasure, and of pain. But she has still an higher office. Her smile can give confidence to goodness, and enter as sunshine 2* 18 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOEU Into the soul. Yet dread her frown, if you persist in wrong deeds or feelings. She is a fearful repro- ver. She is in league with conscience, and has power to lift its scourge. Memory is the informer at the bar of judgment, if she slumbers here, she will awake there. She will stand forth and bear witness of you, when the [f dead, small and great, stand before God, and the books are opened, and all shall be judged from the things that are written in the books, according to their works." THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 19 ORDER, " Mother, will you please to tell me if you have seen my thimble ?" — " Martha, I thought you had a place for your thimble." — " So I have, dear mother, but it does not happen to be in the place." To have a place for things, and not keep them in it, is like having wise laws, and paying no regard to them. A nation will not be the better for its laws, unless it enforces them ; nor a child for being told its duty, unless it trys to obey. Martha's fault, was a want of order. Her work- ing-materials were scattered about the house. She was obliged to spend much time in searching for them. When the school-bell rang, some of her books could not be found. Perhaps, her bonnet, or shawl, or gloves, were mislaid. She felt ashamed to be so often inquiring for what she ought to have kept in their own place. So, she sometimes went without necessary articles, and was unprepared at school, or looked slovenly in the street. She was a little girl of a good disposition. But this fault occasioned her to be much blamed. And instead of being cheerful with a consciousness of right conduct, she was often disgraced and unhappy. When she grew up, she carried these careless habits into her housekeeping. Though she had a kind heart, there were disorder and discomfort in her family. Nothing was in its right place. Her work was done by the hardest, for want of the proper materials. 9 w 20 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. She was always in a hurry. This is an evil which comes upon those, who have not the spirit of order.* Her countenance, which used to be pleasant, soon wore a troubled and 'bewildered expression. Wrin kles came over her forehead, before it was time to be old. Though she was naturally amiable, this sad fault spoiled her temper. Her children imitated her, and kept none of their things in the right place. One would be heard complaining that a hat or cloak could not be found, and another bewailing a lost r*oll, or broken play-things. The mother fretted loudly at her little ones, for faults that grew out of her own want of order. She had a cousin, whose name was Mary. They lived near each other, and were of the same age. When they were young, they often played together, and sat on the same bench at school. Mary took good care of all that was entrusted to her. When she had done sewing, her needle was returned to the needle-case, and her thimble and scissors to the work-basket. Her knitting was neatly rolled, and replaced in its bag. Her garments were folded, and laid in the draw- ers and trunks where they belonged. Her bonnet was hung in the spot allotted to it, as soon as she entered the house, and her school-books laid on that part of the shelf, which she was permitted to call her own. At school, her pens and ink were in good order, and she never blotted her 1 paper, or her desk. She had no need to borrow, and if it had been dark, she THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 21 could have laid her hand upon all her things, — for she remembered their places, and knew that they were there. She had fewer things than her cousin Martha, be- cause her parents were not so rich. But she had i$ore that were ready for use. Her clothes lasted longer, and looked more neatly. For she had been taught to mend them, the moment that they needed it, and to fold each garment when she took it off at night. When she had a house of her own, every article in it had a place, and all who used it, were required to put it there. One of her first rules to her child- ren when very young — was, "a place for every thing ; ' and every thing in its place." And she obliged them to obey this rule. So her family were in order, and its daily labour went on like clock- work. Her countenance was pleasant and peaceful, like one who does right. And though she was not as handsome as Martha, it was more agreeable to look at her, because she was never in a hurry. Her quietness of mind seemed to proceed from a sense of justice, or of doing her duty even to inani- mate things: for we owe a duty to every article in. our possession, and to every utensil with which we work; the duty of keeping them in order, and a good condition. Sometimes, when I have called on these cousins, and found one fretting and bustling about, and the other placid and happy in her industry, it has re- 22 the girl's reading-book. minded me of a picture, that I once saw when I was a child. It was called the picture of the sisters of Bethany. You will remember that their names were the same as those of the two cousins, Martha and Mary. One, with a complaining, care-worn face, seemed indeed "cumbered with much serving;" the other wore that sweet, peaceful smile, which said plainer than words, that she had chosen the " good part." And in visiting many families, both in the city and country, I have observed that order and indus- try, were the two hands by which a housekeeper takes hold of her work, and makes the members of her household comfortable. « * THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. THE CHILDREN'S FIRST WALK. TOGETHER. They passed together, out of their father's gate, a little girl and boy. Their quick steps were short and unequal, as if they had trodden only on the nursery-carpet, or the smooth graver walk of the garden. They took their way along the village street. It was bordered with fresh grass. They Were pleased that it swelled into little mounds and again descend- ed, — and they thought every hillock was a mountain. They admired the daisies, and king-cups, — and when a robin flew by, they said, — " Bird, are these your flowers ? — may we pick some of them ?" Then they discovered a small brook, that went gurgling along, and stood wondering upon its pleasant banks. The sister's arm was over the neck of her brother. She was the eldest one. And tenderly she watched over him. If the swift wheel rushed by, or the wide-horn'd ox seemed to press too near, or the dog with open mouth paused as if regarding him, the same motherly care sat upon her sweet brow, as will hereafter take root there, when she rocks the cradle of her own babe. The bold, beautiful boy was glad to be free. He often looked back, till he saw that neither nurse or servant followed. Then he tossed his white arms high over his head, and shouted out his first joy ol liberty. But there was an eye that followed them. It never lost sight of them a moment, until they seem ed but as specks, far away, among the green trees. 24 the girl's reading-book. It was the eye of a mother, and in her heart she said, " can any evil come to those so fair and inno* cent ? Will not their very purity be their protec tion? Surely, angels will 'bear them up in their hands, lest they dash their foot against a stone.' " Then she mused further, and continued speaking, though none were near to answer. " Not long, not long, can ye travel thus together, — so lovely, so unharmed. There are snares and thorns for every pilgrim, in the path of life. " Neither may ye walk thus, side by side, — loving as with one heart. Ye must be divided. Who can tell your different paths? None, save He to whom the mother ever lifteth her heart. " But at one point ye will arrive. At the lonely tomb. There will ye lie down, and rise up no more. Whether on the wide waters, or the far western prairies, where the bear, and the hunter, and the fur- trader dwell; or beneath Indian skies, where the gold ripens ; or amid the rude northern seas, where the harpooner pierces the whale; — to one place ye must come — to the grave, your last bed. Little daughter, what shall be thy lot 1 To love, and to bear life's burdens, with a troubled, yet faith- ful spirit? Methinks I see thee nursing thine own infant, as I have nursed thee, stooping down to catch its fervent breath, as I have watched sleepless by thy side, when sickness came. " Wilt thou sit at last, with thy thin, white locks, teaching lessons of wisdom to thy children's chil- dren? Wilt thou lift thy dim eye to heaven, and charge them to seek Him early, who giveth strength the girl's READING-BOOK. ' 25 when flesh and heart fail, and when the tottering feet enter the dark valley of the shadow of death ? " Or art thou to be cut down in thy blossom, in the faint green of thine unfolding leaves 1 Shall thy mother lay thee in thy last cold bed, and come night- ly to weep the^s 1 Shall the hands that cherished thee in the cradle, plant a young white rose on thy turf pillow, an emblem of thy simple innocence 1 Who can tell?" The mother looked upward and said, " Thon, God, knowest." And when she had prayed, there came a trusting smile over her countenance, which seemed to say that her dear ones were his, and that he loved them, and would do no wrong to them, or to her. Then she heard the sweet voices of her children returning, like the chirping of young birds, who have newly ventured from their nest. And she went forth to welcome Jhem, and kissed their bright, ruddy cheeks, rejoicing in them, and in Him who gave them. 3 26 the girl's reading-book. THE BOY AND HIS GARDEN. A child held in his hand a slight, leafless shoot. It was like a supple, green wand. Yet it had br;en newly cut from the parent tree, and 'life was secretly stirring in its little heart. He sought out a sheltered spot in the piece of ground that he called his own. He planted it there in the moist earth. He came often to visit it, and when the rains of summer were withheld, he watered it at the cool hour of sunset. The sap, which is the blood of plants, began to circulate through its tender vessels. A tiny root, like a thread, crept downwards. Soon, around the head, there burst forth a garland of pale green leaves. Seasons passed over it, and it became a small tree. As fast as its branches came forth, they drooped downwards to the earth. The cheering sun smiled on them, — the happy birds sang to them : but they drooped still. " Tree, why art thou always sad and drooping?— Am I not kind unto thee? Do not the showers visit thee, and sink deep to refresh thy root ? Hast thou a sorrow at thy heart ?" But it answered not. And as it grew on, it drooped lower and lower. For it was a weeping willow. The boy cast a seed into his soft garden mould. When the time of flowers came, a strong budding stalk stood there, with coarse, serrated leaves. Soon the girl's reading-book. 27 there came forth a full, red poppy, glorying in its gaudy dress. At its feet grew a purple violet, which no hand had planted or cherished. It lived lovingly with the wild mosses, and the frail flowers of the grass, not counting itself more excellent than they. "Large poppy, why dost thou spread out thy scarlet robe so widely, and drink up the sunbeams from my lonely violet?" But the flaunting flower replied not to him who planted it. It unfolded its rich silk mantle still more broadly, as though it would fain have stifled its humbler neighbour. Yet nothing hindered the fragrance of the meek violet, nursing its infant buds. The little child was troubled, and at the hour of sleep he told his mother of the tree that continually wept, and of the plant that overshadowed its neigh- bour. She took him on her knee, and spoke so ten- derly in his ear, that he remembered her words when he became a man. " There are some who, like thy willow, are weepers all their lives long, though they dwell in pleasant places, and the fair skies shine upon them. And there are others, who, like the poppy that thou didst reprove, are haughty in heart, and despise the hum- ble, whom God regardeth. "Be thou not like them, my gentle child. But keep rather in thy heart the sweet spirit of the low- ly violet, that thou mayest come at last to that bless- ed place which pride cannot enter and where weep- ing is never known." THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. THE SUMMER SUN. The eastern sky is rich with prevailing light. What a beautiful saffron colour marks the horizon. Now, it spreads more widely around. In one spot there is peculiar brightness. A few rays shoot up, as heralds of some distinguished guest. Then the glorious sun appears, the eye of the world. It is not to our earth alone that he dispenses light and heat. Other planets rejoice in his brightness. Moving around these are still smaller bodies, like children with their parents. The sun has a large and beautiful family. Is he not like a patriarch with his eleven children, and his eighteen grandchil- dren? He sits on the chief seat among them, cheering them with his gifts. Do you know some bountiful person making the hearts of others glad? Have you a benevolent friend whose warm smile makes you happy? They may be compared to the sun " rejoicing in the east." Let them also remind you* of Him who made the sun, in " whom the outgoings of the morning and of the evening rejoice?" Hark, the birds sing. Some soar high with a graceful movement, into the clear, blue sky. The flowers, sparkling with dew, lift their bright eyes to their Benefactor. A fresh and grateful odour goes up from the green forests. Every plant and leaf seems to partake of a new joy. There was a statue in ancient Egypt called the statue of Memnon, which was said at sunrise to utter the girl's reading-book. 29 an articulate sound. So ought the most silent and cold heart, to speak forth praise for the gift of every pleasant morning. Turn to your protector in heaven, who has given you the repose of sleep. Kneel and thank him for his care. Many through this day will suffer pain and sickness. Ask him to keep you in health and usefulness. Many will weep over dying friends. Ask him to hold in life those whom you love. Some, ere the setting of this sun, will fall into temptation. Ask him to preserve you in the path of duty and of peace. Some will be taken out of the world. Should you be of that number, ask him to make you fit to enter heaven. He alone is able to do these things for you. His blessing is like the sun to the plants of virtue in your soul. Be sure to rise with the sun. Do not let him sur- prise you in bed. Pay him the respect to get up and meet him. Let your morning hours be indus- triously spent. JDr. Franklin said, " if you lose an hour in the morning, you may run all day and not overtake it." How true it is ! " Hours have wings, 1 ' said another wise man. See, it is noon. The sun has reached the meri- dian. The groups of children returning from school feel the heat. The labouring ox is permitted to rest awhile, as well as his master. The horses in the stage-coach pant, and are glad to draw near the ta- vern. The cows like to stand in the quiet stream. How refreshing are the shady trees. What a com fort is the pure, cool water. Now, the little Chinese child sleeps on the breast 3* 30 the girl's reading-book. of its mother. There are no men working in the rice plantations. The boats which are used instead of houses, lie motionless on the rivers, with their many twinkling lights. The little nests utter no chirping sound. All is still. For it is midnight in China, when it is noon-day here. The sun's journey is half completed. Is your own work for the day half finished, and well done? Look up to your Father in Heaven, for continued aid. Good works must be " begun, continued, and ended in him." It is not enough to ask his favour in the morning, and then forget him through the day, " Evening, and morning, and at noon will I pray/ 1 said David, the king of Israel. But the, sun is at the west. He is about to for- sake us. What a glorious show of clouds, purple and crimson and gold colour. They are his parting tokens, to remember him by, till he comes again, How they change, and mingle, and kindle, and fade Not the proudest monarch goes to rest under such a brilliant canopy. Twilight is a lovely season. It is a little stopping place, between day and night. It is a shady cell for thought to enter. It is the cleft of a rock, where we may hide from the company of cares.. A Scotch writer says, it is the " quiet time, when the shuttle stands still, before the lamp is lighted." Now the last ray of light has faded. Sleep begins to unfold her curtain. The birds go to their cham- bers among the green boughs. They close the wearied wing, and their little ones slumber beneath it. The domestic fowls prepare for the coming THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 31 night. The hen goes to its porch in the barn, and the turkey mounts the branches of the trees, rocking with every wind. Soon it will be time for us to retire. The active limb, and the thinking brain, need repose. But we will not go to rest, till we have examined our own conduct. We will talk with ourselves, seriously and alone. Where have we been this day ? What have we learned, that in the morning we knew not? Who have shown us kindness ? To whose comfort have we added 2 What have we spoken that we ought not to have said ? What have we left undone, that we ought to have done ? We will not rest in our bed, till we have answer- ed these questions. We will not lie down, like the burdened camel, with any wrong thing for which we have not asked forgiveness of God, or with the memory of any mercy for which we have neglected to thank him, lest our sleep should not be sweet. nor our hearts healthful, nor the next rising sun our friend. 32 the girl's reading-book. THE EIDER-DUCK AND THE BIRD OP PARADISE. The Eider-Duck is a fine bird. It is brown or white, and sometimes of other colours. It has a black crest on its head, like a little crown. If it lives to be old, its bright plumage turns gray. It is found in countries near the poles. It does not fear the cold, for it is covered with a soft, warm down. He who gave fur to the bear, and a coat of wool to the sheep, clothed this bird with a downy- robe, that it might resist the winter. It is fond of its young, and takes kind care of them. The mother-bird builds a good nest, and lines it with the down from her own breast. She plucks it off, and willingly bears the pain, that her little ones may be warm and sheltered. The eider-down is much valued. It is an article of commerce. It is used for the covering of beds, and to stuff cloaks and hoods, and to trim other arti cles of clothing. People are so desirous to get it, that they some- times tear in pieces the nest which the poor bird has lined for her young. This they call the live down, and prefer it to what they pluck from the birds after their death. They also climb high roeks, to obtain their eggs for eating. The eider-duck is found in great numbers, amid the perpetual snow and ice of Greenland, Iceland, and Norway. Sometimes they are seen in the neigh - bourhood of our great lakes, and in the northern parts of the United States. the girl's reading-book 33 A father was once walking with his little son. He carried a gun upon his shoulder. Suddenly he point- ed it at something upon a rock above his head. It was a large bird who seemed hard at work, spread- ing out her wings, and bowing down her head, and leaping up. " Dear father ; what is she doing ?" " Tearing the down from her breast, to make a soft bed for her little ones." "Does it not give her pain?" "Yes, but she loves them better than herself." The boy gazed earnestly at the eider-duck. " Fa- ther, how long is it since we moved into this new cold country V "Two years, my son." " I remember the first winter that we came here. My mother took us children to see the only neigh- bour that we had. It was a long way to walk, and soon after we left to return home, it began to snow. " The feet of the youngest girl tottered with weak ness. So, my mother took her in her arms. She toiled on with her through the storm, and against the wind. She took the only shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around the child, pressing her close to her bosom. " Ah ! how glad were we to see, at last, the lonely light streaming from our own window. It seemed like a star of heaven. When we got home, the little one was warm, but our poor mother was cold and faint and sick. " She had deprived herself of her own covering, that the child mi^ht be sheltered. And she did not 34 the girl's reading-book. complain, because she loved the child. Was she not a good mother ?" The father did not answer. And when the son looked up, he saw that there was a tear in his eye. " Is not the eider-duck a good mother ? See, she bares her own breast for her little ones. Dear fa- ther, let her live." So the father had compassion on the mother-bird, and spared her that she might take care of her young. The Bird of Paradise differs from the eider-duck, by living only in warm climates. It is never found many degrees from the equator. Its plumage is ex- ceedingly beautiful. The side feathers of the wing float out to a great length, and are of various bril- liant colours. They principally inhabit New Guinea, and the Spice Islands. They pass and repass in flocks of thirty or forty, conducted by a leader. They are very careful to consult the state of the wind, and always move against it, in order to preserve their voluminous train of feathers in good order. Sometimes the wind suddenly changes. Then their sweeping plumage becomes entangled, and the pride of their glorious beauty is their overthrow. They fall to the ground and are taken by the na- tives, or into the water and are lost. They are all distinguished by their splendid at- tire. They differ from the eider-duck, as the fash- ionable lady does from the domestic and devoted mother. It is only for ornament that they are prized by the inhabitants of the east. The nobles of Per the girl's reading-book. 35 sia, Surat, and the East Indies, are anxious to obtain them to wear upon their turbans. There are twelve or fifteen different species. The most elegant of these is called the Great Bird of Paradise. It is of a cinnamon colour, with a throat of golden yellow, and the body is small. It measures two feet from the bill to the extremity of its floating train. The natives had a tradition that they dwelt in the sky, and never touched the earth till their last hour Some travellers mention, that to prevent the detec tion of this error, they are so cruel as to cut off theii feet ere they sell them. It is this species of the bird of paradise which has sometimes been callei "the footless fowl of Indian fable." 36 the girl's reading-book. LESSONS IN THE FIELDS. When I was a child, I knew an old, gray haired man. Years had brought him wisdom, and he was kind as well as wise. So, I loved him, and rejoiced when I saw him coming towards me, leaning upon his staff. Once, as he talked with me, he said, " I know a way to be happy. I learned it in the fields." Then I entreated him to teach it also to me. But he an- swered, " Go forth into the fields, among living things, and learn it there for thyself." I went forth, and looked attentively upon all that moved around. But no voice spake, and no eye re- garded me. So, I returned to the aged man, and when he asked what I saw in the fields, I replied : c * I saw the brook flowing on among sweet flowers. ft seemed to be singing a merry song. I listened, but there were no words to the music. The spar- row flew by me with down in her beak, wherewith to line her nest, and the red-breast with a crumb she had gathered at the door, to feed her chirping young. " The ducklings swam beside their mother in the clear stream. The hen drev her chickens beneath her wings, and screamed to t\ e soaring hawk. The spider threw out threads like lines of silver 1 . She fastened them from spray to pray, and ran lightly on the bridge made from her ( wn body. " The snail put his horned head through the doos of his house of shell, and drew it suddenly back* THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 3? The ant carried in her pincers a grain of corn, and the loaded bee hastened to her hive, like a labourer to his cottage. " The dog came forth and guarded the young lambs. They frisked fearlessly by the side of their mothers, who with serioits faces were cropping the tender grass. All seemed full of happiness. " I asked of them the way to happiness. But they made no reply. Again and again I exclaimed, { which of you will teach me the way to be happy? 1 And only echo answered, repeating ' happy, happy? but not telling me how to become so." " Hast thou looked upon all these," said the aged man, " and yet received no instruction ? Did not the brook tell thee, it might not stay to be idle, but must haste to meet the river, and go with that to the ocean, to do the bidding of ocean's king ? " Did it not say to thee, that it found pleasure by the way, in refreshing the trees that stretched their roots to meet it, and in giving drink to the flowers that bowed themselves down to its face, with a kiss of gratitude? " Thou didst see the birds building their nests among the cool, green branches, or flying with food to nourish their unfledged young. And couldst thou not perceive, that to make others happy is hap- piness? " The young duck gave diligence to learn of its mother the true use of its oary feet, and how to Dalance its body in the deep waters. The chicken obeyed the warning to hide itself under the shelter- 4 38 the girl's reading-book. ing wing, though it was ignorant of the cruelty of the foe from which it fled. " And did they not bid thee seek with the same obedience the lessons of thy mother, who every day teacheth thee, and every night lifteth up a prayer that thy soul may escape the destroyer and live for- ever? " The spider's silken bower was swept away, and she began another without murmuring or despond- ence. The snail willingly put forth all her strength to bear her house upon her back; and the ant cheer- fully toiled on with a load of corn to her winter store house. " Thou sawest that the bee wasted not the small- est drop of sweetness that lingered in the honey- cups, or among the bells of the flowers. And came there no voice to thee from all these examples of patience, and prudence and wisdom? " Thou didst admire the shepherd's dog protecting the helpless, and zealously doing the bidding of his master. How couldst thou fail to understand that faithful continuance in duty is happiness ? " From all these busy teachers came there no pre- cept unto thee? When each gave thee lessons, wert thou deaf to their instruction ? Did not the fields lift up their hands, and tell thee that industry was happiness, that idleness was an offence both to Na- ture and to her God ?" Then I bowed down my head upon my bosom, and my cheek was crimson with shame. Because I had not understood the lessons of the fields, and was ignorant of what even birds and insects taught. the girl's reading-book. 39 But the man with hoary hairs comforted me. So, I thanked him for his tenderness and wisdom. And I took his precepts into my heart, that I might weigh them and find if they were true. And though I was then young, and now am old, I have never had reason to doubt that these lessons of the fields were good, and that to do the will of the Creator is happiness. 40 THE GIKf/S READING-BUOK. EASY STUDIES. 1 nearri iwo girls, as they conversed. One said, * I am sure I should not like to attend your school. You have longer lessons than I choose to learn. Be- sides, I think they give you too hard studies. I always prefer easy studies, and short lessons." Afterwards, as I reflected, I could not help saying to myself, — " Now, I am afraid, that this lover of short lessojis, and easy studies, — if she lives to grow up, and have the care of a family, will choose only easy things, and become indolent, and negligent in her duties. " I am afraid that when she is a woman, and any difficult thing presses on her, as it surely must, she will be discouraged, or perhaps unamiable. For a love of ease leads to selfishness, and selfishness to an unhappy disposition and wrong conduct." I once heard an excellent old lady say to her grand children, " If you will do nothing but what is easy, you will be neither a good mother, or a good housekeeper. Your children will be neglected, and your house out of order. You will complain of bad help, and no help, for the care that is necessary to make domestics faithful at their post, and contented to remain there, you certainly will not be willing to take. " The little girl," said she, " who will not learn to do this, or that, because it is hard, will be apt to be- long to that class, who do not like to keep house, and must go to board, to live easy. But in trying to THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 41 escape what they call troubles, they lose all thos pleasures of home, which make parents respectable, and children happy." The scholar, who loves only easy studies, and short lessons, if she carries those habits of mind into future life, will be in danger of becoming either a vixen, or a drone. When cares and crosses meet her, she will murmur under their burden, or decline the labour that they impose. It is a loss to know how to do nothing but what is easy. Strength of intellect is acquired by con- quering hard studies, and strength of character by overcoming obstacles. She who is not willing to contend with difficulties, is not fitted for this world. The being who best knows for what end we were placed here, has scattered in our path something besides roses. Especially is it a fault in our sex, to like only easy things. Our business is to seek the happiness of others rather than our own. Selfishness, in us, is sin; for it wars with the design of our Creator. And none can oppose his will, and be happy. Avoid, therefore, the determination to choose short lessons, and easy studies, lest the habits thus che- rished, should make you a self-indulgent and helpless woman. Gird yourself up to the race of life. Re- solve that whatever your duty to God and man requires, you will perform diligently and faithfully. The females of ancient Rome had a power of endurance, and a contempt of hardships, which eaused them to be respected, even in a rude age. The daughters of our republic, ennobled as they 4* 42 the girl's reading-book. are by higher knowledge, and a purer faith 5 ought surely not to be less energetic, or less disinterested. The increased advantages of education, now en- joyed by the young, heighten the expectations of their friends, and their responsibilities to God. Their minds are no longer fettered, or held in dark- ness. Every talent finds fitting employment in the broad field of christian duty and benevolence. Time was, when the temple of Science was barred against the foot of wom^n. Heathen tyran- ny held her in vassalage, and Mahometan prejudice pronounced her without a soul. Now, from the sanctuary which knowledge and wisdom have con- secrated, and from whence she was so long exclu- ded, the interdict is taken away. How will she receive the permission ? How will she prize the gift? Will she loiter at the threshold of this magnificent temple? Will she amuse herself in the outer courts, with those brief and gaudy flow- ers, which spring up where is "no deepness of earth?" Will she advance a few steps, and boast of herow'n attainments, and twine the garland of vanity around her brow, and be satisfied with ignorance ? Or will she press to the inmost shrine of the tem- ple of knowledge, among those patient and zealous worshippers, whose " candle goeth not out by night ?" Dear young friends, who are favoured with the privi- leges of education, these questions are for you. On those of mature age, habit has fastened her chains, and set a seal on character. With you, it is the forming period, the time of hope. Allure- ments to indolence and vanity surround you. Rise the girl's reading-book. 43 above them. Fix your standard high. Take for your models the wisest and best of your sex. Be active, while the deAvs of the morning are fresh around you. Soon, the sun will oppress you with its noon-day heat. It will find you toiling in steeper paths, and wearied beneath heavier burdens. Then you will wish to be refreshed with the rich fruits of a refined intellect. May you not have to take up the lamentation, " mine own vineyard have I not kept." The time must soon come, should your days be prolonged, when you will be young no more. Life will then be like a " twice-told tale." The present will be disrobed of novelty, and the future of its charm, and the mind will turn for solace to the gath- erings of the past. Furnish now your intellectual store-house for that day of need. Be willing to labour for knowledge, to learn long lessons, and to encounter difficult studies. Seek it with a tireless spirit, and so use it, that all within the sphere of your influence may rejoice in your mental and moral excellence and be quickened by your example to seek for ,k giory, honour, immor- tality, eternal life." 44 the girl's reading-book. OBEDIENCE. Next to your duty to God, is your duty to your parents. He has made them your guides, because they arc wiser than you, and love you better than any other earthly friends. You cannot always un- uersiand the reason of their commands. It is not necessary that you should. If you live to be as old as they are, you will perceive that their restraints were for your good. Think of the miseries of orphanage. The great- est loss that can befal a child, is to be deprived of pious and affectionate parents. While such bless- ings are continued to j^ou, never be so ungrateful as to distress them by disobedience. It is but a slight payment for all their watchings over your infancy, their care for your comfort, and patience with your errors, to do faithfully and cheerfully the things that they desire. When your parents are absent, observe their com- mands with the same fidelity as if they were present. The child who obeys only when under the eye of a superior, has not learned obedience. He, who seeth at all times, and in every place, is dis- pleased with those who deceive their parents. He hath promised to reward those who "honour their father and their mother." The principle of obedience, is the principle of order and happiness. If there were no subordina- tion in families, what comfort would be found there? If pupils refused to obey the directions of their the girl's reading-book. 45 teachers, what benefit could they receive from their instructions? If in nations, the laws were disre- garded, /what safety would there be for the people? Let the principle of obedience be rooted in love. Take pleasure in obeying the commands of your superiors. Even if you should have an opposing wish, let there be no reluctance of manner or coun- tenance. I doubted the obedience of a child, whom I once heard say to his mother, "I will go, when I have done one or two little things." But when I heard afterward, the mother asking earnestly, " did you do as I bade, you?''' I knew that he was not an obedient child, though I did not hear his answer. For if obedience had been habitual, his mother would not have felt it necessary to inquire if he had regarded her commands. She would not have feared that he had neglected them, if his heart had been in his duty. It is ill-treatment of our dearest friends, to yield to their wishes with a frowning brow, or a disagree- able deportment. Convince your parents and in- structors by your attentions and alacrity, that you are thankful for the trouble they take, in advising and directing you. No greater evil could happen to the" young, than for their older and wiser friends to withdraw their control, and abandon them to .their own inexperi- ence. If your superiors gave you a piece of gold, you would doubtless express your gratitude. But when they impart to you of thair wisdom, they give you that which is of more value than gold. When you are in school, feel it a privilege to be 46 , the girl's reading-book. there, and give your time and thought to the em- ployments which your teachers mark out for you. Keep all their rules. Consider it dishonourable to break them. Make the wishes of your instructors your own, and then you will acquire knowledge, with pleasure to yourself and to them. Treat old persons with respect. This is too apt to be forgotten by the young, though the Bible com- mands, " to rise up before the face of the old man, and honour the hoary head." We should fear to be irreverent to those, whom the Almighty has en- joined us to honour. The natives of this country, were observed by our ancestors to be exemplary in their treatment of the aged. The young rose up and gave place to them. They bowed down reverently before them. They solicited their opinion, and listened attentively till they had done speaking. The young men of the forest stood silent in their councils, when the gray-haired chieftains opened their lips. We should not be willing to have the untutored Indian surpass us in a duty so graceful. You remember that when a hoary-headed man oncie entered a thronged assembly in Athens, and there was no seat, the young people were so rude as to laugh at his embarrassment. But when he was in a similar situation at Sparta, the young arose and made room. " The Athenians know what is right," said he, " bul the Spartans practise it." May it never be said of us, that we understand our duties, but disregard the obligations they im- pose. Whenever you meet an old person, remem- the girl's reading-buOe:. 47 ber the command of God, and treat him with res- pect. Years have given him experience, and expe- rience is worthy of honour. Withhold not the rev- erence that is his due. " The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness/' Shew respect to magistrates, and to all who are in places of authority. There would be fewer muti- nies and revolutions, if children were trained up in obedience. Distinguish yourselves by submission and deference towards all whose station or virtues claim them as their due. It was said of Washing- ton, by his mother, that "his first lesson was to obey." Those best know how to direct others, who have themselves been taught subordination. By faithfully discharging your first and earliest obligations, you will be prepared to act well your part in future life. You will maintain good order in your own families, and honour just government in the land. And if you live to be old, and have only a few gray hairs where your bright locks now grow, you will deserve from the young the same cheerful obedience and grateful respect which you have yourself shown to your superiors. 48 the girl's reading-book. THE GOOD DAUGHTER. Ellen's mother died, when she was scarcely thir- teen years old. Her only brother had died the win- ter before. Her two sisters were married, and had removed to so great a distance, that she seldom heard from them. She was quite alone with her father. When her mother first died, she felt as if she never could be happy again. But when she saw her father looking so sad, she thought it was her duty to try to comfort him; and when he came in tired from his work, she would set a chair for him, and get him whatever he wanted, and speak pleasantly to him, as her mother used to do. She remembered how her mother made bread, and was ambitious to make it in the same way. She proportioned the articles just as she had seen her do. When she kneaded the dough, she used all the strength in her little arms. She took great pains to have it light, and to bake it well, and when she placed on the table the first loaf that she had ever made, she could not help weeping for joy, to hear her father say, " Child, this tastes like your mother's bread." She had often assisted in churning, but had never taken the whole charge of making butter. But she was anxious to try. She was careful to keep her milk-pail and pans very clean and sweet. In work- ing over the new butter, she patiently removed every drop of butter-milk, because she had heard her the girl's reading-book. 49 mother say that this was necessary m order to have it good. The neighbours were pleased with the industry of the little girl, and encouraged her in her house- keeping. She could not but miss her mother sadly, and many times a day grieved for her loss. But she went by herself to weep, for she said, " I will not make my poor father more sad by my sorrow. He has enough of his own to bear." When winter evenings came ; she swept the hearth neatly, and placed the light on the little stand, and sat down by his side with her needle. Her mother had thoroughly instructed her in plain sewing, and while she mended or made garments, her father read aloud to her. He began to be comforted by the goodness of his daughter, and she perceived that the tones of his voice grew more cheerful in the evening prayer, and when he bade her good-night. Her father worked hard every day. She had often heard her mother say that they were poor, and must economize. So as she grew older, she studied how to save expense. She knew that her mother made several very comfortable dishes with but a little meat. So she learned to prepare soup in the same way. Also, by putting thin layers of meat, with a little pepper and salt, and some broken pieces of bread, in a small pot, with a plenty of vegetables from their own garden, and covering them close until all was thoroughly stewed, a very nourishing dish was ready, when her father came home to dinner. They had near the door, a tree of nice sweet &p- 5 50 the girl's reading-book. pies. Some of these she pared and laid in a deep pan, mingling" them with a few sour apples to pro- duce a pleasant flavour, and covered the whole with a thick crust, which she broke after it was baked, and plunged into the warm apple-sauce. This made a kind of pie of which her father was fond. He also liked puddings, and she learned to make several cheap and good ones. Among them was one, she sometimes called the " Saturday pud- ding," because she baked it on Saturdays, that they might have it for a Sunday dinner, cold in the sum- mer, and in the winter warmed on the coals; for they were not accustomed to cook on that day, as they both felt it a privilege to go to church. She made this simple pudding by picking over and washing a gill of rice, to which she added a spoonful or two of brown sugar, and after letting it soak a while in three pints of milk, baked it. She felt it a pleasure to learn every thing, however small, that would make her father comfortable, and a duty to do it prudently. Her mother had been accustomed to sell what butter they could spare, to a lady in the neighbour- hood. Ellen continued to do so, and the lady ex- pressed herself much surprised that so young a girl should make so fine butter, and send It in such neat order. If she ever felt fatigued with her labours, she would recollect her mother's example, and always be pleasant and cheerful when her father came home. She had been early taught to knit and to spin, and remembered to have heard her mother say, that THE GIRL'S READING-EOOK. 51 stockings made from wool which was carded in the house, lasted much longer than that which was pre- pared at the factories, because the machine cut the wool so fine, as to impair its strength. She wished to avail herself of this knowledge, but found she could not succeed in preparing such smooth rolls as she had seen her mother spin. So she took the wool to a neighbour, who was experienced in such work, and offered if she would teach her how to prepare it, to sew for her until she was satisfied with the payment. " That I will, my good girl," said she, '*or any thing else you wish me to help you about, for wc all love you for taking such care of your father. Your wrists are not strong enough yet to break and card this long wool, and I shall be glad to have you make an apron for my baby." After the rolls were made, she spun them into very even yarn, and having heard her father say that he thought stockings were warmer and set closer for being seamed, she finished him two pair of long ones for winter, by knitting two stitches plain, and seaming the third, and was delighted to see how entirely they pleased him. Having an active mind, she began to think of some improvement in economy, and proposed that he should purchase from a man for whom he worked, a lamb or a sheep; "for it can get its living with the cow," said she, " and we can use its wool for stockings, and then you will not be obliged to buy." But, wilh all her prudence, she was not covetous, and many a little pair of thick stockings did she knit 52 the girl's reading-book. for poor children, and many a neatly mended gar- ment which she thought they could spare, did she carry to the sick ; for economy and generosity are often found together. When Ellen grew to be a young woman, she was a favourite with all. The old and thoughtful re- spected her for her obedience and affection to her only parent, who no longer felt lonely, so comfort able and cheerful had she made his home. She was also quite admired, for she had a good person, a healthfu-l complexion, and the open smile of one who is in the habit of doing right, and feels happy at heart, which is the truest beauty. When her young friends visited her, though she was fond of society, she did not forget that her first duty was to her father. However agreeable they were, as soon as the appointed time for his family devotions came, she would say in the gentlest man- ner, " my father has been long used to retire at nine." And those who were the most unwilling to leave her, could not but respect her for attention to his wishes. She was addressed by a deserving young man, who had known her merits from childhood. To his proposal she replied, " My father is growing infirm, and is able to work but little. I feel it my duty to take care of him as long as he lives. It might be a burden to others. It is a pleasure to me." " Ellen, it will be no burden to me. Let me help you in supporting him. Most gladly will I work for all." She saw that he was sincere, and they were married. Her husband had a small house and a the girl's reading-book. 53 piece of ground on which he laboured. She kept every thing neat and in order, and was always plea- sant and cheerful. "I have now two motives," she said, "to be as good as I can, — a husband and a father." Ellen's little children loved their hoary grand- father. She taught them by her own example how to treat him with respect. The warmest corner was always for him. When they saw her listening to all he said with reverence, they never thought of interrupting him, or disregarding his remarks. As he was deaf, she raised her voice when she spoke to him, in a steady, affectionate tone, and they learned to do the same. .As they grew older, they read the Bible to him daily, for his eyesight failed. His explanations were a treasure to them. Especially was he pleased when any of them learned to repeat by heajt some of the Psalms of David. " For these," he said, j have been my songs in the house of my pil- grimage." Teachers, and others, who saw the children of Ellen, observed that they had better manners than others of the same age. They acquired them, in a great measure, from their constant propriety of de- portment to their venerable grandfather. To pay respect to age, is a benefit both to the manners and character of children. It is an advantage to (hem to live under the same roof with a pious old person, provided they show them that reverence which the Bible commands. Ellen reaped a part of the reward of her filial dutyj 5* 54 the girl's reading-book. in seeing her children made better, and her fathej happy. In his last sickness all waited upon him When he was no longer able to raise his head from the clean pillow where it was laid, he thanked God who had put it into the heart of his daughter to nourish him with a never-failing kindness, and he blessed her and her husband, and their little ones. Death came for him, and his eyes grew dim, and they were no longer able to warm his feet and hands. Ellen raised him up in his bed, and sat behind him, and wrapped her arms tenderly around him, for she saw that he shivered. And most touch- ing was it to hear him say, as he leaned his head upon her shoulder for the last time, " The Lord bless thee and keep thee ; the Lord make his face to shine upon thee ; the Lord lift up the light of his counte- nance upon thee, and give thee peace." the girl's reading-book. 55 tfHE SICK. As sickness is at some time or other the lot of all, it is well to learn, while young, how to treat those who are sick, and how to conduct when we are our- selves so. The care of the sick is peculiarly the bu- siness of our sex. Therefore, even little girls should be trained to wait upon them, and to sympathize in their sufferings. Sickness is an evil, not only because it brings pain, but because it prevents us from being useful. We should consider good health as a precious gift from our Heavenly Father, and avoid any imprudence by which it is endangered. If Ave are necessarily ex- posed to cold, we should guard ourselves with thick clothing, especially about the feet. Shun the folly of wearing thin stockings in winter, or thin shoes when the streets are wet. Sickness, that comes through imprudence, is at- tended with self-reproach. We have no right to sport with our health. This wonderful frame, fa- shioned by an Almighty Hand, this temple of the immortal spirit, was not intended for us to mar and deface, as fashion or folly dictate. We should im- part the earliest indications of ill-health to those who have the care of us, as a slight remedy taken in season often prevents a formidable complaint. When you are seriously sick, give yourself up entirely to those who have the care of you. Take without objection whatever they bring you, how- ever unpleasant to the taste. Sickness is not a time 56 to gratify the palate, but to learn patience. Thank those who perform any service for you, however small. Do not add to their fatigue any more than you can help. If you see them standing long by your bed, request them to take a seat. If you have watchers, urge them to take refresh- ment in the course of the night, and, if possible, to get some repose. These attentions are pleasant to those who nurse you, and help to turn your thoughts from self, for selfishness is too prone to intrude into the chamber of sickness. Consider your physician as your friend. Tell him frankly all he asks, and submit to his remedies without opposition. Open your inind to cheering thoughts, and keep your heart full of hope, for they promote recovery. Spread your case before the Great Physician,- and ask his blessing on every remedy. When you are well again, remember that you are under a renewed weight of gratitude to Him, and to those who have watched over you, and shown you kindness, and from your own sufferings learn to pity others who suffer. The first thing to be considered in your treatment of the sick, is to avoid whatever might disturb them. This seems a slight attainment, and yet is not al- ways understood even by professed nurses. A child should be taught to avoid loud noises and laughter, heavy footsteps, and careless shutting of doors, when any one is sick in the house. And the more delicate attentions of shading the light from the face, or the lamp from the eye, and avoiding in the warming of drinks, or the arrangement of the fire, the girl's reading-book. 57 every sudden and shrill sound, should be familiar to all in attendance. Move with the greatest quietness around the cham- ber of the sick, and when you speak tfo them, do so with a pleasant smile, and a soft, low tone. When you carry any little delicacy to an invalid, arrange it with perfect neatness, and if you can, with taste. These little circumstances are observed by them, and have a cheering effect. If you send them fruit, or sweetmeats, dispose them so as to make an agreeable appearance. If you lay a nosegay upon their pil- low, let it be fresh and beautiful; and so place every flower, that its form and colouring may be most easily discerned. Remember the sick poor. Learn to make proper drinks or nourishing broths for them with your own hands. Visit them, and ascertain if their clothing and beds are comfortably provided, and converse with your parents and older friends respecting their situation. Such habits are valuable in the young, and should be cherished by those who have the charge of their education, as far as circumstances will admit. I once knew a little girl, who, when her mother had a headache, would glide around the house like a shadow, with her finger on her lip, to remind the other children to be silent. I have seen her, when her aged grandmother could not sleep for nervous- ness, pass within the curtains,. and press for a long time her temples with a soft, gentle hand, and then breathe low in her ear the simple tones of lulling mu- sic, till she was composed to slumber. And I joyed to i 68 the girl's reading-book. see in her thus early, the elements of woman's purei and better nature. It is well that kind sympathies should take deep root in the heart of young females. For our sex should ever bear about with them a nursing tenderness for all who suffer. In ancient times, ladies of high rank and wealth used to go to hospitals and alms- houses to visit the sick. Bending over their wretch- ed beds, they did not shrink to perform kind offices for the most miserable. The " blessing of him who was ready to perish came upon them." Let none of us feel that we are too young to do something for the comfort of the sick. P* the girl's reading-book. 59 THE POOR. The sacred Scriptures say, "the poor we have al- ways with us." It is the duty of the young, as well as those who^are grown up, to study the best means of relieving them. The kind feelings, the benevo- lent sympathies, that are thus called forth, bless the giver as well as the receiver. If you see a child in the winter shivering and thinly clad, make some inquiry into his situation. Perhaps you will find that his parents are burdened with too large a family to make all comfortable, or that his mother is a widow, or that he is an orphan. Then, if you can do any thing for his relief, or ex- cite others to do so, it will be the means of increasing your own happiness. It is a good plan to repair neatly your cast-off gar- ments, and now and then to knit a pair of coarse stockings, and to lay aside a part of any money that may be given you, to be in readiness for the claims of the poor. Never feel unwilling to give whatever you can spare, but consider the favour on your side, so great is the pleasure of benevolence. The young should always solicit the advice of their parents, or older friends, in their charities. The judicious relief of the poor, requires more knowledge of mankind, than those whose years are few can be expected to possess. Above all, never boast of any thing you give. It is an offence against the* nature of true charity, which " vaunteth not it- self, is not puffed up." 60 the girl's heading-book. Let me tell you of the girls of a school, who pitied the poor, and formed themselves into a society fo their relief. They had only Saturday afternoon for recreation during the week, and they resolved to -meet at that time, and devise means how they might best be assisted. Their parents gave permission, and their teacher allowed them to meet in the school- room. There, I have often seen them busy with their needles, their bright eyes sparkling with happiness, and their sweet voices consulting about their plans of charity, like a band of sisters. And I blessed them in my heart, and besought that the spirit of grace and consolation might ever dwell among them. For they were my own scholars, and I loved them as children. They were not soon weary in well-doing. Many garments were repaired and made, many pair of stockings knit, many books distributed among the ignorant. They established a monthly contribution, and decided, that the money which they devoted to it should be the fruit of their own industry. They employed themselves with their needles, and received from the friends for whom they worked, a regular price, which was sufficient for their chari- ties, That this new labour need not interfere with their appointed lessons, or their necessary recrea- tions, they rose an hour earlier in the morning, and thus secured time for all. Their Society was regularly organized, and among its officers w r ere four almoners, who, in distributing their bounty, visited the houses of the poor, and THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. Gl made report respecting them. An interesting child, who was deaf and dumb, once accompanied these almoners. In her strong language of signs and ges- tures, she related what she had seen in an abode of poverty. " It was a small, low room," said she. " The stairs were dark and broken. The snow through which we had walked was deep, and my feet felt very cold. But there was not fire enough to warm them. No. [ could have held in one of my hands those very few, faint coals. And there was no wood. " The sick woman lay in a low bed. If she sat up, she shivered, and she was covered with scant and thin clothing. Her pale baby threw up its arms and cried. But there was no physician there. Then the father came in, having in his hand some pieces of pine, which he had picked up. He laid them on the fire. But how soon were they burned up and gone. "His wife spoke to him, and when he answered, she looked sorry. Because I was deaf and dumb, I knew not what they were saying. So, I asked my friend. And she told me the poor woman said to her husband, ' have you not bought a piece of can- dle?' When he answered ' no, I have no money,' she said, with sadness, ' must we be in the dark an- other long, cold night, with our sick baby?' " As the tender-hearted child went on to describe, in her own peculiar dialect, the smiles that came suddenly over the faces of the sorrowing poor, at the unexpected bounty which she aided in bearing, tears of exquisite feeling glistened in her eyes; for 6 02 the girl's reading-book. her heart was awake to every generous sensibility though her sealed lips were precluded from their utterance. One of the best modes of assisting the poor, is through their own industry. To give them work, and pay them promptly and liberally, is far better than to distribute alms, which may sometimes en- courage idleness, or be perverted to vice. It also saves that self-abasement which minds of sensibility suffer, at receiving charity. To remove ignorance, is an important branch of benevolence. Study the art of explaining, in simple and kind words, their duty to those who fall into error for want of instruction. To distribute useful and pious books among those who are able to read, is an excellent form of bounty. They should be plainly written. A part of your money for the poor will be well devoted to their purchase. Read the books that you intend to distribute, at- tentively, before you buy them. Be sure that there is nothing in their contents, but what is intended to benefit the reader. Make a list of such books, with your opinion respecting them. Mention ichij you think they will be useful, and then you can give a reason for recommending them to others, who may desire to instruct the ignorant. The biographies of those who have been distin- guished for usefulness or piety, are excellent to awa- ken the spirit of imitation. If you are not able to purchase many, get o??e, and let it be easy of com- prehension. If you are not able to give it away, lend it, and when it is returned, converse with the the girl's reading-book. 63 ■I ! persons who have read it, and try to impress on their hearts the examples most worthy of being imi- tated. Thus by the gift, or the loan of books, you may be scattering around you the seeds of usefulness and piety. You may do more lasting good than by the gift of clothing or money, which soon pass away, and may be misused. When you relieve the wants of the body, always remember the soul. For how greatly will it add to your happiness, when you grow up, to know that you have enlightened the mind of but one child, and assisted in making him wiser and better. Do nothing charitable, from vanity, or a desire of having your good deeds known and applauded. Let your motives be, obedience to your Creator, and love for those whom he has created. They are all his family. He has breathed life into their bosoms. He watches over them. He has given them immor- tal souls. Some have black or olive complexions, some are red like the roving tribes of our forests, and others white. But "he hath made of one blood, all who dwell upon the face of the whole earth." They in- habit different climes, but the same sun gives them warmth, the same clouds send down rain to refresh them. Some wrap themselves in furs, or dig subterranean cells, to shelter themselves from the cold of winter. Others, in slight garments of cotton or silk, can scarcely endure the parching heat of their lo"2 summers. Some feed upon the rich fruits that a C4 THE GIRL'S RE^plXG-BOOK. tropical sun ripens. Others hunt the flying animals through the forest for their sustenance. Some drink the juice of the palm-tree, some press the liquor from the grape, some refresh themselves at the fountains of pure water. Some slumber in their quiet homes, and others upon the tossing treacherous sea. Yet the same fatherly hand pro vides for all. He who called all mankind forth from the dust of the earth, views them as one large family, seated at one common table, and soon to lie down in one wide bed, the grave. We see, perhaps, but one little cor- ner of the table. We see varieties of dress, com- plexion, and rank, and suffer our feelings to be affect- ed by these changeful circumstances. We behold one exalted upon a high seat, and we say, "he is more excellent than his neighbour." From those who hold the lowest places, or " gather up the crumbs under the table," perhaps, we turn away. Do we forget the great Father of all, who appointed their stations ? who looketh only on the heart? It must be pleasing to him who hath called him- self in his Holy Scriptures a God of love, that all his large family should regard each other as brethren and sisters. Let us think of our fellow creatures, as under the care of that Merciful Parent from whom all our blessings proceed, and let our good deeds to those who are less fortunate than ourselves, have toot in love. THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 65 EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. The years of my childhood past away in content- ment and peace. My lot was in humble and simple industry. Yet my heart was full of gladness, though 1 scarcely knew why. I loved to sit under the shadow of the rugged rocks, and to hear the mur- mured song of the falling brook. I made to myself a companionship among the things of nature, and was happy all the day. But when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down pensively. For I was alone, and had neither brother or sister. I was ever wishing for a brother who should be older than myself, into whose hand I might put my own, and say, " Lead me forth to look at the solemn stars, and tell me of their names." Sometimes, too, I wept in my bed, because there was no sister to lay her head upon the same pillow. At twilight, before the lamps were lighted, there came up out of my bosom, what seemed to be a friend. I did not then understand that its name was Thought. But I talked with it, and it comforted me. I waited for its coming, and whatsoever it asked of me, I answered. When it questioned me of my knowledge, I said, U I know where the first fresh violets of spring grow, and where the lily of the vale hides in its broad green sheath, and where the vine climbs to hang its purple clusters, and where the forest nuts 6* B6 ripen, when Autumn comes with its sparkling frost. "I have seen how the bee nourishes itself in winter, with the essence of flowers, which its own industry embalmed; and I have learned to draw forth the kindness of domestic animals, and to tell the names of the birds which build dwellings in my father's trees." Then- thought inquired, " what knowest thou of those who reason, and to whom God has given do- minion over the beasts of the field, and over the fowls of the air ?" I confessed, that of my own race I knew nothing, save of the parents who nurtured me, and the few children with whom I had played on the summer turf. I was ashamed, for I felt that I was ignorant. So I determined to turn away from the wild herbs of the field, and the old trees where I had helped the gray squirrel to gather acorns, and to look atten- tively upon what passed among men. I walked abroad when the morning dews were lingering upon the grass, and the white lilies droop- ing their beautiful heads to shed tears of joy, and the young rose blushing, as if it listened to its own praise. Nature smiled upon those sweet children, that were so soon to fade. But I turned toward those whose souls have the gift of reason, and are not born to die. I said, " if there is joy in the plant that flourishes for a day, and in the bird bearing to its nest but a broken cherry, and in the lamb that has no friend but its the girl's reading-book. 67 mother, how much happier must they be, who are surrounded with good things, as by a flowing river, and who know that, though they seem to die, it is but to live forever." I looked upon a group of children. They were untaught and unfed, and clamoured loudly with wayward tongues. I asked them why they walk- ed not in the pleasant paths of knowledge. And they mocked at me. I heard two who were called friends, speak harsh words to each other ; and was affrighted at the blows they dealt. I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He was built strongly, like the oak among trees. Yet his steps were weak and unsteady as those of the tottering babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one dead. I marvelled that no hand was stretched out to raise' him up. I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it, with her little ones. They looked downcast, and sad at heart. Yet methought, it was famine and misery, more than sorrow for the dead, which had set on them such a yellow and shrivelled seal. I said, "what can have made the parents not pity their children when they hungered, nor call them home when they were in wickedness '? What made the friends forget their early love ? and the strong man fall down senseless ? and the young die before his time?" I heard a voice say "Intemperance! And there is mourning in the land, because of this." So I returned to my home, sorrowing. And had 68 God given me a brother or a sister, I would have thrown my arms around their neck, and entreated, " touch not your lips to the poison cup, and let us drink the pure water, which God hath blessed, all the days of our lives. 1 ' Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy weep- ing, and I asked him why he wept. He answered, " because my father went to the wars and is slain, he will return no more." I saw a mournful woman. The sun shone upon her dwelling. The honey- suckle climbed to its windows, and sent in its sweet blossoms to do their loving message. But she was a widow. Her husband had fallen in battle. There was joy for her no more. I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside. Grief had made furrows upon his forehead, and his gar- ments were thin and tattered. Yet he asked not for charity. And when I besought him to tell me why his heart was heavy, he replied faintly, " I had a son, an only one. From his cradle, I toiled, that he might have food and clothing, and be taught wisdom. " He grew up to bless me. So all my labour and weariness were forgotten. When he became a man, I knew no want ; for he cherished me, as I had cherished him. Yet he left me to be a soldier. He was slaughtered in the field of battle. There- fore, mine eye runneth down with water, because the comforter that should relieve my soul, returns no more" I said, " shew me, I pray thee, a field of battle, that THE girl's reading-book. 69 I may know what war means." But he answered, " Thon art not able to bear the sight." " Tell me, then," I entreated, "what thou hast seen, when the battle was done." " I came," he said, " at the close of day, when the cannon ceased their thunder, and the victor and van- quished' had withdrawn. The rising moon looked down on the pale faces of the dead. Scattered over the broad plain were many who still struggled with the pongs of death. " They stretched out the shattered limb, yet there was no healing hand. They strove to raise their heads, but sank deeper in the blood which flowed from their own bosoms. They begged in God's name that we would put them out of their misery, and their piercing shrieks entered into my soul. " Here and there, horses mad with pain, rolled and plunged, mangling with their hoofs the dying, or defacing the dead. And I remembered the mourn ing for those who lay there — of the parents who had reared them, or of the young children who used to sit at home upon their knee." Then I said, "tell me no more of battle or of war, for my heart is sad." The silver haired man raised his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his side. And he prayed, "Lord, keep this child from anger and hatred and ambition, which are the seeds of war. Grant to all that own the name of Jesus, hearts of peace, that they may shun every deed of strife, and dwell at last in the country of peace, even in heaven." 70 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. Hastening home, I besought my mother, "shelter me, as I have been sheltered, in solitude, and in love. Bid me turn the wheel of industry, or bring water from the fountain, or teiyl the plants of the garden, or feed a young bird and listen to its song, but let me go no more forth among the vices and miseries of man." THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 71 THE GOOD SISTER. The village-bell tolled. Groups of people were seen slowly assembling at the funeral call. The hearse stood before the door of a small house, with a vine-wreathed porch. There the minister lifted up his solemn voice in supplication, that the living might be supported in their bitter parting with the dead. A feeble wail from the chamber mingled with his prayer. It was the moan of the young in- fant, from whom its mother had been suddenly taken. When the mournful family returned from the grave, the oldest daughter folded the babe in her arms, and pressed its little face long to hers. Tears flowed fast down her cheeks, as she said, u . I will be a mother to yoa, my poor little one." And the upward glance of her eye told, that her heart was asking of her Father in heaven, wisdom to supply to it the place of that good parent whom he had taken to himself. (t What will poor Mr. Allen do, nftw he has lost his wife?" said one of the neighbours. " He is not able to hire a nurse, and to hear the poor baby cry- ing all the time the minister was at prayer, was quite heart-rending." " Do you not know," said her friend, " that Lucy, the eldest girl, has undertaken the care of it ? It is truly wonderful to see one so young preparing its food so well, and waking pa- tiently in the night to feed it, and so anxious to learn how to nurse it when it is sick. We must go in and encourage her:" 72 the girl's reading-book. Lucy Allen was very careful to mingle the milk for the babe in just proportion, and to give it at regu- lar intervals. She washed and dressed it early in the morning, with the greatest tenderness, and lulled it to rest at the proper hours. She sat by her sad father through the long winter evenings. The babe lay sleeping in its cradle by their side. If it awaked, she rocked and*lulled it with a tender voice, and her father blessed her. It was a beautiful sight, to see that fair young girl, week after week, nourishing the feeble infant. Sometimes, when her gay companions urged her to go with them and spend the evening, she would say, " the baby is not quite well, and I am afraid to leave it so long." " O, you will make a mope of yourself for that baby. I dare say it can do well enough awhile without you." But Lucy would excuse her- self by saying, that her father looked lonely, and since her dear mother's death, she took more plea- sure in being at home with him, than in going out as formerly. The babe inclined to cry and be fretful. Lucy said it was irritable, because it was unwell, and as it grew stronger, it would grow more quiet. And so it proved. She attended to its health, and after a few monthSjits fits of crying abated. It grew lively, and began to have a ruddy cheek. She always spoke to it in a cheerful voice, and looked at it with a smile, for she saw that this seemed to make it hap- pier : and said, " poor, dear child, it has no mother to comfort it, and all I can do is so much less than she would have done, that I feel sorry for it." THE GIRL S READING-BOOK. 73 .aucy had not been accustomed to be disturbed in her rest. When she was kept waking i great part of the night, as she sometimes was, while the babe was getting teeth, she could not help feeling tired and wea& in the morning. But she never complain- ed,. She remembered how patiently her mother had nursed the others in their sicknesses, and tried to imitate her. And when the little one began to walk, and when the first word it lisped was her name, and when it stretched forth its arms to her, as to a mo- ther, she felt more than repaid for all her toil. But it was not the care of the infant alone, that exercised Lucy's affection and patience. She had two other sisters and brothers, to whom she tried to fill a mother's place. The sister next to herself in age, was about thirteen, and assisted much in the work of the family. She was not, however, always amiable, and was sometimes jealous that Lucy in- tended to rule her. But by mildness and kindness, she succeeded in convincing her that she had only her good in view, and induced her to try to regulate her temper and improve her character. The two brothers were eleven and nine years old. Lucy took great care that they should have their lessons ready for school, and that they should be 'there in season, and neatly dressed, with clean hands and faces She charged them not to keep company with bad boys, and gave them the same advice about truth and honesty, and respect for age, and reve- rence for the sabbath, which her pious mother had given to her. One morning, the youngest bov came running in — 7 74 the girl's reading-book. 11 Sister Lucy, I have cut my finger dreadfully. I did it in cutting a thick board with father's sharp knife." She instantly produced the basket, in which she kept lint, and soft pieces of old linen, and salve, and cotton bats for burns, and proceeded to do it up skilfully. But the tears flowed afresh. " Does it p^in you much, little brother?" "Yes. But the worst of it is, father told me not to touch that knife, and I am afraid to tell him." " You have done very wrong to disobey your fa- ther. But you must own to him exactly how it was. Faults are made worse by concealment. I remem- ber an old school-mistress, who used to tell us, 1 speak truth, and let the sky fall.' And it was right advice, because God is a God of truth, and re- quires truth of all who hope to live in heaven at last," Her little brother promised her that he would con ; fess his fault. But she saw that he was very much afraid, and remembered that her father was some- times inclined to be severe, and her heart yearned towards the child. So, she went out to meet him, when she saw him coming home, and told him that her little brother had done wrong, but had suffered in consequence, and seemed penitent. The boy con- fessed his fault, and the father forgave his disQbedi • ence, for the sake of Lucy's intercession. The youngest girl was scarcely six. Between herself and the babe there had been another, who died, and she. in consequence of this, had been much indulged. Lucy felt the great importance thaJ her moral training should have vigilant attention THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 75 She used towards her great gentleness and firmness, and was always consistent, so that her word was re- lied on and respected. Soon the child became obe- dient, and being very affectionate, grew happy, and every day more attached to her sister. The principal fault of the little sister was thought- lessness. Lucy took great pains to teach her to at- tend, and to remember. She was very apt to meet with accidents, to tear her clothes, or to lose her little possessions. Lucy never upbraided her, for she said this was the way to make children bad- tempered or deceitful. But she steadily exerted her- self to make her think what she was about, and to put things in the right place. • The second sister would often speak harshly to the little one, when any accident befel her, through what seemed to be her own carelessness. But Lucy begged her not to do so, and said, " to scold at a child, makes them learn to scold also, if they dare ; and if they dare not, frightens them into falsehood." So, the child, when she tore her frock or her apron, brought it trustingly to Lucy's needle, and heeded, out of gratitude, the advice that she gave her. The father was greatly comforted by Lucy's good- ness. When he told her so, she felt that it was an over-payment for all her toil. Her brothers and sis- ters, as they grew up, blessed their good sister. When ever she was in doubt respecting her duty to them, she asked herself, what would my dear mo- ther have done? If the duty was difficult, she re- tired to her chamber, and prayed to Him, from 76 the girl's reading-book. whom is all our sufficiency, and He gave, her the strength that she needed. All who knew Lucy Allen admired her conduct. The mothers wished for such a daughter, and the young for such a friend. She was considered more beautiful than those who flaunted in fine dress, or sought for fashionable amusement; for the warm- est, purest affections beamed in her face, and they are the true beauty of the heart. But happy as she was, in the love of all the good, she felt the highest thrill of pleasure, when the babe that she had reared to a healthful and fair child, came to her with all its little joys and sorrows, saying, that " better than all the world beside, it loved its dear sister-mother." THS girl's reading-book. 77 THE TRUE FRIEND. Young persons are fond of agreeable society. A lonely room, or a solitary evening, does not suit their cheerful temperament. They are willing to bear fa- tigue, the heat of the summer's sun, or the storm of winter, to meet a pleasant companion. They naturally wish to obtain a friend, in whom they can confide. They read much of the pleasures of friendship, and are anxious to possess a treasure which the wise and good extol. Shall I tell you of a pleasant companion, and a true friend, who is always near, and whose acquaint- ance may be readily secured ? Should you ever live far from neighbours, or be divided from your parents and relatives, such an acquisition would be highly valuable. First, let me describe this friend to you. She is exceedingly like yourself. Her eyes and the tones of her voice are the same. When you are good and happy, she smiles also. In your sorrows she sym- pathizes. She makes your joys her own. You perceive that she has the qualities of a good friend. In one respect, she will be better to you than any other. The dearest friends die and leave us. We mourn in desolation over their graves. But the friend of whom I speak, has the assurance of living as long as you do, and at your own death-bed will be nearer to you than the nearest relation. She might say to you in the beautiful language ot Ruth, " whither thou goest, I will go ; where thou 7* 78 the girl's reading-book. lodgest, I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God ; where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried ; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." Will you be introduced to this friend ? She has some peculiarities, of which rt is but right to inform you. When you try daily to improve, and are in- dustrious, and affectionate, and pious, she is in good health. But when you fail in your duties, she is sick and sad, and no common physician can under stand her case, or give her medicine. If you persist in doing wrong, she has a way of hanging a heavy weight in your breast, which those who have felt it, say is a severe punishment. She is said also to have some tendency to jealousy, and not to like the presence of a third person, at her particular interviews. But though she wishes exclusive attention during the period devoted to her, she is not unreasonable in her claims upon your time. Half an hour out of the twenty-four, will content her. And she chooses this half hour should be the last before retiring, when the business of the day is done. She requires that you should be punctual to meet her at the appointed time, and frank in replying to all the questions she may see fit to propose. And now, will you cultivate an intercourse with this per- sonage 1 It will certainly do you no harm. Can this be said of all with whom you associate ? Those who have made the greatest progress in her intimacy, acknowledge that the beginning was rather awkward, for she is averse to flattery, and apt to the girl's reading-book. 79 blame what is wrong. But as they persevere, it be- comes delightful, and her smile is a rich reward for every toil. If you wish to enlarge the circle of your acquaint- ance by such a friend, tell her so. Promise to con- form to her modes of conversation. Sit down alone, and wait for her, when the cares and employments Df the day, like shut roses, are drinking the dews of slumber. While you meditate, she is near. When you hear a still voice, like a soft breath passing over your cheek, be ready to answer with truth, such questions as the following: " Did you rise early this morning? and were your first thoughts turned to Him who protected you through the night, and is alone able to sustain you through the day ? " Have you realized the value of time, and labour- ed to improve it ? Have you been obedient to your parents and teachers, and respectful to the aged ? " Have you been affectionate to your brothers, sisters, and companions, and tried to promote the comfort of all with whom you dwell ? Have you instructed the ignorant? or relieved the poor? or shown kindness to the sick and sorrowful ? " Have you been patient when you were disap- pointed, and restrained your temper when you were provoked? Did you repress vanity, and in ' all low- liness of mind, esteem others better than yourself? 1 " Have you preserved a cheerful countenance and manners, and tried to make all around you happy? Shall your last act, before you retire to rest, be, to thank the Almighty Father for all his mercies, and 80 the girl's reading-book. implore his aid to advance daily in wisdom ana piety?" Happy are you, if you can answer these ques- tions in the affirmative. The True Friend who pro- poses them, is your own heart. Make it your night- ly monitor. It will strengthen you in the race of virtue, and its payment is the approval of conscience, that pure gold, which rust cannot corrupt, nor ro*- ber take away. THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 81 THE HAPPY FAMILY. I once passed several months under the roof of a farmer. It was to me one of the pleasantest and mosi profitable visits I had ever made. For I saw continually around me, that industry, economy, and contentment, which make every rational household happy. The whole family rose before the sun. After an early breakfast, every one proceeded to the business of the day. The farmer and his sons went with their workmen to the field. The swift strokes of the churn were heard, changing the rich cream to the golden-coloured butter. I was never weary of watching the progress of the cheese, from its first consolidation, to its reception in the press, and its daily attentions in the dairy. Above stairs, the sound of the loom, and the flight of the shuttle, allured me. There, various fabricks for the comfort of the family were wrought out, from the carpet on which they trod, to the snowy linen that covered their beds, and the firm garments from the fleece of their sheep, in which they fearlessly braved the cold of winter. But my delight was especially in the spinning- room. There the wheels turned swiftly with merry music. The step of the spinner was light, and her face cheerful, as she drew even threads from the fair white roll, or the blue one that was to furnish stockings for the father and brothers. Masses of yarn, assorted according to its various 82 THE GIRL 5 S READING-HOOK. texture and destination, hung upon the wall. Each one was pleased to add to the store, her new skeins. The flying reel told audibly the amount of every spindle, and pronounced when the useful task of the day was done. This seemed to me the kind of in- dustry, which more than any other promoted cheer fulness and health. The daughters of the family had blooming and happy countenances. They used their strength freely in domestic toils, and when they went out to any distance, rode well and fearlessly on horse- back. They seemed never to have any nervous complaints, or to need a physician. Exercise, and the healthful food on which they fed, and their own happy spirits, were their medicines. The mother superintended all that concerned them, with a serious dignity. She taught them every necessary employment, by first taking part in it herself, and then deputing it to them. She in- duced them to consider the interests of their father as their own, and instructed them by her own ex- ample how to lessen his expenses. She sent to market, in the best order, the surplus of her dairy, and poultry-yard, and loom. It was her ambition, that the finer parts of the wardrobe of herself and family, should be thus procured. It pleased her better, than to make demands upon the purse of her husband. Her eldest daughters desired to have some money of their own, to purchase such books as they liked, and to assist the poor. She encouraged their design, and gave them a room in which to rear the silk- the girl's reading-book. 83 worm. There they were seen busily tending that curious insect, whose changes from the little egg like a mustard-seed, to the cell of silken tapestry where it gathers up its feet to die, shew the won- derful hand of that Being, who is "excellent in working." Their small skeins of silk, tastefully arranged for sale, imitated the colours of the rainbow, and they were delighted to find, how soon the wand of indus- try could convert the mulberry leaf to silk, and the silk to gold. They also aided their younger broth- ers in a pursuit which interested them — the care of bees. Rows of hives were ranged in a sunny and genial spot. Beds of flowers, and fragrant herbs, were planted to accommodate the winged chymists. The purest honey gave variety to their table, and the superflux, with the wax that was made from the comb, were amofcg the most saleable articles of their domestic manufacture. The long winter evenings in the farmer's house were delightful. More healthy and happy faces I have never seen. Yet there wqs perfect order. For the parents, who commanded respect, were always seated among the children. And in the corner, in the warmest place, was the silver-haired grand- mother, with her clean cap, who was counted as an oracle. The father, or his sons, read aloud such works as mingle entertainment with instruction. The females listened with interest, or made remarks with anima- tion, though their busy hands directed the flight of 84 the girl's reading-book. the needle, or made the stocking grow. The quiet hum of the flax-wheel, was held no interruption to the scene, or to the voice of the reader. The neighbour coming in, was greeted with a cordial welcome, and a simple hospitality. Rows of ruddy apples, roasted before the fire, and various nuts from their own forest-trees, were an appropri- ate treat for the social winter-evening, where heart opened to heart. Sometimes, the smaller children clustered around the grandmother's chair, begging her for a story. She told them of the days when she was young like them, and of the changes that her life had known. Especially, she loved to tell of the lessons of her parents, and of the obedience with which she re- garded them. " They taught me," said she, " to wor*, and not to be ashamed of industry. I had a companion, about my own age, who once spent a fetf months at a city boarding-school. When she came home, it was ob- served that she was ashamed to be seen doing the same useful things, by which the family were sup- ported. "Her mother directed her to go and milk ftie favourite cow. which she had so long been accus- tomed to do before she went to school, that it was called her own. While she was doing it, a neigh- bour came into the barn yard, and she was so much afraid of being seen, that she hid her head under the cow. till she was almost smothered. "Whenever my mother thought I was not pleased with humble occupations, or plain clothing, she the girl's reading-book. 85 would say, { child, don't hide your head under the cow.' And this made me so much ashamed, that I willingly did whatever she thought best. And now, children, never be ashamed of honest industry, for it is mere foolish than to hide your heads under a cow, in a warm day." Thus, by simple stories would she instruct them in the various duties of life. Especially would she warn them to fear God, and keep his command- ments. At the stated hour of retiring, a sweet and solemn hymn, in which every voice joined, gave praise to the Almighty Preserver. Then the great Bible, taken from the place where it was carefully kept, was laid before the father of the family. He reverently read a portion from its sacred pages, and then in prayer committed his be- loved household to the care of Him who never slum- bers. During my visit to this well regulated family, I was often led to reflect on the peculiar advantages of a farmer's lot. He is the possessor of true inde- pendence. Sheltered from those risks and reverses, which in crowded cities await those who make haste to be rich, he feels that patient industry will ensure a competent support for himself and family. His children are a part of his wealth. They are a capital, whose value increases every year that they remain with him. If he incurs misfortune, they join and help him out, instead of hanging round his neck like millstones, to sink him into deeper waters. The habits which prevail m his family, the do- 8 8b THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. mestic industry, the love of home, the order and simplicity cherished there from ancient times, pro- mote the true excellence of the female character. Many of our most illustrious men have been the sons of farmers, and traced the elements of their distinction, to the hardihood and discipline of agri- cultural nurture. During my visit to this happy family, when I looked round upon the healthful faces of its growing members, their patient diligence, their moderated desires, their cheerful subordination to their parents, and saw those parents, not wasting their strength in the idle ceremonies of fashionable life, but true hearted and hospitable, independent and pious — I said, this is the true order of nobility for a republic, and if the virtue that upholds it should fly from the pomp of cities, she will be found sheltered in safety and honour, amid the farm-houses of our land. THJJ girl's reaeing-ecok. 87 LETTER TO THE FEMALES OF GREECE. When Greece was passing through the revolu- tion, by which it gained freedom from the Turkish yoke, great pity was felt in the United States, for the sufferings of its inhabitants. Especially was the sympathy of our females excited, for the miseries that the war brought upon their own sex. f They were represented in continual terror of their Turkish oppressors, often forced from their own homes, scarcely clothed, and wretchedly feed- ing, with their children, upon the snails and meagre herbage of the barren mountains whither they were driven. The letters of Dr. Howe, now the Principal of the Institution for the Blind, in Boston, powerfully de- scribed their sorrows and their patience. His resi- dence in Greece had rendered him familiar with the evils which he related, and his appeal to the bounty of his native land was not in vain. Vessels were freighted with provisions and cloth- ing, and trusty agents sent out to distribute them. Not only in the larger cities, but in the villages of our country, the spirit of benevolence was awake and active. The cry of Greece seemed to enter into every ear. Donations were given. Contributions were gath- ered. Ladies formed societies, and consulted how the money thus collected, might be best disposed of for the benefit of Greece. Even the poor believed 88 the girl's reading-book. that they had a garment to spare, and brought it with tears, for the poorer women of Greece. Cloth was purchased, and garments cut- out, for those of every age, from the infant, to the hoary- headed. The little girls from the schools, forgot to play on their holidays, and sat down to work for the children of Greece. Ladies of the greatest wealth, plied their needles industriously, that the unfortunate Greeks might be clothed. Their servants also came, offering a part of their wages. They sat down by their side, work- ing for the same charity. It was like one great sisterhood, in which narrow distinctions were forgotten. Such was the spirit of harmony breathed into every heart, it would seem that we were debtors to the Greeks, and not they to us. It was the happiness of benevolence. There is no other like it. The little ones partook of it, and their smile was brighter, while they learned the luxury of doing good. Their voices were tender and sweet, as they said to each other, " Greece hungered, and we gave her food ; she was naked, and we clothed her." In one of the cities of New England; when the boxes of apparel, and the barrels of provisions, were ready to be sent, it was suggested that a letter should accompany them. One was accordingly written, and translated into modern Greek. It was received and read by those desolate wo- men, with the weeping of joy. And it affords a lesson to those who have nothing else to give, that the kind words of affectionate sympathy are balm the girl's reading-book. 89 to the afflicted heart. Here is a copy of the letter to the females of Greece. " Hartford, Conn., March 12th, 1828. Sisters and Friends, From our years of childhood, the land of your Mrth has been the theme of our admiration. With our brothers and husbands, we ear]y learned to love the country of Homer and of Solon, of Aris- tides aifid Herodotus, of Socrates and of Plato. That enthusiasm which the glory of ancient Greece enkindled in our bosoms, has kept alive a fervent friendship for her children. We have seen with deep sympathy the horrors of Turkish domi- nation, and the struggle so long and nobly sustain- ed, for existence and for liberty. The communications of Dr. Howe, since his re- turn from your afflicted clime, have made us more intimately acquainted with your personal sufferings. His vivid descriptions have presented you to us, seeking refuge in caves, and dens of the earth, listening in terror for the footsteps of the des- troyer, or mourning over your dearest ones slain in battle. Sisters and friends, our hearts bleed for you. De- prived of parents and protectors by the fortune of war, and continually in fear of evils worse than death, our prayers are with you, in all your wand- erings, your wants, and your woes. In this vessel, (which may God send in safety to your shores,) you will receive a portion of that bounty with which he hath blessed us. The poor 8* 90 THE GIRL'S READINO-BOOK. among us have contributed, according to their abilities. Our children have added their gifts and their industry, that your children might have bread to eat, and raiment to put on. Could you but have seen the faces of our little ones brighten, and their eyes sparkle with joy, as they gave up their holiday sports, that they might work with their needles for Greece, — could you have beheld those females who earn a subsistence by labour, gladly casting a mite into your treasury, or taking hours from their repose, that you might have an additional garment, — could you have wit- nessed the active benevolence inspiring every class of our community, — it would cheer for a moment the darkness and misery of your lot. Inhabitants, as we are, of a part of one of the smallest of the United States, our donations must of necessity be more limited than those from the larger and more wealthy cities. But such as we have, we give in the name of the dear Saviour, with our blessings and our prayers. We know the value of sympathy, how it girds the heart to bear, how it plucks the sting from sorrow. Therefore we have written these few lines to assure you, that in the remote parts of our.country, as well as in her high places, you are remembered with pity and with love. Sisters and friends, — we extend across the ocean, our hands to you, in the fellowship of Christ. We pray that his cross, and the banner of your land, may together rise above the crescent and the minaret, — that your sons may hail the freedom of the girl's reading-book. 91 ancient Greece restored, and build again the waste places, which the oppressor hath trodden down, — and that you, admitted once more to the felicities of home, may gather from past perils and adver- sities, a brighter wreath for the kingdom of heaven." THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. HOPE AND MEMORY. A babe lay in its cradle. A. being with bright hair, and a clear eye, came and kissed it. Her name was Hope. Its nurse denied it a cake, for which it cried; but Hope told it of one in store for it to-mor- row. Its little sister gave it a flower, at which it clapped its hands joyfully, and Hope promised it fairer ones, which it should gather for itself. The babe grew to a boy. ile was musing at the summer twilight. Another being, with a sweet, se- rious face, came and sat by him. Her name was Memory. And she said, "Look behind thee, and tell me what thou seest." The boy answered, " I see a short path, bordered with flowers. Butterflies spread out gay wings there, and birds sing among the shrubs. It seems to be. the path where my feet have walked, for at the beginning of it is my own cradle." " What art thou holding in thy hand ?" asked Me- mory. And he answered, " a book which my mo- ther gave me." " Come hither," said Memory, with a gentle voice, " and I will teach thee how to get ho- ney out of it, that shall be sweet, when thy hair is gray." The boy became a youth. Once, as he lay in his bed, Hope and Memory came to the pillow. Hope sang a merry song, like the lark when she rises from the nest to the skies. Afterwards, she said, " Fol- low me, and thou shalt have music in thy heart, as sweet as the lay I sung thee." the girl's reading-book. 93 But Memory said, " He shall be mine also. Hope, why need we contend? For as long as he keepeth Virtue in his heart, we will be to him as sisters, all his life long." So, he embraced Hope and Memory, and was beloved of them both. When he awoke, they blessed him, and he gave a hand to each. He became a man, and Hope girded him every morning for his labour, and every night he supped at the table of Memory, with Knowledge for their guest. At length, age found the man, and turned his tem- ples white. To his dim eye, it seemed that the world was an altered place. But it was he him- self who had changed, and the warm blood had grown cold in his veins. Memory looked on him with grave and tender eyes, like a loving and long-tried friend. She sat down by his elbow-chair, and he said to her, " Thou hast not kept faithfully some jewels that I entrust- ed to thee. I fear that they are lost." She answered mournfully and meekly, " It may be so. The lock of my casket is worn. Sometimes I am weary, and fall asleep. Then Time purloins my key. But the gems that thou gavest me when life was new, see ! I have lost none of them. They are as brilliant as when they first came into my hands." Memory looked pitifully on him, as she ceased to speak, wishing to be forgiven. But Hope began to unfold a radiant wing which she had long worn con- cealed beneath her robe, and daily tried its strength in a heavenward flight. 94: the girl's reading-book. The old man lay down to die. And as the soul went forth from the body, the angels took it. Me- mory ascended by its side, and went through the open gate of heaven. But Hope paused at the threshold. There she expired, like a rose faintly giving forth its last odours. A glorious form bent over her. Her name was Immortal Happiness. Hope commended to her the soul, which she had followed through the world. u Religion," she said, "planted in it such seeds as bear the fruit of heaven. It is thine forever." Her dying words were like the music of some breaking harp, mournful but sweet. And I heard the voices of angels saying, " Hope that is born of the earth must die, but Memory is eternal, as the books from which men are judged." I the girl's reading-book. 95 THE SLEEPIiESS LABOURERS. Those who conduct important trades, or laborious manufactories, prefer such assistants as possess bo- dily vigour, and can endure fatigue. Some occupa- tions, it is necessary to continue during a part of the night. Yet even the strongest labourers cannot long bear this system, unless they take additional sleep during the day. Did you ever hear of labourers who never slept? And yet there are two such. They labour for you. Say you, that you have never seen such labour- ers? Yet they propel the most curious machinery for your benefit. Listen ! can you not hear them at their work? Their workshop is within you. Look, and see what there is about you, that does not need repose. The hands are obliged to rest from their toil. The limbs stretch themselves out, and relax their wearied muscles. The strained eye closes upon its tasks. The ear shuts up its labyrinth. The thinking brain retires within its curtained cells. The tongue ceases to do the bidding of the soul. The head seeks its pillow, and the strong man lies as powerless as the nursing-babe. But these two sleepless labourers remit not their toil. . They complain of no weariness. They accept of no re- laxation. They stand upon the wall of life, senti- nels who never put oflf their armour, watchmen who are never relieved. Other labourers require supervision. The mer- chant holds his clerk accountable, and the master 96 the girl's reading-book. his servant. The head manufacturer has an eye to his machinery, the farmer goes to the field with his men, the teacher is watchful that his rules may be brought to bear upon his scholars. The hand de- pends for its dictates upon the ruling mind ; the foot, like an errand-boy, waits its orders where to go ; the eye and the ear gather into its garners. The sleepless labourers trouble the mind for no directions. They require not to be told what their work is, or to be questioned whether they have done it. It is the custom to reward with increased wages, those servants who perform severe labour, and to give high salaries to such agents as fill difficult and responsible stations. What payment is accorded to these labourers, who wake and work while we sleep, without whose aid we are not able to draw a single breath? I grieve to say, that the fashion of our sex has dealt hardly by them. She seems not to have appreciated their services. She impedes them in their myste- rious toil. She binds them with tight ligatures, so that they do their work in pain. Sometimes they even faint and sicken at her cruelty. You will, ere this, have discovered that the indefatigable servants of whom we have spoken, are the Heart and Lungs. I think I hear you say, with an honest warmth, that these sleepless labourers shall be better treated ; that the lungs, which blow the bellows of life, and the heart, whieh feeds it with fuel, till the ice of death comes, shall not be painfully compressed by the busk, or fettered by the corset. It is undoubt- edly possible to hold yourselve? erect, without bring- the girl's reading-book. 97 ing hurtful engines to bear upon the seat of vitality. Would it not be a noble resolution to undertake to do so ? We shudder, when we think how frequently the slightest injury to the lungs proves fatal j how soon death enters, when their most delicate air- valves are broken. We think with wonder of the force with which the heart operates, sending continually the whole mass of blood to the smallest veins, and the most remote arteries, working at the rate of one hundred thousand strokes every twenty-four hours, and continuing this sleepless labour, sometimes for eighty or ninety years, without wearing out. Shall we dare to embarrass these agents of Almighty power ? The slightest ligatures are capable of troubling these faithful labourers. How dangerous then must be the tight-lacing which is sometimes so rashly ha- zarded. Not the lungs and heart alone are thus in- jured. The stomach is oppressed in its important task of digestion, the brain clouded by obstructed circulation, and irregular transmission of blood, and the spine perverted from its great purpose of giving stability to ftie frame. We counted the Turks as barbarians, when they broke down the sculptured columns of the Greeks, and destroyed those works of art, which for ages had been admired. "What shall they be called, who deface the architecture of their Maker 1 If he has placed in the recesses of this clay-temple, servants to whom he has committed a wonderful work for our benefit, if he has commanded them to labour 98 the girl's reading-book. without sleep, without wages, without troubling us for orders, and to be as symbols of his own un- tiring care, — shall we arrest their progress? tie them up at their posts ? compel them to toil in pain? do all in our power to frustrate their fidelity and his be- nevolence ? We will not do this, though it be the fashion. These sleepless labourers shall not be incommoded by us. The Giver of our breath shall not thus be mocked. The blood which he has poured into our veins, shall flow freely in the channels which he hath ordained. It shall not be forced by our rash- ness, to burst its flood-gates, or to be imprisoned in its citadel, or to stir up the brain to mutiny and madness. We will not, though others do it, obstruct the free action of the lungs, or press upon the heart, in its mysterious laboratory. We dare not interrupt the intricate and exquisite machinery of God. We sre afraid to do so, lest who is the former of our bo- dies, the father of our spirits, should make his soused goodness the instrument of our punishment; and bid the ill-treated organs take vengeance on. us, and the Sleepless Labourers become our foes, and short- en the life they were at first appointed to guard. the girl's reading-book. 09 SUNDAY-SALT. The uses of salt are various. You all know that it improves the taste of food, that it helps to preserve meat from putrefaction, and is favourable to health. It is also used in the fusion of metals, in the manu- facture of glass, and sometimes to quicken the fer- tility of cold and barren soils. It is agreeable to domestic animals. It is especial- ly salutary to those that feed on grass. The care- ful farmer gives it statedly to his flocks and herds. It is pleasing to see the sheep and the cows, the oxen and horses, each eagerly receiving their portion of what seems the dessert to their simple meal. Wild animals discover where the earth is impreg- nated with salt. There they gather in throngs, to taste the luxury. In our Western States, there are multitudes of such spots, which are called licks-. Thither also the hunters repair, and lie in wait for their prey. In eastern countries, lions imitate this cunning of the hunters. Fountains are there scarce, and they make their dens in marshy places, to seize the ani- mals who resort thither to drink. This was so often the case in Palestine, that some of the Hebrew poets called the lion, the " wild beast of the reeds." There, like the hunter at the salt-licks, he lay crouched in his lair, and when the "hart came pant- ing for the water-brooks," or other feeble animals hasted to quench their thirst, he was ready to devour them. 100 THE GIR^S READING-BOOK. Since salt is so necessary to man, the Creator has distributed it with a liberal hand. It mingles with seas and oceans — it rises in the form of rocks — it is found in mines — it covers, for miles, the surface of some regions— it breaks forth in briny fountains from the bosom of the earth. Rock salt is sometimes of a pure white, and sometimes variously coloured. In Africa, are many mountains of entire salt. In the kingdom of Tunis, is one composed of red and violet colour. Great masses of solid salt, cover the summit of mountains which bound the desert on the west of Cairo. There is a village in Spain, situated at the base of a rock of salt, five hundred feet in heighth, and a league in circumference. Most of this is white, though some is of a fine blue. At Halle, in the Tyrol, are ranges of salt-rocks, worked by means of galleries cut into them. Historians have said that dwellings were anciently built of rock-salt in Lybia. They are still found in Arabia, and other parts of the globe. In the vast salt-mines of Poland, houses and chapels exist, and when illuminated by torches have a magnificent ap- pearance. You remember the palace of ice built by an Empress of Russia, which was so brilliant when the lamps were lighted in the evening. The salt-mines, near Cracow in Poland, have been wrought for six hundred years, and still produce six thousand tons annually. The excavations ex- tend for miles, and near two thousand labourers are emoloved there. Different parts of the Carpathian THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 101 mountains, and of Siberia, are also rich in veins of salt. The mines of Salzburg, in Austria* are more than a thousand feet in depth. Their subterranean ex- panse is dazzling with crystals of the most brilliant hues, and, now and then, the waters of a lake, where boats conveying visitants glide, sparkle in the torch- light, as if overhung by a fret-work of diamonds. Salt is scattered in masses, over America and Asia, as well as over Africa and Europe. Innu- merable fountains of brine spring up throughout the globe, whence salt is manufactured for the inha- bitants, and for commerce. Many parts of the United States are rich in these. You have doubt- less heard of the very productive ones at Salina, in the State of New-York. Salt is a source of revenue in various regions. The Emperor of Austria is said to derive £100,000 annually from his mines of salt. There are various ways of preparing it, from sea-water, from salt-lakes, and springs. It is sometimes boiled, and sometimes made in the open air, by solar evaporation. Bay-salt is what is made by the heat of the sun. It is of two kinds ; the first drawn from sea-water, the second from springs or lakes. Marine-salt is 'extracted from the water of the sea by boiling. Fishery-salt is made. by slow evaporation, and is known by its large and coarse crystals. The white salt of Normandy, has been quite a source of gain to France. It is prepared by suffering the rising tide to flow into reservoirs, where, after partial evaporation, it filters through straw into ves- 9* 102 thb girl's reading-book. sels placed for it. It is then boiled, with continual stirring, and purified by draining through large osier baskets. . But, my dear young friends, I think I hear you say, " Was not the title of this essay Sunday-salt 1 We have been told of rock-salt, and bay-salt, and marine-salt, and fishery-salt, and the white-salt of Normandy, but not a word about what we expected to hear described. Now what can Sunday-salt mean ?" I am just going to tell you. I was once attending the lectures of a professor, who, among other means of acquiring information, had travelled in Europe. He said, that when he was in Scotland, he observed what might often be seen in his own country, that the salt obtained by the action of fire, instead of the heat of the sun, was sometimes injured by haste in the process. By a too rapid evaporation, many foreign and earthy substances are apt to be left behind. In Scotland, the manufacturers of salt continue their labours until twelve on Saturday night. They then kindle a large fire under it, and retire to their homes. The crystallization going on more slowly than usual during the sabbath, those impurities which cause bitterness, are separated and exhaled. The* material thus elaborated, is of superior excellence. It commands a higher price in the market, and is sold by the name of Sunday-salt. After I had heard the learned professor's descrip- tion of Snnday-salt, it occurred to me that we might make it ourselves, though in a different way. The the girl's reading-book. 103 cares and pursuits of the week sometimes, like fierce fires, overheat the soul, and render it turbid. Might we not so avoid them, one day in seven, and s?3 cultivate different trains of thought, as to have Sunday-salt of our own ? If we take the time which God reserves to him- self for our own employments — if, like the unbeliev- ing Israelites, we go forth to gather our daily food on the sabbath, — what we consider gain will prove a mixture of trouble. It will be like what our blessed Saviour calls, "salt that has lost its savour; where- with shall it be salted V The Almighty hath said, " remember the sabbath- day to keep it holy." We cannot disobey him and be happy. We cannot sweep manna from the earth on this consecrated season, and prosper. But we may make Sunday-salt, in the laboratory of a meek and prayerful spirit. May we not carry with us throughout the week, this Sunday-salt, to purify our lives and conversa- tion ? It may sometimes be in danger of dissolving in the humid atmosphere of the planet that we in- habit. But may we not preserve it in the casket of a watchful soul ? Let us try. Can we sell our Sunday-salt l Yes; at the gate of heaven. The saints who have entered there, " through much tribulation," will tell you that it was the purifying principle in the rough sea of life. Angels know its value— it will bring the gold of eternity. 104 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. DREAMS. What flights does the imagination take during the hours of sleep ! While the body slumbers, she climbs the cliff, or hangs over the abyss, or poises her pinion on the storm-cloud, or robes herself with the rainbow, and listens at the gate of heaven. Sometimes she takes memory with her, dragging her along, like a half-wakened companion. Then distant friends are brought near. The lost return from the dead. The scenes of early days are retouched, and buried feelings kindle anew in the heart. Still, memory performs her office imper- fectly, and reluctant to be withdrawn from sleep, relapses into it again. Then, unbridled fancy revel's alone, and so bold and bright are her visions, that the waking eye would fain prolong them, and wishes to turn from the tame reality of life. Some hold it trifling and visionary, to speak of dreams. But, because they have been abused by superstition and ignorance, are they never to be ap- proached with clear and rational thought? They occupy a formidable portion of our little span o f life. They are sources of pleasure, or of pain. Dreams sometimes cast their shadows over our waking hours. Our feelings through the day may partake of their colouring. We rise from frightful visions exhausted as by positive labour or suffering. If there is any regimen which will modify their character, and give them the aspect of happiness, it would be desirable to know it. the girl's reading-book. 105 Is it of no consequence whether we are to spend a third part of our lives in the midst of fancied ter- rors, or of delightful imagery ? Whether we are to be borne on airy wings over varied regions, rejoicing in their beauty, and holding converse with the lovely and beloved ? or, whether we are to shiver among nameless dangers, harassed by frightful spec- tres, and startled by fiery clouds above, and an im- passable gulf below 1 Do not consider dreams altogether as idle vaga- ries of the brain. Respect them, and they will be your friends. But I hear you ask, is there really any way of procuring pleasant dreams? I have heard those who were wiser than myself, say there was ; and I should like to give you some ancient rules, which have been recommended as means of insuring them. 1st. Preserve equanimity of temper. Indulge, during the day, in no angry, envious, or vengeful feeling. Do not disturb or quicken the current of blood through the heart, by any violent emotion. A regular pulse, and a calm, even circulation of blood and spirits, are favourable both to pleasant dreams and to longevity. 2d. Avoid compression in dress. Let the lungs and heart, the stomach and spine, be unfettered to perform the functions appointed by their Creator. To tie up labourers, and then exact their services, resembles the unjust and cruel policy of ancient Egypt, in demanding brick without straw. 3d. Be temperate in all things. Permit nothing to pass into your stomach which is calculated to 106 the girl's reading-book. disorder it. Avoid high-seasoned meats, rich sauces, unripe fruits, and stimulating drinks. Even of plain and proper food do not take an undue quan- tity, but desist before the appetite is fully satiated. Some judicious physicians direct that nothing should be eaten between meals, or after the regular supper. Remember that the stomach is the key- stone of the frame, and do not abuse it, for this can- not be long done with impunity. 4th. Have your sleeping-room pure and well- ventilated. Air it every morning after rising, and strip the clothes from your bed for some time before it is made. Perforin, when possible, a general ab- lution, before retiring, that the pores of the skin may be unchecked in their important office during sleep. If you can do nothing more, wash your face, hands, and neck, and comb your hair. Let your position be unconstrained, when you resign yourself to sleep, and your face entirely uncover- ed, and a free circulation of air secured in the apartment. 5th. Be kind, affectionate, and benevolent, to those with whom you associate. Do all the good in your power. Preserve cheerfulness of spirits, voice, and manner. Keep a " conscience void of offence to- wards God and towards man." The happiness of dreams will repay your efforts. 6th. If aught evil has been harboured in your bo- som, throughout the day, cast it forth ere you sleep, by penitence and prayer. Lay your head on your pillow, at peace with all the world. Close your eyes with a smile on your countenance, and the girl's reading-book. 107 resign yourself to the spirit of sweet dreams, and to the ministry of angels. Do not lightly condemn these rules, my dear young friends, though they may seem antiquated. Test them for one year, before you decide against them. Then, if you should find that they fail in producing such dreams as you desire, you will be convinced that they help to confer the more durable treasure of a good life. One more thought about dreams. Do they not help to prove the soul's immortality ? Its clay com- panion is weary, and lies down to rest. But with a tireless strength it wakes, it wanders, it expatiates, it soars. Thus sleep, which has been called the " brother of death," brings us proof that we are to live for ever. Glorious truth ! breathed to us in dreams, as well as written upon the pages of inspiration. We are to live for ever. Though we seem to be swallowed up in the grave, we shall rise again. May we so keep God's commandments, that our eternal abode shall be in those mansions where there is no more sleep, because there can be no weariness or wo, and where the brightest dream of earth's prompting fades in darkness before the full and fearless cer- tainty of bliss. 108 THE girl's reading-book. PERSEVERANCE. Two little girls, whose names were Emma and Ann, lived near each other, and attended the same school. They were frequently together, and their parents encouraged the intimacy. In winter, they might often be seen leading each other through the snow, and in summer cultivating the little spot of ground that was allowed them. As the gardens of their fathers were divided only by a slight fence, they could easily converse, or exchange the flowers that they reared. Their parents wished to give them a good educa- tion, and sent them to the best schools that the place afforded. Both were anxious to excel in their stu- dies, but Emma acquired knowledge with far great- er ease than her companion. She quickly compre- hended a new subject, and readily committed long lessons to memory. Confidence in her own powers, gave her promptness of manner, and she was inva- riably distinguished at all public examinations. Ann learned slowly, and was diffident. She was sometimes silent, through fear of being wrong, and made her friends ashamed of her appearance of ig- norance. She would plod for hours over her ap- pointed tasks, and often return home her eyes swol- len with weeping, at having missed in the recitations. Her mother once said to her. " I am distressed at seeing you so unhappy. You have not the capacity of Emma, and must be willing to see her take a higher rank than yourself. the girl's reading-book. 109 K But I will give you a recipe, which, if it cannot procure for you brilliant talents, will aid you to make the best use of such as are entrusted to you. When you attempt any thing difficult, say', ' / will persevere,' and ask assistance of your Father in heaven. Thank him for the gifts of reason and un- derstanding, and entreat him for a heart to love your friend as sincerely when she excels you, as at any other time : for you cannot expect to make progress in a good cause, if your spirits are agitated, or en- vious at another's success." The little girl kissed her mother, and promised to- obey her directions. That night, after she was in bed, she reflected so much upon them, that although she had as usual said her prayers, she arose, and again kneeling, implored strength to persevere. Now, when her tasks were difficult, she no longer wept, but by patient study and laborious repetition, endeavoured to conquer them. It was not long, be- fore her improvement was obvious, both to her in- structor and associates. Strict mental discipline gave her an interesting deportment, while the consciousness that she pos- sessed no genius of which to boast, guarded her humility. At length, a difficult Latin lesson was as- signed to her class. It contained many words to be sought out in the dictionary, and much idiom and transposition. The recitation was to be immediately on entering the school in the morning, and those who sustained it without mistake, were to be rewarded by commencing the study of Virgil. The others were to review an elementary book. 10 110 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. Ann's heart died within her. as she heard Emma exclaim, " Pray, appoint us a longer lesson. This will be no trial at all. It will not occupy me half an hour." But Emma had begun to feel the pride of talents. She had been praised by her friends, more than was prudent. She had begun to remit her ef- forts, and to fancy that her .reputation as a scholar was established. The evening in which the lesson was to be learn- ed, her mother had company. She found it pleasant to sit With them, as they applauded her remarks, and said she had a great deal of wit. Her mother thought she detected some pertness in her conver- sation, and advised her to go to her book. But she excused herself till the morning. When morning came, having retired later than usual, she did not feel like rising early, and then in a great hurry, and half dressed, hastened to her lesson. Now, though Emma was blessed with a very quick perception,, she had but little patience. When any thing really difficult occurred in her lessons, she was very apt to throw them by, or to prevail on her father to assist her. But he was now absent. With dismay, she now heard the clock strike for school, while she was yet unprepared. Hasting along, with her hat and shawl half on, dropping first one glove, then the other, and studying all the way down the street, she frequently stumbled, and once fell entirely down. She took her seat in the class, with a beating heart, but determined to put the best face on the matter. One or two hesitations, she managed to THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. Ill pass off with her usual address, but just as her spirits were beginning to rise with the hope of victory, she made several absolute and prominent mistakes. The truth was, that notwithstanding her fine talents, she was not a thorough* scholar. She valued herself upon her rapid translations, but in grammatical ac- curacy, was inferior to many whose want of genius she ridiculed. Covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears. All hope of being raised to a higher class, was for that time swept away. But what irritated her feelings, even more than her own defeat, was to hear Ann giving her answers with entire correctness and precision, and finally to see her included in the honorary band. Complaining of a headache, she hastened home, and when Ann, in her kindness and simplicity of heart, called to ask after her health, she could scarcely bring her mind to speak to her so bitter was her disappointment. Now, when Ann, the preceding evening, had gone from school with her dreaded lesson, she at first felt disposed to weep. But recollecting her promise to her mother, she said, u I will persevere." She scarce- ly staid for supper, so much did she fear that the al- lotted time would be insufficient for her slow mind. Her mother, perceiving how intensely she laboured, said, " I should wish to assist you, dear Ann, were I acquainted with the language in which you study. Yet this would only be doing you an injury. Strength of mind comes from vanquishing obstacles, and knowledge painfully gained, is not easily lost." The little girl, looking meekly up, answered, " I 112 the girl's reading-book. think God will help me to persevere." She wished to sit up very late, but her mother forbade it, on ac- count of her eyes. So, she laid her books under her pillow, and with the day-light resumed her studies. Many difficulties occurred in the lesson, but she re- flected as she went to school, that she had done all in her power to overcome them, and that this would comfort her, if she lost the desired honour. When she found herself among the fortunate band, she felt surprised, as well as delighted, and thanked in her heart Him who had helped her to persevere. But Emma's pride was so much hurt, that it affected her friendship, and sometimes when she saw Ann coming to meet her, would turn away, and whisper to some of her companions, that " the dull expression of that girl's face, made her shock- ingly nervous." The appointed time now approached for a recita- tion of poetry and dialogue, to which their teacher had given them permission to invite their parents and a few friends. Here Emma consoled herself with the hope of a complete triumph over Ann. Pursuits that required little labour, she was very willing to undertake. For this exhibition, she anx- iously prepared, and her fine elocution and confi- dent manners, attracted admiring attention, while her diffident friend was wholly undistinguished. Ann joined with so much good-humour and sin- cerity in the praises of her friend, that Emma for- got her coldness, and harmony was again restored. During the whole of her continuance at school, she continued to excel in those accomplishments which 113 tend to display, and to avoid the studies which re- quired application. The advances which she made, though sometimes great, were irregular, and the promise which she had prematurely given, was but imperfectly fulfilled. Ann, who early acquired the name of a dull scholar, carefully treasured her laborious gains, and through perseverance, surpassed all expectation. A premium was offered for the greatest proficiency in arithmetic and geometry. " I am sure of it," thought Emma, " for I have been so long in algebra, that such simple studies are but A B C to me." So, by a few occasional efforts, she would distance all com- petitors, and then suffer her mind to be amused with trifles, or to relapse into indolence. But the prize Was to be obtained by the strictly- computed improvement of several months, and not by a few desultory performances. So, she was ap- pointed to see it won by the indefatigable Ann, with the high approbation of her instructor. She con- soled herself under the disappointment, by saying, that " the premium was no criterion of talent, but merely given to encourage the plodders of the school, among whom she had not the least amtition to ap- pear:" Ann, by following the judicious directions of her mother, at length attained a highly respectable rank in all her studies. When she left school, she car- ried with her the same perseverance which had been there so serviceable. She had been taught that edu- cation was valuable, not merely for the knowledge it imparts, but for the habits of mind it creates, *nd 10* 114 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. the principles of action it confirms, and she endea- voured to prove in domestic life, that hers had not been in vain. It was her pleasure to sit with her work-basket or book, by the side of her widowed mother, cheer- ing her solitary hours. But Emma soon became so absorbed in gay and fashionable amusements, that useful employment was irksome. She said, ".she thanked her stars, she was blessed with sufficient sense not to be a mope, while she was young." When she married, it was her ambition to make a showy appearance. Rational economy, she had neither patience to study, nor self-control to prac- tise. It involved such petty details, that it seemed to her beneath the notice of a liberal and refined in~ tellect. The regulation of her children's temper and character was sadly neglected, from that dispo- sition to avoid trouble which she had long indulged. When faults were disclosed that required imme- diate attention, she was too prone to put them aside, as she did her difficult lessons at school. She com- plained of them as too troublesome for her to con tend with, or comforted herself with the indolent hope, that "all would come right at last." But it was not long ere she was constrained to say, that " if she was to bring up another family, her first course would be to teach them that order, industry and perseverance, which she had herself never learned." In a few years after their marriage, the affairs of her husband became seriously embarrassed. Then she was greatly astonished and distressed. She was THE GIRL'S READlNG-EOOfK. 115 too helpless to do any thing for his relief. With the science that prevents the wasteful expenditure of servants, provides for the comfort, but not pro- fusion of a table, or prolongs the existence of a wardrobe, she was wholly unacquainted. Of these habits of persevering industry, which she had ridiculed in her friend Ann, she now felt the need. How often did she lament her early neglect of that application and self-control, which in wo man's sphere of duty, are more valuable than those talents which dazzle, and demand admiration as their daily food. But Ann found the discipline to which she had been subjected in childhood, an excellent prepara- tion for domestic duty. When she encountered dif- ficulties, she was not dismayed. She knew in whom she had trusted, and that he would aid her to perse- vere. The fortune of her husband was not large. But by a consistent economy, she was able to secure every comfort, and to remember the poor. It was now a matter of less consequence, than when at school, which of the two ladies could boast of the quickest perception, or the most brilliant in tellect. But it was clear to every observer,, whose house was the seat of the greatest order, comfort, and happiness. Ann still felt a sincere interest in the welfare of her early friend, Emma, and visited her as often as was in her power, seeking to extend encouragement, or to impart sympathy. Ann's widowed mother had become infirm, and given up her own house, to reside with her. This excellent daughter had no higher pleasure than to* 116 THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. study her wishes, and try to repay a small part of the debt of gratitude, incurred in infancy and child- hood. Often would she say, with an affectionate smile, "if there is any good thing in me, I owe it to your counsel, and to His grace who enabled me to persevere." And when the old lady, with her silver locks shading her venerable temples, bending from her easy-chair, would tell her listening grandchildren, by what means their dear mother became all that was excellent, the little creatures, gathering closer to her side, would say, with affecting earnestness, " We, too will learn to persevere." THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 117 FEMALE ENERGY. It is a pity that females should ever be brought up in a helpless manner. It is a still greater pity, when they think it not respectable to be industrious : for then principles, as well as habit, have become perverted. They ought to feel that their endow- ments qualify them for activity, and their duty de- mands it. Our sex should begin, while young, to take an in- terest in the concerns of the family, and daily to do something for its comfort. They should come promptly and cheerfully to the aid of the mother in her cares. They should inform themselves of the amount of the yearly expenses of the household, and keep an accurate account of their own. Why should young girls be willing to be drones in the domestic hive? In several families of the highest respectability, the daughters supply by tfieir own industry, the resources of their charity. This they do, not from necessity, but because it is pleas- ant to them, that their gifts to the poor should be the fruit of their own earnings. No female should consider herself educated, until she is mistress of some employment or accomplish- ment, by which she might gain a livelihood, should she be reduced to the necessity of supporting her- self. The ancient Jews had a proverb, that who- ever brought a child up without a trade, bound it apprentice to vice. Who can tell how soon they may be compelled 118 to do something for their own maintenance. How many families, by unexpected reverses, are reduced from affluence to poverty. How pitiful and con- temptible, on such occasions, to see females helpless, desponding, and embarrassing those whom it is their duty to cheer and aid. " I have lost my whole fortune," said a merchant, as he returned one evening to his home. " We can afto longer ride in our carriage ; we must leave this Jarge house. The children can no longer go to ex- pensive schools. What we are to do for a living I know not. Yesterday, I was a rich man. To-day, there is nothing left that I can call my own." "Dear husband," said the wife, "we are still rich in each other, and our children. Mone3^ may pass away, but God has given us a better treasure in these active hands, and loving hearts." "Dear father," said the little children, " do not look so sober. We will help you to get a living." " What can you do, poor things ?" said he. " You shall see, you shall see," answered several cheerful voices. " It is a pity, if we have been to school for nothing. How can the father of eight healthy children be poor ? We shall work and make you rich again." "It shall help," said the youngest girl, hardly four years old. " I will not have any new frock bought, and I shall sell my great wax doll." The heart of the husband and father, which had sunk in his bosom like a stone, was lifted up. The sweet enthusiasm of the scene cheered him, and his nightly prayer was like a song of praise. THE GIRL'S READING-BOOK. 119 He left his stately house. The servants were dis- missed. Pictures, and plate, and rich carpets and furniture, were sold, and she who had been,so long the mistress of the mansion, shed no tear. , " Pay every debt," said she, u let no one suffer through us, and we may yet be happy." He took a neat cottage, and a small piece of ground, a few miles from the city. With the aid of his sons, he cultivated vegetables for the market. He viewed with delight ' and astonishment, the economy of his wife, nurtured as she had been in wealth, and the efficiency which his daughters soon acquired under her training. The eldest ones assisted her in the work of the household, and instructed the younger children. Besides, they executed various works, which they had learned as accomplishments, but which they found could now be disposed of to advantage. They embroidered with taste, some of the orna- mental parts of female apparel, which were readily sold to merchants in the city. They cultivated flowers, and sent bouquets to market, in the cart that conveyed. their vegetables. They platted straw, they painted maps, they exe- cuted plain needle-work. Every one was at their post, busy and cheerful. The cottage was like a bee-hive. "I never enjoyed such health before," said the father. " And I was never as happy before," said the mother. "We never knew how many things we could do, when we lived in the great house," said the children, " and we love each other a great 120 the girl's reading-book. deal better here. You call us your little bees, and I think we make such honey as the heart feeds on." Ecoitomy, as well as industry, was strictly ob- served. Nothing was wasted. Nothing unneces- sary was purchased. After a while,the eldest daugh- ter became assistant teacher in a distinguished female seminary, and the second took her place, as instructress to the family. The little dwelling, which had always been kept neai, they were soon able to beautify. Its con- struction was improved, and vines and flowering- trees were planted around it. The merchant was happier under its woodbine-covered porch in a sum- mer's evening, than he had been in his showy draw- ing-room. " We are now thriving and prosperous," said he, " shall we return to the c ity ?" " Ah ! no, no !" was the unanimous reply. "Let us remain." said the wife, "where we have found health and con- tentment." " Father," said the youngest, " all we children, hope you are not going to be rich again. " For then," she added, " we little ones were shut up in the nursery, and did not see much of you, or mother. Now, we all live together : and sister, who loves us, teaches us, and we learn to be industrious and useful. We were none of us as happy when we were rich, and did not work. So, father, please not to be a rich man any more." The females of other countries, sometimes make far greater exertions than they are accustomed to do in our own. It would seem that they were more athletic, and able to endure fatigue. This may pro- THE GIRL'S, READING-BOOK. 121 bably arise from their being inured to more severe exercise, especially those of the poorer classes. Joanna Martin, the wife of a day-labourer in Eng- land, was left a widow with six small children, and not a shilling for their support. The parish officers, perceiving it to be a case of great distress, offered to take charge of them. But the good mother resolved to depend only upon the divine blessing, and her own industry. The life on which she entered, was one of ex- treme hardship. She rose at two in the morning, and after doing what she could to make her little ones comfortable, walked eight, and sometimes ten miles, to the market-town, w T i-th a basket of pottery ware on her head, which she sold, and returned with the profits before noon. By this hard labour, and the greatest economy, she not only gained food and clothing for her child- ren, but in the course of a year, saved the sum of about seven dollars. Then, finding herself under the necessity of quitting the cottage where she had lived, she formed the resolution of building one for herself. Every little interval of time, which she could spare from her stated toils, she devoted to working upon the tenement which was to shelter her little ones, and " with the assistance of a good God," said she, " I was able at last to finish my cottage." It was small, but comfortable, and might remind those who saw it, of what Cowper calls, " the peasant's nest." After several years, Joanna, by persevering in 11 122 the girl's, reading-book. her industry and prudence, acquired enough to pur- chase a cart, and a small pony. "Now," said she with delight, " I can carry pottery-ware to the dif- ferent towns round about, and drive a pretty brisk trade, for I begin to feel that I cannot walk thirty miles a day, quite so well as when I was younger." She lived to advanced age, respected for her hon esty, patient diligence, and maternal virtues. It was pleasant to observe the self-approbation and simplicity with which she would say, when quite old, " to be sure I am not very rich, but what I have is all of my own getting. I never begged a half- penny of any soul. I brought up my six children without help from the overseers of the parish, and can still maintain myself without troubling them for assistance." Many instances of the most laudable efforts to obtain a support, might be mentioned among the females of our own country. The disposition to be active in various departments of usefulness, ought to be encouraged in the young, by those who have charge of their education. The office of a teacher, is one of the most respectable and delightful to which they can aspire. To instruct others is beneficial to the mind. It deepens the knowledge which it already possesses, and quickens it to acquire more. It is beneficial to the moral habits. It teaches self-control. It moves to set a good example. It improves the. affections. For we love those, whom we make wiser and better, and their gratitude is a sweet reward. The work of education, opens a broad field for THE girl's reading-book. 123 female labourers. There they may both reap and confer benefits. If they do not wish to enter upon it as the business of life, it will be found a good pre- paration for the duties-of any sphere to which future life may call them. Let the young females of the present generation, distinguish themselves by energy in some useful employment. Indolence, and effeminacy are pecu- liarly unfit for the daughters of -a republic. Let them not shrink at reverses of fortune, but view them as incitements to greater activity, and higher virtue. It was a wise man who said, " Virtue, like a pre- cious odour, is most fragrant when crushed : for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue." When those we love are in trouble, let us feel that we have a two-fold office, to cheer, and to help them. When man was first placed upon the earth, woman was pronounced by the Almighty maker, a " help-meet for him." If at any period of her life, whether as daughter or sister, as wife or mother, she draws back from being a helper,