— '" OF 
 ^ NOIv^ CAROLINA 
 Eghool of Library 
 
 Soienae ^ 
 
 7H 
 
 - 
 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 III 
 
 00022228359 
 
 .('. 
 
 
 
 -JH 
 
 J 
 
 
 J' 
 
 m 
 
 
 f/ 
 
 f 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://archive.org/details/petlambotherstorOOphil 
 

** 
 
v . 
 
Feeding the Pet Lamb.— (Page 46.) 
 
 (1) 
 
m^^m 
 
THE 
 
 PET LAMB, 
 
 OTHEE STOEIES 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 LIPPINCOTT, GKAMBO & CO. 
 
 1854. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 
 LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for 
 the Eastern District of Pennsylvania^ 
 
 - 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Ellen and her Lesson Page 9 
 
 The Nursery Tale. 17 
 
 The Little Voices 18 
 
 Going to Bed at Night 29 
 
 Brother and Sister 30 
 
 Anecdote of a Turkish Judge 31 
 
 A Visit to the Wild Wood 34 
 
 Self-restraint 38 
 
 A Truth 43 
 
 Good Girls 44 
 
 The Pet Lamb 46 
 
 Usefulness «*■*. 55 
 
 A Good Rule W£ 58 
 
 (Vii) 
 
 4 Jj-.^ J 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 The Boy Who Stole 59 
 
 Mary 68 
 
 The Two School-girls; or, a Lesson of Forgiveness. 70 
 
 To My Brother 81 
 
 The Toiling Bees 82 
 
 The Journey 83 
 
 A Picture 90 
 
 Love One Another 92 
 
 Morning, Noon and Night 97 
 
 Anecdotes of Dogs 99 
 
 The Child's Prayer for the New Year 108 
 
 "Seamed, and Scarred, and Wounded" 110 
 
 A Forest Scene in the days of WicklifFe 117 
 
 The Way to be Happy 126 
 
 The Rain 127 
 
THE PET LAMB, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 
 
 " Ellen," said Aunt Mary, " what do you 
 study at school this term ?" 
 
 66 1 study geography and arithmetic," said 
 Ellen, " as I did last term, and I have now 
 
 (9) 
 
10 ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 
 
 commenced the History of the United 
 States." 
 
 "Have you, indeed? Then I suppose 
 you can tell me when America was disco- 
 vered by Columbus ?" 
 
 Ellen looked rather puzzled, but at length 
 said, she believed it was in 1592. 
 
 "Oh, no! Ellen," said her sister Sarah, 
 who was sitting by, " it was in 1492." 
 
 " In what year did our forefathers land at 
 Plymouth f 
 
 "In 1720," said Ellen, with the air of one 
 who had drawn a bow at a venture, and 
 hoped the arrow might hit right. 
 
 "Wrong again, Ellen," said her sister; 
 "it was 1620." 
 
 " I can't remember all those hard names 
 and dates," said Ellen; "it is out of the 
 question. I wish I had a good memory ; but 
 I can't help it. ,r 
 
ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 11 
 
 " Then you have a poor memory, Ellen," 
 said Aunt Mary, with a very serious look. 
 "I was not aware of this before, and am 
 very sorry to hear it ; for, as there are so 
 many things which it is both pleasant and 
 useful to remember, it is certainly a great 
 misfortune. But how came it to pass that 
 such a bright-looking girl as you should be 
 deficient in such an important faculty of the 
 mind?" 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by 
 the ringing of the school-bell, and Ellen and 
 her sister were soon on their way to school. 
 When the children came home after school, 
 their aunt said to Ellen, " Do you remember 
 when your aunt Taylor and your cousin 
 Emily called here ? It was in the fall, I 
 think." 
 
 "No, aunty; you are mistaken.* It was 
 in December. I remember well ; for it was 
 
12 ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 
 
 the week before Christmas. Cousin Emily 
 wore a beautiful bracelet, and I remember 
 wishing that some friend would give me one 
 just like it, for a Christmas present." 
 
 " Can you remember how she was dressed ?" 
 " Yes, perfectly. She wore a scarlet merino 
 dress and blue sack; a straw hat, trimmed 
 with cherry color, and lined with pink, and 
 a pair of blue gaiters. Did'nt she look 
 sweetly ?" 
 
 " Can you tell how your aunt was dressed ?" 
 " She wore a black silk dress, and black 
 velvet mantilla, and a sherd hat. I can 
 think just how they both looked." 
 
 "You can remember more than I can," 
 said Sarah; "I am sure I could not have 
 mentioned a single article they had on." 
 
 " It relieves my mind," said aunt Mary, 
 " to find that Ellen has a good memory some- 
 times. I thought if her memory was as poor 
 
ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 13 
 
 as she represented it to be this morning, it 
 was a great misfortune. But, my dear, if 
 you can remember when your aunt and 
 cousin called, and how they were dressed, 
 why can you not remember when America 
 was discovered ? Do you think your memory 
 is so formed as to recollect some things very 
 distinctly, while, at the same time, it is in- 
 capable of remembering other things ?" 
 
 "I do not know why it is," said Ellen. 
 " I do not deny but I can remember some 
 things well enough." 
 
 " It is very plain, my dear, that the fault 
 is not in your memory. You can readily 
 remember anything that interests you. What 
 you need is, not a better memory, but greater 
 interest in the studies you pursue. If I were 
 to request you to repeat the story which I 
 related to you last Saturday afternoon, would 
 you not be able to do it ?" 
 
14 ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 
 
 "I think I should, aunt. I recollect it 
 very well. It was so interesting, I could not 
 well forget it." 
 
 " The difficulty is, when you study, you 
 try to send your memory off in one direc- 
 tion, to collect and retain facts in history 
 and other branches of study, while the other 
 faculties of your mind are employed about 
 something else. Now this will not succeed. 
 Memory will not work alone., Place your 
 whole mind upon your studies, become inte- 
 rested in them, and your memory will per- 
 form its proper work faithfully ; there is no 
 doubt about that." 
 
 " But how shall I become so interested in 
 my studies V 
 
 " By giving to them all the energies of 
 your mind. Had you become really in- 
 terested in the history of the discovery of 
 America by Columbus ; had you permitted 
 
ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 15 
 
 your mind to follow him in the discourage- 
 ments and perils of this heroic undertaking, 
 in imagination, standing with him before 
 kings and princes, and hearing them ridicule 
 his plans as visionary, and refuse the aid he 
 sought to obtain from them ; and when his 
 untiring perseverance had overcome every 
 obstacle, and his little fleet had proceeded 
 far in their untrodden path to an unknown 
 world ; had you stood by his side as he 
 anxiously strained his eyes to look into the 
 far-off distance, if perchance he might dis- 
 cover land, while officers and crew were 
 threatening even his life, if he would not at 
 once return — had your mind really entered 
 into this scene, there would have been little 
 danger of your forgetting the date of an 
 event which should be so interesting to every 
 American. Do not charge a fault upon your 
 memory of which it was never guilty ; but 
 
16 ELLEN AND HER LESSON. 
 
 rather say, 'I bestowed so little attention 
 upon the subject that I cannot recollect.' " 
 
 " But do not some people have much 
 better memories than others ?" said Sarah. 
 
 " No doubt people differ in this respect, 
 as well as every other; but I have often 
 observed that those very persons who com- 
 plain so much of a poor memory, continually 
 give evidence that they can remember many 
 things as well as any one. There are but 
 very few whose memories fail to retain that 
 which really interests them. If you wish 
 to remember important facts and events, 
 you must be careful how you allow trifles to 
 occupy your attention, to the exclusion of 
 things more important." 
 
B. 
 
 A. 
 
 At the 
 
 (A spr± 
 The eldest l 
 
 The younge 
 Cried the fairy, 4 
 girl, 
 
 Pure gems from your n^ 
 But whenever you utter a word, ^ 
 
 From your tongue shall a serpent 
 
 V. — B 
 
..er, who had 
 
 xiow much she 
 
 O ood angels know ; 
 
 ^ught her a new delight 
 
 dieir bright beaming faces at 
 
 jer-door ; and every evening, when 
 
 ^ere asleep, she would steal. softly to 
 
THE LITTLE VOICES. 19 
 
 their bedside, and, as she watched their still 
 faces, would pray the dear Father in heaven 
 to keep their hearts always warm and 
 loving. 
 
 Their names were Mary and Fanny — 
 Mary was two years older than Fanny, and 
 a serious, gentle child, whom everybody 
 loved and fondled. But Fanny was the 
 joyous little sunbeam of her father's house, 
 full of fun and frolic from morning till night. 
 The good mother did all she could to make 
 her children happy and useful. She longed 
 to keep their hearts pure and innocent, and 
 tried to surround them with holy and beau- 
 tiful influences. 
 
 One day, as Mary and Fanny sat by their 
 mother's side, she pointed out to them the 
 beautiful landscape from their window, and 
 told them that everything they looked upon 
 was an emblem of God's love to his children. 
 
20 THE LITTLE VOICES. 
 
 They lived in a beautiful spot ; a range of 
 glorious mountains stretched far away to the 
 south, and a winding river lay between. 
 There were thick forests on all sides, and 
 sweet birds sang in the deep shade. All 
 these things spoke to the heart of the mo- 
 ther and filled it with gratitude, and she 
 longed to make them dear and familiar to 
 her children. 
 
 She had often spoken to them of the voice 
 of conscience, which God had placed within 
 their breasts, to teach them when they did 
 right or wrong ; and she had begged them 
 to listen to this little voice, and be led by 
 its warnings, if it spoke ever so faint. But 
 now she wanted her little girls to listen to 
 the voices about them, to those outside their 
 own breasts, because she thought these would 
 make them still happier, and would perhaps 
 make the little voice of conscience knock 
 
THE LITTLE VOICES. 21 
 
 the louder. So she told them when they 
 walked out in the woods and fields, to look 
 about them, to watch and see how every 
 little bird built her nest, to listen to all the 
 sounds they heard in earth, air, or water ? 
 and to let everything teach them how to be 
 better and happier. 
 
 Mary and Fanny remembered these things ; 
 like other children they were sometimes 
 naughty ; but in the main they tried to be 
 good, and were always kind and loving to 
 each other and to their parents. 
 
 One bright Saturday afternoon the little 
 girls went to visit their aunt, who lived 
 about two miles distant. Their father gave 
 them a ride, and they were to walk home 
 before dark. They had a pleasant afternoon, 
 and returned home in fine spirits. Not far 
 from their house was a deep thick wood, 
 through which they always had to pass. 
 
22 THE LITTLE VOICES. 
 
 Mary and Fanny had always delighted in 
 this shady little wood ; they had often gone 
 there of a hot summer's day to feel the cool 
 air among the pines, and to play at hide and 
 seek. But now, tired with their afternoon's 
 frolic, they walked slowly and silently along, 
 each little sister's arm around the other. 
 "Fanny," said Mary, suddenly, "let us try 
 to hear the little voices mother was telling 
 us about the other day, and see if they will 
 mean anything to us." 
 
 " Yes, dear, so we will," said Fanny; " mo- 
 ther will be so pleased to think we remem- 
 bered it." They walked on a few minutes, 
 very silently. Only the low murmuring of 
 the wind among the pines fell upon Mary's 
 ear. u It is so solemn," said she, " it makes 
 me think of the church-organ, when it plays, 
 * The Lord is in His holy temple.' Dear 
 Fanny, I think He is here too." 
 
THE LITTLE VOICES. 23 
 
 " Mary," said Fanny, " do you see that 
 little wren, hopping about there, and twit- 
 tering at such a rate ? I have been watch- 
 ing her some minutes, and never did I see 
 such a bustling little thing. She is making 
 a nest, I am sure, and she does seem so 
 happy about it. Every minute or two she 
 opens her little throat, and chirps away as 
 though she thought it mighty pleasant ; and 
 she says to me, just as plainly as if she could 
 speak, ' Fanny, next time you help your 
 mother make the beds or tend the baby, do 
 be happy about it, and do it as if you loved 
 to;' and I will, you busy little wren," said 
 Fanny, as she went away. 
 
 " And I '11 remember it too," said Mary ; 
 " it 's a great deal better to do things as if 
 one loved to. It can't be very pleasant for 
 mother to see us helping her as if we only 
 did it because we must." 
 
24 THE LITTLE VOICES. 
 
 Soon they came to a merry little brook, 
 that went dancing and leaping over the 
 stones and rippling in the sunshine. Fanny 
 laid her ear on the ground beside it and 
 listened. " Sister, do you know there was 
 once many little drops of water, a long 
 way oft" there among the mountains/' said 
 she, waving her little hand, "and they 
 felt lonesome," — here Mary laughed, — 
 "and so they thought they would all run 
 down hill together and make a little brook, 
 and have a good time, dancing over the 
 stones, and making music. And when we 
 are lonesome, I think the little brook would 
 tell us to find some other little girls, and 
 dance and play, and make music. What do 
 you hear, Mary ?" 
 
 " Only the wind among the pines ; they 
 tell me to be still as they are, and God will 
 send me little birds and soft winds to make 
 
THE LITTLE VOICES. 25 
 
 music for me — hark ! there is a woodthrush ; 
 how long and clear his note is ; how sweetly 
 he sings." 
 
 " I wonder if the angels sing like that," 
 said Fanny; "you know we heard aunt 
 Sally say the other day, that they play on 
 golden harps and sing." 
 
 " I don't believe," said little Mary, " that 
 they play on harps all the time, or sing. I 
 guess they sing as mother does when she 
 puts baby to sleep, or as you do, Fanny, at 
 your work, because you can't help it ; only a 
 great deal more beautifully." 
 
 " How I wish I could hear the angels 
 sing," said Fanny. 
 
 " Do you ? Why it makes me happy 
 enough to hear mother and you and the 
 birds sing. Listen again, there he goes. 
 Oh, you beautiful thrush !" 
 
 And now the wood was fuller than ever 
 
26 THE LITTLE VOICES. 
 
 of little voices ; but Fanny and Mary knew 
 they must go home and come another time 
 to hear the rest. Fanny stooped down to 
 pick a bunch of violets for her mother. 
 " You have no voices, my little posies," said 
 she, " but if you could speak, I am sure you 
 would tell me to be a modest, quiet little 
 girl, and stay in just such mossy green 
 places as this." 
 
 u Do hear that dismal iohiji-poor-will^ said 
 Mary, as she left the wood. " It makes me 
 laugh now ; but the other night when I had 
 been naughty, and heard him in the wood, 
 I was quite provoked to hear him make 
 such doleful noises. It was just as if he 
 kept telling me that I deserved to be pun- 
 ished. I'll never forget you, whip-poor- 
 will," said Mary ; " and I hope you '11 al- 
 ways tell me when I'm naughty." 
 
 The children were now at their own door : 
 
THE LITTLE VOICES. 27 
 
 Mary flew to kiss her father, and Fanny to 
 take the baby from her mother's arms, while 
 she finished her Saturday's sewing. "And 
 oh ! you blessed little Tommy," said she, as 
 she tossed him up to look at the red sunset 
 through the trees, "I'll never forget how 
 the little wren in the wood told me to tend 
 a dear little brother like you ?" 
 
 That night, when her children were in 
 bed, the mother went as usual to look at 
 them. But they were not asleep, and they 
 threw their arms around her neck and drew 
 her face close to theirs. " Oh, mother !" said 
 little Mary, " we feel so happy, and we want 
 to show our Father in heaven that we thank 
 him for letting us hear so many pleasant 
 little voices." "And mother," said Fanny, 
 " how can such little girls as we are, thank 
 him best ?" 
 
 Their mother told them that there were 
 
28 THE LITTLE VOICES. 
 
 many wretched little children who never 
 played in the sunshine, nor heard the sweet 
 birds sing; that God loved these miserable 
 little ones, as much as He loved them ; and 
 if they wanted to show their love to Him, 
 they would be kind and loving to all who 
 needed their love. 
 
 "Fanny," said Mary, after a moment's 
 silence, " let us go on Monday and take little 
 sick Mabel Gray to ride in baby's wagon. 
 "We will take her to a nice cool place under 
 the pine trees, and tell her about the little 
 voices, and make her as happy as ever we 
 can." 
 
 And they did so ; and as Fanny and Mary 
 grew up, their mother and all their friends 
 rejoiced at their words and deeds of love to 
 all the unfortunate. They became minister- 
 ing angels to all who needed their kindness. 
 And when they were atone they did not feel 
 
GOING TO BED AT NIGHT. 29 
 
 afraid of the voice from the world or of the 
 voice within ; for loving spirits seemed to 
 encircle them, and every tone they heard 
 spoke to them of the eternal melodies. 
 
 GOING TO BED AT NIGHT. 
 
 Eeceive my body, pretty bed ; 
 Soft pillow, receive my head ; 
 
 And thanks, my parents kind : 
 Those comforts who for me provide, 
 Their precepts still shall be my guide, 
 
 Their love I'll keep in mind. 
 
 My hours misspent this day I rue, 
 My good things done, how very few ! 
 
 Forgive my fault, Lord ! 
 This night if in thy grace I rest, 
 To-morrow may I rise refreshed, 
 
 To keep thy Holy Word. 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER 
 
 Little sister, come away, 
 And let us in the garden play, 
 For it is a pleasant day. 
 
 I will take my bat and ball, 
 You, your pretty waxen doll. — 
 Do not, sister, let it fall. 
 
 (30; 
 
ANECDOTE OF A TURKISH JUDGE. 31 
 
 But the fruit we will not pick ; 
 That would be a naughty trick, 
 And very likely make us sick. 
 
 Nor will we pluck the pretty flowers 
 That grow about the beds and bowers, 
 Because, you know, they are not ours. 
 
 And much I hope, we always may 
 Our very dear mamma obey, 
 And mind whatever she may say. 
 
 ANECDOTE OF A TURKISH JUDGE. 
 
 A story is told of an Oriental merchant, 
 who, at his death, left his property to three 
 sons. According to this merchant's will the 
 seventeen horses belonging to the estate 
 Vere to be divided between the sons in such 
 a manner that the eldest should receive one 
 
32 ANECDOTE OF A TURKISH JUDGE. 
 
 half of them, the second one third, and the 
 youngest one ninth of the whole. 
 
 When the sons came to make the division 
 of the property, they found it impossible to 
 comply with the conditions of the will in 
 regard to the horses without sacrificing one 
 or more of the animals. Being thus puz- 
 zled, they repaired to the cadi, or judge of 
 the town for his assistance. 
 
 After reading the will carefully, the cadi 
 said it was such a difficult question that he 
 required time for deliberation, and requested 
 them to return after two days, when he 
 would give his decision. At the appointed 
 time they made their appearance, when the 
 judge said : 
 
 " I have carefully considered your case, 
 and find that I can make such a division of 
 the seventeen horses among you as will give 
 each more than his strict share, and yet not 
 
ANECDOTE OF A TURKISH JUDGE. 33 
 
 one of the animals shall be injured. Are 
 you content ?" 
 
 " We are, judge," was the reply. 
 
 " Bring forth, then, the seventeen horses, 
 and let them be placed in the yard," said 
 the cadi. The animals were brought in, 
 and the judge ordered his groom to place his 
 own horse with them. He then bade the 
 
 eldest brother count the horses. 
 
 d 
 
 " They are eighteen in number, judge," 
 lie said. 
 
 " I will now make the division," observed 
 the cadi. " You, the eldest, are entitled to 
 half; take, then, nine of the horses. You, 
 the second son, are to receive one third; 
 take, therefore, six; while to you, the 
 youngest, belongs the ninth part, viz. two. 
 Thus the seventeen horses are divided among 
 /you ; you have each more than your share, 
 and I may take my own steed back again." 
 
 V. — c 
 
34 A VISIT TO THE WILD WOOD. 
 
 " Mashallah !" exclaimed the brothers, with 
 delight ; " cadi ! your wisdom equals that 
 of our lord, Soleiman Ibu Dacod." 
 
 A VISIT TO THE WILD WOOD. 
 
 It was a lovely day in spring, 
 When plants and trees were blossoming, 
 When perfumes floated in the air, 
 And songsters warbled everywhere, 
 That forth, by wood and stream, we went, 
 On pleasant sights and scenes intent. 
 
 And well Eugene and Francis knew 
 Where wild flowers in abundance grew, 
 And leading on, with rapid pace, 
 Well nigh forsook me in the race, 
 Until tit* enchanted dell they spied, 
 And tarried by a streamlet's side. 
 
A VISIT TO THE WILD WOOD. 35 
 
 Along the bank the flowers were strewed, 
 They peeped out from the neighboring wood, 
 And richly colored all the ground, 
 Upon a gently rising mound — 
 Blue, white, and yellow sought to vie 
 In charming the delighted eye. 
 
 Sweet Innocence in patches grew, 
 On thread-like stem with eye of blue, 
 And forth from many a mossy bed, 
 The Colt's-foot peered its golden head ; 
 While Violets, and Clay Ionian s fair, 
 Exhaled their sweetness on the air. 
 
 The Liverwort bloomed in the wood, 
 Pink, lilac, white, and purple hued, 
 The meek Anemone bent down 
 Upon her slender stalk of brown, 
 Her form so graceful, that with ease 
 She bowed to every passing breeze. 
 
36 A VISIT TO THE WILD WOOD. 
 
 From roots of trees we pushed away 
 The old, dead leaves that thickly lay, 
 And soon the sweet Arbutus found, 
 Trailing its modest vine around, 
 And shedding from its lovely flower, 
 A perfume fit for queenly bower. 
 
 A rich and sweet bouquet was ours, 
 Of those fair, fragant wild wood flowers, 
 So on a mossy trunk we sat, 
 And gazed at this one, then at that, 
 In each admired some beauty new, 
 And praised their color, shape and hue. 
 
 We wonder'd at the skill and power 
 Displayed in every tree and flower, 
 And bless'd the love, that, day by day, 
 Had scattered flowers round our way, 
 And sitting in that quiet wood, 
 We knew and felt that God was good. 
 
A VISIT TO THE WILD WOOD. 37 
 
 Then back we traced our homeward way, 
 Now, listening to a warbler's lay, 
 Then, chasing butterflies along, 
 With happ}' heart and merry song, 
 Or, watching in a quiet nook, 
 For fishes sporting in the brook. 
 
 While squirrels now and then we spied, 
 As off to some ground hole they hied, 
 Till hours sped on — and to our place, 
 We came, with happy heart and face, 
 Delighted with our sportive hours, 
 And ramble 'mid the wild wood flowers. 
 
38 SELF-RESTRAINT. 
 
 SELF-KESTRAINT. 
 
 "What is the meaning of self-restraint, 
 mother?" asked Maria, an inquisitive little 
 girl, upon hearing this word used. 
 
 Her mother was very glad to hear her ask 
 the question ; for good as Maria generally 
 was, yet she had this one fault, she was 
 sometimes discontented, and often cried 
 when she was obliged to do without any- 
 thing which she wishod for. And still it 
 must be so in the world. We often cannot 
 obtain what we desire. We often have in 
 our possession something that we take plea- 
 sure in, and it is soon taken from us again. 
 It is, therefore, very necessary that we should 
 be prepared for this from our youth up. 
 
 So her mother answered, "It would be 
 self-restraint if you were to give up your 
 
SELF-RESTRAINT. 39 
 
 favorite game of pawns, with your playmate 
 Margaret, between school hours to-day." 
 
 " But wherefore ?" said the little girl, and 
 hung her head sorrowfully; "I have always 
 been allowed to play." 
 
 " Neither do I forbid you now," answered 
 her mother ; " nay, it shall rest entirely with 
 yourself whether you play to-day with Mar- 
 garet or not." 
 
 " But of what use can this be to me ?" 
 said Maria? 
 
 " Of this use," replied her mother ; " that 
 you will learn to exercise control over your- 
 self, so that you will be able to give up any- 
 thing, or deny yourself an amusement of 
 which you are fond, as soon as it is neces- 
 sary." 
 
 " But it is not now necessary, dear mo- 
 ther." 
 
 " True ; but if we wait until a thing is 
 
40 SELF-RESTRAINT. 
 
 necessary, we shall not then have the time 
 to prepare ourselves for it." 
 
 Maria was silent, and stood for a while as 
 if lost in thought. She understood in part 
 her mother's meaning, but could not com- 
 prehend it all. 
 
 Her mother now said, " Would you like 
 to hear a story, Maria, by which you may 
 learn how important it is not to accustom 
 ourselves to depend too much upon our 
 pleasures ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear mother !" replied Maria. 
 
 " There was once," begun her mother, " a 
 little girl, whose silly nurse feasted her every 
 day upon dainties. She thus became so 
 accustomed to them, that even when she 
 was grown up, she could not help longing 
 for them, and could not keep her hands from 
 them, whenever they came in her way. it 
 was in vain that she was warned by her 
 
SELF-RESTRAINT. 41 
 
 elder brother, who advised her to wean her- 
 self in time from such dainties, as she could 
 not always obtain them. The little girl 
 thought that there was plenty of time for 
 that, and never tried to restrain herself. 
 She at last left her father's house, to live as 
 a domestic in a pious family. Here every- 
 thing was conducted with great order, and 
 dainties and delicacies were rarely seen. 
 What did she do then? She took her 
 pocket-money, and daily bought almonds, 
 figs, and confectionery, until her money was 
 all gone. Her fondness for sweet things had 
 by this time grown still stronger, and it was 
 almost impossible for her to resist it. As 
 she had now no more money of her own, 
 she at first sold some articles of clothing; 
 and when these were gone, she — I shudder 
 as I relate it — she stole from her mistress. 
 But when is any wicked deed committed 
 
42 SELF-RESTRAINT. 
 
 that is not sooner or later brought to light? 
 Her crime was discovered, and the unfortu- 
 nate girl was punished by confinement in 
 prison." 
 
 " Oh, that is a sad story !" said Maria with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " Sad enough, indeed," answered her mo- 
 ther; "and all this happened because the 
 maiden had not learned in time to deny her- 
 self the gratification of a desire before it had 
 become a habit. Do you know now, dear 
 Maria, why I advised you not to play with 
 Margaret to-day?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother," replied Maria, " I will 
 give up my favorite game for to-day, and 
 for to-morrow also; nay, until I can indulge 
 in it, and refrain from it as often as I wish." 
 
 Her mother embraced her, and was de- 
 lighted with this cheeerful and earnest reso- 
 lution. And still greater was her delight, 
 
A TRUTH. 43 
 
 when she saw that Maria kept her word. 
 In the course of time, it became no task to 
 Maria to deny herself a pleasure, and this 
 preserved her from many a sorrow. Happy 
 the maiden who follows her example ! 
 
 A TEUTH. 
 
 Each mighty forest tree, 
 Each little flowret bright. 
 
 Is a creature of God's love, 
 
 Which he cares for day and night. 
 
 If they are athirst, 
 
 He bids the raindrops fall : 
 For God, our Father, ne'er forgets 
 
 His creatures, great or small." 
 
GOOD GIRLS, 
 
 Two good little girls, Marianne and Maria, 
 
 As happily lived as good girls could desire ; 
 
 And though they were neither grave, sullen, 
 nor mute, 
 
 They seldom or never were heard to dis- 
 pute. 
 
 (44) 
 
GOOD GIRLS. 45 
 
 If one wants a thing that the other could 
 
 get, 
 They never are scratching or scrambling 
 
 for it, 
 But each one is willing to give up her right ; 
 They'd rather have nothing, than quarrel 
 
 and fight. 
 
 If one of them happens to have something 
 
 nice, 
 Directly she offers her sister a slice ; 
 Not acting like some greedy children I Ve 
 
 known, 
 Who would go in a corner and eat it alone. 
 
 "When papa or mamma had a job to be done, 
 These good little girls would immediately 
 
 run, 
 And not stand disputing to which it belonged, 
 And grumble and fret, and declare they were 
 
 wronged. 
 
46 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 "Whatever occurred in their work or their 
 
 play, 
 They were willing to yield, and give up their 
 
 own way; 
 Then let us all try their example to mind, 
 And always, like them, be obliging and kind. 
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 {See Frontispiece.) 
 
 The following pleasant little story about a 
 pet lamb was written by Miss C. W. Barber, 
 and published in the Schoolfellow : — 
 
 " This is a cold morning," said Mrs. John- 
 son, as she laid down her work, and went 
 towards the window — " there was a sharp 
 frost last night, and remnants of it are still 
 to be seen upon the ground ; but Willie, my 
 love, where is your satchel? It is nearly 
 half-past seven, and as you have full a mile 
 
THE PET LAMB. 47 
 
 to walk to school, it is high time you were 
 on the way." 
 
 The boy addressed was a fine black-eyed 
 fellow, with a round face and curly hair, 
 which naturally parted upon one side. When 
 his mother commenced speaking, he was 
 constructing a rat-trap, with which he hoped 
 to imprison an old offender, who troubled 
 " mammy," the cook, by nibbling things in 
 the closet, eating holes through the meal- 
 bags, and sundry other misdemeanors ; but 
 he quietly closed his knife, and put it into 
 his pocket, and gathered up the pine sticks 
 that he had been whittling. This done, he 
 took his cap and satchel, and walked into 
 the by-path leading from Mr. Johnson's resi- 
 dence to the Male Academy, without utter- 
 ing a word. 
 
 " William is a good boy," ejaculated Mrs. 
 Johnson, mentally ; " I never have to speak 
 
48 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 to him twice ; some boys of his age would 
 have left this warm parlor, and the rat-trap, 
 very reluctantly upon this bitter morning, 
 to say the least ; but my little son always 
 does as he is told without murmuring." A 
 complacent smile settled upon her lip ; and 
 resuming her employment, she sewed for 
 half an hour in silence. 
 
 At length, she was aroused by the bleating 
 of a lamb directly in front of her window — 
 she looked up, and saw Willie returning with 
 his arms filled by a pretty, soft, snowy lamb ; 
 his satchel was suspended from one shoulder, 
 and hung dangling against his back- — his 
 cheeks glowed until they were almost purple 
 in the morning air. 
 
 " Why, my son, what does this mean ?" 
 said Mrs. Johnson, meeting him at the door ; 
 u I thought you started to school ?" 
 
 " 0, mamma ! see what a pretty lamb — 
 
THE PET LAMB. 49 
 
 isn't it a pretty creature ?" said he, without 
 heeding her question as he stopped, and 
 kneeling upon the floor, deposited his bur- 
 den. " I 'm going to have it for rny lamb — 
 my pet lamb ; but the poor thing is almost 
 frozen to death. Do you think that I can 
 make it live, mamma ?" 
 
 " I don't know, indeed, my son," said Mrs. 
 Johnson, stooping down and laying her hand 
 upon its white head. " Where did you get 
 it, Willie ?" " I found it beside its dam in 
 the pasture, mamma. The old sheep is 
 dead, and I knew that if I left the little 
 lamb, it would die too; so I concluded to 
 take it in my arms, and turn back home 
 with it. May'nt I stay at home to-day, 
 mamma, and take care of it V 
 
 " Mammy will look after it better than 
 
 you can," said the judicious mother — the 
 
 loss of a single recitation at school is to be 
 V. — D 
 
50 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 avoided, if possible — I am not willing you 
 should lose your place in your class for 
 trifles." 
 
 " But, mamma, this is not a trifle," said 
 William, in a supplicating tone; "the life 
 of a lamb— a pretty little pet lamb, is by no 
 means to be disregarded." 
 
 " I should like very much to gratify my 
 little son," said Mrs. Johnson, removing her 
 hand from the lamb to his head, while a 
 pleasant smile came to her lips ; " but I do 
 not think it best for him to stay at home to- 
 day ; I will look after this little lamb, and 
 mammy shall feed it, and revive it, if possi- 
 ble, by the kitchen fire — my Willie must go 
 to school now; he w T ill find his favorite 
 nicely cared for when he returns." 
 
 Willie did not like to go ; the effort cost 
 him much more than leaving the rat-trap 
 three quarters of an hour before had done ; 
 
THE PET LAMB. 51 
 
 but he felt that his mother knew what was 
 best. He called mammy, and committing 
 his charge into her hands, started again for 
 school. 
 
 In the course of a few hours, the lamb 
 began to revive. He leaped out of the 
 basket where mammy had placed him, and 
 came near running into the fire. He frisked 
 about and wagged his little short tail at a 
 wonderful rate. Had there been any chil- 
 dren upon the lot, they would, doubtless, 
 have gone into an ecstacy of delight over 
 his movements; but Willie was an only 
 child, and no one but Mrs. Johnson and 
 mammy were there to view his gambols. 
 
 When Willie came home at five o'clock, 
 it would have done your heart good to have 
 seen him, he was so pleased with his prize. 
 He fed it with warm milk, fresh from the 
 cow — he tied a blue ribbon around its snowy 
 
52 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 neck, and named it Tom. He looked for- 
 ward impatiently to the arrival of Saturday, 
 when he declared that he would build a nice 
 warm pen for it to sleep in at nights. Even 
 after dark, when supper had been eaten, and 
 the family retired, he kept on jabbering 
 about Tom and his prospects. 
 
 Willie's life, for many months afterwards, 
 was not by any means a lonely one ; for out 
 of school, one companion always attended 
 him. Tom became as much attached to his 
 master as a lamb is capable of becoming; 
 he followed him everywhere — he leaped 
 over hedges and ditches, and rambled with 
 Willie all about the cottage grounds. 
 
 But, finally, he became very strong — two 
 little horns started out of his head, and he 
 showed a great propensity to push every- 
 thing and everybody over that cam* in his 
 way. Even the faithful old negro who had 
 
THE PET LAMB. 53 
 
 taken such excellent care of him during his 
 infancy, when Willie was in school, now 
 declared that " Massa Willie must hab dat 
 sheep killed ; she darsen't go to de smoke- 
 house at all — Tom, first she knew, bunt her 
 square anto the smoke-pit." Mrs. Johnson, 
 too, frequently declared herself very much 
 annoyed by his pranks ; she intimated that 
 he must be either slaughtered or sold. 
 
 But Willie had no such ideas ; he loved 
 Tom quite too well to see him in the hands 
 of a sheep-owner, or bloody butcher ; he still 
 called him to accompany him in his walks, 
 and fed him in the" pastures. 
 
 But, one day, Tom chanced to be straying 
 by a cluster of laurel-bushes in full blossom 
 — perhaps the beauty of the shrub attracted 
 his attention ; for he commenced nibbling 
 the shining green leaves with a wonderful 
 relish. Willie was busy looking after a 
 
54 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 bird's-nest, and did not observe what he was 
 about. He little thought that his pet lamb 
 was eating poison — but so the sequel proved. 
 
 When Willie went, as usual, to pen Tom 
 for the night, he found him swollen and 
 dying — his tongue protruded from his 
 mouth, and it was black, with here and 
 there specks of foam upon it. Willie sat 
 down, and pulling his head into his lap, 
 wept bitterly; it seemed to him that he 
 could hardly have mourned the death of a 
 brother, or a sister, more deeply. 
 
 The next day, Willie dug a grave for Tom 
 in the pasture, back of the white cottage ; 
 he placed two old grey stones at its head 
 and at its foot, to mark the spot; but he 
 never planted a flower there — it made him 
 too sad ; for it brought back to his memory 
 the bright tints of the beautiful flowering 
 shrub, whose glossy leaves had poisoned his 
 pet lamb. 
 
USEFULNESS. 55 
 
 USEFULNESS. 
 
 " Mother," said little Annie Kay, 
 
 " Why must I sit and sew ? 
 "Why must I dust the room each day ? 
 
 I 'm sure I do not know. 
 
 " You say that 't is less trouble 
 
 For you these things to do, 
 Than spend your time in teaching me ; 
 
 And that I 'hi sure is true. 
 
 " Then, mother, let me run and play ; 
 
 The little birds are singing ; 
 The lark is on his upward way; 
 
 The bee his honey bringing. 
 
 " The butterfly from flower to flower 
 Koams o'er the smiling meadow ; 
 
 The little brook sings on among 
 Sunshine and silent shadow." 
 
56 USEFULNESS. 
 
 "And he who would be glad as they, 
 
 Must be as useful too," 
 The mother said, as to her side 
 
 Her child she fondly drew. 
 
 " Not for himself the light-winged lark 
 
 Sings, as he upward soars, 
 But for his mate and nestlings dear,' 
 
 His song of love outpours. 
 
 u Not for himself the laden bee 
 Flies home on weary wings ; 
 
 My Annie knows what honey sweet 
 From fields and woods he brings. 
 
 " The butterfly bursts from her tomb, 
 And like her mate the flower 
 
 Brings forth her offspring to adorn 
 Another's summer hour. 
 
USEFULNESS. 57 
 
 " The thirsty man, wearied with toil, 
 
 Blesses the little rill ; 
 Like heavenly truth its waters sweet. 
 
 Gladness and life distil. 
 
 " The happiest man who lives on earth, 
 
 Or in the angel host, 
 Is he who loves his neighbor best, 
 
 And labors for him most. 
 
 " My little Annie to my arms 
 
 The Lord has kindly given, 
 That I may guide her infant steps, 
 
 And lead her up to heaven." 
 
 "Oh, yes," cried Annie with sparkling eyes, 
 
 " Our little Charlie's there ; 
 And, mother, may I go there too, 
 
 His love and joy to share ?" 
 
58 A GOOD RULE. 
 
 " But none, my Annie, ever live 
 
 In the bright world above, 
 But those who here on earth have striven 
 
 Others to help and love." 
 
 " 0, then," said Annie, " I '11 try each day 
 
 A. useful child to be, 
 And gladly do the little tasks 
 
 That you appoint for me." 
 
 A GOOD RULE. 
 
 'T IS" well to walk with a cheerful heart 
 
 Wherever our fortunes call, 
 With a friendly glance and an open hand, 
 
 Arid a gentle word for all. 
 Since life is a thorny and difficult path, 
 
 Where toil is the portion of man, 
 We all should endeavor, while passing along, 
 
 To make it as smooth as we can. 
 
THE BOY WHO STOLE 
 
 59 
 
 THE BOY WHO STOLE. 
 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 -M 
 
 Oh, children ! did you ever 
 see a sight like this ? — A boy 
 in the hands of a police-officer, 
 taken up for stealing. It is 
 dreadful to 
 think of. Poor 
 boy! He does n't 
 look as if he had 
 a kind father or 
 mother to pro- 
 vide for him ; 
 or, any one to 
 care what be- 
 comes of him. 
 How thankful you should be 
 for good and loving parents, 
 who teach you to be truthful 
 and honest; and who guard 
 
60 THE BOY WHO STOLE. 
 
 you from the thousand dangers that lie ahout 
 your paths. 
 
 Never, dear children, be tempted to take 
 even a pin that does not belong to you ; be 
 the article ever so small, you are a thief if 
 you take it. A thief! What a dreadful 
 word! 
 
 The poor, unhappy boy, whom you see in 
 the picture, was once, no doubt, an honest 
 boy, and shuddered at the idea of being 
 called a thief; but, in some evil hour, he 
 was tempted to take an apple, a penny, a 
 piece of cake or an orange that was not his 
 own. No one found him out; he grew 
 bolder, and stole, it may be, a knife or a top, 
 from his playmate. And then, step by step, he 
 went on from bad to worse ; and see where 
 the end is ! Now he has been caught — and 
 an officer is taking him to the Mayor, and 
 
THE BOY WHO STOLE. 61 
 
 the Mayor will send him to prison, or the 
 House of Kefuge. Oh! it is sad to think of. 
 
 I have read somewhere in Mr. Wood- 
 worth's Youth's Cabinet, I believe, the story 
 of a little boy who was tempted to take 
 some candy which his father and mother 
 had laid by in a drawer, to be divided be- 
 tween him and his sister Alice. The boy's 
 name was John, and their father used to call 
 them, pleasantly, Jack and Gill. Their 
 father, Mr. Page, had been from home, and 
 when he returned he brought a nice package 
 of candy. It so happened that Jack was 
 alone in the room with this candy. 
 
 " His father, was out on the farm, and his 
 mother and little sister, together with the 
 baby, had gone to see a neighbor, and Jack 
 was alone, as I have said, with the candy. 
 So he seized the opportunity to pull out the 
 drawer and take a look at it. It certainly 
 
62 THE BOY WHO STOLE. 
 
 did look very pretty indeed ; the red and 
 the white, twisted and plaited all so nicely 
 together, and those rich lemon drops. Jack 
 was particularly fond of the lemon drops, 
 and he gazed very wishfully upon the trea- 
 sure lying there. 
 
 " \ 1 wonder,' said he to himself, ' mother 
 did n't lock this drawer. Somebody might 
 take the candy ; but who is there to take it 
 but me ? Jane is gone to carry the baby, 
 and I'm left to be housekeeper, while they're 
 away. These lemon drops look very sweet 
 — I don't think mother would miss two or 
 three of them. I'm sure she wouldn't.' 
 And so Jack took up one or two of the 
 lemon drops, and was about putting them in 
 his mouth, when he stopped a moment and 
 reflected. 
 
 " '■ Mother won't miss these,' said he, 
 6 I 'm sure — only a couple of them ; but then 
 
THE BOY WHO STOLE. 63 
 
 if she was here, I would n't take them with- 
 out her leave, and I wouldn't like her to 
 know I took them any how. She has left 
 the drawer unlocked, and that 's as much as 
 to say, she has no fears about Jack, for he 's 
 to be trusted. Suppose, now, I take these 
 lemon drops. I shan't be able to look mo- 
 ther in the face the next time Uncle Isaac 
 comes to our house, and mother tells him, 
 "Jack's such a trusty boy." No, I like 
 lemon drops, but I can't do this to get them ; 
 and now I think of it, it looks very much 
 like stealing, to be taking them all so secretly, 
 and choosing such* as I am sure could not be 
 missed. Why, it would be stealing, as sure 
 as the world — and I feel a good deal like a 
 thief already. I 'm sure if papa or mamma 
 was to come in at that door now, I would 
 feel as mean as a thief." 
 
 So Jack put back the lemon drops, and 
 
64 THE BOY WHO STOLE. 
 
 closed the drawer, and sat down, and tried 
 to read the Swiss Family Eobinson, which 
 one of his schoolmates had lent him ; but it 
 was all in vain ;. he could n't read, nor could 
 he keep this affair of the lemon drops out 
 of his mind. He sat there with his face 
 upon his hand, thinking about it, and feeling 
 pretty sad, when the sound of his sister's 
 cheerful voice was heard coming up the 
 walk, signifying that his mother had returned. 
 Jack tried to appear cheerful, as if nothing 
 had happened, but it was a poor effort, and 
 so he left the house and went out to the 
 stable, and patted old Sorrel awhile on the 
 the neck; for he loved the horse dearly, but 
 he didn't fancy staying about where his 
 mother was, at all. 
 
 " Toward night, however, he came into 
 the house, still feeling very heavy and dull, 
 as if a weight of some kind were pressing 
 
THE BOY WHO STOLE. 65 
 
 upon him. He couldn't talk, and could 
 hardly have laughed at anything. Little 
 Alice was frolicking about, and had just 
 made a bargain with her papa to give him a 
 kiss apiece for half-a-dozen lemon drops, 
 and was already fulfilling her part of the 
 bargain at a great rate, in advance. Mr. 
 Page got the lemon drops, and paid his debt 
 by putting two in each hand and two in her 
 mouth. 'And here, Jack/ said he, 'are 
 half-a-dozen for you, who sit there as sober 
 as your grandfather/ 
 
 " ' Don't wan't any,' said Jack. 
 
 " 6 Don't want any !' said his papa, in reply. 
 ' Why, what 's got into the boy ? Don't you 
 love them ?' 
 
 " ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 " ' Well, here they are; they are for you, 
 and nobody else,' answered his papa. 
 
 " Still Jack sat there as solemn and as 
 
 V.— E 
 
66 THE BOY WHO STOLE. 
 
 sober as his old grandfather, sure enough, 
 and did not seem inclined to accept them. 
 
 " ' Give them to me/ said the roguish 
 little Gill ; 6 brother Jack don't love candies. 
 I '11 eat them.' 
 
 " ' No, no,' answered her father, somewhat 
 seriously, ' there's something the matter 
 here. Are you sick, Jack ?' 
 
 " i No, sir/ said the poor boy. 
 
 " £ Well, what in the world— rhas anybody 
 offended you ?' asked Mr. Page. 
 
 " ' No, sir ; but I 've offended myself/ was 
 the calm reply. 
 
 " ' What 's the matter, my son V said Mr. 
 Page, very tenderly. 
 
 " Jack could stand it no longer' but burst 
 into tears, and cried a long time, as if his 
 heart would break. His papa knew that 
 something was wrong, and he saw, too, that 
 
THE BOY WHO STOLE. 67 
 
 Jack's conscience was doing a severe but 
 wholesome work, and so he said nothing. 
 
 " As soon as Jack had his cry out, as the 
 children say, he told his pipa and mamma 
 all about it, and how mean and bad he felt 
 for indulging such inclinations, when they 
 thought, too, that he was a boy to be trusted, 
 in sight and out of sight. 
 
 " ' You may just depend upon it, mother,' 
 said Jack, c I '11 not do so again, for it makes 
 a body feel entirely too much out of conceit 
 with himself. And now, papa,' continued 
 Jack, wiping his eyes, with an honest ex- 
 pression of countenance, ' now, papa, it's all 
 over, and I '11 take those lemon drops, if you 
 please.' 
 
 66 6 Here they are, Jack,' said Mr. Page, 
 c and here is my hand, too; for the evidence 
 you have just given me of a truly honest 
 heart is worth a bushel of lemon drops.' " 
 
68 MARY. 
 
 MAE . v * 
 
 Thou art going from us, Mary, 
 
 As a bud falls from the tree ; 
 Thou art leaving warm hearts, Mary, 
 
 And their blessings go with thee. 
 As the snow-drop in the woodland, 
 
 As the violet in the dell, 
 We shall miss thy modest loveliness, — 
 
 Sweet Mary, fare thee well ! 
 
 We shall miss thy pleasant voice, Mary, 
 
 As the tone of some wild bird ; 
 And shall listen for thy name, Mary — 
 
 That blessed household word. 
 As a moonbeam from the window, 
 
 As a brooklet in its swell, 
 We shall miss thy gentle presence, — 
 
 Sweet Mary, fare thee well ! 
 
MARY. 60 
 
 The children love thee, Mary, 
 
 And their hearts must thrill with pain. 
 When they find thy pillow empty, 
 
 And call for thee in vain. 
 Thy name, thy dear name, Mary, 
 
 Was the first our boy could say; 
 We shall not forget it, Mary, 
 
 When thou art far away. 
 
 Thou art going home, my Mary — 
 
 God bless thee evermore ; 
 Thou shalt be welcome back again, 
 
 As the sunbeam to our door. 
 'Come when the flowers are blooming, 
 
 And the wild birds are in song ; 
 For though you leave us, Mary, 
 
 It must not be for long. 
 
 Mrs. Stevens. 
 
THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 THE TWO SCHOOL GIRLS; 
 OR, LESSON OF FORGIVENESS. 
 
 group of little girls 
 were standing, one 
 clear day in summer, 
 on the green in front 
 of their school-house. 
 They were in earnest 
 discussion, and long 
 and loud were the 
 
 voices, while one modest-looking child in the 
 
 centre was trying in vain to wipe away the 
 
 tears, that, in spite of all her efforts, would 
 
 roll over her cheeks. 
 
 "Never mind, Mary," said one, "we all 
 
 know you ought to have been at the head ; 
 
 and that you would have been, if it had not 
 
 been for Margaret Nelson." 
 
a 
 
 THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 71 
 
 " I feel sorry I lost my place," said Mary, 
 but I am not crying for that. I loved 
 Margaret, and I thought she loved me ; but 
 I do not like to think that any one could 
 have been so selfish and mean."' 
 
 " You might have let me tell Mrs. Carter, 
 and I know you would not have lost your 
 place then, Mary," 
 
 " Oh, no, Ellen ; I do not want to disgrace 
 Margaret in Mrs. Carter's eyes. It is bad 
 enough that you happened to hear her, and 
 to know it." 
 
 " I don't believe there is a single girl in 
 our class who will speak to her after this, 
 unless you do." 
 
 " I hope I shall try to do right about it," 
 answered Mary. 
 
 " I '11 leave her no peace," said Lucy, " for 
 I'll talk to her every chance I can get; and 
 I only wish I could make my voice sound as 
 
72 THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 if it came from all corners of the room, like 
 a ventriloquist, and she should hear all sorts 
 of sounds." 
 
 " I don't believe that would do any good, 
 Lucy. It is best to say nothing about it." 
 
 " I will not promise to say nothing about 
 it," replied Anna ; " for I do not think I can 
 help speaking." 
 
 "Well," answered Mary, "we shall not 
 be in season for our dinners, if we talk here 
 much longer. We must go." 
 
 Mary and Anna turned down the road, 
 and the other girls went in an opposite 
 direction. 
 
 " Now, what are you going to do ?" asked 
 Anna. " You surely will not treat Margaret 
 just as you did before, will you?" 
 
 " I ought to do it \ but I cannot say that 
 I shall. I hope I shall be able. But it is 
 very hard not to make any difference ; and, 
 
THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 73 
 
 in spite of myself, my maimer or my tone 
 might show I felt injured, if my words did 
 not. I am sure I did not think, last Sun- 
 day, when Miss Deane, my Sunday School 
 teacher, told us about forgiveness of injuries, 
 that I should have to practice it so soon." 
 
 " If you do," said Anna, " you will be the 
 first school-girl that ever did. But*you are a 
 dear, good girl, Mary," added Anna, kissing 
 her ; " and we all know where your place 
 should be, if Mrs. Carter does not. Good- 
 bye." And Anna ran across the street, 
 leaving Mary on the door-steps. 
 
 Mary stood in the large entry closet, while 
 she was putting away her bonnet and shawl, 
 and tried to feel kindly to Margaret ; but it 
 was hard work, and Mrs. Coleman saw, when 
 she raised her eyes, as Mary entered the 
 parlor, that her face was clouded. 
 
 " Well, dear," she said, inquiringly, " tell 
 
74 THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 me all about it. Your face tells a history, 
 though I am not quite skilful enough to read 
 it exactly." 
 
 " I can tell you the story, mother, but I 
 think I had better not tell you the name of 
 the person, except I will say that she is one 
 of my best friends. She was next to me in 
 the class, and I always thought she did not 
 care to get above me ; at least, she has often 
 told me so. To-day there was a hard ques- 
 tion in arithmetic, and I asked her the ex- 
 planation of it in recess, because I had seen 
 her ask Mrs. Carter just before, and knew 
 she must have told her the right one. She 
 gave me the explanation, and two or three 
 of the other girls listened and heard it, too. 
 The question came to me, and I explained 
 it as she had told me. Mrs. Carter said it 
 was wrong, and passed it to her without 
 waiting to hear what I had to say. She did 
 
THE TWO SCHOOL- GIRLS. 75 
 
 it correctly, and went above me. I thought 
 I must have mistaken what the girl had 
 said, though I did not see how I could have 
 done so ; but Sarah Lee was standing by the 
 desk when Mrs. Carter explained the sum ; 
 and she showed it to one of the girls who 
 had heard what my friend had said. This 
 girl was coming to tell me; but recess was 
 over before she could find me. Sarah ac- 
 cused her of telling me the wrong way, when 
 school was done ; and all the girls who were 
 near said she looked very guilty, and mutter- 
 ed something to herself, and then hurried off 
 as fast as possible." 
 
 " Could any child do such a mean, selfish 
 action ? I can hardly believe it." 
 
 " I tried not to believe it, mother, but it 
 must be true. I cannot bear to think any 
 one would do it." 
 
 " Did you tell Mrs. Carter, after school ?" 
 
76 TIIE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 "No, mamma. I did not want her to 
 know it. The girls were going to tell her, 
 but I begged they would not. I feel troubled 
 about it, and grieved that any one I love 
 should do so." 
 
 " Are you sure you are not angry, instead 
 of grieved ?" 
 
 " I think so, mamma. I was very angry 
 at first, but I do not feel at all as I did 
 then." 
 
 " I am sorry that this has happened ; but 
 I want you to try to do right about it. Try 
 to treat her as if she had not injured you." 
 Mary promised to do her best. 
 
 At school, in the afternoon, Margaret 
 studiously avoided Mary, and turned her 
 head whenever she saw her approaching. 
 When school was out, she ran home without 
 waiting for any of the girls. 
 
 A matter so generally known in school 
 
THE TWO SCIIOOL-GIKLS. 77 
 
 could not fail to reach the ears of Mrs. 
 Carter. In fact, she heard it the very next 
 day. She was walking home behind Sarah 
 Lee and Lucy, when she heard the latter 
 say, " She is an abominable cheat, and I wish 
 she would leave the school." 
 
 " Who is such a cheat ?" she asked 
 
 The girls turned, and seeing Mrs. Carter, 
 looked very much confused ; but on her re- 
 peating the question, Lucy answered : " I 
 Wanted to tell you all about it yesterday, 
 but Mary Coleman would not let me. But, 
 as you have asked, now I shall tell you." 
 And she related the whole affair. 
 
 Mrs. Carter was surprised and grieved. 
 " Why," she inquired, " was Mary unwilling 
 that I should know it ? She would certainly 
 have kept her place." 
 
 " Because she said Margaret was injured 
 in the good opinion of the scholars, and she 
 
78 THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 did not wish her to lose your good opinion, 
 too." 
 
 At the corner of the street, Mrs. Carter 
 bade the scholars " good morning," and went 
 home, forming a plan to punish Margaret. 
 At school, that afternoon, she called Mar- 
 garet to her, and had a long talk with her. 
 The girl returned to her seat weeping vio- 
 lently, but shook off the hand Mary placed 
 on her shoulder, rather seeming angry at 
 being found out, than sorry for having been 
 so deceitful and selfish. 
 
 More than a week passed by, and Mar- 
 garet still avoided Mary. One day, in re- 
 cess, however, Mary saw her friend crying, 
 as if in great trouble. She went to her, and 
 kindly asked her the cause of her tears. 
 Her tone was so pleasant and sympathising, 
 that Margaret said she could not perforin 
 her questions in arithmetic, and that none 
 
THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 79 
 
 of the girls would show her. Asking the 
 teacher was out of the question, as she was 
 engaged with a gentleman. Mary sat down 
 by her, and helped her. She was finishing 
 the last question when the bell rang. 
 
 After school she asked Margaret to walk 
 with her, and the two were soon chatting 
 as pleasantly as ever. As they came near 
 home, on their return, Margaret grew silent, 
 and scarcely answered her companion ; but, 
 just as they were about to separate, she 
 made a good effort, and said : " Mary, I shall 
 never feel happy till you have your right 
 place again. I do not know what could 
 have tempted me to treat you so unkindly. 
 I have not had a happy hour since ; and 
 when I tried to pray morning and night, 
 the words choked me. Do say you forgive 
 me, and don't refuse to take your place 
 
SO THE TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 again." Mary had refused to do this, though 
 Mrs. Carter had urged it several times. 
 
 " I will take the place," she answered, 
 " when I get above you fairly, but not till 
 then. I had forgiven you long ago. I did 
 feel very angry at first, and afterwards was 
 sorry that you did so ; but let us never say 
 any more about it." 
 
 The girls parted — Mary with the lightest 
 of hearts — and Margaret resolved to follow 
 Mary's good example. We may add that 
 this example was not lost upon others among 
 her schoolmates, who were led to forgive, 
 not perhaps as serious offences, but little 
 matters which are often the root of much 
 bitterness among school-girls : and Margaret 
 herself always remained a firm friend to 
 Mary, and prayed and strove sincerely for 
 the spirit of forgiveness. 
 
TO MY BROTHER. 81 
 
 TO MY BROTHER. 
 
 We are but two — the others sleep 
 Through death's untroubled night ; 
 
 We are but two — oh let us keep 
 The links that bind us, bright. 
 
 Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 
 
 That warms us is the same ; 
 That good old man — his honest blood 
 
 Alike we fondly claim. 
 
 We in one mother's arms were locked — 
 
 Long be her love repaid ; 
 In the same cradle we were rocked, 
 
 Round the same hearth we played. 
 
 Our boyish sports were all the same, 
 
 Each little joy and wo ; 
 Let manhood keep alive the flame 
 
 Lit up so long ago. 
 
 V. — F 
 
82 THE TOILING BEES. 
 
 We are but two — be that the bond 
 
 To hold us till we die ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 
 
 Till side by side we lie. 
 
 Charles Sprague. 
 
 THE TOILING BEES. 
 
 " Not to mvself alone," 
 
 The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum — 
 
 " Not to myself alone from flower to flower, 
 
 I rove the woods, the garden and the bower, 
 
 And to the hive at evening weary come; 
 
 For man, for man, the luscious food I pile 
 
 With busy care, 
 Content if this repay my ceaseless toil- 
 A scanty share." 
 
THE JOURNEY. 
 
 83 
 
 THE JOURNEY. 
 
 "No more books! no more 
 lessons ! hurra ! hurra !" shout- 
 ed Harry Graham, as he sprang 
 _ r .«^ into the parlor with a 
 bound, and toss- 
 ed a pile of 
 school-books on 
 the sofa. " To- 
 morrow is the 
 day, mother," he 
 continued, look- 
 ing into his mo- 
 ther's face with 
 a smile of trium- 
 phant joy, " to-morrow is the day that will 
 make me happy ; to-morrow we shall start 
 on our journey, and then I shall be free from 
 every lesson for a month. Oh ! what good 
 
84 THE JOURNEY. 
 
 luck ! I shall go in an elegant steamboat 
 across Lake Erie, and we shall be out of sight 
 of land ; we '11 stop at handsome hotels ; and 
 it will be nothing but pleasure all the time." 
 
 " Yes ; but Harry," said his mother, smiling, 
 " suppose you could learn a lesson that would 
 be useful to you all your life, in the midst 
 of your pleasure, then would you not be 
 willing to learn it ?" 
 
 " Well, I think not, mother," replied 
 Harry, after gravely considering for a few 
 moments ; " when I have pleasure, I want 
 it all pleasure, and when I study, it shall be 
 in earnest; that is my way of thinking." 
 
 "And so you think happiness must be 
 laid aside when you begin to learn anything, 
 — and that lessons are contained in nothing 
 but books ? We '11 see, Harry, if some op- 
 portunity will not occur before long to teach 
 you lessons you will be glad to learn, and 
 not out of books either." 
 
THE JOURNEY. 85 
 
 " I don't see how that can be," said Harry, 
 with an inquiring look ; " but perhaps I shall 
 see some of these days." 
 
 The wished-for to-morrow came; every- 
 thing was packed up ; the carriage was at 
 the door, and with a joyful heart Harry took 
 his place beside his mother. They had a 
 long journey in view T , as Mrs. Graham was 
 about visiting a sister who lived in the " far 
 West." Harry wearied of steamboats and 
 railroads, and was glad to rest a day or two, 
 or rather run about upon his feet awhile in a 
 gay city, before starting afresh in a steam- 
 boat to cross Lake Erie. Late in the after- 
 noon, he and his mother left their hotel, 
 and were driven to the steamboat ; already 
 many people were there, and with the 
 impatience of a child, Harry begged his 
 mother to walk out upon the deck; he 
 did not like the crowded saloon. They 
 went; the sun was just setting, and threw 
 
86 THE JOURNEY. 
 
 a vermillion lustre upon the quiet waters ; 
 Mrs. Graham was observing it with pleasure, 
 when Harry exclaimed with eagerness. " Oh ' 
 mother, what are they doing here ? See this 
 boat fastened to ours, and all those poor 
 people on the top of it." 
 
 " That is a caual-boat," said Mrs. Graham, 
 moving nearer, " those poor people are going 
 to set up a home in the West ; they have 
 not been able to travel by railroad, for it 
 would cost them too much. Look at their 
 poor, scanty furniture ; they are removing it 
 from that boat to this." 
 
 " Then they will be our fellow-travellers," 
 said Harry with animation. " I am glad of 
 that; for, mother, look at that poor little 
 girl sitting on a trunk with a baby in her 
 arms. Its little feet are bare — and how cold 
 they both look ; there stands beside them a 
 little boy about four years old ; he must be 
 the girl's brother, for she speaks to him : 
 
THE JOURNEY. 87 
 
 now he is looking into a basket he holds on 
 his arm ; he takes out a small piece of bread 
 and gives it to the baby ; now he holds out 
 his hand and looks so beseechingly at his 
 sister ; she shakes her head ; poor boy ! he 
 goes away, and sits on another trunk, with 
 his back to the other two. Mother, don't 
 you suppose he is hungry V* 
 
 "Yes, dear. I suppose the family fur- 
 nished their own food before starting on 
 their journey, and probably it is all gone 
 now. They will not get anything to eat on 
 this boat until morning, for I find we are not 
 to have supper, as I thought we should." 
 
 " But we can get something, can't we, 
 mother ?" 
 
 "We may perhaps get some crackers in an 
 hour or two ; after the boat starts. Every 
 one is so busy, I shall not attempt it now." 
 
 " I have two beautiful peaches that you 
 
88 THE JOUENET. 
 
 gave me, mother," Harry said, and then 
 looked at the poor children with a bright 
 tear in his eye. "See, the little boy is 
 looking back at the baby with such wishful 
 eyes ; almost all the bread is gone. Now his 
 father calls him ; he is going to lift him on 
 our boat ; but first he carries his basket like 
 a little hero, then a box, then something 
 else; now he comes himself; there, I can- 
 not see him now, he is on the lower deck. 
 There comes the little girl, but her mother 
 has taken the baby ! They are all on board 
 now ! I am so glad, so happy ! — dear mo- 
 ther, — won't you tell me how I can get down 
 to them ?" 
 
 "Why, Harry?" 
 
 " I must give them my peaches," he re- 
 plied, with a glowing cheek, and eyes bright 
 with the delightful thought of making the 
 poor children happy. 
 
THE JOURNEY. 89 
 
 "Are you hungry, Harry? It will be 
 a good while before you can have those 
 crackers V 
 
 "lam only a little hungry ; but I don't 
 care ; I am glad of it, for it might better be 
 me than those children ; I can always have 
 nice things ; and these beautiful peaches will 
 be such a delight to them ; won't they, dear 
 mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear boy," said his mother with 
 a happy, approving smile, " there will be 
 delight all around, for it gives me the 
 deepest joy to see you deny yourself for the 
 sake of those more needy, — you are very 
 happy to do so, and they will be thankful." 
 Mrs. Graham showed the way, and Harry 
 saw the poor children's faces brighten so joy- 
 fully when he told them the fruit was really 
 for them. "And now, Harry," said his 
 mother, "you have learned a lesson without 
 
&0 A PICTURE. 
 
 a book; you have learned that it is more 
 blessed to give than to receive." 
 
 "Ah, yes/' replied the generous boy, 
 " that is a beautiful lesson, and I will never 
 forget it." 
 
 A PICTUKE. 
 
 The farmer sat in his easy chair 
 
 Smoking his pipe of clay, 
 While his hale old wife with busy care 
 Was clearing the dinner away; 
 A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes 
 On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. 
 
 The old man laid his hand on her head, 
 With a tear on his wrinkled face, 
 
 He thought how often her mother, dead, 
 Had sat in the self-same place ; 
 
A PICTURE. 91 
 
 As the tear stole down from his half-shut 
 
 eye, 
 " Don't smoke !" said the child, " how it 
 
 makes you cry !" 
 
 The house-dog lay stretched out on the 
 floor 
 Where the shade, afternoons, used to 
 steal ; 
 The busy old wife by the open door 
 Was turning the spinning-wheel, 
 And the old brass clock on the mantle-tree 
 Had plodded along to almost three : 
 
 Still the farmer sat in his easy chair 
 While close to his heaving breast 
 The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 
 Of his sweet grandchild were pressed ; 
 His head bent down, on the soft hair lay — 
 Fast asleep were they both, that summer 
 day! 
 
92 LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 
 
 LOYE ONE ANOTHER. 
 
 One morning in my early life I remember 
 to have been playing with my younger sister, 
 not then three years old. It was one of 
 those bright mornings in the spring, that 
 bring joy and life to the heart, and diffuse 
 gladness and animation through all the tribes 
 of living creatures. Our feelings were in 
 perfect harmony with the universal gladness 
 of nature. Even now I seem to hear my 
 little sister as she followed me through the 
 winding alleys of the garden, her cheek 
 suffused with the glow of health and anima- 
 tion, and her waving hair floating with the 
 wind. 
 
 She was my only sister, the sole compa- 
 nion of my childish sports. We were con- 
 stantly together; and my youns^ heart went 
 out to hers with all the affection, all the 
 
LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 93 
 
 fondness, of which childhood is capable. 
 Nothing afforded me enjoyment in which 
 she did not participate ; no amusement was 
 sought in which we could not share toge- 
 ther. 
 
 That morning we had prolonged our play 
 till near the hour of breakfast, with undi- 
 minished ardor, when at some slight provo- 
 cation my impetuous nature broke forth, and 
 I struck my little sister a blow with my hand. 
 She turned to me with an appealing look, 
 and the large tears came in her eyes : her 
 heart was too full to allow her to speak, and 
 shame made me silent. At that moment 
 the breakfast-bell summoned us away, and 
 we returned without exchanging a word. 
 The excitement of play was over, and, as 
 she sat beside my mother at breakfast, I 
 perceived by glances at her, that she was 
 pale and sad. A tear seemed ready to start 
 
94 LOYE ONE ANOTHER. 
 
 in her eye, which her little self-possession 
 could scarcely suppress. It was only when 
 my mother inquired if she were ill that she 
 drank her coffee and endeavored to eat. I 
 was ashamed and grieved, and inwardly re- 
 solved to embrace the first opportunity, 
 when we were alone, to throw my arms 
 around her neck, and entreat her forgive- 
 ness. 
 
 When breakfast was ended, my mother 
 retired with her into her room, directing me 
 in the meantime to sit down to my lessons. 
 I seated myself at the window, and ran over 
 my lesson, but did not learn it ; my thoughts 
 were perpetually recurring to the scene in 
 the garden and at table. It was long before 
 my mother returned ; and when she did, it 
 was with an agitated look, and hurried step, 
 to tell me that poor Ellen was very ill. I 
 asked eagerly if I might go to her, but was 
 
LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 95 
 
 not permitted, lest I should disturb her. A 
 physician was soon called, and every means 
 made use of for her recovery, but to no pur- 
 pose. The disease, which was in her head, 
 constantly increased in violence, and she 
 became delirious. It was not till evening 
 that I was permitted to see her : she was a 
 little recovered from the severity of the 
 pain, and lay with her eyes closed, and her 
 little hand resting on the pillow beneath her 
 head. How I longed to tell her the sorrow 
 I felt for my un kindness to her in the morn- 
 ing, and how much I suffered for it during 
 the day. But I was forbidden to speak to 
 her, and was soon taken out of the room. 
 During that night and the day following she 
 grew worse. I saw her several times, but 
 she was insensible of my presence. Once 
 indeed she showed some signs of conscious- 
 
96 LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 
 
 ness and asked. for me ; but immediately re- 
 lapsed into her former state. 
 
 On the morning of the third day I arose 
 at an early hour, and repaired to the sick- 
 room. My mother was sitting by the bed. 
 As I entered, she drew me to her, and for 
 some time was silent, while the tears flowed 
 fast down her face. I first learned that my 
 sweet sister was dead, as my mother drew 
 aside the curtain, which concealed her from 
 me. I felt as though my heart would break. 
 The remembrance of her affection for me, 
 and my last unkind deed, revived in my 
 mind, and burying my face in the folds of 
 the curtain, I wept long and bitterly. 
 
 I saw her laid in the coffin, and lowered 
 into the grave. I almost wished to lie down 
 with her, if so I might once more see her 
 smile, and hear my forgiveness pronounced 
 in her sweet voice. 
 
NOON AND NIGHT. 97 
 
 "Years have passed away, and I am now a 
 man, but never does the recollection of this 
 incident of my early life fail to awaken 
 bitter feelings of remorse ; and never do I 
 see any of my young friends exchanging 
 looks or words of anger, without thinking 
 of my pastime with my own loved sister. 
 
 MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT. 
 
 I heard the voice of a happy child, 
 
 Ring clear through the morning air, 
 By its merry lightness and careless glee, 
 
 Saying naught of grief had been there ; 
 And nothing seemed sweeter then, to me, 
 
 Than the music which breathed in its tone, 
 And I listened again for the sounds so clear, 
 
 But the child and the laugh were gone. 
 
 •V.— G 
 
98 MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT. 
 
 But I heard again that thrilling voice, 
 
 Poured out in a warbling song; 
 When the sun with its glorious noontide 
 light, 
 
 Streamed the rainbow flowers among. 
 And I sat delighted, each sound as it came 
 
 Sounding freer, more clear than the last, 
 And I almost wept when it died away 
 
 And the child with the song had passed. 
 
 But at eve, when the wild bird sang her 
 song, 
 
 That gentle voice again, 
 Came sweeter than ever I heard it before, 
 
 In a low, soft, earnest strain. 
 'T was the evening prayer of that same glad 
 child, 
 
 Than the laugh or song more deep, 
 And it floated around in a spirit strain, 
 
 When his lips were hushed in sleep. 
 
ANECDOTES OF DOGS 
 
 Of all the animals which are subject to 
 man, there is none which sustains to him 
 such intimate relations as the Dog; none 
 which so generally and remarkably merit 
 his regard and confidence. Many animals 
 exhibit surprising traits of disposition — ex- 
 traordinary sagacity — gratitude for favors — 
 revenge for injuries — consciousness of danger 
 — warmth and even fidelity of attachment 
 for man — but all of these qualifications are 
 
 (99) 
 
100 ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 
 
 united in the Dog, and he is entitled, above 
 all other animals, to be called the friend of 
 man. 
 
 There are upwards of a hundred different 
 varieties of this animal, and yet in every 
 one of them the general features are the 
 same. Docility, fidelity and generosity are 
 his chief characteristics, and it is not to be 
 wondered at, therefore, that in every con- 
 dition of life he is cherished and beloved. 
 
 The poor Indian, whose only idea of 
 Heaven is of wide and happy hunting- 
 grounds, firmly believes that his dog will be 
 admitted there with him, and would not 
 willingly resign his companionship. 
 
 The dog has been frequently known to die 
 of grief for the loss of his master, and an 
 incident is related of one who belonged to a 
 poor woman in Westmoreland, England. 
 The woman had a young child of which the 
 
ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 101 
 
 dog was very fond and careful, generally 
 sleeping with it in the cradle. While they 
 were on a visit to a neighboring town the 
 child died, and after its burial the mother 
 returned home, but so great was her grief 
 for her child that some clays elapsed before 
 she missed the dog. In vain did she search 
 for him — he was nowhere to be found. 
 Passing shortly afterwards through the vil- 
 lage where her child died, she visited the 
 graveyard, and there in a hollow, which he 
 had scratched upon the child's grave, lay the 
 wasted form of the faithful dog. 
 
 The sagacity of dogs is so remarkable that 
 some have even supposed them to be pos- 
 sessed of reason, doubting that mere instinct 
 could produce such discrimination as they 
 sometimes exhibit. A shepherd's clog in 
 Scotland was once directed by his master to 
 seize one of the flock that was afflicted with 
 
102 ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 
 
 a common distemper. Lodie, which was the 
 animal's name, immediately fastened the 
 sheep to the spot, and held it while the 
 shepherd clipped off some of its wool and 
 applied a healing balsam ; this was repeated 
 in two or three cases, and after that, Lodie 
 needed no directions, for he proceeded un- 
 bidden through the flock, caught every dis- 
 eased sheep and held it fast until the cura- 
 tive means had been employed upon it. In 
 this way he saved his master a world of 
 trouble. 
 
 The docility of the dog is one of its most 
 remarkable traits. He can be taught to do 
 almost anything — and doubtless many a little 
 reader has taught his own dog to carry a 
 basket — to fetch a little boat out of the 
 water — or to do something of the kind. 
 
 These, however, are very insignificant 
 feats, compared with many that are related 
 
ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 103 
 
 in books. Over a hundred dogs were so 
 trained that they could perform, in concert, 
 a number of plays, representing scenes both 
 tragic and comic, with a life-likeness that 
 astonished all beholders. They were ex- 
 hibited in London, where, among other 
 strange things, they acted in a mimic siege. 
 They were all dressed in soldiers' uniform 
 — standing on their hind legs and walking 
 erect — bearing muskets in their fore-paws. 
 Upon the stage was a miniature fortress — 
 with all the accompaniments of moat and 
 walls and ranges of ramparts. These were 
 guarded by soldier dogs — like the besieging 
 party. Among these were officers of various 
 grades, and they held grave consultations — 
 which were interrupted by a shot from the 
 fortress. This was the signal for an attack ; 
 and now followed all the pomp and circum- 
 stance of war. Shots were fired — smoke 
 
104 ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 
 
 poured out in volleys — drums beat — trum- 
 pets sounded — ladders were placed against 
 the walls and immediately crowded with the 
 assailants, some of whom were pushed into 
 the moat. At length the forlorn hope ad- 
 vanced to the attack, and now came the tug 
 of war, which, after a most exciting and 
 extraordinary scene of conflict, resulted in 
 the capture of the fortress — whereupon the 
 leader of the victors tore down the enemy's 
 flag and hoisted, in its stead, the British 
 colors — to the tune of " God save the King." 
 This is probably the most wonderful feat 
 ever performed by dogs, and we scarcely 
 know which to admire most, the ingenuity 
 and patience of their teachers, or the won- 
 derful abilities of the army of dogs. The 
 same dogs also represented a fashionable 
 assembly — exhibiting a great variety of 
 costumes, male and female, and all the 
 
ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 105 
 
 etiquette of the best society. The enter- 
 tainments included the reception of a visitor 
 of high rank, and wound up with a grand 
 fancy ball ! The leader of the besieging 
 army was here transformed into a Master of 
 Ceremonies, and acquitted himself to the 
 admiration of all the spectators. 
 
 Two dogs, named Braque and Philax, 
 were wonderfully taught by their master, a 
 French gentleman named Leonard, who ex- 
 hibited them not for gain but for scientific 
 ends. These dogs exercised memory — and 
 displayed such powers of discrimination that 
 they seemed to be guided by Keason. They 
 distinguished colors — words, and even figures 
 — one of them played very skilfully at 
 dominoes — and conducted the game with 
 surprising art. When he could match the 
 domino played by his opponent, he did so, 
 with a joyful expression of face, and when 
 
106 ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 
 
 he could not do so, he seemed distressed and 
 shook his head sadly. Such was the intel- 
 ligence of these two dogs that when it had 
 been arranged that at three raps at the door, 
 Braque should do a given thing, and that at 
 five Philax should perform his part, they 
 never made the least mistake. 
 
 Mr. Hogg, " the Ettrick Shepherd," as he 
 is called, used to declare 'that dogs knew 
 what was said about them in their hearing. 
 He had a dog named Hector, and one day 
 he observed to his mother, "I shall go to 
 Bowerhope to-morrow, but Hector must not 
 go with me, for he is always quarrelling 
 with other dogs." The dog was present, and 
 Hogg says he thought no more of it until, 
 the next morning, when he reached Bower- 
 hope — there was Hector waiting his arrival 
 — having swum a full river to reach the 
 spot. 
 
ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 107 
 
 There is very good evidence, that in Ger- 
 many, a dog was taught to speak — and 
 actually learned to pronounce a number 
 of words — so that it could call for tea, 
 coffee, &c. 
 
 Mrs. Hall, the authoress, had a greyhound 
 which was so sensitive of discord in music, 
 that it screamed out in apparent distress if 
 a false note was struck on the piano, or any 
 instrument. We are told also that a Ger- 
 man gentleman succeeded in teaching a 
 poodle dog to recognize false notes in music, 
 by striking him with a cane at every such 
 note — until finally the dog became so expert 
 in detecting them, that the moment he heard 
 one, in public or in private, he would howl 
 out his disapproval instantly. He was 
 equally critical in new as in familiar pieces 
 of music. So perfect did the poodle's edu- 
 cation in music become, that he would in- 
 
108 THE CHILD'S NEW YEAR PRAYER. 
 
 stantly detect and bitterly denounce, any 
 lack of harmony in composition — so that he 
 was the terror of all the composers in the 
 town of Darmstadt. "When intentionally 
 annoyed by performers he became greatly 
 excited, and if they did not keep him in 
 reasonable bounds, he would become wild 
 and fly at them with all possible fierceness. 
 
 THE CHILD'S PRAYER FOR THE 
 NEW YEAR. 
 
 I kneel before thee, Lord ! 
 
 Oh ! teach me what to say ! 
 I know I must have help from thee 
 
 Even to pray. 
 
 The year has just begun, 
 
 May it be blest to me ; 
 Oh ! aid me, day by day, to draw 
 
 Nearer to thee. 
 
THE CHILDS NEW YEAR PRAYER. 109 
 
 Teach me to understand 
 
 What thou would'st have me do : 
 To shun all that is false, and love 
 
 All that is true. 
 
 I do not always act 
 
 As rightly as I should ; 
 Teach me to hate all evil ways, 
 
 And make me good. 
 
 That, when this year is past, 
 
 And I before thee bow, 
 I may kneel down a better child 
 
 Than I am now. 
 
110 SEAMED, AND SCARRED, AND* WOUNDED. 
 
 " SEAMED, AND SCARRED, AND 
 
 WOUNDED." 
 
 (gjj^gp^ hen you called me, 
 mother, I was listen- 
 ing to John. He 
 was telling me about 
 an old veteran sol- 
 dier he had talked 
 with in England,who 
 battle of Waterloo, and 
 had been wounded, and what tales he had 
 to tell about Spain, and all that. What he 
 had to say made me almost wish we had 
 wars going on here, that one might be some- 
 thing of a hero, and fight and suffer and do 
 something for one's country." 
 
 " And what was it John called out to say 
 to you as we came away ?" 
 
 had fought in 
 
SEAMED, AND SCARRED, AND WOUNDED. Ill 
 
 " He told me I might have fighting enough 
 to do any day. But I know what he meant. 
 He meant the e very-day sort of fighting with 
 one's self, and one's faults. That does very 
 well to read about, but there's nothing very 
 exciting in that kind of battle." 
 
 " It leaves its wounds behind sometimes." 
 
 " But people don't show their wounds of 
 that sort," answered Henry, " because it is 
 the cheerful people that get the victory, and 
 they cover up their troubles and their 
 wounds, and keep silent about their bat- 
 tles." 
 
 " Miss Gray, whom we are going to see," 
 said his mother, " bears about with her the 
 scars and wounds of a very severe struggle." 
 
 " Oh yes, Miss Gray was a real heroine. 
 She saved that little child from the fire, and 
 at the risk of her own life. What courage 
 she showed in going back to the house while 
 
112 SEAMED, AND SCARRED, AND WOUNDED. 
 
 it was in flames ! And everybody says she 
 had been so calm through the whole, that 
 there would have been nothing saved if it 
 had not been for her presence of mind." 
 
 " That courage was nothing new to her. 
 She has shown it under less exciting causes. 
 The first part of her life was passed in the 
 midst of injuries. At the death of an uncle, 
 who had surrounded her with- everything 
 she could want, and who had yielded to 
 every wish, she came home to her father 
 and mother. They died, and left to her 
 care and support, younger brothers and 
 sisters. She brought them up, and educated 
 them, watched with them when they were 
 ill, and then her own health failed. But 
 her courage never failed. The only f wound' 
 I ever saw upon her then, was a little con- 
 traction upon her brow, and that was caused 
 by severe pain. You can remember how she 
 
SEAMED, AND SCARKED, AND WOUNDED. 113 
 
 has always been the most joyous person in 
 the village." 
 
 "Mother," said Henry, as they reached 
 the door of the cottage in the lane, " I was 
 going to tell you I would leave your basket 
 at the door with you, and wait in the lane, 
 till you should come out. I had an idea, I 
 had rather not see a person who had been 
 suffering so much. But I should like to go 
 in with you now ; I am not sure but Miss 
 Gray's battles have been greater than the 
 Waterloo kind." 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, Henry and his 
 mother came out from the cottage. The 
 sun was just setting, and they lingered in 
 the gateway to watch how he went behind 
 the mountains. 
 
 " I am very glad I went in to see Miss 
 Gray," said Henry. "How can she be so 
 happy, and yet so helpless? While you 
 V. — H 
 
114 SEAMED, AND SCARRED, AND WOUNDED. 
 
 were gone to speak to her sister, she talked 
 with me in such a pleasant way. She told 
 me some funny stories about the way they 
 lived on her uncle's farm, where they used 
 to stay, so that I laughed till I cried. She 
 did not say a word to me or to you about 
 her troubles. And you did not ask her about 
 them." 
 
 " No, I asked her sister of those. If you 
 had heard what she told me, you would have 
 wondered still more that Miss Gray could 
 appear to forget them for a moment." 
 
 " She says I may go to see her often, and 
 she will tell me more about her adventures, 
 because she has been quite a traveller." 
 
 "Yes, she travelled with a friend, who 
 was very ill, and she saw more than most 
 people do who travel merely for their plea- 
 sure." 
 
SEAMED, AND SCARRED, AND WOUNDED. 115 
 
 " And, mother, Miss Gray has her laurels 
 around her, too." 
 
 u What do you mean by her laurels ?" 
 
 " Why, the beautiful flowers, that so many 
 people have sent her, because they loved 
 her, — and pleasant books for her to read, 
 and delicious fruit. She showed me on a 
 broad green leaf, a few strawberries that 
 James Goodwin had picked her out of his 
 own garden. He is one of those rude boys 
 that I never supposed would care for any- 
 body." 
 
 " Miss Gray wins everybody's love. The 
 man whom we met as we came near the 
 cottage, with the log of wood over his shoul- 
 der, is the owner of the cottage, and Miss 
 Gray's sister told me that he had been inva- 
 riably kind, and eager to do all he could for 
 them. She was brought directly to the cot- 
 tage after the terrible fire, and he and his 
 
116 SEAMED, AND SCARRED, AND WOUNDED. 
 
 family have devoted themselves to her com- 
 fort." 
 
 " What a pretty place it is," said Henry, 
 as he looked back down the lane, towards 
 the cottage they had left. " What a beau- 
 tiful elm before .the door, and a neat fence 
 by its side. I like those deep eaves that 
 come out so far beyond the walls." 
 
 " Nobody would think," said his mother, 
 "from its quiet appearance outside, that 
 there was that kind of battle, as you call it, 
 going on within ; and, as you say, the cheer- 
 ful people cover up what scars and wounds 
 they have. 
 
 " So they have a double victory, one over 
 the pain of the wound itself, and the other 
 over the appearance of suffering pain ; and, 
 as you say, with the victory, the laurels 
 come too ; for such conquerors are never left 
 desolate of love and kindness." 
 
A FOREST SCENE. 117 
 
 A FOREST SCENE IN THE DAYS OF 
 WICKLIFFE. 
 
 [To make the following poem, which we 
 have selected for our young readers, under- 
 stood by them, we will mention that there 
 was a time in the history of the Christian 
 Church, when the rulers in that church had 
 great power, even over kings as well as peo- 
 ple. These rulers were bad men, although 
 called priests, and one of their worst acts 
 was to refuse to let the Bible be read, and 
 to punish all who read it, sometimes even 
 with death. This holy book was then printed 
 in Latin, Greek, or some other language only 
 understood by the learned. But, at last, it 
 was printed in the English language, and 
 the poem relates how a little girl, living in 
 those days, got possession of one of those 
 
118 A FOREST SCENE. 
 
 English copies, and read the Bible for the 
 first time in her life. How thankful should 
 we all be, that this blessed Book, in which 
 are the waters of eternal life, can now be 
 had by every one, and read by every one in 
 Christendom :] 
 
 A little child she read a book 
 
 Beside an open door; 
 And, as she read page after page, 
 
 She wonder' d more and more. 
 
 Her little finger carefully 
 
 Went pointing out the place ; — 
 Her golden locks hung drooping down, 
 
 And shadow'd half her face. 
 
 The open book lay on her knee, 
 
 Her eyes on it were bent; 
 And as she read page after page, 
 
 The color came and went. 
 
 She sat upon a mossy stone 
 
 An open door beside; 
 And round, for miles on every hand, 
 
 Stretch'd out a forest wide. 
 
A FOREST SCENE. 119 
 
 The summer sun shone on the trees, 
 
 The deer lay in the shade; 
 And overhead the singing birds, 
 
 Their pleasant clamor made. 
 
 There was no garden round the house, 
 
 And it was low and small, — 
 The forest sward grew to the door; - 
 
 The lichens on the wall. 
 
 There was no garden round about, 
 
 Yet flowers were growing free, 
 The cowslip and the daffodil, 
 
 Upon the forest-lea. 
 
 The butterfly went swiftly by, 
 
 The bees were in the flowers; 
 But the little child sat steadfastly, 
 
 As she had sat for hours. 
 
 " Why sit you here, my little maid V 
 
 An aged pilgrim spake; 
 The child look'd upward from her book, 
 
 Like one but just awake. 
 
120 A FOREST SCENE. 
 
 Back fell her locks of golden hair, 
 
 And solemn was her look, 
 And thus she answer'd, witlessly, 
 
 " Oh, sir, I read this book V 
 
 " And what is there within that book, 
 
 To win a child like thee? — 
 Up ! join thy mates, the merry birds, 
 
 And frolic with the bee t" 
 
 u Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book, 
 
 I love it more than play; — 
 I 've read all legends, but this one 
 
 Ne'er saw I till this day. 
 
 " And there is something in this book, 
 That makes all care begone, — 
 
 And yet I weep, I know not why, 
 As I go reading on W 
 
 " Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read 
 
 A book with mickle heed? 
 Books are for clerks — the king himself 
 
 Hath much ado to read !" 
 
A FOREST SCENE. 121 
 
 "My father is a forester — 
 
 A bowman keen and good; 
 He keeps the deer within their bound, 
 
 And worketh in the wood. 
 
 " My mother died in Candlemas, — 
 
 The flowers are all in blow 
 Upon her grave at Allonby, 
 
 Down in the dale below." 
 
 This said, unto her book she turn'd, 
 
 As steadfast as before; 
 " Nay," said the pilgrim, " nay, not yet, 
 
 And you must tell me more. 
 
 " Who was it taught you thus to read V 
 
 "Ah, sir, it was my mother, — 
 She taught me both to read and spell — 
 
 And so she taught my brother. 
 
 " My brother dwells at Allonby 
 
 With the good monks alway; 
 And this new book he brought to me, 
 
 But only for one day. 
 
122 A FOKEST SCENE. 
 
 " Oh ; sir, it is a wondrous book, 
 Better than Charlemagne, — 
 
 And, be you pleased to leave me now, 
 I'll read in it again!" 
 
 "Nay, read to me," the pilgrim sa*id; 
 
 And the little child went on, 
 To read of Christ, as was set forth 
 
 In the Gospel of St. John. 
 
 On, on she read, and gentle tears 
 Adown her cheeks did slide ; 
 
 The pilgrim sat, with bended head, 
 And he wept at her side. 
 
 " I 've heard," said he, " the Archbishop, 
 I 've heard the Pope of Rome, 
 
 But never did their spoken words 
 Thus to my spirit come ! 
 
 " The book, it is a blessed book ! 
 
 Its name, what may it be?" 
 Said she, " They are the words of Christ 
 
 That I have read to thee; 
 Now done into the English tongue 
 
 For folks unlearn' d as we !" 
 
A FOREST SCENE. 123 
 
 'Sancta Maria!" said the man, 
 
 Our canons have decreed 
 
 That this is an unholy book 
 
 For simple folk to read ! 
 
 " Sancta Maria ! Bless'd be God ! 
 
 Had this good book been mine, 
 I need not have gone on pilgrimage 
 
 To holy Palestine ! 
 
 " Give me the book, and let me read ! 
 
 My soul is strangely stirr'd ; — 
 They are such words of love and truth 
 
 As ne'er before I heard I" 
 
 The little girl gave up the book, 
 
 And the pilgrim, old and brown, 
 With reverent lips did kiss the page, 
 
 Then on the stone sat down. 
 
 And aye he read page after page ; 
 
 Page after page he turn'd ) 
 And as he read their blessed words 
 
 His heart within him burn'd. 
 
124 A FOREST SCENE. 
 
 Still, still the book the old man read, 
 As he would ne'er have done ; 
 
 From the hour of noon he read the book, 
 Unto the set of sun. 
 
 The little child she brought him out 
 A cake of wheaten bread; 
 
 But it lay unbroke at eventide; 
 Nor did he raise his head, 
 
 Until he every written page 
 Within the book had read. 
 
 Then came the sturdy forester 
 Along the homeward track, 
 
 Whistling aloud a hunting tune, 
 With a slain deer on his back. 
 
 Loud greeting gave the forester 
 
 Unto the pilgrim poor; 
 The old man rose with thoughtful brow, 
 
 And enter'd at the door. 
 
 The two had sat them down to meat, 
 And the pilgrim 'gan to tell 
 
 How he had eaten on Olivet, 
 And drank at Jacob's well. 
 
A FOREST SCENE. 125 
 
 And then he told how he had knelt 
 
 Where'er our Lord had pray'd ; 
 How he had in the garden been, 
 
 And the tomb where he was laid. 
 
 And then he turn'd unto the book, 
 
 And read, in English plain, 
 How Christ had died on Calvary ; 
 
 How he had risen again; 
 
 And all his comfortable words, 
 
 His deeds of mercy all, 
 He read, and of the widow's mite, 
 
 And the poor prodigal. 
 
 As water to the parched soil, 
 
 As to the hungry, bread, 
 So fell upon the woodman's soul 
 
 Each word the pilgrim read. 
 
 Thus through the midnight did they read, 
 
 Until the dawn of day; 
 And then came in the woodman's son 
 
 To fetch the book away 
 
126 THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 
 
 All quick and troubled was his speech, 
 His face was pale with dread, 
 
 For he said, " The King hath made a law 
 That the book must not be read, — 
 
 For it was such a fearful heresy, 
 The holy Abbot said." 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 
 
 'T is being, and doing, 
 
 And having, that make 
 All the pleasures and pains, 
 
 Of which mortals partake. 
 To be what God pleases, 
 
 To do a man's best, 
 And to have a good heart, 
 
 Is the way to be blest. 
 
THE RAIN. 127 
 
 THE EAIN. 
 
 Patter, patter, pretty rain. 
 Patter on my window-pane — 
 Much I like your pleasing din, 
 But I cannot let you in. 
 Yonder spout go run adown, 
 With a pleasant gurgling sound, 
 And the cistern quickly fill — 
 Pretty rain, I know you will. 
 Gently fall in welcome showers, 
 Fall, like blessings, on the flowers ; 
 Every leaf and blade of grass 
 Sprinkle, sprinkle, as you pass ; 
 Then, the sun shall smile like love 
 On your work, from heaven above ; 
 And the pretty flowers the while, 
 Come and bask beneath his smile. 
 So falleth blessings from above, 
 So smileth God, in Heavenly love. 
 
128 
 
 THE RAIN. 
 
 Then ought we, with simple hearts, 
 Day by day, act well our parts, 
 That our deeds, like flowers in bloom. 
 May diffuse a sweet perfume. 
 
I ^ 
 
(