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JUVENILE LIBRARY
BOSTON:
UONARD C. L u W L t S ;
AND B. H. GREENE.
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UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL
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Science
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AMERICAN
MORAL TALES,
FOR YOUNG PERSONS.
BY THE AUTHORS OF THE 'TALISMAN, '1.ES90ITS
WITHOUT BOOKS,' &C.
QcsirV^wx*. NV *•"*»• Se.«i^u?^0
BOSTON:
LEONARD C. BOWLES,
AND B. H. GREENE.
1832.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1832,
by Leonard C. Bowles, in the Clerk's office of the District
Court of Massachusetts.
o
or
CONTENTS.
Days of Sickness, - 5
The Beatitudes, - - - - 71
Mary Jones, - - - - - 177
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2012 with funding from
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
http://archive.org/details/americanmoraltalOOdixd
DAYS OF SICKNESS.
IT THE AUTHOR OF THE * TALISMAN.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the
year 1831, by Leonard C. Bowles, in the Clerk's
office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
DAYS OF SICKNESS.
One morning about twelve o'clock, Robert
Arnold came running upstairs to his mother's
room, calling out before he was half way up
(as it was his habit to do) ' mother, mother,
where are you?'
His mother answered, c here, my son, do not
call so loud.'
Robert. Has Lucy come home?
Mrs A. Yes.
R. Where is she? is she ready? you
know you said we might go out together this
morning after school and buy our printing
press if it was fair, and 1 am sure it is a very
fine day.
Mrs A. I am sorry to disappoint you,
Robert, but Lucy is ill; she came home an
hour before school was done; there she is en
the sofa.
1
6 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
Lucy. But my head does not ache so much
now, and perhaps walking out may make me
feel better.
Mrs A. You told me that walking home in-
creased your headach. You are not better,
Lucy, although I dare say the excitement of
seeing Robert makes you for the moment for-
get your indisposition.
L. (Gets up.) I do feel better indeed,
because I am rested by lying down: it is but a
short walk, and when I come home I will lie
down again; and you know I premised to go.
R. Yes, mother, and you know T you
promised we should go, and if you do not let
us, you will break your promise.
Mrs A. It sometimes happens that we can-
not keep our promises.
R. But we must keep them, or we
shall do very wrong, for you know the psalm
mother — c And though he promised to his cost,
He makes his promise good.'
Mr s A. We ought certainly to keep our
promise if possible, and therefore we should
be cautious about making such as it may be
difficult or improper for us to keep. When
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 7
circumstances occur to prevent us which we
could not have foreseen, w T e are excusable.
R. Well, mother, if you do not keep
this promise you need not make me any more,
because you know I cannot trust to them.
Mrs A. You never knew me to break a
promise, which I could keep with propriety. I
believe \ must appeal to your own sense of
right in this instance. Do you not think that
since it is sobad a thing to break promises, and
I cannot keep mine now without endangering
Lucy's health, you ought to release me from it?
This will be doing right, which gives a feeling
worth all the printing-presses in the world.
Come, Robert, will you not release me ?
R. Yes mother, I will.
Mrs A. I am much pleased with you, my
son. You have relinquished your own sel-
fish desires for the good of another. It de-
lights me to see you improving in the habit of
self-control; to give up our desires from a sense
that it is not right to indulge them, is self-con-
trol there is no power worth so much as this.
I am willing you should go by yourself and
buy the printing-press and bring it home. Lucy
8 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
will be able to play with you a little I hope.
#. O I cannot go without Lucy. You know
we have both saved up our money together to
buy i f , and she must choose as well as I.
Mrs A. Then bring it for her to see before
you conclude the bargiin, and if she does not
like your choice you can exchange i:; so that
difficulty is removed.
R. But there is another; Lucy said she
would ask for it when we get into the shop,
and >he would inquire the price, and if we did
not like the one handed us she would ask to see
another, and if t'lere were only two sets of types
she would tell the shopkeeper we wanted one
with four sets, for we cannot print much unless
we have more than two alphabets. —
Mrs A. Why cannot you say all this yourself?
you seem to have got it pretty well by heart.
R. Yes, to say to you, but I do not like
to speak to a stringer, and I never know how
to begin, but Lucy always can, and she knows
just what to say.
Mrs A. I think it is time you made some ef-
fort to overcome this bashfulness, and this is a
good opportunity.
DAYS OF SICKNESS. U
a.
R. Do let me wait till tomorrow and then
I hope Lucy can go.
Mrs A. I will if you prefer it, but 1 am afraid
Lucy will be no better tomorrow, I think she
is going to have the measles because several
children of her school are sick with it.
R. O dear, that is too bad; I wonder
what good the measles dc>! You always say-
mother, that everything is ordered for some
good end, but I am sure there is no good in
sickness; is there, Lu y?
Lucy, (hesitatingly.) Yes there must be; is
it not to teach us patience, mother, do n: t you
think it takes a great deal of patience to be
sick?
Mrs A. Yes, pat'ence is one of the lessons
taught by suffering, and many others not less
valuable: if Lucy is going to be sick, I hope she
will not suffer in vain, but learn these important
lessons, and then she will perceive that our
heavenly Father who knows far b3tter than our-
selves w T hat is best for us, never afflicts us but
for our good.
R. I hope Lucy is not going to be sick
mother, and 1 know almost she is not, for she
10
DAYS OF SICKNESS.
Is sitting up and looks quite well now, and I
think she might go out without danger.
Mrs A. It will require many trials, I fear, to
teach you patience, Robert, but I must not ex-
pect too much of one of your irritable temper-
ament. I am sure that if you really believed it
would make Lucy worse to go out with you,
you would prefer she should remain at home,
for you are an affectionate boy and love your
sister better than you do your toys, even new
ones
J?. I should, if I could only believe so.
Mrs A. You must allow me to be the judge
of that.
L. I wish we had the printing press this af-
ternoon, because it is a holvday and Robert
would be at home to play with me.
Mrs A. If Robert wishes to get it now,
and will accept of me as a substitute for your-
self. I will go' with him to buy it. What do
you say to this proposal, Robert ?
R. I should like to go with you mother, for
I wish to have it this afternoon.
Mrs A. Come along, then, there is no time
to lose.
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 11
Robert and his mother were absent about an
hour, when the street door was thrown violent-
ly open, and Robert ran up the stairs as fast as
the heavy parcel he held in his hand would per-
mit, and called out, Lucy, Lucy, here it is.
Mrs A. Hush, hush, Robert perhaps Lucy
is asleep.
R. (stops) . O! I forgot. I will open the door
very sofily mother, and just look in. — Her eyes
are open, she is awake.
L. Come in, I am not asleep.
R. I am glad, Lucy, you could not go, tha*
is 1 am glad mother went, for we have purchas-
ed a b'gger one and a better one than we should
if only you and I had gone for it.
L. How ? did mother give you more money?
R. You shall hear. First we went, you
know to Miss N. as you and 1 agreed; she had
sold all hers but one which was not complete,
though it was a large one, and she said she
would let us have it cheap. I wanted to take
it, but mother said she should prefer one that
was perfect if she could find it. — Miss N. said
she should have some more in the next arrivals
from Germany, but that would not be this af-
\% DAYS OF SICKNKSS.
ternoon, so we went to another toy shop in
Cornhiil.
L. 1 am sorry you did not get it at Miss
N's. because I like her.
R. So do J the best of all the toy
shops.
Mrs A. The best of all those who keep toy
shops, I suppose you mean. Miss N. is not a
shop.
R. (laughing) No indeed.
Mrs A. Be careful to express yourself
correctly that you may form the habit early, and
then yo'ir conversation will not be inelegant or
unintelligible. I beg your pardon for interrupt-
ing you.
R. The man was obliging also in the
next shop we went to, and showed us a num-
ber of presses. Mother thought some too small,
others too dear.
Lucy. How dear lucre they.
J?, there was one grand one for five
dollars, and we bad but two, you know.
Lucy. Well, what then?
i?. Then mother said she would be
obliged to him to look once more and see if
DAYS OF SICKNESS 13
be had not one between these sizes; which he
did, and at last he found one. You will see
when I open it w 7 hat an excellent one it is. This
was $2 50. Mother said she would give me
tbe half dollar, and she said she would send to
the type foundry and buy us some more types.
There are only four alphabets, two large and two
small, and some figures and stops.
Lvcy, Come, let me see it.
2?. (opens the paper in what the prpss is wrap-
ped) — Now look, this is the drawer for the
types : it will hold a great many more. Here
is another drawer; in it is a little cup of ink,
we can get more at the printers' when this is
used up.
L. What are these two little round cushions,
with such cunning handles ?
R. These are daubers.
L. Daubers, what are they ?
R. Things to put the ink on to the types
when they are set. I shall show you.
This is the box to set the types in, and a
cross piece, just where we want it, with a screw
to keep them steady.
L. what is this long twisted stick at the
top?
14 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
R. That is the screw, to make it press, that
is, as mother said, to produce the pressure.
Now I will print something, may 1 mother.
Mrs A- Yes, get some paper and a little
water, for the paper must be damp when you
print, it.
R. Yes, you know how wet the newspaper
is ; I have to dry it every morning.
L. And you have heard people say 'wet
from the press'. Come, begin.
Mrs A. My dear Lucy, your cheek is very
much flushed, you are not able to bear this ex-
citement. Robert, you must put away the press
for the present.
L. He need not if he will take it into the
parlor and play by himself.
R. No, I had rather wait till you can play
with me. Dont you think she will be able af-
ter dinner, mother?
Mrs A. Perhaps so, but first she must take
some medicine an d li e d o wn qui e tly .
Lucy did as her mother wished, and in a few
hours awaked much refreshed. Her brother
was called and the press again brought out.
R. I will call for the letters, and you shall
DATS OF SICKNESS. 17
hand them, Lucy . — Let me see, what shall I
print? 1 will print my name. No 1 will print your
name, Lucy Arnold. First, L, there it is in
that row; all the gieat letters are by themselves,
and all ihe small ones. Now u. No, not great U,
little u, or do you wish it to be all in capitals.'
L. No, only the initials.
i?. What sort of letters are those?
L. Dont you know ? the first letter of each
word. R. A. are your initials.
R. O yes. I have R. A. on some of
my clothes instead of my whole name ; but now
T have a press, 1 shall mark everything with my
whole name ; you know little Joseph Carter
marked a set of napkins very neatly for his mo-
ther, with his press. — Come, give me little u.
L. Here are all the letters ; how quick-
ly I have found them. Although they look up-
side down, or some how wrong.
R. That is done to make them come
right on the paper like the letters on mamma's
seal. She told me that they were cut wrong
but look right when an impression is made, be-
cause they are reversed. Now I have it all set,
I will screw it up steady, so that the letters can-
16 DAYS OF SICKNESS*
not be moved by the press. Put some ink on
the daubers and give them to me.
Mrs A. Take this little brush; do not ink
) T our fingers or clothes. Printers' ink makes
a stain that cannot be washed out. I hope this
press will assist you in forming habits of neat-
ness.
R. I will be very careful, mother. There
is ink enough, Lucy ; now look at me, I have
seen the printers daub it on, first one hand,
(hen the other. Their hands go so fast, one
can hardly see them.
Mrs A. A meihod has been invented lately
of inking the types by machinery, which does
the work much faster. I will take you and
Lucy to see the hydrostatic press.
R. 1 wish you would, mother, but I should
prefer putting on the ink myself, for I like
that part of the business. Now the types are
ready, — where is the paper?
Mrs A. That orght to be ready prepared.
Wet it, and wipe off the water with a cloth,
which will leave it just damp enough.
R. Give it to me if you please. See —
I lay it on the types as they are set — then an-
DAYS OF STCKNESS. 17
other piece of paper over to keep the types
from pressing through. Then I place it under
this flat board and turn the screw, till it press-
es very hard. Now I will turn the screw back
and you shall see your own name, Miss Lucy
Arnold, printed by your own brother. — Here it
is. But do look at it !
L. What is the matter.? — it is not my
name, here is d, little d, first.
R. It is all backwards — Lucy Arnold
backwards. How could that be ? It is right
on the types. You can read it, mother; what
makes it come wrong on the paper ?
Mrs A. Take the types as they are now set.
Place a bit of paper on them. Observe where
the d at the end of your name comes ; is it not
at the left hand where the beginning ought to
be?
R. O yes, I see now how it is; the nnme
should be spelled backwards with the types and
then it will come right on the paper.
L. Like your seal, mother, because the im-
pression is reversed.
R. Do printers always have to spell back-
wards ?
18 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
Mrs. A. Their types seem to be set in that
way. I am surprised that you did not observe
this when you visited them.
R. I did not go very near to the press. You
told us, mother, that you wished us to buy a
printing press because it would teach us to
spell, but you do not want us to learn to spell
backwards.
Mrs. A. No — printers do not spell back-
wards; they put the letters upside down. Take
a piece of paper printed on but one side. Hold
it up to the window, with the beginning of the
page down, and the printed side from you. Now
read it, commencing at the bottom. The letters
and words appear as the types do to the printer.
i?. O mother ! look at Lucy ; while we have
been talking she has laid down. She looks very
pale. Mother, she is fainting. Ring the bell.
Mrs A. I vvill not wait, but run for some
water myself.
Lucy was indeed more ill than she had con-
fessed, and the interest she had taken in the
new press had quite exhausted her. Her
mother requested Robert to leave the room,
drew the window curtain, and after Lucy had
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 19
been revived by suitable applications, sat down
quietly by her bed and would not allow any one
else to come near her, — for she was well aware,
that children are as easily fatigued by noise
and confusion when they are sick, as older
persons, although they do not always know
what it is that worries them.
Mrs Arnold sent for a physician; he told her
Lucy's symptoms were like those of the measles,
and he hoped the eruption would appear the
nest day. — He gave her some composing med-
icine, which he said was all he wished to have
done that night. This Doctor was a very
kind man, particularly to children. Lucy was
fond of him, and it was but a day or two before
that she had said, how long it is since Doctor B.
has been here. I believe I must get a little
sick, that mother may send for him. Mrs Ar-
nold reminded Lucy of this when he came in.
' O dear,' she exclaimed, 'I did not wish to be
so ili as I am now; can't you give me some-
thing, Doctor, that will cure me to night?'
'I can give you something, he replied, that will
relieve you, and as I hope enable you to sleep,
but not cure you quite so soon. You are such a
20 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
patient Tittle girl however, that [ can cure you
much sooner than I could some children. I
visit one little girl with the measles, who has
cried so much because her head ached, and
because she was required to take medicine,
and because she was not allowed to eat a bit of
cake which an injudicious friend brought her,
that I fear her eyes will be almost ruined.
You must remember Lucy, that the measles is
a disease which afFects the eyes, and refrain
from crying, and even from rea ding, if you
have it.
4 Not read,' said Lucy. ' Shall I have to lie
in bed all the day and not read ?
c I fear so,' answered Doctor B. ' at least,
for some days.'
■ Can I draw, or sew Dr.?
4 No, I shall not allow you to use your
eyes at all, if you have the measles, even if
they are not (as is generally the case) much
inflamed; but your mother will find some way
of amusing and employing your mind, if your
eyes and hands are idle. Good night. I hope
to see you as red as a scarlet-bean-blossom
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 2 jt
Lucy bad a less comfortable night than the
Doctor had anticipated; her mother hardly
closed her eyes; but whan morning came the
measles did not appear, and Lucy was much
worse. When the Doctor saw her, he said he
had no doubt of the disease, and should like to
have a warm bath tried. l Mother,' said Lucy,
'I wish you would not, I can't bear a warm bath.. 1
'Lucy.' said the Doctor, 'as you area reasonable
child I trust your mother will be able to
persuade you to take it willingly, as it would
otherwise be less beneficial. Pray why do you
dislike a bath?
Lucy. I feel so sick I can't move; and it
frightens me to go into the water.
Dr. As to your moving, you shall not have
that trouble, for your mother will have you
moved in very gently, and you know there can
be no danger in your lying in a tub of warm
water with your mother sitting by your side;
you will allow that it is foolish to be frightened
when there is no danger.
Lucy. I do not think it will do me any-
good to take a warm bath.
Dr. Now who my dear Lucy, do you sup-
22 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
pose is the best judge of this matter, you who
never saw any one with the measles, or myself
who see a dozen or more every day?' Lucy
made no farther objections but took the bath so
tranquilly that it had the desired effect. The
next, morning she began to feel less distress-
ed, still however she was very ill, and her
mother left her scarcely a moment, and afford-
ed her every alleviation in her power; and was
so v ery tender and kind, that Lucy experienc-
ed a pleasure in her presence that almost charm-
ed away her suffering. ' Dear mother,' said
Lucy, ' it takes more patience to be sick than I
thought it would. Do you think I have been
pattern?'
c Yes,' answered her mother, 'as much so as
could be expected from a little girl of your
ase, and this has no doubt alleviated vour
distresses.
Lucy. I have tried to be so, for I remem-
bered what you said the other day; that you
hoped I should not suffer in vain, but learn pa-
tience by my sickness.
Mrs Arnold. You ought certainly to en-
deavor to learn since it is God who is teach-
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 23
ing you the lesson. He is a kind Father and.
designs our good in every thing that happens
to us; and we ought not by our willfulness to
frustrate his design.
Lucy. Cannot God do every thing he
pleases ?
Mrs Arnold. Yes, he is all powerful.
Lucy. How then can we hinder his mak-
ing us good when he chooses ?
Mrs Arnold. He has ordained that our
virtue should be voluntary, ihat is, depend in
some degree on ourselves. God has given us
a capacity for virtue, and all the assistance and
encouragement requisite, but has left it to our-
selves to determine whether we will be good
-or not. However much we may admire vir-
tue we cannot secure it without constant effort,
and the help of our Heavenly Father, which
if we pray for sincerely we shall be sure to
obtain. Therefore my dear Lucy you must
keep in mind, that although it is sometimes
very hard to do what you know you ought to
do, as for instance, to bs patient while you
.are sick, yet that you can do it, if you try, and
that you will suffer the misery of self reproach
24 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
and consciousness of the displeasure of God if
you do not. Have you learned no other les-
son by your sickness ? the lesson of kindness
for instance.
Lucy. Why, mother, it is you who have
learned that; yon have been kinder to me than
when I am well.
Mrs Arnold. The lesson w T as designed for
me no less than for yourself; but 1 wish you
to reflect how acceptable my kindness is to you,
and when you have sick friends, and still more
when you know of any one who is sick without
friends, do all in your power for their comfort
and relief.
Lucy. O mother, I shall always be kind
to sick persons: if Robert has the measles I
will do every thing for him.
Mrs Arnold- You see now the value of
friends; they enhance our enjoyments, but how
much more can they alleviate our sufferings L
And who gave us our friends, Lucy ?
L. I know mother no one but God could
give such good gifts.
Mrs A. Then my dear child learn above
all other lessons, that of gratitude to God, for
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 25
this and every good gift. And since even a
weak imperfect child like yourself can thus per-
ceive the advantages of suffering in your own
case, learn to feel a perfect reliance on this wis-
dom and goodness even in cases when this ad-
vantage is not apparent. This feeling of reliance
to God is faith, it is a never failing support to
the religious mind in the severest trials.
Perhaps this conversation may be dull to
some of my young readers, who are not in the
habit of talking on such subjects with their
parents and friends: but I can assure them it
was not so to Lucy, who often conversed
with her mother in this way, and had thus ac-
quired a power of affection and an interest in
various subjects certainly uncommon at her age.
Lucy loved God for his goodness to herself and
to all the creatures he has made. Her ideas
of his wisdom and power, though imperfect
and sometimes vague, were sufficient to excite
the sentiments of reverence and piety in her
mind. This was a long night to Lucy. If she
fell asleep her cough soon awakened her; her
mother was so anxious that she did not go to
bed, but laid down by Lucy's side, ready to rise
whenever she was needed.
26 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
Children generally are not aware how much
fatigue and anxiety their mothers endure for
them especially when they are ill, but Lucy
had reflected on this and she told her mother
she wished she would go to bed. ' I can call
you,' said she, c if I want any thing;' but her mo-
ther answered, c not to night, Lucy. I can lie
down tomorrow and get as much sleep as I re-
quire.'
Thursday morning came and Mrs Arnold
fo*md her daughter but little relieved. The
Doctor arrived, and said she was very ill. He
directed some new applications and ordered her
to be kept very quiet.
After he was gone Lucy said, ' I wish, mo-
ther, you could read to me, but I suppose the
room is too dark.'
4 T fear it is,' said her mother,' as my eyes
are not strong.'
? 1 have very unpleasant thoughts,' said Lucy.
4 I wish something could drive them away.'
' What thoughts my dear?'
' All sorts of ugly shapes and creatures, and
then I think that I am falling down, and then
that it is all a dream, but I have not been asleep.
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 21
Do sit close by me.' said Lucy, with. a very
distressed look and tone.
Her mother perceived that a slight attack of
delirium not unfrequent with her children when
they were feverish, was coming on, and she
felt it to be important to soothe and tranquillize
her mind. She had intended to call the maid
to sit by Lucy, while she laid down; but she
deferred doing this, and seating herself by the
bed look Lucy's hand, kissed her burning cheek,
and said, ' shall I tell you a story, Lucy?'
'Do, mother.' — Mrs Arnold endeavored to find
something which would not call forth much
thought or feeling, but only gently engage the im-
agination of her sick child; and upon the spur
of the occasion related the following.
THE DISCONTENTED CAT.
There was once an old woman, who lijred
on the edge of a wood by the road side. It
was an unfrequented place, though not very-
far from the village. This old woman was fond
28 DAYS OF SICK.NFSS.
of a solitary life, seldom went to the village, and
rarely saw any one at her hut, or passing her
door.
She had one son, now grown up to be a man,
and he was a sailor. Whenever he arrived from
Ills voyages, if it was at any port near enough for
him to visit his mother, he always went to see her,
and carried her some little present. Once in the
stormy month of November, his ship was cast
awry on our own coast, and several of the sail-
ors lost their lives. The old woman's son,
(whose name was Thomas) was preserved; he
was thrown by the waves on a roc'< which was
near the shore, «md being a good swimmer,
as soox as he recovered his strength sufficiently,
he swam tn the land, and when nearly exhausted
reached it, and was barely able to crawl up a
little way on the sand, and then laid down quite
overcome, and fell asleep. He slept for a
long time, he did not know how 1 ng when
he awaked, till looking up, he observed that
the sun was setting, and remembered that it
was near noon when he was cast away. He
could not tell where he was, nor did lie at first
call 10 mind the dreadful scene through which
he had passed. He felt something soft on his
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 29
cheek, and perceived a kitten, which had snug-
gled down close to his face while he slept, to
keep herself warm. He now recollected that
the last thin^ he saw when he was leaping from
the rock on which he had been thrown was this
kitten, (which was born on board the ship)
struggling in the waves, and he had a strong
desire to save it, but he knew that he must give
all his strength to reach the shore, so he left
the kitten to tier fate. Stic 1 , as he now found,
had followed him and landed safely like himself*
Thomas, who was a ki. id-hearted man, rejoiced
to see the kitten alive, and tak'n g her up in his
arms, said, L 1 will carry you home to motberj
1 have lost everything, and this is the only pre-
sent I can make her.'
The little kitten felt very happy and comfort-
able in Thomas' arms, but she cou'd not like
him experience the thankfulness with which
Thomas' heart was filled, when he reflected on
his late danger and the goodness of God in pre-
serving him in the midst of so much peril.
' It was for my old mother's sake, I am sure/
said he, ' it would have broken her heart to
have lost her oidy sen.' Thomas knelt dowa
2
30 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
and offered a fervent and pious prayer to God.
He then looked around for his companions, but
he did not see one, nor even a bit of the ship,
although as he learned afterward several of the
men were thrown on the coast not far from the
spot where he was saved. They were hid from
his sight by a high rock, and taking a different
direction from him, he did not hear anything
of them till some time after.
Thomas walked on with his kitten, and reach-
ed some dwelling houses in the course of the
night, where he met with a friendly reception
and found out that he was not very far from home.
In the course of a day or two he got back to
his mother, with nothing but the clothes he had
on, and his kitten.
The old dame told Thomas not to lament
the loss of his little property, which consisted
in a small adventure, and his chest of clothes,
but be grateful to God who had preserved his
life and strength to go to work again. She was
much pleased with the kitten, and said she
should never look on it without thinking of
his wonderful preservation, and if in his absence
she was ever anxious for his safety, she would
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 31
remember that God could protect him.
Thomas remained with his mother a week,
and then went to Boston. He obtained a re-
commendation from his late Captain, who he
was glad to find had been saved in the ship-
wreck. And in less than a month (during
which time he was not idle,) he was shipped
for another voyage.
The kitten remained with the old dame, who
had a cow and gave the kitten milk three times
a day. In the evening when she sat down to
read her Bible she always held kitty in her lap.
When the sun shone the kitten sat on a
shelf under the window. She grew very fast
and seemed to be as happy as ever a cat was
in the world. The old dame believed the cat
loved her as much as she did the cat, but we
shall find she was mistaken.
The hut was different from the ship in which
pussy was born, and notwithstanding the dame's
kindness to her she was discontented and
thought she could do better elsewhere. I have
known some little children as silly as this cat,
and although they had kind friends and a com-
fortable home, yet indulge in discontented feel*
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 33
ings, and be always wishing for something they
have not got.
The winter had come on, the ground was
covered with snow, and one morning when the
dame was busy, the duor being open, pussy
walked out. The sun was shining bright, pus-
sy ran along the fences skipping from one rail to
another, now and then dropping on the snow and
enjoyed it very much. She was soon far from
the hut, but did not see any other house. She
thought she would climb up a tree to find a bird
for her dinner, for she began to be hungry.
But the birds had all flown away to a warmer
climate, and she had to come down again, then
she tried to smell along the ground for a mouse
or a mole, but the snow was too deep for her to
find anything. At last after wandering about
till [light and getting very cold and hungry she
spied a light. She hop j d it vas the old dame's
hut, and ran up to it bui it, was a strange house,
and there were strange faces in it. Neverthe-
less as she looked in at the window, the fire
burned so bright and there were so many good
things on the table for supper that she thought
she would iro to the door and wait till some
34 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
one opened it, and then creep slily in. When
she came to the door a great dog lay there, and
he growled at her, and frightened her very
much. She was loth to quit such a comforta-
ble shelter, so she did not go directly off; then
the dog barked, and the man, when he heard
the dog bark, came to the door and beat poor
pussy with a stick. Though very cold and
hungry, she w T as obliged to go away. Puss
then w T ent to the barn, where she had a good
bed on the hay, but no supper, for there was
nothing to eat there, not so much as a mouse
for her to catch. Even the flies, which she
used to get in the dame's sunny window, were
not to be found here, for it was too cold for
them to live in the barn; so morning came, and
pussy saw the dog coming out, and she ran away
from him as fast as she could.
Alas, thought pussy, why did I leave my kind
mistress? if I had stayed with her, I should now
have a nice saucer of milk and sit in her lap by
the fire. 1 wish I could find the way back,
thought she. So she tried; but took the wrong
way, for it is easier to stray from home than to
find the way back again. The farther she ran,
days or SICKNESS. 35
the farther she removed from the old dame's
hut.
This kind old lady was grieved when she
found the cat was gone, ft was the only com-
panion she had and she loved her for her son's
sake. She is an ungrateful puss, said the dame,
and will, I am sure, repent of having left me.
She went to the door several times in the
course of the morning, and called puss, puss,
puss! but puss could not hear for she was a
great way off.
In the mean time pussy crept along as well
as she could on the sunny side of the road, and
did not see another house for some time, * and
only one or two teams, with their drivers all
muffled in great coats driving to market. She
climbed up on a load of wood that was in one
of them, and the driver was so kind as not to
touch her, but let her ride unmolested. At last
they passed a butcher's cart, which was stand-
ing by the door of a farm house, just ready to
go to market. Pussy smelled the meat and
quickly jumped down and ran to the cart. Be-
fore the butcher saw her, she had seized a little
bit, but at that moment he discovered the thief,
36 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
and set his dog at her, and away she scamper-
ed, but kept the meat in her mouth till she ran
up a tree where the dog could not reach her, and
there she sat and eat it up. This made her
feel a little better, but she was still hungry.
Thus she roamed about without friends or home
and with very little food, till she reached the
city. There she got down to the wharves and
found her way into a ship.
The sailors saw her come on board and did
not drive her back*', because they think it good
luck to have a cat come on board when they
were going to sail. One of them seemed to have
a greater liking for cats than the others, and al-
ways fed her from his own mess.
Puss had some slight recollection of a ship
and scon felt at home and happy ., and resolved
not to quit her friends again. The sailors used
often to play with her and set her on deck, to
tell what the weather was going to bo. — It is
said that when it is going to rain, cats will sit
and stroke their faces wi;h their paws. This
may be true and it is probably owing to some
peculiar sensation which a moist atmosphere
(such as prevails before rain) produces in
them.
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 35
The ship was gone several months, and then
returned to the same port from which it sailed.
When it arrived all the men were glad to jump
on shore as soon as they could get permission.
The sailor who had been so fond of our cat.
took her in his arms, and set her down on the
wharf; but she leaped directly back, and would
not quit the ship. This man however seemed
determined to have her, and put her in a bag,
with only a little hole in it for the air to come
in, and swinging it over his shoulder carried
her off.
During all this time dame Trot was very sol-
itary and seldom saw a human being. O.ice
in a while one of her nearest neighbors would
wade through the snow to see her, and inquire
if she wanted any ihfng, and as this was an un-
usually severe winter, at last, he invited her tc
come to his house, and live in his family a few
weeks, till the snow went off, for he really fear-
ed she might suffer and even die alone. The
dame after much urging consented — but as Par-
mer Clap (this was his name) had a numerous
though well regulated household, the noise and
confusion of the busy scene fatigued the old
33 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
lady, who often longed for her quiet hut. She
was sensible however of the kindness of the
farmer and his family, and made herself quite
useful among them; she knit socks for the chil-
dren, rocked the cradle, and read aloud in the
Bible, during the long evenings. As soon how-
ever as the snow began to melt she requested
to be carried back. She employed herself, in
putting her humble habitation in order after her
long absence. Twice a»,day she put on her
spectacles and read a chapter in her Bible, and
prayed to God to take care of her son, and to
suffer her old eyes once more to be blessed
with the sight of him. Scarcely a day passed
that she did not think of her lost cat, and some-
times she felt very sad and almost feared that
Thomas was lost also, for she had not heard a
word from him since he left her. Not that he
neglected to write to his old mother, but the
letters did not reach her.
The winter passed, and spring was coming
on; the grass looked green, and the violets were
peeping forth their blue heads around the old
dame's hut. She had planted some lettuce in a
box placed in the sun, where it had already
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 39
grown quite large. Perhaps, said she, by the time
it is fit to gather, Thomas may return to £at
some of it. How he will relish it after living so
long on salt meat, at sea.
One day when dame Trot was weeding and
watering her lettuce, she thought she heard
footsteps, an unusual sound, and looking up she
beheld her dear son by her side. ' Heaven be
praised!' exclaimed the old dame, her eyes run-
ning over with tears, ' here you are Tom, safe
and sound.' 'Yes, mother, and have made a
prosperous voyage, and brought you a world of
good things. My chest is coming out in neigh-
bor Clap's waggon.
'Thank you Tom, you are a blessing to your
old mother, and Heaven will reward you for
it. The richest lady in the land might envy
me my son. But what is in that bag?'
1 O I guess you will think you are going to
have a family of cats. But it is another cat,
who came on board our ship just as we sailed,
and the creature took such a liking to me, and
looked so much like the kitten 1 saved, that 1
would have her, although she was so attached
to the ship I was obliged to tie her up in this
tO DAYS OF SICKNESS.
ag to prevent her getting back; here she is,'
or while he was speaking he had untied the
bag, and out jumped the cat glad enough to
get free.
' V\ hy Thomas it is the very kitten herself,
said the dame, ' I know her by the two brown
spots on her back. How glad I am to see her.
She ran away six months ago and 1 never ex-
pected to lay eyes on her again.'
'Well that is strange, I declare,' said Thomas,
c when she came on board we took to one anoth-
er at once.
The old dame lifted pussy up in her lap,
stroked her, gave her some milk from the same
saucer she used to be fed in, (which had a lit-
tle piece broken out of the edge, and was al-
ways reserved for pussy,) and told her she
hoped she would never run away agnin. Could
the cat have spoken, she would have thanked
her, for the milk was very grateful, and prom-
ised ne\( r to quit her mistress again. And she
might also have said that she had learned this
lesson by her wanderings, never to desert old
friends in search of new.
* Is that a true story, mother,' said Lucy, 'or
did you only make it up to amuse me ? '
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 41
* It is one of my own invention,' answered
Mrs Arnold. ' I can only say it is not an un-
natural or improbable story, — but not that it re-
ally happened. I hope it has dispelled some
of your unpleasant fancies.' c O yes, 1 think
now I can go to sleep. I hope you will
dUo.'
'Yes, Lucy, I will; T shall lie down by your
side and then if you wish anything you can ea-
sily rouse me.
As soon as Mrs Arnold had rested her head
on ihe pi low beside her sick daughter, believ-
ing her not to be in immediate want of her at-
tention, she dropped to sleep, for she was great-
ly exhausted by watching and anxiety.
Lucy was less fortunate; the restlessness and
the unpleasant images which the narration of the
story had for a lime banished, began to return;
and her first thought was to awaken her mo-
ther; but being a considerate little girl and care-
ful for others comfort as, well as her own, she
immediately recollected how important rest
was to her, and resolved if possible not to dis-
turb her. It occurred to Lucy that as the story
had diverted her attention from herself, if she
42 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
endeavoured to recall it and imagine herself re-
peating it to her brother, this might keep her
mind calm. She remembered that once when
she had the toothach, her mother advised her
to repeat to herself some of the little hymns
and poems she had learned, and having done
so it turned her attention from the pain. In-
stead therefore of asking her mother to repeat
the story of the cat, or tell another, she tried to
amuse herself and imagined herself telling it to
Robert. This employment proved tranquilizing
and before she had come to the end, she too fell
asleep, and when she awoke she found herself
much refreshed, and had the happiness to see
her mother sitting up by her side and looking
less fatigued than she had done before.
Shortly after, Robert's noisy step and
cheerful voice were heard in the passage, and
he entered the room, saying, c School is done,
how is Lucy, mother? where is my ball; I ana
going on the Common to play ball, may I spend
my ninepence for a bat?' All in a breath.
' Not so fast, my son. Lucy is better, I am
glad you have come in just at this time. The
doctor says she may eat an orange to day: John
DATS OF SICKNESS. 43
is very much engaged in some necessary work,
and 1 wish you to go to Court street and buy
some oranges.
R. What! all the way down there? why
can not I get them at Mr Adams's close by.
Mrs A. He has none that are sweet, I
have just sent there.
R. Well, then I can not play bat and ball,
for it will be dinner time when T get back.
Mrs A. I think you will have an hour to
play after your return, it is not much after 12
o'clock — but if you do not, are you not willing
to give up one game of bat and ball to oblige
your sister who is so sick?
R. I have to be in school all day, and I
want to play, in playing time.
Mrs A. I shall not urge you, because I
wish your attention to your sister to be volun-
tary, not from compulsion. I can assure you
however that if you go out to play, you will
feel that you are not doing right and be less hap-
py than if you went first for the oranges.
R. Well I suppose I must go.
Mrs A. No 1 leave it entirely to your own
determination to go for the oranges, or to play,
as you choose.'
44 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
Robert took his ball out of the drawer and
walked slowly out of the room. Lucy looked
disappointed, 'cannot 1 have the orange till af-
ter dinner?' said she.
' Yes,' answered her mother ' I shall not imi-
tate your brother, but put myself to the incon-
venience of sending John.'
'If Robert had ever been sick, he would
have gone, do not you think he would, mother?'
* I trust so; — our own sufferings lead us to feel
for the sufferings of others; and thus what at
first view might appear to have the effect of
making us think most of ourselves, is so wisely
ordered as to lead us to a consideration of
others. U we avail ourselves of these occa-
sions of improvement, (for as I have often told
you we must do our part) sickness will be the
means of cultivating a disinterested and benev-
olent disposition.'
As she spoke these words, Robert entered,
not with his usual animated manner, but slow-
ly and softly, and coming up to his mother
said, ' May I go for the oranges ? '
His mother made no remarks on hie late be-
haviour, willing to encourage by her appro-
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 45
bation the slightest impulses to virtue, and
giving him the money said * yes, Lucy will
thank you, I am persuaded.'
Robert did not wait to hear whether Lucy
thanked him or not, but skipped out of the
room, and soon returned with a basket of fine
Havana oranges. 'There Lucy,' said he,
'are not these good. 1 told Mr Carter that
they were for my sister and she was sick. He
said I should have the sweetest he had, because
1 had come for them myself, and he looked
over a box and gave me these. Will you cut
one, mother? Here Lucy, try it, is it sweet ? '
'Yes, said Lucy, it is the first thing that has tas-
ted good since I have been sick. Give Rob-
ert one, will you mother? '
4 Yes,' said her mother, 'and in return, Rob-
ert, you must tell me which has made you most
happy, p!a\ ing ball or going for the oranges.
' O going for the oranges mother, I am very glad
T went instead of John, for I got the best out
of a whole box, because 1 came for my sis-
ter.'
i Experience is a more succesful teacher than
precept,' said Mrs Arnold. 'When I told you
that you would not be happy if you followedyour
46 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
own selfish desires, you would not believe me:
now you have felt that what I said is true.'
Lucy continued to suffer very much, and her
patience was exhausted more than once. 'O
mother, she said, how badly I feel; when shall I
get well ? I am tired of lying in bed.' 'My dear
Lucy,' answered her mother, ( do not complain if
you can possibly avoid it: this will aggravate
your distress. Your heavenly Father taketh
care of you, and will restore you to health
when he thinks best. Endeavor to engage your
mind in reflecting on the comforts with which
you are surrounded — your mother constantly
by your side, and many others ready to attend
to your smallest wants; a kind and skilful phy-
sician, who does all in his power, to alleviate
your suffering? and effect your cure. A pleas-
ant airy apartment, with every convenience for
your bodily comfort. How many children are
there at this moment ill with the measles in
close noisy rooms, without necessary attend-
ance, perhaps even without a mother to watch
over them or a doctor to direct the best meth-
od of treatment. — Their sufferings are much
aggravated, and in some instances their lives sac-
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 47
rificed, for want of proper care. You must
thank God for his goodness to you, and pray to
him to give you a submissive spirit.' 'I do, moth-
er,' said Lucy, 'and I will try to wait patiently
till he pleases to make me well. I wish I could
think of something that I could do without see-
ing. How do blind people employ themselves?
I would not be blind for the world.'
Mrs Arnold replied, 'It is a great calamity to
be blind, and yet it is said that the blind are
usually cheerful. They meet with much kind-
ness and consideration, and they are more grate-
ful for attention than those are who need it less.
There is no affliction which if it be endured
in the right spirit, may not improve our charac-
ter, and thus become a blessing.
'I once knew a little blind girl named Amy
Bennet, who was one of the most generous, af-
fectionate, pious characters I have ever known!
she was naturally ingenious and good tempered.
She lost her sight by the measles when she was
ten years old. She retained a distinct recollec-
tion of what she had seen, this added to her
pleasures and her means of employment, but also
increased her regret. Her mother was an in.
48 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
valid and this child was her sole nurse. Amy
had one brother \ounger than herself, who after
he had learned lo read at a Sunday school used
to read to her. And ihis was a mutual benefit,
as his sister thus gained knowledge ;md he
profited by her remarks, and his interest in what
he read was increased by her sympathy and
instructions.
Amy's mind being deprived of exercise on
objects without, was the more active in its in-
ternal operations. Her memory was astonish-
ing, so that after her brother had read a chap-
ter in the Bible or a story she could always re-
peat the substance of it to her mother, who ap-
peared to enjoy it more in the words of her
daughter, than out of the book.
When I was a little girl I often visited her
with my mother. .1 never heard her complain,
never saw her idle; she used to wind thread and
silk for the neighbors; knit stockings, net pur-
ses and bags. She would cut out letters on
bits of wood, which she could distinguish by
feeling and compose words of them for her own
amusement, or to teach her brother to spell, by
the game which you know we often play, of
DAYS OF SICKNESS.
49
-j^y^^'n
Tv^—
making out the word from the letters thrown
promiscuously together. She always made
her mother's bed,— she cou'd :*ing sweetly and
play tunes on the Jew's- harp the only instrument
which (as she was poor) she co> Id afford to b*;y.
A young lady who lived near i.?r, had a
flageolet on which sli3 301 etimes pliye ! , nd
being t>ld that the bl nd girl was foi'ld of music,
sent for her to come and hear it. Amy '3 pleas-
ure was very great and sh : xpressed it so en-
thusiastically that the young lady was much af-
fected and gave her the flageolet and some in-
struction in p'ay ug on it, aid I remember,
she told me that her flageolet had never af-
forded her so much delight as at the moment
50 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
she presented it to the blind girl. Music is
sweet, but the emotions of benevolence and
sympathy are far sweeter.
Amy, as I have told you, took care of her
sick mother, who w r as often confined to her
bed. By her mother's directions, and what as-
sistance she could obtain from her little brother
she managed all the household concerns, cook-
ed the food, washed the clothes and kept every
article of furniture neat and in order; her moth-
er being able only to do what little sewing was
requisite. Amy was fortunate in being thus
poor, I might almost say in being blind; since
these circumstances exercised and developed
her faculties, furnished her with that necessary
employment which is the best security against
discontent and led her early to think of God,
to whom the needy and afflicted never turn in
vain.
I have seen many a child in the full possession
of all its senses, surrounded with friends and
competence, who possessed neither the knowl-
edge, the virtue nor the content of this little
blind girl, and who might have changed with
her to advantage.
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 51
'But mother, said Lucy, 'I should be very sor-
ry to be blind,— ought I not to feel so? '
'Assuredly you may; there is nothing wrong
in the feeling ; we are never to put ourselves
in the way of suffering ; but when our heavenly
Father sends these trials upon us, we know
that they are designed for our good, and so they
will always prove, if we endure them with sub-
mission and patience.'
' Is it not a fine day, mother,' said Lucy, ' I
think there is a gleam of sunshine through
my curtain, how glad I shall be to see the sun,
and walk out again.'
' Yes, you will fully realize the pleasure of
health,' said Mrs Arnold, 'of being able to skip
about in the open air, and go to school.'
' I shall like to go to school better than ever,'
returned Lucy. ' 1 believe it is three or four
days since you were out, mother; I w T ish you
would take a walk, it would do you good and
I can be with Margaret; she will read to me,
her eyes are strong and she likes to read my
little books.'
' I will go, if you are contented to be left with
Margaret, but you must keep quiet and not
52 DATS OF SICKNESS.
talk much with her, for excitement will increase
your fever and perhaps bring on the delirium.'
Mrs Arnold called the maid and gave her
directions concerning Lucy and then went out;
for she knew that air and exercise were ne-
cessary to enable her to bear the fatigue and
anxiety of her daughter's sick chamber.
When she returned she found every thing as
she wished, and the succeeding night was bet-
ter than any one previous.
Lucy is now decidedly getting well. Her
complexion is beginning to recover its natural
hue, and her eyes can bear a linle light, still
she cannot use tliem> even to look a! pictures.
This morning, Robert came home as soon
as school was done, and s ".id, ' 1 should like to
read to Lucv, instead of 2:01112; on the Common
to play; here is the new bonk grandpapa gave
me, about insects; it is very interesting.'
His mother accepted the proposal, and
Lucy said ' I have been wish'ng to read this
book ever since you received it.'
'I will take my work and sit by the window,
said Mrs Arnold, for I should like 10 hear it also.
Draw the head curtain of Lucy's bed, Robert*
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 53
so as to skreen the light from her eyes, and
let it fall on your book.'
Robert read in an easy pleasant manner, for
he understood every word of it. His mother
had never allowed him to read any thing that
he did not understand when it could be avoided,
and thus he had not acquired the monotonous
manner of reading usual with children, and
even many grown people.
Robert read several very curious accounts
of the habits of insects and their mode of con-
structing their nests, and looked behind the
curtain to see how Lucy liked them — then shut-
ting his book he stepped very softly across the
room to his mother, and whispered, ' Lucy
is asleep, I have read her to sleep, 1 had bet-
ter not read any more now.'
'No, you are a thoughtful good boy,' said
Mrs Arnold, ' to be so careful not to waken
her. Now run out to your play, I am sure you
will enjoy it, because you have been good.'
Robert opened the door carefully. His mo-
ther did not hear his footsteps, but looking
out of the window, presently saw him bounding
across the Common like a fawn.
3
64 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
Mrs Arnold felt happy, and said in her heart,
Robert has sensibility and right feeling, and
though thoughtless and passionate I begin to
hope that 1 shall in the end train him to habits
of disinterestedness and reflection. This will
be much harder than with Lucy, who always
regards the feelings of others.
Such reflections passed often through Mrs
Arnold's mind. Her husband had been dead
several years, and her chief concern was to
perform her duty faithfully and successfully
in the bringing up of those precious children
Heaven had confided to her charge.
Lucy awoke from her nap so much refresh-
ed, that her moiher thought she might venture
to send for her little friend and schoolmate Eliz-
abeth, to pass an hour with her.
Elizabeth was a pleasant well behaved child,
and never noisy or troublesome.
She came. Lucy was rejoiced to see her,
and asked her many questions about her school-
mates, and how far they had got on in their
studies, particularly their geography, * in
which,' said she, ' I am sorry to be so far be-
hind you all.'
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 55
4 1 dare say you will get up with us in a
week. You can get two lessons while the others
get one. I wish 1 had as good a memory as
you have. I never can remember anything.'
' Your memory may be better than you im-
agine,' said Mrs Arnold. ' Perhaps you do not
give all your attention to what you are studying;
do not you think of something else at the time,
Elizabeth ? '
4 1 suppose I do, but how can T help it ? '
' It may be that you are not sufficiently de-
sirous of helping it,' replied Mrs Arnold. ' We
are sure to remember what we are much inter-
ested in. If I were to promise you a new book
on condition that you came in for it tomorrow,
precisely at two o'clock, 1 dare say you would
be here at the moment.'
4 O yes, I should think of it all the time and
look at the dock.'
4 Just so,' said Mrs Arnold, 'if you thought
of your lesson and looked at your book with an
earnest desire to get the lesson correctly, you
would not fail to remember it. I have no doubt
that when Lucy is well enough to go to school,
she will have very little additional trouble in
56 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
getting double lessons, because she will be ex-
cited by the desire to overtake her class.'
1 But do not you think that there is a differ-
ence in memories ? ' said Elizabeth.
'Undoubtedly, some persons have better
memories than others, but deficiencies of this
sort are more easily supplied by attention and
a desire to do well, than children are aware of.'
Elizabeth's mind was excited by these re-
marks, and they were of lasting advantage to
her. The idea that she could, if she made an
effort, equal those in her class, who had always
surpassed her, was new and pleasing, and stim-
ulated her effectually. The delight of her pa-
rents and teacher, and the rewards and praises
she received, furnished additional inducements
to her to continue her exertions ; till the habit
of giving her entire attention to whatever she
was upon became fixed, and she attained a su-
periority which her friends, or even herself had
never anticipated.
Ms Arnold was constantly throwing out
such hints and good advice to the young peo-
ple who visited her children, and the good she
did in this way was incalculable.
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 57
Lucy and Elizabeth now began to converse
about their own affairs. Mrs Arnold left them
wholly to themselves, knowing that the restraint
imposed by older persons represses the natural
flow of the affections, and checks the graceful-
ness of spontaneous communication. If she
noticed any feelings or expressions that needed
correction, she did not interfere at the time,
but reserved her admonition for another and
more favorable occasion. In about an hour
Elizabeth took her leave. The remainder of
the day was passed quietly by Lucy, who re-
quired no other gratification than the delightful
feeling of returning be j ,l h. This evenn^r was
Saturday. Lucy asked her mother to tell her
a true story and to let Robert come up and sit
with her and hear it also.
( Now,' said Mrs Arnold, ' T will tell you a
story you have heard before, rnd I am curious
to know which of you will first recognize it.'
c What is the name ?' s; id Lucy.
1 You shall chose a name after you have
heard it.'
1 But if it is a true story,' replied Lucy, 'it
must have a name.'
• 4
58 days or SICKNESS.
' Well then,' said her mother, ' you can call
it, maternal solicitude, —or, the rescued child,
— or, the favored of Heaven; for either will be
a true name.'
4 Come begin mother,' said Robert, 'I dare
say Lucy will find out first.'
' There was once a woman who lived in a far
distant country, — this country was ruled by a
cruel and wicked king. If the poor woman
could have got away, and lived anywhere else,
she would, but the king would not allow her or
any one to quit the kingdom without his per-
mission, and she was obliged to stay there, as
also were her husband, kindred and neighbors,
and work very hard for this king, who was even
so wicked as to take away their children and
kill them. This woman had a little baby, a
son, and she heard that the king intended to
send some one to take it away from her. She
was exceedingly distressed, and hid it some-
where, 1 do not know where, but in a place
w T here no one could hear it cry. The people
came for it, but could not find it, and went
away, believing she had no son. The mother
hid it in this way several months, but at last it
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 59
grew so big and could cry so loud, that she
could not conceal it any longer; and she was, in-
formed, that the servants of the king had dis
covered that she had a son, and were coming the
next day to take him from her.
How sad she was, and how she wept while
she looked on her boy, and thought that she must
part with him! Could the wicked king have
known what she felt , I think he would have
relented.
This mother however, was a woman of piety
as well as tenderness. She did not sit down
in despair, but prayed to God to instruct and
sustain her. A plan occurred to her mind,
which appeared to offer some hope of preserv-
ing the child's life. She constructed a basket
of reeds and lined it with clay, so that the water
could not get in, then she dressed her infant as
neatly as she could, and kissed his soft cheek
and smiling mouth over and over again, and
wet his face with her tears. It seemed as if
her heart would break, as she laid him in the
basket, and felt that this might be her last em-
brace. She took the basket to the river near,
and laid it in the flags by the brink, and the
60 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
babe soon fell asleep. The mother had a kind
daughter, who went with her and promised
to watch the child, and see what became of it.
The mother returned home trusting in God.
The king's servants came and searched in vain
for the child; the mother's heart was relieved,
as she looked at their cruel countenances, and
remembered that her precious babe was not in
their hands. Meantime the sister remaining at
a little distance, saw some females walking
along, by the river side, and perceived that it
was the daughter of the king who had come
down, attended by her maidens, to bathe; as
was the custom of that country. The princess
saw the basket and sent her maid to fetch it.
She uncovered it and beheld the child, who
seeing strange faces, began to cry. The prin-
cess did not resemble her cruel father, but be-
ing tender h?arted, was moved by the cries of
the infant, and said she would take it home and
bring it up as her own child. All this time
the sister was watching and saw every thing
that passed, and drew nearer and nearer. She
heard the princess say, i I must have a nurse
for the child/ and then she ventured to come
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 61
forward, and ask the princess if she would al-
low her to go for a nurse. Having obtained
permission she ran for the child's mother, told
her all that had happened, and brought her to
the king's daughter, who put the child into her
arms and charged her to nurse it faithfully.
The mother longed to press him to her heart,
and could hardly restrain her tears.
As soon as she was alone with her son, she
kissed him with rapture, and thanked God with
fervent gratitude for his merciful Providence,
in not only restoring her child to her arms,
but in providing for him so fortunate a lot, and
so able a protector. She had trusted to her
Heavenly Father, and he had not deserted her.
How deeply did she reverence and adore his
power and goodness. — This child whose life
was so wonderfully preserved, grew up to be
one of the greatest and best men that ever lived.'
' O! it was Moses,' said Robert, ' Moses in
the bulrushes; did not you think of it Luey? J
i Yes but not till mother had told a great deal,
not till the king's daughter came to the river
side.'
Lucy and Robert remained conversing with
5
62 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
their mother, more than an hour before tliey
went to bed, and she related to them most of
the remarkable events in the life of Moses, and
the journeyings of the Israelites in the desert,
before they reached the promised land. She
made many explanations, which as it gave clear-
ness to their ideas, increased their interest in
these miraculous histories.
The next day being Sunday, Lucy said c she
supposed she should pass much of it alone, as
she was now so far recovered that it was not
necessary for her mother to remain at home on
her account.'
4 What I shall do, r said she, ' all this long
morning 1 do not know, for I cannot use my
eyes yet.'
'I shall only be abseni about two hours, said her
mother ; ' I trust you will find enough to think
of to employ that time well. You are just re-
covering from a severe and what has to many
proved a fatal disease, and your heart ought to
be filled with thankfulness to God, who has pre-
served your life, and restored you to health.
You will I am sure pray to him and thank him
for his goodness when you are alone, and en-
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 63
deavor to call to mind what peculiar blessings
you have experienced, and what good things
you possess, which you have not prized as
highly as you ought.'
' How do you mean, mother?'
c Your sight for instance. Have you ever
before reflected on the value of this gift, or
been sufficiently grateful that you were not de-
prived of it.'
£ No, but I have thought of it often since I
have been shut up in this dark room, and there
are many other things like this that I remember
now. 5
' Well, endeavor,' said Mrs Arnold, ' to em-
ploy your mind on this subject while I am gone,
and tell me on my return what blessings have
been brought to your mind and inspired your
gratitude, by this short illness. Margaret reads
very well, and will rear! the Bible to you.'
The time did not pass heavily with Lucy.
She adopted her mother's plan; who was pleas-
ed with the account she received from her of
her morning's reflections. ' If I could have us-
ed my eyes, mother, I should have tried to
make out a list, but I had so many thoughts
64 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
that I dare say I should not have been able to
write them half down ; because I write so slowly.
I wish I could write as fast as you do, mother.'
1 This ease,' said Mrs Arnold, c is owing to
practise ; the more you write the sooner you
will acquire it. Shall 1 write down your
thoughts for you ?'
4 If you please, mother.'
With a few alterations and corrections, Mrs
Arnold wrote what Lucy had told her, in a little
book she kept for such purposes. This book
contained notes of interesting conversations
she had at any time held with her children ;
suggestions on education, that arose in her mind
from her daily experience and observation^
stories she had related for their instruction and
amusement; and anecdotes and incidents of real
life. It is from this book that we have drawn
the present work,
SUNDAY MORNING REFLECTIONS OF A LITTLE GIRL
WHO WAS RECOVERING FROM A SHORT ILLNESS,
The first thing I am grateful for is the know-
ledge of my heavenly Father, for it ma^es me
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 65
happier and better, and I love to thank him for
all his goodness; when 1 suffer, I can bear it
better if J remember that he designs it for my
benefit. Next is my mother, she loves me so
much, that she is kind to me even when I do
wrong; how much more 1 should have suffered
in my illness if my dear mother had not been
by to comfort and amuse me. Then my broth-
er, who is a pleasant kind companion and loves
me as well as I do him. All my little friends
and playmates, and my good teacher, who is
so patient in instructing us. My sight, without
which I should lose the pleasure of seeing
those I love, and the sky and the flowers, and
the power of walking about by myself. If I
were to lose my hearing I could not converse
with my friends. I am thankful for health and
liberty and that I am not always shut up in a
dark room as 1 have been this last week, but
can walk out, ride into the country, and run about
the gelds and garden. The pleasures of know-
ledge are very great; how many curious, beauti-
ful things there are in the world to study and
become acquainted with, but I have not time to
66 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
tell half of them. Then there is the satisfaction I
feel when I have done right. I hope I shall
become every day more watchful of my own
conduct, more kind to others, more obedient to
my mother, and more pious and grateful to my
heavenly Father.'
Mrs Arnold read this to Lucy, after she had
written it, who said it was very much like what
she had told her, but not exactly.
'The ideas are the same,' said her mother;
4 but I have arranged them a little differently and
have altered a few expressions which were awk-
ward. And now,' said she, c Lucy, I am going
down to dinner, and I shall send you up a small
bit of beef, for you know the Doctor said you
might eat a little meat today.'
' O yes,' replied Lucy, c l am very glad, 1 do
want to eat, [ am so hungry, mother. 1 think
I ought to put eating in my list; how glad I was
to get a piece of dry toast, after 1 had been
without several days.'
I trust you will not complain again if your
food is not just to your mind; if you cannot
always have chicken or turkey ior your dinner,
or a cake and sweetmeats at supper; but be
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 67
thankful you have a good appetite, and can rel-
ish plain wholesome food.'
The next day Lucy went down to dinner,
and in two days more as the weather was fine
she walked in the Mall. The day after her
walk her grandpapa took her and her brother
into the country. This ride was the pleasant-
est to Lucy she had ever taken. To quit her
sick chamber, to feel well, to see the flowers
and the grass, and all the beauty and variety of
country scenery, were charming indeed. — Lu-
cy's eyes did not become strong immediately,
although she was in all other respects very well.
It was not until after a month's absence that
she returned to school. She was welcomed by
her teacher and all her little school fellows, for
they all loved her. She took her place at the
foot of every class and was almost discouraged
when she found how far they had advanced in
their studies. 'How could you get on so far in
one month,' said she. ' A great deal may be
done in one month, my dear,' said her teacher,
'this will show you the importance of time.
Many little girls waste more hours in a year than
would make up a month . Will any of my schol -
68 DAYS OF SICKNESS.
ars tell me how many hours they must waste a
day in one year to make up a month ? '
Lucy answered first, she was very ready at
arithmetic; and this little instance of success re-
lieved her somewhat frcm the despondency
which was coming over her when she found hef
classmates so far ahead of her.
The geography class had got through their
geography and begun the book again. This
was quite fortunate for Lucy. She had learn-
ed her lessons thoroughly and she could easily
keep along with them now they were going over
the ground a second time, and get a lesson in
the part they had studied while she was ab-
sent; in order to reach her class in some other
studies, she omitted those which she used to
learn alone.
One day on her return from school she said
to her mother; 'it seems to me that I shall never
make up that month.'
' It is hard to make up lost time, Lucy,' said
her mother, 'and this is a reason for employing
wisely all we have. But we need not count
your days of sickness lost time, for you have
during them, learned some things of the first
DAYS OF SICKNESS. 69
importance. They were serious lessons, such
as sickness and suffering only can teach. You
are not too young however to appreciate their
value. The lesson of patience, which while it
alleviates your own sufferings renders it to
much easier for me to attend on you; gratitude
and love to those who do so much for your
comfort and happiness, and thankfulness and
devotion to your Heavenly Father, all whose
dispensations whether of joy or sorrow are de-
signed for your benefit. You understand bet-
ter than you ever did before, the value of health
and time, and of friends; and you will I trust
make a more faithful use of these than former-
ly. Instead of losing a month, you have prob-
ably gained many by the improvement you will
now be disposed to make of your time and ad-
vantages. Thus you perceive that our days
of sickness instead of being lost time, are, or
ought to be, among the most precious days
which God in his goodness bestows upon
^
pi
~h
&
Tttii
BEATITUDES.
, V
;. ; f
; v% ^ ii
PREFACE.
The following Book, entitled ' The Beatitudes/
is designed to convey religious instruction to chil-
dren, by stories, and familiar illustrations of some
of the doctrines and precepts of our Saviour. If
a single child should acquire from its perusal, a
better knowledge of the principles of our religion,
or imbibe a purer affection and deeper reverence
for its Divine Author, the mother, who wrote it,
will have her reward.
THE BEATITUDES.
One Sunday Mary had been reciting to her
mother a lesson which consisted of the twelve
first verses, of the fifth chapter of Matthew — the
commencement of that best of all sermons that
was ever preached — c The sermon on the
Mount.' Her mother told her that the bless-
ings here pronounced by our Saviour, were
called l The Beatitudes' — and that it had been
said of some very good man, that he was £ a
man of the Beatitudes ;' because he exemplifi-
ed, to a very rare degree, the spirit and the
virtues which our Saviour here commends.
Now, Mary was a child who seemed to love
goodness for its own sake, and in all the little
temptations and trials to which she was subject,
was more than usually apt ; to choose the good
and refuse the evil.' She looked very thought-
ful for a moment, and then asked, * Mother, do
you think it could ever be said of any little child,
that she was a child of the Beatitudes ? do you
76 THE BEATITUDES.
think a little child could be good enough to hare
that said of her ?'
c I think, my dear, that it is the duty of every
child, capable of understanding the instructions
of our Saviour,to regulate her daily life by them,
and where there is such an effort, such an in-
tention, it will succeed to a greater or less de-
gree.'
* Yes, mother, but it seems to me that some
of those things which our Saviour teaches here,
are such as do not belong to little children at
all.'
* On the contrary, my dear, I think if I were
to explain them to you, you would find that
every one of them was appropriate to children.'
4 Well now mother, take the first beatitude,
if you please — ' Blessed are the poor in spirit.'
Perhaps I do not know what that means, but I
think I have some idea of it, and I do not see
how a little child is to show that she is ' poor
in spirit.'
1 I think I can soon make you perceive, my
dear; and in order to have my explanation
clearer, I will adopc the method of the teachers
of the deaf and dumb, who, when they wish to
THE BEATITUDES. 77
communicate a new idea lo the pupil, present
the opposite, the contrast, and then the idea it-
self, made clearer by the contrast. So I will
ask you if you know what it is to be proud in
spirit ?'
* O yes, mother, I am sure I cannot help
knowing that, when I see so much every day
of Mary stopped, for she recollected, that
her mother never liked to hear her talk of the
faults of her companions.
' You may go on, my-dear,' said her mother.
1 When we speak of other's faults from a prop-
er motive, that we may learn a lesson from them
of use to ourselves, we do no wrong ; but it is
both foolish and sinful to bring them into no-
tice, for the purpose of making ourselves appear
to greater advantage by the comparison. It is
much more for our own benefit to compare our-
selves with those who are better than we are,
than with such as have even more faults. But
to return to our subject. Tell me what you
think are the marks of a proud spirit. How
does Helen, who, I suppose you were going to
name just now, show such a spirit P
* Why, if she gets into any disputes or quar-
78 THE BEATITUDES.
rels with the girls at school, as often happens,
when it is entirely her own fault, the idea never
seems to enter her head that she can be in the
wrong, and sometimes when I know, and when
she tells me afterwards, she thinks herself the
blame was on her part, she declares she will
not acknowledge it to them. She cannot bear
not to have us agree with her in all her opinions,
to think just as she does, and be willing to do
just as she says, because, as you would suppose,
she really believes that whatever she says and
does must be right. If she takes an affront she
is very slow to forgive it. She often complains
that her father and mother wont let her have
her own way more, and is indignant at the
schoolmaster for every restraint he puts upon
us, as if her own will was the only law for her/
■ Well, my dear, a child to be poor in spirit,
must be just the reverse of all this. She must
never have so much confidence in herself as
not to be always watchful lest she should do
wrong; ready to suspect herself rather than
others, and to confess her errors when she per-
ceives them; willing not only to forgive injuries,
but to return good for evil; always desirous to
THE BEATITUDES. 79
learn something from the virtues of others, and
willing to be guided by those who are wiser and
better than herself. It is only such who can
with any sincerity offer the petition, 'forgive us
our trespasses,' as it is only such who have that
sense of sin which makes pardon seem necessary.'
' Well, mother, I think I see now that a child
may be 'poor in spirit, ' but before, it seemed
to me that this could be required only of those
who were grown up, and who had great fame or
wealth, or some such things to make them very
proud.'
' It is almost unnecessary to remark, after
what I have already said, that in such instan-
ces, the duty is not more necessary, though
perhaps, a great deal more difficult.'
' One word, if you please, mother,' said
Mary, 'upon the last part of the text we have
been considering. Our Saviour says, ' Bless»
ed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the king-
dom of Heaven.' What does he mean by say-
ing that * theirs is the kingdom of heaven?'
* His answer to the Pharisees on occasion
of their asking him when the kingdom of God
would come, explains this, He replied to them,
80 THE BEATITUDES.
' the kingdom of God Is within you.' Blessed
indeed, must those be, of whom this can be said.
It is always considered a great happiness, you
know, to live under a wise and merciful gov-
ernment. Those who have the kingdom of
God within them, and obey his laws, enjoy, in a
peculiar manner, his favor and protection, and
are especially entitled to the rewards that are
promised to his faithful servants. Such have,
even while on eanh,a taste of the happiness of
Heaven.
1 Thank you, my dear mother; and now
will you talk with me a little longer, and help
me to understand better the next verse.'
* I have only time, now, dear, to tell you a
Story of two little girls, one of whom, Harriet
Somers, 'was a good deal like your acquaint-
ance Helen, and the other, Sarah Swift, of a
very different character.'
' And what will you call the story? you
know I always like to have a name for a story/
1 Well, then, it shall be called ' the story
OF THE PROUD GIRL AND HKR GENTLE FRIEND.'
These little girls were schoolmates and neigh-
bors, so that, of course, they had a good deal
THE BEATITUDES. 8\
of intercourse with each other. Harriet was
more fond of Sarah, than Sarah was of her; but
still, there was a good deal in Harriet that Sa-
rah could not help liking; for though very proud
and rather imperious, she had naturally a gener-
ous spirit, and a warm, affectionate temper. She
was almost always on bad terms with her school-
mates generally, but Sarah was so very sweet
tempered, so ' poor in spirit,' that she was al-
ways ready to forgive all her little offences, and
overlook her faults.
One Saturday afternoon, Harriet, accord-
ing to her usual custom, called for Sarah to
take a walk. Sarah declined, because, as she
said, she had engaged to go with Mary Horn;
* but you will wait till Mary comes,' said Sarah;
' I shall be very glad to have your company too.'
Harriet took offence at this. * I thought it
was understood,' said she, c between you and
me, that we should have a walk together every
Saturday afternoon, and I wonder you should
engage to go with some one else and say noth-
ing to me about it.'
1 Why Harriet,' said Sarah, * I could'nt im-
agine that you would not be willing to have
82 THE BEATITUDES.
Mary of the party; and as she is a stranger,
removed from all her friends, and seems to take
a fancy to me, rather than to the girls she boards
with, I thought I should be unkind to refuse
her. She could not come till five, and I was
sure you would be willing, for the sake of oblig-
ing her, to wait till then.'
' I don't care,' said Harriet, peevishly, ' it
may have been kind to her, but I think it was
very unkind to me; and 1 have no fancy foF
people that are always ready to forsake old
friends for new ones.' So saying, she abruptly
left her.
1 Now is it not strange,' said Sarah when
she went upstairs to her mother's room, 'that
Harriet should take offence so easily?'
< She will learn better by and by, 1 trust,'
said her mother, ' she will find that such folly
costs her too much.'
* What do you mean by that, mother ?'
1 1 mean that by indulging her pride of tem-
per she loses a great deal of love and good
will, besides a great many social pleasures, as
for instance, this walk; and therefore, her pride
may be said to cost her all these.'
THE BEATITUDES. 83
* Now I dare say,' said Sarah, l that she
will refuse to go with us this afternoon, and it
is likely as not that she wont speak to me for
a week to come. ,
* Well, my dear, don't let there be any change
in your manners towards her; at least, no dimi*
nution of kindness and good will.'
When Mary Horn came, Sarah condescend-
ed so far as to call for Harriet, which 1 suppose
some little girls would have been quite too
proud to do. When Harriet heard the kind
tones of Sarah's voice inquiring for her, she
had half a mind to resume her good humor,
and run down stairs to join her, but her pride
prevented, and she sent word she was engaged.
She followed the girls, however, with her eyes,
as far as she could see them, wishing, all the
time, that she was with them. Pride is a hard
master, a despot, that must be obeyed, wheth-
er his service is agreeable or not.
The next Monday, when Harriet came to
school, clouds were still on her brow, that not
even the bright good humor in Sarah's face as
she bade her a kind good morning, could dispel.
She kept aloof from Sarah all day, and avoided
84 THE BEATITUDES.
her, as much as she could, even when they
were going in the same direction home.
The next day they were to carry in their
compositions, for the first time since the com-
mencement of a new term. Their teacher
said he was going to adopt a new plan; which
was, that each girl should read her own aloud.
The girls were not prepared for this, and it
was a great trial to them. When it came to
Sarah's turn, who never thought it right or
proper to refuse anything that her teacher re-
quired, she immediately read hers, though with
a trembling lip, and in such agitation that she
almost cried before she had finished; but when
Harriet was called upon she first begged to be
excused, and when she found that her teacher
positively insisted on her doing as the rest had
done, she hastily threw the paper into the fire.
Sarah, foreseeing that her disgrace would be
the consequence, eagerly snatched it out, be-
fore it had kindled, and wmispering to Harriet,
begged she would read it, as, if she persisted
in her refusal, she would certainly be turned
out of school. With as much haste as she had
used in throwing it into the fire, she seized the
J
THE BEATITUDES. 85
paper again, and read, or rather muttered it
over, so rapidly, that not one half of it could
be understood. The teacher said that would
not do; it must be read distinctly. Sarah, ea-
ger to save her friend, and sure that in the
present state of her mind she was incapable of
complying with this requisition, asked if she
might be permitted to read it for her. The
teacher, unwilling to come to extremities with
Harriet, and hoping she would be more rea-
sonable another time, replied in the affirmative.
Sarah took pains to read it as slowly, and dis-
tinctly as possible, hoping, by this means, to
efface the unpleasant impression of the scene
from the teacher's mind. It happened not to
be a very good composition; it had been
written hastily and carelessly. Harriet, though
a girl of good abilities, was very indolent, and
supposing that no one but her teacher would
see the composition, cared very little about it.
It caused her, therefore, a good deal of morti-
fication, and she began to feel provoked with
herself for her weakness, as she called it, in
yielding to what she thought was such a ridic-
ulous, unreasonable requisition on the part of
86 THE BEATITUDES.
her teacher. Completely out of humor with
herself and everybody else, when Sarah, who
felt very sorry for her, was going to lake her
arm as they w r ent home together, she rudely
repulsed her, saying she would have nothing to
do with a girl who, under the pretence of
kindness, only wished to do her an injury.
' You know, Sarah,' said she, * that I never
took any pains with my compositions; and you
wanted to show how much better yours was,
than mine; that was the occasion of your great
eagerness to save it from the flames, and then
to read it yourself, when you knew I should
positively refuse again.'
This w r as too much, too hard, for poor Sa-
rah to bear without having her feelings very
much hurt. To receive reproaches instead of
thanks, where thanks are due, is a severe trial
both of temper and principle. Sarah made no
reply, but walked on in silence, till she reached
her father's door. The moment she entered,
her mother perceived that something troubled
her, and asked an explanation. Sarah told
the story of her wrongs with tears in her eyes.
14 Now mother,' said she, * was it not too bad — ■
THE BEATITUDES. 87
how can I ever have anything more to do with
her?'
' I hope you do not mean to say that you
can never forgive her,' said her mother.
' Why, no, mother, I will try to forgive her;
but it appears to me I can never endure to have
her for a companion again.'
y If you really forgive her, my dear, you will
be willing to associate with her; and if you are
actuated by a proper feeling, you will be wil-
ling, patiently to bear with all her foibles, in
the hope of curing or softening them by your
own forbearance and mildness.'
1 Ah! there is the very thing, mother. If I
continue, after what has passed, to treat her
just as I did before, I do not believe she will
ever be conscious how shamefully she has be-
haved.'
' Do you recollect, my dear, the fable of
the sun and wind. The wind, with all its vi-
olence could not compel the traveller to part
with his cloak; he only wrapped it more
closely about him — but when the sun darted
upon him his hot rays in noonday stillness, he
was glad to throw it off. The ancients were
88 THE BEATITUDES.
by natural principles, enlightened and confirm-
ed by experience only; but we, who have the
aid of revelation., ought to be much wiser and
better than they. This fable was undoubtedly
intended to illustrate the principle which I now
wish to impress upon you — that mild and gen-
tle means will often prove more effectual, than
violent measures. To drop Harriet's acquaint-
ance would be a violent measure for you to
adopt, and would probably confirm all the dis-
agreeable traits in her character; but, continue
your usual, mild, and kind treatment of her,
and depend upon it, she will, in time, lay aside
the mantle of pride in which she wraps herself,
as the traveller did his cloak.'
' If 1 could feel as sure of that as you do,
mother, I think, at least, I hope, I should not
hesitate what course to pursue — but Harriet's
seems to me a hopeless case.'
' Well, my dear, granting that it is hopeless,
which I do not at all believe ; shall you do
wrong, because you consider her irreclaimable ?
Can you recollect none of the beautiful precepts
of our Saviour that apply to such a case as this ?
Can I not derive an argument from his own ex-
THE BEATITUDES. 89
ample, the influence of which 1 know you some*
times feel, to prove to you what is your duty
in the present instance? '
At this suggestion of her mother, several
such precepts as these, ' resist not evil,' ' love
your enemies,' &tc. he. immediately occurred
to Sarah; and she thought of our Saviour's pa-
tience, and gentleness, with those from whom
he received the worst, the most ungrateful
treatment. Her own naturally kind disposi-
tion inclined her to the side of clemency; and
now, that she felt a conviction of duty, she no
longer hesitated.
' I will follow your advice, my dear mother,
or rather, perhaps, I should say, 1 will follow
the dictates of revelaiion, ' the Bible rule,' as
little Jemmy would call it.'
The next day, Harriet did not look well —
Sarah went to her, and kindly inquired what
ailed her.
' Nothing, nothing at all,' said she, abruptly;
and immediately took her seat; pretending to
be very busy. Sarah took her seat also, which
was near Harriet's, and presently looking up,
perceived that she had become excessively
90 THE BEATITUDES.
pale. She hastily took a little bottle of cologne
water from her bag, and handed it to her.
Harriet shook her head, but in doing so, be-
came still more pale, and seemed on the point
of fainting away. Sarah supported her in her
arms; called for a tumbler of water — and then
begged there might be a carriage sent for, to
take her home. Meanwhile, she nursed her
with all tenderness; and when the carriage
came, accompanied her home.
In the evening, she went over to inquire how
she was, and found her very ill — a long fit of
sickness ensued. All this time, Sarah was un-
remitting in her attentions. At first, Harriet
was rather shy; but soon became so fond of
her that she could hardly bear to have her out
of her sight. Sickness gives us a sense of our
dependance upon the love and kindness of our
friends which hardly anything else can. Har-
riet's father being absent, she had no one to
attend upon her but his housekeeper ; who,
though a faithful nurse, was neither interesting
or agreeable.
Sarah was telling her mother, one day, how
necessary she had become to Harriet. ' I really
THE BEATITUDES. 91
do not know what she would do without me,'
said she, ' for Miss Rachel says that (he mo-
ment she is awake in the morning, she calls for
the watch to see whether it is near the time that
1 usually go in, before school, and then keeps it
by her all day, and watches it constantly, for
the return of the accustomed hours of my vis-
its ; and that so sure as I miss a visit, she loses
a meal ; which, now that she is able to bear a
little food, is quite a disadvantage to her. 1 on-
ly wish it was vacation, and then I could be with
her all the time. She can bear some reading
now, and to be amused with my chat ; and she
loves dearly to have me bathe her head, and fix
her pillow, and do ten thousand little things for
her. She says Miss Rachel's hand is very-
rough, and mine smooth ; that Miss Rachel is
too loud, and too quick in all her motions ;
while I am sofily, and gentle. All that is ima-
ginaiion, I suppose, but the poor girl suffers so
much, that I am sure I ought to gratify her, in
every way I can.'
Sarah's mother thought this an opportunity
not to be lost, of inculcating a moral lesson, that
would make a lasting impression upon the mind
92 THE BEATITUDES.
of her child, and help to confirm all the best
tenderness of her nature. ' If you think so, my
dear,' said she, ■ had not you belter give up your
school, for the present? I have no objection to
that myself ; and I am sure your father will be
perfectly willing.'
* O I did not mean to suggest anything of
that kind mother; it is quite out of the question,
you know, because F am striving for the beau-
tiful prize that has been shown us for a bait; and
besides, my uncle William said if I obtained it,
as I think I certainly shall, he would give me a
new box of paints; of which I am really in great
need. Harriet would not wish me to give up
these, on her account, I am sure.'
'I dare say not, my dear; but so much the
greater would be the merit of the sacrifice.'
1 Why, 1 think, mother, if I rise very early,
and study very hardLI can be with her nearly
all the time out of school, after she wakes in
the morning, which is not, usually, till very late.
She seems entirely satisfied with that arrange-
ment; and, perhaps, really enjoys seeing me in
that way, more than if I were with her all the
THE BEATITUDES. 93
1 That might be the case if she were in full
health, and could contrive her own amusements,
and procure her own pleasures; but now, your
society being the only solace and comfort that
she has, the more she sees you, the better, of
course. I was not thinking, however, so much
of the present happiness you might confer upon
her, as of the benefit to her character, which
could hardly fail to be the consequence of such
a magnanimous return, on your part, of good for
evil.'
' O, as to that, mother, I know that she feels
very grateful for what I have done already ; and
I don't doubt she is very sorry for her foolish
conduct.'
'1 dare say, my dear, that she feels all this
now, very deeply; but still, all you have done
has been without any sacrifice; and is certainly,
no more than common kindness required. — The
impression of it, therefore, will not probably be
lasting — it will wear away as other impressions
of the sick room are apt to do; when the pa-
tient, restored to health, comes forth into the
world again, and amid the freshness and fulness
of his returning pleasures, forgets the past entire-
94 THE BEATITUDES.
ly; the scene ofloneliness and privation which
so lately surrounded him, fades from his mem-
ory, as spectres that haunt the imagination by
night, disappear with the light of the morning.'
1 That being the case, mother, it seems to
me that I had better take some other opportunity,
when she is in health, to make some great im-
pression upon her mind.'
< It is never best, my dear Sarah, to defer a
present opportunity of doing good. Life is too
short, too uncertain. I fear you set more value
on this prize, than on the chance of your friend's
reformation. But what will the temporary pleas-
ure it will afford you be worth, in the compar-
ison, with the lasting satisfaction of having dis-
charged your duty towards her, even if you
should not succeed, in producing the desired ef-
fect upon her character ? Were you to look to
the example of our Saviour, for guidance on
this occasion, what would you learn from it?
Was not his, a life of continual self-sacrifice, in
the service, and for the good of others ?'
This was an appeal which Sarah could not
find it in her heart to resist. It is no disparage-
ment to her virtue to say, that it cost her a hard
THE BEATITUDES. 95
Struggle to renounce the attractive prize, togeth-
er with all the honors that would accompany it;
without temptations, and infirmities, there would
be no positive virtue; but after she had made up
her mind what was her duty, she discharged it
cheerfully.
The day after this conversation, she repair-
ed, as usual, early in the morning, to the sick
room. After she had remained some time,
Harriet reminded her that it was past the hour
for school.
' I know it,' replied Sarah, c but my mother
has given me leave to stay with you today.'
' But you ought not to lose a single day,' said
Harriet, ' if you mean to gain the prize.'
4 O,' said Sarah, ' 1 think I can afford to lose
one day, at least,' without letting her know her
plan of giving up the school entirely.
The next day when Harriet again perceived
that Sarah had no intention of going to school,
she said to her, ' You ought to go, Sarah; you
will certainly lose the prize.'
' But what if I had rather stay with you than
have the prize?'
Tears started from Harriet's eyes* She threw
8
10 THE BEATITUDES.
her arms around Sarah's neck; ' O,' said she,
' forgive me, forgive me, for all my injustice to
you;' and sobbed aloud.
' Forgive that ye may be forgiven, the Bible
says,' replied Sarah; 'we all have our faults, and
must mutually forgive each other.'
4 You hav'nt a fault in the world, Sarah. O!
if I only could be like you; but 1 cannot bear to
have you lose the prize on my account; I can
never consent to your making such a sacrifice;
so, my dear Sarah, get your bonnet this mo-
ment, and hasten to school as fast as you can;
but come back to me the moment it is out.'
'1 have no wish to go,' said Sarah; 'ifyou de-
sire my hapiness and allow me to be the judge of
what will contribute most to it, you will not op-
pose my staying here with you until you are
well enough to go out again.'
1 You are too good Sarah;' was all the reply.
Sarah then took a book to read aloud; and,
Harriet who had been a good deal exhausted
"by the excitement of this conversation, soon
fell asleep. Directly she began to talk in her
sleep; 'Father, forgive, forgive;' she uttered in a
low beseeching tone; then in an animated voice
THE BEATITUDES. 97
exclaimed l Sarah ; angel ; hallelujah ; hal-
lelujah.' Sarah moved to the bedside and took
her hand. When she awoke, and her eyes
met Sarah's; 'O Sarah,' said she, '1 saw you in
my dream, looking as happy and beautiful as a
celestial spirit. I was kneeling, trembling, and
in tears, at the foot of the Bright One who seem-
ed to hold a crown over your head; and when
I saw him place it there, my prayer for forgive-
ness was instantly changed into a loud shout
of praise.'
'We are not quite in heaven yet,' said Sarah,
smiling; 'but I hopew 7 e shall enjoy something a
good deal like it here on earth.'
Sarah's hope was fulfilled; she continued to
be, as Harriet called her, a ministering angel,
during the remainder of her sickness, and when
Harriet appeared again among her companions,
thekindom of God seemed indeed to have come
in her heart. Sarah never had occasion, and
her other companions, hardly ever, to complain
of her proud spirit again.'
'O,' said Mary; 'Blessed are the poor in
spirit,' indeed, if they are like Sarah, and do
98 THE BEATITUDES.
as much good. I will try myself to be like Sa-
rah, motiier.'
The first time, after their last conversation,
that Mary perceived her mother sitting alone at
her sewing, she claimed the promise she had
made of taking the first opportunity she had, to
explain to her the next beatitude. ' This is it,
mother,' said she, reading from her little Tes-
tament — 'Blessed are they that mourn, for
they shall be comforted, ' — this seems very
strange to me,' she added, 'for I should think
that mqurners were the last persons that could
be called blessed.'
'Perhaps,' said her mother, 'this is intended
to apply chiefly to those who mourn for sin. No
one can ever do this, without, at the same
time, resolving to sin no more; and the resolu-
tion itself gives comfort, as I dare say you
have often felt, when you have done wronjc.'
'O yes, lmther, when T got angry with little
Grace, the other day, — for th? first time, f be-
lieve, and I hops the last, — and teased and vex-
THE BEATITUDES. 99
ed her and was very impatient with her, and you
an d father were displeased with me, it seemed
to me I should die, but for the comfort of re-
solving that I would never do so again.'
'We may suppose, too, from the promises
God makes to the penitent, that He gives
comfort to their minds. But even those who
mourn for friends or for any earthly good which
they have lost,often find comfort, in the deepest
affliction, if they seek it in God — in their firm
belief that whatever he does is right, and that
though he bitterly afflicts them, it is for their
good. In such the blessed effects of affliction
are seen in some improvement of their character.
With them, its 'uses are sweet,' it makes them
think more of heaven and try to be better pre-
pared for It — It ' weans' them, as the scripture
expresses it, from this world; which, when they
are in grief, they see to be an unsatisfying
world.'
'Well, mother, there is another thing; that I
can't understand — why this world, which seems
to me a very happy world, should be called a
vain world, a sorrowful world, and all such sor-
rowful expressions. Almost everybody I see,
\
100 THE BEATITUDES.
looks happy— and 1 am sure, I am always very
happy, that is, when I am good. Then we
have so many things to make lis happy — our
pleasant homes— our kind friends — our entertain-
ing books; our beautiful gardens of flowers, and
orchards of fruit; our pleasant walks and rides;
the green fields; the lofty trees and the glorious
sun, moon, and stars. I am sure it is a beau-
tiful world and a happy world.'
'It certainly is, my love, and we ought to re-
ceive and enjoy its good things, with a thank-
ful heart, and with not only a contented, but a
joyous spirit. Still, there are a great many
forbidden trees in this paradise world, that are
nevertheless, very fair and attractive to
look upon — and there are a great many evil
influences, which, though not embodied in the
form of a serpent, are as subtle and dangerous
as he was. 5
'Now mother, I do not think I perfectly un-
derstand you.'
'Well, deir, I will explain myself. You
know, I suppose, what I refer to, in speaking
of the forbidden fruit and of the serpent.'
1 O yes, to the story of Eve, in the garden of
THE BEATITUDES. 101
Eden — but 1 do not think now of anything
in this world that you can compare to them.'
' Anything, that you are ever tempted to do,
or to indulge in, because you think it would be
very pleasant, which, nevertheless, you know to
be wrong, is i forbidden.' And even though it
may be something not positively wrong in itself,
still, if there is any reason which would make it
the occasion of sin to you, it is just as much
forbidden fruit. It is not necessary to tell
you that what are termed in scripture, * the
pleasures of sin/ nothing can ever excuse: —
but there are many other pleasures, of a per-
fectly innocent nature, which, notwithstanding,
are forbidden in some circumstances. Gay
clothes and fine ornaments are forbidden to
all but those who have a great deal more
money than is sufficient for their necessary
wants, and for their charitable duties. Even
the reading of agreeable and useful books is a
forbidden indulgence to those who need every
moment of their time for the performance of
positive duties. To ramble about in the woods
or fields, the live-long day, as you would iike
to do, would be wrong, because you know that
102 THE BEATITUDES.
some good portion of your time should be set
apart for regular and useful occupation. The
strawberries that the poor little girl, Julia
Forbes, toils the long hot clay to gather, are liter-
ally forbidden fruit to her, because the money-
she can sell them for is necessary to procure
comforts for her sick mother; but, at the same
time, it is right in you to purchase and eat
them. All pleasures, of whatever kind, are for-
bidden, when our indulgence in them would
interfere with any single duty.
' O, now, mother, I see that the world is full
of forbidden fruit, and I know there is hardly
a day that 1 do not want to do something which
either I cannot, or ought not to do — but when
you use such big words, it always seems
to me that you must mean something great
and important.'
1 No, my dear, you will find, upon reflec-
tion, that our sins, as well as our pleasures, are
often in little things. This world is one con-
tinued scene of temptation; full, as I said be-
fore, of evil influences; by which 1 mean all
the motives, so numerous and so varied, which
ever lead us to do that which is wrong; and
THE BEATITUDES. 103
those who wish to be good can never be per-
fectly happy, so long as they are at all under
the dominion of sin. Then, too, we are sub-
ject here to many calamities, such as the loss
of friends, of health, of limbs, of reason, or of
fortune, and finally, to death itself; all which
are reasons why, as the scriptures express it,,
we should seek to ' lay up our treasure in heav-
en.' Young folks are not apt to think much,
except on pleasant subjects; but if you will
reflect one single moment, you cannot help
remembering some scenes of misery, that you
have yourself witnessed.'
c O ! true, the poor family under the hill,
who have suffered so much from sickness and
poverty, that I cannot bear to see them. I
once heard the poor child, who has had the
consumption so long, say, she wished she was
in heaven; and I am sure I wished so too.
Then there is little Willy Freeman, who lost
his mother the other day; very often when I
go by now, I see him sitting in his grand-
mother's door, and his meek, placid look, al-
ways reminds me of what my dear little cousin
Isabel said, once, when she was reading an ac-
104 THE BEATITUDES.
count of some little orphan, and of his having
been left alone in the world, when his father
and mother died. When she came to this, she
broke out, and exclaimed with great impetuosi-
ty, ' He was not alone, he was not alone, God
was with him.' I thought God was with poor
Willy.'
1 And so I am told he thinks, because his
mother had taught him to believe that God
would take care of him, and by and by, if he
were good, would take him to heaven, where
he would join her, and they would both dwell
with God for ever; and he says, that while he
can remember all his mother's love, and can
have his Bible to read, which she had told him
was God's message to him and to everybody,
he would not be gloomy. Thus you see Willy
is one of those of whom it may be said; ' Bles-
sed are they that mourn; for they shall be
comforted.' He tries very hard to be good,
and is laying up his treasure in heaven.'
Mary wiped away the tears which the con-
versation about Willy had brought into his eyesj
and thought within her own litttle breast —
1 heaven is a better place than this worlds and
THE BEATITUDES. 105
I will try to lay up my treasure there too.'
Her mother said she could not stay to talk
with her any longer then; but would resume
these explanations some other time.
A few evenings after their last conversation,
Mary and her mother were sitting alone togeth-
er. 'Now, mother,' said Maty, 'will you
explain to me another of those texts ? To be
sure, I am very busy reading my new book;
but then, I can have that at any time to amuse
me; and it is only now and then, that I can
get a chance to have a good long talk with
you.'
1 Well, dear, since you prefer my conversa-
tion to your interesting book, I am sure I can-
not refuse it to you; though I had just fixed my
paper to write a letter. Get your Testament,
and let us see what is the next verse.'
Mary did as her mother bade her, and read
' blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the
earih.'
* Now, mother, what is meekness?'
106 THE BEATITUDES.
{ It is something) my dear, like poverty of
spirit; at least, one cannot exist without the
other. Though the exercise of this virtue may
be required in all situations and circumstances,
I should rather think it would be particularly at-
tributed to those, who, though eminent for
goodness, or power, or some of those gifts, either
of mind or of worldly circumstances, which are
apt to excite, vanity and pride are, nevertheless,,
humble, and, in their intercourse with those
who are inferior to them, show no conscious-
ness of superiority. Our blessed Saviour ex-
emplified in bis life, every virtue that he enjoin-
ed in his preaching: and perhaps none more re-
markably than meekness. Though pronoun-
ced by a voice from heaven to be the beloved
son of God, and though invested with such as-
tonishing power, he was always, to use the Bi-
ble language, " meek and lowly." You have
yourself remarked what great simplicity there
was in his manner of performing the most won-
derful miracles, never doing anything with pa-
rade or ostentation. When he rebuked the
raging of the sea, he said only, " Peace, be
still." When the leper tells him " Lord if thou
THE BEATITUDES. 107
wilt, thou canst make me clean," he simply re-
plies, " I will, be thou clean." '
* But mother, how can a little child, a
poor, feeble, helpless little child, imitate Jesus
an this virtue?'
' ] will tell you, my dear; some children you
know, are superior to others, they are the fa-
vorites, perhaps, of their friends or teachers;
they are smarter at their lessons, more attract-
ive in their looks; born of wealthier parents who
can dress them belter, and furnish them with
many more advantages, and bestow upon them
greater indulgences:— but a child who wishes
to be like the blessed Saviour must never suf-
fer herself to be elated Dy any of these things.
You know what elated means, for you told me
the other day, that you thought you should be
very much elated, when you got anew hat. You
meant only, perhaps, that you should be very
joyful; but when children are so far elated, as to
have their vanity excited, the temper of mind
that is produced in them is sinful. If you happen
to be superior in any one particular,to those with
whom you associate, you must only be the more
careful never to show any consciousness of your
108 THE BEATITUDES.
superiority. This will only produce bad feel-
ing in others, at the same time that it may cause
mortification to them; whereas, if you have any
superiority, you should value it, not for the sake
of making a display; but only in proportion as
you can turn it to the advantage of others; as
it increases your usefulness, your means of do-
ing good. Besides, the most favored child must
not suppose that she may not learn something
valuable, or have occasion to be thankful for
some benefit, to the most lowly; God seems to
have intended, that all classes should be mutu-
ally dependant upon each other.
' To show that there may be occasion for
meekness in our intercourse with all sorts of
people, and how beautiful a virtue it is, I will tell
you an anecdote of a lady I knew, who had a
woman in her kitchen, for whose religious char-
acter she felt a great respect. Now you know
there is always an acknowledged superiority,
of a certain kind, on the part of the master and
mistress over the servant. This woman was
feeble, and worked hard. At the close of
a day in which she had done a great deal,
and got very much fatigued, the lady went
THE BEATITUDES. 109
into her kitchen, and spoke sharply, with a
good deal of impatience, when she found that
some little thing, which she had ' requested
might be done, had been omitted. I don't
know what the woman replied, but as she
did not think herself to have been in fault, she
made no apology. The next morning, how-
ever, the lady who reproached herself very
much, went into her kitchen and humbly beg-
ged the woman's pardon. Tears came into the
good creature's eyes. " Now," said she, " this
makes me think of what our minister says: that
in the kingdom of Christ there are no masters
or servants, but all are brethren."'
Little Mary's face glowed with interest and
pleasure during her mother's recital. ' O,' said
she, ' that is indeed better than to behave to-
wards servants as if they did not deserve the
same kind and just treatment which our friends
and equals receive from us. I will certainly
try to be a meek little girl, and to remember al-
ways that " all men are brethren." '
4 Yes, my daughter, keep that in mind, and
you can never be arrogant in your intercourse
with your inferiors. The proudest mortal is>
110 THE BEATITUDES.
after all, but a worm of the dust, doomed to
death and the grave; and we cannot suppose
that the distinctions which separate the differ-
ent classes of society here, will ever be recog-
nised in another world. The poorest saint in a
worldly sense, may have the highest place at
God's right hand. ■ How foolish it is, then, to
value ourselves for the things that perish; our
strife should be to excel in virtue and wisdom
and usefulness, as, in that way, we 'lay up our
treasure in heaven.' The advantages of wealth,
of beauty, of grace, of personal accomplish-
ments, are confined to the body only; the mind,
the immortal mind is not necessarily benefited
by them, and though there must always be a
separation between the different classes of so-
ciety, yet it need never prevent us from treat-
ing all men as brethren, from living in the uni-
form exercise of good will, and kindness, and
affability towards all.'
s I am not sure that I know exactly what you
mean by affability, mother.'
' He may be said to be affable who treats all
persons as if he was conscious of no superiority
that made it proper for him ever to dispense
THE BEATITUDES. Ill
with that politeness and delicacy of manners,
which he would use towards his equals. It is
related of a governor of Virginia, (which, you
know is a slave-holding state) that while he
was talking one day with a merchant, a negro
passed by and bowed to him. The governor
returned the bow. The merchant expressed
great surprise that ' his Excellency' should con-
descend so much as to bow to a negro. ( I
should be very sorry,' he replied, ' to be out-
done in civility by a negro.'
Mary's mother was just then putting up her
work. ' O, do tell me, mother, what, is meant
by saying that ' the meek shall inherit the earth.'
I cannot tell, my dear, unless it is this — The
meek claim so little, that they are apt to receive
more than they claim, and are as well satisfied
as if they had the homage of the world — while
those who are always occupied with the idea
of themselves, thinking whether they are prop-
erly appreciated, whether they are treated with
proper consideration, &tc, are liable to be con-
stantly uneasy and dissatisfied.'
The next Sunday Mary rose very early, and
began her Sunday lessons soon as she was dress-
ed.
112 THE BEATITUDES.
1 Why are you in such haste ?' said her mo-
ther.
i Because, mother, I think, then, I shall be
able to recite them in such good season, that
you will have time left before tea, to explain
another Beatitude to me.'
Her plan succeeded; and seated by her mo-
ther's side with Testament in hand, she rear!
'Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after
righteousness, for they shall be filled.'
' Now,' said she, 'I can have no idea of
what it is to hunger or thirst for anything but
our daily food or drink.'
4 This,' replied her mother, ' is what is term-
ed figurative language. Our Saviour here com-
pares the strong and habitual desire which the
good man feels, to do always that which is right;
to perform every duty so well as to seem righ-
teous in the sight of God; this he compares to
the cravings of the hungry and thirsty, and in
this way expresses the idea more forcibly, per-
haps, than he could have done in any other.'
1 It reminds me, mother, of what he said of
himself— that his meat and drink was to do the
will of his Father in Heaven.'
THE BEATITUDES. 113
* I am very glad you recollect it, my dear.
Your quotation is very appropriate, and will as-
sist my explanation. To do the will of their
Father in Heaven is likewise the meat and
drink of those who hunger and thirst after right-
eousness; and in saying' (hat ' they shall he fill-
ed,' our Saviour gives the assurance that those
who honestly and earnestly seek to do that
which is right, shall not mistake their duty; and
compares the satisfaction they will feel from the
rewards of a good conscience, to that of being
filled or satisfied with food. Not that the pleas-
ure is not of a higher kind, but the same in de-
gree; for, as the hungry, man after eating a good
meal, has his appetite perfecily satisfied; so,
the good man in fulfilling his desires for ho-
liness and usefulness, experiences a gratifica-
tion which is full and complete.'
1 I am afraid,' said Mary, ' that it will be a
great while before I can be said to hunger and
thirst after goodness; though 1 am sure I like
to see it in others, and to feel it in myself.'
i And yet, my dear, a little child may have
this strong desire, as well as an older person.
The duties of children are, to be sure, confined
114 THE BEATITUDES.
within a small sphere; but still they are impor-
tant, and such as make them accountable to
that great Being who has given them their ex-
istence and made them rational creatures.
Youth is the time to fit ourselves for all that we
are to do and to be in after life. You know
I have often told you that unless you form a
habit of neatness, for instance, or of application
to your studies, now, you may never acquire it,
and the same is true with regard to habits of
virtue. Youth is the best, I had almost said the
only season to form and fix them; and though
you cannot be very useful now, perhaps, you
may be careful and diligent in preparing your-
self for future usefulness.
' 1 should think, mother, that a person whose
meat and drink it is to do their duty, must be
always happy.'
' They are certainly more sure of happiness
than any other persons; because, though every
other source of pleasure may fail, there is
always duty to be done; and always the power
of doing it. Duties are of a very different
nature, in different circumstances. The
healthy have active duties to perform, while the
THE BEATITUDES. 115
sick, though apparently deprived of all their
powers, may in fact, be doing even more good.
To the rich, belong the duties of benevolence;
to the poor, those of contentment and patience
in tribulation. Poor old Mrs Seers, who has
been bed-ridden so long, was complaining the
other day that her usefulness was all gone.
Her clergyman told her that there was no more
useful class of people in the world, than the
sick and suffering, who set an example of pa-
tience and submission; and I have often thought
that the poor widow Morris, who labors so hard,
so faithfully and patiently for the support and
education of her children, fulfilled a far wider
measure of duty, than the rich who subscribe
ever so liberally to charitable objects.'
' But after all, mother, it seems to me that
a little child can do nothing which shall entitle
her to this beatitude.'
' Cannot a little child, my dear, be governed
by a principle of obedience to the divine will,
as well as an older person ? Is not she as ca-
pable of being actuated by a sense of what is
right, of what is her duty ? Whatever she
does for conscience* sake, be it ever so trifling,
116 THE BEATITUDES./
she does because she believes it is the will,
that is, according to the command, of her
Father in heaven; and by making conscience
her guide in all things, she will soon arrive at
such a degree of virtue that it may be said, it
is her meat and drink to do the will of her
Father in Heaven.
' It is a great mistake to suppose that all our
little actions are beneath a heavenly rule. It
is not so much what we do, as the motives and
principles of our conduct, that give us favor in
the sight of Him, who knows our secret
thoughts. A little girl who is affectionate and
obedient to her parents, kind and gentle to her
brothers and sisters, and amiable and benevo-
lent towards everybody, is doing the will of her
Father in Heaven. If, in the exercise of these
virtues, she is ready to sacrifice a favorite in-
clination, to subdue a bad passion, to repress an
unkind emotion for conscience' sake, she is
. certainly fitting herself to be numbered among
the ' blessed.'
4 But do not you think, mother, that some
great trials of our virtue are necessary ? Do
not you suppose that Sally Newman practises
THE BEATITUDES. 117
more virtue than I have an opportunity to prac-
tise, if I were ever so good ?'
8 1 think, my dear, that her conduct furnishes
one of the most eminent instances of virtue that
I ever knew. To bear so patiently with her
stepmother's unkind treatment and passionate
humor, and to be so faithful, and even tender,
in taking care of her neglected children, and
all without the hope of earthly reward or gain,
but for the sake of a good conscience, is
very uncommon merit. Her Father, who seeth
in secret, will reward her openly. But it
would have a very bad effect upon us, to be
dissatisfied with our ordinary course of duty.
He who has a high sense of duty, and looks
well into his heart, will perceive how very far
below a proper standard he is continually liable
to fall, even in the ordinary occurrences of
life.
1 To whom was this very sermon of our
Saviour addressed ? Was it not to a mixed
multitude of people, to whom his preaching
could have had no reference, had not his in-
structions been intended to apply to all the
common duties and circumstances of life ?'
118 THE BEATITUDES.
* Well, mother if I am only lo be a good
daughter, and a kind sister and friend, that
seems very easy duty for me, who have no
temptations to be otherwise.'
4 Never any temptations to be otherwise !
Think a moment, my daughter, and I am sure
you will find yourself mistaken.'
Mary blushed, as she recollected that only
the very day before, when left to her own
decision, as to indulging in some favorite holi-
day pursuit, which she knew very well her
mother did not approve, she followed the bent
of her own inclinations, rather than her moth-
er's wishes. She threw her arms about her
mother's neck —
1 You are right, mother,' said she, ' it is diffi-
cult to be good as we ought to be, in any situa-
tion; I will try to be better than I have been,
and for conscience' sake.'
So saying, she followed her mother at the
sound of the bell which summoned them to tea.
* I am glad,' said Mary, when she was going
THE BEATITUDES. 119
to bed, ' that there is to be a fast this week.
It will be an excellent time to get another ex-
planation of a beatitude from mother.' When
the day arrived, she did not forget her project;
but sat down by her mother as soon as they
returned from church in the afternoon, and, as
if it were all a matter of course, began to read,
' Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain
mercy.'
'I have done quite too many merciful errands
for a certain merciful lady not to understand
what that means,' said she kissing her mother.
'But there are many other ways of being
merciful besides giving to the poor,' said her
mother, ' though that is a duty which our Sa-
viour enjoins with g reat urgency; so much so,
that in speaking of the final judgment, he repre-
sents himself as bidding the good into his Fa-
ther's kingdom, because they had given food to
the hungry, drink to the thirsty, clothes to the
naked, and kind attentions to the sick and the
prisoner. Still, when we give of our abun-
dance that which we shall never miss ourselves,
it is no great merit, though it would certainly
be very wrong to do otherwise. Your dear
9
120 THE BEATITUDES.
aunt Maria, who has a good deal of money at her
disposal, is very scrupulous about indulging
herself in dress and ornaments, such as other
ladies think quite indispensable: she prefers
expending the money they would cost, in acts
of benevolence. Wherever she is, the sick
and the poor are her care; and she delights,
too, in furnishing the means of education to
intelligent little children whose parents are
unable to afford them such advantages. Once
I was with her when she was on the point of
purchasing a pair of gold bracelets, which are
really a convenient as well as an ornamental
article of dress; but after turning them over in
her hand a moment, she laid them down — it
was on New Year's eve— -she took the money
she would otherwise have paid for the bracelets r
and appropriated it to the purchase of books,
which she presented as a new year's gift, to a
poor little girl of her acquaintance.'
'O,' said Mary, *I wish I could be like my
dear aunt Maria, in this and everything else;
but then I have no money, you know.'
k Still, my dear, if you wish it, I think I can
put you in a way to cultivate just such a dis-
THE BEATITUDES. 121
position for benevolence. To be sure you have
no valuable toys to dispose of; no rocking
horse to sell, as was the case with a little boy I
heard of the other day.'
* O, do tell me about him, mother.'
* His name was Lewis, and I will call it
1 The Story of Lewis and his Rocking
Horse.'
' This little boy was walking with his mother
one evening past a poor humble abode, where
lived a widow with six young children. All
the family were assembled in a corner of the
yard; one little girl was crying bitterly, and the
poor mother, who was a good woman, and
labored hard for the support of her family,
looked as if something had happened, that it
was very hard for her to bear. On approach-
ing nearer, they discovered a cow lying dead
upon the ground. The little girl who had
been crying, perceived something in the faces
of Lewis and his mother that encouraged her
to speak.
1 Only see,' said she,* our poor cow is dead,
quite dead. She has been sick, and we could
not cure her all we could do. She was a good
122 THE BEATITUDES.
cow, she was, and she gave us our milk every
morning and every night,' said the child, uncon-
sciously patting the neck of the poor animal,
' and when Susy was milking her, I used to
stand by and say the verses out of the book that
the lady gave me —
Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk, to soak my bread. J
And then Susy would let me go with her and
drive her to pasture, and 1 would be good all
day long, so that I might go at night too, and
bring her home.'
Here the idea of all the pleasures she had
lost quite overcame her, and she began to cry
again. One of her sisters led her into the
house, and then Lewis'? mother made some
kind inquiries of the poor woman about the loss
of her cow, in such a way as to show that she
felt sorry for her; for nothing is more accepta-
ble to such people than some expressions of in-
terest and sympathy.
The woman said she was a poor widow, and
worked hard for the support of her children;
with the help of her cow she had been able to
keep them comfortable; but without that, she
THE BEATITUDES. 123
feared they must suffer, as she had no means
of buying another. Her lips trembled, and the
tears stood in her eyes, though she looked meek
and uncomplaining.
After saying that they wished her to send,
every day, to them, for a pail of skimmilk, Lew-
is and his mother left her, promising to come
and see her again.
The moment they were out of hearing, Lew-
is said, ? 1 hope father will buy the poor wo-
man a cow, don't you think he will, mother?'
1 I fear, my dear, that he cannot afford such
a sum as would be necessary; for, though he
works hard at his profession, his means are no
more than sufficient for our comfortable sup-
port.'
c O, I wish I was a man,' said Lewis, ' and
then I could do some work and get some money
to buy a cow.'
' It is easier to feel kindly than to do a gener-
ous act,' said his mother; { now, I think you
have the means, if you choose to use them, of
buying a cow for this poor woman.'
c I have the means !' said Lewis; ' how, what
do you mean, mother t
124 THE BEATITUDES.
{ You know the rocking horse your uncle
gave you — you are very fond of it — and it gives
you a great deal of pleasure; but do you think
it is worth as much to you as a cow would be
to that poor family ?'
Lewis looked thoughtful for a moment, and
we are not sure that it was not quite as much
to save himself from confessing his unwilling-
ness to part with his favorite toy, (for after all,
a rocking horse is but a toy,) as out of regard
for the feelings of his uncle, that he replied,
' Why, mother, do you think it would be prop-
er for me to part with my dear uncle's gift?'
' I am quite confident,' said his mother,
J that your uncle, so far from objecting to your
parting with it, for such a purpose, would be
gratified that you should do so — but I will not
urge you; I had rather the matter should be
left to the decision of your own feelings.'
' How do you know, mother,' said Lewis,
'that the money I should get for my rocking-
horse, would be enough to buy a cow?'
' If not, my dear, 1 will wear my old coat
another yeair instead of getting a new one in the
fall, aslhadiintended, and the money which
THE BEATITUDES. 135
would otherwise have been appropriated to its
purchase, you shall have to make up the defi-
ciency.'
It seemed to Lewis, at first, that he could
not think of selling his rocking horse, of which
he was very fond indeed. He was in the hab-
it of getting upon it every day in the intervals of
his lessons, and thought he could not possibly
do without it.
The next day he repaired to it as usual, for
his recreation, but he did not enjoy it as he had
done before. Somehow r or other it seemed to
him like a forbidden amusement, in which it
was wrong to indulge. That night he had a sin-
gular dream, which he related to his mother as
being very curious indeed. He said he thought
in his dream, that he was very hungry, and that
he searched the house in vain for something to
eat — not a scrap of anything could he find ; that
his mother seemed to pity him, and looked very
sad, but knowing there was nothing in the house,
did not say a word. He had been without food
all day, and at length became perfectly ravenous.
Then he remembered the cow, which he had
seen standing in the yard, and went to try if he
126 TEE BEATITUDES.
could not get some of her milk. But lo ! and
behold ! when he got to her he found, to his
great consternation, that it was only a wooden
cow, covered with skin, to look like a real cow —
just as his rocking horse was made to look like a
real horse.
His mother smiled at the dream,but Lewis look-
ed very sober about it. : I suppose I know,'
said he, •' what made me have that dream ; and
if I can neither enjoy my horse in the day, nor
sleep without having bad dreams at night, 1 think
I may as well sell him at once.'
' But I should be sorry,' said his mother, ' to
have you influenced by such selfish motives in
parting with your horse.'
l VVhy,Ido not think,mother,that they are entire-
ly selfish. My dream w r aked me very early this
morning, and while 1 was lying, waiting to hear
somebody up in the house, I thought the matter
all over, and came to the conclusion that 1 should
enjoy more in seeing all those poor children
come round the new cow with happy faces, and
in thinking how much comfort they would have^
in her, than I ever did with my rocking horse,
even before you suggested to me that 1 had bet-
THE BEATITUDES. 127
ter give it up. Charles Rodman says his mo-
ther has long been wishing to buy him a rock-
ing horse ; so if you please, mother, I will sell
it to him ; and when, sometimes, I get thinking
what I shall do to amuse myself, and begin to
long for my horse again, I will just take a walk
down to the poor woman's at milking time.'
His mother, of course, highly approved this
plan : the horse was sold, and the cow pur-
chased. Lewis's little sister insisted upon tak-
ing her spending money to buy a new milking
pail and stool for Susy ; and Lewis experienced
all the delight he had anticipated from seeing
the joy which beamed in the faces of the whole
family, when the cow was driven into the yard,
and they were told it was to be their own, 1
' O, mother,' said Mary, when the story was
finished, c how I wish I had a rocking horse to
sell'
' As I said before, my dear Mary, I can tell
you something you can do towards providing
yourself with the means of benevolence, and
something, too, which will require, perhaps,
more of an effort than Lewis was obliged to
make, in parting with the horse,'
9*
128 THE BEATITUDES.
1 What can you mean, mother ? '
' You know, dear, that you are very careless
of your books, and not very careful of your
clothes. Now if you would thoroughly improve
in these respects, I could well afford, from what
you would save in that way, to give you, eve;y
six months, two or three useful books to send to
that little cousin of yours at Chenango, who has
such a passion for reading, and hardly any
books at all. And besides these, I could also
give you a good new garment for the poor in-
valid we have spoken of before, whose comfort-
less appearance has often excited your pity.'
* O, that would be delightful, mother, and I
certainly will try my best.'
' Well, my daughter, only persevere in this
determination, and you will certainly succeed.
It is easier to make such a sacrifice as Lewis
did, though it was a noble, generous act, and
one to which few children, I fear, would be
equal ; it is easier to make such a sacrifice,
which is done in a moment, and the full reward
of which is immediately enjoyed, than to perse-
vere in a continual succession of efforts, day
after day, and month after month, whose recom-
THE BEATITUDES.
129
pense is still uncertain, until the term of trial is
completed ; and even if secure, would seem to
you very remote. But try, my dear, and 1 am
sure you will accomplish it. If not, there will
be so much lost to the needy, and you must
bear the reproach.'
1 After all, mother, it will be but very little
that I can give, compared to what Lewis gave.'
< Console yourself, then, with recollecting the
commendation which our Saviour bestowed up-
on the poor woman who cast two mites into the
treasury. I remember when you were a very
little girl, and were reading this account, you
laughed outright, atthe idea that anybody should
think of casting two mites into the great treasury;
but you soon found that our Saviour considered
this action highly praiseworthy. Jt is undoubt-
edly recorded to show us that it is not how much
we give, but how much in proportion to our
ability, that constitutes the merit of our benev-
olent deeds.'
4 You said, mother, that there were other
ways of being merciful besides by giving alms,
as the scripture expresses it : what other ways
did you mean ? '
130 THE BEATITUDES.
4 You may show a merciful spirit, my dear,
by bestowing kind attentions and speaking words
of kindness, when you have no money to give,
and often, when money would not be received,
for the rich may sometimes be as thankful for
these, as the poor. You may, likewise, show
a merciful spirit by being tender to the feelings
of others ; careful never to say or do anything
that shall offend or give pain ; and, above all,
you may be tender of the reputations of others,
never joining in illnatured censure, but being
always anxious to screen from observation, so
far as you can, the faults of those with whom
you associate, and bring into notice their good
qualities. And now, dear, I cannot talk with
you any longer ; we must wait till another time
for the explanations thatremain.'
1 I wish you could talk with me more now,'
said Mary, ' but i know I ought not to ask it of
you, you have already been so very kind.'
THE BEATITUDES. 131
Some time elapsed after this before Mary had
a chance to obtain another precious hour for
these favorite explanations. At length, one
evening when they were left almost alone to-
gether, she waited with impatience she could
hardly help expressing, for the last visitor to take
his leave, and when he did so, exclaimed, ' Now,
mother, we are all alone, and though it is near-
ly my bedtime, will you not let me sit up long
enough to hear you talk with me about the be-
atitudes, and I will get up just as early tomorrow,
and be very diligent.'
1 Well dear, let us begin at once then,' re-
plied her mother.
Mary eagerly took her little Testament from
the shelf — ' Here we begin tonight,' said she —
4 " Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall
see God." Now, mother, who are the pure in
h eart.'
' They are those, my dear, who, in every-
thing they do, are actuated by the best inten-
tions, and whose motives are, in fact, what they
seem to be. Many people in this world get
credit for goodness they do not possess— what
pp ears so good in them may proceed from a
132 THE BEATITUDES.
selfish or unworthy motive. You are not yet
quite old enough to be told in how many, and
in what ways, an older person may be faulty in
this respect — but when I apply what I say to
children I think you will understand me at once.
' A little child may be generous, merely be-
cause she wishes her generosity should be ad-
mired, and not because she really thinks ' it is
more blessed to give than to receive :' she may
be good natured, and obliging to her compan-
ions — not from a sincere desire to promote their
happiness — but because she likes to make her-
self a favorite among them, or in other words,
loves popularity: she may be assiduous in her
studies from a desire to eclipse some rival, per-
haps, or to obtain a prize, rather than from a
sense of the value of time, and the duty of im-
proving, to the utmost, her opportunities for
spending it profitably : she may tell the truth —
not so much from a principle of obedience to
the command of God, or from aversion to false-
hood, as from a fear of being disgraced : she
may go to church merely to pass off time, to
look about, or to exhibit some new article of
4ress — rather than from any desire to be in-
THE BEATITUDES. 133
structed by the sermon, or to join in the wor-
ship: and she may say her prayers only to
avoid reproof for neglecting them — and not be-
cause she loves to thank God for his goodness,
or to seek his favor. In all these instances she
would not only act from unworthy motives, but
in most* of them, she would expect that her
motives would seem better than they really
were.'
f O, mother,' said Mary, j how can we help
being governed by some of these wrong motives
— it seems to me almost impossible.'
'It is very difficult, I admit, my dear Mary;
but that is a reason not, for discouragement
but for greater care and watchfulness. The
pure in heart love virtue for its own sake, and
because it is pleasing to God. To gain his
approbation, should be the first motive of all,
young and old. I know it is difficult for little
children to keep this moiive always in their
minds; it is so much more natural for them to
be occupied with whatever is present to their
senses, through the medium of which the
mind is continually furnished with ideas,
than with the thought of Him whom they can
134 THE BEATITUDES.
neither see nor comprehend. They should try
to think of him always, as in that relation in
which he seems pleased to represent himself
as their Heavenly Father — and when they
remember how sad it is to grieve or offend their
earthly parents, they must consider how much
more sinful it is, to offend Him, to whom they
owe a great deal more — who is not only their
kind Father in Heaven, but a holy being who
'cannot look upon iniquity but with abhor-
rence' — and an omniscient being, that is a being
who knows all things, who sees their hearts and
knows all their thoughts.'
' O, mother,' said Mary, ' when I think of
all this, it makes me afraid that I can never
please him as I ought.'
'Wei!, my dear, in proportion to your fear
must be your carefulness; and you know, for
your encouragement, that this great Being is
very merciful and forgiving, and that he prom-
ises his aid to all that seek it. When a temp-
tation is presented, you can ask for strength to
resist it, and every day, when you pray ' De-
liver me from evil,' you must remember that
the greatest of all evils is sin.'
THE BEATITUDES. 135
1 1 suppose, mother, said Mary, that hypo-
crites, such as the Pharisees, are farthest of all,
from being " pure in heart." '
1 Yes, my dear, they sought only the praise
of such men as could be imposed upon by mere
appearance, and their ostentatious parade of
fasts, and prayers, and almsgivings, was so much
the more offensive, because they were notori-
ous for violating many of the moral duties of
life. Having no principle of virtue, they sub-
stituted or endeavored to substitute the appear-
ance for the reality; a foolish, idle vanity was
the only motive that governed them, and our
Saviour used harsher language towards them
than towards any other people. This vanity,
this Jove of admiration is but too apt to take
the place of better motives in the minds even
of the virtuous, though one would suppose it
might be always prevented by the reflection
that God, whom it most concerns us to please,
sees the springs of all our actions, though they
are hidden from the eyes of the world.'
' 1 should think, mother, that the conduct
of the two gentlemen that father was mention-
ing last night, afforded a good illustration of
136 THE BEATITUDES.
proper and improper motives; such as we have
been considering.'
'What do you allude to, my dear? I do
not think I heard what he said.'
'He was telling aunt Maria, that he had
often heard Mr Shore admired for his great lib-
erality, especially in making large subscriptions
and donations to all charitable objects, and con-
trasted with Mr Home, who uniformly refused
to give anything for such purposes, and was
loudly and universally accused of avarice.
' Now,' said he, ' it is ascertained that Mr
Shore is deeply in debt, and has actually rob-
bed from his creditors all the money with which
he has been making such a show of benevo-
lence; while Mr Home, who formerly failed
for a large amount, and obtained a release
from his creditors, after paying them all he
could, has been all this time saving every cent
that he could spare from his actual necessi-
ties, and patiently submitting to all the re-
proaches that have been cast upon him, until,
at length, he has completely discharged his
debts.' Father explained to me what was
me ant by a failure, and 1 could not help admir-
THE BEATITUDES.
137
ing Mr Home very much, though I did not
think of applying to him the phrase c pure in
heart,' until since we have been talking to-
gether.'
' Your anecdote is a very pleasing one, and
very much to the point, my dear Mary. You
perceive that it must have been vanity that led
Mr Shore to prefer a show of virtue to real up-
rightness of conduct; and that Mr Home was
too much governed by his conscience, by a
principle of duty, to let any other motive influ-
ence him.' +■
' But though our desire to please the world
may lead us astray so much,' said Mary, \ it
surely is not wrong for us to wish to please
our friends.'
' O no, my dear: that wish to please our
friends which springs from our love to them,
is a very different thing from that wish to please
the world which is the result of vanity; and we
should be thankful to God, that he has furnished
us with so many motives to goodness, which
are delightful as well as commendable. What
can be more agreeable to a good little girl,,
than to conduct in such a manner as will make
138 THE BEATITUDES.
her truly beloved by all those she most wishes
to please; and this she can effect, by doing
those things which are pleasing in the sght of
God. She must be very careful, however,
that she is never tempted to appear better than
she really is, and to receive undeserved praise.
I remember being very much pleased wiih a
little incident that occurred during my visit at
your aunt's, last summer. One morning, your
little cousin Julia got up very early, and took
a long walk before breakfast. Her father had
often expressed a wish that she should do so
regulary; but as he did not actually lay his com-,
mands upon her, and she loved her bed dearly,
she had not been able to overcome the repug-
nance she felt to leaving it, at an earlier hour
than usual. On this occasion he commended
her resolution, and praised her very much, say^
ing, that she never pleased him so well as wh en
she gave up her own pleasures, whether they
were of lying in bed, or anything else, for the
sake of gratifying him. Julia burst into tears.
This seemed very strange to her father, and
he insisted on knowing what was the matter.
< Why., father,' said she, ' I did not take the walk
THE BEATITUDES, 139
this morning to please you, but because Henry
bet a shilling last night, that I should not take
one walk, before breakfast, the whole sum-
mer, and I wanted to gain the shilling.' Julia
is extremely fond of her father, and values his
praise more, almost, than .anything else, so that
the sorrow she felt from the consciousness of
not deserving it, in this instance, made it very
hard for her to own that she did not; and her
frank confession showed great strength of prin-
ciple. Perhaps, there is no greater temptation
ever presented to the mind of a child, than
that of withholding the truth, when by letting
herself be judged merely by what is seen,
she will appear to much better advantage than
if the real truth were known.'
' I think, mother,' said Mary, after express-
ing her admiration of her cousin's frankness,
4 lhat Julia must be a very true little girl.'
( Yes, my dear, I have no doubt that she
has a perfectly honest mind; for it is not in
speaking the trum, merely, that falsehood is to
be avoided. That thorough principle of truth
which produces perfect sincerity of character
and conduct, is indispensable to purity of heart;
140 THE BEATlTtfDiKSv
it is a most important safeguard against the se-
ductions of that vanity wbich f as I have told
you before, so often tempts us to give false
impressions of ourselves, — or to let them re-
main when they have been given unintention-
ally, — that we may appear in the most favor-
able light.'
• One thing more, mother, and then, if you
please, we will proceed to the next beatitude.
The pure in heart, it is said, * shall see God' — ••
what is meant by that V
1 1 suppose, my dear, that in consequence
of their own purity they have a clearer percep-
tion or understanding of his glorious purity.
We are said, you know, to be created. in his
image, that is, with intelligent faculties' capable
of being directed to the wisest and best purpo-
ses; in proportion to our abuse of these faculties,
this image is defaced; and in proportion to our
right use of them, it is retained; blessed indeed
are they who, by keeping it pure and spotless,
most nearly resemble, and can best comprehend
the great and holy being who made them.
This image is a more glorious 'pattern' than that
shown to Moses on the mount, ' of the tabernaole,
THE BEATITUDES. 141
and all the instruments thereof,' about which you
have exercised your imagination so much.'
' Thank you, my dear mother: and now I
will read the next.'
'No, my daughter, it is quite too late; I can-
not let you sit up any longer; but tomorrow
evening your father will be absent again, and
then I shall have another opportunity to talk
with you.'
' Blessed are the peacemakers. ' ' I think I
shall like to hear about the peacemakers,' said
Mary, the next evening, as she claimed her
mother's promise. ' I believe I know, mother,
who are the peacemakers,' she continued, ' for
often, when I am with a number of girls togeth-
er, some seem very desirous that all should
agree, and are willing to give up their own
wishes in the choice of a play, or as to the
manner of spending their time, for the sak^
of peace — while others are not willing to
142 THE BEATITUDES.
up anything. Some are not at all careful about
giving offence, and say unkind words, or do
unkind things — while others are careful not
only to do nothing which shall offend, but if an
offence is committed against them, they easily
forgive it; if an angry word is spoken, they give
that soft answer, which, as the Bible says, ' turn-
eth away wrath.'
'I am glad to find, my dear, that you apply
the precepts of scripture to your own conduct
and that of others; and I was very much pleased
with the soft answer you returned the other
day to your impatient little brother, when he
reproached you so angrily for having destroyed,
as he supposed for your own amusement, the
little block-house he had been building; and,
notwithstanding, that in his impetuosity, he
spilled the ink, and spoiled the letter ycu had
been writing, you spoke very gently to him and
said, 'Why, George, I did not mean to knock
down your house, and I will build you another,
directly.' Then, you know, he not only re-
covered his good humor, but looked very sor-
rowfully at the mischief lie had done; whereas,
if you had replied to him in the same tone
THE BEATITUDES. 143
which he used towards you, you would only
have exasperated him still more.'
c Well, mother, I must confess I was a good
deal vexed at first, and was upon the point of
telling him so; but I suddenly recollected what
I had learned about the soft answer.'
' A great many of the wrong things we do,
my dear, would be prevented by a little reflec-
tion. From mere want of consideration, un-
just reproaches and accusations are often has-
tily made, and these are the occasion of a great
deal of angry feeling. If little George had given
himself time to think a moment, he would have
known that your frock caught his blocks by
mere accident, as you passed along. But we
cannot expect much reflection in young chil-
dren, and, therefore, should exercise towards
them a great deal of forbearance. Some chil-
dren, too, have naturally better tempers than
others, and every allowance should be made for
constitutional infirmity.'
' I never shall forget, mother, what you told
me Doctor Priestley said to his grand-daughter,
just before he died: — " Remember, little thing,
the hymn you have learned — Birds in their lit-
tle nests agree." *
10
144 THE BEATITUDES.
1 1 am glad that it made so deep an impres-
sion upon your mind,' said her mother; ' and
the Bible, too, says, you know — ' Behold how
good and how pleasant a thing it is for brethren
to dwell together in unity.' It is so good and
so pleasant, thai I am anxious to point out to you,
whatever is most apt to disturb such harmony
between brothers and sisters.
1 One ol the most fruitful sources of ill-temper,
among children, is teasing, crossing each other's
inclinations, just by way of amusement, which,
though begun pleasantly enough, is sure to end
in a quarrel. This teasing is always very
wrong; but it is particularly so, when practised
on the part of those who are older, towards
those who are too young to defend themselves.
Good-natured as you are, my little daughter, I
have seen you do this someumes, and I have
seen those who are a good deal older than you,
doit. Little children are easily troubled; their
own pleasures, however trifling, seem as im-
portant to them as our more serious concerns
dp to us. When little Grace is rolling her mar-
bles about the floor, suddenly to gather them all
up, and place them out of her reach; when she
THE BfiATlTtJDES. 145
is holding her hand for a bit of apple or any-
thing else you may be offering to her, suddenly
to withdraw it, twenty times over, perhaps, just
as she thinks she has it; when she is standing at
the window, intently gazing on some object in
the street, to take her forcibly away — and all
this, just to amuse yourself with her impatience
and passion — is worse than if you were to burn
her fingers, or feed her with something hurtful
— because the injury done to her temper is of a
more serious nature, and not so easily remedi-
ed — it cannot be cured with salve or medicine.'
'lam glad you have mentioned my fault,'
said Mary, ' for I never thought before of its be-
ing so wrong; and now I will try to avoid it
most carefully, together with everything else
that a peacemaker should avoid.'
4 You recollect how much interested you was,
the other day, in reading the account of our
Saviour's birth, and of the glory of the Lord
that i shone round about,' when the angel an-
nounced the event — and of the ' multitude of
the heavenly host' that were suddenly with him,
saying, ' Glory to God in the highest, and
on earth peace, and good will towards men.'
146 THE BEATITUDES.
The religion which our blessed Saviour taught
is eminently a religion of peace and good
will; and the 'peacemakers' seem to repeat
the glad proclamation which accompanied his
birth.'
' Yes, mother,' said Mary, whose imagina-
tion easily kindled, c and there is a glory shin-
ing round about them.'
4 You are right, my dear; there is nothing
more beautiful than the gentle offices of peace
and good will. These offices are constantly
needed in the familiar intercourse of life, and
children can perform a share of them. Where
there is a contentious spirit, every word that is
spoken, every circumstance that happens, may
afford an opportunity for its indulgence; but to
one whose disposition is peaceable, there hardly
ever seems to arise any occasion for a quarrel,
or for angry feeling.'
' I know, mother, that we should not get into
any quarrels ourselves ; but how can we help,
sometimes, taking a part in the quarrels of
others ; if it so happens that one of those who
are at variance is much more our favorite than
the other, and we think she has been injured,
how can we help taking her part ?'
THE BEATITUDES. 147
1 But you must help it, my dear, if you do
not wish to exasperate her still more and in-
crease the difficulty of a reconciliation, which,
on the contrary, you should use a'l the means
in your power to promote ; saying and doing
everything you can to pacify the angry feelings
of both.'
'I think it is tolerably easy,' said Mary, ' not
to resent slight offences, but when some one
does or says what I think is very, very wrong,
and very unjust, either to me, or to anybody
that J love, I am angry and ready to quarrel
about it, before I think of it ; and it seems to
me as if I could not possibly help being so.'
' Recollect, my dear Mary, our Saviour's
conduct towards Peter when he had thrice de-
nied that he had ever been with him or knew
anything about him; and this, too, at a time
when it was particularly base and cruel to de->
sert him, just as he had been delivered into the
hands of cruel enemies. Did he overwhelm
him with angry reproaches? No; the scripture
says, ' the Lord turned and looked upon Peter,
and he went out and wept bitterly.' I suppose
that look expressed tenderness mingled with
148 THE BEATITUDES.
grief, which affected Peter more and made him
feel more penitent, than the severest reproof
would have done.'
' It must have been a beautiful look, mother,
and I will try to remember what you have here
said about it.'
' Our Saviour, in bidding us 'overcome evil
with good,' showed not only an exalted mo-
rality, but an intimate knowledge of the princi-
ples of our nature. There is hardly anything
so bad in the disposition of another towards us,
that it cannot be cured by kindness. 1 once
had a neighbor of a very jealous disposition,
who got seriously offended with me for some
slight she fancied she had received — so much
so, that she would hardly speak to me, and said
a great many unkind things, which were de-
signed to create bad impressions of me in the
neighborhood; but 1 did not change my manners
towards her, and took care to improve every
opportunity that occurred, of doing her a neigh-
borly kindness, so that, in time, she completely
recovered her good humor, and as I had good
reason to believe, felt very much ashamed of
her conduct towards me.'
THE BEATITUDES. 149
* That makes me think, mother, of a little
girl at school, Emily Holmes. She once lent
a lead pencil to one Jane Sharpe, who is noto-
rious for her bad temper; and Jane, getting
angry, because Emily wanted it, and insisted
upon having it back again before she had done
with it, threw it into the fire. It so happened,
that soon after this, Emily's uncle made her a
present of a large bunch of pencils; which she
took lo school for the purpose of distributing
them among the girls. One said ' I would not
give Jane Sharpe any,' and another added ' O !
no, it is an excellent opportunity to revenge
yourself,' but Emily gave no heed to them,
and Jane shared with the rest. She looked
reaiiy mortified, however, and Emily says
she has been perfectly good matured to her
ever since.'
' And did you not admire Emily's conduct in
this instance ?'
' O yes, mother, certainly, I did, though
some of the girls seemed quite to despise her
for it; remarking that Emily had no spirit at all.
I admire the peace-making system in its effects,
very much, though it seems to me, that it is
150 THE BEATITUDES.
not easily adopted in all cases. Have you
any farther advice or warning to give me on the
subject ?'
' Yes, my dear, there is one very important
thing to be observed by those who wish to
promote peace, that I have not yet mentioned;
and that is an extreme carefulness in not repeat-
ing to one person what you may have heard
said to his disadvantage by another. Such
remarks are sometimes made accidentally or
thoughtlessly; or, perhaps sometimes unavoida-
bly, and it should be considered the positive
duty of those who hear them not only never to
repeat them intentionally — but to observe the
strictest caution in regard to them. The Bible
says, * the words of a talebearer are as wounds;
and where there is no talebearer the strife
ceaseth.' If you have ever had an angry or a
painful feeling excited in this way, you know
why you should be very careful not to occa-
sion anything of the same kind in the same
way.'
* I have felt these wounds, mother, many
times; for there is one acquaintance of mine
who seems to delight in treasuring up everything
THE BEATITUDES. 151
she ever hears to my disadvantage, and then
repeating it to me. I was made very unhappy
by it at first, but I soon fouud out that in her
extreme anxiety to find something of the kind to
tell of, she would frequently mistake the inten-
tion of what was said, and sometimes, I sus-
pected, misrepresent it on purpose. Once I
remember, she told me that my favorite friend,
Sally Morgan, said I was the silliest girl she
ever knew; 1 thought this was very strange for
her to say, and determined I would speak to
her about it. She laughed, and said ' that mis-
chievous child told you only a part of what I
said, which was, that you was the silliest girl I
ever knew, because you bore with all the girls'
humors and did not stand up for your own
rights more.'
' Well, my dear, as a general rule, it is always
fair to distrust habitual talebearers, because, as
they can be actuated by no good motives, it is
reasonable to doubt whether they always use
fair means, i could tell you a good many in-
stances of very serious mischief produced in this
way, besides that ' strife' which the text speaks
of; but at present, I choose to confine myself
10*
152 THE BEATITUDES.
to those consequences of talebearing which are
so destructive to 'peace.' And since you see,
my dear Mary, how odious and sinful a vice it
is, be careful lest you should sometimes be
guilty of it, from mere indiscretion.'
'1 certainly will, mother, be very careful. I
dislike very much to see quarrelling; and above
all I should feel ashamed and sorry to be the
occasion of making a quarrel.'
'You remember, Mary, what you always say
is your favorite text in the who'e Bible.'
' O yes, mother, it is always that beautiful
one, • God is love; and whoso dwelleth in love,
dwelleth in God and God in him.'
' How should we all seek, then, to dwell in
love ! It is said of the apostle John, who, you
know, was the ' beloved disciple,' that he lived
to a great age, and was often saying to the
Christians that surrounded him, 'My little
children, love one another;' and if you will
think one moment, my dear Mary, you will
recollect how beautiful every exhibition of
harmony and love, which we witness among
animals, appears to us; how beautiful to see the
hen with her chickens, the ' birds in their little
THE BEEATITUDS. 153
nests agree,' an d the faithful, tender dove.
Thus you perceive that God has written the
law of love on his works, as well as in his word;
that it may be constantly impressed upon our
minds in all iis force and beauty.'
Perhaps some little girls will wonder what
Mary's mother could have to say to her on the
subject of the next and last beatitude. c Bles-
sed are they which are persecuted for right-
eousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven.' s Blessed are ye when men shall re-
vile you, and persecute you, and say all manner
of evil against you falsely, for my sake.' Ma-
ry wondered too, and said to her mother, that
though she did not see how she was liable to be
persecuted, even if she had any righteousness,
yet still she should like to know what was meant
by persecution.
1 When you are old enough to read church
history,' her mother replied, ' you will perceive
haw much the immediate followers of Christ
needed the promise and encouragement con-
154 THE BEATITUDES.
tained in this beatitude. Persecution is unjust,
unkind, or cruel treatment designedly inflicted
by one person upon another; and the early
Christians suffered the most dreadful kind of
persecution — bodily torture and death. The
Jews, who lived at the time of our Saviour's
birth, expected that the promised Messiah who
had been predicted long before in the writings
of their prophets, would be a great king, clothed
with splendor, and invested with power and
iJches; who would "restore again the kingdom
to Israel," for then the Jews had long ceased to
be a n;;tion. and Judea had become a Roman
province. Accordingly, when Jesus, of a low-
ly birth, the son of a carpenter, so poor that he
had not where to lay his head, and who declar-
ed that his kingdom was not of this world, was
proclaimed the Messiah, the Jews, many of
them, were enraged both at him and at them
who believed in him. Their dislike was con-
firmed, and their fury increased when they found
that both by the purity of his life and by the
docu ines he taught, he reproved them for their
sins, and that the relgion which he preached,
not only expressly forebade many vices in which
THE BEATITUDES. 155
they had been accustomed to permit themselves
a free indulgence, but also condemned some
practices for which they gave themselves great
credit, and on account of which, they were
disposed to thank God, like the Pharisee, that
they were not as other men. The Romans,
too, and all who had heard of this new religion
were offended for the same reason, that it re-
quired such strict purity of life. Consequent-
ly, those who became Christians, and acknow-
ledged themselves believers in Jesus, as the
promised Messiah, were surrounded by enemies
on every side; both among the Gentiles and the
Jews. Gentiles, you know, is a word used in
distinction from Jews; all besides Jews are Gen-
tiles.'
* O mother, how could they be angry at such
a blessed being, and at those who loved him,
and tried to be like him?'
* When people are so very sinful, my dear,
they see no beauty in goodness. The Romish
religion was Pagan, you know: all that it requir-
ed of its votaries was, to offer certain sacrifices
and observe certain festivals; of course, there
was nothing in it calculated to touch the heart
156 THE BEATITUDES.
or improve the character, nothing of a purify-
ing or saving influence. The Jews, who in the
time when they were under the immediate and
almost visible guidance of God, were often re-
belious and idolatrous, relapsed more and more
into vice after they had ceased to be a nation,
and became dispersed throughout the heathen
world. The Christians, therefore, suffered
great persecution from both these; spies were
constantly employed, and those who were
known, or even suspected to have become
Christians, were often condemned to the most
cruel punishments. The Apostles, many of
them, suffered violent deaths, though the Bible
gives us no account of them. Peter is said to
have been crucified with his head downwards;
and Paul is supposed to have been beheaded.
The accused were often put to dreadful torture,
for the purpose of inducing them to renounce
Christianity, and return to Paganism or Juda-
ism: if they persisted in refusing to do so, they
were condemned; some to be burned alive,
others to be thrown to wild beasts in a public
show, and all to suffer death in the most horri-
ble modes that could be devised.'
THE BEATITUDES. ] 57
1 O, pray don't tell any more about it, mo-
th er, only how long they had to suffer so, and
whether any, for the sake of getting rid of such
torture, denied the Saviour, like Peter.'
'Thny were never safe in the exercise of their
religion until about three hundred years after our
Saviour's birth, when the emperor Constantine
became, himself, a christian; — and though they
did not suffer at all times equally, yet they were
continually liable to pesecution. The instances
however were comparatively very few,in which
the sufferers were induced, for a moment, to re-
nounce their new religion, and sometimes, when
this was done, under the influence of what seem-
ed insupportable torture, the individual, restored
to liberty, repented of his weakness, and confess-
1 .ig Jesus again, voluntarily submitted himself to
the same torture, and to death.'
'O,' said Mary, 'how they must have loved to
think of what our Saviour said — Blessed are
they that are persecuted for righteousness' sake.
Has there ever been any persecution since,
mother?'
c O yes, my daughter; ever since the Chris-
tians have ceased to be persecuted by others,
158 THE BEATITUDES.
they have had persecutions among themselves.
Because all did not think exactly alike on reli-
gion more than on other subjects; they have
quarrelled about their religious opinions, and
the stronger party has persecuted the weaker in
all ages of the church.'
'But how can those who believe in Jesus and
profess to love him, quarrel with each other.'
'It is very sad, my dear Mary, that they
should do so, and very, very wicked.'
'Well, is there any persecution now, moth-
er?'
'There is none, I believe of the kind I have
been speaking of, that is, bodily torture and
death — except in Spain and her dominions,
where there is a tribunal called the Inquisition,
which you shall read an account of, when you
are old enough. There are many other modes
of persecution, however, which you are too
young to understand at present; but you are
quite old enough, my dear Mary, to be thank-
ful that you live in a time when every person
may profess his belief in what he thinks is the
truth, without endangering his life or fortune —
and all may worship God according to their
THE BEATITUDES. 159
conscience. If you had lived in the time of
our Saviour, or in the first two or three cen-
turies after him, and had been taught his reli-
gion and tried to practise it, your. own parents
even, if they had not been Christians too, might
have thought it their duty to give you up to be
torn of wild beasts. Such was the miserable
ignorance of those who lived in that period.'
'Well, I am sure we ought to be very good
— when it is so easy to be good — and instead
of being punished for it, we are liked better by
those whom we really wish to please.
•'Yes, my dear, we are without excuse — for
though we may be persecuted it is not in a way
from which we shrink as the flesh shrinks
from the action of fire or the touch of the
knife.'
'Mother, do you suppose that a little child is
ever persecuted now?'
'Yes, my dear, little children are persecuted
for righteousness' sake, whenever, by pursuing
a right course of conduct in opposition to the
feelings, or wishes, or habits of those who are
less scrupulous than themselves— they incur
their ridicule, contempt, censure, or ill will,
160 THE BEATITUDES.
or are subjected to suffering of any kind what-
ever. Have you never seen this species of
persecution?
'O yes, mother, if that is persecution, I have
seen a good deal of it: there are always those
who are ready to ridicule and condemn in
others, wiiat they do not like to practise them-
selves; though sometimes, I think it is because
they are thoughtless, rather than malicious.'
' 1 dare say that is often the case, my dear,
and we should always endeavor to interpret the
wrong conduct of others favorably as possible;
but still, whatever the motive of such conduct
may be, its effect upon us is equally painful
and disagreeable.'
'Yes, indeed,' said Mary, 'there is nothing
in the world, except the displeasure of my
friends, that I am so afraid of, as ridicule.'
'That is very natural, my dear, and there-
fore you will have the greater merit whenever
you persevere, in spite of ridicule, in whatever
you think is your duty.'
'I am afraid I shall be more apt to turn aside
than to persevere, mother. I remember that,
last summer, when our wild cousin John was
THE BEATITUDES. 16 t
here, he happened to come into the room one
day when George and ] were saying our pray-
ers, and he mocked us: after thnt i did not like
to have him know when we said our prayers;
but it made me kel very uncomfortable, to
think that I was ashamed of saying my prayers.
He was cons'.antly laughing at me, too, for
being as he called it i in leading strings,' be-
cause I would never go away with him or enter
into any of his schemes, without first asking
your leave, as you had always taught me to do;
and 1 was so afraid of his ridicule — for he was
more tormeniing in this wav than any one else
that I have ever seen — that I used frequently
to a>k you beforehmd when I thought he was
going to propose anything to me, what 1 should
do, so that I might appear to decide for my-
self. 1 blamed myself that I had not more
courage in doing what was right, being con-
stantly afraid I should yield to him — and so,
at last, it happened; for, one Sunday, when
he asked me just to take a little walk down in
the meadow by the river with him — a request
which 1 had not foreseen— I consented to go,
though 1 knew I ought not, without consulting
162 THE BEATITUDES.
yon, and that it was almost certain you would
not have given your consent, if I had asked it.
There, in the meadow, we idled away the whole
afternoon, but 1 felt very uneasy, and did not
enjoy it at all. That night 1 prayed that God
would forgive me ; and then, and every night
afterwards, while he stayed, when I repeated, in
my prayer, the petition " lead me not into
temptation, 1 ' I thought of that particular tempt-
ation. I determined too, from that time, that
1 would no longer be ashamed of openly asking
your leave, when I wanted it — and found that,
much as I dreaded his ridicule, it was easier to
bear it than it was to endure the reproaches of
my conscience.'
( You find, my dear, that ' blessed are they
who are persecuted for righteousness' sake f
and since you so freely confess your faults, and
are so ready to reproach yourself, I am disposed
to remind you for your future encouragement,
of one or two instances in which your sense of
duty prevailed over your fear of ridicule, in a
manner that gratified me very much.'
4 1 shall be very glad if you will, mother ;
but I am sure I have not the slightest idea what
it is to which you allude.'
THE BEATITUDES. 163
* You know, last summer, when we instituted
our little Sunday school for the black children,
and Were anxious that you and a few of your
companions should go, by way of encouraging
the others, and setting an example of regular
attendance and good scholarship, all the girls,
but you, refused ; and you thought you could
not possibly go alone, until your father remind-
ed you that it was your duty to embrace every
opportunity of doing good, no matter how small
or trifling it might see; n ; so you determined up-
on it at once, and persevered, in spite of the
laugh of all the girls, and the titles which were
bestowed upon you of Miss Blackamoor, and
the young African princess.'
'Well, mother, I was never sorry,
though it was very disagreeable at first ; for I
really believe that a good many of the little
black children learned and behaved better for
my being with them, and some of them got
quite fond of me.'
1 Nobody is ever sorry for doing what is right
from a conscientious motive. The beatitudes
include all virtues, you know ; so that none can
go unrewarded. The other instance I was go-
164 THE BEATITUDE?.
ing to mention of your perseverance in spite of
difficulties, in what you believed to be right,
occurred at the time of your 4th of July party,
two years ago. The mother of one of the little
girls, you remember, had given a famous great
loaf of cake, which was to be called the Wash-
ington loaf, and which the managers wished to
ornament with a superb bunch of artificial flow-
ers, to be purchased by subscription among
themselves.'
' O yes, 1 remember it very well, mother,
and I told them I thought it would be a foolish
way of spending our money, and that a bunch
of flowers from the garden would look just as
well. You had often talked to me about its be-
ing wrong for those, who had but little money
to give away, to bestow any of it upon trifles ;
and I was, in fact, keeping my spending money
to buy some comforts for old Mrs Warner — but
I did not like to tell the girls so, because the
scripture says w 7 e must not let our left hand
know what our right hand doeth. So some of
them sneered, and said I was so close-fisted
they did not see how I could open my hand
wide enough to pick even a flower from the
THE BEATITUDES. 165
garden ; and others said, that one might be ex-
cused for refusing money on most any other
occasion — but on the 4th of July—the glorious
4th of July — they did not see how an Ameri-
can girl could have the heart to refuse anything.
I thought the girls were unkind, but 1 did not
know that their conduct towards me could be
called persecution.'
1 It is only in these little ways, and on such
trifling occasions, that children are liable to be
persecuted ; and it is only in these small ways
tnat the habit of patiently enduring " persecution
for righteousness' sake" can be acquired. I will
tell you a story of a little girl I knew when I was
a young lady, that bore persecution for righteous-
ness' sake, as I thought heroically.'
' O do, mother — and what will you call it ? —
for, as I have told you before, I always like to
have a name to a story.'
1 Well, then, it shall be called " The Story
of Julia and her Strawberry Bed." '
' This little Julia was a sweat child, the daugh-
ter of a friend of my mother, to whom I was
paying a visit at the time when what I am going
to tell you happened. Julia's mother had just
166 THE BEATIEUDES.
then taken into her family an orphan boy, the
son of a distant relative, about three years older
than Julia — a spoiled, thoughtless child, who
had always been permitted to do pretty much as
he chose. He was very fond of what he called
fun, which consisted in pulling tricks upon peo-
ple, and then laughing at the mischief they oc-
casioned. He was not an ill-natured boy, but
as I said before, he was thoughtless, and had
never been blessed with judicious friends who
could show him how wrong his conduct often
was, and teach him that he ought to have some
regard to the rights and interests of others, as
well as to his own amusement. He teased arid
tormented poor little Julia unmercifully, by try-
ing to persuade her to join with him in his mis-
chievous sports, and then ridiculing her if she
would not. He was so cheerful and pleasant,
withal, and, as Julia said, had such a coaxing
way with him, that it sometimes seemed almost
impossible to resist him.
One day they were in the garden playing to-
gether, directly under my chamber window, and
T overheard him say, ' Now, Julia, I have
thought of some capital fun — and it will not da
anybody any harm, either.'
THE BEATITUDES. 167
* I do not believe that, James, 1 said she, ' but
what is it f '
* Why, you know that poor lone man that you
and I call the hermit ; he has a strawberry bed
in his little yard, or garden, or whatever you call
it, that some good soul planted for him last year,
and he was telling me last night, how many
strawberries he should get from it ; and, that
though he was too blind to work much in his gar-
den, he thought he could pick the fruit, and that
would be pleasanter, even than the eating of it.
Now, I was thinking,' said James, 'that the next
time you and I went to walk in that lot close by
his house, we would manage to go between five
and six in the afternoon, when the old man goes
every day to the school house for the master to
read to him.'
' O now, stop,' said Julia, 'you need not teU
me any more, for if you want to manage to be
there when old John is away, I know you are
going to do something wrong.'
' O, poh! Julia, now do just hear me through,
if you please, and then, when you know what
my scheme is, you will have some right to say
whether it is a naughty one; but not till then.'
10
168 THE BEATITUDES.
' Well, go on, but I know I shall not agree
to it.'
c O yes you will, Julia;, all I want of you is
just to help me take-up the strawberry plants
and put some dandelion roots in the place of
them; he is too blind to discover the trick, and
then it wilt be so funny, by and bye, to see him
poking with his fingers among dandelion roots
for strawberries.'
' O,' said Julia, c how can you propose such
a cruel thing, James; cruel, and not very honest,
cither, I think.'
' Why, as to the cruelty,' said James, we are
all liable to disappointments, and old John's
will be no greater than if mere should happen
to be a drought which would prevent the straw-
berries from ripening, as I have known happen
more than once in my short life — and as for the
dishonesty, I have got plenty of spending money,
and I will engage to buy him twice as "many
strawberries as his bed would yield, were the
season ever so good — and next fall I'll plant
another for him. Have not I said enough now,
to remove all your scruples, Julia?'
{ No,' she replied — ' the golden rule is the sa-
THE BEATITUDES. 169
fest to try all one's actions by. 4 Do unto oth-
ers as ye would they should do unto you.' I
would sooner 'have my own dear little strawberry
bed spoiled, which father has planted for me,
than that poor old John's should be destroyed.''
6 You would, would you,' said James, 'we
will see how that is — one or the other must be
clone quick; say which it shall be— will you go
with me to old John's, or shall I try my hand on
yours ?' James said this, not doubting that
when reduced to such an alternative, Julia would
no longer hesitate to yield — but when he found
that she still positively refused, though almost
trembling for the fate of her little bed, on which
she placed as much value as little girls are apt
to place on the things that please them, his pride,
of which he had a good deal, would not suffer
him to retract. By this time, too, his temper
was considerably excited, for though usually
good-natured, he was subject to sudden parox-
ysms of passion, under the influence of which, he
was very apt to do, what, a few moments after
he would be very sorry for. You perceive that
I speak of this infirmity as 1 would of a disease,
and it is because I consider it in that light. So
170 THE BEATITUDES.
he easily caught up the spade and proceeded \o
his work of destruction.
Mar)' did not utter a word, as anything she
could have said to induce James to forbear, he
would have interpreted as implying that she had
changed her mind; and was willing that, of
the two, old John should be the sufferer from
the present determination of his mind to mis-
chief; but the tears began to stream from her
eyes, when, by every stroke of the spade, as
many fair visions were dispelled as floated in
the head of the country maid with her milk-pail,
just before the milk, which was to lay the foun-
dation of her fortunes, was all spilled upon lh e
ground.
She could not help hoping that James would
throw the plants in the alley, sa that she could
replace them in the bed again; but no! by this
time he was quite too much excited not to make
his work of destruction thorough as possible^
and he did not cease until he had deposited them
on a heap of rubbish which was burning in the
yard.
He then came back to the spot where Julia
had remained standing all this while, h is face
THE BEATITUDES. 171
red with the exertion he had been making—
1 Are not you sorry, now, that you could not
be a little more obliging, Julia?' said he.
1 1 am not sorry that old John's bed is safe,'
she replied, and then turned and left him.
He was disappointed at her answer; he hop-
ed, at least, to find her very angry, if not sorry
for the choice she had made. When he was
left alone, and had time to recollect himself a
little, he began to feel very much ashamed of •
his conduct. And at the tea table, though Mary
was very sad, you would have said, at once, that
her heart was more at ease than his. Her pa-
rents were both absent at this lime, and I thought
it not best to interfere at all in the matter. They
had just before set out on a journey, to be ab-
sent a month. Julia and James had very little
intercourse for some time. I used to walk
with Julia, and she almost always chose to go
towards old John's, for the sight of his straw-
berry bed seemed to afford her great pleasure.
At length the day arrived when we expected
her father and mother home. As it drew to a
close, the hours seemed very long, and the chil-
dren were eager and impatient — so I proposed
172 THE BEATITUDES.
that we should have the tea-table spread, and
see how beautiful and refreshing we could make
it look to the weary travellers. ' Come, Julia,'
said I, ■ you must bring some of your finest
flowers to fill a tumbler for the centre, and
George must produce some of the famous rad-
ishes and peppergrass that he boasts of having
raised.' The tears came into Julia's eyes —
* O dear,' said she, ' what a beautiful saucer of
strawberries I might have had for my dear fa-
ther, but for' She stopped short ; for just
then James came into the room ; but he had
heard the beginning of her sentence, and soon
alter I saw him stopping a little girl at the gate,
and buying some strawberries, which he then
brought to me with the request that I would put
them on the table.
At length the carriage made its appearance —
we all ran to the gate — and in one minute Julia
was in her father's lap, with her arms around
her mother's neck. ' How d'ye do— how d'ye
do ? ' was echoed on all sides.
'Well, but very, very' tired,' was the an-
swer.
« Well, mother,' said Julia, i tea is ready
THE BEATlTUD-ESv 175
for you' — and directly we were all seated around
the table, a joyous group,
' Upon my word,' said her father, ; I have
not seen such a beautiful tea-table since I went
away — Jenny's hot, smoking tea, and fine white
rolls — our friend Caroline's elegant sponge
cake — Julia's flowers — George's radishes — and
these delicious strawberries, too — why, Julia,
your bed must have produced beyond your ex-
pectations.'
Julia had not observed the strawberries till
that moment ; her lips trembled, and she could
hardly command her voice to say, c These did
not come from my bed, father.'
Her father perceived that something troubled
her ; but, unwilling to mar the pleasures of the
tea-table— the social pleasures, I mean — he
asked no explanation, and proceeded to talk of
something else. After tea, however, he invited
her to walk in the garden with him, and then
drew from her the whole story of her wrongs.
' But do not, father, say anything to James,' ad-
ded she, ' for I know he has been sorry enough
about it — and it was he, I suppose, that pro-
cured the strawberries for the tea-table.'
174 THE BEATITUDES.
c Well, my daughter,' said her father, look-
ing very much pleased, ' I hope you have nev-
er been sorry for your decision.'
1 O no, father ; I have taken more pleasure in
seeing old John's strawberries than I should
from his and mine both, if this had nothappen-
ed ; only I did feel very bad this afternoon, that
I had not any for you.
' Well, my darling, this story has been better
to me than all the strawberries in the world ;
such a good little daughter is enough to make a
man happy and rich, if he were poor in every-
thing else.'
You may think how pleased Julia was with
her father's praise; she came in, looking bright
as a sunbeam, and her face glowing with what
has been called ' the color of virtue,' for a mod-
est little girl cannot be praised even by her fa-
ther, without blushing a li tie.
James all this while, looked rather uneasy,
as if in constant expectation of a disclosure,
that would bring upon him disgrace and re-
proof. Nothing was said to him however, and
his was too generous a nature, not to be affect-
ed by so much goodness and forbearance on
the part of Julia.
THE BEATITUDES. 175
One morning, in the month of August, Julia's
father observed him reading a book, so rare a
thing, that he said to him ' what have you there,
James ? it is a strange sight to see you with
book in hand.'
' It is one of your books on gardening, sir,'
said he, ' and I assure you I am very much in-
terested in it.'
Soon after this, James asked, one night, if he
could have old Rover to ride a few miles be-
fore breakfast the next morning.
1 Ride before breakfast ! you who are never
out of your bed until we have all done break-
fast ; what new character are you going to take
next, James ? '
' Let me have the horse, sir, and I will show
you,' said James laughing. The permission
was granted, and when the family were at
breakfast, inquiry being made for James some
one said he rode away at four o'clock ; it was
now eight. Soon after this he came running in.
' Now, Julia, will you lake a walk in the gar-
den with me?' said he looking very significantly.
Julia went, her father followed, and lo and
LI
176 THE BEATITUDES.
behold 1 they found the strawberry bed all set
with fine plants again.
' And is this your doing, James ? You have
anticipated me ; I was thinking of doing it my-
self, soon, but I was at a loss where to get the
plants.'
* Farmer Smith told me that he would sell
me some,' said James ; ' I happened to ask him
the other day when he was in the village, be-
cause I knew he had a good many ; so I rode
there this morning to gel them. I have spent
the last two hours in setting them ; and now, I
hope, Julia will forget all about her old bed.'
c That I shall,' said Julia, ' and like this even
better than that.'
After this, they were great friends ; James
left off his mischievous sports, and became a
delightful companion for Julia ; but his favorite
amusement, of all others, was, weeding and
hoeing the strawberry bed.
So you see Julia was blessed for having suf-
fered persecution, in several ways ; the appro-
bation of her own conscience, the happiness she
gave her father, and the effect of her example
upon James.'
MARY JONES
LITTLE GIRL WHO LEARNED TO BE
ALWAYS HAPPY AND ALWAYS GOOD,
FROM THE THOUGHT
GOD WAS NEAR HER.
MARY JONES.
CHAPTER I.
Mary Jones was about eight years old, and
had learned to read very well, so that she could
understand all the little books that had been put
into her hands. She was obedient to her pa-
rents; and had been taught by them to be kind
and good humored to all with whom she lived;
to treat her brother and sister, who were young-
er than herself, with constant kindness; to be
patient when they disturbed her in her work or
her play; obliging when they needed her care
and attention; and forgiving when they were
not so kind to her as she had been to them.
For they were younger than she was; and
though their mother was careful to watch over
their conduct, and meant to make them amiable
and good like Mary, she always told her she
must set them the example; for with a bad ex-
180 MARY JONES.
ample from her, they could not be taught to be
good.
Mary had learned too,how to sew very neatly,
and always had her task at her needle to perform
at school or at home every forenoon and after-
noon; and she took a great deal of pleasure in
saying that since she was five years old, her fa-
ther had never had a pocket handkererchief or
cravat hemmed except by herself. He too was
pleased that she loved to work for him; and
promised her that when she should be ten years
old, she should make his shirts.
Mary was a thoughtful little girl; and what
she had been taught by her excellent mother,
of God and his works, made her often reflect
about him. But it was difficult for her to see
how so great a being as God, who made the
world, and the heavens, the sun, and the moon,
and the stars — should take care of Aer; and she
was still more surprised to think that all her ac-
tions^should be noticed by him. Her mother
had often told her it was the case; and she knew
she was in the habit of asking in her evening
prayer for His protection while she slept, and
again praying for His care through the day, in
MABT JONES. 181
the morning. But Mary never thought of God
as looking on her actions and observing all she
did, without feeling a little unhappy, and wish-
ing within her own mind, that God would not
notice her so. For though Mary was as good
a little girl as any other, and a great deal better
than some, she knew that she seldom thought
of pleasing God in what she did; and she fear-
ed that she often offended him. And when she
thought of his seeing her always in her play,
she could not help feeling sorry that He saw
her, for she thought that, to so very high and
great a Being, it must seem like a very idle and
foolish thing.
As soon as Mary's mother found that she bad
these feelings, and that the thought of God was
not always pleasant to her, she took great pains
to show her little girl that God though he was
very great, was also very kind, and she told
Mary, that she must learn to consider him as
her Father. Mary said 'I know he is my Fa-
ther in Heaven; but that makes him a great way
off.' Her mother said, c If you will do every
day as I can direct you, my dear Mary, I think
1 can soon teach you how you will feel very
182 MARY JONES.
happy in the thought of God. And you will
think of him with the same pleasure at all times,
whether you are at work, or at play, — alone, or
in company. And you will find, too, that he is
very near, and not a great way off.'
c What is it that you would have me do, mo-
ther ? I will try to do as you teach me.'
' Well, my dear, you may begin tomorrow
morning;' (for she was talking with Mary in her
chamber, after she had gone to bed and said
her prayers.) ' Tomorrow morning you must
begin to take particular notice, in your own
mind, of everything that happens to you. And
then try to think if there is not some kind
Being, whom you do not see, near, to keep you
from danger.'
Mary was surprised that this was all her mo-
ther wished her to do; and she said, ' Why,
mother, 1 am a little girl, and father and you
take care of me; and what can happen to me
worth thinking of? I go to school, and come
home again; and nothing ever happens to me..'
c How can you say, my dear, that nothing
ever happens to you, when you know that you
hardly ever come home from school, without
MARY JONES. 1S3
having something to tell me, that you think
quite important, either what happens to you, or
to some of your companions. And it was on-
ly yesterday that you told me of your swing —
how it broke down just at the instant little Su-
san Gray got seated in it. And you yourself
remarked, how happy it was, that it did not
w^ait till she had begun to swing ; for then she
must have been sadly hurt — and as it was she
was not hurt at all.'
' Well, mother,' said Mary, ' now I think of
it, it does seem as if some kind and good Being
was near, that we could not see; or else why
should it have come down just then — and no
sooner, or latter ? for if it had broken a minute
sooner, cousin Ann would have been terribly
hurt; for she got out of it just as Susan took
it. And she swung very high — so that we
were frightened and begged her to stop. It
was strange that it broke at that very moment,
was it not, mother ?J
' It would be strange indeed,' said her moth-
er, ' if no kind and affectionate Being were
near to overrule everything. Now I think my
Mary must see that the thought of God can
184 MARY JONES.
never be unpleasant to her f any more when she
is at play, than at other times; for she needs
his care at all times. And when little girls
observe our Saviour's directions, to be kindly
affectionate to one another; they need not be
sorry to think, that their heavenly Father sees
them in their amusements, any more than at
any other time.'
Mary saw that her mother was going to leave
the chamber, for she had slayed longer than
usual, and thought she had said enough to her
for that evening; but when she went to kiss
her, and bid her good night, Mary said, c I 'in-
sure I shall love to think of God now; and I
shall try to think of him tomorrow a great
many times.'
' Do so, my dear,' said her mother, ' and
when I come to see you, after you have gone
to bed, you must remember and tell me all you
have thought of God during the day. But you
need not say anything about it to any one else.
Keep your thoughts carefully in your own
mind, and tell them to me alone.' Then her
mother left her, and little Mary was soon
asleep.
p. 183.
MARF JONES. 185
CHAPTER II.
The hymn which Mary always said the first
thing after she awoke in the morning, was the
following.
Father — to Thee my praise I pay,
Thy kind and gentle power
Is near to guard me all the day,
And in the midnight hour.
I trusted in thy gracious care
When slumber closed my eyes,
And now to thee my morning prayer
Of thankfulness fehall rise.
Teach me to raise my thoughts above,
And then in every hour
My heart shall love thee for thy love,
And fear thee for thy power.
Thy never-failing care bestow
Till all my days are past,
May peace be with me here below,
And heaven be mine at last.
186 MARY JONES.
While she was repeating it to herself the next
morning, she could not help thinking of all that
had passed between her mother and herself the
evening before, and she said the hymn over a
second time, and wondered that she had never
thought more of the kind care which kept her
from all harm during the night when everybody
was fast asleep, and even her father and mother
needed protection as much as she did. As
she went on, the swing came into her mind
again, and when she said the last verse, she
thought that she certainly should not forget
again, that God was near her, and took care
of her.
She got up full of the thought of watching
everything that happened through the day.
But her mother had told her not to talk about
the thing to any one but herself or her father;
and so she said nothing about it to any of the
family. After having eaten her breakfast and
gone of an errand or two for her mother, she
took her little sister Fanny in her hand, and
set off for school.
Fanny was a clever little girl of four years
old; and this was the first summer that she had
gone to school; so that Mary had to take a good
MARY JONES. 167
deal of care of her. And as they had to go
by the bank of a river, Mrs Jones used to
charge Mary not to let go of Fanny's hand,
lest she should play by the bank and fall in.
Mary always thought of it as she passed that
place ; for she loved her little good natured
sister; and would have been greatly grieved,
to see her hurt in any way. But as she was
going to school, this morning I speak of, she
saw a gentleman and lady coming towards
them in a beautiful chaise, and a little girl about
Fanny's age sitting between them on the seat.
This little girl looked at them, and pointed to
Fanny, and then said something to her parents
which Mary could not hear; but she thought
that her pretty little sister was the object of the
little girPs apparent delight. Mary in her turn
was gazing at her, and wondering who they
could be, that seemed so happy. The chaise
passed them, and just at that instant she felt
Fanny's hand pulling very hard on her own;
and on looking round found she was falling
over the bank; which she had quite forgotten
h ile looking at the gentleman and lady and
ittle girl. She had fallen .so far that Mary
MART JONES.
could not save her, but she caught hold of her
gown, and soon reached over, and by kneeling
down was able to put her arm round Fanny's
waist, and by pulling very hard got her back
just as her bonnet touched the water.
They were both dreadfully frightened, and
after Mary had set her little sister on a great
stone which lay near, she too began to cry.
Just then their father, who had been walking
that way and was returning home, came up;
and seeing the children in trouble, he asked
them what was the matter. He saw something
had happened, and taking little Fanny on his
knee, he sat down on the stone himself. The n
he took Mary by the hand and said, 'what has
happened my daughter? Come, clear up and
tell me all about it.'
Mary told her father as well as she could,
how Fanny had almost fallen into the river.
1 But,' said her father, ' she did not quite fall in-
to the river; and why should you cry ?'
1 But I am afraid she is hurt,' said Mary.
Fanny still cried a little; but her father wiped
her eyes and said — ' Let us see, my little Fanny,
are you hurt ? Tell us where.'
BfART JONES. 189
Fanny was Dot hurt, but frightened, and by
this time it was about over. So she said, * I
do not know where' — but looking down she saw
her gown was lorn uadly, and she said ' O my
gown!' 'Butyoui gown does not cry,' said
her father — Here the children laughed; and
their father, wiping both their faces with his-
handkerchief, asked how this accident happened.
Mary told him exsctlyhow it happened; and
said she was sure she should never again be so
careless of her little sister's safety. Mr Jones
then looked at the place where Fanny had fallen;
and told her sister she had great cause to be
thankful that it was here find not further back;
f for see,' continued he, c the bank is not steep
here; but had she fallen there, your strength
could not have been sufficient to pull her back.
And besides, you have to thank this friendly
stick which caught in her gown; for that w T as
what held her back, till you got your arm
round her waist. So, my dear little Fanny,
your toirn gown has saved your head, and after
ill there is much more cause to be glad than
sorry, a i it has turned out, so trot away to school
1D0 MARY JONES*
as fast as your feet can carry you, and think of
the river when you come this way again.'
On they went to school quite light-hearted, for
their father had cheered them by his kindness;
and though Mary felt unhappy whenever she
thought that her want of care might have occa-
sioned great distress had Fanny been hurt, yet
she was delighted to think how sure she now
was of what her mother hacf told her the evening
before — that she was always in the care of her
heavenly Father.
She attended to her usual lessons at school,
and tried to give her mind to her work and her
reading; but she often caught herself thinking
over the accident of the morning and as often as
she thought of it, she felt as if she could never
think of God again without pleasure; since it was
He that had been near when she could not see
him, and had saved her from such great afflic-
tion as she should have had if little Fanny had
fallen in a more dangerous place, or if the stick
liad not kept her from the water till she could
save her. And when she looked at the dear
little girl while she sat on her bench and seemed
MARY J ONES. 191
so happy, her eyes filled with tears of joy as
she thought that if it had not been for that heav-
enly Friend, Fanny might have been on a bed of
pain at that moment instead of smiling there so
pleasantly.
12
192 MARY JONES.
CHAPTER III.
At noon, when the children returned from
school, Fanny ran to her mother to show the
great rent in her gown and to tell her of her fall.
Mary was impatient too to let her mother know
the worst of her fault; and began telling her that
she never should be so careless again — but Mrs
Jones stopped her, saying, ' I've heard it all
from your father, my dear children. I hope
you are both happy that it was no worse; but I
cannot stay to talk of it now, for I have compa-
ny in the parlor to dine. Mary, you may change
your sister's gown and then come in/
Mary had no opportunity to talk with her mo-
ther of the accident of the morning until after
she hud gone to bed, which was the time that
Mrs Jones preferred; Sor then all was so quiet
and peaceful that she thought Mary would be
more apt to attend to her instructions than at any
other time. And whenever the wished to im-
press her mind with very important and serious
MARY JONES. 193
thoughts she chose that hour. So that it seldom
happened that Mary and her mother had not
some conversation together after she had said
her evening prayers.
The evening I am speaking of, she waited im-
patiently for her mother, for she longed to talk
with her about Fanny's fall. Mrs Jones soon
gave her the opportunity; for she too felt impa-
tient to hear what Mary had thought of it. And
as soon as she had put Charles and Fanny to
hed and heard them say their prayers, she came
to Mary, and sitting down by the bedside she
said—' Well, my dear Mary, this has been the
first day that you ever tried to keep in mind the
thought that your heavenly Father was near you.
Now tell me has it made you happy or unhappy?'
' O, it has made me happy, mother, very
happy ! for only think of dear little Fanny's fall-
ing into the river ! Did fa;her tell you all about
it ? how if she had fallen in another place I could
not have saved her — and about the stick that
caught her gown, and so kept her back till i got
my arm round her waist ? Was not it strange,
mother, that it should all have happened so
nicely ? — That when she came so near being
194 MARY JONES.
dreadfully hurt, and perhaps drowned — she
was not hurt at all ! '
' You do not think it " strange," my dear,
when your father or 1 do kind things for you —
do you? Why then should it seem strange to
you that your heavenly Father should be kind
to you ? '
' I do not know, mother — but when I think
that a Being whom I cannot see, takes such
particular care of us, it does seem strange.'
' I know,' said her mother, * it is not easy for
us to realize that any one sees us whom we can-
not see. But I think that you, my dear Mary,
will not watch all that happens to you many
days, without being sure that it is the case. But
there is one part of His kind care of you this
morning, that I see you have not thought of, my
dear child.'
* And what is that, mamma ? for T have been
thinking all day about His kindness, and what
have 1 forgotten ? '
* Why,' said her mother, do not you think
you had more strength than common when you
pulled her back ? And being greatly frightened
as you. were, do not you think it strange that
MARY JONES.
195
you should have known in the instant exactly
how to save her ? '
'Yes indeed, mother, so it is strange — for
when I had got her back, I felt so weak, and
my hand trembled, and 1 was so frightened, that
J could hardly untie her bonnet.'
' And how do you think you came by such
uncommon strength, and such presence of mind
-at the very moment when your sister's life de-
pended on your saving her ? '
1 Mother,' said Mary, ' it must have been,
that God was near and gave me the help of his
great power ! '
* Yes indeed, my child, that was the friend
who is always near you, and who, the Bible
says, never forsakes ;those who put iheir trust in
him. And it is beautifully said, in the Psalms,
of our blessed Saviour, that " God would give
■his angels charge concerning him, lest at any
time he should dash his foot against a stone."
And we may not doubt that he will take the
same care of us, if we follow our Saviour in the
delightful confidence which lie always felt in his
Father's care and love. I have already stayed
too Jong, my daughter, sp good night. Remeu>
J 96 MART JONES.
ber this is the first day of your notice of the
presence of God. Tomorrow you may not have
any great danger to pass through — but I dare
say you will find enough of kindness to make
you sensible that God is your best friend.'
Mary had already begun to feel sensible that
God was her best friend, and she never gave
herself to his heavenly protection with half the
pleasure that she felt that night.
MARY JONES. 197
CHAPTER I\ T .
! shall not follow my little Mary through ev-
ery day of her new life, or rather study, I may
call it ; for that would take more of my time
than I can spare, and make a longer story than
I intend. It will be enough if I show her pro-
gress and success from time to time, until she
became quite happy in thinking of God at all
times ; and found it easy to recollect him often
every day. Especially when she had any par-
ticular pleasure, she could see how it came from
Him ; when she was in any danger, she could
turn to Him as the friend who would he'p her ;
or when any alarm distressed he-", she could re-
call His presence in a moment ; and that gave
her confidence. If she was alone, she often
found the thought of God a comfort ; and she
had so much pleasure in dwelling on his various
kindness to her, and to others that she loved.,
that it was like a new and agreeable study to
her mind — every day it became more easy ami
delightful. And her mother, .delighted at ihg
198 MARY JONES.
interest she showed in it, and her happy pro-
gress, never failed to visit her at night and en-
courage her to go on.
I cannot forbear to relate one little incident
that occurred one evening, though I should
make my story too long if 1 were to mention
every one which interested Mary in her new
pursuits. Fanny did not sleep with Mary; she
had been taken care of from her infancy by an
excellent girl, and whenever Mary invited her
to come and sleep with her she used to say
' No, Mary, I rather sleep with Betsey' — so
Mary slept in a trundle-bed in her mother's
chamber. It happened one evening that some
one was sick down stairs, and Betsey was at-
tending to them till quite late at night. Mrs
Jones too was engaged in the same way ; and
while they were all in another part of the house,
Mary heard Fanny cry and call, as if she was
frightened. She listened, thinking some one
would come up — but no one came. What
should she do ? — she could not hear her cry so
— she might step across the entry to her herself,
and take her into her bed. But Mary was one
of the most timid little girls in the world,, and
MARY JONES. 199
above all things she dreaded to take a step in
the dark. Still she could not bear to hear Fan-
ny's sobs —she jumped up and went to the door,
but before she stepped one foot forward she
drew back, for something stood close by Fan-
ny's door —it was not light enough for her to
see what it was. ' 1 cannot go ! O how I wish
that Betsey or mother would come up. What
shall I do?' she exclaimed. Just then the
thought of her Heavenly Father came across
her mind—' He will not let anything hurt me,'
she said to herself—' and going as I am to
comfort my poor little sister, too; I wonder I
was so long in thinking of Him. Whatever it
is, it cannot have any power to harm me, while
God is near me.' By this time she was near
the thing that alarmed her, but she slipped into
the chamber without looking at it; finding, how-
ever, that she had passed it without any danger,
she felt new courage, and thought that she
would find out what it was when she went back.
Poor little Fanny had waked, and finding her-
self alone was frightened; and as Betsey did
not come when she called, she thought she had
gone away and left her. Mary found her with
12*
200 MARY JONES.
her head under the sheet, her face and hair all
wet with tears and perspiration — ' Come, Fan-
ny dear,' said Mary, ' come and get into my
bed ; Betsey is taking care of James down
stairs, and is not ready to come to bed yet.'
The little creature was delighted beyond meas-
ure to feel her sister's face close to hers — ' O,
I should admire to go and sleep in your bed,
Mary — will you lead me?'
' Yes, darling-, come along with sister.' Mary
was now very glad that she did rot give way to
her foolish fears! 'How silly it was to be afraid,'
said she to herself, as she passed along, I when
I know that God always protects me. And now
I dare say that is something that has been stand-
ing there all day which frightened me so. But
I will look as 1 go back' — She did look — and
in a second it all came into her mind— Her mo-
ther's bonnet and shawl hanging over a chair,
just where she heiself had put them that very
afternoon, when sent to carry them to their
proper place ! ' Well,' said she, as she got
into bed with little Fanny by her side, ' mother
will say 1 have been weil paid for leaving her
things where they ought not to be. But 1 re-
MARY JONES. 201
ally intended to put them away as soon as I had
looked the little book through which I had in
ray hand. I shall remember it, I know, and I
shall not do such a thing again, for I was fright-
ened. But I do not believe 1 can be so weak
again as to be afraid to go and do> what is right,
when I know that the great Lord of Heaven
and earth is in every place, beholding the evil
and the good, as my mother told me last night.
And I hope I shall always remember that when
He is pleased with what i do He will give me
strength and courage to perform it.'
202 MARY JONES.
CHAPTER V.
One Saturday morning, while they were at
breakfast, Charles told his mother that he had
really been an uncommonly good boy at school
all the week, and he expected to bring the me-
dal at noon for being the best boy in school.
c Then you think you shall bring home the
medal, do you, Charles ?' said his father — -
■ well, I hope you will, my son. And in that
case 1 shall invite you to take a ride with me
this afternoon. I am going to the pasture to
take some salt to the cattle and sheep. And
you may ask your sisters to join us.'
'That will be charming, Charles, wont it?'
exclaimed Mary and Fanny, as he told them of
their father's intention.
Charles brought home the medal, as he was
sure he should, and they were all delighted, for
they had not been in a chaise, as Mary said,
since last Summer, — and now the trees were all
in blossom, and everything looked so beautiful!
MARY JONES. 203
Mr Jones had a pleasant farm where he lived,
in Exeter. The house was situated at some
distance from the road on a rising piece of ground
in the midst of his orchard; and a pleasant lane
led to it from the road. It was half a mile
from the town by the road, but he had made a
path across his fields, which made the distance
much shorter. And the school which his chil-
dren attended was between his house and the
village — so that they had a pleasant walk to
school, and came into the road just by the river
which we have mentioned before. The village
was in plain sight from Mr Jones's house, and
formed one of the most beautiful prospects to
be seen. For there were many fine trees scat-
tered through it, and two pretty spires rising
just above them from the churches in the place.
Then the white houses that were placed among
them and looked so neatly, gave the idea of
quietness and plenty to all the scene. Mr Jones's
place too, was a lovely spot, and looked sweet-
ly from the village. The house stood in the
midst of the apple trees — it had a pretty piazza
in front, and was painted white, with green
blinds. His small farm was left him by his fa-
204 MARY JONES.
ther, and he took great pains to improve it, and
keep it in order, though his business was in the
village, and he spent most of his time there.
He seldom had leisure to indulge his children,
by taking them to ride, and when he did give
them the opportunity they were very happy in-
deed. And they talked of little else from din-
ner until three o'clock, which was the time
their father fixed for them to be ready. When
he drove up to the door at that time he found
them all waiting, so he sat Mary and Charles
on the seat by him, and took Fanny on his knee,
as he said, to help father drive, which she thought
she did by holding the end of the reins and call-
ing to the horses to ' get up.'
It was now the pleasant season of the year:
the fields looked beautiful and the trees were
in blossom. They saw several small houses at
a distance in the fields where the children were
playing before the doors and enjoying their Sat-
urday afternoon. They saw cattle and lambs
feeding on the hills, which were covered with
green grass and clover. The smoke that rose
from the cottages in the valley lifted up its flee-
cy curls above the trees, while not a breath of
MARY JONES. 205
air disturbed its rising till it gently lost itself on
high. Everything was calm and peaceful, and
the children's joy was, without their knowing it,
increased by the universal gladness which seem-
ed to breathe in every thing around them. Mary
was more silent than Charles and Fanny; for
the thought of God once becoming familiar to
her mind, as a friend, and one to whom she
might become attached as to a parent, she was
seldom long without thinking of him. To her,
every spot she looked upon seemed alive with
happiness, as it did to the other children; but
the thought that God formed it was also present
to her mind; till pleased with tracing His hand in
all the beauty and joy around her, she felt His
presence everywhere. He seemed to keep the
children from danger while they frolicked about
fearing no harm. He made the cattle enjoy the
green pasture and clear brook. The birds which
sung in the branches, and flew in rapid sweep
from place to place, seemed to raise their songs
to Him who tuned their notes to happiness.
So delightful were these new thoughts to Ma-
ry's heart that she could not bear to give them
up when they were interrupted, and she did
206 MART JONES.
not speak till she had breathed a siient but sin-
cere and earnest prayer that she might in future
think of God oftener, and learn to know him bet-
ter, and love him more than she had ever done
before.
Charles and Fanny chattered so fast during
the ride, that Mary's silence was not noticed.
Indeed her father had as much as he could at-
tend to, in answering their questions, and in lis-
tening to their talk, which amused him very
much. When they came to the pasture he took
them all out of the chaise, and tied the horse to
the fence, while the children crawled under the
fence, and were among the pretty white sheep
and lambs. Fanny kept a close hold on Mary's
hand while they were in the midst of the sheep,
for she could not help being a little afraid; but
when she saw them lick the salt off from Charles's
hand, she began to take courage; and she laugh,
ed heartily, when Charles, to show how brave
he was, pot his arm round the neck of a pretty
large lamb, which, in trying to get away from
him, pulled him over, and they both rolled on
the ground together.
Mr Jones staid long enough to give the chil-
MARY JONES.
207
dren a pleasant walk, where they found some
pretty flowers to carry to their mother, and then
returned, having given them all the delight that
their little hearts could desire.
Tea was on the table when they got home;
and Charles and Fanny were for once glad to
go to bed. Mary sat up longer. She found a
visitor had arrived while they were gone; a
cousin of hers, about her own age, who had
come with her mother to spend a week or two
with them. But I shall leave Susan Ray to be
introduced to my readers by and by, while I
follow Mrs Jones to Mary's chamber, after she
had gone to bed.
1 Now mother I 'm glad to see you — for I
was just trying to think over the pleasant thoughts
I had this afternoon, and I longed to tell you
what a sweet ride we did have.'
' i came on purpose to hear about it, Mary —
what made it so very delightful ? you have been
to the pasture a great many times before, but
never came home witli a countenance so very
cheerful and happy.'
' Indeed, mother, it was the very happiest
ride 1 ever had in my life, and can't you guess
the reason ?'
208 MART JONES.
* Had not you better tell me ? Perhaps 1
should not guess right if I should try. 1
f O, mother, you know you could not guess
wrong— for what h;is made me enjoy every-
thing more, lately, than 1 used to do?
1 You told ine last night, that you did not
look at the simplest flower now, without feel-
ing more pleasure in it, than you used to have
in looking at a rose, because .you always
thought of the band that made it; and it seemed
so loving and kind in God to scatter such
beauties all over the earth.'
' That was just the reason, mother — I knew
you could tell. I enjoyed the ride for thinking
of God. Everything 1 saw made me think
how good He is ! And I could not help
wishing that the children who were playing so
happily, the little birds, and everything, could
only know what a kind Being was taking care
ofthem.'
' He has given that privilege to none of his
creatures but ourselves, my dear child; for he
has made none but man in his own image,
and capable of knowing him. Then do not
you think ^ve ought to try very hard to know
and love him ?'
MARY JONES. 209
* Yesj mother, and 1 mean to. I have trierl,
mother, all this month— and I never could
believe it would be so pleasant and so easy to
think of God.'
4 1 suspect the reason you i bought it could
not be pleasant, my dear, was that you seldom
thodght of Him except when you did not do
right. And as for iis being easy — 1 am not
surprised that you wonder at that— for it would
not be easy for us to think of that which we
can never see, or hear, or know, except by
reflection. But God himself has made -it easy
in a way that shows his love for us more than
anything else.'
1 How is it r' said JMary.
f He condescends to help us in all our efforts
to know and to love him, by his own Spirit.'
' But, mother,' said Mary, ' 1 do not know
whnt you mean.'
' Perhaps I can make you understand — You
have no doubt that God is near you, though
yon Ho not see him ?'
1 No, mother.' -
8 Well, you have no doubt that God knows
your thoughts ?'
1 No, mother.'
210 MARY JONES.
1 If God is near you without your seeing him.
and knows your thoughts without your telling
him— should not you think he might commu-
nicate his thoughts to your mind without his
speaking to you, or your hearing him ? ;
c Yes, mother, I suppose he could, but I did
not know that he did so.'
' My dear, the eye is not necessary to see
him, nor the ear to hear him; yet he is near
our path to protect our steps, and his spirit is
about our hearts to teach us what is good and
pleasant in his sight. We are also told in the
Bible that there is nothing on which he looks
with so much pleasure, as a child who gives
its young mind to the knowledge and love of
Him. Then, my dear, is it strange that he
should make such a study easy by his own
teaching ? especially when he regards them with
the earnest love of a parent ?'
c But why,' said Mary, ' should he take more
pleasure in seeing a child love Him than any-
other person ?'
1 Because, my dear, the sooner a person be-
gins to love him, the more and better they will
love him; and the fewer years they will waste —
gnd the younger a person is, the more innocent
Mary joncs. 211
is their heart* If you wish to give a flower to a
person whom you loved, would you not rather
choose one that had just opened, and was fresh
and sweet, than one which had been defaced
and soiled by hanging on the bush ? Just so
it is with offering the heart to God. The earli-
er it is given, the less it is defaced and soiled
by the world. You know, my dear, that Dr
Watts says,
£ A flower when offered in the bud,
Is no vain sacrifice.'
And she bid Mary good night, praying that
her own young heart would open under the in-
fluences of the Sun of Righteousness.
212
MARY JONES*
CHAPTER VI.
The next clay was the Sabbath, and it was
always a sweet day at Mr Jones's. All was
quiet and peaceful within doors, and everything
abroad looked fresh and new.
It seemed as if the birds of the air and the
beasts of the field knaw r that it was God's holy
day. One seemed to sing a happier song, and
sat long upon the branches without fear oi being
driven from their sweet abode by the approach
of man— the other lay beneath the trees, or
stood by the cool brook, glad to rest from the
labors oi the. busy ueek.
After the children were dressed for meeting,
and each had said a hymn to their mother to
remind them that the day was one in which no
unkind word must be spoken, and all their
actions must be peace and love, they were al-
lowed to walk in the orchard near the house
until meeting time.
While they were walking to church, Mrs
Jones told Ulary that she hoped she would at-
tend to what Mr Robinson said, for she had
no doubt there would be many things- in the
MARY JONES. 213
service that would instruct and please her if she
would but listen for them. Mary's manners
at church that day, proved to her mother that
she was not unmindful of her hint-— for she ob-
served with pleasure, that Mary was attentive
to what was said. The singing always pleased
her, but when the hymn beginning ' Lord of
the Sabbath' was sung with animation and
sweetness, Mary's heait did really join in the
service, and she was surprised to find how much
more delightful it was when she tried to raise
her heart and thoughts to her heavenly Father
in the language of that beautiful hymn and by
tiie sweet tune that expressed it, than when she
merely listened to the words and the music as
she was in the habit of doing. When she rose
in prayer time she did not lose the feeling that
the hymn had awakened, and though she did
not understand all that was said, she felt that
it was addressed to God, j^.nd she would not
offend his holy presence by giving her attention
to any other object.
But the chapter from Scripture which Mr
Robinson read, the 14th of St Joins, attracted
her whole mind, for it was one where our Sa-
214 MARY JONES.
viour spoke of leaving the disciples; and his
tenderness and affection seemed very affecting
to her. But when he spoke of the spirit of
truth which God would send them after he
should be taken away — she thought of what her
mother had said to her about God's spirit, and
she longed to ask her more about it. She lis-
tened to the sermon and was soon interested in
the affecting picture which Mr Robinson pre-
sented to his hearers, of the separation of our
Saviour from his followers, and their forlorn
condition when he was gone from them. When
he ended, Mary was surprised to find how quick
the time of service had passed; and when her
mother told her it was as long as usual, she
could hardly believe it possible; but she was
glad she had learned the secret of making meet-
ing lime seem short.
As soon as she had a chance she told her
mother she wished she would tell her some-
thing more about the Spirit, and asked her
to explain what was said about it at church
that morning.
* It is a very simple story, my dear,' said
her mother, A kit one which you will think of
MARY JONES. 2\o
with more and more comfort and delight as you
are called to act in life.
' Our blessed Saviour came into the world
to teach mankind the true character of our
heavenly Father, and how they should please
him. While he was with his disciples, he was
very earnest to make them understand what
God was, and what were their duties toward
him. When he was about to leave them they
were very sorrowful, for they knew that when
he was gone there would be no one to teach
them of heavenly truih. But he told them that
it was better for them to part with him, for then
God would communicate with them by his own
Spirit, and that he would teach them all things
concerning himself and their duties, that it was
necessary for them to know. This was the
messenger who was to keep the knowledge of
God in die hearts of men after our Saviour, who
had brought it, should have returned to heaven.
And this Spirit is near to the hearts of men,
as God's presence is near to all the works which
he has made; so that we are aided by this
heavenly friend m all our meditations on' God t
and in all our eflbEts to please him, though it
13
216 MARY JONES.
is in a way that we do not perceive — IndeeoV
my dear, I cannot better explain it than by
saying that it is a thought of our heavenly Father
meeting with our thought.'
c I understand this, mother. And it is a
pleasant thing when one wants to be good and
to do right, that there is such a power to help
ihem.'
Mary was quite satisfied and pleased with
her mother's explanation, and it ended the in-
struction of that Sabbath. Where is the little
girl that would not like to pass that day in the
same manner ?
MARY JONES. 317
CHAPTER VII.
I have promised to introduce to my young
friends the little girl who had come to make
Mary a visit; and I hope their patience has not
given way while 1 have kept them wailing.
Susan Ray was about Mary's age, and her
cousin. But she was an only child: her father
died when she was young, and she was more
dear to her mother than all the world beside;
so that she was an indulged, and what is called
a spoiled child. She did not live with other
children, and of course had never learned to
give up her own inclinations to others, so that
when she was with them they had to give up
to her to keep peace, and she was never pleased
if they did not do everything to amuse her,
while she never thought of giving them any
pleasure in return.
At breakfast on Monday morning, Mrs Ray
said to Mrs Jones, 'you must not think of keep-
ing your children at home from school on Susan's
218 MARY JONES.
account, for they will have time enough to play
after school hours, and 1 shall attend to her
reading and work at home.' Mrs Jones
thought it would be pleasanter to her sister to
have the noise of the children out of the way,
and so it was agreed that they should go to
school as usual.
They hurried home when the time came, and
found Susan in the garden, playing wiih Charles,
who had returned from his school earlier than
Mary and Fanny. He ran to meet them, as
he saw them coming — ' Well, Mary, 1 am glad
vou have come at last, for I have shown Susan
all my things, and she is quite tired of play-
ing with me. See, she is coming with my new
cup and ball*, but 1 can catch it twice as well
as she after all. though she is two years older
than I.'
1 That is only because you play with it a
great deal more than she does, and are used to
it,' said Mary.
Susan now came up; ' Here,' said she to
Charles, ' take your cup and ball — I am sure I
never wish to touch it again — it is an ugly
thing !'
MARY JONES. 219
Poor Charles, whose cup and ball had been
given him for being a good boy at school, was
sadly grieved, to hear his cousin call it an
' ugly thing,' and with a face just ready to cry,
he turned to Mary — ' it is not an ugly thing, is
it, Mary ?'
Susan was really not an ill tempered child,
but was so thoughtless of others, and so bent
on enjoying her own humors, that she never
took any care to save them from unhappiness,
or give them pleasure — but when she saw
Charles's trouble, she said, c Well, well, Char-
lie, I did not mean to say it was really ugly —
It is pretty enough I suppose.' Charles was
satisfied once more, and they all played peacea-
bly enough till dinner time.
Mary considered Susan as company, and felt
bound to try to make her enjoy herself, so that
she did not hesitate to comply with her wishes,
even when they were disagreeable to herself, as
was often the case. Mrs Jones soon saw that
it must be so, and urged Mary to have no dis-
putes with Susan, but to give up to her on all
occasions, unless she should wish her to do
something wrong. Mary's greatest difficulty
220 MART JONES.
was not in giving up to her, herself, but Susan
claimed the same from Charles and Fanny, and
it was not so easy to make them polite ; so it
took all her care, to save them from quarrels.
She was daily obliged to promise Charles some-
thing which she knew her mother would give
him, and tell Fanny she would make something,
pretty for her, or take her to walk, or please
her in some way or other, if they would but give
up to Susan, and let her have her own way,
and not ask for their play-things, when she had
them. And it did really seem as if Susan's
chief pleasure in these things was in teasing the
children, for the moment they were willing to
yield, she cared no more about them.
Susan lived in Portland when she w 7 as at
home, where she found a great many things to
amuse her, and whenever she was tired of one,
she flew to another. If she found it dull at
home, she would go to her grandfather's ; and
there her uncles and aunts were always ready
to please her after her own fancy. If she wish-
ed to ride or walk — play battledoor or check-
ers — or anything else, some one of them was
ready to join her ? so that after the first few days
MARY JOf.ES. 221
at her aunfs, she was tired of everything. Poor
Mary then began to stay at home from .school,
and she had a hard task to try to make Susan
happy — and after all, she said to her mother, it
did no good, for Susan would not be pleased
with anything.
' Do not say it does no good, Mary — J assure
you it may be very useful to you, if it is not to
Susan.'
' I am sure I do not see how,' said Mary,
c for it only frets me ; and if she would be
pleased and happy, how much we might enjoy
ourselves, and now neither of us enjoy our-
selves.'
* Still,' said her mother, l it may do you more
good, than if you did enjoy yourself.'
' Now, mother, do tell me how that can be,
for I do not know what you mean.'
' It teaches you how to be disinterested.'
* I do not know exactly what that is.'
' It is preferring the gratification of others to
our own. And besides, my dear Mary, con-
sider what would be the case now, if you should
not give up.'
' Why, mother, we should quarrel.'
222 MARY JONES.
1 And how would that make you feel ? '
' Very unhappy, mother.'
1 Well, then it is not such a losing bargain
after all, is it? You save yourself the misery of
quarrels, and learn a lesson on real disinterest-
edness. It is easy to practise this virtue to
those, who will, in their turn, show it to us ;
but when we can treat those in the same way,
who are selfish and will not return it, we can be
sure that the virtue is real, and such as God
will approve. Our Saviour tells us, that we
must not confine our kind actions to those who
will return them, for there is no virtue in loving
those who love us; wicked people will do that. 7
Mary went away quite satisfied with herself,
and renewed her efforts to find amusement for
her cousin. She thought she succeeded rather
better than she had done before ; and when she
went to bed she told her mother so, and asked
her ' if she supposed Susan knew how much
trouble she gave others to please her ? '
4 It is not likely she ever thinks of it,' she
replied.
' How strange.' said Mary, ' I should think it
MAKY JONES. 223
would make her quite unhappy to think that God
saw it.'
4 Indeed it would, my dear, and I doubt not
that she would cure herself of this selfishness if
she remembered the presence of Him who loves
io see all his creatures happy,'
13*
224 MARY JONES.
CHAPTER VIII.
The next day Mary set herself to her usual
business, for business it had become, of finding
Susan some new pleasure. She asked her mo-
ther if she could not send them with some mes-
sage to somebody, just to give them a walk.
' O yes — the ve y thing,' said her kind mo-
ther, ' I wish to send a basket of nice things to
old Mrs Turner, and if you would like you may
go and carry it.' Tney had a pleasant walk, for
the old lady lived a mile from Mrs Jones's ;
most of the way was shady, and it was a sweet
morning.
They found her itting by the window of her
little abode, knitting, while her daughter who
lived with and took care of her, was busy about
her housework. c Well,' said the old lady, after
looking into the basket, and handing it to her
daughter, c It is very good of your mother, my
child, to send me these things.'
c And they have come just at the right time,'
MARY JONES. 225
said her daughter Betsey, as she took them
out ; ' for mother's appetite has been but poor-
ly for several days, and I was telling her this
morning that a little bacon would be mighty
good for her.'
c And cannot you have such things always
when you want ihem ? ' said Mary.
' Generally, my child ; I do not want long for
anything I need, my friends are all so good to
me. The Lord deals very kindly with me, and
I may say never forsakes me. He puts it in the
hearts of those who have more than they need
to remember my necessities, and I am never
left, as I may say, to w 7 ant.'
'Not to real want, to be sure,' said Betsey,
who would sometimes complain, ' but we are
in straights, many is the time, and I often worry
to think what may come next.'
' I know you do, Betsey, but when you are
carried comfortably through your days, as you
have been thus far, you will look back and
wonder that you could ever distrust the Shep-
herd of Israel. He has ever blessed our bask-
et and our store, and caused us to dwell in safe-
ty when seemingly there was none to help us.
22<J MARY JONES.
And if you had seen the times that I have. Bet*
sey, you would know that there are worse
straights than any we meet with. I have seen
the day when I no more knew what it was to
want for food and raiment, than do these child-
ren now. I had enough and to spare, and yet
my spirit was sick within me. I waited for the
morning with troubled thoughts, and for the
evening with watchful and anxious suspense.
But God has brought me out of these and ma-
ny other troubles, and made ray old age com-
fortable and happy by his continual care and
presence.'
Here Susan looked around the room and
again at the old lady, and wondered what it was
that made her more unhappy than her present
poverty : and she ventured to ask her if she was
sick and expected to die, that made her so un-
happy.
1 O no, my child — 1 thought I should be glad
to die. It was the sinful course of my only
son; he gave me a heavy heart for many years,
but repented at last, and I had comfort in him
before he died, poor soul !'
Encouraged by the old lady's telling them so
MARY JONES. 227
much, their next desire was to know how she
became so poor, and they asked her if she had
always lived in that house.
' O no,' said the kind old lady, ' my husband
was well-to-do in the world, and had a profit-
able trade, and my father left me, who was his
only child, a nice place when he died, where
we lived in very comfortable circumstances ;
and until my son took to his evil ways, I may
say, we were quite happy.
' One night when my husband was away from
home, and no orie in ihe house but Betsey and
myself, and she sick — she was then ten years
old— my other children were mercifully away
from home, one was gone with her father and
the other went that night to stay with one of her
mates — But as I was telling, at midnight I was
waked by a great crash at the doer, and one
of my neighbors calling to me to run for my
life, for my house was on fire— be quick, says
he, and do not stay to put on your clothes, or
you will never get out. I do not know how it
was — I was always timorsome, but his dreadful
words only seemed to give me courage, for I
wrapped Betsey in the blanket and took her in
228 MARY JONES.
my arms, and pushed through the smoke which
almost choked me, never stopping for a nig, of
clothes myself, and it was well I did not, for ihe
flames seemed to follow my steps, and I believe
had I stayed in the house a min-ite longer, I
never should have got out, sure enough. The
neighbors tried to put out the fire, but it was
too late; it burned to the ground, and all that
was in the house was consumed. Everybody
was kind to us. They led and clothed us ; and
my husband, by the sale of our land and his
work, was able to buy this little cottage, which
to be sure was better then than it is now, and
while he lived we continued to have a clever
support; but since his death, my small earnings
from knitting, and Betsey's work, and the trifle
that my two daughters who are married, and
settled at a distance, sometimes send me, a
gown or the like— would not keep me from want
if our friends were not good to us as they are.
God, who gave me presence of mind and power
to escape from the flames with my child at the
very moment of destruction, has not forsaken
me since ; nor have 1 ever forgotten his care
at that perilous hour. For whatever have been
MARY JONES. 229
my fears or troubles since^ and they have been
many, I have never felt alone or disheartened.
I have always in him a very present help in time
of need. Yes, I have said it, and I may say it
again — He has never forsaken me.' And wip-
ing from her eyes the tears which this recollec-
tion of all his goodness seemed to bring there,
she took each of the children's hands in her own,
and said — ' My dear children, you are not too
young to feel that your Maker is your best
friend — and you may learn from an old woman
like me, that those who trust to his friendship,
and his care, will find him near in fears to give
them courage, in danger to protect them, and
in happiness to keep their hearts from sorrow.'
Both of the children listened to her with great
interest, her manner was so affectionate and
earnest; and Mary w T as delighted to see that
though she was so poor and had seen so many
troubles, she still seemed to enjoy great hap-
piness, only from thinking of God and making
him her friend. But she could not help think-
ing that it was a little strange that when most of
her troubles were sent by God, she should con-
tinue to love him and think of him with so much
230 MARX" JONKS.
pleasure. And she determined to ask her mo-
ther about it.
As they walked home they talked about the
old lady. ' How mnny troubles she must have
had,' said Mary; ' her son's dying after he had
become good, just as he might have been a help
to her — and her husband too, who I should
think must have been a very good man — and
then their house being burned; the place too,
which her father left her, where I suppose she
lived when she was a little girl.'
' And only think,' said Susan, l to hear her
talk of her 'comfortable' old age. I looked
round and thought it was anything but comfort.
There were on her shelves, just three or four
tea-cups and saucers; six plates, every one of
them different, and each mended with putty;
one blue tea-pot with a white lid; and a little
black one not bigger than a good sized apple.
Then half a dozen odd things set about, and
that was all. Then there was one table, and
four chairs, all odd ones, and a bed. To be
sure everything looked neat and tidy, but I
should not call it comfortable, 1 'm sure. For
my part, it is strange to me that she can be so
MARY JONES. 231
happy.' Mary said nothing in reply to this
observation, for it was not so strange to her
that she could be happy, for she had learned
something of the happiness which arises from
love to our Heavenly Father, though she had
never before supposed, that those who were
very poor and afflicted, could be really happy
even with that.
Mary told her mother all that had passed
with Mrs Turner: ' and should you believe it,
mother? she seems to love God just as well as
if he had never given her any troubles to bear.
Don't you think that is strange, mother?'
'No, dear, I do not think it strange, because I
know that when God afflicts his children, he
makes them see that it is for their own good.
The Bible says, ' whom he loveth he chasten-
eth,' and you do not suppose that when he
brings affliction on any one to make them bet-
ter, he leaves them without consolations.'
' How can he console them, mother?'
4 By his Spirit, my dear; when any one
meets with a great loss that nothing in the
world can make up, and they feel as if some-
thing had been removed from them which was
232 MARY JONES.
so necessary to their happiness that they can
hardly live in the world without it — they nat-
urally turn to God, knowing that it is he who
has afflicted them. And then he shows to their
mind how he is indeed their Father ; and
how he pitieth them as a father pitieth
his children.' He reminds them by his Spir-
it of all the comforting promises of the Bi-
ble. He seems to say to their sorrowing
heart, ' Come unto me and I will give you
rest' — ' I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee
— ' I will give thee the oil of joy for mourning,
and the garment of praise for the spirit of heav-
iness.' This very intercourse with God gives
them a peace of mind which is more delightful
than anything the world could give. So instead
of loving him less for such afflictions, they love
him more. And so it is with this old lady. Every
trouble she has met with has made her more
intimate with her heavenly Father, till she has
found that his favor is more precious than all the
possessions of life.'
Mary was thoughtful a (ew moments, and
then said, ' Mother, if you were to lose our
sweet little Fanny, do you think you should
love God better after that than you do now?'
MARY JONES. 233
* My dear Mary, I once had a sweet little
Fanny, who had she lived, would now be three
years older than you. When she died I had
no other child, and you can imagine what a
dreadful loss it was to your father and me!'
c Why, mother!' said Mary, 'I did not know
that you had a little girl before me.'
1 No I never felt like talking about it, and
should not now, but for your question, which !
could best answer by telling you that until that
darling was taken from me, I never loved God
as a child should love a father.'
' And could you then, mother?'
' I knew that He had taken her away, and
so I went to him, praying that he would comf* rt
my wretched heart. Then I thought that my
child was not more mine than his — that he
gave her to me — that he had permited me to
enjoy the lovely gift for a delightful seas n,
watching over her himself, and keeping her
from sickness and from harm. And now that
he had seen fit to remove her to his own home,
was it for me to repine? He had taken her
from a wicked world while she was innocent,
and her sweet spirit would live in Heaven,
234 MARY JONES.
where it could know no sin, or unhappiness.
She would go on from one perfection to anoth-
er — aid grow in the knowledge of every beau-
tiful work of God. And then at last I should
meet her again in that world, never to part any-
more, if 1 followed my Saviour's directions in
this. Then, my dear Mary, don't you think
that, grieved as I was to live without this light
of my eyes and joy of my heart — I had enough
to reconcile me to her removal, and could think
of her dwelling with our heavenly Father with
pleasure?'
< O, yes, mother, it seems, now that you have
told me this, that I shall love to think of Heav-
en more than I used to — now that 1 have a sister
there — and I am sure I shall not love God any
the less for taking her to live with him. Though
I hope he will let dear little Fanny live with
us, mother— do not you ? '
'Certainly, my dear, — we should hope and
pray for the iives of those we love ; for though
God reconciles us when he takes them away,
he does not require us to give up the blessings
he bestows on us, until he calls for theni^
MARY JONES. 235
CHAPTER IX.
Susan's visit had arrived to the day but one
of her departure. And when Mary thought of
it in the morning, she could not help feeling
sorry that she was going away so soon, and
she was ready to overlook all the little causes
of discontent that Susan ha d occasioned her,
and wished she had thought less of them than
she had done. But she determined she would
forget ail on that day, and see how much pleas-
ure she could give her.
Susan too, w T as more in the humor of being
pleased than she had been; perhaps from the
thought of so soon leaving her kind cousins.
And it may be that she began to suspect that
her own manners had not been so kind to Ma-
ry, or to the other children, as, at the moment
of parting, she wished they had been.
Most of the morning was taken up by the two
cousins in rambling about the fields and woods
near Mr Jones's house. Susan urged Mary to
MARY J ON CSV
come to Portland and return her visit ; and told
her of the delights she would find there — How
she should go with her to her grandfather's ;
where she said she was often allowed to have
little parties — one of her aunts played for them
to dance — and then her grandmother gave them
such a delightful treat ! She could ride about
too, and go to the shops ; and find a hundred
new things every day — : which is so pleasant?
you know, Mary, when one gets tired of staying
at home.' Mary confessed she did not know
what it was to get tired of staying at home, and
said she never had such things to amuse her as
Susan spoke of, so she supposed she could be
happy without them ; but she should be delight-
ed to see them, and be in Portland for a while,
though everything would be so new to her that
she should seem very awkward, she did not
doubt. And she said her mother had promised
to take her there when she could feel confidence
enough in her to be willing to trust her with her
own behaviour.
Mary thought Susan had never been so
agreeable as she was that morning, and she be-
gan to think she should like to visit her. She
MARY JONES. 237
hoped too, that she would come to Exeter
again, and really felt sorry that she was going
away.
They returned to the house in great good
humor, and Susan did, for once, play pleasant-
ly with Charles and Fanny for some time,
much to their surprise, and more to their de-
light, and they often looked up in her face, to
be sure that it was she, and not Mary.
But all this delightful harmony was not to
continue to the end of the visit. And I am sor-
ry, after such a morning, to have a very differ-
ent afternoon to describe.
I dare say many cf my little friends will wish
I would stop here, if 1 cannot say the day was
finished as it was begun. But I must tell them
that when the good nature of a little girl de-
pends entirely on the humor of the moment, and
she cannot be pleasant for the sake of making
others happy, and because it is her duty, we
can never be certain that it will last long, for
the first thing that interferes with her pleasures
will cast a cloud over her good nature, and the
morning which saw a shining countenance will
not pass away so soon as that countenance will
238 MARY JONES.
be changed to angry frowns and discontent
And our friend Mary too — I am grieved to
have anything to say of her that is worthy of
blame; but good and amiable as Mary was, I
hope none of those who read her history will
suppose she could not do wrong. I never saw
a little girl that had no faults, and though I have
not, in this story, had occasion to mention Ma-
ry's faults — and though I really think she had as
few as any little girl I ever was acquainted with;
yet I must now record an instance of sudden re-
sentment, such as she was seldom, if ever guil-
ty of before, and I think 1 may certainly say
such as she never again gave way to in the whole
course of her life.
It happened that Charles's good natured heart
w T as quite overcome by the change in Susan's
temper towards himself and Fanny, while they
were at home at noon, and as he walked to school
in the afternoon with his father, he said, * I'm
sorry Susan's going away tomorrow, an't you,
father?'
His father, who had not thought her visit had
been very delightful to Charles, was surprised
at this, and asked him why he was sorry*
MAiir jones. 239
* Why, she played so pleasantly with Fan
and me today, that I really liked her — and I
think i'f she should stay a week longer, she would
get to be something like Mary, father — don't
you ?'
I Perhaps so — but what do you mean to do
about it Charles ? She cannot stay, you know,
for her mother has determined to go tomorrow
morning.'
I I know that, but I can't help being sorry. It
seems to me I should like to give her something
before she goes.'
1 Well — why don't you give her something, if
you wish to ?'
' Why the reason is, father, I've nothing to
give — only my cup and ball — and I should bate
to part with that — but I would though if she lik-
ed it; but then she once called it an ugly thing,
— so I shall not give her that.'
Mr Jones was always glad to see any dispo*
sition to generosity in his children, and though
he could not afford to make presents to people
richer than himself, he never could discourage
any wish which his children expressed, to give
away, when he did not disapprove the object.
14
240 MART JONES.
And in this instance he felt a wish to gratify
Charles. So he told him if his heart was set
on making his cousin a present, and he* really
thought the cup and ball would not do, he might
come to his store after school, and if he could
find anything in the street that would do, he
would get it for him. Charles was delighted,
and we shall not find a little boy of his age, who
would not forgive him, if he was not quite so at-
tentive at his school that afternoon as usual, and
thought more of his present than his lessons.
MARY JONES. 241
CHAPTER X.
Mr Jones had found his promise lo Charles,
less easily fulfilled than he expected; for he look-
ed long in vain at the stores of the village for
something that might please the young lady.
She had so long been in the habit of having her
wishes gratified to their extent, and even pam-
pered, that it was not probable she would be
pleased by anything that. Exeter would afford.
But he at last found a kaleidoscope. It was the
first he had ever seen, and really a very hand-
some one.
Charles looked at the outside with delight —
but when his father told him to put his eye to
the little round glass in the end while he moved
it round, and he saw all the beautiful and bril-
liant changes, resembling the gayest flowers, at
the other; — he could contain himself no longer,
— he clapped his hands, and danced about for
joy-
All the way home Charles was contriving
242 MARY JONES.
how he could surprise Susan with such an ele-
gant present. At Inst he thought he would cov-
er it with his handkerchief, and tell her there
was a roll of something for her — but at the same
time he would appear as if it was nothing very
handsome. So with the matter all fixed in his
own mind, he hurried in, and finding that the
girls were up stairs with another little girl of Ma-
ry's acquaintance, he ran up to the room, and
the moment he opened the door exclaimed, ' Su-
san — Susan Ray, I've' — here he stopped — for
Susan was playing checkers with the little girl
I have mentioned, and as he spoke she looked
at him with angry impatience and checked his
words.
Now Susan had been twice beat, which was
enough to sour her — for her uncles and aunts
always let Susan beat;— she was engaged in the
third game, and had just thought the luck was
coming to her — that is, if her partner would
only move quick, before she happened to see
the place which she had left open where Susan
could jump — she did not see it, and was just
moving somewhere else as Charles diverted
their attention and stopped Miss Green's hand.
MARY JONES. 243
Susan was vexed at the delay, and gave him a
look to stop; this gave Miss Green time to see
the jumping place; and just as she moved the
man away, and thus destroyed Susan's hope of
a jump, Charles came up with the roll— poor
fellow! he had not got the words half out of
his mouth when she angrily struck the roll
from his hands, saying, ' do get out of the way —
spoiling our game !' — away went the present,
bang into the chimney corner — and its utter
ruin was the consequence.
Charles's disappointment, grief, and anger
were greater than he could bear, but he was
more angry them anything else, and flying at
Susan he would have struck her, but she,
ready for the battle, caught both his hands in
hers, and held them tight; this made him still
more angry, and he attempted a kick— but
Susan was stronger than he, and quite as angry,
and putting out her own foot, she tripped him
up, and he fell flat upon the floor with a
great noise.
Mary looked on the affray with increasing
anger, and when she saw Charles fall in this
way she could refrain no longer, and stepping
244 MARY JONES.
up, she gave Susan a blow on the cheek,
which made her cry with pain.
All this passed in much less time than I have
been telling it, so that when Mrs Jones and
Mrs Ray got to the room, where they hasten-
ed on hearing the noise, it was all over-— a iook
convinced them that the three had been en-
gaged in the quarrel, and without asking any
questions, they sent each to their own chamber
to remain alone till their mothers should see
fit to visit them. Eliza Green was a witness
of the whole affair, and from her the mothers
received a fair account. And Mr Jones, who
soon after returned, finished the explanation,
by telling them all about Charles's intended
present.
Mrs Ray was grieved to see the share of
blame which fell to Susan; and indulgent as
she was to her faults, she now felt that she had
to correct a very selfish and passionate dispo-
sition. I shall not pretend to say what passed
between them in her chamber, but it is certain
that Mrs Ray found her daughter sullen and
cross, but left her ashamed and sorry for her
fault.
MARY JONES. 245
When Mrs Jones visited Charles, who was
really most innocent and most injured of the
party, she found him at the window watching
the pigeons on the roof of the barn. He had
got through with a hearty crying, and now
only wished for permission to go down stairs;
which he begged as soon as he saw his mother;
saying, he thought it w 7 as too bad to keep
him up there, when he was not to blame in
the least.
e That Susan ! I wonder how I could ever
think of liking her — but she is going away to-
morrow, and 1 am glad of that. I hope she
will never come into this house again. O that
elegant thing ! to dash it in pieces so !' And
Charles's anger began to rise again as he thought
of his defeated purpose.
' Stop, stop, my child,' said his mother; ' is
this passion going to mend the ' elegant thing,'
as you call it ? or will it do any good to rail
about Susan ? I dare say she is sufficiently
ashamed of her conduct by this time, and la-
ments it as much as you do.'
1 Do you really suppose she is sorry for
246 MARY JONES.
it, mother ? If I thought she was, I should not
care so much about it.'
' I have no doubt she is sorry for it, and it
seems to me, Charles, you have something to
be sorry for. Do you think your hands and
feet were given you to strike and to kick ?'
6 I did not hit her, mother — and if I had, she
threw me on the floor.'
4 1 am not speaking of what she did; that is
her affair. 5
1 Well, mother, 1 was angry, and who would
not be?'
'And supposing you were angry; do not
you think your feet would have served you as
well, had you employed them to leave the
room ?'
i Why yes, mother; but how could 1 think
of it?'
1 Perhaps you could not, just then; but sup-
pose such a thing to happen again; do not you
think you could remember, and ifyou are tempt-
ed by your anger to return evil for evil, you
could leave the spot before you do anything to
be ashamed of?'
1 1 rather think I could, if I ought too.'
MARY JONES. 217
* Ought too ! Charles, do not you know
that it is one of the very wickedest things in the
world to return evil for evil ? and that your
being angry is no excuse for it? For if you
are ever so angry you can run out of the room.'
' Well, mother, I will try the next time, cer-
tainly. And now may not I go down stairs; for
there is father in the garden, and I want to go/
1 You may go, child,' said his mother; and
in another moment his father was trying to cheer
him up under his disappointment; and the good
natured little fellow was soon disposed to forget
it, in some other pursuit.
Mrs Jones's next visit was to Mary. She
found her silting on a trunk, looking as unhappy
as -possible. As soon as she saw her mother,
she flew up to her, and throwing her arms round
her neck, she cried as if her heart would break.
When she could speak she said, 'I never was
so unhappy in my life. I do not know what to
do. I am sorry I struck Susan, but I could not
bear to see her treat Charles so. I have tried
to ask God to forgive me; but I cannot take
any pleasure in thinking of his presence. I can-
not bear to think he saw what we did. O mo*
14*
248 MARY JONES.
ther, 1 feel as if I never should be happy again.'
And again she burst into tears, as bitterly as at
first.
c It is well you are sorry for your fault, my
dear child,' said her mother, as soon as Mary
began to be composed. ' But if you would
have your peace of mind restored, and return
to your heavenly Father with pleasure, you
must do more than be sorry. Our Saviour has
taught us how to return to him in such a case
as yours, my dear Mary. He says, 'If thou
bring thy gift to the altar, and there re-
member that thy brother hath aught against
thee, leave there thy gift before the altar,
and go thy way; first be reconciled to tby
brother, and then come and offer thy gift.' Or,
to explain it, my dear, do not attempt to. pray
to God until you have been to your cousin and
confessed your sorrow for your fault, and made
a reconciliation with her. Do not leave her
until you have become friends. Then you
will feel confidence in coming to your heavenly
Friend and Father, and then I can assure you,
you will not find his presence painful to you.'
Mary did not like to ask Susan's pardon.
MARY JONES. 249
She was truly sorry for her fault; she was asham-
ed to think of it, and would have given anything
in the world if she could but take back the blow
she had given. But then Susan had been to
blame. She had treated Charles shamefully,
and she could not think of her disappointing
him so, and then think of asking her pardon for
her own fault, without hanging back.
Mrs Jones observed in her downcast looks
her unwillingness to go, and readily guessed the
cause. ' But, mother, said Mary, do not you
think that Susan was more to blame than 1 was?'
1 Perhaps she was; but that is nothing to you.
Susan has her own fault to settle with her heav-
enly Father; and if it is greater than yours, she
is the more to be pitied. You see your own is
sufficiently great to make you unhappy in his
presence, and I have told you the only way of
making your peace with him. If you are not
willing to follow the plain direction which our
Saviour has kindly given us, I do not know of
any other way, my dear, by which you can be
happy again. Think but one moment of laying
your head on your pillow tonight without being
able to ask God's forgiveness and blessing, be^
249 MARY JONES.
cause you are not willing to come to him in Ins
appointed way.'
4 O mother, say no more; I will go to Susan
this very moment, and make up with her, 1 am
sure I will ; and I will ask her to forgive me; and
I will forgive her, I am sure I will.'
With this she flew to Susan's chamber —
' Susan, 5 said she, ' I have come to ask you to
make up with me. I am sorry I struck you, —
are you willing to forgive me?' This w T as more
than Susan expected. She was deeply asham-
ed of her own conduct; and when she heard
Mary ask her forgiveness, she felt more sorry
for it than she had done before; so much so, that
she cried, and told Mary that if she could for-
give her she should be glad, for she was most
to blame; and she was sure she would never
think of her striking her again. Mary was de-
lighted, aud putting her arms round Susan's
neck, they kissed each other, and were friends.
1 O, said Mrs Jones,' who sat within hearing,
1 how beautiful are our Saviour's rules of action,
when practised by children! How suited to the
day-spring of their lives! Well has he said,
* suffer them to come unto me !'
MARY JONES. 250
Here Mary came back with a light heart and
altered countenance. Susan too, looked sub-
dued and gentle, as she came before her aunt,
who took them to her side, and said, ' my dear
children, let this afternoon teach you both to
practise through life a beautiful and solemn ex-
hortation of scripture. 'Let not the sun go
down upon your wrath,' or anger. Had you
left this making- up till morning, your hearts
would have been hardened towards each other>
and perhaps for your whole lives you would not
have been cordial friends.' Kissing them she
bade them wash from their faces the signs of
what had passed, and to prepare to appear at
tea with good humor and affection.
She then left them; and seeing Mrs Ray in
the garden with little Fanny, she joined them
there, and told her sister what had passed up
stairs. I d o suspect that Susan's mother had
never felt so much satisfaction with this indulg-
ed daughter of hers, as on hearing of this symp-
tom of correct feeling: but still she did not dare
to urge it too far, and though she thought that
some concession was due from her to Charles,
251 MARY JONES.
she was anxious that peace might be restore d
without it.
Mrs Jones knew quite as well as her sister, that
no such thing was to be expected from Susan,
and she went to prepare Charles to meet his
cousin pleasantly when she came down to tea.
4 Charles, my dear, this thing must be forgotten,
and when you meet Susan I hope you will try
to treat her as if nothing had happened.'
' Why mother, I am willing to treat her well,
but as to forgetting it, that 1 cannot do.'
' Well, well, my son, think as little of it as
you can,' said his mother, ' and when you are
with her try to think of something else.'
1 I am willing to try,' said Charles, J but I
guess that seeing her will make me think more
of that than I did before.'
4 If you must thii k of that, Charles, and
nothing else,' said his mother, ' 1 hope you will
take care to remember your own part in the
quarrel, and then perhaps you will not be quite
so unwilling to turn your thoughts.'
When the children appeared at tea, Susan
and Charles showed by their side glances and
silence toward each other, that they did not feel
MARY JONES. 251
quite easy; but the reconciliation between the
girls was so entire, that so far from constraint,
they seemed more kind and affectionate than
usual.
252 MARY JONES.
CHAPTER XI.
After Mary had bid good night, Mrs Jones
soon followed her to her chamber, for she was
anxious that the events of the afternoon should
make a strong impression on her heart, and teach
her an important lesson.
'You recollect, my dear Mary,' said she,
' that it was in the spring I first asked you to
think of God's presence at all times, and to see
if it ever gave you anything but pleasure. Since
that, you have not omitted one evening to tell
me your thoughts, and in no instance, until to-
day, have you been sorry that he was near you.
You have often told me that it made you hap-
pier than you ever were before. Today you
could not bear to think that he had been present,
and why, Mary ?'
' Because, mother, I was ashamed to have
him see our quarrel.'
£ Just so, my dear; you knew it would dis-
please him. Now, Mary, this is what I wish
you to lay to heart. Your own experience has-
MARY JONES. 253
taught it you, therefore you know it to be true,
that there is nothing but our own guilt that can
make us unhappy in the presence of God. Try
to do what you know will be pleasing in his
sight, and his smile will gladden your heart, —
His spirit will enlighten your path,' — His pres-
ence will give you peace and joy. Do the
things which he is displeased with, and his frown
settles on your heart, making all thought of him
dark and unlovely. You fly from him, and hope
he does not think of you.'
'O mother, I hope I shall never wish that God
would not think of me! What would become of
me ?'
1 And yet did you not wish he would turn
away his eye from you this afternoon, Mary ?'
c I am afraid I did. But after I had made
up with Susan, I was glad to come to my heav-
enly Father, and when I asked his forgiveness,
it was easy, and I felt happier.'
' Thank your Saviour for that, my child, and
rejoice that he has taught us the way to return
to the favor of God when we have offended him. '
{ Then our Saviour knew, mother, that if we
felt unkindly to any of our fellow beings, we
could not pray to God with satisfaction. '
254 MART JONES.
1 Yes, my dear, and also that God would not
like to hear us if we did. Our Saviour knew
everything that concerned us in relation to God,
and has given ns every instruction that can en-
able us to please him.'
4 Mother, I should like to know what those
instructions are, if you think I am old enough
to understand them ; for I should hate to feel
about God's seeing me, as I did this afternoon.'
' Cherish this feeling, my child, and if you
have the least wish at any time, to hide yourself
from him, or that he would turn from you, do
not rest till you have found the way to return to
him, and be happy.'
I have now told you, my young friends, all of
Mary's story that I have time to write at pres-
ent. It is only a few months that I have made
you acquainted with ; but these were the most
important of her life, since she learned in this
time such a habit of thinking herself in the pres-
ence of God, that she seldom did anything with-
out having the thought of him cross her mind.
You will readily suppose that this often prevent-
ed her from doing wrong, and encouraged her
in doing right. And when she did wrong, she
MARY JONES. 255
could never rest easy till she had been to her
mother and learned the way to please him again.
She found the kind directions of our Saviour
were always the very thing to restore her to his
favor. And from this time Mary began to form
a character which grew lovelier and lovelier,
every day.
I hope I shall find leisure to describe her
course, and to tell you how she learned to think
of pleasing her heavenly Father, even in little
things, just as good children think of pleasing
their earthly parents. And why has God taken
pains to tell us that he sees our most trilling ac-
tions, and notices our smallest thoughts, if it is
not that in those thoughts and actions, we should
think of him ; and thus learn to make them
good and holy.
I know that every child would wish to follow
her example, if they could but know how many
kind things she found ways to do, that most lit-
tle girls never think of. How particular she was
in the most trifling duties ; how cheerfully she
resigned her wishes, to gratify others ; and how
much happiness and contentment she spread
about her, wherever she went.
256 MARY JONES,
Yes, I feel as if they would long to give iheir
hearts, as she did, to wisdom's ways, for they
would see how true she found it, that 'all her
ways were pleasantness, and all her paths were
peace.'
V
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