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 Fftniiy, Flower Oirl. 
 
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 BY SELINA BUNBURY, 
 
 AUTHOR OP "GLORY, GLORY, GLORY," BTO. 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED OTHER TALES. 
 
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 HURST & CO.. Publishers, 
 
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 " Come, buy my flowers ; flowers fresh and 
 fair. Come, buy my flowers. Please ma'am, buy 
 a nice bunch of flowers, very pretty ones, ma'am. 
 Please, sir, to have some flowers ; nice, fresh 
 ones, miss; only just gathered; please look." 
 
 Thus spoke, or sometimes sung, a little girl 
 of perhaps eight years old, holding in her hand 
 a neat small basket, on the top of which lay a 
 clean white cloth, to shade from the sun the 
 flowers which she praised so highly, and a lit- 
 tle bunch of which she presented to almost 
 every passer-by, in the hope of finding pur- 
 chasers ; while, after one had passed rudely on, 
 another had looked at her young face and smil- 
 ed, another had said, " What a nice child l w but 
 not one had taken the flow ers, and left the penny 
 or the half-penny that was to pay for them 
 
the little girl, as if accustomed to all this, only 
 arranged again the pretty nosegays that had 
 been disarranged in the vain hope of selling 
 them, and commenced anew in her pretty sing' 
 ing tone, " Come, buy my flowers ; flowers 
 fresh and fair." 
 
 " Your flowers are sadly withered, my little 
 maid," said a kind, country-looking gentleman, 
 who was buying some vegetables at a stall 
 near her. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! I nave fresh ones, here, sir ; please 
 look ;" and the child lifted up the cover of her 
 basket, and drew from the very bottom a 
 bunch of blossoms on which the dew of morn- 
 ing still rested. 
 
 "Please to see, sir; a pretty rose, sir, and 
 these pinks and mignonette, and a bunch of 
 jessamine, sir, and all for one penny." 
 
 * Bless thee! pretty dear!" said the old 
 lame vegetable-seller, " thou'lt make a good 
 market-woman one of these days. Your honor 
 would do well to buy her flowers, sir, she has 
 got no mother or father, God help her, and 
 works for a sick grandmother." 
 
"Poor child!" said the old gentleman. 
 "Here, then, little one, give me three nice 
 nosegajs, and there is sixpence for you." 
 
 With delight sparkling in every feature of 
 her face, and her color changed to crimson 
 with joy, the little flower-girl received in one 
 hand the unusual piece of money; and setting 
 her basket on the ground, began hastily and 
 tremblingly to pick out nearly half its contents 
 as the price of the sixpence ; but the gentle- 
 man stooped down, and taking up at random 
 three bunches of the flowers, which were not 
 the freshest, said, 
 
 ■-■ Here, these will do ; keep the rest for a 
 more difficult customer. Be a good child; 
 pray to God, and serve Him, and you will find 
 He is the Father of the fatherless. 
 
 And so he went away; and the flower-girl, 
 without waiting to put her basket in order, 
 turned to the old vegetable-seller, and cried, 
 "Sixpence ! a whole sixpence, and all at once. 
 What will grandmother say now ? See !" and 
 opening her hand, she displayed its shining 
 af atents before her neighbor's eyes. 
 
6 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 "Eh! 5 ' exclaimed the old man, as he ap- 
 proached his eyes nearer to it. " Eh I what is 
 this ? why thou hast twenty sixpences there ; 
 this is a half sovereign I" 
 
 "Twenty sixpences! why the gentleman 
 said, there is sixpence for thee," said the child. 
 
 " Because he didn't know his mistake," re- 
 plied the other ; u . I saw him take the piece 
 out of his waistcoat-pocket without looking." 
 
 " Oh dear ! what shall I do ?" cried the littlo 
 girl. 
 
 "Why, thou must keep it, to be sure," re- 
 plied the old man ; " give it to thy grandmo- 
 ther, she will know what to do with it, I 
 warrant thee." 
 
 "But I must first try to find the good gen- 
 tleman, and tell him of his mistake," said the 
 child. " I know what grandmother would say 
 else ; and he cannot be far off, I think, because 
 he was so fat ; he will go slow, I am sure, this 
 hot morning. Here, Mr. Williams, take care 
 of my basket, please, till I come back." 
 
 And without a word more, the flower-girl 
 put down her little basket at the foot of the 
 
FANNY THE FLOWER GIRL. 7 
 
 vegetable-stall, and ran away as fast as she 
 could go. 
 
 When she turned out of the market-place, 
 she found, early as it was, that the street be- 
 fore her was pretty full ; but as from the pas- 
 sage the gentleman had taken to leave the 
 market place, she knew he could only have 
 gone in one direction, she had still hopes of 
 rinding him ; and she ran on and on, until she 
 actually thought she saw the very person be- 
 fore her ; he had just taken off his hat, and 
 was wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. 
 
 "That is him," said the little flower-girl, "1 
 am certain ;" but just as she spoke, some per- 
 sons came between her and the gentleman, and 
 she could not see him. Still she kept running 
 on ; now passing off the foot-path into the 
 street, and then seeing the fat gentleman still 
 before her ; and then again getting on the foot- 
 path, and losing sight of him, until at last she 
 came up quite close to him, as he was walking 
 slowly, and wiping the drops of heat from hia 
 forehead. 
 
 The poor child was then quite out of breatn ; 
 
8 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 and when she got up to him she could not call 
 out tc him to stop, nor say one word ; so she 
 caught hold of the skirt of his coat, and gave 
 it a strong pull. 
 
 The gentleman started, and clapped one 
 hand on his coat-pocket, and raised up his cane 
 in the other, for he was quite sure it was a 
 pickpocket at his coat. But when he turned, 
 he saw the breathless little flower-girl, and he 
 looked rather sternly at her, and said, 
 
 "Well, what do you want; what are you 
 about? eh!" 
 
 11 Oh, sir !" said the girl ; and then she be- 
 gan to cough, for her breath was quite spent. 
 "See, sir; you said you gave me sixpence, 
 and Mr. Williams says there are twenty six- 
 pences in this little bit of money." 
 
 "Dear me!" said the gentleman; "is it 
 possible? could I have done such a thing?" 
 and he began to fumble in his waistcoat 
 pocket. 
 
 " Well, really it is true enough," he added, 
 as he drew out a sixpence. "See what it is to 
 put gold and silver together." 
 
9 
 
 "I wish lie would give it to me," thought 
 the little flower-girl; "how happy it would 
 make poor granny ; and perhaps he has got a 
 good many more of these pretty gold pieces," 
 
 But the old gentleman put out his hand, 
 and took it, and turned it over and over, and 
 seemed to think a little ; and then he put his 
 hand into his pocket again, and took out his 
 purse ; and he put the half-sovereign into the 
 purse, and took out of it another sixpence. 
 
 " Well," he said, " there is the sixpence I 
 owe you for the flowers ; you have done right 
 to bring me back this piece of gold ; and there 
 is another sixpence for your race ; it is not a 
 reward, mind, for honesty is only our dutVj 
 and you only did what is right ; but you are 
 tired, and have left your employment, and 
 perhaps lost a customer, so I give you the other 
 sixpence to make you amends." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said the flower-girl, curt- 
 seying; and taking the two sixpences into hei 
 hand with a delighted smile, was going to run 
 back again, when the old gentleman, pulling 
 out a pocket-book, said, "Stay a moment; 
 
10 FANNY, THE FLOWEK-GIRL. 
 
 you are an orphan, they tell me ; what is your 
 name ?" 
 
 " Fanny, sir." 
 
 "Fanny what?" 
 
 "Please, I don't know, sir; grandmother is 
 Mrs. Newton, sir ; but she says she is not my 
 grandmother either, sir." 
 
 " Well, tell me where Mrs. Newton lives," 
 said the gentleman, after looking at her a 
 minute or so, as if trying to make out what 
 she meant. 
 
 So Fanny told him, and he wrote it down 
 in his pocket-book, and then read over what 
 he had written to her, and she said it was right. 
 
 " Now, then, run away back," said he, "and 
 sell all your flowers, if you can, before they 
 wither, for they will not last long this warm 
 day ; flowers are like youth and beauty — do 
 you ever think of that? even the rose withereth 
 afore it groweth up." And this fat gentleman 
 looked very sad, for he had lost all his children 
 in their youth. 
 
 " O yes ! sir ; I know a verse which says 
 that," replied Fanny. "All flesh is grass, and 
 
FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 11 
 
 all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of 
 grass — but good morning, and thank you, sir," 
 and away Fanny ran. 
 
 And now, before going on with my story, 
 I must go back to tell who and what Fanny, 
 the flower-girl, was. 
 
 Mrs. Newton, whom she called her grand- 
 mother, was now a poor old woman, confined 
 to her bed by a long and trying illness, that 
 had nearly deprived her of the use of her 
 limbs. But she had not been always thus 
 afflicted. Some years before, Mrs. Newton 
 lived in a neat cottage near the road-side, two 
 or three miles from one of the great sea-port 
 towns of England. Her husband had good 
 employment, and they were both comfortable 
 and happy. 
 
 Just eight years from this time, it happened 
 that one warm summer's day, Mrs. Newton 
 went to look out from her cottage door down 
 the road, and she saw a young woman stand- 
 ing there, leaning against a tree, and looking 
 very faint and weak. 
 
 She was touched with pity and asked tho 
 
12 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL 
 
 poor traveller to walk into her house and rest. 
 The young woman thankfully consented, for 
 she said she was very ill ; but she added, that 
 her husband was coming after her, having been 
 obliged to turn back for a parcel that was left 
 behind at the house where they had halted 
 some time before, and therefore she would sit 
 near the door and watch for him. 
 
 Before, however, the husband came, the poor 
 woman was taken dreadfully ill ; and when he 
 did arrive, good Mrs. Newton could not bear 
 to put the poor creature out of the house in 
 such a state ; she became worse and worse. In 
 short, that poor young woman was Fanny's 
 mother, and when little Fanny was born, that 
 poor sick mother died, and Fanny never saw 
 a mother's smile. 
 
 The day after the young woman's death, 
 kind Mrs. Newton came into the room where 
 her cold body was laid out on the bed ; and 
 there was her husband, a young, strong- look- 
 ing man, sitting beside it ; his elbows were on 
 his knees, and his face was hid in his open 
 hands. 
 
13 
 
 Mrs. Newton had the baby in her arms, and 
 Bhe spoke to its father as she came in; he 
 looked up to her ; his own face was as pale as 
 death ; and he looked at her without saying a 
 word. She saw he was in too much grief 
 either to speak or we^p. So she went over 
 silently to him, and put the little baby into his 
 arms, and then said, "May the Lord look down 
 with pity on you both." 
 
 As soon as the unhappy young man heard 
 these compassionate words, and saw the face of 
 his pretty, peaceful babe, he burst into tears ; 
 they rolled in large drops down on the infant's 
 head. 
 
 Then in a short time he was able to speak, 
 and he told Mrs. Newton his sad little history; 
 how he had no one in the whole world to look 
 with pity on him, or his motherless child ; and 
 hew God alone was his hope in this day of 
 calamity. His father had been displeased with 
 him because he had married that young woman, 
 whom he dearly loved ; and he had given him 
 some money that was his portion, and would 
 do POthing else for him. The young man had 
 
14 
 
 taken some land and a house, but as the rent 
 was too high, he could not make enough of 
 the land to pay it ; so he had been obliged tc 
 sell all his goods, and he had only as much 
 money left as would, with great saving, carry 
 him to America, where he had a brother who 
 advised him to go out there. 
 
 "And now/' said he, looking over at the 
 pale face of his dear wife, " What shall I do 
 with the little creature she has left me ? how 
 shall I carry it over the wide ocean without a 
 mother to care for it, and nurse it ?" 
 
 "You cannot do so," said Mrs. Newton, 
 wiping her eyes; "leave it with me; I have 
 no children of my own, my husband would 
 like to have one; this babe shall lie in my 
 bosom, and be unto me as a daughter. I will 
 nurse it for you until you are settled in America, 
 and send or come for it." 
 
 The young man wept with gratitude ; he 
 wanted to know how he was to repay Mrs. 
 Newton, but she. said for the present she did 
 not want payment, that it would be a pleasure 
 to her to have the baby ; and it would be 
 
15 
 
 time enough to talk about payment when the 
 father was able to claim it, and take it to a 
 home. 
 
 So the next day they buried the poor young 
 woman, and soon after the young man went 
 away and sailed off to America, and from that 
 day to this Mrs. Newton had never heard any- 
 thing of him. 
 
 As she had said, that poor little motherless 
 babe lay in her bosom, and was unto her as a 
 daughter ; she loved it ; she loved it when it 
 was a helpless little thing, weak and sickly ; she 
 loved it when it grew a pretty lively baby, and 
 would set its little feet on her knees, and crow 
 and caper before her face ; she loved it when 
 it began to play around her as she sat at work, 
 to lisp out the word " Ganny," for she taught it 
 to call her grandmother ; she loved it when it 
 would follow her into her nice garden, and 
 pick a flower and carry it to her, as she sat in 
 the little arbor ; and she, holding the flower, 
 would talk to it of God who made the flower, 
 and made the bee that drew honey from the 
 flower, and made the sun that caused the flower 
 
16 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 ^^ to grow, and the light that gave the flower its 
 colors, and the rain that watered it, and the 
 earth that nourished it. And she loved that 
 child when it came back from the infant 
 school, and climbed up on her lap, or stood 
 with its hands behind its back, to repeat some 
 pretty verses about flowers, or about the God 
 who made them. That child was Fanny, the 
 ■ flower-girl ; and ah ! how little did good Mrs. 
 Newton think she would be selling flowers in 
 the streets to help to support her. 
 
 But it came to pass, that when Fanny was 
 nearly six years old, Mrs. Newton's husband 
 fell very ill ; it was a very bad, and very ex- 
 pensive illness, for poor Mrs. Newton was so 
 uneasy, she would sometimes have two doctors 
 to see him ; but all would not do ; he died : and 
 Mrs. Newton was left very poorly off. 
 
 In a short time she found she could not keep 
 on her pretty cottage; she was obliged to leave 
 it ; and the church where she had gone every 
 Sunday for so many years; and the church-yard 
 where her husband was buried, and little 
 Fanny's mother; and the infant school where 
 
IT 
 
 Fanny learned so much ; and the dear Lttle 
 garden, and the flowers that were Fanny's 
 teachers and favorites. Oh ! how sorry was 
 poor Mrs. Newton. But even a little child 
 can give comfort; and so little Fanny, perhaps 
 without thinking to do so, did ; for when Mrs. 
 Newton for the last time sat out in her garden, 
 and saw the setting sun go down, and told 
 Fanny she was going to leave that pretty 
 garden, where she had from infancy been 
 taught to know God's works, the child looked 
 very sad and thoughtful indeed, for some time; 
 but afterwards coming up to her, said, 
 
 "But, grandmother, we shall not leave God, 
 shall we? for you say God is everywhere, and 
 He will be in London too." 
 
 And oh! how that thought consoled poor 
 Mrs.. Newton ; she did not leave God, — God 
 did not leave her. 
 
 So she left the abode oi her younger years 
 
 — the scene of her widowhood ; and she went 
 
 away to hire a poor lodging in the outlets of 
 
 London ; but her God was with her, and the 
 
 2* 
 
18 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 child she had nursed in her prosperity was her 
 comfort in adversity. 
 
 Matters, however, went no better when she 
 lived with little Fanny in a poor lodging. She 
 had only one friend in London, and she lived 
 at a distance from her. Mrs. Newton fell ill ; 
 there was no one to nurse her but Fanny ; she 
 could no longer pay for her schooling, and 
 sometimes she was not able to teach her herself. 
 
 All this seemed very hard, and very trying ; 
 and one would have been tempted to think 
 that God was no longer with poor Mrs. Newton ; 
 that when she had left her cottage she had left 
 the God who had been so good to her. 
 
 But this would have been a great mistake . 
 God was with Mrs. Newton ; He saw fit to try 
 and afflict her ; but He gave her strength and 
 patience to bear her trials and afflictions. 
 
 One afternoon her friend came to pay her a 
 visit: she was going out a little way into the 
 country to see a relation who had a very fine 
 nursery-garden, and she begged Mrs. Newton 
 to let little Fanny go with her own daughter. 
 Mrs. Newton was very glad to do so, for sho 
 
FANNY, THE FLOWER GIEL. 19 
 
 thought it would be a nice amusement for 
 Fanny. 
 
 The nurseryman was very kind to her ; ana 
 when she was going away gave her a fine bunch 
 of flowers. Fanny was in great delight, for 
 she loved flowers and knew her dear grand- 
 mother loved them too. But as she was 
 coming back, and just as she was entering the 
 streets, she met a lady and a little boy of about 
 three years old, who directly held out his hands 
 and began to beg for the flowers. His mamma 
 stopped, and as Fanny was very poorly dressed, 
 she thought it probable that she would sell her 
 nosegay, and so she said, 
 
 " Will you give that bunch of flowers to my 
 little boy, and I will pay you for it?" 
 
 " Please, ma'am, they are for grandmother," 
 said Fanny blushing, and thinking she ought 
 to give the flowers directly, and without money 
 to any one who wished for them. 
 
 "But perhaps your grand-mother would 
 rather have this sixpence?'* said the lady. 
 And Mrs. "Newton's friend, whc had just come 
 up, said, 
 
20 FANNY, THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 " Well, my dear, take the lady's sixpence, 
 and let her have the flowers if she wishes for 
 them." 
 
 So Fanny held the flowers to the lady, who 
 look them and put the sixpence in her hand. 
 Fanny wished much to ask for one rose, but 
 she thought it would not be right to do so, 
 when the lady had bought them all : and she 
 looked at them so very longingly that the lady' 
 asked if she were sorry to part with them. 
 
 "Oh ! no, ma'am," cried her friend, "she is 
 not at all sorry — come now, don't be a fool, 
 child," she whispered, and led Fanny on. 
 
 " That is a good bargain for you," she added 
 as she went on ; " that spoiled little master has 
 his own way, I think ; it would be well for 
 you, and your grandmother too, if you could 
 Bell sixpenny worth of flowers every day." 
 
 "Do you think I could, ma'am?" said 
 Fanny, opening her hand and looking at her 
 sixpence, " this will buy something to do poor 
 granny good ; do you think Mr. Simpson 
 would give me a nosegay every day ?" 
 
 " If you were to pay him for it, he would," 
 
21 
 
 said her friend ; " suppose you were to go every 
 morning about five o'clock, as many others do, 
 and buy some flowers, and then sell them at 
 the market ; you might earn something, and 
 that would be better than being idle, when 
 poor Mrs. Newton is not able to do for herself 
 and you." 
 
 So when Fanny got back, she gave her dear 
 grandmother the sixpence. 
 
 " The Lord be praised I" said Mrs. Newton, 
 " for I scarcely knew how I was to get a loaf 
 of bread for thee or myself to-morrow." 
 
 And then Fanny told her the plan she had 
 formed about the flowers. 
 
 Mrs. Newton was very sorry to think her 
 dear child should be obliged to stand in a 
 market place, or in the public streets, to offer 
 anything for sale ; but she said, " Surely it is 
 Providence has opened this means of gaining 
 a little bread, while I am laid here unable tc 
 do anything ; and shall I not trust that Provi 
 dence with the care of my darling child ?" 
 
 So from this time forth little Fanny set off 
 every morning before five o'clock, to the nur- 
 
22 FANNY, THE FLOWER aiRL. 
 
 sery garden ; and the nursery-man was very 
 kind to her, and always gave her the nicest 
 flowers ; and instead of sitting down with the 
 great girls, who went there also for flowers or 
 vegetables, and tying them up in bunches, 
 Fanny put them altogether in her little basket, 
 and went away to her grandmother's room, 
 and spread them out on the little table that 
 poor Mrs. Newton might see them, while the 
 sweet dew was yet sparkling on their bright 
 leaves. 
 
 Then she would tell how beautiful the gar- 
 den looked at that sweet early hour ; and Mrs. 
 Newton would listen with pleasure, for she 
 loved a garden. She used to say, that God 
 placed man in a garden when he was happy 
 and holy; and when he was sinful and sorrow- 
 ful, it was in a garden that the blessed Saviour 
 wept and prayed for the sin of the world; and 
 when his death had made atonement for that 
 sin, it was in a garden his blessed body was laid. 
 
 Mrs. Newton taught Fanny many things 
 from flowers ; she was not a bad teacher, in 
 her own simple way, but Jesus Christ, who was 
 
23 
 
 the best teacher the world ever had, instructed 
 his disciples from vine^ and lilies, corn and 
 fruit, and birds, and all natural things around 
 them. 
 
 And while Fanny tied up her bunches o* 
 flowers, she would repeat some verses from the 
 Holy Scriptures, such as this, " O Lord, how 
 manifold are thy works ! in wisdom hast rhou 
 made them all : the earth is full of thy riches." 
 And afterwards she would repeat such pretty 
 lines as these : — 
 
 " JNot worlds on worlds, in varied form, 
 Need we, to tell a God is here ; 
 The daisy, saved from winter's storm, 
 Speaks of his hand in lines as clear. 
 
 " For who but He who formed the skies, 
 
 And poured the day-spring's living flood, 
 Wondrous alike in all He tries, 
 Could reai % the daisy's simple bud ? 
 
 " Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, 
 Its fringed border nicely spin ; 
 And cut the gold-embossed gem, 
 That, shrined in silver, shines within; 
 
 M And fling it, unrestrained and free, 
 O'er hill, and dale, and desert sod, 
 That man, where'er he walks, may sot 
 In every step the trace of God" 
 
24 FAN2T2. THE FLOWER-GIRL 
 
 " And I, too, have had my daisy given to 
 me," poor Mrs. Newton would say, with tear- 
 ful eyes, as she gazed on her little flower-girl ; 
 " I too have my daisy, and though it may be 
 little cared for in the world, or trodden under 
 foot of men, yet will it ever bear, I trust, the 
 trace of God." 
 
 But it happened the very morning that the 
 gentleman had given Fanny the half-sovereign 
 in mistake, Mrs. Newton's money was quite 
 spent ; and she was much troubled, thinking 
 the child must go the next morning to the 
 garden without money to pay for her flowers, 
 for she did not think it likely she would sell 
 enough to buy what they required, and pay 
 for them also ; so she told Fanny she must 
 ask Mr. Simpson to let her owe him for a day 
 or two until she got a little money she ex- 
 pected. 
 
 Fanny went therefore, and said this to the 
 kind man at the garden ; and he put his hand 
 on her bead, and said, "My pretty little girl, 
 you may owe me as long as you please, for 
 you are a good child, and God will prosper you." 
 
FANNY, THE FLO WEE-GIRL. 25 
 
 So Fanny went back in great delight, and 
 told this to Mrs. Newton; and to cheer her 
 still more, she chose for her morning verse, 
 the advice that our Lord gave to all those who 
 were careful and troubled about the things of 
 this life " Consider the lilies of the field, how 
 they grow; they toil not, neither do they 
 spin ; and yet I say unto you that Solomon, 
 in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of 
 these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass 
 of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is 
 cast into the oven, shall he not much more 
 clothe you, oh ye of little faith?" 
 
 And then she repeated some verses which 
 both she and Mrs. Newton liked very much. 
 
 " Lo 1 the lilies of the field, 
 How their leaves instruction yield ! 
 Hark to nature's lesson, given 
 By the blessed birds of heaven. 
 
 " Say with richer crimson glows, 
 The kingly mantle than the rose ; 
 Say are kings more richly dressed, 
 Than the lily's glowing vest ? 
 
 "Grandmother, ] forget the next verse," 
 3 
 
26 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 said Fanny, interrupting herself; " I know it 
 is something about lilies not spinning; but 
 then comes this verse — 
 
 " Barns, nor hoarded store have we" — 
 
 11 It is not the lilies, grandmother, but the 
 'blessed birds' that are speaking now — 
 
 " Barns, nor hoarded store have we, 
 Yet we carol joyously ; 
 Mortals, fly from doubt and sorrow, 
 God provideth for the morrow." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Newton clasped her thin hands, 
 and looked up, and prayed like the disciples, 
 " Lord, increase our faith !" 
 
 "Eh!" said she, afterwards, "is it not 
 strange that we can trust our Lord and Sa- 
 viour with the care of our souls for eternity, 
 and we cannot trust Him with that of our 
 bodies for a day." 
 
 Well I this was poor Mrs. Newton's state 
 on that day, when the gentleman gave Fanny 
 the half-sovereign instead of sixpence, for her 
 flowers. 
 
27 
 
 When the little flower-girl came back from 
 her race with her two sixpences, she found the 
 old vegetable-seller had got her three or four 
 pennies more, by merely showing her basket, 
 and telling why it was left at his stall ; and so 
 every one left a penny for the honest child, 
 and hoped the gentleman would reward her 
 well. The old man at the stall said it was 
 very shabby of him only to give her sixpence ; 
 but when she went home with three sixpences 
 and told Mrs. Newton this story, she kissed 
 her little girl very fondly, but said the gentle- 
 man was good to give her sixpence, for he had 
 no right to give her anything, she had only 
 done her duty. 
 
 u But, grandmother," said Fanny, " when I 
 saw that pretty half-sovereign dropping down 
 Into his purse, I could not help wishing he 
 would give it to me." 
 
 "And what commandment did you break 
 then, my child?" 
 
 "Not the eighth— if I had kept the half- 
 sovereign I should have broken it," said Fan* 
 ny, " for that says, thou shalt not steal — what 
 
28 
 
 commandment did I break, grandmother; foi 
 I did not steal ?" 
 
 "When we desire to have what is not oura 
 Fanny, what do we do? we covet; do wc 
 not?" 
 
 11 Oh ! yes — thou shalt not covet thy neigh- 
 bor's goods," cried Fanny, "that is the tenth 
 commandment; and that half-sovereign was 
 my neighbor's goods, and that fat gentlemaD 
 was my neighbor. But, grandmother, it is 
 very easy to break the tenth commandment." 
 
 "Very easy indeed, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Newton, with first a faint smile, and then a 
 deep sigh, "therefore," she added, "we ought 
 always to pray like David, ' Turn away mine 
 eyes from beholding vanity.' " 
 
 There is a very common saying, that when 
 things are at the worst they mend. It is hard 
 to say when matters are at the worst; poor 
 Mrs. Newton knew they might yet be worse 
 with her ; but certainly, they were very bad ; 
 and a few days after this, as Fanny was tying 
 up her flowers as usual, she lay on her bed 
 thinking what she was to do, and praying that 
 
29 
 
 God would direct her to some way of provide 
 ing for the poor child. 
 
 While she was thinking and praying, tears 
 stole down her face; Fanny saw them, and 
 stopped her work, and looked sorrowfully at,,, 
 her — 
 
 " Now you are crying again, grandmother,' 
 she said, " and that's what makes me break the 
 tenth commandment, for I can't help wishing 
 the gentleman had given me that half-sover- 
 eign- But I will say the verses again to-day 
 about the lilies and birds : for vou know I said 
 that morning — 
 
 ' Mortals fly from doubt and sorrow, 
 God provideth for the morrow,' 
 
 and when I came back with my three six- 
 pences, you said God had provided for the 
 morrow, for you had only two or three pennies 
 in the house when I went out." 
 
 " And how many pennies, pray, have you in 
 the house to-day?" said a rather gruff voice 
 at the door. 
 
 Mrs, Newton and Fanny started j bat there, 
 3* * 
 
30 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 standing at the door, Fanny saw the fat gen- 
 tleman who had given her the half-sovereign. 
 
 " So you have been wishing for my gold, 
 you little rogue," he said, looking as if he 
 meant to frighten her. "Never mind," he 
 added, smiling, "you are a good child, and did 
 what was right; and I always meant to bring 
 it back to you, but I have been kept rather 
 busy these few days past. There it is for you, 
 and try not to break the tenth commandment 
 again." Then turning to Mrs. Newton, he 
 said, " We should not expect rewards, ma'am, 
 for doing our duty, but if children do not 
 meet with approbation when they do right, 
 they may be discouraged, and perhaps think 
 there is no use in being good: for they are 
 silly little creatures, you know, and do not al- 
 ways recollect that God will reward the just 
 one day if men do not." 
 
 "Oh ! sir!" said poor Mrs. Newton, but the 
 tears streamed down, and she could not say a 
 word more. And there Fanny sat gazing on 
 the half-sovereign, as if she was half stupefied. 
 
 "Well, take up that bit of gold, and do 
 
31 
 
 what you like with it," said the fat gentleman; 
 " and then run off to sell your flowers, for we 
 must not be idle because we have got enough 
 for to-day. But do what you like with that 
 money." 
 
 Fanny rose up from her seat, and looking 
 very much as if she was moving in her sleep, 
 with her wondering eyes fixed on the shining 
 piece that lay in her hand, she walked slowly 
 over to Mrs. Newton, and putting it into hers, 
 said, — 
 
 " May I go to the grocer's now, grandmother, 
 and get you the tea for your breakfast ?" 
 
 " Yes, my love," said Mrs. Newton, kissing 
 her, u and take care of this, and bring back 
 the change carefully." Then turning to the 
 gentleman, she said, "I am not young, sir, and 
 T am very, very poorly ; I find it hard to go 
 without my tea, but it is a luxury I have been 
 obliged latterly to forego." 
 
 "But could you not get tea on credit, from 
 the grocer ?" said the gentleman. 
 
 " Oh I yes, I believe' so ; but there would be 
 no use in getting credit;" said Mrs. Newton, 
 
32 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 " for I am not certain of being better able to 
 pay next week than I am this week ; and when 
 I have not the money to pay for what I wish 
 to get, it is better to do without it, than to add 
 to one's anxieties by running in debt. Do you 
 not think so, sir?" 
 
 "Ma'am," said the old gentleman, sitting 
 down, and resting his large silver-topped stick 
 between his knees, "it is of very little conse- 
 quence what I think; but if you wish to know 
 this, I will tell you that I think very well 
 both of you and your little girl, who, as I have 
 heard, for I have made inquiries about you 
 both, is a dependant on your bounty. You 
 have* trained her up well, though I wouldn't 
 praise the child to her face; and so take as 
 much tea as you like till you hear from me 
 again, and your grocer need be in no trouble 
 about his bill." 
 
 So after the fat gentleman had made this 
 rather bluff, but honest-hearted speech, and 
 poor Mrs. Newton had wept, and thanked him 
 in language that sounded more polite, the good 
 old gentleman told her his whole history. 
 
FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 33 
 
 lie began the world very poor, and without 
 relations able to assist him; he was at last 
 taken into the employment of a young mer* 
 chant in the city ; he had a turn for business, 
 and having been able to render some important 
 services to this young man, he was finally, to 
 his own surprise, and that of every one else, 
 taken into partnership. 
 
 " During all this time," said he, " I was at- 
 tached from my boyhood to the daughter of 
 the poor schoolmaster who first taught me to 
 read ; I would not marry her while I was poor, 
 for I thought that would be to make her 
 wretched instead of happy ; but when I was 
 taken into partnership I thought my way was 
 clear ; I went off to Bethnal Green, and told 
 Mary, and our wedding-day was settled at 
 once. Well, we were glad enough, to be sure ; 
 bu t a very few days after, my partjier called 
 me into the private room, and said he wanted 
 to consult me. He seemed in high-spirits, and 
 he told me he had just heard of a famous spec- 
 ulation, by which we could both make our for* 
 tunes at once. He explained what it was, and 
 
34 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 I saw with shame and regret, that no really 
 honest man could join in it: I told him so; 1 
 told him plainly I would have nothing to do 
 with it. You may think what followed ; the 
 deeds of partnership were not yet signed, and 
 in short, in two or three days more I found 
 myself poor Jack Walton again — indeed, 
 poorer than I was before I was made one of 
 the firm of Charters and Walton, for I had lost 
 my employment. 
 
 " Often and often I used to think that David 
 said, he had never seen the righteous forsaken ; 
 yet I was suffering while the unrighteous were 
 prospering. It was a sinful, and a self-right- 
 eous thought, and I was obliged to renounce 
 it; when, after some time of trial, a gentleman 
 sent for me — a man of wealth, and told me his 
 son was going into business on his own ac- 
 count ; that he had heard of my character, and 
 of the cause of my leaving Mr. Charters; that 
 he thought I would be just such a steady per- 
 son as he wished his son to be with. In short, 
 I began with him on a handsome salary ; was 
 soon made his partner; married Mary, and 
 
35 
 
 had my snug house in the country. Mr. Char 
 ters succeeded in that speculation ; entered into 
 several others, some of which were of a more 
 fraudulent nature, failed, and was ruined. He 
 ran olf to America, and no one knows what 
 became of him. I have left business some 
 years. I purchased a nice property in the 
 country, built a Church upon it, and have eve- 
 thanked God, who never forsakes those who 
 wish to act righteously. 
 
 " It pleased God to take all my sweet chil- 
 dren from me — every state has its trials — the 
 youngest was just like your little flower-girl." 
 
 Mrs. Newton was much pleased with this 
 story ; she then told her own, and little Fan 
 ny's. The fat gentleman's eyes were full of 
 tears when she ended; when he was going 
 away he put another half-sovereign into her 
 hand, and saying, " The first was for the child," 
 walked out of the house. 
 
 A short time afterwards, a clergyman came 
 to see Mrs. Newton — she was surprised; he 
 sat and talked with her some time, and seemed 
 greatly pleased with her sentiments, and all 
 
she told him of herself and Fanny. He then 
 told her that he was the clergyman whom Mr. 
 Walton, on the recommendation of the bishop 
 of the diocese, had appointed to the church he 
 had built; that Mr. Walton had sent him to 
 see her, and bad told him, if he was satisfied 
 with all he saw and heard, to invite Mrs. New- 
 ton and the little flower-girl to leave London, 
 and go and live in one of the nice widows' 
 houses, which good Mr. Walton had built, near 
 the pretty village where he lived. 
 
 Then there was great joy in poor Mrs. New- 
 ton's humble abode; Mrs. Newton was glad 
 for Fanny's sake, and Fanny was glad for Mrs. 
 Newton's sake, so both were glad, and both 
 said — 
 
 " Mortals fly from doubt and sorrow, 
 God provideth for the morrow." 
 
 But the only difference was, that Mrs. New- 
 ton said it with watery eyes and clasped hands, 
 lying on her bed and looking up to heaven ; 
 and Fanny — merry little thing! — said it frisk- 
 ing and jumping about the room, clapping her 
 hands together, and laughing her joy aloud. 
 
FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 87 
 
 Well, there was an inside place taken in the 
 
 B coach, for Mrs. Newton and Fanny; 
 
 and not only that, but kind Mrs. Walton sent 
 up her own maid to London, to see that every- 
 thing was carefully done, as the poor woman 
 was ill, and help to pack up all her little goods ; 
 and, with her, she sent an entire new suit of 
 clothes for the flower-girl. 
 
 They set off, and when they got near to the 
 village the coachman stopped, and called out 
 to know if it were the first, or the last of the 
 red cottages he was to stop at ; and Mrs. Wal- 
 ton's maid said, '■ The last, — the cottage in the 
 garden." So they stopped at such a pretty 
 cottage, with a little garden before and behind 
 it. Mr. Walton had known what it was to be 
 poor, and so, when he grew rich, he bad built 
 these neat houses, for those who had been rich 
 and become poor. They were intended chiefly 
 for the widows of men of business, whose 
 character had been good, but who had died 
 without being able to provide for their fami- 
 lies. *%Ie had made an exception in Mrs. New- 
 ton 7 " case, and gave her one of the best houses, 
 
38 
 
 because it had a pretty garden, which he 
 thought others might not care for so much. 
 
 They went inside, and there was such a neat 
 kitchen, with tiles as red as tiles could be ; a 
 little dresser, with all sorts of useful things; 
 anicaclock ticking opposite the fire-place, and 
 a grate as bright as blacklead could make it. 
 And then there was such a pretty little room 
 at one side, with a rose tree against the win- 
 dow; and a little shelf for books against the 
 wall ; and a round table, and some chairs, and 
 an easy couch. And there were two nice bed- 
 rooms overhead; and, better than all these, 
 was a pretty garden. Oh! how happy wag 
 the little flower-girl; and how thankful was 
 poor Mrs. Newton! The first thing she 
 did was to go down on her knees and thank 
 God. 
 
 Then Fanny was to go to the school, foi 
 Mrs. Walton had her own school, as well as 
 the national school ; but Fanny did not know 
 enough to go to it, so she was sent to the na- 
 tional school first, and afterwards she went to 
 the other, where about a dozen girls were in« 
 
39 
 
 Btructed in all things that would be useful to 
 them through life — whether they were to eai 
 their bread at service, or to live in theif own 
 homes as daughters, wives, or mothers. 
 
 But every morning, before she went out, she 
 did everything for her dear, good grandmother. 
 She made her breakfast; she arranged her 
 room ; and she gathered some fresh flowers in 
 the garden, and put them on the table in the 
 little parlor. Oh ! how happy was Fanny 
 when she looked back, and saw how nice 
 everything looked, and then went out singing 
 to her school — 
 
 " Barns, nor hoarded store have we, 
 Yet we carol joyously ; 
 Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, 
 God provideth for the morrow." 
 
 But God will not provide for the morrow, 
 where people will do nothing to provide for 
 themselves; and so Fanny, the flower-girl, 
 knew, for surely God had blessed the labor of 
 her childish hands. 
 
 Thus passed time away ; and Fanny, under 
 
40 
 
 the instruction that she had at church, at 
 school, and at home, "grew in grace, and in 
 the knov 'ledge and love of God, and of Jesus 
 Christ our Lord." 
 
 Good Mrs. Newton was much better in 
 health, and used to walk about sometimes 
 without any support but Fanny's arm, and so 
 time went on till Fanny came to be about fif- 
 teen ; and then Mrs. Newton, who was not 
 always free from "doubt and sorrow," began 
 to think what was to become of her if she were 
 to die. 
 
 So one day, when kind Mr. Walton, whom 
 Fanny used once to call the fat gentleman, 
 came in to see her, Mrs. Newton told him that 
 she was beginning to feel anxious that Fanny 
 should be put in a way of earning her own 
 bread, in case she should be taken from her. 
 
 Mr. Walton listened to her, and then ho 
 said, — 
 
 "You are very right and prudent, Mrs. 
 Newton, but never mind that; I have not for- 
 gotten my little flower-girl, and her race aftei 
 me that hot morning: if you were dead, I 
 
FANNY, THE FLO >VER-GIRL. 41 
 
 Would take care of her ; and if we both were 
 dead, Mrs. Walton would take care of her; 
 and if Mrs. Walton were dead, God would 
 take care of her. I see you cannot yet learn 
 the little lines she is so fond of — 
 
 " ' Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, 
 God provideth for the morrow.' " 
 
 Well, not very long after this conversation 
 came a very warm day, and in all the heat of 
 the sun came Mr. Walton, scarcely able to 
 breathe, into Mrs. Newton's cottage; he was 
 carrying his hat in one hand, and a newspaper 
 in the other, and his face was very red and 
 hot. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Newton," said he, " what is all 
 this about? — I can't make it out ; here is your 
 name in the paper!" 
 
 "My name, sir!" said Mrs. Newton, staring 
 at the paper. 
 
 " Aye, indeed is it," said Mr. Walton, put« 
 ting on his spectacles, and opening the papei 
 at the advertisement side, — u see here I" 
 
 And he began to read, — 
 .4* 
 
42 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 "If Vts. Newton, who lived about fifteen 
 
 years ago near the turnpike on the P 
 
 road, will appl}* to Messrs. Long and Black, 
 she will hear of something to her advantage. 
 Or should she be dead, any person who can 
 give information respecting her and her fam- 
 ily, will be rewarded." 
 
 Mrs. Newton sat without the power of 
 speech — so much was she surprised; at last 
 she said, "It is Fanny's father! — I know, I 
 am sure it can be no one else!'' 
 
 Mr. Walton looked surprised, for he had 
 never thought of this ; he was almost sorry to 
 think his little flower-girl should have another 
 protector. At length he said it must be as 
 Mrs. Newton thought, and he would go up to 
 London himself next day, and see Mr. Long and 
 Mr. Black. So he went; and two days after- 
 wards, when Fanny had returned from Mrs. 
 Walton's school, and was sitting with Mrs. 
 Newton in the little shady arbor they had 
 made in the garden, and talking over early 
 days, when they used to sit in another arbor, 
 and Fanny used to learn her first lessons from 
 
FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 43 
 
 flowers, then came Mr. "Walton walking up 
 the path towards them, and with him was a 
 fine-looking man, of about forty-five years of 
 age. 
 
 Mrs. Newton trembled, for when she looked 
 in his face she remembered the features ; and 
 she said to herself, "Now, if he takes my Fan- 
 ny from me ? — and if he should be a bad man ?# 
 Bat when this man came nearer, he stepped 
 hastily beyond Mr. Walton, and catching Mrs. 
 Newton's hands, he was just going to drop on 
 his knees before her, when he saw Fanny star- 
 ing at him ; and a father's feelings overcame 
 every other, and with a cry of joy he extended 
 his arms, and exclaiming " my child I — my 
 child !" caught her to his breast. 
 
 Then there followed so much talk, while no 
 one knew scarcely what was saying; and it 
 was Mr. Walton, chiefly, that told how Fanny's 
 father had had so much to struggle against, 
 and so much hardship to go through, but how 
 he had succeeded at last, and got on very well ; 
 how he had tried then to find out Mrs. Newton 
 and his dear little Fanny, but could not, because 
 
44 FANNY, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 Mrs. Newton had changed her abode ; how, at 
 last, he had met with a good opportunity to 
 sell his land, and had now come over with the 
 money he had earned, to find his child, and 
 repay her kind benefactor. 
 
 Oh, what a happy evening was that in the 
 widow's cottage! the widow's heart sang for 
 joy. The widow, and she that had always 
 thought herself an orphan, were ready to sing 
 together — 
 
 " Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, 
 God provideth for the morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Newton found that Mr. Marsden, that 
 was the name of Fanny's father, was all that 
 she could desire Fanny's father to be : — a Chris 
 tian in deed and in truth; one thankful to 
 God and to her, for the preservation and care 
 of his child; and who would not willingly 
 separate Fanny from her, or lether leave Fanny. 
 
 As he found Mrs. Newton did not wish to 
 leave kind Mr. Walton's neighborhood, and 
 that his daughter was attached to it also, Mr 
 Marsden t Dok some land and a nice farm-house, 
 
FANNY, THE FLOWER- GIEL. 45 
 
 not far from the Manor House, where Mr. 
 Walton lived. He had heard all about the 
 half-sovereign, and loved his little flower-girl 
 before he saw her. 
 
 So Mrs. Newton had to leave her widow's 
 house ; and she shed tears of joy, and regret, 
 and thankfulness, as she did so ; she had been 
 happy there, and had had God's blessing upon 
 her and her dear girl. 
 
 But Fanny was glad to receive her dear, 
 dear grandmother into her own father's house; 
 her own house too; and she threw her arms 
 round the old lady's neck, when they got there, 
 and kissed her over and over again, and said, 
 " Ah ! grandmother, do you recollect when I 
 was a little girl tying up my flowers while you 
 lay sick in bed, I used to say so often — 
 
 " ■ Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow, 
 God provideth for the morrow.' " 
 
 They had a large garden at the farm-house, 
 and Fanny and Mrs. Newton improved it ; and 
 Mrs. Newton would walk out, leaning on Fan- 
 ny's arm, and look at the lilies and roses, and 
 
46 FANTST, THE FLOWER-GIRL. 
 
 jessamine, and mignonette, and tall; of past 
 times, and of their first garden, aad tlieir first 
 flowers, and of their first knowledge of the God 
 who made them ; who watches the opening 
 bud, and the infant head; who sends his rain 
 upon the plant, and the dew of his blessing 
 upon the child who is taught to know and love 
 Him. And Fanny's father, when he joined 
 them, talked over his trials and dangers from 
 the day that his poor wife lay dead, and his 
 helpless buby lay in his arms, aud then he 
 blessed the God who had led him all his life 
 long, and crowned him with loving-kindness. 
 
 Three years passed, and Fanny, the little 
 flower-girl, was a fine young woman. A 
 farmer's son in the neighborhood wished to 
 get her for his wife; but her father was very 
 sorry to think of her leaving him so soon for 
 another home. 
 
 He spoke to Fanny about it, and said, — 
 "My dear girl, I have no right to expect you 
 Bhould wish to stay with me, for I never was 
 able to watch over your childhood or to act a 
 father's part by you." 
 
FANNY, THK FLOWER-GIRL 47 
 
 And Fanny answered, with a blush, and 
 smile, u And I, father, was never able to act a 
 daughter's part by you until now, and there- 
 fore I think you have every right to expect I 
 should do so for some time longer. I have no 
 objection* to be Charles Brierley's wife, and I 
 have told him so : but we are both young, and 
 at all events I will not leave you." 
 
 "Now," said Mrs. Newton, who was sitting 
 by, "instead of that young man taking more 
 land, which is very dear about here, would it 
 not be a good plan if he were to come and live 
 with you, Mr. Marsden, and help you with the 
 farm." 
 
 And Mr. Marsden said, a That is the very 
 thing ; I will go and speak to him about it ; 
 and Fanny and her husband can have the 
 house, and farm, and all, as much as they 
 please now, and entirely at my death." 
 
 So it was all settled ; and Fanny was mar- 
 ried at the village church, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 "Walton were at the wedding. Good Mrs. 
 Newton lived on at the farm-house, and when 
 Fanny's first child was born, it was put into 
 
48 
 
 her arms. Then she thought of the time when 
 Fanny herself was laid in the same arms ; and 
 she blessed God in her heart, who had en- 
 abled herto be of use to one human creature, 
 and to one immortal soul and mind, while she 
 passed through this life to the life everlasting. 
 Joy and sorrow are always mingled on this 
 earth; so it came to pass that before Fanny's 
 first child could walk alone, good, kind Mrs. 
 Newton died, and was buried. As a shock of 
 corn cometh in in its season, so she sank to 
 rest, and was gathered into the garner of her 
 Lord. But — 
 
 " The memory of the just 
 Is blessed, though they sleep in dust ;" 
 
 and Fanny's children, and children's children, 
 will learn to love that memory. 
 
 Many a day, sitting at work in her garden, 
 with htr little ones around her, Fanny let 
 them gather some flowers, and talk to her 
 about them ; and then they would beg, as a 
 reward for good conduct, that she would tell 
 
49 
 
 them about her dear grandmother and her 
 own childish days ; and much as children love 
 to hear stories, never did any more delight in 
 a story, than did these children, in the stoi v 
 of Fanny, the Flower-Gill. 
 5 
 
Little Frances was crying ; her sister Mar/ 
 hearing her sobs, ran in haste to inquire what 
 had happened ; and saw her sitting in a corner 
 of the nursery, looking rather sulky, as if she 
 had recently received some disappointment. 
 
 " What is the matter, dear little Frances ? 
 why do you cry so ?" 
 
 Frances pouted, and would make no reply. 
 
 " Tell me, dear Frances ; perhaps I can do 
 something for you." 
 
 " Nothing, Mary," she sobbed, " only" — 
 " " Only what, little Frances ? It cannot be 
 nothing that makes you cry so bitterly.' ' 
 
 " Only mamma would not give — " she look- 
 ed a little ashamed, and did not finish her sen- 
 tence. 
 
 " What would she not give C 
 
52 CONVEMENT FOOD. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Nothing I Frances, I am afraid there 
 is something naughty." 
 
 Frances shook her elbows, as if troubled by 
 Mary's inquiries, but the tears continued flow- 
 ing down her cheeks. 
 
 Just at that moment their sister Anne came 
 into the room, singing in the joy of her heart, 
 with a piece of plum-cake in her hand, holding 
 it up, and turning it about before her sisters 
 to exhibit her newly -acquired possession, on 
 which Frances fixed her eyes with eager gaze, 
 and the tears flowed still faster, accompanied 
 with a kind of angry sob. 
 
 " Frances I what is the matter that you are 
 crying so? see what I have got! you will 
 spoil all the happiness of our feast." 
 
 At the word feast, Frances' tears seemed ar- 
 rested, and her mouth looked as if she were 
 going to smile. She left the corner, and im- 
 mediately prepared to do her part for the 
 feast, setting a little square table, and then, 
 drawing her own little stool, seated herself in 
 readiness as a guest. 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 53 
 
 " Stay," said Anne, " we will make some 
 little paper dishes and plates, and divide the 
 cake ;'' so saying, she began the operation, and 
 laying down the paper dishes, "there at the 
 top, see ! there shall be two chickens, at the 
 bottom a piece of beef, at one side some pota- 
 toes, and at the other some cauliflower;" 
 breaking her cake into small pieces to corre- 
 spond to her imagined provision. 
 
 Frances looked very impatient at the long 
 preparation, and as Anne seated herself, in- 
 viting Mary to partake, Frances stretched 
 out her hand to take the beef for her own por- 
 tion. 
 
 " No, no, Frances, you must not help your- 
 self, you know ; wait until we all begin in 
 order." 
 
 Frances very reluctantly withdrew her hand, 
 and, whilst she waited, betrayed her impa- 
 tience by a little jerking motion of the body, 
 that threw he" breast against the table, as if 
 she would beat time into quicker motion. 
 
 u O we must not forget William!" Anne 
 
 exclaimed ; " where is he ? he must taste our 
 5* 
 
u4 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 feast ; stay here, Mary, with Frances, and 1 
 will go and find him." 
 
 Away she ran, and left poor Frances in a 
 fret at this additional delay, but she began to 
 amuse herself by picking up the small crumbs 
 that had been scattered on the stool, and at 
 last proceeded to touch the beef and chickens. 
 
 " Do not do so, Frances," Mary said, in a 
 reproving voice. 
 
 Frances colored. 
 
 " Do not sit looking on, it you are so impa 
 tient; employ yourself, and get a seat ready 
 tor William." 
 
 " You may get it, Mary." 
 
 "Very well; only do not meddle with 
 Anne's feast." 
 
 Mary had to go into another ro^m for the 
 Beat, and whilst she was away. Frances quickly 
 helped herself to half of the pieces which were 
 on the dishes, and, when Mary returned, re- 
 sumed her position as if nothing had happened. 
 Mary was so busy in arranging the seats, that 
 ahe did not observe what had been done. 
 
 Presently Anne came back, accompanied by 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 55 
 
 her brother William ; hastening to her place, 
 and looking on her table, she started with sur- 
 prise, and seemed to say to herself, as she 
 gazed, How came I to make a mistake, an 
 think my pieces of cake were larger? but th 
 expression of her face called Mary's attention, 
 who at once said, 
 
 " Anne, I am sure you placed larger pieces 
 on your dishes." 
 
 " Indeed, I thought so, Mary ; who has 
 taken any?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " you are only pretending, and you have 
 been hiding some." 
 
 " No, Anne ; I would not have said I do 
 not know, if I had hid it." 
 
 " No, no more you would, dear Mary. 
 Never mind," she said, glancing a look at 
 Frances, not altogether without suspicion, " it 
 is only to play with, it does not signify whether 
 it is much or little. 
 
 " William, shall I help you to a little chick- 
 en?" 
 
 "O no, Anne, you have forgot, help the 
 
56 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 ladies first ; and beside, you ought to have 
 placed me at the bottom of the table to carv< 
 this dish. What is it?" 
 
 " Beef, William. ' 
 
 11 O beef, very well. Come, Miss Frances, 
 let me sit there, and you come to the side of 
 the table." 
 
 In haste to begin the eating part of the play, 
 she rose immediately to change places, when, 
 to her disgrace, a quantity of crumbs, which 
 had lodged unobserved in a fold of her frock, 
 fell out, and disordered the neatness of the 
 table. 
 
 " There !" said William, " we have no ques- 
 tion to ask who took the liberty to lessen the 
 dishes." 
 
 " For shame, William, I—" 
 
 " O Frances, take care what you say, tell 
 no falsehoods ; I will tell one truth, and say 
 you are a greedy girl." 
 
 Frances began to cry again, " For shame, 
 William, to call me names." 
 
 " I call no names, I only say what I think , 
 and how can I help it, when it is only just 
 
COKVENIENT FOOD. 57 
 
 11 u¥ yon cried so, because you said mamma 
 had given me a larger piece of cake than your- 
 self; for you must know," he continued, turn- 
 ing to Mary, " we have both had one piece 
 before, and she half of mine to make her quiet ; 
 and then she cried again because a piece was 
 put by for you and Anne, and she cannot be 
 contented now, though Anne shares hers 
 amongst us. If this is not being greedy, I do 
 not know what greedy means. It is no names, 
 it is only saying what a thing is." 
 
 " Now I know another thing," said Anne ; 
 " when mamma called me to receive my piece 
 of cake, she said, ' And you shall take a piece 
 also to Mary/ but when she unfolded the 
 paper, there was only one piece ; mamma did 
 not say anything, but I think she thought 
 something." 
 
 At this remark, Frances redoubled her cry- 
 ing, but, for the sake of a share of the present 
 feast, did not attempt to leave the party. No 
 more was said, and the feast was concluded in 
 good humor by all except the conscious greedy 
 girl, and they then all went into the garden 
 
68 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 together to finish their hour's recreation before 
 they were callecl again to their lessons. 
 
 There was a little plantation of young fir- 
 trees at one corner of the garden, intended to 
 grow there for shelter from the north-west 
 wind : the grass was so high amongst them, 
 that the gardener had orders to go and care- 
 fully mow it down. He was engaged in the 
 business when the children ran out to see him 
 work. 
 
 " Hush 1 hush !" he exclaimed, as they ap- 
 proached, " I have just cleared a bough from 
 the grass, and see what's there !" 
 
 All curiosity, they went forward on tip-toe, 
 and were directed to something lodged on the 
 spreading branch of a young larch. 
 
 " A bird's nest !" said William. 
 
 " A bird's nest !" they all repeated. " But 
 what is in it, I cannot tell." » 
 
 "Look steadily," said the gardener, :i and 
 you will find out." 
 
 It was difficult to trace what it was ; some- 
 thing all in a heap, brown naked skin ; alive, 
 as might be known by the heaving breathing. 
 
CONVENIENT POOD. 69 
 
 William putting his finger to touch them, 
 immediately four wide mouths stretched open, 
 with little tongues raised, and the opening of 
 their throats extended to the utmost. 
 
 " Look at the little things," said William ; 
 " they thought their mother was come when I 
 touched the branch, and they have opened 
 their mouths to be ready to receive what she 
 would put in. 
 
 " They are blind /" said William. 
 
 " Yes, they cannot have been natched more 
 than two days." 
 
 " Will they take what the mother gives 
 them ?" asked William. 
 
 " Yes," said the man, " they trust her, and 
 swallow down what she puts into their 
 mouths." 
 
 " I wish the mother would come," said Anne. 
 
 " But she will not whilst we are here," Wil- 
 liam replied. 
 
 :' Touch it again, William," said Frances. I 
 
 William touched the edge of the nest. 
 "See!" said he, "they think the mother is 
 some, they stretch theii mouths still ^ider." 
 
60 convenient pood. 
 
 " Hark !" said Mary, " what an impatient 
 noise they make : they look ready to stretch 
 themselves out of their nest, and as if their 
 little mouths would tear." 
 
 u Poor little things ! do not disappoint them, 
 give them something,'' said Anne. 
 
 " We have not proper food for them," said 
 William. 
 
 "I will run and fetch some crumbs," said 
 Mary. 
 
 Mary soon returned with a piece of bread, 
 and giving it to her brother as the most expe- 
 rienced, he broke it into extremely small 
 crumbs, and, again touching the nest, awaken- 
 ed the expectation of the young birds : they 
 opened their mouths wide, and as he dropped 
 a small crumb into each, they moved their 
 tongues, trying to make it pass down into their 
 throat. " Poor little things, they cannot swal- 
 low well, they want the mother to put it 
 gently down their throat with her beak." 
 
 " See ! see !" said all the girls, " they want 
 more, give them more." 
 
 William dropped his crumbs again. 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 61 
 
 " More, more, William ; see ! they are not 
 satisfied." 
 
 "I dare not give them more for fear of kill- 
 ing them, we cannot feed them like the mo- 
 ther. We will stand still at a little distance, 
 and you will see them go to sleep." When 4 
 all was quiet, the little nestlings shut their 
 mouths, and dropped their heads. 
 
 " I should like to see the mother feed them." 
 
 " You would see how much better she 
 would do it than we can ; perhaps, if we could 
 conceal ourselves behind that laurel, she would 
 come, but she will be very frightened, because 
 all is so altered now the grass is cut down, and 
 her nest is exposed ; but I dare say she is not 
 far off, she will be watching somewhere." 
 
 They took William's hint, and retreated be- 
 hind the laurel ; they had not waited ten min- 
 utes, before the hen bird flitted past, and, 
 darting over the larch, as if to inspect whether 
 her little brood was safe, she disappeared again. 
 In a few minutes more, she returned, skim- 
 ming round to reconnoitre that all was safe, 
 she perched upon the nest. Instantly the little 
 6 
 
 I 
 
62 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 nestlings were awake to the summons of her 
 touch and chirp, and, opening their mouths 
 wide, were ready for what she would give. 
 She dropt a small fly into the mouth of one of 
 them, and, having no more, flew away to pro- 
 vide for the other hungry mouths as fast as 
 she could. As soon as she was gone, they 
 again shut their mouths, and dropt their heads 
 in silence. 
 
 " What a little bit she gave them," said 
 Frances. 
 
 " Yes," answered William, " but she knows 
 it is plenty." 
 
 "How contented the others seem to wait till 
 she comes again !" 
 
 "Yes, Mary," William again answered, un- 
 able to resist the comparison which had come 
 to his mind, "they did not take the little bit 
 away from the other. Shall we wait till she 
 comes again ?" 
 
 "Odo." 
 
 " Yery well, I want to see whether the one 
 that was fed first will take away the bit the 
 others got " 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD 63 
 
 The allusion made a little laugh, but, seeing 
 that Frances understood and felt that it ap- 
 plied to her, Anne said, "Do not let us tease 
 Frances ; it is better to tell her at once what 
 her fault is, than to seem to like to hurt her." 
 
 " Indeed, dear Anne, I have not spared to 
 tell her her fault, as she knows very well, for 
 she has often given me reason, but I cannot 
 make her ashamed of such things ; and I know 
 mamma is very uneasy to see it in her." 
 
 Frances looked grave, but did not cry ; 
 turning pale, however, she .said, "O Mary 
 take me out of this laurel — I am so sick I" 
 
 Mary hastened to take her into the freer air, 
 but all in vain. The sisters were alarmed, and 
 took her in to their mamma; who received 
 her gravely, without expressing any concern 
 for her indisposition. 
 
 "What can we do for Frances, mamma? 
 Will you let her have your smelling bottle, 
 or shall I run and get some sal volatile ?" 
 
 " Neither, my dear Mary ; it is an indisposi 
 tion caused by her own selfish appetite, and 
 probably the relief may be obtained by her 
 
64 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 stomach rejecting what she so improperly 
 forced upon it. We will wait a short time, 
 and if not, I will give her something less pal- 
 atable, perhaps, than plum-cake, but necessary 
 to remove it." 
 
 Frances was too ill to make any remark ; 
 she became paler still, and then quickly flushed 
 almost a crimson color, her eyes were op- 
 pressed, an'd her eyebrows contracted, and she 
 impatiently complained, 
 
 41 my head ! how it beats ! What shall I 
 do, mamma?" 
 
 "Bear the consequences of your own in- 
 ordinate appetite, Frances, and learn to sub- 
 ject it to the wholesome rules of temperance." 
 
 44 the nasty plum-cake I I wish you had 
 not given me any, mamma." 
 
 44 You once thought the plum-cake nice, and 
 you would not be contented with the small 
 portion I knew to be sufficient and safe for 
 you." 
 
 " O m/ head I I think it is very cruel, mam- 
 ma, that you do not pity me." 
 
 " I do pity you, Frances, and will take care 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 65 
 
 of you now that I see you require help, as I 
 perceive tbat you will not have any relief 
 without medicine." 
 
 Frances began again to cry, " O, I am so sick ! 
 I cannot take medicine. I am sure I cannot." 
 
 " Come to your room, Frances ; I shall give 
 you something proper, and you had better lie 
 down after you have taken it; you will, per- 
 haps, drop into a sleep, and be well when you 
 awake again." Her mamma took her hand 
 and led her up stairs, and Frances knew very 
 well it was in vain to make any objection, as 
 her mamma always made a point of obedience. 
 The medicine was administered, although for 
 some time Frances refused to look at it. When 
 she laid down, her mamma placed the pillow 
 high under her head, and, drawing the curtain 
 to shade the light, left the room that she 
 might be perfectly quiet. And when she re- 
 turned to the drawing-room, she inquired of 
 the other children what they had been doing, 
 and received a full account of the feast, and 
 the bird's nest, and all the little circumstances 
 of each. 
 
 6* 
 
66 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 It was time to resume their studies^ and, ex- 
 cept that Frances was not in her usual place, 
 all things proceeded as before. When the 
 lessons were finished, they entreated their 
 mamma to go with them, and see the bird's 
 nest." 
 
 '• It is so pretty, mamma !" sa.d Anne ; " and 
 + hey know when the mother comes, and they 
 take what she puts into their mouths." 
 
 "We will first inquire after Frances," she 
 answered ; " if she is well enough, she can 
 accompany us." 
 
 " I will run up, if you will be putting on 
 your bonnet and shawl, mamma." 
 
 " Very well, I hope you will find her re- 
 covered, we will wait your return." 
 
 Anne soon returned, — " She is gone ! I do 
 not see her anywhere !" 
 
 " Gone ! perhaps we shall find her at play 
 in the garden." 
 
 In this expectation they all went out, and 
 as they drew near the spot where the nest was, 
 tVy saw Frances looking very eagerly into 
 the nest, and seeming to be in some agitation, 
 
CONYENIEXT FOOD. 67 
 
 then she ;hrew something out of her hand, 
 and ran away as if wanting not to be seen. 
 
 " She is about some mischief," William said, 
 and ran forward to the nest. But what was 
 his grief to see one of the little birds dead on 
 the ground, two others in the nest with pieces 
 of bread sticking in their mouths, gasping, 
 unable to swallow or reject it, and the fourth 
 with its crop gorged, and slowly moving its 
 little unfledged head from side to side, strug- 
 gling in death. 
 
 Full of sympathy with the little sufferer, 
 and indignant with Frances, he exclaimed, 
 " Provoking girl ! she has stuffed the little 
 creatures as she would like to stuff herself; 
 and I believe she has killed them all." 
 
 The lively interest the other children had 
 in the nest, impelled them to hasten to the 
 spot, and their lamentations, and even tears, 
 soon flowed. 
 
 " "William, William, cannot you do anything 
 for them ? do try." 
 
 "Well, stand still and do not shake my 
 arm so saying, he began the attempt, and 
 
68 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 drew the bread carefully out of the distended 
 mouths of the two. 
 
 "Now the other! the other, William!" 
 
 " That I cannot help," he answered : " see ! 
 she has forced it down, and we cannot get it 
 back again ; it is dying now." 
 
 Anne picked up the dead one from off the 
 ground, and stroking it with her forefinger, 
 "Poor little thing!" she said, "was she so 
 cruel to you !" 
 
 It was not long before they heard a rustling 
 in the tree near the place, and then a chirp of 
 fright and distress. " Ah !" said their mamma, 
 " there is the mother ! poor things, we will go 
 a little distance to let her come to the nest ; 
 perhaps she will be able to save the two." 
 
 They all withdrew, and the little parent 
 bird was soon on her nest, fluttering and chirp- 
 ing to awaken the dead and dying little ones, 
 till at length she sorrowfully brooded down 
 on her nest, and spread her wings over them, 
 occasionally chirping as if to solicit an answer 
 from her little brood. 
 
 "Oh!' said Mary, bursting into tears, W I 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 69 
 
 cannot bear it !. cruel Frances, to be so unkind 
 to the little lards !" 
 
 " Go and find Frances," said their mamma, 
 " and bring her to me." 
 
 " I will go," William answered, " I think I 
 know where she will hide herself." 
 
 It was not long before William returned, 
 leading Frances, who very reluctantly yielded 
 to accompany him. 
 
 "Come here," said her mamma, "stopping 
 the accusations she saw were ready to over- 
 whelm the offending little girl ; " come here, 
 and let me talk to you about this sad thing 
 you have done to the little birds. Do you see 
 what you have done by your ill-judged kind- 
 ness ?" 
 
 "Kindness ! mamma," they all exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, dear children, she has been very 
 faulty, but I believe she meant to be kind, and 
 through ignorance did this thing which proves 
 the death of the birds. You would not have 
 done it, William, because you have already 
 learnt there is such a thing as a necessary pru- 
 dence to deal out your morsel? with wisdom, 
 
70 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 and in a measure suited to the age and the 
 
 capacity of the birds, and also that their food 
 should be of a wholesome kind suitable to their 
 nature. Nothing of this did Frances know, 
 and it seems she had not learnt wisdom from 
 the circumstances she had herself so lately 
 fallen into. 
 
 "It reminds me of the scripture, which 
 teaches us to profit : ' Open thy mouth wide, 
 and I will fill it.' These little birds first attract- 
 ed your attention by their open mouths, which 
 they had stretched to receive what their poor 
 mother was preparing to put into them. As 
 ohe lighted on the edge of their nest, they in- 
 stinctively opened their little yellow-edged 
 beaks ; she delighted to see them do so ; and 
 they, taking with content what she had pro- 
 vided for them, with the utmost confidence 
 swallowed it down. She had a bit for every 
 one of them in turn and they waited patiently 
 until it was given them. All was well whilst 
 they were nourished with parental tenderness 
 and prudence, and none other meddled with 
 them, or ventured to give them other things, 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 71 
 
 which they, being blind, received and knew 
 not the hand that gave, nor the consequences 
 of eating food not such as their parent would 
 have provided. 
 
 " Here you see Frances, neither prudent noi 
 aware of consequences, has stuffed these little 
 birds with improper food, both in quality and 
 quantity. The consequences are fatal ; one is 
 dead, another is dying, and it is very uncer- 
 tain whether the others also will not die. She 
 fed them without measure, and their crops and 
 throats were gorged so as to stop their breath- 
 ing. They took it greedily, because they 
 knew not the fatal consequences. 
 
 " Frances, you are a greedy girl. You had 
 been suffering for this offence, and had not the 
 wisdom to leave it to me to apportion your 
 food. You opened your mouth wide, but you 
 must remember it is not written that you are 
 to fill it according to your own desires. ' I 
 will fill it, 7 saith the Lord. He knows what is 
 good for us, and he will measure his bounty 
 according to his own wisdeiu" 
 
72 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 Frances began to look ashamed and sorrow- 
 ful. 
 
 "I was to you," her mamma continued, "in 
 the affair of the cake, endeavoring to fulfil this 
 my duty, but you rebelled against my discre- 
 tion, and would covet more than was right 
 You helped yourself , you gorged your stomach, 
 You were cross and peevish, and ill, and when 
 the medicine had relieved you, as it was de- 
 signed, you, without reflection, sallied forth and 
 suffocated the little birds. You could not feed 
 them as the mother would. You could not find 
 in the air and on the ground the little insects, 
 and small worms and little grains which were 
 their proper food, and you should have left it 
 to their own mother to fill their opened 
 mouths. She would have made no mistake 
 either in the quality or quantity convenient for 
 them." 
 
 "0," Mary said, "how that reminds me of 
 the scripture in Proverbs xxx. 8: 'Feed me 
 with food convenient for me.' " 
 
 " Yes, my dear girl, it ; s a scripture of great 
 importance and often does jt impress my 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 73 
 
 mind in combination with the other I men- 
 tioned, Ps. lxxxi. 10 : ' Open thy mouth wide, 
 and /will fill it,' in their spiritual application, 
 when I am providing for you, and dividing 
 out your portions, and considering what diet 
 is most suited to your constitution, and limit- 
 ing the quantity of dainty or rich luxuries not 
 convenient for you. I am also frequently led 
 to apply it to myself, and to offer my petition 
 to the Lord that he will graciously judge for 
 me, both temporally and spiritually to fill my 
 mouth, and feed me with, food convenient for 
 me." 
 
 "I think too, mamma, that there is some 
 meaning belonging to this in our Lord's teach- 
 ing us to pray, 'Give us this day our daily 
 bread,' Matt. vi. 11." 
 
 " Assuredly, my dear child, and I am rejoiced 
 to find you are led by this subject to compare 
 spiritual things with spiritual. 
 
 "You see how the word of God interprets 
 itself, and we are taught to go direct to the 
 bounteous hand who giveth liberally, but never 
 wastefully Our daily bread is sufficient for the 
 
71 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 day, and we must wait on him still for the daily 
 bread of the succeeding day ; so we are in 
 structed to open our mouths wide to ask the 
 Lord to fulfil his promise and to fill them, and 
 to be contented with convenient food." 
 
 "0 mamma, you cannot think how many 
 scriptures seem to come to my mind, and to 
 give me a clearer understanding. You know 
 the manna which was given in the wilderness, 
 was convenient food when it was gathered daily 
 as the Lord commanded, but when they laid 
 it up, you know it was no longer convenient, 
 for it stunk and bred worms. Does not this 
 teach us to trust God as well as not to disobey 
 him?" 
 
 " May this ready application of the word of 
 God proceed from that grace, my child, which 
 teaches you, like Job, to esteem the word of 
 God more than your necessary food, for you 
 will also remember what our Lord said to the 
 tempter, ' It is written, Man does not live by 
 hread alone, but by every word that proceedeth 
 out of the mouth of God.' But we are too 
 apt to forget this, and to imagine that we can 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD- 75 
 
 provide well for ourselves by fulfilling the 
 desires and lusts of the flesh, and by so doing, 
 we are likely to be brought to forget God, the 
 bountiful and wise Supplier of all our wants." 
 
 "I remember the text, mamma, which has 
 in it, 'Feed me with food convenient for me-, 7 
 and in another part, ' lest I be full and deny 
 thee,' Prov. xxx. 9 ; and this little bird's nest 
 has helped me to understand it better." 
 
 " May the Holy Spirit engrave it on your 
 heart, for it will often remind you of the thank- 
 ful contentedness with which you ought to 
 wait on the Lord." 
 
 ''Yes, mamma," William said, "but there is 
 no harm, you know, in opening the mouth 
 wide.'''' 
 
 "No, William, certainly no harm, for it is a 
 duty. ' Open thy mouth wide,' is an injunction 
 of Grod, but it is immediately subjoined and 
 strictly said, ' and I will fill it.' Therefore 
 bear in mind the double instruction. Neither 
 take the filling on yourself, nor be ready to 
 swallow every crude and unwholesome morsel 
 which the ignorant or the wicked would pre- 
 
76 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 sent to you. Do you remember a Certain day 
 last week when something happened?" 
 
 William looked anxious to recollect what big 
 mamma alluded to, and in less than a minute 
 he shook his head, and said, " Ah, mamma, 
 that is too bad, you mean when Mrs. Arnot 
 called, and you were out." 
 
 " Yes I do, William ; you all opened your 
 mouths wide, and she filled them. Her sweet 
 things did not prove convenient food. You see, 
 therefore, we should learn to discriminate be- 
 tween a heavenly Father's provision, and that 
 of a stranger, whose busy interference may cost 
 you your life. I was not many minutes away 
 from my little nest, when a stranger came, 
 and, by mistaken kindness made you all ill. 
 
 "Frances, have you never read that scrip- 
 ture : c Put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a 
 man given to appetite.'" 
 
 Frances cried, and, sobbing, said, " I do not 
 know what it means ?" 
 
 " What can it mean, my dear Frances, but 
 parallel with, those, 'If thy right eye offend 
 thee, pluck it out if thy right hand offend 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 77 
 
 thee, cut it off. It is better for thee to enter 
 into life halt or maimed, than, having two 
 hands or two feet, to be cast into everlasting 
 fire,' Matt. xvvi. 29, 30. ii. 8, 9. It means 
 that spirit which will sacrifice the lust of the 
 heart, and deny itself, though it should be a 
 present mortification. The throat of an inordi- 
 nate or diseased appetite is to be cut, and its 
 carnal desires crucified." 
 
 "Was it not something of this kind that 
 Isaac fell into when he sent Esau to hunt ven- 
 ison, and make him savory meat, such as his 
 soul loved ? Gen. xxvii. 4." 
 
 "Yes, William, and this very thing he de- 
 sired presented the temptation by which he 
 was deceived. And you might have men- 
 tioned, too, how Esau himself yielded to his 
 appetite, and sold his birthright for a mess of 
 pottage, Gen. xxv. 29. When we yield to 
 these propensities of the flesh, we lay a snare 
 for our own souls, and expose our weakness 
 to an adversary, ever ready to take advan- 
 tage of our infirmity. It is a common fault 
 m children to desire with greedy appetite such 
 
78 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 fool as is pernicious, and to wish for more 
 than even a mouth opened wide requires — till 
 at length they learn to lust after forbidden 
 things. And what does it lead to ? Frances, 
 you began to pick and steal, and your own 
 iniquity chastised you: — you were sick and 
 ill." 
 
 Frances hid her face in her frock. 
 
 "Ah mamma," said Anne, "I shall be afraid 
 of wanting anything, as I used to do; and I 
 hope I shall remember how much better you 
 can feed me, than I can feed myself." 
 
 " I wish I may too," said William. " If 
 Eve had but waited for the Lord only to fill 
 her mouth, she would not have eaten that 
 which brought sin and death." 
 
 " Tell me, Frances, if you feel the force of 
 all we have learnt from the little birds, and 
 your own mistaken idea of what would be 
 good for tbem ?" 
 
 Frances did not answer. 
 
 " But you know, my child, you were guilty 
 of another fault; when the medicine was of- 
 fered, whzoh was likely to do you good, you 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 79 
 
 refused to open jour mouth, and was long be- 
 fore you would let me fill it, so you see we 
 must leave it all to the Lord to gi/e us much 
 or little, bitter or sweet, just as he knows to 
 be convenient for us." 
 
 "Yes," Mary said, "these poor little birds 
 will long teack us a lesson. We may imitate 
 them to open our mouth wide, but we must be 
 warned by what happened to them, to let the 
 Lord only fill them." 
 
 " Let us look again at the nest." They ap- 
 proached, and frightened the mother so, that 
 she flew off. 
 
 " See, see ! William," said Anne, "the two 
 little things are opening their mouths again. 
 O how delightful ! let us never meddle with 
 them any more. Only remember, ' Open thy 
 mouth wide, and I will fill it.' Now, Frances, 
 do not cry any more : come, we will play to- 
 gether, and make a coffin, and bury these little 
 dead birds." 
 
 Frances wiped her eyes, and Anne giving 
 her a kiss, they went away to do as she pro- 
 posed. After they had made a little coffin, 
 
BO CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 they put the two little dead birds into it 
 Then William got a spade, and dug a grave 
 just large enough to hold the little coffin : 
 and, as he lowered it into the grave, Mary 
 wiped away the tears which gathered in her 
 eyes. When William had filled up the grave, 
 they all returned to their mamma, who said — 
 
 "My dear children, do not let us dismiss 
 this interesting subject without a closer appli- 
 cation. My dear Frances, come near to me, 
 and hear what I have to say." 
 
 Frances drew near with some timidity 
 Conscious of her faults, and expecting the 
 word of truth to be directed to her heart, she 
 had at that moment rather have escaped from 
 it. But her mamma, taking her hands into 
 hers, and sitting down on a garden stool that 
 was nigh, she felt that the words would be 
 words of love, aif.d her heart beginning to 
 soften, the tears were ready to flow, for she 
 knew that her mamma would speak to her of 
 Jesus and of his blood, which was shed for 
 sinners. 
 
 4 'Do you know quite well, my child, that 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 81 
 
 among the fruits of tne Spirit enumerated, 
 Gal. v., there is one called Temperance ?" 
 
 "Yes, mamma," she replied. 
 
 " Are you not also conscious, my dear child, 
 that your desire of indulging your appetite ia 
 quite contrary to this holy fruit ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 " Then what are you to do in order to over- 
 come the one, and to obtain the other ?" 
 
 " I must ask the Lord Jesus to give me the 
 Holy Spirit." 
 
 " Yes, my child, to him must you come for 
 all help, and he will not send you empty away. 
 Here is a subject on which you must indeed 
 open your mouth wide, in earnest prayer, and 
 wait on the Lord for his gracious answer. 
 'Ask, and ye shall receive,' he says, and after 
 showing how an earthly father will act towards 
 his child that asks for bread, how does he con- 
 clude?" 
 
 " He says, ' How much more will your heav- 
 enly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that 
 AskHim!'" 
 
 " Will you then, my dear Frances, profit by 
 
82 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 this gracious instruction, and will you ask for 
 the Holy Spirit?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I will try." 
 
 " Do you believe the Lord will give you the 
 Holy Spirit when you ask?" 
 
 " He says He will, mamma." 
 
 " That is enough, my child ; what the Lord 
 says is yea and amen. It is written, ' Hath he 
 said, and will he not do it?' " 
 
 "Yes, mamma, I know God is Truth, He 
 cannot lie." 
 
 "But you know also, my dear Frances, 
 when the Holy Spirit is given, he takes up his 
 abode in the heart, and he acts in the soul, and 
 will not dwell there without producing his 
 holy fruit ; and tell me now what is the fruit 
 you particularly want to overcome this sinful de- 
 sire of appetite which prevails in your heart." 
 
 " Is it not temperance, mamma?" 
 
 " Yes, and if He comes into your heart, he 
 will give it you, and moreover teach you tc 
 repent of your sins ; for consider, my Frances, 
 ■in is an offence against him, and needs to be 
 repented of. Do you repent?" 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 83 
 
 4< I am very sorry, mamma." 
 
 " But repentance is more than sorrow ; it 
 vill make yon ashamed before God, and make 
 /■qu feel yourself vile ; and it will also make 
 you carefully watchful against the temptation ; 
 3t will make you anxious to quit the sin, and 
 clear your soul from its power; it will make 
 you indignant against it, and urge you to seek 
 that strength from the Spirit, which will resist 
 the sin, and overcome it. When, therefore, 
 you ask for the Holy Spirit, be willing that 
 the Lord should fill you. .Be ready to exercise 
 the mighty gift for all his offices, to convict 
 you of sin, to lead you to true expectations, and 
 to strengthen you to overcome your sin, giv- 
 ing you that grace which is specially opposed 
 to the leading sin of your heart." 
 
 "I wish I had this gift ; for my sin makes 
 -me very unhappy: I know it is wrong." 
 • "Do not stop in wishes, dear child, go and 
 pray ; ' Ash, and ye shall receive.' ' Open 
 your mouth wide' in the full iterance of all 
 your distress, and of all you desire ; pray for 
 what you wan\ name it; pra" for repentance. 
 
84 CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 and for temperance. Pray that the lus: of y cur 
 appetite may be crucified, and pray that the 
 blood of Jesus, the Lamb of God who taketh 
 away sin, may be sprinkled upon your guilty 
 soul, and cleanse it from all sin. He giveth 
 liberally, and upbraideth not. He is angry 
 only when we neglect his promises and his gifts. 
 
 " It is not long since, dear Mary, that you 
 and I conversed on this text, 'My people 
 would not hearken to my voice, Israel would 
 none of me : so / gave them up to their own 
 heart's lusts, 1 Psa lxxxi. A dreadful judg- 
 ment ! what would become of you, dear 
 Frances, if you were given up to the dominion 
 of your appetite?" 
 
 "But, my dear mamma," Mary said, "do 
 you not remember the end of that psalm, 
 what a sweet verse there is ?" 
 
 "Kepeat it, dear girl, and let little Frances 
 hear it 1" 
 
 " ' Had they hearkened and obeyed, then 
 should he have ieu them with the finest of the 
 wheat, and with honey out of the rock should 
 I have satisfied them.' " 
 
CONVENIENT FOOD. 85 
 
 " O my children, said their mamina, " here 
 is spiritual food for the spiritual appetite ! 
 You know who is the Bread of Life, and who 
 is the Eock of our salvation. Turn unto him 
 your whole heart, and though you feel the 
 burden of the body of this death, you shall 
 soon be able to thank God, who, through Jesu? 
 Christ our Lord, will deliver you." 
 
 Poor Esau repented too late, 
 
 That once he his birth-right despis'd, ^, 
 And sold for a morsel of meat, 
 
 What could not too highly be priz'd . 
 How great was his anguish when told, 
 
 The blessing he sought to obtain 
 Was gone with the birth-right he sold, 
 
 And none could recall it again ! 
 
 He stands as a warning to all, 
 
 Wherever the gospel shall come ; 
 hasten and yield to the call, 
 
 While yet for repentance there 's room! 
 Your season will quickly be past ; 
 
 Then hear and obey it to-day, 
 Lest when you seek mercy at last, 
 
 The Saviour should frown you away. 
 8 
 
8fi CONVENIENT FOOD. 
 
 What is it the world can propose? 
 
 A morsel of meat at the best ! 
 For this are you willing to lose 
 
 A share in the joys of the blest? 
 Its pleasures will speedily end, 
 
 Its favor and praise are but breath ; 
 And what can its profits befriend 
 
 Your soul in the moments of death ? 
 
 If Jesus, for these, you despise, 
 And sin to the Saviour prefer, 
 
 In vain your entreaties and cries, 
 
 When summon'd to stand at his bar< 
 
 How will you his presence abide ? 
 
 What anguish will torture your heart J 
 
 The saints all enthron'd by his side, 
 And you be compelled to depart. 
 
 Too often, dear Saviour, have I 
 
 Preferr'd some poor trifle to thee ; 
 How is it thou dost not deny 
 
 The blessing and birth-right to me ? 
 No better than Esau I am, 
 
 Though pardon and heaven be mine ; 
 To me belongs nothing but shame, 
 
 The praise and the glory be thine. 
 
I. 
 
 Ift* little fabiirr. 
 
 "Ev^r * r lild is known "by his doings, whether his work 
 be pure, and whether it be right." — Proverbs, ix. 11. 
 
 Elappy the child who is active, intelligent 
 and obliging, and who takes pleasure in serving 
 those that are about him ! Happy above all 
 is the child, who, fearing and loving the Lord, 
 shows himself thus zealous and obliging, from 
 a feeling of piet} r , and a desire to please God. 
 
 Such was Francis, and this we shall soon see, 
 from the following narrative: 
 
 Francis, who was about eight years old, waa 
 spending the month of June with his Grand- 
 papa in the country. 
 
 His Grandpapa lived in a pretty house, 
 roofed with slates, and surrounded with a 
 verandah, in which were seats, and between 
 each seat, some flower-pots, Jessamine and 
 
88 THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 
 
 roses entwined themselves around the veran- 
 dah, and adorned it with elegant festoons of 
 flowers. 
 
 Behind the house was a yard, where chick- 
 ens, turkeys, and guinea-fowls, were kept; and 
 in the front, looking towards the west, was 
 laid out a fine garden, well provided with ever- 
 greens, such as holly, yew, and pine-trees, 
 and amongst these, also, many birch and ash- 
 trees flourished. 
 
 At the bottom of the garden, which sloped 
 a little, flowed a pure, but shallow stream, 
 which was crossed by means of a wooden 
 bridge, surrounded with elders and large 
 hazels. 
 
 This was a delightful dwelling-place, but 
 those who inhabited it, were still more delight- 
 ful than the beautiful garden or the smiling 
 groves. For it was the beauty of piety which 
 was found in them, united with that gentle- 
 ness and amiability of character, that humble 
 spirit of cordiality, which our Saviour enjoins 
 upon ali his true disciples. 
 
 These inhabitants, so good and so amiable, 
 
THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 89 
 
 were the Grandpapa and Grandmamma of 
 Francis, and their domestics, who, with them 
 seived the Lord, and lived in that peace, 
 which His Spirit gives to such as delight in 
 His Word. 
 
 This dear Grandpapa then, since he was 
 pious, was charitable, and took particular 
 pleasure in visiting his aged neighbors, es- 
 pecially the poor peasants, to whom he al- 
 ways carried comfort and encouragement from 
 that gracious God, with whom he himself daily 
 endeavored more and more to live. He used 
 generally to pay these charitable visits in the 
 middle of the day ; after having read the Holy 
 Bible for the second time, in a retired summer- 
 house in the garden, near which a little gate 
 opened upon a footpath, which, passing through 
 the orchard, led to the village. 
 
 Francis, who was already acquainted with 
 his Grandpapa's habits, never came to disturb 
 him while he was in the summer-house, and 
 whenever he saw his Grandpapa going out 
 of the little gate ; he took good care not to 
 follow him. 
 
 a* 
 
90 THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 
 
 But in about an hour or two, he would go to 
 meet him, sometimes towards the road, at 
 others, as far as the bridge over the stream; 
 — his Grandmamma was never uneasy, because 
 she knew that Francis was a prudent boy, and 
 tli at God watched over him, as one of the 
 lambs of the good shepherd. 
 
 Grandpapa then, had just finished reading; 
 he had put on his hat and taken his cane, and 
 had gone out through the gate. 
 
 Francis, who was sitting before the house, 
 under the pretty green verandah, saw him 
 pass behind the garden hedge, and was al- 
 ready thinking of going to meet him at the 
 end of an hour, when to his great surprise 
 he saw his Grandpapa pass again behind the 
 hedge, and then enter the garden through the 
 little gate, walking apparently with much 
 difficulty. 
 
 "What is the matter, dear Grandpapa V s 
 cried Francis, springing towards the garden. — 
 "Oh! how you are covered with mud! It 
 must be that rude Driver who wanted to fawn 
 upon you. He has always such dirty paws." 
 
THE LITTLE PAVTOR. 91 
 
 "You must not scold Driver, but me," mildly 
 replied his Grandpapa, "for I incautiously, 
 and most imprudently, walked upon that part 
 of the path which has been inundated by the 
 water from the fountain." 
 
 1 Grandpapa, did you fall?" asked Francis, 
 quite alarmed. 
 
 " Yes my boy, your Grandfather fell like a 
 heedless man. . . But thanks to our gra- 
 cious God, who ever takes care of us ! it was 
 nothing; I was only a little frightened. You 
 see, Francis, you must not forget that we only 
 stand, because God supports us." 
 
 So saying, his Grandfather entered the 
 house, and with the same serenity related his 
 accident to his wife, who bestowed every at- 
 tention upon him. 
 
 Whilst his Grandfather was resting himself, 
 and Francis had ascertained that he had not 
 suffered much, he hastened to look at the spot 
 where his kind Grandpapa had slipped and 
 fallen. It was a little bit of the path, perhaps 
 about three paces long, covered with the 
 water which was issuing from the fountain, 
 
92 THE LITTLE PAVIuR. 
 
 and which being of clay, had become very 
 slippery. 
 
 The trench round the fountain had been 
 already deepened more than once, in order to 
 turn its course from that part of the orchard, 
 but as the ground was rather low, the water 
 always returned. 
 
 Francis examined all this, and tried tc 
 find out what could be done to remedy the 
 evil, in a more durable manner. 
 
 " I know!' 1 he cried at last. " I must make a 
 pavement here, a little higher than the path 
 is at present I" 
 
 "Come! cheer up! 'Where there's a will,' 
 says Grandpapa, 'with God's help there's a 
 way.' To work, to work ! * For he who does 
 nothing makes little progress,' says, also, my 
 dear Grandpapa." 
 
 It may be here well asked, how a little 
 child, eight years of age, could even conceive 
 such a project, and much more how he could 
 have had sufficient strengt! to accomplish it. 
 
 But Francis was not a t mghtless or inat- 
 tentive child ; on the conti y he observed on 
 
THE LITTLE PAVIOB. 93 
 
 his way to, and from School, and when he 
 walked oat with his Papa, everything that 
 workmen did. 
 
 It was thus that he had often noticed how 
 the Paviors first laid down the stones, and 
 then pressed them together, and as we shall 
 soon see, he found no difficulty in what he 
 was going to attempt. 
 
 "First and foremost," said he, "the tools!" 
 and immediately he ran off to look for a little 
 wheel-barrow which his Grandpapa had made 
 for him ; with the spade, the trowel, and the 
 iron rake, which were at his disposal. 
 
 When the tools were collected, Francis, 
 having taken off his jacket, traced out the 
 portion to be paved. 
 
 "Now," said he, "I must take away two or 
 three inches of earth, that the stones may 
 fit in." 
 
 He then took away the earth, and piled it 
 up on the upper side of the path, in order to 
 compel the water to pass by the drain. 
 
 "Now," he said, "I must find some sand; 
 where is there anj ? Oh ! behind the hen-house j 
 
94 THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 
 
 the masons, who plastered the walls of the yard 
 over again, have left a large heap of it there' 
 • — and then he quickly ran with his wheel • 
 barrow, once, twice, and even three times\ 
 and soon had as much as was necessary. He 
 spread it out, and arranged it, and then pro- 
 nounced the great word of all his work, 
 "Stones! No stones, no pavement! I must 
 have at least fifty of them !" He ran about, 
 searched and gathered, near the fountain, 
 round the house, and along the wall of the 
 yard, and soon brought back four wheel- 
 barrows full of nice stones, well shaped, and 
 not too large. 
 
 But there were not enough, for he was 
 obliged to put five or six abreast. Where are 
 there any more to be found ? 
 
 "In the brook," cried he! "It is rather far 
 off, but I shall soon be there!" And indeed 
 in about a quarter of an hour, he had col- 
 lected all the proper materials. 
 
 Then should he have been seen at work! 
 The trowel in his right hand, a stone in his 
 left; the sand which he placed between each, 
 
THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 95 
 
 gtone, and the blows which forced it down, 
 these things succeeded each other rapidly, and 
 were often repeated ; till at length, at the end 
 of the third hour, the slippery bit of foot-path 
 was no longer in existence, but in its stead 
 was to be seen a pavement slightly raised, 
 which could never be wetted by the overflow- 
 ing of the fountain. 
 
 u That will not do well," said Francis, when 
 he had finished, and was walking over the 
 pavement; "it is uneven, Grandpapa will 
 hurt his feet upon it." And so saying, he ran 
 to the woodhouse in the yard, and returned, 
 bending under the weight of the mallet, with 
 which Thomas used to strike the axe and 
 wedges, when he split the large pieces of oak. 
 
 " Here is my rammer," said Francis, laugh- 
 ng, as he thought of those used by the paviors ; 
 and holding the mallet perpendicularly, he 
 struck with the butt-end, first one stone, 
 and then another, until at length the pave- 
 ment was completed I It was solid, even and 
 clean, and Francis, repeating in truth, " Where 
 there's a will, with God's help, there's a way," 
 
98 .THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 
 
 gave thanks in his heart to that good heavenly 
 Father, who gave him both the idea and the 
 will to do this act of filial love, and enabled 
 him to accomplish it. 
 
 Some sand and a few stones remained; 
 Francis took them up and carried them baok 
 near to the house. Then he cleared away the 
 rubbish, and having put on his coat again, re- 
 turned joyfully to replace his tools in the 
 green-house. 
 
 All this was done after dinner, between 
 the hours of three and six. The evening 
 passed quietly away. Grandpapa had not re- 
 ceived any bruises, and he could not suffi- 
 ciently thank the Good shepherd, the Lord 
 Jesus, who had, as it were, " carried him in 
 his arms," and " kept all his bones." 
 
 Grandmamma joined in his praises and 
 thanksgivings, and these two faithful servants 
 blessed the Lord together, whose mercies are 
 over all his works. 
 
 " To-morrow, please God," said Grandpapa to 
 Francis, " I shall go and see old George. He 
 must have expected me to day ! But be as 
 
THE LITHE P^VIOK. b, 
 
 eured, my dear Francis, that your Grandpapa 
 -will walk no more like a giddy child ; and if 
 the path is still slippery, I shall place my 
 foot prudently upon it." 
 
 Francis said he hoped the path would be 
 better; and however that might be, that the 
 Lord would preserve him thenceforth from 
 slipping, and above all, from falling. 
 
 Grandpapa made Francis read the Bible as 
 usual, to the whole household. He spoke 
 piously of God's paternal care for our bodies 
 as well as for our souls, and in his prayer he 
 gave abundant thanks to the Saviour who 
 had so graciously preserved him. 
 
 The morrow came. Grandpapa had quite 
 recovered his accident of the preceding day, 
 and after reading in the summer-house, he 
 got up to go and see old George. 
 
 Francis, who was observing him from be- 
 neath the verandah, no sooner saw him come 
 near the little gate, than he ran round the 
 iiouse to hide himself behind a hazel bush, a 
 short distance from the pavement, in order to 
 see what his Grandpapa would do. 
 
98 THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 
 
 Grandpapa walked on towards the orchard, 
 and as soon as he set his foot on the path, he 
 prepared to proceed very carefully. He took 
 three 01 four steps, and then suddenly stopped, 
 and raising his hands, exclaimed, a "pavement! 
 a pavement here already ! How does this hap- 
 pen ? Who could have done this? It must 
 be my faithful Thomas I" — he continued — "I 
 must thank him for it;" and he called out 
 loudly, "Thomas! Thomas!" Thomas, who 
 was in the cow-house, heard his voice, and 
 ran to him in alarm. 
 
 "Have you tumbled again, sir," he asked 
 anxiously? 
 
 " On the contrary," said Grandpapa, "thanks 
 to you, Thomas, for having made this good 
 substantial pavement so quickly and so well; 
 it is really excellent," said he, stamping upon it 
 with his foot, and walking over it in every direc- 
 tion. " It is solid, and even, and slopes on either 
 *ide ! I am very much obliged to you, Thomas.' - 
 
 *' Alas! sir," said the man, "it is not I who 
 did it — how vexed I am that I did not think 
 of it what stupidity !" , . . 
 
TFE LITTLE PAVIOK. Q% 
 
 " Who is it then ?" asked Grandpapa, " for 
 this has been done since yesterday, and surely 
 these stones are not mushrooms I Who could 
 have thought of this ?" 
 
 u I think I know who it is, sir," answered 
 Thomas, "for yesterday in the afternoon I 
 saw master Francis going down to the brook 
 with his wheelbarrow. I could not think 
 what it was for, but now I understand." 
 
 " Francis ! did you say," exclaimed Grand 
 papa; "how could that child have done ii 
 even if he had wished? Are these stones 
 only nuts, that that dear boy's little hands 
 could have been able to knock them into the 
 ground ?" • 
 
 "Do you wish, sir, that I should look for 
 him and bring him here ?" asked Thomas. 
 
 Francis could no longer remain concealed. 
 He ran from behind the bush, and threw him- 
 self into his Grandpapa's arms; saying, "Dear 
 Grandpapa, how happy I am to have been 
 able to succeed." 
 
 "It is you then, indeed, my son I" cried 
 Grandpapa, as he she<i tears of joy. "CK>cl 
 
100 THE LITTLE PAVIOR. 
 
 bless your filial piety towards me ! May He 
 retirn you two-fold all tbe good you have 
 done my heart. But how did you manage?" 
 
 "You ha\e often told me, dear Grandpapa, 
 that 'Where there's a will, with the help of 
 God, there's a way,' and I prayed to God, and 
 was able to do it." 
 
 "Well then, dear Francs," said Grandpapa, 
 solemnly, " I promise you, that every day of 
 my life, as long as I shall walk here below, 
 when I pass over this pavement, which your 
 affection has made for me, I will say to Gud 
 *0 Lord, prevent Francis from falling in his 
 way ! May thy goodness pave for him the 
 path of life, whenever it becomes slippery.' '' 
 
 Francis understood, and respectfully re- 
 ceived this blessing; and whilst his Grand 
 father paid his visit, the little pavior went 
 and told his Grandmamma, what he had been 
 able to do, and how God had already blessed 
 him for ifc. 
 
11. 
 
 ®fci Silbtt Jsiult. 
 
 " Then eaid Josus unto him. ■ (lo and do t icu lika- 
 ■wise." — Luo, 2. 37. 
 
 Mary. — (After having searched about the 
 dining-room,) " Who has seen my silver knife ? 
 William, John, Lucy, you who are amusing 
 yourselves in the garden, have you seen my 
 silver knife?" 
 
 William. — (Going up to the window, and ii 
 a sententious tone of voice,) " c Disorder/ says 
 an ancient writer, 'occasions sorrow, and neg- 
 ligence, blame.' " 
 
 Mary. — " Admirable ! But that does not 
 apply to me, for it is scarcely an hour since I 
 laid my knife on this very table, which ccr 
 tamly belongs to us." 
 
 Lucy,— -" Are you quite sure of it, Mary !" 
 
 •Tfiry— " Yes, indeed, there is no doubt of 
 
102 THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 it, for Sophy asked me to give her a pretty 
 little red apple, as usual, before going to 
 school. I went immediately to the fruit-room 
 for it, and as it was a little spoiled, I cleaned 
 it with my silver knife, which I laid on this 
 table, whilst I was kissing her. I am there 
 fore quite sure of it." 
 
 John. — (Frowning,) — " For my part, I con 
 fess, I don't like all these strangers who come 
 about the house. For instance, that little 
 Jane, who sells lilies of the valley, and straw- 
 berries, and so on — I very much distrust her 
 sullen look ; and who knows, if perhaps . . ?" 
 
 Lucy — "Fie, fie, brother, to suspect that 
 poor little modest gentle child, who supports 
 her sick mother by her own industry 1 Oh I it 
 is very wrong, John !" 
 
 "What is the matter?" said their Father, 
 who had heard this dispute from the garden, 
 where he was reading under the shade of 
 a tree. 
 
 Mary related her story, and finished by say- 
 in- ,— " Well, if it be God's will, So-be-itl Mj 
 beautiful knife is lost !" 
 
* 
 
 THE SILVER KNIFE. 103 
 
 "Yes, my dear girl," answered her father, 
 " What God wills, is always best. But it is 
 His will that I should watch over my house- 
 ho'd. I must therefore know what has become 
 of your knife. Did you ask Elizabeth if she 
 had taken care of it, when she cleaned the 
 room ? " 
 
 Mary ran to the kitchen, and enquired of 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " Your silver knife ! Miss," said the servant, 
 coloring. " Have you lost that beautiful knife, 
 Which was given you on your birthday ?" 
 
 "I .ask you, if you have taken care of it," 
 answered Mary. " I laid it this morning 
 Upon the table in the dining-room, near the 
 window." 
 
 Elizabeth. — (with astonishment,) — Near the 
 window ! Oh ! — I know where it is, now. 
 About half an hour ago, when I went into the 
 dining-room, to . . . put ... down c . some 
 plates, I saw the great magpie, which build 9 
 its nest up in the large elm-tree, at the end of 
 the garden, sitting on the window-ledge. It 
 flew away as soon as it saw me ; but it had 
 
104 THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 something white and shining in its beak. Oh! 
 yes, I remember now! it was the silver 
 knife!" 
 
 " The magpie," exclaimed Mary, " with my 
 knife in its beak !" 
 
 "Oh! Miss," replied Elizabeth, "there is 
 no thief like a magpie. When I was at home, 
 one of their nests was once pulled down, and 
 nine pieces of silver were found in it, and a 
 whole necklace of pearls ! Oh ! magpies are 
 terrible birds, and you may be sure that your 
 knife is in their nest." 
 
 Mary returned to her father in the garden, 
 and related to him all that Elizabeth had said, 
 Dut added, " For my part, I don't believe a 
 word of it |" 
 
 11 And why not?" exclaimed John, sharply, 
 " Elizabeth is quite right ! Nothing steals 
 like a magpie. Everybody says so. Come ! 
 let us to work ! A ladder, a cord, and a long 
 stick! Down with the nest! — Papa, will you 
 allow me to climb the tree !" 
 
 Luq/. — ( Holding John by the arm.) — 
 " Brother, how can you think of it ? The 
 
THE SILVER KNIFE 105 
 
 elm is more than eighty feet high! Papa, I 
 fceg of you, not to allow it." 
 
 Father. — (Calmly.) — " No one shall get up 
 the tree and risk his life, for a thing which 
 certainlj is not there." 
 
 u There is no thief like a magpie," repeated 
 John, looking at the nest, which might be 
 seen through the higher branches of the tree ; 
 " but I confess it would not be easy to reacn 
 it. These branches are very long and very 
 slender !" 
 
 William, who had said nothing as yet, but 
 had been walking backwards and forwards, 
 with his head down, and his hands in his 
 pockets, turned suddenly round to Mary, and 
 said, " I have been thinking we can soon 
 know if your knife is in the nest. We only 
 want a polemoscope for that. Hurrah ! long 
 five optics !" 
 
 "A lemoscope!" said Lucy, "What is that* 
 Is it a long hook?" 
 
 William. — (Smiling rather contemptuous^.; 
 Poor sister ! What ignorance 1" 
 
 Father - -" William, speak kindly — tell youi 
 
06 THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 sister what this instrument is, and wnat ycu 
 want to do with it." 
 
 William. — (Scientifically.) — " In war, when 
 a besieged garrison wishes to know all the 
 movements of the enemy, without being seen, 
 they erect behind the walls, or the ramparts, a 
 mirror, placed at the end of a long pole, and 
 inclining towards the country. You under- 
 stand, then, that everything that takes place 
 outside, is reflected in the mirror, and can be 
 seen from within, or in another mirror placed 
 at the bottom of the pole, and sloping inwards. 
 This, Lucy, is what is called a polemoscope- - 
 that is to say, an instrument far observations 
 In war." 
 
 " Thank you," William, said Lucy, " but 
 what are you going to do with it?" 
 
 William. — *" The thing is quite plain. I 
 am going to fasten a small mirror on a light 
 pitchfork, inclining it downwa* ds. This pitch- 
 fork I shall fasten f>mly to pole ; then some 
 one will climb, dear papa, vithout any danger, 
 as far as the strong branches reach ; from 
 r iience he can draw up the pole and its mirror, 
 
THE SILVER KNIFE. 107 
 
 with a long string, and by raising the mirror 
 above the nest, he will enable us to see, with 
 the aid of your telescope, all that the nest 
 contains. This is my plan, and I think it is 
 not so bad I" 
 
 Father. — (Smiling.) — " Dear William. It is 
 a great pity, however, that you are so blind. 
 There are two things you have not consid 
 ered. One is, that the branches which 
 cover the nest, are very thick and tufted. 
 Therefore, your mirror, even if it reached 
 their summit, would only reflect the leaves, 
 and consequently neither the nest nor the 
 knife ; and the other thing which you do not 
 observe, is this, that the magpies, by an admi- 
 rable instinct, which God has given them, 
 build their nests, not like a basin, as you 
 supposed, but in the form of a ball ; so that 
 the nest is covered with a vaulted roof, formed 
 cf sticks closely interwoven, which shelters 
 the bird and its brood from bad weather, and 
 above all, from the cruel claw of the kite or 
 hawk." 
 
 " I am rr.ucli obliged to you, dear papa," 
 
108 THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 said William. "What a pity " ae added, 
 with a sigh ; " for my plan would otherwise 
 have been infallible." 
 
 "Let us seek a better one," said their father. 
 " Mary, go and see if you have not left yout 
 knife in the fruit-room. Perhaps it was yes- 
 terday, that you peeled the apple for Sophy." 
 
 1 • I will do so," said Mary, and she went into 
 the house for the key of the fruit-room. 
 
 She soon returned, exclaiming, "The key 
 is not in its place, and I put it there this 
 morning." 
 
 "Miss Mary is mistaken," said Elizabeth, 
 coming out of the kitchen; "I see the key in 
 the door." 
 
 " Papa," said .Mary, " I recollect, when I 
 put the key in the cupboard, this very 
 morning, Sophy looked at it, and said, "It is 
 certainly the prettiest key on the bunch." 
 
 " Let us go to the fruit-room," said the 
 father, directing his steps thither. " I fear 
 this will prove a sad affair " 
 
 " What is this, too," cried Mary, examining 
 the shelves, " the big key of the cellar here 
 
THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 Where did it come from ? And this key cov- 
 ered with cheese, from one end to the other I " 
 
 "Let us go to the cellar!" said the father. 
 M I believe we shall find out more there than 
 we can here." 
 
 They opened the door, and found the bril- 
 liant silver knife, not in the magpie's nest, but 
 sticking in a cheese, from which a large 
 portion appeared to have been detached. 
 
 The children were amazed, and their Father 
 much grieved. 
 
 "Here is your knife, Mary," said John, 
 who first saw it. " Certainly, there is no need 
 of a looking-glass to find it." 
 
 " Yon must not joke, "my children," said 
 the Father; "this is a very sad business. I 
 am thankful it has taken place in the absence 
 of your dear Mother, and I forbid you writ- 
 ing her anything about it. This must concern 
 me, and me alone." 
 
 William. — (Indignantly.) — "It amounts to a 
 theft, a falsehood!" 
 
 Lucy. — "Bat who has done it, William? 
 Did not Mary leave her knife here ?" 
 10 
 
119 THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 William. — " Who saw the Magpie carrying 
 it off, in his beak?" 
 
 Mary. — (To Lucy.) — "Do you not under- 
 stand that it was poor Elizabeth, who came 
 here with my knife, which she took off the 
 table where I left it, and who, after having 
 cut a piece of cheese with it, went to the fruit* 
 room, no doubt to steal some apples also." 
 
 John. — (Angrily.) — "Papa, Elizabeth has 
 acted deceitfully— will you allow her to re- 
 main with you? One of the Psalms, the 
 101st, I think, says, 'He that worketh deceit 
 shall not dwell within my house.' " 
 
 The Father, — (Gravely.) "It is said also in 
 Holy Scriptures, my son, that 'mercy re- 
 joiceth against judgment,' and perhaps, John, 
 if any of us, had been brought up like poor 
 Elizabeth, we might have done even worse 
 than this." 
 
 "I am quite vexed," said Mary, "Oh! why 
 did I not take more care of that wretched 
 knife!" 
 
 William, — "But, Mary, it was not your 
 knife left upon the table, which tempted her 
 
THE SILVEE KMFE. Ill 
 
 to take two keys secretly out of the cupboard, 
 and which made them the instruments of this 
 theft. For Papa," continued he, " it is a theft, 
 and a shameful one too ! These stolen keys 
 are no small matter 1" 
 
 The Father.— (Calmly.)— "I know it my 
 children, and it grieves my heart, that one of 
 my servants, who daily hears the word of 
 God read and explained, should so far have 
 forgotten the fear of the Lord ! This is what 
 saddens me, and wounds me deeply." 
 
 Lucy. — "Elizabeth has not long been our 
 cook, and probably she never heard the word 
 of God before she came here. Poor girl ! she 
 is perhaps very unhappy now, — and I am 
 sure, she will repent and turn to God." 
 
 The Father. — " That is right, my dear child, 
 I rejoice tq hear you plead the cause of the 
 unhappy, and even of the guilty, for as I said 
 before, 'mercy rejoiceth against judgment.'" 
 
 "I was therefore wrong," said John, "and 
 I confess it .... for certainly I scarcely pitied 
 
 her I did wrong ! and now I think as 
 
 Lucy does." 
 
112 THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 "And 1 also," said William, "' Clemency 
 governs courage, 7 says a Grecian historian, 
 and" 
 
 The Father. — (Very seriously.) — "But, my 
 dear William, what have the pagans of old 
 and their morals to do here? My son, you 
 know it is the word of God which rules our 
 conduct, and which commands us to suffer 
 and to forgive." 
 
 Lucy. — "Papa, ^ill you allow me to re- 
 peat a passage, which I learnt by heart last 
 Sunday?" 
 
 The Father. — "Kepeat it, Lucy, and may 
 God bless it to us all ! " 
 
 Lucy. — " ' Execute true judgment, and show 
 mercy and compassion every man to his 
 brother.' It is in the seventh chapter of 
 Zechariah. " 
 
 "I too, was wrong then," said William, 
 " very wrong ! for it is the wisdom of God 
 alone, that enlightens us." 
 
 " True, my son," said his Father, " may God 
 always remind you of this. I am going to 
 epeak to Elizabeth/ he added, "as for you. 
 
THE SILVER KNIFE. 113 
 
 my children, do not say a word about it , and 
 above all, bless the Lord, for having made 
 known to you his grace and holy law. Pray 
 to him together, that my words may have 
 their due effect upon the mind of this poor 
 guilty creature." 
 
 The Father went out to look for Elizabeth, 
 and the children repaired to William's room, 
 who, having knelt down with them, prayed to 
 the Lord to take pity upon her, and to touch 
 her heart, and he ended the prayer in the fol- 
 lowing words: — "In thy great wisdom, 
 Most Gracious God, and in thine infinite com- 
 passion, through Jesus Christ, grant unto 
 each of us true repentance, and a sincere 
 change of heart, and may this affliction be 
 turned to the glory of our Saviour Jesus." 
 
 The children then returned to their several 
 occupations, and not one of them ever thought 
 of judging Elizabeth, or even speaking harshly 
 of her. 
 
 We may add, that the exhortation of her 
 charitable master, produced sincere penitence 
 in Elizabeth, and that the poor girl was not 
 10* 
 
114 THE SILVER KNIFE. 
 
 sent out of the house; for "mercy pleaded 
 against judgment." 
 
 It is thus that God deals with us ! Oh ! 
 which of us can tel' low often he has re- 
 ceived pardon from the Lord I 
 
fjrt fPflWn firms, 
 
 The light cometh when do man can work."— -John, Ix, 4 
 
 "Ob! my sister! my sister! What a lesson 
 r^ay we learn from the death of our dear 
 Arrelia ! She was but sixteen years old like 
 myself, and only two years older than you 
 are, but how much had she done for the 
 Lordi I saw and heard her, when Jesus 
 came fcu call her to himself; I was in the 
 churchyard when they placed her body in the 
 grave! )h ! what a solemn warning! and 
 now I frel humbled before God, and I pray 
 Him to pour into my heart the same Spirit 
 *which He bestowed so abundantly upon our 
 friend, as well as that lively faith, which al- 
 though .Amelia 'is dead, yet speaketh/ as it 
 is said of A "bel, and which sha.1 speak through 
 her for m rjj years to come ! 
 
116 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 I wrote to you less than a fortnight ago, 
 that Amelia was unwell ; but how little I 
 then thought it was her last illness ! Oh ! 
 how uncertain our lifj is, dear Esther, and 
 how much wiser we should be if we would 
 only believe so ! ' 
 
 On the seventh day of her illness, her 
 mother said to me, " Anna, your friend is 
 going to leave us ; the danger of "her disorder 
 increases every hour, and we must give her 
 up to God 1" 
 
 I wept much and bitterly, and could not at 
 first believe it ; but when I was alone with 
 Amelia, the next day, she said to me, with 
 that calm peacefulness which never left her, 
 " I am going away from this world, Anna ; 
 yes, dear Anna, I am going to depart ; I feel 
 it, and .... I am preparing myself for it !" 
 
 I tried to turn away her thoughts from this 
 subject ; I told her that she was mistaken, and 
 that God would certainly restore her ; but she 
 stopped me with firmness of manner, and said, 
 11 Do you envy my happiness, Anna ? Do 
 you wish to prevent me from going to my 
 
THE MODERN DORCAS. 117 
 
 Heavenly home, to my Saviour, unto his light 
 and glory ?" The entrance of her father and 
 the Doctor prevented my reply, and I left the 
 room in tears. 
 
 " You must not cry," said her mother to 
 me. m We must pray, and above all, seek 
 profit from the occasion. The time is short I 
 Her end is at hand ! But," added this servant 
 of Christ, " thai end is the beginning of a life 
 which shall have no end !" 
 
 Three more days passed away. On the 
 fourth, we had some faint hope, but the fol- 
 lowing day, all had vanished, and towards 
 evening, Amelia declared, that the Lord was 
 about to take her. 
 
 " Yes r ,my dear parente, my excellent father 
 and mother," she said, with a beam of heav- 
 enly joy on her countenance, "I am about to 
 leave you ; but I do not leave my God, .'or I 
 am going to see Him, l face to face.' " 
 
 " My dear parents," she continued, affec- 
 tionately, u rejoice at my departure ; I am 
 going to Heaven a little before you, it is true, 
 but it is only before you, and you know it; 
 
118 THE MODERN ZJORCAS. 
 
 anl the Apostle says, that, * to be with Christ 
 is far better.' " 
 
 I was present, Esther, and was crying. 
 
 " Why do you cry, Anna ?" she said, " Are 
 30U sorry to see me go to my Father's house ?" 
 
 " But, Amelia, /lose you ; we all lose you ; 
 and . . . . " 
 
 " I do not like to hear you say that, Anna ; 
 do not repeat it, and do not think of it. Our 
 Saviour says that, ' He who believes on Him 
 shall not see death ;' and I am certain, that 
 my soul is about to join those of His saints 
 who have already departed this life, for His 
 grace has also justified me." 
 
 " Ah !" said her aunt, who had not left her 
 bedside for two days, " you have always done 
 the will of God, dear Amelia ; you are there- 
 fore sure of going to Him." 
 
 "Dear aunt," she replied, with sorrow on 
 her countenance, " I assure you that you 
 grieve me. I have been during the whole of 
 my life, but a poor sinner, and have by no 
 means done what you say ; but .... God 
 Himself has pardoned me, and it is only, my 
 
THE MODERN DORCAS. 119 
 
 dear aunt, because the blood of Jesus has 
 washed away my sins, that I shall see God." 
 
 It was thus, my sister, that Amelia spoke at 
 intervals almost the whole night. Her voic 
 at length became weaker ; and towards morn 
 ing, after a slight drowsiness, she said to hei 
 father, " Papa, embrace your child once more." 
 She then turned to her mother, and said, a My 
 dear mamma, embrace me also, and .... may 
 Jesus comfort you all !" 
 
 A few minutes after, our darling friend fell 
 gradually asleep, and her last breath died 
 away like the expiring flame of a candle. She 
 experienced nothing of the agony of death. 
 Truly, dear Esther, Amelia knew not what 
 death was ! 
 
 But oh ! how I have myself suffered ! and 
 how difficult it is to tear one's self thus forever 
 here below, from such a friend as she was ! 
 
 Nevertheless, my sister, God knows we 
 have not dared to murmur. I wish you had 
 heard the prayer that Amelia's father offered 
 up, when his daughter had ceased to breathe ! 
 Oh I it was the spirit of consolation itself 
 
120 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 which spoke ! And since that solemn hour, 
 what piety, what strength and peace of mind, 
 Amelia's mother his displayed ! I am sure 
 you would have said, that the Lord was 
 present, and that He was telling us with His own 
 voice: "Amelia triumphs — she is in My glory!" 
 
 I wished to be in the churchyard when our 
 friend, or rather, when her body of dust, was 
 committed to the grave. There were many 
 persons present, but especially poor people ; 
 some old men, and several children, came to 
 take their last leave of her, 
 
 A grey-headed and feeble old man was 
 standing near the grave, leaning with his two 
 hands on a staff, and with his head depressed. 
 He wept aloud, when the clergyman mentioned 
 Amelia's name, as he prayed, and gave thanks 
 to God. He then stooped down, and taking a 
 little earth in his hand, said, as he scattered it 
 over the coffin : " Sleep, sweet messenger of 
 consolation ! Sleep, until He whom thy lips 
 first proclaimed to me, calls thee to arise 1" 
 And with this, he burst into tears, as they 
 filled the grave. 
 
THE MODEKN DOECAS. 121 
 
 When all was finished, and the funeral pro- 
 cession had departed, the poor people who 
 were present approached the grave, sobbing, 
 and repeating, "Sweet messenger of goodness! 
 Our kind friend, our true mother !" And two 
 or three of the children placed upon her grave 
 nosegays of box and white flowers. 
 
 " Alas," said a young girl, " she will never 
 hear me read the Bible again, nor instruct me 
 how to live !" 
 
 Another cried loudly, " Who will now come 
 to visit my sick mother, and read the Bible to 
 her, and bring her comfort and assistance." 
 
 And there was a father, a poor workman, 
 
 with two little boys, who, holding his children 
 
 by the hand, came and placed himself near 
 
 the spot where the head of Amelia was laid, 
 
 saying to them, " Here, my poor children, 
 
 under this sod, rests that sweet countenance 
 
 which used to smile upon you, as if she had 
 
 been your mother ! Her lips have often told 
 
 you, that you were not orphans, and that God 
 
 was better to you than apparent. . . . Well, 
 
 my dear children, let us remember what she 
 11 
 
122 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 used to say : ( God has not forgotten us, and 
 He will sustain us P' 
 
 I was with my brother, who himself wept 
 with all his heart, to see the sincere grief of 
 these poor people. He whispered to me, " I 
 have a great mind to speak to them, and ask 
 them what Amelia used to do for them." I 
 hud the same wish ; so we approached a group 
 which surrounded the grave, and asked them 
 when they had become acquainted with Ame- 
 lia. 
 
 " For my part," answered the old man, 
 already spoken of, "this messenger of peace 
 visited me two years ago, for the first time. I 
 lived near a family to whom she had brought 
 some worsted stockings, for winter was just 
 setting in, and so my neighbor mentioned me 
 to her, as a poor infirm old man. She desired 
 to see me, and had she been my own daughter, 
 she could never have shown me more respect 
 and kindness ! She procured me a warm 
 quilt that same evening, and on the morrow, 
 towards the middle of the day, she came with 
 hej excellent mother to pay me a long visit. 
 
THE MODEEN DOECAS. 123 
 
 "You must know/ sir," continued the old 
 man, to my brother, " I was then very igno- 
 rant, or rather my heart was hard and proud 
 towards God. I had no Bible, and did not 
 care about one. Well, this dear young lady 
 not only brought me one, with her own hands, 
 but came to read and explain it to me, with 
 great patience, at least three times a week, 
 during the first twelve months. 
 
 " God took pity on me," added the old man, 
 in a low voice, " and last year I began better 
 to understand the full pardon which is in 
 Christ Jesus, and was even able to pray with 
 Miss Amelia. 
 
 " She used sometimes to call me, ' My old 
 father,' but it was I who ought to have called 
 her the mother, the true mother of my soul. 
 
 " Just one month ago, she came to me for 
 the last time ; she gave me with a sweet smile, 
 these worsted gloves, which she had knitted 
 herself, and then recommended me with much 
 respect and kindness to thank our Lord, who 
 sent them me ! This was the last of that 
 sweet lady's charities to me !" . . . 
 
124 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 Upon this, the old man turned away weep- 
 ing, and as he walked slowly on, he frequently 
 looked back upon the newly-covered grave. 
 
 " The same thing happened to me," said the 
 workman. The mother of these two little 
 children died ten months ago ; we were in 
 want of everything, then, and I knew not 
 even how to dress these children. Believe 
 me, Miss," he added, addressing me with feel- 
 ing, " when the mother is gone, all is gone I . . 
 but our gracious God did not forsake us, for 
 He sent us his angel ; I say His angel, although 
 she is at present much more than an angel I . . 
 Is she not indeed a child of God in heaven ? . . 
 but, in short, she clothed these two little ones, 
 and I am sure she did not spare herself in 
 working for them ; the clothes they now wear 
 were made chiefly by that dear young lady's 
 hands. Then she used to come and visit us; 
 she often made my two children go to her 
 house, and always gave them good advice. She 
 also sent them to school, and although it was 
 certainly her mother who paid for them, yet 
 it was Miss .Amelia who taught them to read 
 
THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 at home, and who, almost every Sunday, made 
 them repeat their Bible lessons. 
 
 " Ah, Miss," he continued, " all that that 
 dear young lady did for us, for our souls as 
 well as for our bodies, will only be known in 
 heaven, and at the last day. For my part,' 
 and I say it here over her grave, and in the 
 presence of God, I am certain, that when the 
 Lord Jesus shall raise us all up again, the 
 works of Miss Amelia will follow her, and we 
 shall then see that while upon earth she served 
 God with all her heart. 
 
 " No," he added, as he wiped away the tears 
 from his children's eyes, " I would not wish 
 her to return from the glory which she now 
 enjoys, at the same time I cannot conceal 
 from }^ou, that my heart mourns for her, and 
 lhat I know we have lost our consolation, our 
 benefactress, our faithful friend !" 
 
 " Who has not lost one ?" exclaimed a poor 
 woman, at whose side stood the little girls 
 who had planted the flowers; " I know very 
 well that Miss Amelia's mother will take her 
 place, she is so good and kind ! but it was no 
 11 # 
 
126 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 little joy to receive a visit from that sweet 
 and amiable young lady, so good, so pious, 
 and so full of joy. Oh I what should I have 
 done with my husband, so long confined to 
 his bed, if this messenger of goodness had not 
 procured work for me, and recommended me 
 to the ladies who now employ me. And then 
 again, what were we, until Miss Amelia spoke 
 to us ? How much she had to put up with 
 when I refused to read the Holy Scriptures ! 
 and yet she was never weary of me. Oh ! 
 no ; she came day after day, to exhort and to 
 teach me, and blessed be God, we begin now 
 to know something of what the Saviour has 
 done for us. 
 
 " And," added she, drawing the little girls 
 towards her, " I shall go on with my dear 
 children, reading and learning that word of 
 God, which was Miss Amelia's greatest joy. 
 
 " Come, come, my friends," she said, in a 
 persuasive tone, " we must also die, and be 
 put each in his turn, under this ground ; but 
 as our benefactress is not dead .... (no, she 
 Is not dead, for the Lord has said it!) — so 
 
THE MODEKN DOKCAS. 127 
 
 also shall not we die, if we follow in hei 
 steps." 
 
 The poor woman then wished us good day, 
 and moved away with her children. We all 
 walked on together, still speaking of Amelia. 
 My brother took the names and addresses of 
 many of the poor people, with whom he had 
 just been conversing, and spoke a few words 
 to them of comfort and encouragement. 
 
 As soon as we were alone, he showed me 
 the list of names, at the head of which was 
 that of the old man, and he said, " Here is a 
 blessed inheritance which Amelia has left us. 
 She has done as Dorcas did : her hands have 
 clothed the poor, and her lips have spoken 
 comfort to them. Dear Anna, Amelia was 
 lot older than we are ; let us remember this, 
 'or we know not when the Lord shall call us." 
 
 How wise and pious this dear brother is ! 
 We have already been able to pay together, 
 two of Amelia's visits. Her mother, to whom 
 we related all we had heard, gave us further 
 particulars of what the pious and indefatigable 
 Amelia used to do. Ah Esther, her religion 
 
128 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 was not mere " lip-service." The Spirit of 
 the Lord Jesus Christ assisted her, and she 
 might have said with truth, I show " my faith 
 by my works." 
 
 Let us take courage, then, my dear and 
 kind sister ! we lament our loss in Amelia's 
 death, but on her own account I lament her 
 not. I can only contemplate her in the pres- 
 ence of God, and of her Saviour, and I rejoice 
 to think of her delight when she entered the 
 region of heaven. How beautiful it must be, 
 Esther, to behold the glory of that heaven 1 
 to hear the voices of saints and angels, and to 
 know that God loves us, and will make us 
 happy forever. 
 
 Think, sister, of the meaning oi— forever 1 
 Amelia's father, whom I saw a few hours 
 ago with her excellent and pious mother, said 
 to me, in speaking of their darling child, "For 
 my own joy and comfort I should have wished 
 to have kept her with us ; but, my dear Anna, 
 even if I could have done so, what would 
 have been all our happiness, compared with 
 
THE MODERN DORCAS. 129 
 
 that which she now possesses in the presence 
 of her God." 
 
 But do not suppose, my sister, that Ame- 
 lia, with all her piety, was less prudent with 
 regard to the things of this world, than faithful 
 regarding those of heaven. Her mother has 
 shown me her books, and her different arrange- 
 ments, all of which indicate that discretion 
 spoken of in Scripture, carried out in the most 
 minute particulars. 
 
 First, as respects order and cleanliness in 
 everything belonging to her : it would be 
 impossible to imagine a more proper arrange- 
 ment than the one she made of each article, 
 both in her wardrobe, her writing-table, her 
 work-box, and her account-book. 
 
 She had not much money to devote to her 
 works of charity, but her industry made up 
 for her limited means ; for instance, in opening 
 the Bible which she generally made use of, I 
 found in it, four or five pages written with a 
 great deal of care; and her journal informed 
 her mother, who read it, of the reason of this 
 circumstance. It runs thus : 
 
130 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 " As old Margaret has but one Bible, some 
 of the leaves of which have been lost r I have 
 given her mine, which is quite complete, and 
 have taken hers, adding to it some sheets of 
 paper, upon which I have written the passages 
 which were deficient. Thus I have saved the 
 expense of a new Bible ; and it is the same 
 thing to me." 
 
 Amelia's diary is very remarkable ; her 
 mother has allowed me to read many portions 
 of it, and to copy out what relates to her usual 
 manner of employing each day. I send it to 
 you, dear Esther, and you will find, as I have 
 done, that the Spirit of God always teaches 
 those who trust in Him, how precious time is 
 here below. The following is what our dear 
 friend wrote upon this subject. 
 
 "January 1st, 1844. — Nearly eighteen cen- 
 turies and a half have passed away, since 
 our Saviour took upon himself the form of 
 human flesh for our salvation. Those years 
 seemed long as they succeeded each other, but 
 now that they are gone, they appear as 
 nothing. 
 
THE MODERN DORCAS. 131 
 
 "Families, and nations, and the mighty 
 generations of mankind, which, in times gone 
 by, peopled the earth, have all passed away. 
 Nothing remains of them here below ! 
 
 "But such is not the case in heaven, — I 
 should rather say, — in eternity. There, all 
 these nations still exist, no man can be absent, 
 out must appear before the Sovereign Judge, 
 to answer for the use which he has made of 
 his time. 
 
 " How short that time is ! Where are the 
 years that David lived, and where are those 
 which Methusaleh passed in this world ? their 
 whole duration seems, at this distance, in the 
 words of St. James, 'Even as a vapor that 
 appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth 
 away.' 
 
 " It will therefore be the same with me. I 
 know not how long I shall live here below, 
 perhaps I shall see but a portion of this year, 
 and shall enter into glory before it is con- 
 cluded ; or perhaps I shall yet see many more 
 years. This th3 Lord knows, and I ought not 
 to consider that such knowledge would be of 
 
132 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 any importance to me, since that which con- 
 stitutes my life, is not its length or duration, 
 but the use which is made of it. 
 
 44 It is to Tesus, then, that all my life must 
 be devoted, without him I can do nothing. 
 'My life is hid with Christ in God.' He has 
 'bought me with a price,' I ought, therefore, 
 4 to glorify God in my body, and in my spirit, 
 which are God's/ 
 
 " Truly to live is to know, that my thoughts 
 and actions are all directed to the glory of 
 Jesus, whether upon earth by faith and hope, 
 or in heaven by the sight and by the glory 
 of God. 
 
 " But here below, I have only time at my 
 disposal; that is to say, days composed of 
 hours; or rather, I have in reality but a single 
 day to make use of. Yesterday is no longer 
 mine, and to-morrow, where is it? I have it 
 not yet, and perhaps shall never see it. 
 
 "Lo my earthly life is 'to-day.' What 
 must I do then with 'to-day,' that God may 
 be honored and glorified in it ? for after all, if 
 I have the happiness of counting the year 
 
THE MODERN DORCAS. 133 
 
 1844, as dating from a christian era, and not 
 from that of a false prophet with the Mahom* 
 edans, nor yet of a false God, with the poor 
 Indians, it must be to Jesus Christ, from 
 whose birth I count my years, that thoso 
 years should be dedicated. 
 
 " Here I am, therefore, in the presence of my 
 Saviour, of whom I implore the Spirit of wis- 
 dom and prudence to guide me in the employ- 
 ment of this my day, since in reality I have 
 but one, and that is, ' To-day.' 
 
 " But I cannot do better than walk in the 
 footsteps of my Kedeemer, and in his conduct 
 and conversation whilst on earth, I observe 
 these three things : Temperance, piety, and 
 charity, to all of which he wholly devoted him- 
 self, and has thus left me an example to follow. 
 
 " I will therefore imitate him first in his 
 temperance. He rose early in the morning — 
 he eat frugally — he worked diligently — he 
 wearied himself in well-doing: in a word, he 
 exerted the whole strength of his mind and 
 body in the cause of truth, but never in the 
 cause of evil. 
 
 12 
 
134 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 " These, therefore, must be settled rules, 
 moderate sleep, moderate repasts, moderate 
 care and attention to the body ; active employ- 
 ment, always to a useful purpose, profitable to 
 my neighbor, and never interfering with my 
 duties at home. 
 
 " In the next place, I must imitate Jesus in 
 His piety. His Father's will was as His daily 
 food. What a thought ! To live wholly to 
 God, and as He himself teaches us in His 
 Holy Word. To do this, I must know His 
 Word ; I must study it, meditate upon it, and 
 learn it by heart. Besides reading, I must 
 pray, for prayer is the life both of my heart 
 and soul with God. What glory is thus 
 permitted to me, a poor sinner, that I ought, 
 and that I can, live to Him, love Him, and 
 devote myself to Him ! It is heaven already 
 begun on earth ; for in heaven my soul will 
 enjoy no other happiness than that of knowing 
 God, and living to His glory. This thought 
 fills me w r ith joy, and I am encouraged by it 
 to consecrate myself wholly t) Him, as did 
 my Lord and Savioui 
 
THE MODERN DORCAS. 135 
 
 " Lastly, I will, by the grace c£ God, imi- 
 tate Jesus in his charity. How many souls 
 there are about me to love, to comfort, to 
 enlighten and to assist. But I can only do it 
 in the measure which God himself has assigned 
 to me. At my age, and but a girl, subject to 
 the wishes of my parents, I ought only to 
 desire to do good in proportion to the means 
 with which the Lord has furnished me. But 
 I must, in so doing, endeavor to overcome 
 selfishness, idleness, the love of ease, avarice, 
 hardness of heart, pride, and indifference, and 
 I must love my neighbor as myself. Oh! 
 what an important undertaking, and how 
 many excuses and deceits this kind of charity 
 will encounter and overcome. 
 
 " But I will look to Jesus, and pray to him ; 
 I will implore the secret guidance of his 
 Spirit ; and since he is faithful, he will not 
 leave me alone, but will lead me, and enable 
 me to walk day by day, I mean ' to-day/ in 
 his sight, and in communion with him, who is 
 so full of love and gentleness." 
 
 This, my dear Esther, is what I have copied 
 
136 THE MODERN DORCAS. 
 
 from Amelia's journal. You see the light m 
 which our friend regarded her life on earth, 
 and how much importance she attached to one 
 dtiy — a single day. 
 
 As I read what sh« had written, I felt my 
 soul humbled before God, and I trembled to 
 think of the useless way in which I had hith- 
 erto spent my time. 
 
 You see in particular what Amelia felt on 
 the subject of piety ; what love her soul had 
 for God ! and this is what produced in her 
 that active, sincere, and constant charity. 
 
 You cannot form the least idea of. the works 
 of kindness and benevolence which she was 
 enabled to accomplish. That passage, " The 
 memory of the just is blessed," is truly appli- 
 cable to her. 
 
 Amelia was justified in her Saviour, for she 
 trusted in him, and thus was she also justified 
 before God, by her faith in Jesus. The spirit 
 of Jesus led her in " all her way," and in 
 whatever family she appeared, her actions and 
 words manifested a heavenly mind. 
 
 Her naine is remembered with blessing in 
 
THE- MODERN DORCAS. 137 
 
 the hearts of all who knew her ; her counsels, 
 her instructions, her example, and her acts of 
 benevolence, are continually spoken of by 
 those who witnessed them, and it is thus that 
 she left behind a sweet savor of holiness, like 
 a ray of heavenly light. 
 
 Dear Esther, here is an example placed 
 before us ; it has been the will of God that we 
 should know her, that we might be charmed 
 with her excellence, and that the happiness 
 both of her life and death, might tempt us to 
 imitate her. 
 
 No, no, my sister, she is not dead ; she ia 
 rather, as the poor workman said, at her 
 grave, " a child of God in heaven." As she 
 followed Jesus, let us also follow her, and let 
 her memory be thus a blessing to us both. 
 
 God be with you, my dear sister. I long 
 to see you, that we may pray the Lord 
 together, to make us like his faithful, holy 
 servant, the dear and pious Amelia. 
 Yours, &c, 
 
 Anna- 
 12* 
 
IV. 
 
 ®|t fact fomft bj % Mag-^ifce. 
 
 "Take away the dross from, the silver, and there shall 
 come forth a vessel for the finer." — Prov zxv, 4. 
 
 Every one knows in these days what is 
 meant by a religious tract. It is a little printed 
 pamphlet, which is sold at a very low price, 
 or is still oftener given away, or dropped in 
 the streets and lanes, that those who either 
 purchase, or accept, or find them, may read 
 the truths of the Gospel, and the good advice 
 which they contain. 
 
 This is an old fashioned way of imparting 
 instruction, both to high and low. It was in 
 use, for instance, as early as the first days of 
 the Reformation, when some faithful Christians 
 of Picardy, in France, assembled together to 
 read the Holy Scriptures, on which account 
 they were exposed to persecution, death, and 
 above all, to be burnt alive. 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 139 
 
 These true disciples of the Lord Jesus com 
 posed and distributed, with considerable diffi- 
 culty, some little pamphlets, in which were 
 taught the doctrines of salvation by Christ 
 alone, and in a form which enabled the poor 
 and ignorant to read and understand ; for it 
 was impossible for them at that time to procure 
 a Bible, which was not only a scarce book, but 
 cost a large sum of money : indeed, almost as 
 much as a thousand Bibles would cost in the 
 present day, and which, besides, they could 
 not carry home and read quietly to themselves, 
 as they were able to do with a simple tract. 
 
 At a later period, and chiefly for the last 
 fifty years, this method has been adopted in 
 almost all countries where true Christian 
 churches and societies have been established ; 
 and even now, millions of these tracts, adapted 
 to all ages and conditions of men, are published 
 and distributed every year. 
 
 It is, however, but too true, that many 
 tracts thus distributed are not religious tracts ; 
 that is to say, the substance of them is not in 
 conformity with the truth of scripture 1 . Many 
 
140 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 are published for the purpose of upholding 
 false religion and wicked principles, and 
 which, consequently, do great mischief to 
 those who read them. 
 
 And if it be asked, • How can a good tract 
 be distinguished from a bad one?" we thus 
 reply to this very natural question. 
 
 A good tract is that which leads us to the 
 Bible ; which speaks of the love of God in 
 Christ ; and which encourages the reader to 
 be holy from a motive of love to God. 
 
 A bad tract is therefore that which does not 
 speak of the Bible ; which tells us that salva- 
 tion may be obtained by human merit, and 
 which consequently would persuade us to be 
 religious from interested motives: that is to 
 say, to obtain pardon by means of our own 
 good works. 
 
 Those tracts, too, which speak of man's 
 happiness as if it came from man alone, and 
 not from God, and which consequently deny 
 the truth of God's word : these must also be 
 called bad tracts, and must therefore be care- 
 fully avoided. 
 
THE TEACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 141 
 
 The good that is done by the distribution 
 of good tracts, can scarcely be believed. 
 There are many families, even in prosperity, 
 who never tasted real happiness until some of 
 these evangelical writings found their way 
 amongst them. The following anecdote is an 
 interesting proof of this : 
 
 The family of a vinedresser, in the Canton 
 of Yaud, in Switzerland, was, unhappily, as 
 well known in the village in which he lived, 
 for his bad conduct, as for his impiety. The 
 father, whose name we will not mention, was 
 a proud and hard-hearted man, both intem- 
 perate and dissolute ; and his wife, whc 
 thought as little of the fear of God as her 
 husband did, was what might be called a 
 noisy babbler. 
 
 The pastor of the village had often, but 
 vainly, endeavored to lead these unhappy 
 people to a sense of religion, but he was 
 always received by them with scoffing and 
 ridicule. 
 
 The family was composed of the vinedress- 
 er's thre^ children. The eldest, Mark, was as 
 
142 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 haughty as his father, and although he was 
 only fourteen years of age, he was already 
 able to join in the disorders of his drunken 
 and gaming companions. He was entirely 
 devoid of any sense of religion. His sister, 
 Josephine, who was rather more than twelve 
 years old, possessed a more amiable disposi- 
 tion. The pastor's wife took much interest 
 in this child, who could not help seeing that 
 her parents were not guided by the Spirit of 
 God. Peter, the youngest, was but ten years 
 of age, but his brother's wicked example 
 counteracted all the good which he might 
 have received from that of his more amiable 
 sister. 
 
 About the end of May, there was to be, in 
 a village not far distant, a match at rifle-shoot- 
 ing. It was a public fete, at which all the 
 people in the neighborhood assembled. 
 
 On the morning of this day, Mark had 
 answered his father with great insolence, at 
 which he was so much enraged, that he pun- 
 ished him severely, and forbad him, besides, 
 to go to the fete. The father went thither 
 
THE TKACT FOUND BY THE WAV-SIDE. 143 
 
 himself, and Mark, after a moment's indecis- 
 ion, determined not to heed the command he 
 had received, but to follow him to the shoot- 
 ing-match. 
 
 He therefore took advantage of his mother's 
 absence, who, according to her usual custom, 
 was gone to gossip with some of her neigh- 
 bors, and notwithstanding the remonstrances 
 of Josephine, he hastened over fields and 
 hedges, to the scene of the match. 
 
 " What is this ?" cried he, picking up a 
 little pamphlet, with a cover of colored paper, 
 which was lying on the path near the opening 
 in the hedge. " Oh ! it is one of those tracts 
 they leave about everywhere ; it will do very 
 well to load my gun ;" and so saying, he put 
 the tract into his pocket, and ran on as before. 
 
 But when he approached the village where 
 they were shooting, dancing, playing, and 
 making a great noise, he suddenly stopped, 
 for he recollected that if he should meet with 
 his father, who was there, he would certainly 
 beat him, and send him home again, in pres- 
 ence of all the people who might be assem- 
 
144 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAT-SIDE. 
 
 bled ; besides, his brother Peter was there 
 also, and he might see him, and tell his father. 
 He therefore kept at a distance, behind a 
 hedge, not daring to advance any farther. 
 
 " Supposing I read this book !" said he, at 
 last, after having vainly racked his brain to 
 find out how he could be at the fi§te without 
 being discovered. " There is nothing in it 
 but nonsense, I know beforehand ; however, 
 it will occupy me for a while." 
 
 This tract was called " The Happy Family," 
 and Mark became so much interested in it, 
 that he not only read the whole, but many 
 parts of it twice over. 
 
 "How odd it is," said he, when he had 
 finished reading ; " I should never have 
 thought it could be thus ; this Andrew and 
 Julia, after all, were much happier than we 
 are, and than I am, in particular. Ah !" added 
 he, as he walked on by the hedge-side, looking 
 on the ground, " possibly Josephine may have 
 spoken the truth, and that, after all, the right 
 way is the one which this lady points out." 
 
 As he thought over the little story he had 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAYSIDE. 145 
 
 been reading, lie retraced his steps towards 
 his own village, at first rather slowly, bnt 
 goon at a quicker pace, and he entered his 
 father's house very quietly, and without either 
 whistling or making a noise, as he generally 
 did. 
 
 " You have not then been to the fete," said 
 Josephine. 
 
 Mark. — (A little ashamed.) — "I dared not 
 go, I was afraid my father would beat me." 
 
 Josephine. — "It would have been better, 
 Mark, if you had been equally afraid of of- 
 fending God." 
 
 Mark was on the point of ridiculing her, as 
 he always did, but he recollected Andrew and 
 Julia, and was silent. 
 
 Josephine. — (Kindly.) — " But is it not true, 
 Mark? would it not be better to fear God, 
 than to be always offending him ?" 
 
 Mark — (Knitting his brow.) — " Yes, as An- 
 drew and Julia did I would it not?" 
 
 Josephine. — (surprised.) — ( Of whom do you 
 Bpeak, Mark ? Is it of "The Happy Family/ 1 
 in which an Andrew and a Julia are men- 
 13 
 
146 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 tioned. Have you ever read that beautiful 
 story ?" 
 
 " Here it is," said Mark, drawing the tract 
 from his pocket, and giving it to his sister. 
 
 Josephine. — "Yes, this is it, exactly I But 
 brother, where did you get it, for it is quite 
 new; did you buy it of a Scripture Reader." 
 
 "Did l'buy it?" said Mark, sullenly. 'Do 
 you suppose I should spend my money in such 
 nonsense as that?" 
 
 Josephine. — " Then how did you get it ? Did 
 any one give it you ?" 
 
 Mark. — (Slyly.) — "Ah I they have often 
 tried to give me some, but I tore them to 
 pieces, and threw them away, before their 
 faces!" 
 
 Josephine. — "So much the worse, Mark! 
 for the truth of God is written in them, and it 
 is very sinful to tear the truth of God in pieces." 
 
 Mark. — (Rudely.) — " But you see I have 
 not torn this, for it is quite whole I And as 
 you are so anxious to know how I came by 
 it, I found it on the ground, near the road, 
 and just beyond the brushwood." 
 
THE TRACT FOUNT BY THE WAT-SIDE. 147 
 
 Josephine. — "Ah! then I know where it 
 came from. The Pastor's son, and the two 
 sons of the schoolmaster, have got up a Kelig- 
 ious Tract Society, who distribute them in all 
 directions." 
 
 Mark. — (Reproachfully.) — "And pray why 
 do they scatter them about in this way ? Can't 
 they leave people alone, without cramming 
 every body's head with their own fancies. 
 Let them keep their religion to themselves, 
 and leave other people to do the same." 
 
 Josephine. — " Do you think, Mark, that An- 
 drew and Julia did wrong to listen to their 
 father and grandmamma, and to follow the 
 precetps of the Bible in preference to the ridi- 
 cule of scoffers." 
 
 Mark. — (Softened.) — " I did not say that . . 
 I think Andrew and Julia were right ; but . . . 
 come give me back the Tract; I want to look 
 at something in it again." 
 
 Mark then went away, carrying the Tract 
 with him; and shortly after, Josepnme saw 
 him sitting in the garden, behind a hedge of 
 sweet-briar, reading it attentively. 
 
148 THE TBACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 { ' Where's that good-for-nothing Mark?" de« 
 manded the vinedresser, when he returned 
 home at night half tipsy. "Did he dare to 
 venture to the shooting-match? I was told 
 that he was seen sneaking about the outskirts 
 of the village! where is he now?" 
 
 " He went to bed more than an hour ago," 
 answered his mother, "and was no more at 
 the shooting-match than I was, for I saw him 
 reading in the garden." 
 
 "Mark, reading!" replied his father. "What 
 could he be reading ? It would be a miracle 
 to see him with a book in his hand. An idle 
 fellow like him, who never did learn any 
 thing, and never will!" 
 
 The vinedresser's wife was silent, and after 
 putting poor little Peter to bed, who was quite 
 tired and weary, she managed to get the father 
 to bed also, and peace reigned for a season in 
 this miserable abode. 
 
 Mark, however, who was not asleep when 
 his father returned, had heard himself called 
 a good-for-nothing idle fellow, and he trem- 
 bled from head to foot, when he fouri he 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY SIDE. 149 
 
 had been seen in the neighborhood of the 
 village. 
 
 "What a good thing it was," said he to 
 himself, " that I did not go on I It was cer- 
 tainly God who prevented me I" added he, 
 half ashamed of the thought because it was 
 so new to him ; but he determined no longer 
 to resist it. 
 
 On the morrow, to the great surprise of his 
 father and mother, Mark got up in good 
 humor ; he answered his father without 
 grumbling, and when he was desired to go 
 and work in the field, Mark hastened to take 
 his hoe and spade, and set off, singing merrily. 
 
 " What has happened to him ?" asked the 
 father. " One would scarcely believe it was 
 he ! Wife, what did you say to him yester- 
 day, to make him so good-humored this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " I never even spoke to him," said his wife, 
 dryly. " You know how whimsical he *s." 
 
 " I wish he may remain in his present 
 mind !" said the vinedresser ; and thereupon 
 he went off to the ale-house, to talk with hia 
 13* 
 
150 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 neighbors of the best shots of the preceding 
 day. 
 
 Josephine related the history of the little 
 tract to the good pastor's wife, who advised 
 her to meet Mark on his return from the field, 
 and to speak to him again of what he had read. 
 
 " Is it you, sister ?" said Mark, in a happy 
 tone of voice, as soon as he saw her. " It ia 
 very good of you to meet me." 
 
 Josephine, who never received such a wel- 
 come from him before, was quite delighted, 
 and going up to him, she said, affectionately, 
 " I want very much to talk with you again 
 about Andrew and Julia." 
 
 Mark. — (Seriously.) — " And so do I. I 
 should like very much to resemble them." 
 
 Josephine. — (Quickly.) — " Do you mean 
 what you say, Mark ? Have you thought of 
 it again since yesterday ?" 
 
 Mark. — (Still serious.) — " I have thought so 
 much about it, that I am determined to change 
 my habits. Yes, Josephine, I think you are 
 right, and that, after all, religion is better than 
 ridicule." 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SHE. 151 
 
 The conversation continued as it had com- 
 menced, and when Mark returned home, he 
 went up and kissed his mother, who was just 
 laying the table for dinner. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" said she, with som 
 surprise ; " you seem in very good spirits to- 
 day." 
 
 " Nothing is the matter, good mother, but 
 that I wish to alter my conduct," replied 
 Mark, seriously. 
 
 " To alter your conduct," cried little Peter, 
 as he looked up in his brother's face, and 
 began to titter. 
 
 " And you, too, little Peter," said Mark, 
 "you must become good, also." 
 
 " What a funny idea," cried the child, 
 laughing. " What has made you turn school- 
 master, all at once ? and, pray, when am I to 
 begin?" 
 
 " We shall see by-and-bye," said Mark, 
 kindly. " In the meantime, come and help 
 me to tend the cow." 
 
 " There is something behind all this !" said 
 the mother and she blushed to think that 
 
152 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 this change had not been occasioned by any. 
 thing she had said or done to him, herself. 
 
 When the father returned from the ale- 
 house, they all sat down to dinner, and aa 
 usual, without saying "grace" Josephine 
 said her's to herself, and Mark, who recol- 
 lected Andrew and Julia, blushed when he 
 took his spoon to eat his soup. 
 
 After dinner, when they were out of the 
 house, Josephine said to Mark, " What a pity 
 it is, brother, that papa does not pray before 
 each meal." 
 
 11 All that will come in time, Josephine," 
 said Mark ; " I never prayed myself, and yet 
 . . . . I must now begin directly. But what 
 shall I do ? Papa will be very angry if he 
 sees me religious." 
 
 " I do not think he will," said Josephine, 
 li for I heard him say to mnmma, this morn- 
 ing, that he should be very glad if your 
 conduct improved." 
 
 Mark blushed, bui did not reply. He 
 returned to his work without being desired to 
 do so, and his father, who was quite aston* 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAT-SIDE. 153 
 
 ished, said to his wife, " There is something 
 very extraordinary about Mark. I wish it 
 may last." 
 
 " You wish it may last !" said his wife ; 
 " how can you wish that, when you do not 
 care to improve yourself." 
 
 " And you, my poor wife," said the vine- 
 dresser, " do you care to change any more 
 than I do? I think as to that matter, we 
 cannot say much against each other." 
 
 " Well, at all events," said his wife, " I am 
 not a drunkard." 
 
 " Nor am I a tattler," replied the husband. 
 " And for this reason let us each think of our 
 own fault, and if Mark is disposed to reform, 
 do not let us prevent him ; for, my poor wife, 
 our example is not a very good one for him." 
 
 Josephine, who was working at her needle, 
 in the adjoining room, could not help over- 
 hearing this confession of her father, and she 
 felt the more encouraged to uphold Mark in 
 his good intention. 
 
 She therefore went again to meet him, and 
 repeated to him all she 1 ad heard. " I think," 
 
254 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 added she, " you will do well to relate what 
 has happened to our father and mother, and 
 read them the little tract." 
 
 " Not yet," said Mark, " for my principles 
 are not sufficiently strong. It is but an hour 
 since the ale-house keeper's son laughed at 
 mo, because I told him I would not play at 
 nine-pins with him, during working hours. 
 He asked me if I was becoming a Methodist, 
 and I did not know what answer to make. 
 However, I trust I am already improving, and 
 I have read the little tract again for the third 
 time." 
 
 " Oh !" said Josephine, " we ought to read 
 the Bible, and ,ve do not possess one." 
 
 " True," said Mark, somewhat surprised. 
 " I never thought of that. We have really no 
 Bible in the house ! Indeed, this must not 
 be," he added, looking on the ground, and 
 striking it with his spade. 
 
 " What shall we do, then ?" said Josephine, 
 " for it would be very nice to have one." 
 
 Mark became thoughtful, but said nothing 
 From that day his conduct was always regu 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 155 
 
 lar, and his habits industrious, so much so, 
 that his father, who was never in the habit of 
 showing him much kindness, said to him, at 
 the dinner table, and before all the rest of the 
 family, " Well, my good Mark, tell us what 
 has happened to you ; for it is very pleasant 
 to us to see how well you now behave. Tell 
 us, my boy, what has been the cause of this 
 improvement.' 7 
 
 11 It was from this book," said Mark, draw- 
 ing it out of his pocket, where he always kept it. 
 
 " What book is it?" said his mother, scorn- 
 fully. " Is it not some of that horrid trash, 
 that 
 
 " Be silent," cried the father. " If this 
 book has done good, how can it be horrid 
 trash ? Do sour grapes produce good wine ?" 
 
 "But," replied the mother, bitterly, "I will 
 not have any of those books and tracts in this 
 house." 
 
 " Well, for my part," said the vinedresser, 
 a I will encourage all that teach my children 
 to do what is right. Mark has worked well 
 for the last eight days ; he has not occasioned 
 
156 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 me a moment's vexation during the whole of 
 that time, and as he says that this book has 
 been the means of his improvement, I shall 
 also immediately read it myself. Come, Mark, 
 let us hear it. You can read fluently ; come, 
 we will all listen. Wife, do you be quiet, and 
 you too, Peter; as for Josephine she is quite 
 ready." 
 
 Mark began to read, but he could not pro- 
 ceed far; his father got up and went out, 
 without saying a word, and his mother began 
 to remove the dinner-things. 
 
 But as soon as the family re-assembled in 
 the evening, the father said to Mark, " Go on 
 with your reading, Mark, I want to hear the 
 end, for I like the story." 
 
 Mark read, and when he came to that part 
 of the tract, in which the Bible is mentioned, 
 the vinedresser looked up to a high shelf on 
 the wall, where were some old books, and said, 
 "wife, had we not once a Bible?" 
 
 11 Fifteen years ago," she answered, "you 
 exchanged it for a pistol." 
 
 The vinedresser blushed, and listened with 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 157 
 
 out further interruption until Mark had done 
 reading. When the tract was finished, lie re- 
 mained silent, his head leaning on his hands, 
 and his elbows on his knees. Josephine 
 thought this was the time to speak about the 
 Bible, which she had so long wished to 
 possess, and she went up to her father, and 
 stood for some time by his side without 
 speaking. 
 
 Her father perceived her, and raising his 
 head, he said to her, "What do you want, 
 Josephine, tell me, my child, what do you 
 want to ask me?" 
 
 "Dear papa," said the child, "I have long 
 desired to read the Bible, would you be so 
 kind as to buy me one ?" 
 
 "A Bible," cried her mother, "what can you 
 want with a Bible, at your age?" 
 
 "Oh! wife, wife," said the vinedresser, 
 much vexed, "when will you help me to do 
 what is right?" "Yes, my child," he added, 
 kissing Josephine's cheek, "I will buy you 
 one to-morrow. Do you think there are any 
 to be had at the pastor's house ?" 
 14 
 
158 THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 
 
 " Oh I yes, plenty," cried Josephine, " and 
 very large ones too !" 
 
 " Very well then," said the father, as he got 
 up, and went out of the house, "you shall 
 have a very large one." 
 
 "But," said his wife, calling after him, 
 " you don't know how much it will cost." 
 
 " It will not cost so much as the wine I mean 
 no longer to drink!" replied the father, firmly. 
 
 He kept his word. The Bible was pur- 
 chased on the morrow, and the same evening 
 the father desired Mark to read him a whole 
 chapter. The ale-house saw him no more the 
 whole of that week, and still less the follow- 
 ing Sunday. His friends laughed at him, and 
 wanted to get him back. He was at first 
 tempted and almost overcome, but the thought 
 of the Bible restrained him, and he deter* 
 mined to refuse. 
 
 "Are you gone mad, then?" said they. 
 
 "No," replied he, "but I read the Bible 
 now, and as it says, that drunkards shall not 
 1 inherit the kingdom of God,' I listen to what 
 it says, and I desire to cease to be a drunkard." 
 
THE TRACT FOUND BY THE WAY-SIDE. 159 
 
 " You see," said Josephine to Mark, as they 
 accompanied each other to church, "how good 
 God has been to us. "We have now a Bible, 
 and it is read by all at home." 
 
 Mark, — "Have you been able to tell the 
 pastor's son how much good his tract has 
 done us?" 
 
 Josephine. — " I told his mother." 
 
 Mark. — " And what did she say?" 
 
 Josephine. — "She said, 'God is wonderful in 
 all his ways,' and that, \ He which hath begun 
 the good work in us, will perform it until the 
 day of Jesus Christ.' " 
 
 Mark. — (Feelingly.) — " Who could have 
 thought that when I went as a rebel to that 
 Fete, that God was there waiting to draw me 
 to himself. But. dear Josephine, there is yet 
 much to be done." 
 
 " But," said Josephine, " where God has 
 promised he is also able to perform. He haa 
 told us to pray in the name of the Lord Jesus 
 Christ. Let us do so, and you will see that 
 God will renew our hearts, and make us wise 
 and good. 7 ' 
 

^ fc tre*ta S me t rdy t ^ fl o^ e3COr • 
 "ur happinesses also* 16 
 
 18 ™ the "nappy coIuinn *y 
 _ _ ~TAe A' inele€n(h century. 
 
Faithful .-Stall. 
 
 Will you not speak once more? My heart 
 is crying 
 Through the chill darkness to you! Can 
 it be 
 That I. .should call and you make no reply- 
 ing, 
 That no response should come from you 
 to me? 
 Have we not loved each other? Have we 
 not, bending 
 At the same shrine, together knelt in 
 prayer? 
 Have not our thoughts in absence yet 
 been blending? 
 Have we not grieved each for the other's 
 care ? 
 You loved me, and, though ofttimes sad 
 and lonely, 
 Your love sang like an angel in my heart; 
 I loved you— I, one amongst many only, 
 
 Yet you did set me in some place apart. 
 I call— you will not answer; I am weeping 
 Tears that there is no hand to wipe 
 away; 
 Athwart my life the shades of Death are 
 sweeping; 
 Do you not know it? Yet no word you 
 say. . 
 Have we not loved? Oh, bitter end of 
 loving, 
 Sflence and darkness! Nay, 'tis not the 
 end 
 Cf luve like ours! v 'Tis God Himself is , 
 proving 
 How much the heart of friend can trust 
 in friend! 
 "Trust me!" — so once you urged when we 
 were nearest, 
 When I could hear your voice and see 
 your face: 
 And I will trust you, hold you still the 
 clearest, 
 Will ne'er yield up the sweet Past's per- 
 fect grace! 
 Yea, we have loved! Love knows no chang- 
 ing ever! 
 Do we not love? Dear, with unfalt'ring 
 will 
 I cleave to you, thotr^h Life and Time 
 may sever, 
 And Death between us sweep more 
 darkly still. 
 And, though I call snd there comes no 
 replying, 
 And though I know not now your 
 thoughts of me, 
 Though only silence raeets my heart-sick 
 crving. 
 And no fruition of EiF faith I see, 
 Though all my pray'rs. though all my tears 
 avail not 
 To win the words i yearn for— I still 
 love!"— . . .. 
 
 Yet will I trust, yet vill be sure you fail 
 not ; 
 Love, crownless here, angels may crown 
 
 SHIRLEY WYNNE.