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 \
 
 Willie Burton, or the Soldier Boy p. 1.
 
 WILLIE BENTON 
 
 OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY MRS. S. P. DOUGHTY 
 
 ' PLAYING SANTA CLAUS AND OTHER TALES " AND " STORIES 
 AND RHYMES FOR BOYS AND GIRLS " 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HENRY H. & T. W. CARTER 
 1869
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S69, by 
 
 HENRY H. & T. W. CARTER, 
 In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Dist. of Massachusetts. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY INXKS, REGAX & LEAUBEATEB, 
 55 Water Street, Boston. 
 
 Presivork by Henry H. & T. W. Cuter.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 WILLIE BENTON ; OR, THE SOLDIER'S BOY ... 5 
 
 SIXTY MINUTES MAKE ONE HOUR 34 
 
 THE LOST KNIFE ; OR, BEARING FALSE WITNESS . 59 
 
 MAKING THE BEST OF IT 72 
 
 ISABEL'S BIRTHDAY 88 
 
 "I'LL TELL MOTHER" no 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS GIFTS 116 
 
 GOING DOWN HILL 127 
 
 CLARA'S BIRTHDAY ; OR, THE MOTIVE MAKES THE 
 
 DEED 139 
 
 OUR WORK . . . xZ 
 
 HENRY'S NAP IN THE ARBOR 164 
 
 MISCHIEVOUS TOM; OR, IT is ONLY FOR FUN . . 177
 
 WILLIE BENTON; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S B O T. 
 
 MILLIE BENTON was a very 
 happy little boy. He lived in 
 a pleasant cottage, far away among 
 the hills and mountains, in one of the 
 Eastern States, with his father and 
 mother, who loved him very dearly. Mr. Benton 
 was a laboring man, and supported his little family 
 by working for the wealthy farmers in the neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 He was industrious and faithful, and an excellent 
 workman, and could always obtain steady employ- 
 ment. He was also an intelligent man, and had 
 received a tolerably good common school education 
 when he was young, which he now found to be a 
 great blessing to him. 
 
 When his day's work was done, he would often 
 5
 
 6 Willie Bentonj or, 
 
 spend an hour in working about his own home, 
 and when his supper was over, and he had played 
 with little Willie until his mother was ready to 
 put him into his trundle-bed, he wou ke some 
 interesting and instructive book, and read aloud for 
 an hour or two, while his wife was busy with her 
 needle. 
 
 Willie liked to look at pictures, and hear little 
 stories, very much ; and when he was three years 
 old his father brought him home a primer, and a 
 slate and pencil, for he said it was time to begin 
 to teach Willie his letters, and that he should show 
 them to him in the book, and then make them on 
 the slate to help him to remember their form. 
 Willie was very much pleased with the. primer, 
 but he was still more delighted with the slate and 
 pencil. He had never seen one before, and he 
 thought it the most wonderful thing in the world. 
 When his father made two or three letters on the 
 slate for him to look at, he clapped his hands joy- 
 fully, and wanted to take the pencil himself, and 
 try if he could not make some too. His father 
 gave him the pencil, and was quite astonished to 
 find that Willie could make letters very nearly as 
 well as he could. The little boy was quite proud
 
 The Soldier's Boy. 
 
 of his success, and after making several letters, he 
 suddenly exclaimed, 
 
 Now I will make mother ! " and he immedi- 
 ately dre\v the figure of a woman, which, though 
 it did not bear much resemblance to his mother, 
 was so well drawn that Mr. Benton hastily called 
 his wife from the next room to come and look at 
 it, and told her in a whisper that he really believed 
 the boy would make an artist, for he could already 
 draw much better than he could do. 
 
 Mrs. Benton smiled, and said that she used to 
 draw prettv well when she was a young girl, and 
 then she looked at Willie's letters, and at the pic- 
 ture of herself, and seemed very much pleased. 
 
 From this time, Willie's slate and pencil were 
 his constant companions. Almost everything that 
 he saw he would try to draw upon his slate. He 
 made pictures of horses and cows, and dogs and 
 cats, and sheep and., lambs, and houses, and trees, 
 and men and women, and children. Of course, 
 they were only rough sketches, but they were really 
 wonderfully well done for such a little child. 
 
 But Willie's happy days were not to last very 
 long. The war had commenced, and though for 
 some time Mr. Benton did not think it his duty to
 
 8 Willie Benton; or, 
 
 leave his wife and child, yet, as the call for men 
 became more urgent, he at length yielded, and 
 after making every arrangement for their comfort, 
 he bade them a sorrowful farewell, and joined the 
 troops who were about marching from his native 
 State. 
 
 This was a great trial to Airs. Benton, but she 
 looked to the Lord for strength, and tried hard to 
 do her duty. 
 
 During the first year of her husband's absence* 
 she heard from him frequently, and as he seemed 
 in good health and spirits, she gradually recovered 
 her cheerfulness, and looked forward with hope to 
 the time of his return. She took great pains with 
 Willie's reading, and he learned rapidly, although 
 he did not enjoy it so much as drawing on his 
 darling slate. His mother often gave him a little 
 piece of paper and a lead pencil, that he might 
 draw some little picture to send to his father, or 
 write him a little letter, and Willie could print the 
 letters so neatly, and put the words together so 
 well, that he could really make out a very neat lit- 
 tie letter. And then his father would send him 
 one in return, telling him how much he loved him 
 and thought of him, and how happy it made him
 
 The Soldiers Boy. 9 
 
 to receive his little note, and the pretty pictures 
 which he sometimes sent. 
 
 But at length there came news of a fearful battle, 
 in which the regiment^to which Mr. Benton be- 
 longed was actively engaged ; and as the days 
 passed on, and not a line was received to tell of his 
 safety, his poor wife's heart grew very sad, and her 
 anxiety became so great that she found it almost 
 impossible to attend to her daily duties. At last 
 the list of the killed and wounded appeared in the 
 daily papers, and the cause of his silence was now 
 explained, for the name of William Benton was 
 the first among the many who had fallen in his 
 company. 
 
 Willie watched his mother as the paper fell from 
 her hand, and she sunk back in the chair so white 
 and motionless, and although he was too young to 
 understand the meaning of what he saw, he was 
 much alarmed, and running to her side, begged 
 her to speak to him, and tell him what was the 
 matter. But as all his efforts to make her speak 
 were in vain, he brought his little cricket and 
 seated himself at her feet, and leaning his head 
 upon her lap, sobbed aloud. A kind neighbor, 
 who had heard the sad news, soon came in, and
 
 io Willie Benton; or, 
 
 she laid Mrs. Benton upon the bed, and after a 
 while succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. 
 But she had always been a feeble woman, and this 
 great shock, added to the, anxiety which she had 
 endured for many days, was too much for her 
 strength, and for weeks she was too ill to leave her 
 bed, or to attend to the wants of her little Willie. 
 The good woman who had first come to her assist- 
 ance was her only near neighbor, and she was a 
 widow, with a family of children to attend to. Of 
 course she had but little time to spare, but when 
 she could not go herself to help her poor neighbor, 
 she would send her little -girls, who, though not 
 more than eight or ten years old, were bright, 
 handy little things, and tried to do their very best ; 
 and after a few days, those who had employed Mr. 
 Benton before he became a soldier heard of the 
 situation of his wife, and sent or came to see if 
 they could do anything for her relief. 
 
 It was early spring when she was taken ill, and 
 the rose were in bloom before she was again able 
 to perform her usual duties. Willie thought him- 
 self a veiy happy bqy when his dear mother could 
 sit up and walk abQuj: the rooms once more. He 
 had wept bitterly when first tQld of his father's
 
 The Soldier's Boy. n 
 
 death, but his tears were soon dried, for he had 
 learned to live without. him, and did not really miss 
 him as he missed his mother, when she was too ill 
 to attend to him. Mrs. Benton gradually grew 
 more resigned and cheerful, and tried to forget her 
 own grief in earnest endeavors to do all she could 
 for the little one who was now left to her sole 
 charge. 
 
 The gentleman who owned her little cottage was 
 one for whom her husband had often worked, and 
 who had ahvays been very friendly toward them. 
 He had called to see Mrs. Benton, and had kindly 
 told her that she was quite welcome to continue to 
 live in the cottage, rent free, as long as she pleased. 
 
 When my little friend Willie is old enough to 
 help you, it will be time enough to talk about rent," 
 he said. 
 
 Mrs. Benton thanked him most gratefully for his 
 kindness. She still had a little money laid by, but 
 it was only a little, and she wished to make it last 
 as long as possible, until her health and strength 
 should fully return, and she should be able to think 
 of some way in which she could provide for her- 
 self and Willie. 
 
 But health and strength did not return. During
 
 12 Willie Benton j or, 
 
 the pleasant summer weather she was able to work 
 a little in the cottage, and sometimes even took a 
 short walk with Willie, or helped him in his little 
 garden ; but when the autumn came, she grew 
 more feeble, and had a distressing cough, which 
 troubled her very much, both night and day. Win- 
 ter set in early, and the snow was soon very deep. 
 Mrs. Benton lived in a lonely place ; and now that 
 the weather was so severe, and the roads difficult 
 to travel, she seldom saw any one excepting her 
 good neighbor Mrs. Alien, and her children. 
 They were always kind and thoughtful, and when 
 tlie morning was cold and stormy, the eldest boy, 
 George, would always knock at her door at an 
 early hour, and say that he had come to do what 
 he could to make her comfortable before he went 
 to his work ; for George was eleven years old ; and 
 as his mother was a poor widow with several other 
 children to support, she could not afford to send 
 him to school when he could find any employment 
 by which he could earn even a little to help along. 
 Mrs. Benton would smile and thank him very 
 gratefully, as he brought her wood and water for 
 the day ; and little Willie would often say,
 
 The Soldiers Boy. 13 
 
 " You are a good boy, George, and I will draw 
 you the very prettiest picture I can." 
 
 Then George would go whistling to his work, 
 with his heart warmed and made glad by the 
 thought that he had done a kind action. 
 
 Every day, and sometimes two or three times in 
 the day, would good Mrs. Allen bustle in, and, in 
 her cheerful way, say she had a few minutes to 
 spare, and had come to do some "little turn" for 
 her sick neighbor. She was not a worflan of as 
 .much education or refinement as Mrs. Benton, but 
 her heart was full of kindness, and she would 
 willingly have denied herself many comforts for 
 the sake of helping the widow and her orphan boy. 
 
 Mrs. Benton was cheered and comforted bv these 
 acts of kindness, and endeavored to make some 
 return by teaching her kind neighbor's children to 
 read and write, and sometimes giving George a 
 little instruction in arithmetic, in the long evenings, 
 after Willie was asleep. 
 
 She often suffered much pain, and had days of 
 great weakness, but she hoped and believed that 
 when the mild weather returned, she should gain 
 strength, and that her cough and other troubles 
 would pass away.
 
 14 Willie Benton; or, 
 
 But this was -not to be. Death came very sud- 
 denly at last. For several days she had seemed 
 uncommonly well, and Willie had rejoiced that 
 dear mamma was growing so strong, and did not 
 cough so hard any more. Then came a sudden 
 change ; and, before the frightened child could 
 bring Mrs. Allen to her aid, she was quite unable 
 to speak, and could only look imploringly at her 
 kind friend, and then turn her eyes toward her 
 darling boy. 
 
 " He shall never want a friend," said the good 
 woman, as she vainly strove, by rubbing and other 
 means, to restore animation to the almost lifeless 
 form. But all her efforts were useless, and in a 
 few moments the spirit passed peacefully away. 
 
 Weeks passed : Willie had been taken to -Mrs. 
 Alien's house, and the furniture at the cottage had 
 been sold ; and what little money remained after 
 the funeral expenses were defrayed, had been given 
 to her for his benefit. It was but a small sum, 
 however, and the poor woman felt that it would be 
 no easy thing for her to bear this additional bur- 
 den. But she remembered her promises to his 
 dying mother, and she could not bear the thought 
 of giving him up to the town. " I will do all I
 
 The Soldier's Boy. 15 
 
 can for the poor little fellow," she said, " and per- 
 haps the Lord will show me the way to provide 
 for him." 
 
 Willie grieved sadly for his mother ; and although 
 all were kind to him, he was not happy in his new 
 home. He had always lived alone with his mother, 
 or with his father and mother, and it seemed strange 
 to him to be with so many children. And then 
 good Mrs. Allen was not at all like his own gentle 
 mother. Willie, therefore, felt lonely and home- 
 sick, and instead of being the merry little fellow he 
 once had been, grew so quiet and sad that Mrs. 
 Allen feared he was ill. 
 
 " Poor thing," she would sometimes say with a 
 sigh, " he is just wearing away like his poor 
 mother. I do not think he has long to stay in this 
 world." 
 
 But Willie was not really ill, although he looked 
 rather pale and thin, and did not frolic and play 
 with the other children, but would sit for hours 
 busy with his slate and pencil, or reading in the 
 little Bible from which his mother had so often 
 read aloud to him. 
 
 One day, about the middle of the summer, while 
 the children were playing near the cottage, and
 
 16 Willie Benton; or, 
 
 Mrs. Allen was busy in her little kitchen, a travel- 
 ling carriage was seen slowly winding its way up 
 a steep hill at a little distance. As it came neai'ly 
 opposite the cottage, the driver reined up his 
 horses, and beckoning to one of the older children, 
 inquired which was the shortest road to a neigh- 
 boring town. The child not knowing how to reply, 
 ran to call her mother, and Mrs. Allen soon ap- 
 peared at the door, wiping her hands upon her 
 apron, and dropping a curtsey as she advanced 
 toward the carriage. 
 
 " The right-hand road is the most travelled," 
 she said to the driver, " and it will lead you to the 
 centre of the town." 
 
 " Thank you, my good woman," replied a very 
 pleasant looking gentleman, leaning out of the 
 carriage window. " Can you oblige us by giving 
 this lady a glass of water?" and as he spoke he 
 looked toward a gentle, delicate-looking lady by 
 his side, who also leaned forward, and smiling 
 kindly upon Mrs. Allen, seemed to gaze with much 
 interest upon the group of children who stood 
 eagerly watching the strangers. 
 
 The water was quickly brought, and as the lady 
 handed back the glass, she said,
 
 The Soldier's Boy. 17 
 
 "You have a fine family of children, my friend. 
 Are these all yours ? " 
 
 "Yes ma'am, I may say they are all mine, 
 
 
 
 all but the little fellow seated on the rock yonder, 
 with the slate and pencil in his hand ; he is a stray 
 lamb, poor thing. His father was killed in the 
 war, and his mother died not many months ago, 
 with a broken heart, I am thinking." 
 
 " Poor child ! " exclaimed the lady, with much 
 interest; "and were you a near relative of the 
 father or mother?" 
 
 Xot a bit of a relative, ma'am, only a neigh- 
 bor. We lived in a kind of a lonely way here, 
 and, of course, I did all I could for her, and at 
 last, when she died kind of sudden like, I prom- 
 ised to be a friend to the child ; so he shares 
 with my own, ma'am, which is all I can do." 
 
 " Certainly it is," replied the gentleman, who 
 was also listening to the story with much interest ; 
 *' but has the child no near relations? " 
 
 " Xot one. sir ; I have often heard the poor 
 mother say that there was no one to claim kindred 
 with her, or with the father.either." 
 
 ' It must be quite a charge for you, in addition 
 
 2
 
 i8 Willie Bentonj or, 
 
 to your own family, my good woman. Is your 
 husband living? " 
 
 ' ; No, sir ; I have been a widow these four years. 
 The poor orphan is welcome to all we can do for 
 him, but he feels lonely and strange-like among us. 
 His father and mother were different from what 
 \vs are, sir, quite different indeed ; poor enough, 
 to be sure, but they had a deal of learning, and the 
 mother was a born lady." 
 
 " Cannot we get out of the carriage for awhile, 
 and rest in this pleasant place?" asked the lady 
 of her husband. " I should so love to talk to the 
 little boy, and to see all the children." 
 
 The gentleman looked at his watch, and replied 
 that an hour's delay would be of no consequence, 
 and directed the coachman to drive to a shady 
 place, and let the horses rest a little. 
 
 Mrs. Allen kindly invited the gentleman and lady 
 to enter the cottage, but they preferred remaining 
 outside with the children, and begged the good 
 woman to return to her work, promising to come 
 in and see her before they left. 
 
 The lady then seated herself upon a rock very 
 near to where Willie was still sitting, with his slate 
 and pencil in his hand, although he had stopped
 
 The Soldier's Boy. 19 
 
 drawing, and was looking earnestly at the lady. 
 She smiled upon him, and said. 
 
 You have a pretty little slate. Have you been 
 drawing a picture?" 
 
 Yes. ma'am." replied Willie, timidlv. 
 
 "And will you show it to me?" asked the lady, 
 holding out her hand as she spoke. 
 
 Willie rose and brought her the slate. There 
 was a picture of a ladv sitting in a chair with a 
 book in her hand, and a little boy seated at her 
 feet. It was, of course, very imperfectly drawn, 
 but still it seemed a remarkable drawing for so 
 young a child, and the ladv exclaimed with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Did you draw this all yourself, my little boy? " 
 
 Yes, ma'am," replied Willie. ' It is a picture 
 of my mother and me. This is my mother." he 
 .vied, pointing to the figure on the slate : >; she 
 is reading the Bible aloud, and this is me sitting 
 at her feet and listening to her. Only the face is 
 not much like my mother's. I cannot make it 
 quite right. She looked like you, I think, ma'am." 
 
 "Did she indeed?" replied the lady, smiling. 
 " Then I suppose you will love me a little, will 
 YOU not ? "
 
 2O Willie Benton; or, 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Willie, nestling close to the 
 side of his new friend, and leaning his head upon 
 her shoulder. 
 
 Just then the gentleman, who had been talking 
 with the other children, approached, and said 
 pleasantly, 
 
 " Why, you seem to have made friends with the 
 little boy very easily." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, for he says I look like his mother." 
 
 " How would you like to have her for a mother, 
 Willie?" asked the gentleman, stroking t^e little 
 boy's curly head. " Will you go and live with us 
 in our home in the western country, and be our 
 own little boy?" 
 
 The lady looked gratefully at her husband as he 
 made this proposal, and waited eagerly for Willie's 
 reply. 
 
 The tears came into his eyes, and he looked first 
 at one and then at the other of his new friends, as 
 if he was trying to decide. 
 
 At length he said, 
 
 " If Mrs. Allen is willing, I will go. She was 
 always kind to mother and to me, and I must mind 
 what she says. I don't love to live here, now my
 
 The Soldier's Boy. 21 
 
 mother has gone to heaven, and I should like to be 
 your little boy." 
 
 " Well, then, we will talk to Mrs. Allen, and 
 see what she says about it," replied the gentleman ; 
 and leaving Willie, he went with his wife into the 
 cottage. 
 
 Good Mrs. Allen heard their proposition to take 
 the child with great surprise, and seemed to know 
 not what answer to make. 
 
 " We are wealthy," said the gentleman, " and 
 have a very pleasant home in the western country. 
 We have no children, and my wife has often pro- 
 posed to me to adopt some little orphan, but I have 
 never felt willing to do so until I saw your little 
 Willie. If you are willing to give him up we 
 will do well by him, and you will, I think, fulfil 
 your promise to his mother as faithfully as if you 
 kept him yourself." 
 
 " I think so myself, sir," answered Mrs. Allen, 
 wiping her eyes, for she felt grieved at the thought 
 of parting with the child. " It is little indeed that 
 I can do for him, for in these times it is hard to 
 keep soul and body together. And yet I hardly 
 like to give him up to " 
 
 " Strangers," added the lady, gently, as Mrs.
 
 22 Willie Bentonj or, 
 
 Allen hesitated. " It is very natural and very 
 proper that you should feel so, my friendj but I 
 do assure you, most solemnly, that I will be a kind 
 and faithful mother to the child." 
 
 " I do not doubt it, ma'am. I see it in your 
 face ; and the gentleman will be a father to him 
 also, and he will need one bad enough, poor thing. 
 Squire Hall did talk about getting a pension for 
 him by and by, but I have not much faith in it, 
 for there will be many a pension wanting if this 
 war keeps on. I think I will let him go, if he 
 likes the thought himself. I cannot force him to 
 leave me." 
 
 "Certainly not," replied the gentleman. "We 
 will call him, and see what he has to say about it." 
 
 So Willie was called, and Mrs. Allen asked him 
 if he would like to go far away and live with the 
 lady and gentleman, and he again replied that he 
 should, if she was willing ; adding earnestly, 
 
 "If I may take my mother's little Bible and my 
 slate and pencil with me." 
 
 u You can take anything you please, clear," was 
 the kind reply. 
 
 The gentleman then explained to Mrs. Allen 
 that they should be obliged to take the child with
 
 The Soldiers Boy. 23 
 
 them immediately, as they were to take the night 
 train for the West, at the neighboring town. 
 
 " He will need no clothing excepting the suit 
 which you wish him to wear," he continued, " as 
 we shall provide suitably for him." 
 
 " But there are some things in the house which 
 belong to him," said Mrs. Allen. "All that would 
 sell was sold, but some things were left, and those 
 I brought here." 
 
 " Keep all excepting such little remembrances 
 of his parents as you think the child would most 
 value," replied the gentleman. " He will need 
 nothing more." 
 
 Little Willie's parcel was soon made up, he 
 was neatly dressed in his best suit, and after an 
 affectionate good-by to Mrs. Allen and the chil- 
 dren, was lifted into the carriage where the lady 
 was already seated. 
 
 " One thing more," said the gentleman, as he 
 was about to step in himself; "I will give you 
 my card. Mrs. Allen, with my name and address; 
 and then if at any time any relatives of the child 
 should appear, they will know where to find me." 
 
 u There is little danger of that, sir," was the 
 reply ; but the gentleman took a card from his
 
 24 Willie Benton; or, 
 
 pocket-book and handed it to the good woman, 
 and at the same time pressed into her hand a bank- 
 note. 
 
 Then, without waiting for her thanks, he stepped 
 into the carriage, and in another moment they 
 were driven rapidly away. 
 
 Another year passed away. Mrs. Allen contin- 
 ued to occupy the same cottage, and there were 
 new neighbors in what had once been the home 
 of Mr. Benton and his family. 
 
 It was near the close of a summer's afternoon, 
 and Mrs. Allen was sitting on the step of the cot- 
 tage door, enjoying the cool breeze, and watching 
 the sports of the children who were playing near 
 her, when she observed a stranger slowly winding 
 his way up the narrow path which led to the cot- 
 tage. He was dressed in soldier's clothes ; and as 
 he drew nearer, she observed that he looked very 
 pale and feeble, as if he had suffered much, either 
 from wounds or ill-health. She thought, also, that 
 there was something familiar in his face and form ; 
 but it was not until he stood directly before her, 
 extending his hand, and saying, " Do you not 
 know me, Mrs. Allen?" that she recognized one
 
 The Soldiers Boy. 25 
 
 whom she had so long believed to be dead the 
 father of little Willie. 
 
 The good woman was so overcome by surprise 
 and emotion that she could not speak a word, but 
 held out her hand, which Mr. Benton grasped 
 warmly. 
 
 " I see you know me now," he said. " It is not 
 strange that you did not recognize me at first, for 
 I must have sadly changed. Where is my dear 
 bov, Mrs. Allen? I have been told of the death 
 of my wife, and that you had kindly protected my 
 poor Willie, but I do not see him among your chil- 
 dren. Surely, surely, he has not gone from me 
 also ! " and the poor man leaned against the door 
 for support, and groaned aloud. 
 
 'Xo, no, Mr. Benton, not so; sit down, and I 
 will tell you all about it ; " and rousing herself at 
 the sight of his grief, Mrs. Allen brought a chair 
 from the cottage, and kindly bade him be seated. 
 
 "And now, Mr. Benton, you must not blame 
 me " she said earnestly, "for indeed I did what I 
 thought would be best for little Willie. You know 
 we all believed you to be dead." 
 
 " Yes, I was left for dead on the field of battle, 
 but life was not really gone, and I was taken pris-
 
 26 Willie Benton; or, 
 
 oner. I have suffered everything, Mrs. Allen, but 
 I could have forgotten it all if my wife and child 
 had only been hei'e to welcome my return ; " and 
 again the poor worn-out soldier buried his face in 
 his hands, and seemed overcome with grief. 
 
 " Take comfort," said Mrs. Allen, wiping her 
 own eyes; "your wife was like an angel while 
 she lived in this world, and now she has gone to 
 be with them." 
 
 " But my boy, Mrs. Allen, if he still lives, 
 where is he? I. do so long to hold him in my 
 arms once more." 
 
 Thus urged, Mrs. Allen told the whole story, 
 
 
 and the father listened with eager interest. 
 
 As she concluded, the good woman again said, 
 " You must not blame me, Mr. Benton. The 
 child was lonely with us. You know very well 
 that we are more like poor folks than you and 
 your wife ever were, and Willie did not take to us 
 kindly. And then it was very hard struggling 
 along, and I felt afraid that we might all come to 
 want. And the stranger gentleman seemed so 
 good and kind, and the sweet lady spoke so gently. 
 Willie loved her, Mr. Benton, and said she was 
 like his mother. So I let the child go ; and as we
 
 The Soldier's Boy. 27 
 
 parted, the gentleman slipped a fifty dollar bill into 
 my hand. How much it helped us, and how often 
 I have prayed for a blessing upon him for his kind- 
 ness ! But I did not expect it indeed I did not, 
 Mr. Benton. I would never have thought of sell- 
 ing little Willie." 
 
 Mr. Benton had seemed to be lost in deep 
 thought; but he now roused himself and said, 
 
 " Where is the card that the stranger left with 
 you, Mrs. Allen, with his name and address upon 
 it? I think you said that he gave it to you." 
 
 "And so he did, for he said some one might be 
 asking for the child ; but it seemed to me that 
 there was no chance of this, and I was so flustered 
 when I found that he had given me a fifty dollar 
 bill, that, to tell you the truth, I never thought of 
 the card for two or three days, and then I could 
 find nothing of it. I must have dropped it some- 
 where." 
 
 "And can you not remember the name, or 
 where they lived?" asked Mr. Benton. 
 
 " The name I never asked, and I did not read 
 the card. He lived out West somewhere, in Ohio, 
 I think ; yes, I am quite sure it was Ohio." 
 
 And with this unsatisfactory information Mr.
 
 28 Willie Benton; or, 
 
 Benton was obliged to be content. He did not 
 blame Mrs. Allen, for he felt that she had done 
 what she believed to be her duty. 
 
 After considering the matter, and consulting 
 with others, he decided to go at once to Ohio, 
 and try to obtain employment somewhere in the 
 central part of the State. He then intended to 
 put such an advertisement in all the principal 
 papers as would be likely to obtain for him some 
 information respecting the child, if the gentleman 
 who had taken him was really a resident of Ohio. 
 
 This plan he carried into effect, and in a short 
 time he had found employment in one of the most 
 flourishing cities in the State. 
 
 Late one afternoon, when the usual business of 
 the day was at an end, he took a walk on the out- 
 skirts of the city, for he had as yet had but little 
 leisure to look around, and there was much that 
 was new and interesting to be seen. 
 
 As he walked along, he thought a good deal of 
 his advertisement which he was intending to put 
 in the papers the next day. Finally he took a 
 pencil and slip of paper from his pocket, and seat- 
 ing himself at the foot of a majestic old oak, began 
 to write. He was now upon the grounds belong-
 
 The Soldiers Boy. 29 
 
 ing to a very pleasant country seat ; but as the 
 house stood far back from the road, and the place 
 where he was sitting was very retired, he thought 
 he should be quite unobserved. 
 
 He had been writing but a few moments when 
 a slight noise attracted his attention, and looking 
 up he saw seated at the foot of another tree, at a 
 short distance from him, a pleasant looking little 
 boy, who, like himself,. was busy with a pencil and 
 piece of paper. 
 
 "What a dear little fellow," thought Mr. Ben- 
 ton, with a sigh. " He must be just about the age 
 of my Willie. I wonder what he is doing." 
 
 The boy seemed equally curious to know what 
 the stranger was doing, for he frequently raised his 
 eyes, and looked at him very earnestly. 
 
 At length Mr. Benton spoke to him. 
 
 " What is your name, my little fellow ? " 
 
 "Willie Atwood, sir," was the reply. "I am 
 drawing a picture. Are you drawing one ? " 
 
 ' ; Xo, my little man, I was writing," replied Mr. 
 Benton. smiling at the artless simplicity of the 
 child. " But I should like to see your picture. I 
 had a little boy once and he used to draw pictures
 
 30 Willie Benton; or, 
 
 for me. His name was Willie, too," and Mr. Ben- 
 ton again sighed. 
 
 " Did your Willie die?" asked the child gently. 
 
 " No, dear, he did not die. But tell me where 
 you live. Is it in that large house yonder? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I live there with my father and moth- 
 er. I am all the little boy they have got." 
 
 "They must love you very much, Willie. But 
 will you not show me the pi.cture? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have just finished it. Now I will 
 show it to you ; " and as the child spoke, he rose 
 and brought his paper to the stranger. 
 
 Mr. Benton gazed at the picture with great sur- 
 prise. It seemed to him a perfect representation 
 of the cottage where he had once lived so happily 
 with his wife and child. Even the wren-house 
 which he had taken so much pleasure in building 
 for his little Willie, was distinctly visible on its tall 
 pole not far from the cottage door. An elm-tree 
 shaded the cottage, and a little boy was sitting on 
 the step of the door. It was a wonderful drawing 
 for so young a child, but Mr. Benton thought not 
 of the beauty of the drawing. It was the scene 
 represented, that so excited his wonder.
 
 The Soldiers Boy. 31 
 
 Before he had sufficiently recovered from his sur- 
 prise to ask anv questions, the little bov said. 
 
 ' That is a picture of my old home. That is 
 the wren-house which my father made for me." he 
 continued, pointing with his finger, " and this is 
 me sitting on the door-step watching for my father 
 to come from his work. He had not gone to the 
 war then." 
 
 Mr. Benton grew more and more bewildered. 
 " Did you not say that your father lives in that 
 large house?" he said at last, speaking with diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 ; - Yes. my nc-jj father. Mr. Atwood," replied the 
 child, ''butl am telling you about my old father. 
 He was killed in the war," 
 
 t; And what was his name, Willie?" said Mr. 
 Benton, hardly able to restrain himself from clasp- 
 ing the child to his heart, for he already felt sure 
 that he had found his lost Willie. 
 
 My name was Willie Benton, then," was the 
 reply. "My father was Mr. Benton; I think he 
 looked like you, only he was not so thin and pale." 
 
 Willie had no time to say more, for he found 
 himself in the arms of the stranger, and felt some- 
 what alarmed at his kisses and embraces.
 
 32 Willie Bent on; or, 
 
 " Do you not know me, my darling? I am your 
 father come back from the war." 
 
 "And is my mother here too?" exclaimed the 
 child. " They told me you were both in heaven. 
 Oh, I am so glad ! " and little Willie clasped his 
 arms around his father's neck, and sobbed for joy. 
 
 "Your mother is in heaven, my own dear boy, 
 but I was taken prisoner, and not killed, as was 
 supposed. When I got home and found that your 
 dear mother had died, and that you had gone far 
 away, I came to this State to look for you. But 
 are you happy where you^are, W T illie ? Are Mr. 
 and Mrs. Atwood kind to you?" 
 
 " Oh, very, very kind," said Willie. " They 
 love me dearly, and I love them. Come now, and 
 I will show you to them," he continued, taking his 
 father's hand and trying to draw him along. 
 
 " I fear they will not be so glad to see me as you 
 are, Willie," replied Mr. Benton, rising, and walk- 
 ing along with the little boy. 
 
 " Oh, they will, I am very sure. Mother always 
 talks to me of ^you and of my own dear mother, 
 and she reads to me from the same little Bible, and 
 hears me say my prayers." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Atwood did indeed give Mr. Ben-
 
 The Soldier's Boy. 33 
 
 ton a hearty welcome, although they felt grieved 
 at the thought that their adopted child, to whom 
 they both felt most tenderly attached, might be 
 taken from them. But Mr. Benton was too sensi- 
 ble a man not to see the advantages of such a 
 home for his child. He knew how much Willie 
 must miss the love and care of his mother, and he 
 saw that Mrs. Atwood had in a great measure 
 supplied that mother's place. He was therefore 
 easily persuaded by Mr. Atwood to allow Willie to 
 remain with them, while he was so situated as to 
 see him daily. Mr. Atwood was wealthy and in- 
 fluential, and he easily obtained an excellent situ- 
 ation for Mr. Benton, well suited to his tastes and 
 capacity. 
 
 W T illie loved both his old father and his new 
 father very dearly ; and while he often thought and 
 spoke of his dear mother in heaven, he was very 
 happy under the care of the new mother whom 
 the Lord had so me cifully provided for him. 
 3
 
 SIXTT MINUTES MAKE ONE 
 HOUR. 
 
 " Sixty seconds make a minute, 
 
 Time enough to tie my shoe; 
 Sixty minutes make an hour, 
 
 Shall it pass with naught to do?" 
 
 HUS sung little Maiy Goodwin, as 
 she entered the parlor where her 
 father and mother were sitting one 
 pleasant summer morning ; 'but she 
 stopped when she saw that her father 
 was reading the newspaper, for she had been 
 taught to carefully avoid interrupting others. She 
 stood by her father's side, waiting patiently till 
 he was ready to" attend to her. 
 
 Presently, he laid the paper upon the table, 
 and said, " Well, my daughter, are you going to 
 school?" 
 
 " Yes, father," replied Mary. " Will you please 
 to give me my motto for this week ? " 
 34
 
 Sixty Minutes ) etc. 35 
 
 Mr. Goodwin was in the habit of giving: his 
 little girl a motto every Monday morning, which 
 she could in some way apply to her conduct during 
 the week. He had been reading so busily, that 
 he had forgotten t& select one that morning, and 
 when Mary reminded him of it, he hesitated for 
 a few moments, as if at a loss what to say. 
 
 " The verse that Mary was singing wouH make 
 a good motto," remarked Mrs. Goodwin, as she 
 called Mary to her side, and smoothed back her 
 hair, and tied her cape-bonnet more neatlv, for 
 she was a careless little girl, and seldom remem- 
 bered to pin her shawl even, or tie her bonnet in 
 a nice bow-knot. One corner of the shawl fre- 
 quently hung a quarter of a yard below the other, 
 and the bonnet was sometimes not tied at all, or, 
 at best, there was but one bow to be seen, while 
 the other string hung carelessly at the side. 
 
 " Why mother," exclaimed Mary, " what a funny 
 motto ! I should not learn anything new from 
 that. Everybody knows that sixty seconds make 
 a minute, and that sixty minutes make an hour." 
 
 " A great many people know it, but very few 
 recollect it in a way to make the knowledge of 
 any use to them," replied her father. " I think it
 
 36 Sixty Minutes 
 
 will be an excellent motto for you, and for your 
 brother Frank also. Indeed, it would do us all 
 good to remember that even one minute of time 
 is long enough to enable us to do something useful 
 to ourselves or others, if it is only to tie a shoe." 
 
 " That is not very useful, father," said Mary, 
 laughing. " It is a very small use." 
 
 " And a minute is but a very small portion of 
 time," replied Mr. Goodwin; "but if we perform 
 a small use, as you call it, every minute, we shall 
 find that we have been of very great use at the 
 end of a day." 
 
 Mary still looked a little dissatisfied with her 
 motto, and said she should not know how to 
 apply it. 
 
 " I will tell you one way," said her father, " and 
 when you have put that into practice, we will 
 think of other ways. Every time that you are 
 tempted to be idle for a few seconds or minutes 
 in school to-day, remember your motto, and try to 
 spend every instant in learning or doing something 
 useful. I suppose you would think it very wrong 
 if you should see one of your school-mates pass 
 an hour in idleness or play, when she ought to 
 attend to her lessons ; but, if you are watchful of
 
 Make One Hour. 37 
 
 yourself, you will find that you often neglect your 
 studies for a few minutes, without thinking that 
 you are doing wrong ; but recollect that if you 
 do this several times in the course of a day, the 
 number of minutes will soon amount to sixty, and 
 then one misspent hour will have gone, never to 
 return." 
 
 Mary had read a little book called the Well- 
 Spent Hour, and when her father spoke of a 
 misspent hour, it brought this story to her mind, 
 and she said, " Father, I will try to have all my 
 minutes well-spent minutes, and all my hours well- 
 spent hours." 
 
 " That is a good resolution," replied her father, 
 kissing her affectionately ; " and now go to school, 
 and this evening you may tell me if you have found 
 your motto of use to you during the day." 
 
 As Mary left the house she met her brother 
 Frank, who had been of an errand for his father. 
 He had a large package of books in his hands. 
 
 " Please to run up the steps again, Mary, and 
 open the door for me," said he. "It will delay 
 you but a minute." 
 
 "And it will do some good," said Mary; and 
 she told her brother about her motto, and that she
 
 38 Sixty Minutes 
 
 meant to try to improve every minute through the 
 day. Frank was two years older than Mary, a 
 fine, intelligent boy of eleven, and he said he be- 
 lieved he knew several ways in which it would 
 be useful to them to recollect this motto, but, as 
 it was nearly time for school to begin, it would 
 not do to talk about it then. So they bade each 
 other good morning, and Mary walked quickly 
 away, for she did not wish to grieve her teacher 
 by being late. 
 
 Miss Ainsworth was very desirous to have all 
 her pupils punctual, and was always careful to set 
 them a. good example herself, by being at the 
 school-house in season, and having everything 
 prepared for the duties of the day before nine 
 o'clock, at which hour school commenced. 
 
 As Mary was tripping merrily along, she saw 
 one of her school-mates at a short distance before 
 her. She was a pleasant little girl, named Ellen 
 Brown, and Mary was glad to overtake her. 
 
 Ellen was so busily engaged in picking black- 
 berries, that she did not see Mary until she stood 
 close by her side. 
 
 " O, Mary!" she exclaimed, "you almost fright- 
 ened me. I did not hear your step. See what
 
 Make One Hour. 39 
 
 nice ripe berries I have found. Stop a few min- 
 utes and help me fill the basket, and then I will 
 give you half of all I have gathered." 
 
 " Thank you," said Mary, looking with much 
 pleasure at a small basket which Ellen held in 
 her hand, about half full of large ripe berries ; and 
 she laid her book and slate under a tree, and began 
 to help Ellen. 
 
 " I have done all my sums," said Ellen, who 
 was in the same class in arithmetic as Mary ; 
 " and our table is very easy this morning. It is 
 about time, and we can almost say it without 
 studying. Sixty seconds make a minute, sixty 
 minutes make an hour, twenty-four hours make 
 
 a " 
 
 But here Ellen was interrupted by Mary, who, 
 
 hastily tossing the berries she had gathered into 
 
 the basket, took her book and slate, and said, 
 
 " Come, Ellen, I must go this moment. We 
 
 shall be late at school." 
 
 Why, Marv, we have not filled the basket 
 
 yet. You said you would help me." And Ellen 
 
 looked a little displeased at Mary's abrupt manner. 
 
 " I remembered my motto for this week," replied 
 
 Mary- u Sixty seconds make a minute, Time
 
 40 Sixty Minutes 
 
 enough to tie my shoe. You know the verse, 
 Ellen. I cannot stop now, because father told me 
 to try not to waste a moment of time to-day. I 
 will ask mother to let me pick berries after school." 
 " They will all be gone then," said Ellen ; but 
 she took her basket and followed Mary, and they 
 walked along together, talking about the motto. 
 
 " You know, Ellen," said Mary, " that often 
 when we think we will stop but a few minutes, 
 the time passes so quickly and pleasantly that we 
 stay much longer than we intended. Now as it 
 takes but sixty minutes to make an hour, if we 
 waste a few minutes this morning, and a few more 
 several times in the course of the day, an hour 
 will soon be gone, never to return, as father told 
 me this morning." 
 
 Ellen had recovered her good-humor, and she 
 told Mary that she would still give her half of the 
 berries, and that if their mothers were willing, 
 they could go to Blackberry Hill after school in 
 the afternoon, and there they could gather a quart 
 in a short time. 
 
 The girls had now reached the school-house. It 
 was a very neat little building, with a small gar- 
 den in front, which the scholars took great delight
 
 Make One Hour. . 41 
 
 in cultivating, and it was now full of beautiful 
 flowers. Behind the school-house there was a 
 small enclosure for a play-ground, which was 
 beautifully shaded by two large elm-frees. 
 
 Maiy and Ellen were. glad that they had not 
 stopped any longer to gather berries, for their 
 teacher stood at the door with a small bell in her 
 hand, and, as soon as she had bade them good 
 morning, she rung it loudly, so that all the schol- 
 ars who were on the play-ground, or in any of the 
 pleasant lanes near the house, could hear it. In 
 a few minutes a great many little girls were seen 
 hastening along from different directions, and very 
 soon they were all quietly seated at their desks 
 with their Bibles open before them, ready for 
 morning worship. Just then, the old-fashioned 
 clock, which stood in the corner of the room, 
 struck nine, for Miss Ainsworth always rung the 
 bell when the hand pointed to ten minutes of nine, 
 and this gave the girls time to take off their bon- 
 nets and shawls, and take their seats in an orderly 
 manner before the proper hour for school to com- 
 mence. 
 
 Mary frequently thought of her motto during 
 the day, and found it very useful in reminding her
 
 42 Sixty Minutes 
 
 not to be idle, and also in some other ways. Once 
 it prevented her from saying what was not strictly 
 true. The class in geography had a lesson to learn 
 which was quite difficult, and their teacher re- 
 quested them to study it diligently for an hour. 
 When the class was called to recite, Miss Ains- 
 worth said, " How many of you have studied this 
 lesson an hour?" Nearly all the girls raised their 
 hands to show that they had done so, and Mary 
 was about raising hers, when she recollected her 
 motto, " Sixty minutes make an hour," and she 
 said, " I do not think that I have studied quite 
 sixty minutes, for I looked out of the window 
 once or twice." 
 
 Her teacher told her that she was glad she was 
 so careful to speak the exact truth, and several of 
 the girls who had raised their hands, when they 
 heard what Mary said, and remembered how many 
 minutes it took to make an hour, acknowledged that 
 they had not studied quite an hour. Thus Mary 
 not only did what was right herself, but helped 
 others to do so also. 
 
 Another time she had forgotten her motto, and 
 was busily engaged in cutting figures out of a bit 
 pf colored paper which she had found on her desk,
 
 Make One Hour. 43 
 
 when a very little girl, who sat on a low seat near 
 to her, whispered, ' ; Mary, please to tie my shoe." 
 These words reminded Mary of her resolution to 
 perform some use, however small, every minute 
 in the day, and she blushed to think she should 
 have so soon forgotten it. She put away her paper, 
 and for the rest of the day was very studious and 
 industrious. 
 
 After school in the afternoon she had a pleasant 
 walk with Ellen to Blackberry Hill, and took a 
 large basket of berries home to her mother. 
 
 She was glad when* it was evening, so that she 
 might talk with her father about her motto, and as 
 soon as the lamps were lighted, she ran for her 
 brother Frank, who was sitting in the kitchen 
 making a boat, and said, " Come, Frank, let us 
 go into the parlor now, and talk with father." 
 
 ; In ' one minute, Marv," replied Frank, " as 
 soon as I have smoothed this bowsprit. Wait for 
 me just one minute." 
 
 Mary waited live minutes, and still Frank was 
 not ready, and she began to be impatient. 
 
 You forget that sixty seconds make a minute," 
 she said. " It is not right to say that you will be 
 ready in one minute, when you mean five or ten."
 
 44 Sixty Minutes 
 
 " That is what my teacher would call a very just 
 observation," replied Frank, smiling; and he put 
 away his boat and tools, and went with Mary into 
 the parlor. 
 
 Then Mary told her father in what ways she had 
 found her motto useful through the day. " Was it 
 not strange, father," she asked, " that whenever I 
 was in danger of forge-tting my motto, something 
 would always happen to remind me of it? This 
 morning, when I stopped on my way to school to 
 pick berries, Ellen began to repeat the table of 
 time which was in our arithmetic lesson for to-day, 
 and that reminded me of my motto. Another 
 time, when I was playing in school, little Clara 
 Winslow asked me to tie her shoe, which brought 
 the verse to my mind at once." 
 
 " I do not think this was strange, Mary," replied 
 her father, " although it is certainly very affecting 
 and delightful to think how constantly the Lord 
 watches over us, and endeavors to lead us to do 
 right. You know that the good spirits around you 
 are always imparting to you good thoughts and 
 feelings, and trying to make you good and happy. 
 To-day you were really in the desire to be led by 
 them, and to employ your time usefully ; and when
 
 Make One Hour. 45 
 
 you sometimes forgot your resolution for a few 
 moments, the angels who were guarding you from 
 evil, induced your companions to say something 
 which brought your motto to your mind, and thus 
 reminded you of your duty." 
 
 Mary did not reply to what her father said, but 
 her heart was filled with gratitude to the Lord for 
 His goodness in keeping His angels around her to 
 guard her from evil, and she prayed that she might 
 be led wholly by them. 
 
 Frank broke the silence by saying that he had 
 observed one way in which it would be useful for 
 every one to remember the motto. He Jiad been 
 to a large town that day on some business for his 
 father, and he related several instances of want of 
 punctuality and exactness in keeping promises. 
 One gentleman from whom he was to receive some 
 money, told him to call in an hour from the time 
 he first went there, and he would have it ready for 
 him. 
 
 Frank called at the proper time, but the gen- 
 tleman had gone out, and he was obliged to wait 
 nearly another hour, before he could receive the 
 money. 
 
 " I thought he had forgotten how many minutes
 
 46 Sixty Minutes 
 
 it takes to make an hour," said Frank ; " and very 
 soon I met with another gentleman, who really did 
 not appear to know how many seconds it takes to 
 make a minute, for when I delivered your note to 
 him. father, he said, 'Sit down a minute, my boy, 
 and I will attend to you,' and he kept me waiting 
 more than half an hour." 
 
 Mary laughed a little as Frank said this, for she 
 remembered how he had kept her waiting while 
 he worked on his boat, and Frank smiled 'also, for 
 he thought of the same thing. 
 
 " It is very common to say that we will be ready 
 in a minute, when we mean a somewhat longer 
 time," said Mr. Goodwin, " but it is much better 
 to try to speak the exact truth in this, as in all 
 things. The principal way, however, in which I 
 wish your motto to be useful to you, is in remind- 
 ing you of the great importance of improving 
 every mimute of your time. It is wrong to waste 
 even the smallest portion of time, for even one 
 minute is often sufficient to enable us to perform 
 some act of usefulness. Only think how much 
 good we could do in a year if we rightly improved 
 every minute ! "
 
 Make One Hour. 47 
 
 "Do you suppose any person ever improved 
 every minute of a year, father? " asked Frank. 
 
 " I think not, Frank, but some persons come 
 much nearer doing so than others. We should 
 regard our time as belonging to the Lord, and to 
 be spent in such a way as to enable us to become 
 mediums of-His good and truth ; that is, we should 
 constantly try to learn and do what will make us 
 the most useful in this world, and hereafter in the 
 spiritual world. The love of use constitutes the 
 happiness of the angels of heaven." 
 
 " Then the more we try to be useful, the more 
 we become like the angels, do we not, father?" 
 asked Mary. 
 
 " Certainly," replied her father. " The angels 
 are continually endeavoring to lead us to perform 
 uses, and the more we suffer ourselves to be led 
 by them, the more like them we become." 
 
 " And when we die we shall be happy with 
 them, forever. That is what my catechism says," 
 said Mary. " I should like to be an angel, father, 
 and I will try to improve every moment in learn- 
 ing and doing something useful." 
 
 " And so will I try," said Frank ; " but we shall
 
 48 Sixty Minutes 
 
 forget very often, Mary. It is not a very easy 
 lesson to learn, is it, father? " 
 
 " Indeed it is not, my son," replied Mr. Good- 
 win, " it is i'ery difficult, and we must humbly 
 look to the Lord for help. Without His aid we 
 cannot even try to do good. And now good-night, 
 my children, and may the Lord enable you to keep 
 your good resolutions." 
 
 Mary rose at an early hour the next morning, 
 with her thoughts filled with the resolution to use- 
 fully employ every moment. But she met with 
 difficulties which somewhat discouraged her. We 
 have already spoken of her careless habits, and 
 these she found very troublesome now that she was 
 endeavoring not to waste the smallest portion of 
 time. Even while dressing in the morning, she 
 was delayed nearly half an hour, because her 
 clothes were not in proper order. One article 
 wanted a button and another a string, and she was 
 obliged to stop to sew them on. Then one shoe- 
 string was missing, and after searching for it some 
 time, Mary recollected having seen her shoe untied 
 while walking with Ellen the day before ; and as 
 she had neglected to tie it then, it was probably 
 lost before she reached home. She applied to her
 
 Make One Hour. 49 
 
 mother for another, which she gave her, at the 
 same time reminding her that even one minute 
 was sufficient to tie a shoe, and thus the loss could 
 generally be avoided. 
 
 All these little troubles took so much time, that 
 the breakfast bell rung before Mary was quite 
 ready, and she felt hurried and disturbed, and did 
 not derive the benefit from family worship which 
 she would have done, had her mind been in a calm 
 and pleasant state. Many other troubles resulting 
 from her careless habits occurred during the day, 
 and she returned from school feeling very sad, and 
 told her mother that she feared she should never 
 be like the angels, for she had done very little that 
 was useful that day. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it, Mary," replied her moth- 
 er, " but you must not be discouraged by one fail- 
 ure. We all fail many times in our efforts to 
 become good. Come with me now and help me 
 prepare our tea, and this evening we will talk of 
 your troubles, and try to ascertain the cause of 
 them." 
 
 Mary was glad to be of any use, and she move'd 
 briskly around, assisting her mother in every pos- 
 sible way until tea was upon the table. 
 4
 
 50 Sixty Minutes 
 
 In the evening her father and brother attended a 
 scientific lecture in the neighborhood, and Mary 
 took her sewing, and seated herself by her mother's 
 side. 
 
 " I have wasted a great deal of time to-day, 
 mother," she said. " This morning I rose very 
 early that I might help you before I went to 
 school, but everything went wrong. My clothes 
 were not in order, and some things were out of 
 place, and it took me a long time to find them. At 
 school there was the same trouble. My slate pen- 
 cil was not in the little box which you gave me to 
 keep it in, and I looked for it a long time in vain. 
 At last I found it in a book in which I was reading 
 yesterday. I remember leaving it there for a mark. 
 Then I felt in a hurry about my sums, and there- 
 fore did many of them wrong. When Miss Alns- 
 worth handed me my slate, she said, ' The mis- 
 takes in your sums are entirely from carlessness, 
 Mary. You evidently know how to do them.' 
 
 " This was tiuc; for when I looked them over, 
 I found that in some places in subtraction, I had 
 placed the greater number under the smaller, 
 which I am sure I knew to be wrong. 
 
 " When the hour for sewing arrived, I intended
 
 Make One Hour. 5 1 
 
 to be very industrious, but I was obliged to leave 
 my scat for a moment, and carelessly left my needle 
 hanging loosely from my work. When I returned, 
 my work had fallen from the desk, and the needle 
 was gone. It took me full fifteen minutes to find it. 
 
 t- 1 could tell you a great manv more troubles, 
 mother, but they are all much alike." 
 
 And may all be attributed to one cause, may 
 they not. Mary ? " asked her mother. 
 
 ' I suppose they mav, mother. My carelessness, 
 which vou have so often talked to me about, is the 
 true cause of all inv difficulties to-day. I find that 
 I can never learn to employ every moment usefully 
 until I learn to be orderly and careful in my habits. 
 But, mother, is it not strange that the angels have 
 not helped me to do right to-day ? I am sure I 
 have thought of my motto, and should have been 
 glad to have improved my time." 
 
 ' There are manv wavs in which the angels help 
 us, dear Marv, even when we are the least sensible 
 of their presence. Before you can become useful 
 to yourself or others, it is necessary that you should 
 be brought into a state in which you can see the 
 evil of your careless and disorderly habits. Your 
 father and I have often talked to you about this
 
 52 Sixty Minutes 
 
 fault, and endeavored to help you to put it away ; 
 but it has been difficult to make you aware of it 
 yourself, and little improvement has been made. 
 The good spirits around you have evidently been 
 endeavoring to-day to bring you to an acknowl- 
 edgment of this evil, and for this purpose it 
 was necessary that you should meet with some 
 troubles." 
 
 " But I feel so sorry, mother, that I have lost a 
 day. I meant to be so very useful." 
 
 " The day is far from being lost, if you are really 
 convinced of the sin of carelessness. It may truly 
 be called a sin, because it prevents us from doing 
 many good actions, and is the cause of much 
 trouble and inconvenience to those around us. If 
 you are now fully aware that this is one of your 
 faults, and are sincerely resolved to correct it, you 
 may regard this as one of the most useful days of 
 your life." 
 
 Mary's countenance brightened at this view of 
 the case, and she said earnestly, " I do mean to 
 tiy to be orderly and careful, dear mother. I will 
 begin to-morrow, and you shall see how much I 
 will improve in a week." 
 
 " Begin to-night, Mary," replied her mother,
 
 Make One Hour. 53 
 
 smiling ; "be sure that all your clothes are in order 
 for the morning, so that the misfortunes of to-day 
 may be avoided. A short time ago, I put every- 
 thing belonging to you in neat order ; but now all 
 is confusion again. But as you are resolved to do 
 better, I will help you as much as possible. I will 
 show you a place for everything, and you must 
 remember to keep everything in its proper place." 
 
 " That is a difficult rule to obey, mother. I am 
 so often tempted to lay my things down for a 
 moment, and then I forget to put them away. But 
 I will try. I will remember the motto that I had 
 a few weeks ago : ' Patience and perseverance ac- 
 complish all things.' " 
 
 " Yes, you may remember that, Mary, but, 
 above all, remember to look to the Lord for help 
 to enable you to put away this and all your evils. 
 If you trust to your own strength, you can do 
 nothing." 
 
 " I will pray to Him to help me," said Mary, 
 " and I will thank Him for His goodness in keep- 
 ing His angels around me to show me my faults, 
 and to help me put them away." 
 
 Her mother kissed her, and advised her to go to 
 her own room then, that she might have time to
 
 54 Sixty Minutes 
 
 arrange her clothes properly, and to rend in the 
 Word before her usual hour for going to rest. 
 
 The next three days were happy ones. Mary 
 kept her resolution to endeavor to be orderly, and 
 she found that thus much time was saved, and she 
 could do many useful things which she formerly 
 thought she had no time to do. It is true that she 
 sometimes indulged in her former careless habits, 
 but a word from her mother was sufficient to re- 
 mind her of her resolution, and encourage her to 
 persevere. 
 
 Her parents and her brother Frank were much 
 pleased with the change. 
 
 ' I have not found any of your things in my way 
 for two or three days, Mary," said Frank. " You 
 are really becoming very orderly. Your books are 
 all neatly arranged on your shelves, your work- 
 basket is in its place, and I have observed that 
 your bonnet and shawl arc neatly put on when you 
 go out. What has changed you so suddenly?" 
 
 " Why, Frank," replied Mary, " I found that I 
 could never learn to employ every minute usefully, 
 until I became more orderly, for I wasted a great 
 deal of time in looking for things which were out 
 of place. Even pinning my shawl and tying my
 
 Make One Hour. 55 
 
 bonnet carelessly wasted time, for mother always 
 called me to her, and fixed them properly. You 
 have no idea how many things I find time to do 
 now. See this silk handkerchief which I have 
 nearly hemmed for father, and this pretty purse 
 which I am knitting for somebody ! " 
 
 'For me, perhaps," said Frank, examining his 
 sister's work with pleasure. 
 
 I shall not tell you," replied Mary. "You 
 will know in proper time ; but I must bid you 
 good-morning, Frank, for it is nearly school time. 
 To-day is Friday, the last tlay of school for this 
 week, and to-morrow mother has promised that I 
 shall visit cousin Emily if I am a good girl." 
 
 Saturday proved a day of trial to Man*. The 
 morning was cloudy, and soon after breakfast it 
 began to rain. Mary had anticipated much pleas- 
 ure from her visit to her cousin, and she was quite 
 unprepared for the disappointment. She stood at 
 the window watching the clouds for a few min- 
 utes, and then said, " It does not rain very hard, 
 mother. If I take an umbrella I shall not get 
 wet. May I go?" 
 
 Xo, Mary," replied her mother. "You have 
 quite a bad cold, and it is a long walk to your
 
 56 Sixty Minutes 
 
 uncle's. I think it would be wrong to allow you 
 to go in the rain. I am sorry for your disappoint- 
 ment ; but as it cannot be avoided, T advise you to 
 think no more of j^our visit, but try to spend your 
 holiday usefully and happily at home." 
 
 But Mary felt sad and displeased, and was not 
 disposed to comply with her mother's advice. She 
 still sat by the window watching the drops of rain 
 which fell against the glass, and indulged her ill- 
 humor by making fretful and unpleasant remarks. 
 
 " It always rains when I wish to go anywhere," 
 she said. " I wish ft would rain some other day 
 than Saturday.- Now I must wait another week 
 for my visit, and then, I dare say, it will rain 
 again." 
 
 Mrs. Goodwin took little notice of Mary, hoping 
 that she would suffer the angels to draw near to 
 her, and help her to put away the evil state. But 
 after some time had passed, and she still continued 
 in the same fretful mood, she said, 
 
 " You have forgotten your good resolutions, 
 Mary. You have passed the last half hour worse 
 than uselessly. Our Heavenly Father knows what 
 is best for us. He maketh the sun to shine and the
 
 Make One Hour. 57 
 
 rain to fall. When we fret about the weather, we 
 murmur against the Lord." 
 
 Mary was not an obstinate child. She felt the 
 truth of her mother's words, and frankly acknowl- 
 edged her fault. 
 
 " I will tiy not to think of my visit any more," 
 she said. " What can I do to help me to forget it, 
 mother?" 
 
 " When we feel sad from any cause, the best 
 remedy is to employ ourselves in trying to make 
 others happy," replied Mrs. Goodwin. " If we do 
 this from a sincere love of doing good, we shall 
 always find that the happiness we are endeavoring 
 to impart to others, is received by ourselves also." 
 
 " Well, mother," said Mary, cheerfully, " I will 
 help you all I can, and I will cover Frank's ball, 
 and make a frock for sister Ella's new doll." 
 
 Little Ella was standing by a chair upon which 
 she had placed her little cups and saucers, and 
 when she heard Mary speak of dressing her doll, 
 she looked up very much pleased. Her bright 
 smile made Mary feel that it is indeed true that 
 giving pleasure to others makes our own hearts 
 happy ; and she thought no more of the rain and
 
 58 Sixty Minutes, etc. 
 
 her disappointment, but employed herself usefully 
 and happily all the morning. 
 
 Her mother's cares were lightened. Frank's old 
 ball was so neatly covered, that it looked like a 
 new one, and a pretty little frock was made for 
 Ella's doll. At one o'clock, when the bell called 
 her to dinner, Mary was surprised to observe 
 that the rain had ceased, and the sun was dimly 
 shining through the clouds. 
 
 Soon after they were seated at the table, her 
 father told her that he was going to a town at some 
 distance, and would take her to her uncle's in the 
 chaise, and call for her at an early hour in the 
 evening. 
 
 The afternoon passed very pleasantly ; the more 
 so because evil feelings had been conquered in the 
 morning, and acts of usefulness and kindness had 
 been performed. 
 
 Mary told her cousin about her motto, and of 
 the use it had been to her through the week, and 
 they both resolved to remember that even one 
 minute is time enough to do some good, and that 
 sixty well-spent minutes make a well-spent hour.
 
 THE LOST KNIFE; 
 
 OR, 
 BEARING FALSE WITNESS. 
 
 H AT are you trying to make, 
 Willie?" said Alfred Goodwin, as 
 he came from school one afternoon, 
 and found his little brother seated 
 upon the door-step whittling a stick 
 with an old case-knife which he had persuaded 
 his mother to lend him for a little while. 
 
 " I am trying to make a windmill," replied 
 Willie ; and with a great effort he succeeded in 
 cutting quite a shaving with the dull old knife. 
 As he did this, he looked up at Alfred with a 
 smile, which seemed to say, " Did you see me do 
 that? Wasn't that a big shaving?" 
 
 " I will make you a windmill, if you like, 
 Willie," said Alfred, good-naturedly ; " I am 
 59
 
 60 The Lost Knife; or, 
 
 used to making windmills, and so I can make 
 good ones." 
 
 Willie gratefully accepted the offer, and handed 
 Alfred his knife and sticks ; but Alfred said he 
 could find wood that would suit him better, in 
 the barn ; and as for the knife, Willie had better 
 carry it back to his mother, as he would rather 
 use his own jack-knife. 
 
 Some soft pieces of smooth pine-wood were 
 soon found, for Alfred always kept a good stock 
 on hand, and then he felt in his pocket for his 
 knife. It was certainly not in his usual pocket, 
 but perhaps he had accidentally slipped it into 
 another. Both pants and jacket were carefully 
 searched, but all in vain ; no knife was to be 
 found. 
 
 " Now where can that knife be ! " exclaimed Al- 
 fred, looking much perplexed. " Let me think. I 
 have not had it to-day, but yesterday I made whistles 
 at recess. Oh, now I remember ! I lent it to Joe 
 Williams, and I suppose he forgot to give it back 
 to me. I will ask him for it this afternoon. Run 
 and ask father, Willie, to please to lend Alfred 
 his sharp knife to make you a windmill." 
 
 The little boy ran cheerfully away, and in a few
 
 Bearing False Witness. 61 
 
 moments returned with the knife. A pretty wind- 
 mill was soon made, and all the litter cleared up, 
 and the knife given back to their father, before the 
 dinner-bell rang. 
 
 Joseph Williams was Alfred's most intimate 
 friend, and, as they walked home from school to- 
 gether as usual that afternoon, Alfred happened 
 to think .of his knife, and said suddenly, 
 
 "O! where is my knife, Joe? You forgot to 
 give it to me." 
 
 " I do not think I have had it to-day, have I, 
 Alf ? " 
 
 " No, not to-day, but yesterday, to make a whis- 
 tle ; don't you recollect ? " 
 
 " Yes, I recollect having it to make a whistle ; 
 but I am sure I gave it back to you." 
 
 " No you didn't. I have not had it since, and 
 I have searched all my pockets ; so please search 
 yours." 
 
 This was said pleasantly, and Joseph immedi- 
 ately complied ; he turned his pockets inside out, 
 but no knife appeared. 
 
 " I am sure I gave it back to you," he repeated, 
 as the last pocket was searched. 
 
 " And I am sure you did not," returned Alfred,
 
 62 The Lost Knife; or, 
 
 positively. "I always keep my knife in the right- 
 hand pocket of my pants, and it is not there, nor 
 in any of my other pockets. You must have lost 
 it somewhere." 
 
 Joseph felt somewhat indignant at this hasty 
 speech ; and as they came just then to the road 
 which led to his own home, he turned quickly 
 away, and walked in that direction, instead of 
 going a little farther with Alfred, as was his usual 
 custom. 
 
 This added to Alfred's ill-humor ; and he mut- 
 tered to himself, as he walked along, " So mean 
 to sneak off in that way ! If he^ has lost the knife, 
 why can't he say so, honestly." 
 
 The next few days made matters worse between 
 the two friends. Alfred was a great favorite with 
 his school-fellows, on account of his cheerful, 
 obliging disposition, and the pleasant frankness 
 of his manners. Joseph was more reserved, and 
 by no means so universally liked. As soon, there- 
 fore, as it was whispered among the little circle 
 that "Joe had got Alfred's knife," great indigna- 
 tion was felt. 
 
 " I never did like the fellow," said one, " he
 
 Bearing False Witness. 53 
 
 always seemed so proud and stuck-up. I wonder 
 what made Alf think so much of him?" 
 
 " So mean in him to borrow a knife, and then 
 say he gave it back, when, no doubt, he lost it," 
 said another. 
 
 "Xo, he has not lost it" said a third, with a 
 mysterious look and manner. " I know some- 
 thing about that." 
 
 "What do you know? Tell us, Mark, that's 
 a good fellow," cried the others, crowding around 
 him. 
 
 " I know that he has it in his pocket," replied 
 Mark, with an air of importance. " Yesterday 
 afternoon I passed by his house, and as he was 
 standing in the wood-shed, cutting sticks, I stopped 
 to see what he was making. He had a brown- 
 handled knife in his hand, and as I looked at it 
 I could not help exclaiming, 'Why, there is Alf's 
 knife ! ' for it really looked precisely like it. Joe 
 colored as red as a beet, and put the knife in his 
 pocket, saying, in a very short way, 'No, it is'nt 
 Alf's knife ! It is mine.' But I know it is Alf's." 
 
 " Of course it is,'' responded the eager listeners. 
 u If Alf will give us leave, we will make him 
 give it up."
 
 64 The Lost Knife'y or, 
 
 But Alfred would not consent to any violence. 
 
 " If Joe is so mean as to take the knife in that 
 way, he may keep it," he said, contemptuously ; 
 "I will have nothing more to do with him. I 
 don't care for the knife," he added, " for my uncle 
 made me a present of a very good one yesterday, 
 as it was my birth-day. Joe might have had the 
 other, and welcome ; but he couldn't wait for me 
 to give it to him." 
 
 In spite of Alfred's expressed wish that no vio- 
 lence should be used, many sly tricks were played 
 upon Joseph, and many an insulting remark made 
 in his presence, all of which he bore in silence, 
 treating his persecutors as if he considered them 
 quite unworthy of notice. 
 
 In reality, however, he suffered much from the 
 loss of Alfred's friendship, for his parents were 
 poor, while Alfred's were more wealthy ; and, 
 being pleased with the appearance of the boy 
 whom their son had chosen for a friend, they had 
 encouraged the intimacy, and shown Joseph many 
 acts of kindness. 
 
 Alfred also felt the change, for Joseph was some- 
 what older than himself, and a very excellent
 
 Bearing False Witness. 65 
 
 scholar, and he had depended a good deal upon 
 him for assistance in his studies. 
 
 Thus several weeks passed away very uncom- 
 fortably to both parties, and yet neither were in the 
 slightest degree inclined to yield. Alfred remained 
 firm in his opinion that "Joe took the knife," and 
 Joseph was equally firm in his resolution to make 
 no attempt at an explanation, but to treat the 
 whole affair with contempt. 
 
 Alfred's mother was from home during the 
 greater part of this time, or she would have no- 
 ticed the change in the intimacy between the boys, 
 and would have endeavored to have set the matter 
 right. 
 
 Xot many days after her return, she kindly 
 inquired for Joe. 
 
 " I have not seen him since I came home," she 
 said. " He is not sick, I hope." 
 
 Xo, he is well enough," replied Alfred; "but 
 we do not go together any more, mother." 
 
 " Do not go together any more ! " repeated his 
 mother. " You do not mean that you are no 
 longer friends?" 
 
 " Yes, mother, that is what I mean." 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear it, Alfred," said Mrs. 
 5
 
 66 The Lost Knife; or, 
 
 Goodwin, gravely. " I fear you have been to 
 blame. Trifles should not part friends." 
 
 "It was no trifle, mother," exclaimed Alfred, 
 indignantly ; "Joe Williams stole my knife." 
 
 " That is a serious charge, Alfred. I certainly 
 do not wish you to associate with a dishonest boy. 
 Have you good proof ? " 
 
 *' Yes, mother, of course I have. I lent it to 
 him, and he did not give it back to me, and when 
 I asked him for it he was huffy, and said he had 
 not got it." 
 
 " Well, Alfred, and where is your proof that he 
 had? You might have been mistaken." 
 
 " No, mother, I am perfectly sure that I lent it 
 to him, and I searched all my own things for it in 
 vain ; and, besides that, mother," urged Alfred, 
 eagerly, for he saw that his mother was still uncon- 
 vinced, " Mark Stevens saw him have my knife." 
 
 " Ah, that alters the case," said Mrs. Goodwin. 
 *' If Joseph has really been seen with the knife in 
 his possession, that must be taken as proof. But 
 is Mark quite sure?" 
 
 H Yes, mother, Joe was in his own wood-shed 
 cutting sticks with a knife which Mark says looked 
 exactly like mine. He told him it was 'Alf's
 
 Bearing False Witness. 67 
 
 knife,' and Joe said it was not, but he colored up, 
 and put the knife in his pocket. It must have been 
 mine, mother, for Joe had none of his own. I 
 always lent him mine, and should have given it 
 to him after uncle gave me the new one, if he 
 had not helped himself to it before that time." 
 
 Mrs. Goodwin mused in silence for a little while, 
 and then said, 
 
 " The circumstances are certainly suspicious, 
 Alfred, but still I do not think the proof full and 
 clear. It is a very serious thing to accuse any one 
 of theft. It was your duty to have had a kind and 
 friendly talk with Joseph, and asked him frankly 
 where he got the knife that Mark saw him have." 
 
 ' He would not have told me, mother. He 
 treats all the boys with contempt, and will never 
 answer any questions about the knife." 
 
 " Because his feelings have been wounded by 
 your hastv judgment, and harsh accusations, Al- 
 fred." 
 
 " I have said nothing, I think, but what was 
 true, mother." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but possibly you have, and if 
 this should prove to be the case, you will deeply 
 regret what you have done."
 
 68 The Lost Knife; or, 
 
 Alfred looked grave and uneasy. He was a 
 truthful boy, in the common meaning of the term, 
 and could not bear to think that he might possibly 
 have told a falsehood. 
 
 His mother was called from the room just then, 
 and no more was said on the subject. 
 
 Another week passed away, and there was still 
 no change. Saturday afternoon came, and a large 
 party of the school-boys had agreed to go to the 
 woods for chestnuts. Alfred was eager to be of 
 the number. 
 
 " It will be such fun to hear them come rattling 
 down," he said ; " can I go, mother? " 
 
 His mother gave her consent, but added, " Not 
 in those clothes, Alfred ; go and put on your gray 
 suit, which hangs in the closet in your room." 
 
 Alfred obeyed, saying cheerfully, as he left the 
 room, 
 
 " That's a good suit for work or play ; but it is 
 so long since I wore it, that I am afraid it will feel 
 rather tight." 
 
 The suit fitted nicely, in spite of his fears, how- 
 ever ; but just as he was fairly equipped, he felt 
 something hard in the right-hand pocket of the
 
 Bearing False Witness. 69 
 
 pants, and putting in his hand to see what it could 
 be, pulled out the long-lost knife. 
 
 The whole truth flashed upon his mind. He 
 had worn those pants one afternoon, many weeks 
 before, to go a-fishing with Joe. He remembered 
 it all now. He had put his knife in that pocket, 
 and there it had been ever since. And poor Joe ! 
 How falsely he had accused him, and what could 
 he do now ? He felt so ashamed to tell his mother, 
 and, above all, to tell all the boys. But this was 
 only a momentary feeling. Alfred was, as we 
 have said before, a truthful boy. He had judged 
 hastily, and had said what was false, but now that 
 he was convinced of his injustice, he was willing 
 to do all in his power to make reparation. 
 
 In another moment he was at his mother's side, 
 and had told her the whole story. 
 
 " Thou shalt not bear false ivitness against 
 thy neighbor" she said, solemnly, but affection- 
 ately, as he ended. " It will be a lesson to you, 
 my dear boy. Hasty judgments often lead us to 
 commit great sins." 
 
 " I hope I shall be more careful in future. I 
 will try, mother." 
 
 "And what will you do now, Alfred?"
 
 70 The Lost Knife; or, 
 
 " I think I will go at once to Joe, mother, and 
 tell him the whole affair, and ask his forgiveness. 
 He is not invited to join our party ; but if he will 
 go with me, I will show the knife to all the boys, 
 and I am sure they will all be sorry for what they 
 have done, and give him a hearty welcome." 
 
 " That is a good plan, my boy. Tell Joseph, 
 from me, that I hope he will go with you. Tell 
 him that I think it his duty." 
 
 There was great surprise among the boys when, 
 as they had almost given up the hope of seeing 
 Alfred, he suddenly appeared, coming towards 
 them, arm-in-arm with his old friend Joe Williams. 
 
 As soon as he came near enough to speak, he 
 held up the knife, and said, in a voice loud enough 
 for all to hear, 
 
 " This is my old knife, boys, that we have so 
 long accused Joe of taking. I found it to-day in 
 the pocket of these old pants, where it has been 
 for weeks. The knife which Mark saw Joe have 
 was given to him by a friend that very day. It 
 does look something like mine, but not exactly. I 
 have done Joe great injustice, boys, but he has 
 kindly forgiven me, and I shall try to be a better
 
 Bearing False Witness. 71 
 
 friend in future. I am sure you are all sorry for 
 having suspected him." 
 
 " Three cheers for Joe Williams," shouted some 
 of the younger boys, while the older ones came 
 forward to shake hands and express their sorrow^ 
 
 The cheers were given with hearty good-will, 
 and then all united in a vigorous attack upon the 
 chestnut-trees. 
 
 Alfred never forgot the lesson he had learned. 
 
 When tempted to hasty judgments and harsh 
 accusations, he would remember the lost knife, and 
 carefully examine himself, lest he should again 
 bear false witness against his neighbor.
 
 MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 
 
 UCH a long spelling lesson as we 
 have got for to-morrow," said little 
 Julia Meredith, as she seated herself at 
 the table one evening after supper, and 
 placed her school-books at her side. 
 "Just look, mother," she continued, holding up 
 the spelling-book so that her mother could see it, 
 and pointing to the lesson for the next day. "All 
 that! Isn't it too long?" 
 
 " Oh, I think you will be able to learn it, Julia," 
 replied her mother, glancing at the lesson, which 
 was really a long one. " Study industriously for a 
 little while, and then I will see how many words 
 you can spell." 
 
 " It is too long," repeated Julia, impatiently, 
 " and I know I can never learn it. The teacher 
 ought not to have given us such a long lesson." 
 72
 
 Making the Best of It. 73 
 
 After some urging from her mother, however, 
 Julia began studying, but soon became discour- 
 aged, and again fretted at the length of the lesson. 
 Just then her father's step was heard in the entry, 
 and Julia sprang up to open the door for him. 
 
 Mr. Meredith had been obliged to go out for a 
 little while after tea, but had now returned to 
 pass the evening with his family. The younger 
 children were asleep, but Julia was very glad to 
 welcome her father, for he often assisted her in 
 learning her lessons. Just now, however, she 
 seemed to want his sympathy more than his assist- 
 ance ; for, as soon as he had taken his accustomed 
 seat, she showed him the spelling lesson, and asked 
 him if it was not a very long one. 
 
 Mr. Meredith examined it carefully, and pres- 
 ently replied, 
 
 " Yes, I think it is a long lesson." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith looked up with some surprise. 
 She had thought, herself, that the lesson was a 
 long one, but she did not feel sure that it was wise 
 to admit this to Julia. She made no remark, how- 
 ever, but went quietly on with her sewing. 
 
 " I knew you would think it was too long ! " ex- 
 claimed Julia, triumphantly. " I am sure it is the
 
 74 Making the Best of It. 
 
 longest spelling lesson that has ever been given to 
 our class. What would you do about it, father?" 
 
 " First tell me what you have already done," 
 replied her father. 
 
 " I told Miss Seaton that I knew I could never 
 learn it," said Julia, " but she only smiled, and 
 said I could not be sure till I had tried." 
 
 " And have you tried ? " asked Mr. Meredith. 
 
 " Not much, for I know it would be of no use. 
 I have a great mind not to study it at all, and just 
 tell Miss Seaton, to-morrow, that it was a great 
 deal too long. What would you do, father?" 
 
 " I think," replied her father, slowly and thought- 
 fully, " that I would make the best of it." 
 
 " Oh, father," exclaimed Julia, u that is what 
 you always say when I am in any trouble." 
 
 " Because it is really the very best way to get 
 out of trouble, my little girl. We must all have 
 many trials, great trials and little trials, and noth- 
 ing will so greatly help us to bear them, as a 
 cheerful disposition. But now let us look at the 
 spelling lesson, and see what can be done with it." 
 
 Julia again handed the book to her father, and 
 after another examination, he took a lead pencil 
 from his pocket, and marked several words.
 
 Making the Best of It. 75 
 
 "Can you learn twelve bard words, Julia? " he 
 asked, as he placed the book before her. 
 
 " Oh yes, father, I can learn twelve words easily ; 
 but that would .be but a small pai't of the lesson." 
 
 " I know that, Julia, but I have marked twelve 
 that I wish you to learn first, and then we will talk 
 about the rest." 
 
 Julia studied busily for a few minutes, and then 
 told her father that she could spell all the words 
 that he had marked. 
 
 " Then I think you will find that you can spell 
 the whole lesson. Hand me the book, and I will 
 put out the words to you." 
 
 Julia obeyed, and, to her great surprise, went 
 through the whole lesson with only one slight 
 mistake. She looked a little mortified as she met 
 her father's smile when he closed the book. 
 
 " I really thought' it was a hard lesson, father," 
 she said. 
 
 " I have no doubt you did, Julia, but you should 
 have examined it, and tried to make the best of it. 
 It was a long lesson, but I saw at once that the 
 greater part of the words were very easy." 
 
 " Xow that the spelling lesson was off her 
 mind," as Julia said, " the geography and history
 
 76 Making the Best of It. 
 
 would soon be learned ; " and when bed-time came 
 she had the pleasure of feeling quite sure that she 
 was well prepared for school the next day. " Fa- 
 ther has such a nice way of helping me to learn my 
 lessons," she said to herself, as she laid her head 
 upon her pillow ; " I am so glad that I know that 
 spelling lesson." 
 
 Perhaps Julia thought more of having learned 
 the spelling lesson so easily, than she did of her 
 father's advice as to what she ought to do in all her 
 little troubles. I think this must have been the 
 case ; for the next morning brought new trials, and 
 it certainly did not appear that she tried to make 
 the best of them. The first trouble was waking 
 up half an hour later than she had intended to do. 
 Julia was working a pair of slippers which she 
 intended for a birthday gift to her father, and she 
 had made a resolution to rise early in the morning, 
 and work upon them for an hour before breakfast. 
 She had succeeded in waking at the proper time 
 for several mornings, and now she felt greatly dis- 
 appointed when, on peeping out of her room to 
 look at the old clock which stood at the head of 
 the stairs, she found herself so much behind the 
 appointed time.
 
 Making the Best of It. 77 
 
 " It is really too bad ! " she exclaimed ; " I shall 
 not have more than half an hour to sew on the 
 slippers, and that will not even finish the rose-bud 
 that I begun yesterday. I will just go back to bed, 
 and not try at all this morning." So, feeling quite 
 vexed and out of humor, Julia crept back to bed, 
 and lay half awake and half asleep, until the first 
 bell rung, which was the signal for all to get up 
 and prepare for breakfast. 
 
 Just as Julia was ready to go down stairs, her 
 mother opened the door of her room. " Are you 
 quite ready, Julia?" she said, pleasantly. "And 
 ho\v do the slippers come on ? " 
 
 " I have not worked on them this morning, 
 mother ; I woke up too late, at least it was later 
 than I meant to wake, and I should have had but 
 half an hour." 
 
 u That would have been better than nothing, 
 Julia ; but there is the breakfast-bell ; we must go 
 down." 
 
 Julia followed her mother, feeling rather dissat- 
 isfied with herself and all around her. Her good 
 humor was by no means restored when she found 
 that a gentleman who was taking breakfast with 
 them occupied her seat at the table. To be sure
 
 78 Making the Best of It. 
 
 there was another seat for Julia, but she preferred 
 her accustomed place near her father, and she 
 looked quite vexed, and not at all disposed to 
 " make the best of it," as she took the chair which 
 her mother pointed out. School-time came very, 
 soon after breakfast, and as soon as they rose from 
 the table, Julia hastened to the garden to gather a 
 bouquet for her teacher. There was a beautiful 
 moss rose-bud which she had been watching for 
 several days, and this morning she expected to find 
 it just enough in bloom. 
 
 " Miss Seaton will be delighted, I know," said 
 Julia to herself, as she hurried along. " I heard 
 her say, a few clays ago, that she thought there was 
 no flower so beautiful as a moss-rose." 
 
 But a great disappointment awaited her. The 
 bud had disappeared : some one must have picked 
 it. Julia could hardly help weeping with grief 
 and vexation. " This is a day of misfortunes ! " 
 she exclaimed. " I have had nothing but trouble 
 all the morning. I was so pleased to think that I 
 should have that pretty bud for Miss Seaton this 
 morning, and now some one has gone and picked 
 it, just to trouble me. I will not carry any flowers 
 to school, not one."
 
 Making the Best of It. 79 
 
 This was a foolish resolution, for there were 
 many other kinds of roses, and beautiful flowers 
 of almost every kind in the garden, but Julia had 
 set her heart upon having that one particular bud, 
 and nothing else would satisfy her. She returned 
 to the house in a very ill-humor, and prepared for 
 school. 
 
 " Have you a bouquet for your teacher?" asked 
 her mother, who knew that she generally took one 
 with her in the morning. 
 
 " I should have had a beautiful one," replied 
 Julia, rather sullenly, " but some one picked my 
 moss rose-bud, which I have been watching for 
 three or four days." 
 
 " Do you mean the one on the bush near the 
 summer-house ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " I picked that one, Julia ; I did not know that 
 you were watching it, and I sent it to your grand- 
 mother. But why did you not gather some other 
 flowers? There are beautiful cluster roses; lam 
 sure Miss Seaton would be pleased with them." 
 
 " I did not want to carry any flowers, if I could 
 not have the moss rose-bud," replied Julia ; " and, 
 besides, it is too late now, it is time I was on my
 
 8o Making the Best of It. 
 
 way to school ; " and with a hasty good-morning 
 to her mother, the little girl hurried away. She 
 felt a little mortified, however, when she saw 
 Annie Wells go up to the teacher with a pretty 
 bunch of cluster roses, and heard Miss Seaton 
 thank her very gratefully, and say that she was par- 
 ticularly glad to have them, as her mother was not 
 well, and was always much pleased with that kind 
 of rose. " I will put them in water to keep them 
 fresh," she added, " and take them home with me 
 this noon." 
 
 "Now isn't that provoking?" thought Julia; 
 " our cluster roses are fifty times as handsome as 
 those, and I might have brought a great deal 
 larger bunch." 
 
 It was too late to regret it then, however, for 
 just at this moment the bell stopped ringing, and 
 the scholars took their seats, and commenced the 
 business of the clay. Julia had no trouble with the 
 morning recitations, for these lessons had all been 
 carefully prepared at home ; but her misfortunes 
 commenced again when she took her slate and 
 pencil, and commenced ciphering. It was a new 
 rule, and somehow she could not understand it. 
 To be sure, Miss Seaton had explained it very care-
 
 Making the Best of It. Si 
 
 fully to the whole class the day before, but this was 
 just after the long spelling lesson had been given 
 out ; and Julia was so much vexed with the thought 
 of learning so many words, that she had paid 
 little attention to the explanation. She read the 
 rule several times, and tried one sum after another, 
 but they would not come right. Pretty soon she 
 gave up in despair, and looked toward Miss Seaton 
 to see if she was at leisure to help her. u Xo, 
 there was the class in grammar, and it always took 
 them forever to recite," Julia said to herself, impa- 
 tiently. So as she could not do her sums, she 
 began to draw a picture, and was so much engaged 
 with it that she did not at first notice when the 
 class closed their books and took their seats. Miss 
 Seaton waited a few moments, as she always did, 
 between each recitation, to see if any scholar re- 
 quired her assistance, and then called another class. 
 Just as they were taking their places, Julia recol- 
 lected her sums, and went to the desk to ask for 
 help. 
 
 You are too late, Julia, the class is waiting; 
 but I will attend to you at recess, if you like," was 
 the reply. 
 
 Julia returned to her seat in ill-humor. " I am 
 6
 
 82 Making the Best of It. 
 
 not going to lose my recess, or any part of it, just 
 for these sums," she said to herself. But then 
 came the fear of losing her place in the class ; and, 
 rather than do that, she concluded to stay in for a 
 few moments after her school-mates had gone out. 
 Miss Seaton attended to her at once ; but the little 
 girl was in such a hurry to join her companions, 
 and so impatient and inattentive, that it was very 
 difficult to make her understand the rule. 
 
 "I am afraid you do not understand it clearly 
 yet, Julia," said her teacher, kindly, as she turned 
 hastily away. 
 
 " I know I don't. I never shall, Miss Seaton ; 
 it is such a hard rule." 
 
 "It is a very simple one, if you would only give 
 your attention," was the reply ; " but perhaps you 
 had better go out now." 
 
 Julia hardly waited for the permission, but was 
 at the door almost before Miss Seaton had finished 
 speaking. She did not find her companions very 
 easily, for the day was so fine that their teacher 
 had allowed them a longer recess than usual, and 
 they had wandered to a considerable distance from 
 the school-house. 
 
 " They must have gone to the woods," said Julia
 
 Making the Best of It. 83 
 
 to herself; " I will go to the entrance and listen, 
 and perhaps I shall hear their voices ; " and away 
 she ran. When she paused to listen, she heard no 
 voices, but she could very distinctly hear some one 
 hammering. 
 
 41 There they are !" she exclaimed; "they are 
 building something, a new arbor, perhaps, or 
 they may be putting up a swing. I can follow the 
 sound of the hammer ; they work like real car- 
 penters." 
 
 Julia ran hastilv along, and soon came in sight 
 of the carpenter, but he was by no means such 
 a looking person as she had expected to find. A 
 beautiful golden-winged woodpecker was hard at 
 work, making a nest for himself in the stump of 
 an old tree. 
 
 Julia clapped her hands with delight. " If 
 there isn't our very woodpecker that had his nest 
 in the old apple-tree near the school-house ! " she 
 exclaimed; "I know him just as TV ell. I was so 
 sorry when they cut down the old tree the other 
 day. Poor fellow ! he is making another nest for 
 himself." 
 
 The woodpecker seemed to be pleased to see 
 Julia, and wished to bid her good-morning, or
 
 84 Making the Best of It. 
 
 else he was tired of work, and wished to rest 
 himself, by talking a little ; for just at this moment 
 he seated himself on a bough, and began his 
 accustomed " wit-a-wit-wit-wit-weat." I do not 
 know that his call was really any different from 
 usual, but it certainly sounded differently to Julia. 
 It seemed to her that he said, "Make the best, 
 make the best of it." She had not thought of 
 her father's motto before that day, but now it 
 came very forcibly to her mind. 
 
 " The woodpecker makes the best of it, sure 
 enough," she said ; " for when his old nest was 
 destroyed he went right to work to make another. 
 How strange that he should sing me that song ! 
 I had quite forgotten about making the best of it." 
 
 Julia walked slowly and thoughtfully back to 
 the school-house. She was thinking over the mis- 
 fortunes of the morning, and she saw plainly that 
 she had not tried to make the best of any of her 
 little troubles. " I will begin now," she said to 
 herself; " I may have more troubles before night, 
 and I will try to make the best of every one of 
 them." 
 
 Julia first tried her good resolution in regard 
 to her arithmetic lesson. "It is a troublesome,
 
 Making the Best of It. 85 
 
 vexatious rule," she said to herself, as she once 
 more took up the book, ' ; but I am determined 
 to make the best of it." So she gave her whole 
 attention, and was quite surprised to find how 
 soon the difficulties disappeared. 
 
 " It was not so very hard, after all," thought 
 she; "I am glad I made the best of it." 
 
 Somehow troubles did not seem to come quite 
 so frequentlv, now that she was watching for 
 them, and had resolved to make the best of them. 
 The history lesson which was given out for the 
 next day was certainly rather long ; but then, as 
 Julia said, ' ; It would be foolish to divide it, for 
 there was no other good place to stop, and so 
 they might as well take it, and make the best 
 of it." 
 
 Miss Seaton looked a little surprised at hearing 
 this opinion expressed by Julia, but she said it 
 would give her much pleasure if they could take 
 the whole lesson, and all the class agreed to try. 
 
 It was really a trial to Julia to find, on her return 
 from school that day, that her little sister had broken 
 the 'head of her best doll. She was just going to 
 say that it was entirely spoiled, and that she never 
 wanted to see it again, when she remembered
 
 86 Making the Best of It. 
 
 what the woodpecker had said to her in the green 
 woods, and her own good resolutions. So she 
 examined dolly's head quite calmly, and said cheer- 
 fully, 
 
 " I am glad you broke the back of the head, 
 and not the face, Rosy. I can make her a pretty 
 lace cap, and then she will look almost as well as 
 ever." 
 
 Mrs. Meredith was so much pleased to hear 
 Julia speak in this manner, that she kissed her 
 affectionately, and said that dolly should soon have 
 a new head. When evening came again, and Mr. 
 Meredith was in his accustomed seat, ready to at- 
 tend to Julia and her lessons, he said, smilingly, 
 
 " Have you remembered to make the best of all 
 your little troubles to-day, my daughter?" 
 
 "Not of all of them, father ; I forgot all about 
 it this forenoon, and it seemed to me that I met 
 with all kinds of troubles, but this afternoon I 
 have remembered, and tried to do better." And 
 then Julia told her father about the pretty wood- 
 pecker, and what he seemed to say to her, and Mr. 
 Meredith listened with much interest ; and when 
 Julia asked him if it was not strange that the bird 
 should seem to say, " Make the best of it," he told
 
 Making the Best of It. 87 
 
 her that the good spirits, who were trying to help 
 her to do right, put it into her mind that the bird 
 said these words, in order to remind her of the 
 advice he had given her the evening before. 
 
 Julia understood this very well, for she knew 
 that the good spirits were always trying to help her 
 to do right ; but still she loved to think that the 
 woodpecker had really said those words, and that 
 night she dreamed that she again saw him perched 
 upon the bough, and calling out to her in a very 
 cheerful voice, which sounded extremely like her 
 father's, " Make the best of it."
 
 ISABEL'S BIRTH DAT. 
 
 HAT an odd little figure!" ex- 
 claimed Isabel Crawford, one of a 
 merry party of school-girls, who, with 
 baskets and tin boxes in their hands, 
 were roaming through the woods and 
 fields, one delightful summer afternoon, in search 
 of flowers to arrange in their herbariums. 
 
 Isabel's companions looked in the direction to 
 which she pointed, and echoed her exclamation as 
 they saw a little girl with a sun-bonnet almost as 
 large as herself upon her head, and a cape upon 
 her shoulders, extending nearly to her naked feet. 
 
 " She may be one of the fairies that we love so 
 much to read about," suggested a bright-eyed little 
 miss among the group. 
 
 Her remark was received with shouts of laugh- 
 ter from her companions.
 
 Isabel's Birthday. 89 
 
 "A fairy indeed! Oh Rosalie, what an idea! 
 She looks more like an orang-outang ! " 
 
 ' Xo ; like a mushroom," remarked Isabel, as 
 the child stooped down among the bushes, after a 
 hasty glance at the party, and resumed her occupa- 
 tion of picking the ripe blueberries with which the 
 fields abounded. " But we will not laugh at her, 
 girls, it is not right. She may be a very good 
 child, if she is an odd figure. Dress does not 
 make the man, you know." 
 
 " How wise Isabel is growing ! " laughingly ob- 
 served one of the girls. "I expect she will soon 
 wear a cap and spectacles." 
 
 "Not quite yet, Miss Kate," returned Isabel 
 good-humoredly. ' To confess the truth, the teacher 
 gave me that little sentence for a copy to-day. 
 But I know it is true ; and so I am going to 
 have a talk with that little lady yonder, and find 
 out what kind of a head and heart live under the 
 shelter of that great cape and bonnet." 
 
 As Isabel said this, she walked hastily toward 
 the little berry -girl, followed by several of her 
 companions. 
 
 The child looked up timidly as they approached, 
 and seemed half inclined to run away ; but Isabel's
 
 90 Isabels Birthday. 
 
 smiling countenance and kind words soon re- 
 assured her, and she picked away as industriously 
 as ever. 
 
 " What a large pail of berries you have gath- 
 ered ! " said Isabel. " Are you going to sell any of 
 them? or will you and your brothers and sisters 
 eat them for your supper?" 
 
 " Oh ! I have no brothers and sisters, miss," 
 replied the little girl. " Mother and I live all 
 alone in that little cottage at the foot of the hill. 
 You can just see the chimney from here. I am 
 going to sell the berries in the village. I sold four 
 quarts yesterday, and to-day I shall have six or 
 eight to sell. Mother will be very glad." 
 
 " Do you give all the money to your mother ? " 
 asked Isabel. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, miss ; she needs it all very much. 
 She used to sew a great deal, and then we had all 
 we wanted ; but she grew so sick and weak, that 
 the doctor said she must not sew any more. Then 
 we grew vcrv poor, and at last we had to sell our 
 cow. Oh ! I was very sorry then ; for I loved 
 poor Mooly so much. I could milk her myself, 
 she was so gentle. But mother said, it would be 
 wrong to keep her when we had not enough to
 
 Isabel's Birthday. 91 
 
 give her to cat. Before my father died, she gave a 
 great deal of milk; and we used to sell it to the 
 neighbors, and that helped us along very much ; 
 but when we grew poor, and could not feed her 
 well, she gave very little milk; so we had none to 
 sell. I \vas afraid we should never have any more 
 money when mother took all that Farmer Jennings 
 gave her for the cow, and paid the grocer and the 
 doctor ; but she said it was right to pay them, and 
 that the Lord would take care of us, for He takes 
 care of even the little sparrows. And now I know 
 that He does take care of us, for He has made all 
 these nice berries to grow, and I shall pick them 
 and sell them, and earn a great deal of money for 
 my mother." 
 
 The tears came to Isabel's eyes as she listened to 
 the simple story of the little berry-girl. She was 
 the only child of wealthy parents, who delighted 
 to do evervthing for her comfort and happiness; 
 and it seemed to her very strange and sad that 
 there were people so poor as to be thankful for the 
 little money they could earn by picking berries. 
 
 "What is your name, little girl?" she asked, as 
 the child paused in her story. 
 
 "Jenny, miss, Jenny Green," was the reply.
 
 92 IsabeTs Birthday. 
 
 And Jenny got up from the grass where she had 
 been kneeling, and dropped her little courtesy, as 
 her mother had taught her to do when any one 
 inquired her name. 
 
 Isabel's companions smiled ; but she looked very 
 serious as she said, " Well, little girl, if you will 
 bring your berries to our house at six o'clock, we 
 will buy them all, and my mamma will give you 
 some tea and sugar for your sick mother. Do you 
 know where Mr. Crawford lives?" 
 
 How Jenny's eyes sparkled, as she replied, " Oh, 
 yes, miss, in the great white house with the 
 beautiful garden ! I will bring the berries. And, 
 oh, my mother will be so glad to have a cup of 
 tea ! She never buys any now ; but it always 
 made her feel better when she was sick and tired." 
 
 " Very well, Jenny ; she shall have a nice cup 
 this evening," said Isabel, her eyes still glistening 
 with tears. " Do not forget to come at six ; I will 
 be at home then. Good-by for the present ! " 
 
 " She is a nice little girl, Isabel ! " exclaimed 
 Kate Barton, as they walked away. '* I give you 
 great credit for discovering her good qualities. 
 How much she loves her mother ! She seems to 
 have no thought for herself."
 
 Isabel* s Birthday. 93 
 
 " The few shillings that she can earn by picking 
 berries will do very little toward their support," 
 remarked Isabel, thoughtfully. " Something must 
 be done for them." 
 
 " There are a great many poor people in the 
 neighborhood," returned Kate. " My mother gave 
 away such a heap of old clothes the other day !" 
 
 " But I want to do something for them myself" 
 replied Isabel. " My father and mother do a great 
 deal for the poor ; but they have often told me that 
 I must not think that this is the same as if I did 
 it myself." 
 
 " But how can you do anything?" argued Kate. 
 "If you give away money, or food, or clothing, it 
 is not really giving what is your own ; for every- 
 thing that we have belongs to our parents." 
 
 " That is very true," replied Isabel. " But yet 
 there are some ways in which we can help the 
 poor. We can often read to them, and teach them 
 many things ; and although we have no money that 
 is really our own, yet, if we desire it, our parents 
 are sometimes willing to allow us to give up some 
 pleasure which they have promised us, and use the 
 money in helping others."
 
 94 IsabeTs Birthday. 
 
 " I do not understand exactly what you mean," 
 said Kate, with a puzzled air. 
 
 " I will explain it to you," replied Isabel. " Last 
 winter, my father had promised me a new beaver 
 hat ; but, before he purchased it, old Susan's cot- 
 tage was-burned to the ground, and I wanted very 
 much to do something to help her. So I asked 
 my father, if I would wear my old hat all winter, 
 whether he would give me the money that a new 
 one would cost to buy clothes for Susan. He was 
 quite willing ; and mother helped me to buy the 
 clothes and make them." 
 
 "Well, Isabel, you are a strange girl!" ex- 
 claimed Kate, with a merry laugh. " If my father 
 was as rich as yours, I would have had the beaver 
 hat, and the money for Susan besides." 
 
 " But there would have been no self-denial in 
 that, Kate. The money \vould not have been 
 mine to give." 
 
 " I do not see much difference in either case," 
 replied Kate ; " and I should not care anything 
 about it, so long as the poor did not suffer. It is 
 just as well for them to receive help from our 
 parents as from us." 
 
 " But not so well for us, Kate."
 
 Isabels Birthday. 95 
 
 *' Perhaps not ; but I am not so much of a 
 philosopher as you are, Isabel. And as for the 
 self-denial that you speak of. I never had much 
 fancy for it. I like to enjoy myself while I can. I 
 wonder what scheme you will hit upon to buy 
 another cow for that poor woman ? You will have 
 to go without any new clothing next winter." 
 
 " Not quite so bad as that, I hope," replied 
 Isabel, with a quiet smile. " But come, Kate ; the 
 girls are far ahead of us. Let us try to overtake 
 them ; and then we will all sit down upon the 
 rocks around our favorite brook, and arrange our 
 flowers." 
 
 " Agreed," answered Kate. " Now for a race! 
 I can beat you at that, Miss Isabel ; although you 
 have the advantage of me in reasoning." 
 
 "Run for your life, then ! " was Isabel's laughing 
 reply. And away scampered the two girls across 
 the green fields, regardless of bushes and briers, 
 until, out of breath, they joined their companions, 
 who were quietly standing to watch the race. 
 
 Just as the clock in the village church struck six, 
 little Jenny Green stood at the door of Mr. Craw- 
 ford's handsome mansion. Isabel had not for-
 
 96 Isabel's Birthday. 
 
 gotten her promise to be ready for her at that hour. 
 She had told the story to her mother, and received 
 permission to buy the berries, and to give Jenny 
 several articles of suitable clothing. Mrs. Craw- 
 ford had packed a small basket of provisions, and 
 had advised Isabel to go herself to the cottage, as 
 she would then be better able to judge of the truth 
 of what Jenny had told her, and could also make 
 more particular inquiries into the wants of the 
 poor woman. 
 
 Jenny appeared much delighted when she found 
 that her new friend intended to accompany her 
 home. 
 
 She trudged merrily along, with the heavy basket 
 in one hand, and the empty pail in the other, de- 
 clining all Isabel's offers of assistance, until at 
 length they stood at the door of a small but very 
 neat-looking cottage at the foot of a hill, so steep 
 that it almost deserved the title of a mountain. 
 
 "The young lady has come to see you, mother !" 
 exclaimed Jenny, as she opened the cottage-door, 
 and invited Isabel to walk in. 
 
 " She .is very kind," replied a pleasant voice ; 
 and Mrs. Green came forward to welcome her 
 visitor.
 
 IsabePs Birthday. 97 
 
 She was neatly dressed, and had a cheerful, 
 contented expression of countenance ; although she 
 looked pale and feeble, as though she had been 
 very ill. 
 
 Isabel inquired kindly concerning her health ; 
 and she replied that she was much better, and 
 hoped soon to be able to work again, 
 
 You will not have to work for a long time, 
 dear mother," said Jenny. "Just look at this great 
 basket of nice things that the young lady's mother 
 has sent you ! and see all the money that she paid 
 me for my berries ! Before you have spent all 
 this, I shall have earned some more. Oh, how I 
 wish I could earn enough to buy a cow ! Then 
 you could sell the milk again, and we should have 
 all we wanted." 
 
 Mrs. Green smiled. 
 
 ' You forget that the cow must be fed, Jenny," 
 she said. " But do not trouble the young lady 
 with all our griefs. There is a beautiful rose-bud 
 upon your bush ; would you not like to give it to 
 her?" 
 
 Oh, yes, very much! " exclaimed Jenny; and 
 she ran to her little garden, and soon returned 
 with the bud. 
 7
 
 98 Isabel's Birthday. 
 
 " My dear father planted the rose-bush for me," 
 she said ; " and there are roses upon it every 
 month." 
 
 " It is very beautiful," said Isabel, as she took 
 the bud. " I will put it in water as soon as I get 
 home, Jenny, and it will be fresh and sweet for 
 many days; and to-morrow, when you bring us 
 some more berries, I will give you a sprig of 
 my monthly honeysuckle." Jenny's eyes sparkled 
 with pleasure as she heard this, and Mrs. Green 
 thanked Isabel for her kindness to the little girl. 
 
 " She tries to be a good child," she said, t; and 
 she is a great comfort to me. She has worked 
 very hard since I have been ill ; but, as soon as I 
 am a little stronger, I shall try to let her go to 
 school again." 
 
 * f Can you read, Jenny?" asked Isabel. 
 *' Oh, yes, miss ! I can read a chapter in the 
 Bible without missing one word. And I have 
 three little story-books that my teacher gave me ; 
 I can read them pretty well." 
 
 Isabel thought that she would give Jenny some 
 of her old story-books when she came the next 
 dav ; but she did not say anything about it then, 
 as she had not consulted her mother. She bade
 
 IsabeVs Birthday. 99 
 
 Mrs. Green and Jenny good-by, and promised to 
 come to the cottage again before many days. 
 Then she walked slowly toward home, thinking 
 over many plans for doing good to the widow and 
 her little girl. 
 
 . For several days Jenny continued to bring her 
 fresh berries to Mr. Crawford's, and received 
 many little gifts from Isabel and her mother. Mrs. 
 Crawford also visited the cottage with Isabel, and 
 was so much pleased with Mrs. Green that she 
 sent her own physician to see her, and provided 
 her with many comforts. 
 
 Mr. Crawford would frequently inquire with in- 
 terest for Isabel's "little berry-girl;" and he had 
 promised that a barrel of apples, and a good 
 supply of winter vegetables, should be sent to the 
 cottage after the harvest. 
 
 Mrs. Green's health improved very much, and 
 she was soon able to do many things to aid in their 
 support, although too close attention to needle- 
 work brought on a return of her old complaints. 
 
 Isabel had now nearly reached her twelfth birth- 
 day. Her father had promised her a party, and 
 fche event was already much talked of among her 
 cumpuaioas ; for, as we have already said, she was
 
 ioo IsabeVs Birthday. 
 
 an only child, and her parents were wealthy, 
 and loved to do everything to promote her happi- 
 ness. There was to be music and dancing, and 
 an elegant supper, and everything else that could 
 be desired, at the birthday party ; and Isabel 
 looked forward to it with great anticipations of 
 delight. 
 
 " You had better have your little berry-girl for 
 one of the waiters at your party, Isabel," said Mr. 
 Crawford, as they were talking over the arrange- 
 ments one evening, " She will be useful to you, 
 and it will give her pleasure to see all that is 
 going on." 
 
 "Thank you, father," replied Isabel. "Jenny 
 will be delighted to come, I am sure." 
 
 "How does she get along with her studies?" 
 asked Mr. Crawford. " Your mother tells me that 
 you are teaching her arithmetic." 
 
 " She learns very fast, father. Her mother will 
 send her to school next winter, if she is well 
 enough to spare her." 
 
 " Mrs. Green is quite strong again now ; is she 
 not, Isabel ? " 
 
 " Much better than she was ; but the sewing 
 still gives her the bad pain in her side. I wish
 
 Isabel's Birthday. roi 
 
 she had something else to do. When they had a 
 cow she used to sell milk and fresh butter, and this 
 brought them in a good deal of money ; but, 
 while Mrs. Green was ill, they grew so poor that 
 the cow had to be sold to pay their debts." 
 
 " That was a pity," returned Mr. Crawford. 
 "A cow is a great blessing to a poor person ; that 
 is, if they have enough to feed one." 
 
 " But they had not, father ; that was one great 
 trouble. Jenny could pasture the cow at the sides 
 of the road during the summer ; but in the winter 
 they needed hay for her, and they had no money 
 to buy it." 
 
 " I would willingly have given them the hay if 
 I had known the circumstances, and then they 
 need not have parted with the cow," replied Mr. 
 Crawford. 
 
 " I wish they had another, father," said Isabel, 
 earnestly. " Do you not think you could afford to 
 buy them one ? " 
 
 " I hardly think I can," answered her father, 
 stroking her hair affectionately. " We people 
 who are called rich have a great many ways to 
 spend our money. There is my little daughter's 
 party, for instance : that will cost me as much as
 
 IO2 Isabel 's Birthday. 
 
 a cow. I will try to help Mrs. Green through the 
 winter ; but I do not think I can afford to give 
 them so large a sum." 
 
 Isabel was silent, and seemed to be thinking 
 deeply. 
 
 u You must not be grieved at my refusal, my 
 child," said her father. " You know that I would 
 gladly oblige you, if I thought it would be right." 
 
 " I know that, father ; I am not grieved," re- 
 plied Isabel ; but still she remained very thoughtful. 
 
 After a long silence, she said, "Father, if I 
 will give up my party, will you buy a cow for 
 Mrs. Green?" 
 
 " Give up your party, my dear Isabel ! Can you 
 make up your mind to do this, when you have 
 looked forward to it so long?" 
 
 " Xot very easily, father ; but I think I can do it. 
 The pleasure that we should have from the party 
 seems of little consequence, when I think of the 
 good that the money would do Mrs. Green." 
 
 It was now Mr. Crawford's turn to be silent 
 and thoughtful. At length he said, " I will speak 
 to your mother about it, Isabel ; and to-morrow 
 morning we will talk on the subject again. Per- 
 haps you. will repent of a too hasty decision."
 
 Isabels Birthday. 103 
 
 Both Mr. and Mrs. Crawford felt a little re- 
 luctance at the thought of Isabel's giving up her 
 party ; and at one time her father half resolved to 
 buy the cow himself, and not ask for any sacrifice 
 on her part. But her mother opposed this course ; 
 for she felt sure that the self-denial would be good 
 for Isabel, and she did not think it would be right 
 for them to deprive her of this good. 
 
 " We will let her take her own course," she said 
 to her husband. " She will lose her party, it is 
 true ; but the act of kindness will bring around 
 her many good and gentle spirits, and she will be 
 happier than with her earthly companions." 
 
 When Isabel came to her father in the morning, 
 therefore, and told him that she still wished to buy 
 the cow, he consented at once, and promised that 
 he would attend to the business himself, and would 
 see that she was provided with food for the first 
 year at least. 
 
 When Isabel's companions questioned her, as 
 usual, about the expected party, she felt a little at 
 a loss what to say to them. She could easily tell 
 them that she had concluded not to have it ; but 
 then they would want a reason, and she was un- 
 willing to speak of her generosity to Mrs. Green.
 
 104 Isabels Birthday. 
 
 Kate Barton, however, suspected at once that her 
 friend had denied herself the expected pleasure for 
 some purpose of charity ; and begged so earnestly 
 to know all about it, that Isabel told her the whole 
 truth. 
 
 Kate, and indeed all the girls, were a good 
 deal disappointed at first ; but many of them had 
 become quite interested in little Jenny and her 
 mother, and they could not help rejoicing that 
 they were to receive so valuable a gift. 
 
 And now Kate Barton appeared to have some 
 little secret of her own. She had called at Mr. 
 Crawford's one afternoon, -when she well knew 
 that Isabel was absent, and had quite a long talk 
 with her mother. After this, there was a good 
 deal of whispering and consultation among the 
 elder girls at the school ; and finally Isabel was 
 told that they had concluded to celebrate the after- 
 noon of her birthday by having a little picnic, and 
 invited her to join them. 
 
 " We are going to the grove near Mrs. Green's 
 cottage," said Kate. " You know what a pleasant 
 place it is, Isabel. It has been nicely cleared up 
 within a few days, and is all ready for a picnic." 
 
 Isabel entered readily into the plans of her
 
 Isabel's Birthday. 105 
 
 school-mates, and promised to be early on the pic- 
 nic ground, and to bring an abundance of flowers 
 to decorate the table. 
 
 " How I \vish father could have bought the cow 
 before the picnic ! " said Isabel to her mother, as 
 she told her of the proposed pleasure ; " then Mrs. 
 Green could have treated us to some fresh milk, 
 and Jenny would have felt so proud and happy. 
 But father is very busy at present, and he says I 
 must not hurry him, for he must take his own time 
 for such an important purchase." 
 
 'Very true," replied Mrs. Crawford, smiling. 
 " Do not hurry him, Isabel ; the cow will come in 
 good time. I am much pleased with the kindness 
 of your companions in celebrating your birthday, 
 and I have no doubt you will all have a happy 
 afternoon." 
 
 U I hope the weather will be pleasant," said 
 Isabel ; and her hope was not disappointed. The 
 day appointed for the picnic was one of the most 
 lovely of all the autumn days, and the faces of 
 the happy party in the grove were as cloudless as 
 the sky. 
 
 " First of all, we must choose our queen ! " 
 exclaimed Kate Barton, when all the girls had
 
 io6 Isabel's Birthday. 
 
 assembled, and kindly greetings had passed be- 
 tween them. 
 
 "She is already chosen, is she not?" remarked 
 one of the other girls. " We have only to crown 
 her, and conduct her to the throne." 
 
 " Very true," replied Kate ; " and here is the 
 crown," she added, producing a beautiful wreath 
 of autumnal leaves and flowers, and placing it 
 upon Isabel's head. 
 
 "Long live Queen Isabel!" exclaimed many 
 voices, as Kate took the hand of the new-made 
 queen, and led her to a mossy seat, which was to 
 serve the purpose of a throne. 
 
 Isabel was so much astonished at this unex- 
 pected honor, that she found it difficult to recover 
 her self-possession sufficiently to reply in a dig- 
 nified and proper manner to the congratulations 
 of her subjects, and to receive the numerous gifts 
 of flowers and fruit which were now presented 
 to her. 
 
 Just as she was becoming more at ease in her 
 new position, Jenny, the little berry-girl, appeared, 
 bearing in her hand a small but beautifully chased 
 silver cup, and with her usual modest courtesy, 
 presented it to the queen.
 
 Isabel's Birthday. 107 
 
 " The speech, the speech ! " urged Kate, laying 
 her hand gentlv upon the little girl's shoulder. 
 Jenny looked up with a bewildered air. 
 
 "I cannot, Miss Kate. Indeed, I tried to re- 
 member it, and I have just said it every word to 
 my mother ; but now it has all gone out of my 
 mind. I can only say, dear Miss Isabel, I love 
 you, and thank you with all my heart." 
 
 Here Jenny's voice failed her, and she burst into 
 tears. The queen, and several of her subjects, 
 appeared much disposed to follow her example. 
 Even the gay Kate brushed the drops from her 
 eyes as she exclaimed, ''Was there ever anything 
 so provoking ! that eloquent speech that I have 
 taken so much pains to prepare ! But will your 
 majesty be pleased to taste the contents of your 
 cup ? " she continued, playfully addressing Isabel, 
 who still held the cup iu her hand, apparently 
 quite unconscious of what it contained. 
 
 Isabel started, and raised the cup to her lips. 
 
 "Milk! warm new milk!" she exclaimed, 
 springing from die throne. " The cow has come 
 at last ! " 
 
 " Yes, miss, she has come," said Jenny, smiling 
 through her tears. "And such a beauty you never
 
 io8 Isabels Birthday. 
 
 saw ; and so gentle, that I can milk her just as 
 easily as I could our old one. But you have not 
 looked at the beautiful cup, Miss Isabel." 
 
 Ashamed of her neglect of the costly gift of her 
 companions, Isabel hastened to examine it, and, 
 with the tears still gathering in her eyes, read the 
 simple inscription, "ISABEL: from her Affec- 
 tionate School-mates." 
 
 " It is beautiful, and I do thank you very much," 
 she said earnestly, as she looked around upon them 
 all ; " but, like Jenny, I cannot make any speech." 
 
 " We do not want any," replied Kate. " You 
 have said enough. There shall be no speeches 
 to-day, since the one that I planned has failed. 
 And now, girls, let us pay our respects to Jenny's 
 new treasure. I saw her quietly feeding in the 
 field near the cottage." 
 
 Away ran all the girls ; and, in spite of Kate's 
 boasted fleetness, Isabel was the first to reach the 
 field ; for her impatience to see the cow seemed 
 to give her wings. 
 
 The cow looked somewhat astonished at the 
 merry group, and greeted them with a low " Moo- 
 oo 1 " as if to inquire their business ; but, finding
 
 IsabeTs Birthday. 109 
 
 that they had no intention of molesting her, she 
 quietly went on feeding as before. 
 
 She was a fine-looking animal ; and, after suffi- 
 ciently admiring her, the girls went to the cottage 
 to wish Mrs. Green joy, and to get the large pail 
 of milk which Jenny assured them was ready for 
 their suppers. 
 
 The table in the grove was soon beautifully 
 spread ; and the girls joyfully welcomed Mr. and 
 Mrs. Crawford, and several other ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, who had walked that way to witness the 
 scene. 
 
 All seemed to enjoy the feast, and the milk was 
 pronounced to be of a very superior quality. 
 
 Many a merry game was played, and many a 
 sweet song sung, before the twilight reminded 
 them that it was time to seek their own homes. 
 
 It had been a happy afternoon, and one which 
 none of the little party would soon forget. In 
 after years, when looking back upon their pleasant 
 school-days, one of the most cherished remi- 
 niscences was that of the picnic on Isabel's 
 birthday.
 
 TELL MOTHER." 
 
 LL tell mother ! " exclaimed Georgie 
 Benton. " I'll go and tell her this very 
 moment." 
 
 Georgie was at play in the pleasant 
 yard with his two brothers, John and 
 Oscar, and his little sister Kate. John had taken 
 Georgie's hoop from its nail in the wood-shed, and 
 was trundling it up and down the pathway with 
 great delight. Georgie had been very happy, blow- 
 ing soap-bubbles to amuse little Kate ; but, when 
 he saw John with the hoop, he claimed it at once, 
 and told his brother to hang it up again imme- 
 diately. Johnny was not disposed to obey ; and, 
 as Georgie had been taught not to use force, he 
 resolved to go and complain to his mother. 
 
 Mrs. Benton was very busy with her sewing ; but 
 she looked up pleasantly as Georgie entered, and 
 no
 
 /Y/ Tell Mother." in 
 
 said, "Well, Georgie, what is it? Is Kate tired 
 of the bubbles ? " 
 
 Xo, mother; she likes them very much: but 
 John has got my hoop." 
 
 "Do you want to use it now, George?" 
 
 ' Xo, mother ; but I do not like to have him 
 take my things without my leave." 
 
 " He ought not to do so, Georgie ; but you know 
 he is not so old as you, and has not learned so well 
 what is right." 
 
 " May I tell him that you say he must hang it 
 up in its place?" asked George. 
 
 "Is he injuring it, George?" 
 
 " I don't know, mother ; but I want him to 
 hang it up." 
 
 " Very well, you may tell him that I say he 
 must hang up the hoop, and come to me." 
 
 Georgie returned to the yard in triumph. 
 
 " There, Johnny ! " he exclaimed, " I told mother, 
 and she says you must hang up the hoop, and 
 come to her." 
 
 Johnny obeyed ; but he looked unhappy, and 
 walked towards the house with slow, unwilling 
 steps. Very soon, however, he returned with his 
 face all smiles and sunshine again.
 
 H2 "TV/ Tell Mother? 
 
 " Georgie," he said pleasantly, " will you please 
 to lend me your hoop a little while? I will be 
 very careful of it." 
 
 George could not refuse, although there was a 
 little selfishness in his heart, which made him 
 somewhat unwilling to say "Yes," even, now that 
 the request had been made in a proper manner. 
 
 He, however, consented ; and Johnny joyfully 
 took possession of the desired plaything. 
 
 For about ten minutes the children played very 
 happily. Georgie blew the bright-colored bubbles ; 
 Kate clapped her hands, and tried to catch them as 
 they rose in the air ; Johnny rolled the hoop up 
 and down the path ; and Oscar was very busy 
 digging in his little garden. 
 
 But prettv soon the words, " I'll tell mother," 
 were again heard. Georgie had mischievously 
 directed some of his bubbles toward Oscar, as the 
 little boy kneeled by his garden ; and two or three 
 of them had burst upon his head and his rosy 
 cheeks. 
 
 So mother had to be told ; and a message came 
 to Georgie that he " must not do so ; for it was 
 not right." 
 
 Georgie smiled, and turned his pipe in another
 
 Tell Mother" 113 
 
 direction ; and Oscar went on with his work : but, 
 as he was now digging on the side of his garden 
 nearest to the path, he was in the way of Johnny's 
 hoop ; and several times it hit against him, and 
 was turned out of its course, and fell to the ground. 
 Johnny did not like this ; and, as Oscar refused 
 to move, he marched ofF to the house to " tell 
 mother." 
 
 I do not know what message would have been 
 sent to Oscar ; for, just after Johnny went with his 
 complaint, little Kate, whose heart had been 
 made very glad by the beautiful bubbles that 
 Georgie had blown for her, by a flower which 
 Oscar had given to her, and by having been al- 
 lowed by Johnny to drive the hoop several times 
 around the yard, suddenly clapped her little 
 hands, exclaiming, 
 
 "Now /'// tell mother: Pll tell her about 
 Georgie, and about Oscar, and about Johnny." 
 And away she ran, so fast that Georgie followed 
 her, fearing that she would fall. Oscar did not 
 wish to stny alone ; and, besides, he felt curious to 
 know what Kate had to tell : so he also went into 
 the house ; and, in a few moments, all the children 
 were in their mother's room. 
 8
 
 U4 "M? TellMotJier" 
 
 Johnny had finished his story when the others 
 entered. Little Kate ran up to her mother, and, 
 putting up her mouth for a kiss, exclaimed, 
 
 " I've come to tell you, too, mamma. I'll tell 
 you that Georgie is a good boy : he blows pretty 
 bubbles. Oscar is a good boy : he gave me this 
 flower. And Johnny is a good boy, and let me 
 drive his hoop." 
 
 " And Kate is a darling good little girl, and has 
 made mamma glad by telling her such a pretty 
 story," said their mother, as she stooped to kiss 
 the little pet. 
 
 The three boys looked a little ashamed, and their 
 mother said to them kindly, 
 
 " Perhaps you have never thought, my dear 
 children, how much it troubles me to have you 
 come every few minutes with some little un- 
 pleasant tale. If there is any serious difficulty 
 between you, it is certainly right to come to me 
 to settle it ; but if you try to be yielding, and kind 
 to each other, you may play together as happily 
 as those little lambs that we saw the other day 
 frisking in the gi'een meadow. Try to follow 
 Kate's example, and 'tell mother' of all the
 
 Tell Mother." 115 
 
 pleasant things that happen. This will make you 
 happy : and it will make me happy also ; for little 
 acts of kindness among children are like sunbeams 
 to their mother's heart."
 
 THE CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 
 
 EMILY ! " exclaimed Rose Grant, 
 as she bounded into the room where 
 her sister was seated at the piano, care- 
 fully practising her last lesson, " I am 
 so sorry that you did not stop after 
 school with the rest of the girls ! We called and 
 called after you, but you would not stop to listen, 
 only turn, and shake your head." 
 
 " Because, if I had stopped to listen, you would, 
 perhaps, have persuaded me to stay ; and I knew 
 that it was my duty to come home, and attend to 
 my music," replied Emily, looking up at her sister 
 with a pleasant smile. 
 
 "You always talk about duty" returned Rose. 
 " But never mind ; I will tell you what we had a 
 meeting for, and you can join us just as well as if 
 you had been there." 
 
 116
 
 The Christmas Gifts. 117 
 
 " Please tell me by and by, Rose, because I 
 want to practise as much as possible before dark, 
 and you know the days are so short now, that we 
 have very little time after school." 
 
 " Oh ! it will take me but a few minutes to tell 
 you, and you will have plenty of time to practise," 
 persisted Rose ; but, just then, her mother's voice 
 was heard from the next room, 
 
 " Do not interrupt your sister, Rose. Put your 
 hat and cloak in their proper place, and then come 
 to me." 
 
 Rose reluctantly obeyed, and Emily saw no 
 more of her until it was too dark to distinguish 
 the notes of her music. Then the piano was 
 closed ; and, in a few moments, the two sisters 
 were conversing earnestly together in their own 
 little room. 
 
 " We have such a nice plan for Christmas ! " 
 said Rose. " We are all going to join together, 
 and make the teacher a beautiful present." 
 
 "What are you going to give him?" asked 
 Emily. 
 
 " A Bible, a beautiful Bible ; elegantly bound, 
 with handsome clasps. It will cost a good many 
 dollars ; but then there are a good many of us to
 
 n8 The Christmas Gifts. 
 
 buy it ; so it will not be difficult to make up the 
 money. Every one is to give what they like. 
 Some of the girls will only give twenty-five cents ; 
 but I would not be so mean as that. I put my 
 name down for a dollar, and so did almost all the 
 girls in our class." 
 
 " But a dollar is half of what you have saved for 
 Christmas gifts," replied Emily. " If you give so 
 much toward our teacher's present, you will have 
 very little for your other friends." 
 
 " I know that," answered Rose ; " and I am 
 very sorry ; but what could I do ? I did not like 
 to give less than the other girls." 
 
 " Our parents are not wealthy," said Emily, 
 " and we cannot afford to give so much as some 
 others. Indeed, I do not think that I can afford to 
 give anything toward the Bible." 
 
 " Not give anything ! " exclaimed Rose. " Oh 
 Emily ! I never thought you could be so stingy. 
 Not give anything to our teacher, who is always so 
 kind to us?" 
 
 " I did not say I would not give him anything, 
 Rosie," replied her sister, smiling good-naturedly; 
 " I only said that I did not think I could give 
 anything toward the Bible. I have made a very
 
 The Christmas Gifts. 119 
 
 pretty pen-wiper for our teacher ; for I notice that 
 he needs a new one on his desk. I do not mean to 
 be stingy, as you call it ; but I have but two dol- 
 lars to spend, and there are several things that I 
 want to buy." 
 
 44 But you could do without them, Emily," 
 eagerly urged Rose. "You arc so handy, you 
 know, that you can always make all sorts of things 
 out of almost nothing. I am sure you have got a 
 great box full of needle-books and pin-cushions, 
 and pen-wipers and collars, and all sorts of things, 
 for Christmas gifts ; so you can give a dollar 
 toward the Bible just as well as not." 
 
 Emily shook her head. " There are. some per- 
 sons who must have a different kind of Christmas 
 gift from anything in my box, Rosie," she said. 
 44 But never mind ; there are enough of you to buy 
 the Bible, even if I do not join you." 
 
 44 Oh, yes, there arc enough of us to be sure ; 
 but I shall feel so mortified if you refuse to join us. 
 And what will the teacher think, when he reads 
 the note that we are going to send him with the 
 Bible, and does not see your name down ? He 
 will suppose that you do not care anything about 
 him."
 
 I2O The Christmas Gifts. 
 
 "But you forget my pen-wiper," returned Emily, 
 smiling at her sister's look of mortification. " That 
 will at least show him that I have not forgotten 
 him in my Christmas gifts. But we will not talk 
 any more about it now, Rosie. I must go, and 
 have a frolic with baby before tea ; and you can 
 amuse George and Willie. Mother will be glad 
 of our help, I am sure." 
 
 The days passed swiftly by, and Christmas came 
 almost too quickly for those who had a good many 
 little gifts to prepare ; but the children were all 
 ready for it, as usual; and "a merry Christmas, 
 a merry Christmas ! " was heard from hundreds 
 of cheerful little voices. We hope that all these 
 happy little ones remembered that there were many 
 to whom this Christmas could not be a merry one, 
 and that they were willing to share their blessings 
 with those who were less happy than they. 
 
 The Bible, with its elegant binding and hand- 
 some clasps, had been purchased ; and the note to 
 the teacher, begging his acceptance of the gift, had 
 been written, with the names of the girls from 
 whom it came, each in her own handwriting:. 
 
 ' O 
 
 Much to the chagrin of Rose, Emily had persisted 
 in her refusal to join them. Rose had begged her
 
 The Christmas Gifts. 121 
 
 mother to advise her to do so ; but Mrs. Grant 
 said that she would rather allow Emily to act in 
 freedom in the case. 
 
 Emily had presented her pen-wiper to her teacher 
 on the day before Christmas, and he had seemed 
 much pleased with it. He had also received some 
 other trifling gifts, principally from the younger 
 children. The Bible was to be taken to his own 
 house, on Christmas morning, by three of the girls, 
 who were chosen by the others to present the gift. 
 Rose was one of the three ; and, as she was 
 leaving the house on Christmas morning to meet 
 her young companions, she could not help saying 
 to Emily, 
 
 " Ah ! Emily, do you not wish that you were 
 going with me?" 
 
 " Xo," replied her sister, pleasantly; "I have 
 had one good walk this morning." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I know you have been to carry some 
 clothing and food to poor people ; but don't you 
 wish that you were going with us to present our 
 beautiful Bible?" 
 
 " I have presented a Bible this morning, al- 
 ready," answered Emily, smiling. 
 
 " A Bible 1 " exclaimed Rose, in great surprise ;
 
 122 The Christmas Gifts. 
 
 but, at this instant, the door-bell 1'ang, and the 
 voices of her school-mates were heard. They had 
 called for her on their way to the teacher's house ; 
 and Rose joined them immediately, although her 
 sister's words had filled her with curiosity. 
 
 " To whom can she have presented a Bible ? " 
 she said to herself. " I am sure it was not to 
 father or mother ; for I saw the gifts for them. I 
 do wish I knew ! I will ask her the moment that 
 I go home." 
 
 The walk was not a long one ; and the girls 
 were soon at their teacher's door, and were pre- 
 paring to ring, when a pleasant voice behind them 
 wished them a u happy Christmas" ; and, on turn- 
 ing around, they saw the teacher himself. 
 
 " You ai*e most welcome, young ladies," he said, 
 kindly. " Allow me to open the door for you. I 
 am very glad that I returned in season to enjoy 
 your morning call." 
 
 As he said this, he opened the door, and led the 
 way into a pleasant room which he called his 
 study. Here the beautiful gift was presented, and 
 very gratefully accepted. 
 
 " My pupils coulcl not have presented me with 
 any gift which I should value so highly," said their
 
 The Christmas Gifts. 123 
 
 teacher; "and I shall often read this pleasant 
 note, and think of those who have so kindly re- 
 membered me." 
 
 As he said this, Rose thought of her sister, and 
 wished more than ever that her name could have 
 been affixed to the note. 
 
 " This is the second agreeable surprise that 
 I have received this morning," continued their 
 teacher. " I have just returned from visiting sev- 
 eral poor families in the neighborhood. One old 
 woman among them is so generally known, that I 
 dare say you have all heard of her. ' Nurse 
 Whiting,' she is usually called." 
 
 "Yes sir, I know her!" and "I know her!" 
 exclaimed the girls. 
 
 "We often go to see her," said Rosie. " Emily 
 went this morning, and carried her some flannel, 
 and a new cap, that mother sent her for Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 "Was that all, Miss Rose? Do you not know 
 of your sister's own Christmas gift to the good old 
 woman? " 
 
 " No sir," replied Rosie, blushing deeply ; for 
 she felt a little mortified that she did not know.
 
 124 The Christmas Gifts. 
 
 " Then I will go on with my story," continued 
 the teacher. 
 
 " I had some little comforts for the poor people ; 
 but, as I walked along, I was thinking of one most 
 appropriate gift for Nurse Whiting, and I was con- 
 sidering whether my duty to my own family would 
 allow me to purchase it for her. This was a copy 
 of the Word, with very large, clear type, suitable 
 for the declining sight of the old woman. I knew 
 that she dearly loved to read in the Word of the 
 Lord ; and I had heard her regret that her sight 
 was failing, so that it was becoming difficult for 
 her to use her well-worn Bible. 
 
 " When I reached Nurse Whiting's room, and 
 presented my little gift, which was only some 
 few comfortable things for her Christmas dinner, 
 she thanked me with tears in her eyes, and said 
 that the Lord had indeed been mindful of her that 
 morning ; for He had sent her the very thing that 
 she most wished for. She then showed me a large, 
 neatly bound Bible, with most excellent type, 
 which she said had just been presented to her by 
 one of my scholars. I was so much pleased to 
 hear this, that I turned immediately to the blank 
 leaf, where I found your sister's name, Miss
 
 The Christmas Gifts. 125 
 
 Rose, very neatly written in her own hand- 
 writing. 
 
 " ' Only read what it says ! ' exclaimed the de- 
 lighted old woman : ' Nurse Whiting, from her 
 young friend Emily Grant. How many times I 
 shall read those words, and pray for God's blessing 
 upon her ! ' The tears streamed down her cheeks 
 as she said this ; and I must confess that my own 
 eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of pleas- 
 ure to think that one of my pupils should have done 
 so kind and thoughtful an act. And now, young 
 ladies, as I have finished my story, I will write a 
 little note of thanks to the kind young friends who 
 have so generously remembered me ; and, in the 
 mean time, please to amuse yourselves with look- 
 ing over my books and engravings." 
 
 The girls found abundant amusement upon the 
 neat centre-table, and were almost sorry when their 
 teacher returned to them. 
 
 " Here is my note," he said ; " and here is 
 another, Miss Rose, which you will please to hand 
 to your sister. I could not refrain from writing a 
 few words to thank her for the great pleasure she 
 has given me this morning." 
 
 Rose hardly knew whether to laugh or cry, as 
 she handed the note to her sister.
 
 126 The Christmas Gifts. 
 
 " The teacher liked our gift very much," she 
 said, in answer to her mother's inquiries; "but 
 I really believe he thought more of the Bible which 
 Emily gave to Nurse Whiting than he did of his 
 own ; and he has written a note to thank her for 
 it. I think Emily might have told me what she 
 intended to do with her money." 
 
 " Do you honestly think that it would have made 
 any difference in your own plans, Rose?" asked 
 her mother. 
 
 "I do not think it would, mother," answered 
 Rose, reluctantly. 
 
 " Then put away that little feeling of envy from 
 your heart, Rose ; or, perhaps I should say, of jeal- 
 ousy of your teacher's praise of your sister ; and 
 go and put your arms around her neck, and tell 
 her that you will not think her stingy another 
 time." 
 
 " I did not really think her so," replied Rose, 
 smiling, as she gave her sister a hearty embrace ; 
 " only I was afraid that the teacher would think 
 her so." 
 
 "And now you are very glad to find that he 
 does not," said Emily, returning the embrace ; 
 " and I am glad too : so now come to our room, 
 and get ready for our Christmas party."
 
 GOING DOWN HILL. 
 
 'HO is that boy to whom you 
 were speaking just now, Willie?" 
 asked Uncle George, as he stood with 
 his little nephew upon the summit 
 ^ of a high hill, which they had climbed 
 in order to obtain a favorable view of the sur- 
 rounding country. 
 
 " That was Rufus Lyman, uncle," replied Willie. 
 " But I was not speaking to him exactly. I only 
 said two or three words, just for fun, to make him 
 go away." 
 
 "Rufus Lyman!" exclaimed Uncle George. 
 "Not Widow Lyman's son, surely? He used to 
 be a fine-looking lad." 
 
 " This is the same boy, uncle. He has changed 
 very much, of late. We never play with him 
 127
 
 128 Going Down HilL 
 
 now, and seldom speak to "ftim. He is always 
 loafing around, and does not come to school, or 
 play on the village green, as he used to do. 
 People say that he is getting to be a very bad 
 boy; and I think so myself." And Willie drew 
 himself up with an air of importance as he pro- 
 nounced the last words. 
 
 " Poor boy ! " said Uncle George. " I am sorry 
 to hear so bad an account of him. His father was 
 a very worthy man ; and his mother is a good 
 woman, and must feel much grieved to see her son 
 going down hill in this manner." 
 
 " Going down hill, uncle ! " repeated Willie. 
 " I do not understand what you mean." 
 
 "When we see a person becoming poorer or 
 more wicked, or changing for the worse in any 
 way," replied his uncle, " we often say that he is 
 'going down hill.' We mean that he is sinking 
 from a higher state to a lower one." 
 
 "Yes, uncle; I understand you now. Rufus is 
 going down hill fast enough, I am sure." 
 
 " And I suppose a great many of you give him 
 a little push occasionally, so as to make him go 
 down a little faster ; do you not ? " asked his 
 uncle.
 
 Going Doicn Hill. 129 
 
 " Why. uncle, what a strange question ! " ex- 
 claimed Willie. 
 
 Xot at all, Willie. I have seen a great many 
 men, who. either from want of feeling or want of 
 thought, would give a strong push to some poor 
 unfortunate person whom they saw going in the 
 downward path ; and I have no doubt it is much 
 the same with boys. Are there any among you 
 who treat Rufus in a friendly manner, or try to 
 do him any good?" 
 
 Willie hung his head ; but he was an honest 
 boy. and he answered frankly, 
 
 " Xo uncle ; we all laugh at him, and tease him 
 whenever he comes in our way." 
 
 And this makes him worse, Willie, and sends 
 him down hill faster than he would otherwise go. 
 Now. supposing I should slip from this rock, and 
 roll down the steep bank, should you run after me, 
 and push me to make me roll down faster ? " 
 
 Xo, indeed, uncle. I should try to stop you, 
 and help you up again." 
 
 " I have no doubt you would, Willie. And this 
 is exactly what you ought to try to do for poor 
 Rufus. Do not push him down lower and lower, 
 but try to help him up again." 
 9
 
 130 Going Down Hill. 
 
 " But I do not know how, uncle." 
 
 " Try, my boy. It may not be so difficult as 
 you imagine. Leave oft' trying to vex him, and 
 endeavor to make him see that you wish to be his 
 friend ; it will then be easier to find some way in 
 which you can do him good. Do you know why 
 he no longer attends school ? " 
 
 " I suppose he is ashamed to come in those 
 ragged clothes," replied Willie, thoughtfully. " I 
 never thought much about it before ; but I dare 
 say his mother is too poor to buy him good clothes. 
 I know she has been sick a great deal since Mr. 
 Lyman died. I am sorry that I called Rufus 
 ' Old Clothesman ; ' for my own clothes would 
 be no better than his, if I had no one to buy me 
 any." 
 
 " That is very true, Willie. I see that you are 
 beginning to think rightly on the subject," an- 
 swered his imcje, " I have no doubt you can do 
 Rufus much good { and, if I can help you in any 
 way, you must let me know." 
 
 " Yes sir, I will," returned Willie. And, as 
 they walked toward home, his mind was filled 
 with busy thoughts Concerning Rufus ; and he
 
 Going Doivn Hill. 131 
 
 formed many plans for placing himself upon a 
 more friendly footing with him. 
 
 When we really desire to do good to others, the 
 opportunity is seldom wanting. On the day fol- 
 lowing the conversation with his uncle, as Willie 
 was returning from school, he saw Rufus in a field 
 adjoining the road, endeavoring to pick up a large 
 quantity of blackberries which lay spilled upon the 
 grass. 
 
 " I will help him," thought Willie. And, 
 springing over the fence, he said, in a friendly 
 tone, 
 
 "Have you spilled your berries, Rufus? Never 
 mind ; the grass is clean, and we can easily gather 
 them up. What fine large berries ! Are you 
 going to take them to your mother?" 
 
 Rufus was so much surprised at Willie's friendly 
 manner, that he did not reply for a few moments, 
 bat at length he said, hesitatingly, 
 
 " I was going to try to sell them." 
 
 Well, you will get a good price for them, I 
 am sure." returned Willie. " I have no doubt 
 my mother would buy them ; she often buys black- 
 berries. Come home with me, and I will ask her." 
 
 Rufus made little reply to this proposal of Wil-
 
 132 Going Down Hill. 
 
 lie's ; but, after the beiTies were replaced in the 
 basket, he silently followed him home. 
 
 Willie carried the berries to his mother, and 
 soon returned with the money, which he handed 
 to Rufus, saying, 
 
 " Mother says if you can bring her ten quarts 
 of berries as good as these, she should be glad to 
 buy them to preserve for winter." 
 
 " I will bring them to-morrow afternoon, or the 
 next day, at farthest," replied Rufus, looking much 
 pleased. And, as he turned to go away, he looked 
 back, and said, " Thank you, Willie." 
 
 " He will like me now," thought Willie, as he 
 returned to the house. " How pleasant his voice 
 sounded when he said ' Thank you, Willie ! ' I 
 do not believe he wants to be a bad boy. To- 
 morrow I will ask him why he does not come to 
 school." 
 
 Rufus was certainly not an idle boy ; for, on the 
 following afternoon, he brought to Willie's mother 
 ten quarts of large ripe blackberries, all of which 
 he had picked with his own hands since early 
 morning. 
 
 After he had received his pay, Willie walked 
 along with him in the direction of his own home.
 
 Go ing Demon Hill. 133 
 
 " Why don't you come to school now, Rufus ? " 
 he asked in a kind tone, after they had talked for 
 some minutes upon different subjects. 
 
 " I have no clothes that are fit to wear," replied 
 Rufus in a low voice, looking down, at the same 
 time, upon his patched garments. 
 
 'Never mind your clothes," answered Willie. 
 "You can study, even if your clothes are not 
 good." 
 
 " But the boys all laugh at me," returned Rufus ; 
 " and then I grow angry and wicked. My mother 
 would rather have me stay at home than feel so." 
 
 " I am sorry that I have ever laughed at you, 
 Rufus ; I never will again. Do come to school ; 
 and, if the boys tease you, try to be patient, and 
 they will soon leave it off." 
 
 Rufus shook his head ; but Willie continued, 
 
 " Remember what a good scholar you used to 
 be, Rufus. You were the best reader in our 
 class." 
 
 " It is all different now," answered Rufus ; and 
 his voice trembled, as if it were very difficult for 
 him to keep from crying. " When my dear father 
 lived with us, I was a better boy than I am now ; 
 and I loved to go to school, and to Learn to do
 
 134 Going Down Hill. 
 
 many useful things. But everybody says I am not 
 the same boy that I used to. be ; and I know I am 
 not. I love my poor sick mother, though ; and I 
 mean to help her all I can. This money will be 
 of great use to her ; " and Rufus looked with much 
 satisfaction at the money which he held in his 
 hand. 
 
 " I was almost afraid to pick berries to sell," he 
 continued ; " for I thought the boys would laugh 
 at me ; but I wanted very much to buy some tea 
 for my mother, and so I resolved to try. Yesterday 
 was the first day that I went into the fields ; and 
 when I saw you coming along the road, Willie, I 
 wished I was at home again, for I could not bear 
 to have you ridicule me. In trying to get out of 
 your way, I spilled a part of my berries ; and then 
 you came to me so kindly, and offered to help me. 
 Oh Willie ! it did me good." 
 
 Here Rufus quite lost his self-control, and fairly 
 sobbed aloud ; and the tears rolled down Willie's 
 cheeks also, though he felt very glad and thankful 
 that he had been kind to the poor boy at a time 
 when he so much needed kindness. 
 
 " I am very, -very sorry that I ever laughed at
 
 Going Do-wn Hill. 135 
 
 you," he again repeated. " Do not cry, Rufus, I 
 will always love you." 
 
 " It is foolish in me to do so," said Rufus, strug- 
 gling to be calm. " And I know it is wrong to 
 mind being laughed at ; but it is very hard to 
 help it." 
 
 They had now reached the door of Mrs. Ly- 
 man's cottage ; ami Willie bade Rufus good-by, 
 and walked thoughtfully toward home. He felt 
 very desirous to help Rufus ; but he did not see 
 clearly what he could do for him. 
 
 " If I only had some money to, buy him a new 
 suit of clothes," he said to himself, " perhaps he 
 would go to school again." 
 
 Willie's father and mother were not rich ; and, 
 as they had several children to provide for, Willie 
 knew that it was not in their power to buy clothes 
 for Rufus. He thought of his Uncle George, and 
 wished he could ask him about it ; but he had 
 left home that morning, and would not return for 
 several weeks. 
 
 After much reflection, Willie resolved that he 
 would propose to Rufus to try to earn some money 
 to buy clothes, and that he himself would help 
 him all that he could in his play-hours.
 
 136 Going Down Hill. 
 
 Rufus received the proposition very gratefully. 
 He felt very sure that he could earn clothes for 
 himself, and money to buy various things for his 
 mother besides, if Willie would help him. It 
 was Willie's sympathy, more than his assistance, 
 which Rufus needed. He was willing to work, 
 now that he had a companion to encourage him 
 and speak kindly to him. 
 
 The school-boys laughed when they saw Willie 
 hard at work picking berries with the " Old 
 Clothesman," as they called Rufus ; bnt Willie took 
 all their jokes good-naturedly, and Rufus soon 
 learned to feel little disturbed by them. 
 
 Good berries found a ready sale ; and, as Rufus 
 was frequently employed by the neighboring farm- 
 ers, who were glad to see that " the lad had taken 
 the right start again," as they expressed it, there 
 was soon money enough to purchase a neat suit 
 of clothes ; while Mrs. Lyman felt so comforted 
 and cheered by the improvement in Rufus, that 
 she was now gaining rapidly in health, and was 
 able to do many things to aid in their support. 
 
 It was a happy day for Willie when Rufus, 
 neatly dressed, and with a bright, happy coun- 
 tenance, once more entered the village school, and
 
 Going Doivn Hill. 137 
 
 took his seat among the scholars. The teachers 
 welcomed him cordially; and the boys, who had 
 long since become ashamed of laughing at him, 
 now gave him a cordial greeting. 
 
 As they were returning home that afternoon, a 
 carriage, which was driving rapidly along the 
 road in the same direction in which they were 
 walking, suddenly stopped near Rufus and Willie, 
 who were a little in advance of the other boys ; 
 and Willie, to his great delight, recognized his 
 Uncle George, who had been absent for two 
 months. 
 
 ' "Jump in, Willie," said Uncle George. "I am 
 going to your father's, and will take you home." 
 
 " That is a bright-looking lad with whom you 
 were walking." he continued, as they drove rapidly 
 along. ''Is he a school-mate of yours?" 
 
 " Why, uncle, that is Rufus Lyman ! " exclaimed 
 Willie. " Do not you remember seeing him the 
 last time that we walked into the country to- 
 gether ? " 
 
 "I remember poor Rufus very well," replied 
 Uncle George ; ;; but surely that was not he." 
 
 " It was indeed, uncle. He is a different boy 
 now. I will tell you the whole story."
 
 138 Going Down Hill. 
 
 Uncle George listened with great interest to 
 Willie's little tale. 
 
 " You have helped to do a good work, Willie," 
 he said, when his nephew had finished. " Rufus 
 will go on in the right path now, if I am not much 
 mistaken. Was it not far better to give him a 
 helping hand in this manner, than to push him 
 along in the downward path?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, uncle. I will never push any 
 one down hill again. But I have not done much 
 for Rufus ; he has helped himself." 
 
 "Our Heavenly Father .has helped you both, 
 my boy. He has sent you to Rufus as a medium 
 of His love.; and He prepared the mind and heart 
 of the poor fatherless boy to receive the good 
 and truth thus offered him. Let us then bless 
 His holy name, dear Willie ; for it was indeed 
 a good work."
 
 CLARA'S BIRTHDAY; 
 
 OR, 
 THE MOTIVE MAKES THE DEED. 
 
 was a lovely morning in the month 
 of June. The sun was shining brightly, 
 and the gentle summer breeze scarcely 
 misplaced Clara's clustering curls, as 
 she threw open the window, that she 
 might breathe the fragrance of the honeysuckle 
 that grew so luxuriantly beneath it, and listen to 
 the music of the birds, who were so joyously 
 pouring forth their morning songs. 
 
 Clara felt unusually happy on this bright sum- 
 mer morning, for this was her tenth birthday, and 
 she was joyfully anticipating the good wishes and 
 pretty gifts which awaited her. Some months 
 before, her father, who had noticed several faults 
 in her character, which he wished to aid in cor- 
 recting, had told her, after kindly pointing out the 
 139
 
 1 40 Clara's Birth day. 
 
 errors, that if he found that she had faithfully 
 endeavored to remove them, he would give her 
 as a reward, on her birthday, a beautiful work- 
 box, such as Clara had long desired. 
 
 The little girl felt sure that she should receive 
 the promised reward, for her weekly certificates 
 from her teacher gave evidence of great improve- 
 ment as a scholar, and her mother had frequently 
 expressed her approbation at her newly-acquired 
 habits of order and usefulness. So, as Clara stood 
 by the open window enjoying the beautiful morn- 
 ing, she amused herself with various conjectures 
 as to the appearance of the box, and the many 
 pretty things it was to contain ; and she was so 
 busy with her own thoughts that she did not hear 
 her father's step, nor think that he was near, until 
 he placed a large paper parcel before her, and 
 pleasantly wished her a happy birthday. 
 
 "Oh, father!" she exclaimed, joyfully. "Is 
 this my work-box? lam so glad that you think 
 I have improved. I was just thinking about my 
 box, and wondering how it would look." 
 
 The string that tied the parcel was soon unfas- 
 tened, and the work-box was found to equal Clara's 
 highest expectations. She clapped her hands with
 
 Clara's Birthday. . 141 
 
 delight when she saw its pretty lining of pink silk, 
 and the bright silver thimble, and nice pair of 
 scissors in a red morrocco case. 
 
 Her father was pleased with her joy, and he 
 kissed her affectionately as he said, 
 
 " I am very glad to make my Clara this birth- 
 day present, and I am glad to find that she is 
 correcting some of her bad habits of idleness and 
 disorder." 
 
 " Oh yes, father, I have tried very hard to do 
 better. I always kept my pretty work-box in my 
 mind, and whenever I felt tempted to be idle or 
 careless, I would count the days that I had got to 
 try for it, and that would help me to persevere. 
 And now the happy day has come at last, and I 
 have got my beautiful box ; " and Clara danced 
 around the room in her joy. 
 
 Her father smiled, but in a moment he looked 
 grave and thoughtful, and, calling Clara to his 
 side, he put his arm around her and said, 
 
 " Do you know why I offered you this reward, 
 my daughter ? " 
 
 " I suppose you wanted to make me a better 
 girl, father, and you thought this would be the 
 best way to do it."
 
 142 Clara? s Birthday. 
 
 " Not exactly, Clara. I did not expect that try- 
 ing for the work-box would make you really a 
 better girl, but I thought that it might help you 
 to correct some of your bad habits, and make it 
 easier for you to be good at some future time." 
 
 " But shall I not be good, father, when I have 
 corrected my faults?" 
 
 " You must learn to .correct them from right 
 motives, Clara. The hope of reward is a selfish 
 motive. It is right to induce children and some 
 other persons to do good from this motive, because 
 it helps them to overcome evil habits ; but I wish 
 my little girl to remember that the motive makes 
 the deed, and that no action is ever really good 
 which is done from a selfish motive. Can you 
 understand this hard lesson ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, father, I understand what you mean, 
 but it makes me very sorry, for I thought I had 
 been such a good girl, and now I find that I have 
 not." 
 
 "You need not be sorry, Clara. You have 
 done very right in trying so perseveringly to con- 
 quer your faults from the motive which your father 
 gave you ; and your pretty box is a token of my 
 approbation. But now that you are ten years old,
 
 Clara's Birthday. 143 
 
 it is time that you learned to examine your mo- 
 tives a little. I want you to think over what I 
 have told you, and resolve to try from now till 
 your next birthday to do right, not from the hope 
 of reward, but because you love to obey the com- 
 mandments of the Lord. This will be very hard 
 at first. Even grown people find it difficult, and 
 a great many do it very imperfectly, and some not 
 at all ; but I wish my little daughter to grow up 
 to be a truly good woman, and therefore I am 
 trying to teach her that the motive makes the 
 deed." 
 
 " And I will try to remember it, father. It 
 shall be my motto. And now may I go to my 
 mother and show her my box, and tell her all that 
 you have said to me ? " 
 
 " All that you can remember, Clara. Your 
 mother is not very well this morning, and will 
 not leave her room." 
 
 Clara was grieved to hear this, for she was a 
 very affectionate little girl, and she loved her 
 parents dearly. She put both arms around her 
 mother's neck and kissed her many times, and 
 asked her if she had the headache, and what she 
 could do to make her feel better.
 
 144 Clara's Birthday. 
 
 Her mother told her that her head had ached 
 badly all night, but she hoped it would soon be 
 better, if she could be still a little while, and not be 
 disturbed by the yonnger children ; and Clara said 
 she would be very kind to her little brothers and 
 sisters, and would help to take care of the baby. 
 
 She showed her mother her birthday present, 
 but did not then tell her what her father had said, 
 because she knew that talking would make her 
 head ache worse. She left the room softly, and 
 went to the nursery, where she found Lizzie, the 
 girl, dressing the children. They did not all look 
 very pleasant, for they were accustomed to having 
 their mother dress them, and were not willing to 
 have Lizzie attend to them. 
 
 Henry, who was next to Clara in age, would not 
 stand still to have his hair brushed ; but when he 
 saw his sister coming in, looking so neat and 
 cheerful, he felt a little ashamed, and allowed the 
 girl to smooth his curly locks. The little twins, 
 Mary and Ellen, were both crying for mamma ; 
 but when sister Clara spoke kindly to them, and 
 promised to show them her new box as soon as 
 they were dressed, they dried their tears, and 
 begged Lizzie to get them ready as soon as she
 
 Clarets Birthday. 145 
 
 could. Then dear little Willie, the youngest of 
 all, crept up to Clara and hid his face in her dress, 
 and when she took him in her arms and asked 
 him how much he loved sister, he lisped " dee," 
 which was his word for dearly, so sweetly, that it 
 made her feel very happy, and she kissed him, 
 and told him he was a darling babv. 
 
 After breakfast, as it \vas a fine morning, the 
 children were all allowed to play in the yard and 
 garden, and the house was so quiet that their 
 mother got some rest ; and about the middle of 
 the forenoon she felt a little better, and was able 
 to sit in the large rocking-chair, and the children 
 were allowed to go into her room to see her. But 
 her head still ached, and she could not bear much 
 noise, so they did not stay long. 
 
 After Lizzie had taken the younger children 
 away, Mrs. Merrill, Clara's mother, drew her little 
 girl to her side, and took from the table a beautiful 
 book of pictures and stories, which she told her 
 was for a birthdav gift. 
 
 Clara was much pleased, for she had not ex- 
 pected to receive anv other present than the work- 
 box. She kissed her mother, and thanked her, 
 and then asked if she was now willing that she 
 10
 
 146 Clara's Birthday. 
 
 should go and invite several of her little friends in 
 the neighborhood to come and pass the afternoon 
 with her, as her mother had promised her she 
 should do if the day was fine. 
 
 Mrs. Merrill hesitated. She did not love to 
 disappoint Clara of this long-expected pleasure, 
 but she was unwilling to have the little party on 
 a day when she felt too ill to leave her room, for 
 she always shared in the sports of her children, 
 and knew very well that they would not be so 
 good and happy without her. So, after a little 
 thought, she told Clara that she should prefer not 
 to have the party for another week. 
 
 The little 'girl looked very much disappointed, 
 but she did not speak a word ; and her mother, 
 wishing to console her, told her that the straw- 
 berries would be ripe then, and the garden would 
 look more beautiful with the bright flowers. 
 
 " Please, mother," said Clara, " do not tell me 
 about those things. I want to be willing to give 
 up the party from right motives ; if I am only 
 willing to give it up becaj-ise it will be so much 
 more pleasant in another week, those will be 
 selfish motives." 
 
 Mrs. Merrill did not know of the conversation
 
 Clara's Birthday. 147 
 
 which Clara had with her father in the morning, 
 and she was quite surprised to hear her talking 
 of the motives of her conduct. 
 
 Then Clara told her all that her father had said 
 to her, and how she had resolved to try to do 
 right from good motives. 
 
 "And so, mother," she said, "I am trying to 
 be willing to give up my party because you are 
 ill, and think it would be better for me to do so, 
 and not because I shall have more pleasure another 
 time." 
 
 'That is right, dear," said her mother ; "and 
 I am glad that my daughter is trying to keep so 
 good a resolution. It is sometimes a difficult 
 task to make our motives good, but if we ask 
 the Lord to help us, the kind angels will come 
 near, and teach us how to do right." 
 
 But I cannot see the angels, mother." 
 
 Xo, you cannot see them because your spiritual 
 eyes are not opened ; but when good thoughts and 
 
 feelings come into your mind, and you desire to 
 
 t 
 perform good actions, you may know that they 
 
 are speaking to you, and trying to lead you in 
 the right way. Always listen to them, dear Clara, 
 and you will become more and more like them,
 
 148 Clara's Birthday. 
 
 until the Lord calls you to your heavenly home, 
 and then you will also become an angel." 
 
 " I will try, dear mother," said Clara ; and then 
 she went softly from the room, and joined her 
 little brothers and sisters, who were impatiently 
 waiting for her. 
 
 The birthday passed happily away, and Clara's 
 dreams that night were pleasant, for she had tried 
 to do right. 
 
 And now that the new year had been so well 
 begun, perhaps our little readers will think that 
 it could not be very difficult to keep her resolution, 
 and remember the motto that the " motive makes 
 the deed." But Clara often found it very hard 
 indeed ; and if her kind father and mother had not 
 watched over her and encouraged her, and taught 
 her to feel that the angels were always ready to 
 help her, she would have often been quite dis- 
 couraged. But, as she persevered, her task gradu- 
 ally became more easv. 
 
 At first, she could not always tell whether her 
 motives were good or evil, and would sometimes 
 think she had done a very good action, when upon 
 strict examination she would find that the motives 
 were wrong.
 
 Clara's Birthday. 149 
 
 "My Clara looks very bright and happy this 
 morning," said Mrs. Merrill, as her daughter en- 
 tered the room with her bonnet on, and her books 
 under her arm, all ready for school. 
 
 'It is such a bright, pleasant morning, mother, 
 that it makes me feel happy ; and besides this, my 
 own lessons are all well prepared, so that I shall 
 have a great deal of time to help Addy ; and this 
 makes me glad, for I love to help her." 
 
 "Who is Addy, Clara? I think you have never 
 told me about her." 
 
 "I thought I had told you, mother, but she has 
 only been to our school for a few days. Her name 
 is Adeline Morse. She is nearly as old as I am, 
 but, until lately, her health has been very poor, so 
 that she could not attend to her studies ; and in 
 many things she does not know as much as some 
 of the youngest girls. Our teacher talked to us 
 about her before she came, and told us that we 
 must try to help her all we could, and be careful 
 never to laugh at her ignorance. So we all prom- 
 ised to be kind to her ; and indeed, mother, she 
 is such a sweet little girl, that no one can help 
 loving her. She is always so much pleased when 
 she has learned anything new, and will kiss you
 
 150 Clara's Birthday. 
 
 and thank you so much for teaching her. She sits 
 with me, so I show her more about her lessons 
 than any one else, and I promised Miss Leslie 
 to study hard myself, and learn some lessons at 
 home, so that I might have time. She said I was 
 a very good girl to love to help Adcly." 
 
 "It is very kind in you, certainly. Clara, but 
 you must be careful not to forget your motto." 
 
 " ' The motive makes the deed ! ' No, mother, 
 I will not forget it ; but you know my motive in 
 teaching Addy must be good. I do not receive 
 any reward for doing it." 
 
 "Not exactly, Clara, and yet I think I can see 
 that selfishness might become mixed with your 
 love of being useful to her. Guard your heart 
 ^carefully, my daughter. And now kiss me, and I 
 will bid you good-morning, for it is time you were 
 on your way." 
 
 " I will walk fast, mother, for I have received 
 no mark for tardiness this term." 
 
 And with an affectionate good-morning, Clara 
 was soon walking rapidly toward the school-house. 
 
 Very truly had Clara said that Adeline was a 
 " s\veet little girl." She came forward to meet 
 her new friend with such a glad, loving smile, and
 
 Clara's Birthday. 151 
 
 twined her arms ai'ound her neck so gently, as 
 she whispered, " I am so glad you have come, 
 dear Clara ; my lesson in arithmetic is very diffi- 
 cult this morning, and now you will explain it 
 all to me. The other girls would have shown 
 me, but I would rather wait for you." 
 
 Clara's bright face grew brighter still, as she 
 heard these words. It was very pleasant to be 
 looked up to, and to feel that Adeline loved her, 
 and valued her assistance so highly. 
 
 " I will show you in one moment, dear Addy," 
 she replied, "just as soon as I have hung up my 
 bonnet." 
 
 Clara was an excellent scholar for her age, and 
 what had appeared difficult to Adeline seemed 
 very plain to her, and she soon succeeded in 
 making it equally so to her little companion. 
 Both were pleased and happy, and the teacher 
 bestowed praises upon both when the well-learned 
 lesson was recited. 
 
 For several weeks Clara continued to render 
 daily assistance to her friend, and Adeline made 
 great improvement under her tuition. Nothing 
 gave Clara more pleasure than to hear the praises 
 which were frequently bestowed upon her little
 
 152 Clara's Birthday. 
 
 pupil, and she often learned her own lessons in 
 play-hours, that she might have more leisure to 
 attend to Adeline. 
 
 One morning she was unavoidably detained at 
 home until a late hour. Her mother gave her a 
 written excuse for her teacher, and as soon as she 
 had handed it to her, she took her seat. It was 
 nearly time for Adeline's class to recite in arith- 
 metic, and the little girl was very busily engaged 
 with a long sum. 
 
 " I will show you now, Addy," whispered Clara. 
 "I could not come before." 
 
 " Please, Clara, do not speak to me for one 
 minute," was the reply. " I do believe I shall 
 get it right myself, and I have tried so long." 
 
 Clara turned away to attend to her own lessons. 
 There was no reason for her feeling hurt or out 
 of humor. Adeline had spoken very gently, and 
 it was certainly right for her to wish to do the 
 sum without assistance, if she could. Why, then, 
 did Clara feel unkindly ; and why, when the slate 
 was handed to the teacher, and the answer pro- 
 nounced correct, did she turn coldly away from 
 the' sparkling glance which her friend directed 
 toward her, as if for sympathy in her joy?
 
 Clarcfs Birthday. 153 
 
 "Are you sick, dear Clara?" asked Adeline, as 
 
 she again took her seat at her side. 
 
 
 "Not at all," she replied, " but I must study my 
 
 lessons. It is very late." 
 
 " Then I will try not to disturb you with ques- 
 tions. Perhaps I can find all those places upon 
 the map myself. There is nothing like trying. 
 I thought I should never do that long sum, but 
 it was right at last." 
 
 Intent upon her own lesson, arid desirous not 
 to disturb her friend, Adeline did not, for some 
 time, discover Clara's ill-humor. At length, how- 
 ever, after a long search for one of the many 
 places which she was to find upon the map, she 
 turned to her for assistance. 
 
 "Just this one place, if you please, Clara ; I 
 will try not to interrupt you again." 
 
 " There is nothing like trying," replied Clara 
 shortlv. "You had better find it yourself." 
 
 Adeline looked with a surprised and mournful 
 expression in Clara's face. 
 
 "Have I done anything to offend you, Clara?" 
 she asked, gently. 
 
 "Oh, no," was the reply, "but it is better for 
 you to depend upon yourself."
 
 154 Clarets Birthday. 
 
 With tears in her eyes, Adeline returned to her 
 task. The place was found at length, but she 
 wns still very sad,. for the ill-humor of her friend 
 appeared to her 'unaccountable. 
 
 In vain she endeavored to find out the cause : 
 Clara would give no explanation ; indeed, she 
 continued to say that nothing was the matter, but 
 it was quite evident that this was untrue. 
 
 When school was dismissed, instead of walking 
 along arm-in-arm as usual, the two little girls 
 rather seemed to avoid each other, and went home 
 by different paths. 
 
 Everything seemed to go wrong with Clara. 
 She had listened to the voice of the evil spirits, 
 and the good angels were not near her now. 
 Every duty seemed irksome, and was unwillingly 
 performed. Toward evening, her mother re- 
 quested her to take charge of the baby for an 
 hour, as the girl had gone out, and she herself 
 was busily engaged with some sewing. 
 
 Clara made no objection, but was so careless 
 and inattentive to the little boy's wants, that he 
 soon wearied of her care. 
 
 " I cannot keep him quiet, mother," said Clara,
 
 Clara's Birthday. 155 
 
 in answer to a remonstrance from her mother. 
 " I am sure I have tried my best." 
 
 " Your heart is not in it, Clara," was the reply, 
 " and therefore you do not succeed. I am sorry 
 on your own account; for, if I am obliged to leave 
 my work, I shall not be able to complete your 
 new frock in season for you to wear it to the little 
 party to which you are invited to-morrow." 
 
 Clara had not thought of this. She was very 
 desirous to wear her new frock to the party. 
 
 " Stop one minute, mother," she said; "please 
 do not take Willie yet, and I will get my doll for 
 him. That always makes him stop crying." 
 
 Clara's heart was in it now, and the baby was 
 soon contented and happy. 
 
 When it was nearly dusk, and Mrs. Merrill laid 
 aside her work and was ready to take him, Clara 
 looked triumphantly at the clock, as she said, 
 
 " I have kept Willie happy for an hour and a 
 half, mother. Is not that doing pretty well?" 
 
 ' The deed was good, certainly, Clara, if the 
 motive was an unselfish one." 
 
 Clara made no reply. This was the first time 
 she had thought of her motto through the day. 
 She appeared to be thinking deeply, and her
 
 156 Clarcfs Birthday. 
 
 mother did not disturb her, but left the room to 
 put the baby to bed. 
 
 " The motive makes the deed," repeated Clara 
 to herself, when she was left alone. u No wonder 
 father told me that it was difficult to remember 
 this. I did not care anything about pleasing 
 Willie until I found that if I did not, I could not 
 have my new dress to wear to-morrow. That 
 was a selfish motive, and I believe I have been 
 selfish all the afternoon. Everything has seemed 
 to go wrong." 
 
 Clara was a little girl, but she had been taught 
 to examine herself, and her thoughts now went 
 back to the school-room, and she continued her 
 examination. 
 
 " I was cross this morning, also," she said. 
 "PoorAddy! I wonder what made me treat her 
 so unkindly. I have always loved to help her 
 before. Somehow it made me cross when I found 
 that she had learned her arithmetic lesson without 
 me, but I do not know why it should ; I ought 
 to have been glad. There is father walking in 
 the garden ; I will go and tell him all about it, 
 and he will help me to see how I have done 
 \vrong."
 
 Clara's Birthday. 157 
 
 This was a very wise resolution. Children 
 should always recollect that their parents are 
 their best advisers. They should never conceal 
 their faults from them, but frankly tell all their 
 thoughts and feelings, and be guided by their 
 advice. 
 
 Mr. Merrill listened very kindly to Clara's little 
 story. He was very* glad to find that she was 
 learning to examine the motives of her actions, 
 and he could see very plainly why she had felt 
 disturbed and vexed at finding that Adeline could 
 learn- a lesson without her assistance. 
 
 " We are often mistaken in our motives, dear 
 Clara," he said, " and it sometimes takes some 
 severe lessons to help us to understand them. I 
 suppose you have always thought, that in assist- 
 ing your little friend, you were trying only to do 
 her good." 
 
 Yes, father, I did not receive any reward for 
 teaching her." 
 
 t% Did not your teacher frequently praise you for 
 your kindness. Clara ; and did not Adeline herself 
 show you much gratitude and love on this ac- 
 count?"
 
 158 Clara's Birthday. 
 
 " Yes, father, but I do not think I did it for the 
 sake of receiving their praise." 
 
 " Not wholly, Clara, but this must have been 
 partly your motive. If you had felt no desire 
 for any reward excepting the pleasure of seeing 
 Adeline improve, you would not have felt dis- 
 pleased when you found that she was learning to 
 do without your assistance. On the contrary, you 
 would have felt pleased and happy. The little 
 occurrence of this morning shows you that your 
 motives were not entirely unselfish. You thought 
 more of the praise which you received, and of 
 the gratitude which Adeline showed you, than 
 you did of the good which you were doing." 
 
 Clara was quite silent for some minutes, and 
 then she said, 
 
 " I think you are right, father. I can see now 
 that my motives were not wholly good. But 
 indeed I thought they were. It seemed to me 
 that I could never be tired of teaching Adeline. I 
 loved to do it so much, and I thought it was such 
 a good thing to do. I am afraid I shall never be 
 good, father." 
 
 " You must not be discouraged, Clara. I have 
 no doubt that you have done Adeline a great deal
 
 Clara's Birthday. 159 
 
 of good, and from right motives, too. A little 
 selfishness has crept in, but now you have dis- 
 covered it, you will try to put it away." 
 
 " Yes, father, and I will ask my Heavenly 
 Father to help me ; and now I will go and tell 
 mother all about it, and ask her to forgive me for 
 having been so cross this afternoon. Everything 
 went wrong after I was unkind to Adeline." 
 
 " Evil spirits were near you, my daughter. 
 Little by little you will learn to guard your heart 
 from them." 
 
 Very earnestly did Clara try to keep the angels 
 near to her. She and Adeline soon became 
 warmer friends than ever before, but there was 
 less selfishness mingled with their love. Clara 
 was still ever ready to assist her friend in her 
 studies when it was really necessary, but she also 
 seemed most happy when she could accomplish 
 the task by her own perseverance ; and Adeline, 
 although less dependent upon Clara, found great 
 encouragement and pleasure in her kindness and 
 sympathy. 
 
 New trials were continually arising, and it was 
 still difficult to keep the. motto in mind. It was 
 easier to do right in great things than in little
 
 160 Clara's Birthday. 
 
 ones, Clara often said, and this is very true. A 
 great many grown people, as well as children, find 
 it easier to do right when some very important 
 duty is to be performed, than to do good continu- 
 ally in trifling, every-day duties. 
 
 Often, when playing with her brothers and 
 sisters, or her young companions, Clara would 
 find herself in danger of being selfish; and often, 
 also, when she had done what seemed to be right, 
 she would discover that the motive which prompted 
 the action was not what it ought to have been ; 
 but still she persevered, and gradually she learned 
 to examine her motives before she commenced any 
 new undertaking. 
 
 Her mother had taken into the family a little 
 colored girl, whom she intended to educate and 
 bring up, to assist her in the house. The child was* 
 very ignorant, and Mrs. Merrill proposed to Clara 
 that she should teach her to read. 
 
 Clara was delighted, and for some days could 
 think of nothing else. Every leisure moment was 
 devoted to her new pupil, but the child was inat- 
 tentive and dull, and she soon wearied of her task, 
 and, before long, entirely neglected it. 
 
 "Has Annie learned all her letters yet?" asked
 
 Clara's Birthday. 161 
 
 Mr. Men-ill, as he saw the little girl with a book 
 in her hand one morning. 
 
 "I believe not, father, I am not sure. It is 
 some time since I have heard her read," replied 
 Clara, blushing. 
 
 " But I thought you had taken charge of that 
 branch of her education, Clara." 
 
 *' So I did, father ; but she is so idle and dull, 
 that there is no pleasure in teaching her." 
 
 " Was pleasure your motive in undertaking to 
 teach her, Clara ? " 
 
 Clara blushed again as she answered, 
 
 " I am afraid it was partly my motive, father. 
 I thought it would be a very easy task, and that I 
 should enjoy doing it, but I was mistaken." 
 
 " Supposing you try again from different mo- 
 tives, Clara ; I think you would succeed." 
 
 Clara thought for a little while. She did not 
 feel very willing to do what her father proposed, 
 and yet she knew that it would be doing right. 
 She did not answer hastily, therefore, but after 
 considering a little, she said earnestly, 
 
 " I will try to do it from good motives, father." 
 
 " That is all I wish you to do, my child ; and 
 if you try, I feel sure you will succeed." 
 II
 
 1 62 Clarets Birthday. 
 
 Three months after this conversation, little Annie 
 could read fluently in easy reading, and her young 
 teacher said that she had become so industrious, 
 and easy to learn, that it was a pleasure to teach 
 her. 
 
 " So you have the pleasure after all, Clara," 
 observed her father, smilingly, as he heard this 
 remark. 
 
 " Yes, father, but that is not the reason that I 
 teach her." 
 
 " I know it, my daughter, and it makes me very 
 happy to think that you are beginning to find 
 pleasure in the faithful performance of duty. This 
 is the only true happiness." 
 
 The year passed swiftly away, and again it was 
 Clara's birthday. She was not now anticipating 
 any beautiful gift as a reward for her improvement, 
 but this did not prevent her from feeling very 
 happy. Indeed, it seemed to her that this was the 
 happiest, most lovely birthday she had ever known. 
 Again ghe gat by the open window, and, as she 
 breathed the fragrance of the honeysuckle, listened 
 to the music of the birds, and rejoiced in the 
 bright sunshine, her little heart seemed filled with 
 love and gratitude to her Heavenly Father, who,
 
 Clarets Birth day. 1 63 
 
 during the past year, had enabled her to shun 
 many evil ways, and to love to keep His com- 
 mandments move than she had ever done before. 
 
 While she was thinking of these things, her 
 father's kind voice was heard at the door bidding 
 her good-morning, and she hastened to open it, 
 and to tell him how happy she felt on this beau- 
 tiful birthday morning. 
 
 " I am glad you are happy, my daughter, and 
 here is a birthday gift from your mother and my- 
 self; " and, as he spoke, he handed a very small 
 package to Clara. 
 
 She opened it, and, to her surprise and joy, 
 found a beautiful ring, with a bright red stone in 
 it, just such as she had often wished for. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, father!" she exclaimed; "I 
 never -had a ring before in all my life. Only look! 
 it fits me exactly, arid it is so bright and pretty." 
 
 "This ring has another virtue besides its beauty," 
 said Mr. Merrill, smiling at her joy. " Look in 
 the inside." 
 
 Clara looked, and found these words neatly en- 
 graven : "The motive makes the deed."
 
 HENRTS NAP IN THE ARBOR. 
 
 AM so glad there is no school 
 this afternoon," said little Henry Warren, 
 " for now I can read the new book that 
 Aunt Martha sent me. And after I have 
 read it, mother," he continued, " may I 
 lend it to Johnny Roper? for you know he is sick, 
 and cannot go out to play, and he likes to read 
 very much." 
 
 "Yes, you may lend it to him," replied Mrs. 
 Warren ; " and I am glad thaf you wish to do so. 
 I love to have you kind and thoughtful." 
 
 " I should not like to be selfish, mother," said 
 Henry ; " Georgie Blake has got a new book, and 
 Johnny's sister asked' him if he would lend it to 
 her for Johnny to read ; but he would not let her 
 take it. He only said that he did not like to lend 
 his books ; he was afraid they would get spoiled." 
 164
 
 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 165 
 
 " That was not very kind, certainly," answered 
 his mother ; " but perhaps you do selfish things 
 sometimes, Henry, though not exactly of the 
 same kind." 
 
 " No, mother, I do not think I am selfish," re- 
 plied Henry, looking very earnestly in his mother's 
 face. ' I always lend my books and toys, and, 
 very often, when I have candy or fruit, I give a 
 part of it away. I gave Sam Gordon half of the 
 pear that you gave me this morning." 
 
 ' But there are a great many ways of being 
 selfish, besides being unwilling to give away or 
 lend our things, Henry," said his mother, smiling 
 a little at his earnestness ; " but we will not talk 
 about them now, as you are in haste to read your 
 new book. I have looked it over, and I think 
 you will find it very interesting." 
 
 " I think so too, mother, for Aunt Martha 
 always sends me very interesting books. I will 
 sit in my favorite seat by the window in the 
 sitting-room." 
 
 Henry ran for his book, and was soon seated 
 by the window, reading away very busily. He 
 had been engaged in this way about half an hour, 
 when he heard footsteps in the yard ; and, peeping
 
 1 66 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 
 
 through the closed blind, he saw two boys, con- 
 siderably younger than himself, walking along 
 the path which led to the house. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " said Henry to himself, " if there 
 isn't Charlie and Willie Lewis. I do wish they 
 had stayed at home. I don't want to play with 
 them one bit. I will go and tell mother." 
 
 So saying, Henry rose from his seat, and went 
 to the room where Mrs. Warren was busy with 
 her sewing. 
 
 "Mother," said he, as he opened the door, 
 " Charlie and Willie Lewis are coming up the 
 yard. I suppose they have come to play with 
 me, but I want to read very much ; and, besides, 
 they are such little fellows, there is no fun in 
 playing with them. Could you please send them 
 home, mother?" 
 
 " Why, Henry, that would be very rude and 
 unkind. What could I say to them?" 
 
 " Tell them that you want me this afternoon, 
 can't you, mother? You know you do want me 
 to read my book." 
 
 Mrs. Warren shook her head. " No, no, Henry," 
 she said, " that would not be strictly true ; and, 
 besides that, it would be selfish to send the chil-
 
 Henry* s Nap in the Arbor. 167 
 
 dren home, merely because you wish to read. 
 You do not wish to be selfish, you know. Hark ! 
 they are knocking. Go and open the door with 
 a pleasant face, my son, and give your little 
 friends a cordial welcome. You will enjoy your 
 book all the more another time." 
 
 Thus urged, Henry went to the door, but he 
 did it slowly and reluctantly ; and, if the little 
 boys had looked in his face when he asked them 
 to walk in, they would certainly have seen that 
 he was not very glad to see them. 
 
 But they felt a little shy and awkward at 
 coming to a new place, so they kept their eyes 
 fixed on the floor, and only said, " Yes, ma'am," 
 and "No, ma'am," when Henry's mother asked 
 them any questions. The weather was very fine, 
 and Mrs. \Yarren presently advised Henry to take 
 his little friends into the yards and garden. She 
 knew they would feel more at home out of doors, 
 and she hoped that Henry would forget his dis- 
 appointment, and try to make their visit pleasant 
 to them. 
 
 But Henry was not only vexed that his reading 
 was interrupted, but he was also a little displeased 
 that Charlie and Willie should have come to visit
 
 i68 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 
 
 him. Like many other boys of nine or ten, 
 he felt himself altogether too large to play with 
 those who were two or three years younger. He 
 walked around the garden with his little visitors, 
 and showed them his pet rabbits and his cliickens, 
 but he did not propose any play, or make any 
 great effort to amuse them. By and by his mother 
 came to the door, and gave each of the boys a 
 cake and an apple, and advised them to have a 
 game of hide and seek. 
 
 " Charlie and Willie will enjoy it, I think," she 
 said to Henry, " and you can find a great many 
 good places to hide in, around the yards and in 
 the barn." 
 
 Henry still looked very sober, but he made no 
 objection ; and, as soon as they had finished 
 eating, they began the game. Charlie and Willie 
 could play this very well. Each took his turn 
 in hiding, and then came Henry's turn. As he 
 passed around the house on his way to the barn, 
 where he intended hiding, he caught a glimpse 
 of his new book through the half-open blinds 
 of the sitting-room. It was lying on the table just 
 where he had left it. 
 
 " Oh, there is my new book," he said to himself.
 
 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 169 
 
 / 
 
 "How I do wish I could read in it, just for a little 
 while. I mean to put my hand through the blind 
 and get it, and hide in the summer-house at the 
 foot of the garden. The boys will not find me 
 there very soon, and I shall have a nice time 
 reading." 
 
 So Henry pushed the blind open a little further, 
 and took the book from the table, and buttoned it 
 under his jacket. He then went into the barn for 
 a moment, and called ' whoop," loudly. He knew 
 that the boys would listen for this call, and be 
 guided by the sound of his voice. He did not re- 
 member that it would be wrong to deceive them, 
 and make them think that he was in the barn, 
 when he had no intention of hiding there. The 
 moment that he had called " whoop," he crept 
 softly out of a back door ; and, being very careful 
 not to go in the direction where the boys were, he 
 ran quickly into the garden, and in a few minutes 
 reached the little summer-house. It was a very 
 pleasant, shady place, and Henry seated himself 
 with great satisfaction, and opened his book. He 
 read one chapter with much pleasure ; but then he 
 began to feel a little uneasy as he thought of 
 Charlie and Willie.
 
 170 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 
 
 " They must have searched the barn all over by 
 this time," he said to himself. " I wonder where 
 they will look next. I don't believe they will think 
 of this place. Perhaps they will give up, and go 
 home. I wish they would ; but then mother will 
 say I was rude. I have a great mind to stop read- 
 ing, and go back to them ; but it is so stupid play- 
 ing with such little fellows. I don't see what they 
 came here for." 
 
 So Henry read another chapter, and by that 
 time he had grown still more uneasy, but now he 
 felt ashamed to go back to the boys, and concluded 
 to wait until he felt pretty sure that they had gone 
 home. 
 
 " I do not think they will go into the house," he 
 said, " and mother will know nothing about it." 
 
 But still Henry did not feel easy. His con- 
 science told him that he had done wrong. He no 
 longer felt any interest in reading, but sat quite 
 still, listening for the footsteps of the boys, and 
 thinking what his mother would say if she should 
 find out what he had done. Pretty soon he fell 
 fast asleep, with one hand still tightly clasping his 
 new book, while the other rested on the arm of
 
 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 171 
 
 the little settee which formed the seat of the 
 arbor. 
 
 Charlie and Willie meanwhile having searched 
 the barn and other outbuildings in vain, concluded 
 that Henry must have gone into the house ; and 
 as they felt unwilling to go in to look for him, 
 they resolved to sit down under the trees and wait 
 until he came out ; but, after waiting a long time, 
 they grew impatient and tired, and thought they 
 would go home. 
 
 " I don't believe he means to come out again," 
 said Charlie ; t; I guess his mother wants him." 
 
 " He ought to come and tell us so," replied 
 Willie. I do not think he is at all polite." 
 
 So the two little boys went home, feeling rather 
 unkindly toward Henry. Mrs. Warren being busy 
 with her work in the house, knew nothing of what 
 was passing. 
 
 A little before five o'clock, Henry's uncle drove 
 to the door with his horse and chaise, and asked 
 if Henry was at home. 
 
 "Yes," replied his mother, "he is round the 
 house, somewhere ; he has company this after- 
 noon." 
 
 " Oh, he has company ! " repeated his uncle.
 
 172 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 
 
 "Never mind, then; I was thinking of inviting 
 him to take a ride. I have business about five 
 miles from here, and I thought he would like to 
 go with me." 
 
 " He would like it very much, I am sure," re- 
 plied Mrs. Warren ; " and, as the little boys were 
 to go home at five, I will call him, and let him 
 go, if you can wait a moment." 
 
 " Please do it as quickly as possible," returned 
 her brother, " for it is growing late, and I am in 
 haste." 
 
 Mrs. Warren ran to the barn, and called loudly 
 for Henry, but there was no answer. She then 
 went into the back yard, but he was not there. 
 She opened the garden gate also, and looked in 
 and called once or twice, but the summer-house 
 was at the most distant part of the garden, and 
 Henry was sleeping too soundly to be easily 
 aroused. Quite disappointed, she returned to her 
 brother. 
 
 " I cannot find him," she said, " and I will not 
 detain you any longer. He has probably walked 
 part of the way home with the little boys who 
 have been visiting him." 
 
 " Very likely," was the reply ; and in another
 
 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 173 
 
 moment the chaise was wheeling rapidly out of 
 sight. 
 
 " I am really sorry that Henry could not have 
 gone," said Mrs. Warren to herself, as she walked 
 into the house ; ''it would have given him so 
 much pleasure. I wonder that he did not bring 
 the little boys into the house to bid me good-by 
 before they went home." 
 
 Soon after this, Mrs. Warren took a small dish 
 in her hand, and went into the garden to gather 
 some fruit for tea. There were some fine black- 
 berries growing in the lower part of the garden, 
 and she had noticed in the morning that they 
 were quite ripe. She soon filled her dish, and, 
 in returning to the house, she happened to take 
 a path which led directly by the summer-house, 
 or arbor. She was very much surprised, as you 
 may suppose, when she saw Henry sitting there, 
 fast asleep. 
 
 She put her hand on his shoulder, and shook 
 him a little, and spoke to him gently, and pretty 
 soon he opened his eyes. 
 
 At first he looked about him, quite bewildered, 
 but in a minute or two he remembered all that 
 had passed.
 
 174 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 
 
 "Where are Charlie and Willie, mother? "he 
 asked, looking earnestly in his mother's face. 
 
 " I do not know, Henry ; I supposed you were 
 with them. It is after five now. How long have 
 you been sleeping here ? " 
 
 " After five, mother ! " exclaimed Henrv, in 
 astonishment. "Why! it was onlv three when 
 I came here." 
 
 "And why did you come here, Henry? Where 
 did you leave the little boys ? " 
 
 Henry hung his head and looked ashamed, as 
 he heard his mother's questions. 
 
 " Tell me the whole truth, my boy," continued 
 his mother. " I presume you have done wrong, 
 or your new book would not be in your hands. 
 The best thing you can do now, is to be perfectly 
 honest in confessing your fault." 
 
 So Henry told his mother the whole story, and 
 did not try to excuse himself at all. 
 
 "I know that it was wrong, mother," he said, 
 " and I am very sorry. I see now that I am 
 selfish in some ways, although I am willing to 
 lend my boks and toys. If you will please to 
 tell Charlie and Willie's mother all about it, and
 
 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 175 
 
 ask her to let them come again, I will try to 
 make them very happy." 
 
 " I am glad that you are willing to do right 
 about it, Henry, and I will think what had better 
 be done. I suppose the little boys have gone 
 home, for I have looked in the barn, and in 
 several other places, and they were not there. 
 Your uncle came to ask you to take a ride with 
 him, a little before five, and as it was so nearly 
 time for the boys to go, I thought it would not 
 be wrong for you to leave them, but I could not 
 find you, and your uncle was ia haste." 
 
 Henry felt very much disappointed when he 
 heard of the pleasant ride he had lost, and his 
 eyes filled with tears, but he did not say a word, 
 for he knew that it was his own fault. 
 
 His mother felt sorry for him, and talked kindly 
 to him as they walked together to the house. She 
 saw that he felt grieved and ashamed at what 
 had happened, and she was careful not to add 
 to his trouble by any reproaches. A few days 
 after this, she called upon Mrs. Lewis, and told 
 her the whole story, and begged her to allow 
 Charlie and Willie to pass another afternoon with
 
 176 Henry's Nap in the Arbor. 
 
 Henry, and Mrs. Lewis readily consented that 
 they should do so. 
 
 This second visit was a very happy one to all 
 parties, for Henry was very careful not to think 
 of his own pleasure, but to do everything in his 
 power to entertain his little visitors ; and they were 
 so pleased with his kindness, that they told their 
 mother, when they returned home, that they had 
 never passed such a delightful afternoon.
 
 MISCHIEVOUS TOM; 
 
 OR, 
 IT IS ONLY FOR FUN. 
 
 OM STEVENS was an intelligent 
 k and good-tempered boy, and was gen- 
 erally a favorite with his friends and 
 companions, on account of his pleasant, 
 obliging disposition. No one would 
 have thought of accusing Tom of selfishness, for 
 he was always ready to share what he had with 
 others, and would frequently give away even more 
 than he kept for himself. 
 
 Tom's greatest fault seemed to be too strong a 
 love for what he called fun; and, in pursuing his 
 sports, he was not always careful to regard the 
 feelings and comfort of those around him. When 
 a very little boy, he would snatch away the rattle 
 from his baby-brother, and hold it behind him ; 
 and, when the infant cried and held out his little 
 12 177
 
 178 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 hands, Tom would laugh loudly as he handed it to 
 him, and exclaim, " Oh, what good fun ! " If the 
 dog and cat were quietly eating their breakfast, he 
 would brandish a stick fever their heads, and 
 frighten them away ; and nothing pleased him 
 more than to jump out suddenly from behind a 
 door when some one was passing through, and 
 thus startle and frighten him. 
 
 Tom's parents and other friends often talked with 
 him concerning this fault, and tried to convince 
 him how wrong it was. They told him that it was 
 one of the worst kinds of selfishness to find pleasure 
 in giving pain to others ; but Tom, although he 
 did not like to be called selfish, took no pains to 
 reform ; and, even after he became a large boy, 
 would often indulge in these selfish sports. 
 
 His sister Mary had a beautiful canary-bird, 
 which Tom had himself given her for a birthday 
 present. He had saved his pocket-money for a 
 long time to enable him to do this kindness to his 
 sister; and no one would have supposed, that, after 
 this self-denial had put it in his power to give her 
 so much pleasure, he would have taken any satis- 
 faction in teasing and vexing her about the bird. 
 
 But it happened that a gentleman, at whose
 
 Mischievous Tom. 179 
 
 house he was visiting, made Tom a present of a 
 stuffed canary-bird, exactly resembling Mary's 
 sweet little songster. It immediately occurred to 
 him, that this would be a fine opportunity to play a 
 trick upon Mary. He knew that she always visited 
 her bird the first thing in the morning ; and, rising 
 very early, he secretly took the living bird from the 
 cage, and put the stuffed one in its place. He con- 
 trived to place it upon the perch in such a way that 
 it looked as if it were alive ; and then, carrying the 
 real bird to his own room, secured him carefully in 
 an old cage which he had there. 
 
 \Yhen little Mary came down stairs, she hast- 
 ened, as usual, to feed her favorite, and clean his 
 pretty house. She was much surprised that he did 
 not begin to chirp and flutter as usual at her ap- 
 proach ; and she said sorrowfully to her mother, 
 who had just entered the room, that she feared poor 
 birdy was sick. She took down the cage ; and, 
 opening the door, held a lump of sugar to his bill 
 to see if he would eat ; but, the moment she touched 
 him, he fell from the perch ; and, taking him up, 
 she found he was quite cold and lifeless. Bursting 
 into tears, she ran to her mother, and hid her face
 
 180 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 in her lap, sobbing out, " O mother, mother ! my 
 sweet pet is dead ! " 
 
 Just then Tom sprang from his hiding-place, 
 where he had been watching the whole scene, ex- 
 claiming, 
 
 " No, no, Mary ! he is not dead. That is not 
 your bird at all. I have him safe in my cage up- 
 stairs. This is a stuffed one which Mr. Watson 
 gave me. But wasn't it good fun to see you hold 
 the sugar to his bill?" And at this recollection, 
 Tom rolled on the floor, almost convulsed with 
 laughter. 
 
 "It may be 'good fun' to you, Tom," replied 
 his mother, gravely; "but it was great pain to 
 your sister, and I think it a wicked and foolish 
 joke. Some day, my son, I fear you will learn 
 from bitter experience that there is little fun in 
 selfish sport. Mischief, sooner or later, will bring 
 just punishment upon its author." 
 
 Merry Tom was not convinced by what his 
 mother said. He, however, ran gayly up-stairs, 
 and soon returned with poor Mary's bird, who had 
 been much surprised at his change of residence. 
 Mary was too much delighted to have her little 
 pet, again to think of reproaching her brother, and
 
 Mischievous Tom. 181 
 
 x 
 
 was soon busily engaged in giving him his morning 
 meal. 
 
 That same day, as Tom was returning from 
 school, he stopped for a few moments at old 
 Susan's cottage. Susan had formerly lived with 
 Tom's mother ; and the children were fond of her, 
 and often visited her, and carried with them little 
 presents which their mother gave them for the 
 purpose. Tom, in particular, was a great favorite 
 with Susan ; and, indeed, he was very kind to 
 her. She lived alone with an orphan niece, a 
 little girl about the age of Mary, and was often 
 glad of his assistance in various ways. In the 
 winter, when the snow was deep, he was careful 
 to shovel good paths around her house, and to 
 see that she was well supplied with wood and 
 water ; and, in the spring and summer, he spent 
 many a play-hour in her little garden, assisting 
 in the cultivation of the various vegetables with 
 which the plot of ground was well rilled. 
 
 On the morning of which we are speaking, 
 Tom observed that the little peach-tree, which 
 both he and Susan had watched over so carefully, 
 was quite full of peaches, and that they appeared 
 to be very nearly ripe.
 
 1 82 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 X 
 
 " You will have a fine basket of peaches from 
 your little tree, Susan," he said, as he entered the 
 cottage. "When do you mean to gather them?" 
 
 " To-morrow morning, Master Tom ; and, if 
 you will call in on your way to school, you shall 
 have a dozen of the best that are gathered. Many 
 a night I have lain awake, thinking of my little 
 peach-tree, and hoping that the naughty boys in 
 the neighborhood would not rob me of its fruit ; 
 but J believe they have too much good feeling to 
 wish to trouble a poor old woman like myself. 
 At any rate, I am pretty safe from them now ; 
 for, in twentv-four hours more, the peaches will 
 be picked, and in a safe place." 
 
 " I will not forget to call for my share," said 
 Tom, laughing, as he bade the good woman good- 
 morning, and advised her still to keep a sharp 
 watch for the thieves, for they might come at the 
 last moment. 
 
 As he walked along to school, he thought what 
 a fine plan it would be to go himself and gather 
 the peaches that evening, and hide them in some 
 safe place until the next day. 
 
 " It would be such fun," he said to himself, 
 "to see poor Susan's consternation, when slie
 
 Mischievous Tom. 183 
 
 finds her tree empty ! And, after all, I should be 
 doing her a service ; for it would save her the 
 trouble of gathering the peaches herself." He 
 knew that she went Jo bed very early, and that 
 there would be little danger of his being dis- 
 covered if he went any time after dark. 
 
 So, after tea that evening, Tom told his parents 
 that he was going to play for a little while ; and 
 they, charging him to be home in good season, 
 and not to get into any mischief, readily gave 
 their consent. 
 
 He secretly took a large basket with him, which 
 he hid near Susan's cottage ; and then, joining 
 some of his companions, played merrily until the 
 time arrived when he thought it would be safe to 
 put his plan into execution. Between eight and 
 nine o'clock, he softly opened the gate of the little 
 garden, and, standing beneath the peach-tree, 
 looked carefully around. All was still. 
 
 " Susan has gone to bed long ago," said he. 
 "Now I will make quick work of it." And, in 
 another moment, he was busily engaged in putting 
 the peaches into the basket. 
 
 Now, it happened that a neighboring farmer 
 had called in to see Susan that evening concerning
 
 184 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 some spinning which his wife wished to have 
 done ; and, finding her rather lonely, had sat 'for 
 an hour or two to enjoy a little social chat. As 
 they were on the back side of the house, and 
 Tom was on the front, he did not perceive that 
 the lamp was still burning, or he would have 
 known at once that it was not safe to play his 
 intended trick. The farmer's dog lay on the door- 
 step, enjoying a comfortable nap ; but, being dis- 
 turbed by some slight sound, he started up with a 
 quick bark, and, seeing Tom at the peach-tree, 
 ran forward, and seized him by the leg. In vain 
 poor Tom struggled to get free ; the dog held him 
 fast; and, in another moment, the farmer rushed 
 from the cottage, and calling to Susan to stay 
 within, lest she should get the rheumatism from 
 exposure to the night air, he caught hold of the 
 collar of the supposed thief, and, with a stout 
 cane which he held in his hand, gave him a 
 most severe beating. 
 
 Smarting with bodily pain, and overwhelmed 
 with mortification, Tom would gladly have re- 
 treated in silence ; but after the farmer had pun- 
 ished him, as he thought, sufficiently, he dragged 
 him toward the cottage, exclaiming,
 
 Mischievous Tom. 185 
 
 "Now come to the light, my boy, and let us 
 see who you are, that would rob a poor woman 
 of her little store." 
 
 Escape was impossible. Susan came eagerly 
 forward with a blazing lamp, the light from which 
 no sooner fell upon the countenance of the pris- 
 oner, than she exclaimed in astonishment, 
 
 "Master Tom! Can it be possible? Surelv, 
 Farmer Roberts, there must be some mistake. 
 This is not the boy who was stealing my peaches." 
 
 " The very same, ma'am. There stands his 
 basket with some of the fruit already in it; but, 
 thanks to my good dog, he had no time to escape 
 with his booty. And now I suppose he will not 
 turn thief again in a hurry, for my oaken stick 
 has become pretty well acquainted with his back." 
 
 ' I was not going to steal your peaches, Susan," 
 said Tom, struggling for utterance. "I only meant 
 to hide them until morning, just to play you a 
 little trick." 
 
 Susan was so much shocked and grieved at 
 what had taken place, that it was some time 
 before she could understand the truth of the 
 matter. When the whole story was explained,
 
 1 86 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 Fqrmer Roberts expressed his regret for the 
 severe punishment which he had given Tom. 
 
 " But it may be a useful lesson to you, my 
 boy," he said kindly. " Those who indulge in 
 mischief at the expense of the feelings of others, 
 are generally punished in one way or another." 
 
 Tom now took his basket, and crept toward 
 home, rather discontented with the result of his 
 evening's sport. Although very sore and lame 
 from the effects of the beating, he tried to appear 
 as usual before his parents, hoping that the affair 
 might be kept secret ; but, very early the next 
 morning, Susan was at the house to inquire how 
 he was, and to beg Mrs. Stevens to forgive her 
 for what had occurred. 
 
 Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Stevens regretted the 
 lesson which Tom had received. They hoped it 
 would have a salutary effect, and kindly comforted 
 Susan, assuring her that she was not at all to 
 blame. The story soon got abroad in the village, 
 and was considered an excellent joke among Tom's 
 school-fellows. 
 
 But one lesson, however severe, was not enough 
 to cure him of his inveterate love for seltish 
 sports, or " good fun," as he denominated it.
 
 Mischievous Tom. 187 
 
 Not very long after the affair of the peach- 
 tree, Tom was one clay amusing himself with 
 sailing about a small pond in the garden, in a 
 little boat which his father kept for the purpose. 
 Tom had been taught to row, and there was little 
 danger of any accident, if he was cautious. Pres- 
 ently he saw his sister Mary standing near the 
 edge of the pond, looking earnestly at him. 
 
 "Would you like to have a sail, Mary?" he 
 asked good-naturedly, at the same time I'owing 
 toward the spot where she stood. 
 
 " Very much," replied Mary, " if yon think 
 mother would be willing to trust me with you." 
 
 " To be sure she would," answered her brother. 
 " Father says I can manage this boat as well as 
 he can. Give me your hand, and I will help you 
 in." 
 
 Mary enjoyed her sail exceedingly, and soon felt 
 quite at her ease. For some time all went well ; 
 but, at last, Tom could not rfisist his inclination 
 to play her a little trick. Seizing an opportunity 
 when she was not observing him, he threw a little 
 water into the bottom of the boat, and then sud- 
 denlv exclaimed, as if in much affright, 
 
 "OMary! what shall we do? The boat has
 
 1 88 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 sprung a leak, and will certainly go to the bottom ! 
 See, see ! She is filling with water already ! " 
 
 Mary uttered a loud scream, and, before Tom 
 could detain her, sprung from her seat so hastily, 
 that she lost her balance, and fell into the water. 
 It was in the very middle of the pond ; and she 
 must soon have been drowned, had not the gar- 
 dener, alarmed by her cries, rushed to her assist- 
 ance. He swam toward the spot where she had 
 sunk, and, with some difficulty, succeeded in 
 raising her, and carrying 'her to the shore. She 
 was quite insensible, and for some time her 
 anxious parents, and the physician who had been 
 called, hung over her, uncertain whether she 
 would ever breathe again. 
 
 Tom was overcome with horror and remorse at 
 the sad consequences of his silly trick ; but when 
 his sister revived, and, after a few days, was nearly 
 as well as usual, the remembrance of his grief 
 faded from his mi Ad, and he was soon as fond 
 of mischief as ever. 
 
 There was an old colored man, who had long 
 been employed by Tom's father, and was held in 
 high esteem by all the family. Paul, for so he 
 was called^ was naturally rather timid ; and was,
 
 Mischievous Tom. 189 
 
 in particular, a strong believer in all the foolish 
 tales of departed spirits. One day, when walking 
 with Tom in a lonely place at some distance from 
 the house, he pointed to a large tree, saying, with 
 a sort of shudder, 
 
 " That is the haunted tree, Master Tom. Many 
 years ago, an unfortunate man, who was sup- 
 posed to have committed some fearful crime which 
 had escaped detection, hung himself upon a bough 
 of that tree. Ever since that time, if you pass 
 the place after nightfall, strange sounds are heard 
 among the branches, resembling the groans of a 
 dying man." 
 
 Tom laughed heartily at this idle tale, and as- 
 sured Paul that he would take the first opportunity 
 of visiting the place after dark, that he might 
 himself hear these strange sounds, and judge what 
 they meant. Paul solemnly warned him against 
 the indulgence of such foolish curiosity, and the 
 conversation was dropped. 
 
 Not many evenings after, Paul was sent of an 
 errand to a neighboring village. It was necessary 
 for him to pass the dreaded tree, and Tom shook 
 his head at him as he went out, saying, 
 
 " Beware of the ghost, Paul ! "
 
 190 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 The poor old man mustered up all his courage, 
 and walked steadily and safely by the spot ; then, 
 rejoicing in his success, he went happily on his 
 way. It was darker when he returned, and his 
 fears increased as he drew near the tree ; but, re- 
 membering that all was silent when he passed it 
 before, he walked swiftlv along. Immediately, 
 however, he heard the most fearful groans from 
 among the branches, accompanied by other sounds, 
 that seemed most horrible to poor frightened Paul. 
 At first, he Was so overcome with terror, that he 
 stood quite motionless, and seemed about to sink 
 to the ground ; but, recovering himself a little, he 
 took to his heels, and ran for dear life. Directly 
 the air resounded with merry Tom's shouts of 
 langhter ; and, looking back, Paul saw his young 
 master perched among the highest branches of 
 the haunted tree. Relieved of his fears, but at the 
 same time vexed at the trick which had been played 
 him, he slowly returned, calling to Tom to mind 
 how he came down ; for the tree was a difficult 
 one to climb, and, if he did not stop laughing, he 
 would be very likely to miss his foot-hold. 
 
 " O Paul, Paul, how funny you looked ! " ex- 
 claimed Tom, redoubling his merriment at the
 
 Mischievous Tom. 191 
 
 thought. It would have been far better had he 
 regarded Paul's warning ; for, at this moment, his 
 foot slipped, a small branch of which he had 
 hold gave way, and he fell to the ground. 
 
 Paul hastened to assist him ; but he soon found 
 that some sad accident must have taken place in 
 the fall, for Tom could not rise without screaming 
 with pain. He was carried home, and a phys- 
 ician called, who told them that he had broken 
 his right leg badly, and it would be many weeks 
 before he could use it at all. 
 
 This was, indeed, a severe punishment. For a 
 long time Tom was confined to one position, and 
 entirely unable to join in the sports of his com- 
 panions. Besides this, he suffered a great deal of 
 pain, and it was feared that he would be always 
 lame. 
 
 Now he had leisure to reflect upon the causes 
 of this sad disaster ; and, for the first time in his 
 life, he saw his condnct in its true light, and truly 
 repented of the selfish pleasure which he had 
 found in giving pain to others. 
 
 In after-life he carefully avoided every kind of 
 selfish sport ; and, whenever he met with those
 
 192 Mischievous Tom. 
 
 who took delight in this species of " good fun," he 
 would tell them his own history, and assure them 
 that mischief will, sooner or later, bring evil con- 
 sequences upon its author.
 
 UCSB IIBRARV
 
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