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 IDA MAITLAND, 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 LAMPORT, BLAKEMAN & LAW. 
 No. 8 Park Place. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1861, by 
 
 CORNISH, LAMPORT & Co., 
 
 In the Clerk's Office o^ the District Court of the TJnited States, 
 
 for the SoiUhern Distriot of NtJW York. 
 
 Stereotyped "by Vincent Dill, Jr., 
 Nos. 21 & 23 Ann Street, N. Y. 
 
 =:^ 
 
=^ 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 The widely-extended favor with which former 
 publications of the " Forget-me-not " have been 
 received, encourages the Publishers to offer a 
 new volume, to which new attractions have been 
 added. The illustrations, by some of the most 
 eminent artists of the country, will be found 
 superior in design and execution. A large por- 
 tion of the literary contents is from the pens 
 of Southern authors, which will not be regretted, 
 as readers of the North are but too little ac- 
 quainted with the genius growing and blossoming 
 in remote Sections of our country. Tn variety 
 and merit, the tales and poems, it is hoped, will 
 be found such as to please readers of all ages, 
 and to deserve a continuance of the liberal pa- 
 tronage heretofore bestowed. 
 
 ^ 941146 
 
■=%% 
 
 p f\ W ftp "^ TlT fiR ^ 
 
 Childreiv at Play, — By Mrs. Gilman, . 9 
 
 Daily Petitiojns, ..... 10 
 
 The Diamond Cross, — By Caroline Howard, 11 
 
 Lines, ....... 47 
 
 Prayer, ....... 48 
 
 The Buffalo Hunt, .... 49 
 
 The Fisher's Child, ..... 53 
 
 Sketch of John Pounds, . . .65 
 
 Thank God for Home and Friends, . 61 
 
 Giotto, the Painter, .... 63 
 
 The Man-angel, 68 
 
 The Stuffed Bat, — By Mrs. Martin, . 73 
 
 PiCCIOLA, 77 
 
 Stanzas,— % Mrs. E. F. Ellet, . . 87 
 Three Chapters in the Life of a Little 
 
 Girl, 89 
 
 Be Kind to your Sister, . . . 103 
 
 The Child's Coffin, — By Caroline Howard, 113 
 The Miracle, — From the German of Krum- 
 
 macher, ...... 115 
 
 The Sick Man and the Angel, . . 118 
 
 The Old Servant, 120 
 
 =^ 
 
=% 
 
 q contents. 
 
 Thi^' Child's Companion, .... 129 
 
 The Fall from the Swing, (A True Story,) 
 
 — By Caroline Howard. . . . 131 
 
 Lines, — Bt/ Mrs. Ellet, .... 141 
 
 Sympathy, ...... 142 
 
 The Rose anf the Grave, (From the French,) 
 
 —By Mrs. Ellet, .... 144 
 
 Perseverance againsi Difficulties, . 145 
 The Fading Leaves — By Mary Hemple, . 165 
 Harry's Dinner, ..... 167 
 
 Early Piety, — By Miss C. TV. Barber, . 174 
 The Bonnie Bairns, — A Ballad, . . 180 
 
 The Spectre Bat, — A Dialogue at a Mena- 
 gerie, ...... 182 
 
 Busy Idleness, . . . , . . 168 
 
 Joy on May Morning, .... 199 
 
 The New-Year's Wish, . . . . 200 
 
 Fairy Land, or Jessie and her Kitten, — 
 
 By Caroline Howard, . . .211 
 
 The Secret, — By Jennie Elder, . . 243 
 
 Fanny and Louisa, ..... 244 
 
 Go Ahead, ...... 254 
 
 HoNORiA and Jenny; or the history of 
 
 THE daughter OF AN AMBASSADOR, 
 AND THAT OF A COACHMAN, . . 255 
 
 Harry Hart and "Old Buck,"— % a Lady, 262 
 
 zi* 
 
^ ^=^--% 
 
 IJjJjuSaB.AaIOH§i 
 
 Colored Title. 
 
 Childrex at Play, — Frontispiece, , 9 
 
 The Fisher's Child, .... 53 
 Three Chapters in the Life of a Little 
 
 Girl, , 89 
 
 Sympathy, . . • • • . 142 
 
 Joy on May Morning, • • • • 199 
 
 Fanny and Louisa, .... 244 
 
 =^ 
 
)^^M^' 
 
 CHILDEEN AT PLAY. 
 
 BY MRS. GILMAN. 
 
 Sport on ; sport on ; 
 A mother's thought, shadow of heavenly love. 
 Dwells on you. In her home, 'mid household cares. 
 Kindle up hopes, which deep in its soft folds 
 Her inmost soul has wrapt. She musing asks : — 
 What his high fate, that boy with eagle eye. 
 And well knit limbs, and proud impetuous thought ! 
 A patriot, leading men, and breathing forth 
 His warm soul for his country ? or a bard 
 With holy song refining earth's cold ear ? 
 A son, holding the torch of love to age 
 As its closed eye turns dimly to the grave ? 
 Or husband wrapping with protecting arms 
 One who leans on him in her trusting youth .' 
 
 And for that girl — she asks — what gentle fate 
 Lies cradled on the softest down of time ? 
 A rosy lot must garland out her years — 
 Those sunny eyes with laughing spirits wild. 
 
iO DAILY PETITIONS. 
 
 Those rounded limbs are all unfit for want 
 Or sterner care. Gently will they he borne 
 On beds of flowers beneath an azure sky. 
 Oh dreams — fair dreams ! God's dower to wwiian's 
 heart ; 
 Your light and waving curtains still suspend 
 Before the future which lies dark behind ! 
 
 DAILY PETITIONS. 
 
 Come, angel from th^ mount of God, 
 
 Stoop toward this land of sin and gloom ; 
 
 Come, spread o'er earth heaven's seed abroad ; 
 A garden to the Lord shall bloom. 
 
 Eternal Wisdom! Power divine ! 
 
 All being and all praise are thine. 
 
 Yet o'er thy ways dark clouds are driven ; 
 
 The Christian's path is mystery. 
 
 Yet leads it wandering souls to Thee ; 
 
 " Thy will be done — in earth as heaven !" 
 
 The corn shall ripen in the beam ; 
 
 In summer's bower the fruit shall shine ; 
 White flocks shall feed where fountains gleam, 
 
 Red clusters crown the mountain vine. 
 Bless we the Lord for all — and pray — 
 *' Give us our bread from day to day." 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 11 
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 BY CAROLINE HOWARD. 
 
 A VERY unusual sight appeared, one morning, 
 before Simon Barton's humble door, in the shape 
 of a gorgeous equipage, and a pair of spirited 
 horses striking the ground with their impatient 
 feet. Yes, a very unusual sight it was, in that 
 dim and miserable street, to behold so grand a 
 coachman flourish so formidable a whip over the 
 heads of such glossy steeds. Why, the steeds 
 themselves tossed their finely shaped heads in 
 the air, eager to go forward on their way ; but 
 the elegant-looking lady, who was within the 
 coach and had pulled the check-string for the 
 coachman to stop when and where he did, 
 seemed determined that they should await her 
 pleasure. The party were evidently strangers 
 in the city, and consisted of the lady, a gentle- 
 man, and a bright and beautiful boy. 
 
 " Why do you stop, Agnes," said the gentle- 
 man, languidly, " at this out-of-the-way, forlorn- 
 
% 
 
 12 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 looking place, calltd a book-store ? You know 
 that we have not a minute to spare ; for the 
 captain told us he would certainly sail at ten — 
 and if the vessel goes without us, I shall miss 
 the last chance I have for recovery." 
 
 " Do not fear, Albert," replied the lady, as she 
 took from her bosom a jewelled watch ; "it is 
 but just nine o'clock, and they tell me that the 
 wharf is very near. My motive for stopping 
 here is not altogether selfish ; for I want some 
 books for both of us to read on the voyage, and 
 though I have unwisely put it off until the last 
 minute, I possibly may find something even 
 here." 
 
 The invalid's eyes grew bright, for an instant, 
 as the lady spoke, and he, as usual, let her have 
 her own way, gazing proudly on the rich beauty 
 and noble air of his lovely wife, and then sinking 
 back into the carriage with a sigh of regret and 
 a troubled look at the prospect of his early 
 death. 
 
 At the door of the humble book-store stood a 
 girl about ten years old, who had a weak-looking 
 child in her arms, and the lady paused as she 
 encountered her. The girl's countenance was 
 one of peculiar loveliness, and the clear hazel 
 of her eye was uplifted to the stranger's face. 
 § 1 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 13 
 
 " You are very beautiful," said the lady, 
 hastily. *' No — I should not say that^ for it 
 will make you vain — I mean, I like to look at 
 you ; there is something enchanting about you 
 as you stand with that doll of a child in your 
 arms. How old is she, and where is the 
 mother .?" 
 
 " Lotte is only two," she answered, " and 
 sickly most of the time. Ever since my mother 
 died, I have taken care of her, and she told me 
 not to part with her until we met in the blue sky 
 up yonder." 
 
 " Do not fear," returned the stranger ; " I 
 shall not rob you of your treasure. And the 
 father— where is he .?" 
 
 " In the book-store," answered the child ; 
 and the lady, remembering her errand, entered. 
 
 Simon Barton showed no sensation of aston- 
 ishment as the bright being stood before him, 
 and, advancing from among his dusty books, 
 asked her pleasure. 
 
 " Have you anything new," inquired the lady, 
 " wherewith to while away a tedious sea voyage 
 — something light and entertaining ?" 
 
 The store-keeper displayed some books which 
 were by no means new, and the lady, turning 
 them over contemptuously, said. 
 
14 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 " Why, these must have been printed before 
 the flood. Have you nothing more modern ?" 
 
 " It takes money to lay in a new stock," 
 grumbled the man, " and money is not the lot 
 of every one." 
 
 The stranger looked inquiringly at him, and 
 said to herself, " I see that you are poor, but 
 you are proud ;" then she added, aloud, " I 
 will take a dozen of these books. What is the 
 price ?" 
 
 He named the price and she paid it. He 
 carried the package to the carriage, and then 
 resumed his occupation of dusting books. 
 
 As the lady again crossed the threshold, the 
 girl whose strange beauty had so struck her met 
 her gaze. 
 
 " Here, child," said she, ^' take this trifle and 
 buy a new dress for Lotte and yourself ; and, 
 if you are ever in want, remember that there is 
 •a person in the world ready to help you, whose 
 name is Agnes Mordant." 
 
 The equipage rolled proudly away, while the 
 girl stood looking her mute thanks, and soon 
 after, the invalid found himself reclining upon a 
 sofa on the deck of an outward bound vessel, 
 which was boldly ploughing the waves, — his 
 wife cheering him with words of hope and com- 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 15 
 
 %= 
 
 fort, while his child pressed his thin hand to his 
 little red lips. A deep sleep somewhat refreshed 
 him, and on opening his eyes, he mechanically 
 inquired the hour. Mrs. Mordant again referred 
 to her time -piece, but an air of consternation 
 overspread her features when she discovered 
 that an ornament, which was always attached to 
 the watch-chain, and which she wore next her 
 heart, was missing. 
 
 " Mercy !" she exclaimed, " my diamond 
 cross is not here !" 
 
 Her husband looked astonished, but answered 
 her, while she searched about for it, 
 
 " You will soon find it, Agnes, in the folds 
 of your dress." 
 
 But the search proved unavailing, and at 
 night, Mrs. Mordant fairly wept herself to 
 sleep. It was not merely the value of the 
 ornament, although it was of almost princely 
 worth, but the gift had been bestowed upon 
 her by Mr. Mordant on the day of their mar- 
 riage, and he reqmred that it should not be 
 worn for show, but next her heart, and in case 
 of his death, he said it would remind her of 
 him. A thousand thoughts came into her 
 mind as to where she could have lost it, but 
 she could not account satisfactorily for its ab- 
 
 r^ 
 
16 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 sence. No on-e could have stolen it, for she 
 never took it from the chain ; and she at last 
 arrived at the conclusion that the ring which 
 was attached to the chain must have snapped, 
 and that she must have dropped it in the city as 
 she took out her watch. . To regret it now was 
 useless, for their voyage would, in all probabil- 
 ity, occupy two or three months, and before it 
 could be advertised, the finder would have ap- 
 propriated it to himself as*having no owner. 
 
 We left Lucy standing at the door of her 
 father's book-store, looking the thanks she 
 could not find words to express. Her fine, in- 
 telligent face was lit up with feelings of grati- 
 tude ; for never before in her life had she been 
 the happy possessor of what seemed to her such 
 a large sum of money. In her simplicity, she 
 thought it would last Lotte 9md herself a life- 
 time, and she felt doubly rejoiced at the gift, 
 for now she could avoid the cold, harsh look 
 which her father invariably gave her whenever 
 she asked him for money to supply even the 
 daily necessities of life. 
 
 ^' Let me see," said she, musingly ; " Lotte 
 shall have two new Sunday dresses, and our 
 bonnets shall be freshly trimmed with pink rib- 
 bon. Then I shall buy father a new vest, for 
 
2^ — =% 
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 17 
 
 he wants one sadly ; and Betty, for her kindness 
 and care of Lotte and me, shall have a handker- 
 chief and apron. Then, I shall purchase a new 
 sugar-bowl, for the old one is a very miserable- 
 looking thing, with both handles broken off, 
 and — but, should I not show the money to 
 father first .?" And acting on this suggestion, 
 she entered the store where he sat counting 
 over his late gains. 
 
 ** Well, child, asked he, " what do you want .^" 
 
 " Oh !" answered Lucy, delightedly, " that 
 lady, who must have been a queen, has given 
 me so much money !" 
 
 " Money !" said the father, eagerly ; " Where ? 
 — How much ?" 
 
 Lucy displayed her treasure, and he, clutching 
 at it, took it from her tender hand, as if it had 
 been his own. 
 
 " Ten dollars !" said he, triumphantly ; *' why^ 
 His a rich present, surely, and will purchase 
 many goodly things. Here are the window 
 panes to be mended, and the bill I owe for 
 bread to be paid ; then there's that old stand- 
 ing bet to Ned Burns about the election. It 
 will do that and more, too." 
 
 " But, father," said the child, reproachfully. 
 
 " Well !" replied he, roughly. 
 
18 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 *' The lady said it would buy some thing for 
 Lotte and me ; and we want new dresses to look 
 neatly in at Sunday school, and many other 
 little things for house -keeping that you do not 
 know of." 
 
 " You have plenty of dresses," returned 
 Barton ; '' and you are the most indulged, 
 spoiled child in the city ; your wants are end- 
 less." Then, seeing the tears gather to her 
 eyes at this unjust charge, he bade her be gone 
 from his sight ; and, while she led Lotte from 
 his presence, he pocketed, with a miserly gleam 
 on his hard face, his unjustly acquired gains. 
 Lucy did not weep ; for the scarlet flush on her 
 cheek burnt up the few tears that flowed — but 
 she turned her eyes upward towards that heaven 
 where she believed her mother was watching 
 her, as if she had said these words : 
 
 " Mother, thou seest it all ; thou knowest all 
 my sufierings ; thou seest how hard is my task ; 
 that the father, who should cherish and love me, 
 is harsh and unkind ; that there is that in his 
 nature which the angels must despise, and which 
 thou, mother, must condemn — for such conduct 
 helped to send thee early to the grave. What 
 must / do } What must be done ? Shall I 
 stand idly, and let it all go on, or shall this 
 
^ = 
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 19 
 
 little frame and weak heart try to reform and 
 make my father better ; Weak though I be, I 
 will try, even if my reward come not on earth, 
 but in heaven." 
 
 In a mute aspiration, something like this, 
 Lucy made her resolve. She had a more diffi- 
 cult task before her than she at present divined, 
 for her father, from his youth stern and unyield- 
 ing, had lived an irreligious and careless life. 
 His wife, who was lovely in every gift of mind 
 and person, wanted that resolution of character 
 which could make such a man happy, and she 
 was not possessed of that spirit of determination, 
 the germ of which showed itself but just now in 
 Lucy's resolution. Thanks to the little book- 
 store and her mother's example, Lucy had ac- 
 quired a taste for study and- reading, and child 
 though she was, this application to books had 
 given her a refinement of manner and conver- 
 sation which children do not often possess. All 
 her spare hours were spent in poring over those 
 volumes which her father, strangely enough and 
 at variance with his usual indifference, selected 
 for her. Every one, in a lifetime has had some 
 such moments as these now endured by Lucy- 
 She felt depressed in mind and body, lonely and 
 miserable, without one friend on earth to whom 
 
^% 
 
 20 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 she could appeal for sympathy. She was called 
 away from indulging long in such forlorn thoughts, 
 by Lotte, to come and amuse her, and although 
 anything like amusement was foreign to her 
 present mood, she tried her best to entertain 
 and quiet the wayward child. They sat to- 
 gether upon the stone step before the door at 
 which the great carriage had stopped, and Lucy 
 told the oft repeated stories of Cinderella and 
 Blue Beard, or drew from the corners of her 
 tired brain many a wonderful tale of her own 
 invention. There are not many things in the 
 world more tiresome than the task of tale-telling 
 to a fretful and impatient child. When you 
 have exhausted all your powers of invention, 
 and think that you have done something bril- 
 liant in the way of unheard-of adventures of 
 some giant or ogre, and look down at the child, 
 expecting to see it wrapped in thought, or ex- 
 pressing thanks and wonder, the only notice that 
 is taken of all your exertions is expressed in 
 these words : 
 
 " Is that all ; do tell me another." 
 
 And it was thus with poor Lucy and Lotte. 
 
 " Sing to me, now," said Lotte, " mamma's 
 
 song." And with a heavy, listless heart, Lucy 
 
 warbled the nursery song that Lotte loved so 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 21 
 
 well, called the " Idle Grirl," while Lotte joined 
 in the simple chorus contained in the last line 
 of each verse. 
 
 Oh, sun, bright sun, come out of the sky. 
 Put your hard work for a minute by. 
 Give up for a while your endless round. 
 And come and play with me on the ground. 
 But the sun said^wo / 
 
 Wind, cold wind, with your whistle and roar, 
 Pray do not toy with the waves any more. 
 Come frolic with me, that's a good old breeze, . 
 In the orchard green 'neath the apple trees. 
 But the breeze said — no ! 
 
 Oh, water, clear as you flow along. 
 Come close to my feet and sing me a song, 
 Dont go forever that endless way, 
 But pause for a moment and with me stay. 
 But the stream said — no I 
 
 Little blue bird, on the high tree-top. 
 You have nothing to do and you will stop, 
 I'll show you a way to build a nest. 
 An easy way, the nicest and best. 
 
 But the bird said — no I 
 
 Sun, water, and wind and stream say no ! 
 I too to my task will quickly go ; 
 I must not be idle alone all the day. 
 But when my work's done, can I come and play i 
 And they all said — yes ! 
 
22 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 As Lucy sat on the stone step there, singing 
 and talking to the child, with her heart any- 
 where but in the words she was saying, her 
 finger idly traced figures in the sand, for she 
 was thinking deeply upon her newly made plans. 
 As she turned over the loose soil she saw some- 
 thing glittering in it like a sunbeam. She took 
 it up and found that it was a brilliant cross, com- 
 posed of the rarest jewels. Quick as thought, 
 she hid it in her bosom, afraid to exhibit her 
 treasure to the passers-by. Her nature was 
 not one to conceal any circumstance of the 
 kind, but she had an undefined dread that if 
 she showed it to her father he would insist upon 
 keeping it for his own, and she too well remem- 
 bered her experience in the affair of the lady's 
 gift. " The owner must be found at once," 
 said she to herself, " but how ? Shall we put 
 it in the papers ? Yes, that would be the best 
 and most straight forward plan, and then, may 
 be, for our honesty we will get a handsome re- 
 ward." This plan seemed to be so correct, 
 that not doubting for an instant that her father 
 would accede to it, she rushed into his presence 
 with the glad tidings on her lips. " Oh father, 
 I have found such a beautiful cross. Let us 
 have a good look at it before the owner calls for 
 
S»— 
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 23 
 
 it. Here are twelve large white stones encircled 
 by twice as many red ones. I never saw such a 
 perfectly beautiful ornament." 
 
 " Let me see," returned the father, " what 
 you have found ; some bauble, I suppose." 
 
 '' No, father, no bauble, only look at it." 
 
 As Lucy held it up a sunbeam coming through 
 the window lit up its shining surface, and a 
 thousand butterflies of imprisoned light, taking 
 their exquisite colors from the rare diamonds, 
 danced over the walls of the room. Barton 
 saw the sudden light and looked up surprised at 
 his daughter. She stood there before him like 
 a flower that had sprung from an old and decayed 
 trunk, so different were the child and the man — 
 she, with her flushed face and graceful figure 
 holding up the cross in the sunbeam, with her 
 dark eyes turned admiringly towards it — he, 
 with his face full of wonder and coveteousness 
 looking alternately at her and it. He sprang 
 forward with greedy eyes to take her prize 
 away, but she closed her little hand tightly 
 over it, and said : 
 
 " Tell me first, father, what you are going to 
 do with it." 
 
 " I will tell you afterwards," replied he. 
 
 "No," said she, coaxingly, " I think that the 
 
%^ 
 
 24 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 cross is 7nine until the owner comes for it, for I 
 found it by the stone step in the street. Now 
 I want you to promise me to advertise it." 
 
 " Give it to me," said he coldly. 
 
 " Promise me," reiterated Lucy. 
 
 " I make no rash promises, child," answered 
 Barton, " hand it to me instantly." 
 
 " Oh, my dear father," said the troubled gu-l 
 earnestly, " I did hope that you would let me 
 have my own way about this. I did hope that 
 when you saw this rich jewel you would have 
 said to me, " Lucy, go and find the owner," 
 but I am afraid that you are not going to do 
 that ! Yes, you are," continued she, tenderly, 
 " I was mistaken. I think that you are looking 
 more kindly now, something as you did at mother 
 those times when you loved her best. Your 
 little Lucy can go and find the owner." 
 
 Her father deigned to take no notice of this 
 gentle and politic speech, but coming nearer to 
 her said sternly, " if you do not give me that 
 cross I shall force it with my strong hand from 
 your tender grasp, and. crush them both perhaps ; 
 you bold, ungrateful child." 
 
 "Was Lucy angry at these words } No, not 
 angry, but hurt. Her cheek glowed a deeper 
 crimson, and her eye fell beneath her father's 
 
2^= 
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 25 
 
 %= 
 
 fierce gaze, as she said, " I will give it to you, 
 father, without your using force, because you are 
 my parent, but if you do not act about it as I 
 ask you to, I think that some day you will be 
 sorry for it, for your conscience will tell you 
 that you are wrong ; and Oh, remember, sir, 
 remember, that there is a God who sees in se- 
 cret." Her small and trembling hand unclosed 
 and placed the cross within her father's brown 
 and coarse palm. 
 
 '' Luc^j" said he, after examining it well, 
 " these aTe real diamonds and true rubies. 
 They willVmake us rich, girl. We can buy 
 houses and grounds with them, and you and 
 Lotte shall b§ ladies of the land. Hurrah !" 
 added he, in a sudden burst of exultation, " I 
 have within my hand, without one effort of 
 mine, what I have for so many years been 
 wishing for, and in vain — riches, riches, riches. 
 Say nothing about the cross, Lucy, as you value 
 my favor. I shall always keep it about me, 
 until all fear of detection is over, and the 
 proper time comes, and then, once more, hur- 
 rah !" 
 
 Lucy could not sympathize with this wretched 
 spirit, and she said to him, for the last time, 
 " Then you will not promise me, father .?" 
 
26 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 " Do you think me mad," replied lie. "I 
 promise you nothing." 
 
 The poor girl rushed to her own little room, 
 and throwing herself upon her humble bed, 
 where there were no witnesses, wept until she 
 was tired of weeping. Was there no sunshine 
 in her heart, and no light about her } She 
 thought not. 
 
 The next day her father's manner was sterner 
 than ever — he evidently wished to make her 
 afraid of him. Her good morning was received 
 coldly, and even Lotte, the pet, was unnoticed. 
 Barton spent hours making calculations on paper, 
 and when he knew that he was unobserved, 
 counted the diamonds and rubies over and over 
 again. It was a difficult thing for one of Lucy's 
 disposition to take meekly the harsh rebukes 
 that were showered upon her every day. In 
 the extremity of her anguish, she formed plans 
 of escaping with Lotte to another city, there to 
 beg or work for her bread — for she felt persuaded 
 that her father, by his actions, would rather 
 have her absent than there ever before him, 
 conscious of his secret. She dared not reveal 
 it to any one, for her habit of obedience was so 
 strong that she considered herself bound to her 
 parent by the holiest ties, and moreover, she 
 % 
 
=% 
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 27 
 
 feared that, were he detected, some dreadful 
 punishment would await him. She could not 
 often yield to thoughts of flying away from her 
 father's roof, for her better angel came and told 
 her that she was wrong, and her whole soul be- 
 came filled with the idea of accomplishing her 
 father's reform. And to her mind there was 
 but one way to achieve any good, and that was 
 through the Bible alone, aided by the guidance 
 of heaven. 
 
 Lucy was an early riser, for her tasks were 
 many; her father rose late. One morning, as 
 she sat down to read her usual portion of the 
 Holy Word, the thought struck her that perhaps 
 her father might not object to hearing it also. 
 So she took the volume and knocked timidly at 
 his door. 
 
 " Are you awake, father .^" inquired she. 
 
 " Yes," replied he, " but what on earth do you 
 want of me ? If I am awake you woke me up." 
 
 " I am come to read the Bible, God's Word, 
 to you." 
 
 There was a long pause, and Lucy might have 
 counted one sixty times, but her heart leaped 
 with joy unspeakable when her father at last 
 said " Come in, child, and read, but hurry and 
 be gone." 
 
28 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 She went in softly, and sitting down by his 
 bedside, read in a clear sweet voice those words, 
 that have often proved a comfort to the sinner 
 as well as a delight to the Christian — the beati- 
 tudes. When she had finished she arose with- 
 out saying one word, returned to her room, where 
 she had left Lotte asleep, and kneeling by the 
 bedside, prayed earnestly for her father and the 
 sleeping child. What could have been the old 
 man's reflections as that angel of mercy vanished 
 from his sight ? Was the spirit of peace left 
 with him, or did his hard heart know no peace .? 
 His manner continued unaltered towards her ; 
 no kind words passed his lips, and yet she des- 
 paired not. The next morning found Lucy again 
 at the dreaded door. The same awful pause 
 succeeded her question, and again he gave her 
 leave to enter. Sometimes she would read a 
 hymn, with her musical voice, and once her 
 father asked her to repeat a chapter in the 
 Bible. These were golden moments to this 
 dutiful daughter, and the bud of hope bloomed 
 in her breast ; but it seemed only in the dim 
 light of morning, before the broad day shone 
 through the closed shutters, that the influence 
 lasted — sunshine and the cares of business dis- 
 persed it all. 
 
2^ 
 
 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 29 
 
 One day Barton went out to purchase a few 
 new books, and left the store in Lucy's charge. 
 While Lotte looked over some pretty pictures, 
 Lucy, feeling that this was a real holiday, turned 
 over the leaves of her favorite authors, and felt 
 happy and free. 
 
 She sat in one corner of the store, with her 
 brown ringlets falling over the pages of a book 
 in which she was very much interested, when 
 she heard a voice softly calling her name. She 
 looked up, and Henry Gray stood at the door, 
 cautiously peeping in. She came forward and 
 welcomed him. 
 
 " Come in, Harry, come in, and see what a 
 treasure I have here ; a perfect edition of 
 Shakspeare illustrated. Is not this Desdemona 
 exquisite ?" 
 
 " I cannot," replied Harry, "I am afraid of your 
 dreadful father ; he looks as sour as vinegar and as 
 stern as that old bust of Socrates on the shelf, and 
 covered, I declare, with about as much dust." 
 
 " Hush," said Lucy, " dont speak of my 
 father so ; you know that his health has not 
 been good, lately, and then the want of more 
 customei;s in the store worries him ; besides, he 
 is not at home now, and he wont be for some 
 time. Come in." 
 
30 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 " Well, then, seeing that the coast is really 
 clear, and that there's no danger of my being 
 eaten up by the ogre, I will enter and briefly 
 tell you what I did come for. We are going to 
 have a grand time on the first of May, you know, 
 in a famous pic-nic out of town ; we are to have 
 flowers, and fruit, and fun, and also a queen ^ 
 the best and prettiest girl in the town, whom 
 we shall crown with white rosebuds. Mary 
 Jones and Sally Sparks are to be maids of 
 honor, dressed in white and blue, with garlands 
 in their hands, while Bill Grreen and I are to 
 play the part of esquires to our queen. She is 
 to sit on a beautiful throne, over-canopied by 
 evergreens, and not even the sun shall dare to 
 shine on her majesty, or I am no true knight." 
 
 " Well, Harry," replied Lucy, quite en- 
 chanted, " you have told me who are to be the 
 maids and esquires, but you have omitted all 
 mention of that most important personage, her 
 highness, the queen. Will Ellen Burnet take 
 her part } She is the best and most beautiful 
 girl in town, and then she will enjoy it so much. 
 As soon as father comes I will ask him to let me 
 go and offer to take care of her sick mother for 
 her, while she is away at the crowning." 
 
 " Guess again, Lucy," replied Harry, " but 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS/ 31 
 
 no, we have no time for guessing — the ogre may 
 come. You are to be our queen." 
 
 *' I," replied Lucy, astonished : " father wont 
 
 let " " You said rightly," said her father, 
 
 coming in suddenly from the outside where he 
 had been listening to the latter part of the con- 
 versation, " I will not let you act any such fool's 
 part. You have play enough here every day 
 without being an idle May-queen, and as for 
 you, young lad," said he, turning towards Harry, 
 " take yourself off from my presence, and let 
 not your shadow darken these doors again." 
 
 Harry walked out as was desired, and while 
 he scorned the old man and his rudeness, he 
 was indignant at the treatment which he saw 
 that Lucy must be subject to. She did not 
 renew the subject, the mere thought of which 
 gave her so much pleasure ; for she actually 
 longed for the freedom of a day in the woods, 
 but she knew that she might as well have hoped 
 to move aji old forest tree as her father's iron 
 will. Still, morning after morning found her at 
 her post, with the Bible. Three or four days 
 before the eventful first of May, her heart was 
 unusually heavy, and when she finished reading, 
 the tears flowed silently from her eyes, and as 
 she rose to go, she gave one uncontrollable sob. 
 
 :d 
 
32 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 Her father, astonished, raised himself in the bed 
 and looked at her. He seldom saw her weep, 
 and for one so young, she had acquired a singu- 
 lar self-control, and he felt that something un- 
 common moved those ' troubled waters' — her 
 tears. 
 
 , " Come to me, Lucy," said he, " and tell me 
 why you cry." 
 
 " For nothing, papa, the tears would flow and 
 I could not help it ; there, it is over now, see, I 
 am not crying at all." 
 
 " But there must be some cause," returned 
 he. '' Are you not feeling well, or was there any- 
 thing in the chapter you have just read that made 
 you weep .^" 
 
 ' No, sir." 
 
 " Do you want to go to the May-day celebra- 
 tion .?" 
 
 " Not if you want me to stay." 
 
 " But you do, child," replied he, " and you 
 might as well go with Lotte, for you Ij^ok a little 
 pale, and breathe the fresh air. There, dont 
 begin to cry again — I suppose it is for joy now. 
 Here is a bright dollar to buy something with 
 to make you look smart, and another to get some 
 good things with. Betty can go along with you 
 to carry them. Eeally you look so happy that 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 33 
 
 I begin to believe what the chapter you have 
 just been reading says — '' it is more blessed to 
 give than receive." 
 
 *' But, father," answered Lucy, quite over- 
 joyed, '' will you not go too > Do shut up the 
 store for one day and come with us to breathe 
 the fresh air, and to see the blue sky .?" 
 
 '' Now, child, you know that you are asking 
 too much. Go to your room, I hear Lotte 
 crying." 
 
 But Lotte was soon comforted when she heard 
 of the plan, and she pretended to be doing won- 
 ders in helping Lucy to prepare. The first of 
 May at length arrived, and a more bright, beau- 
 tiful, joyous, and child-loving day never rose 
 upon the earth. Lucy had informed Harry of 
 her father's altered will, and he had made every 
 necessary arrangement. He, together with a 
 party of his young companions, was to call for 
 Lucy and Lotte, and bring them home again in 
 safety. It was strange that Simon Barton was 
 willing to trust his daughters to the care of one 
 whom he had driven from his house, but he must 
 have felt, inwardly, that he was worthy of the 
 trust, and that Harry would take the best care 
 of them in the world. Lucy stood before her 
 small defaced looking-glass and tied the blue 
 
34 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 ribbon around her curls with a simple grace ; 
 saw that every fold in her white dress was ar- 
 ranged to her satisfaction, and said, *' Now, 
 Lotte, what do you think of this * bunch of 
 blue ribbon that ties up my bonnie brown 
 hair ?' " She sang the last few words and 
 looked altogether so joyous and happy that 
 Lotte clapped her hands and laughed. And 
 then they both laughed and embraced again 
 and again. In the midst of this scene of child- 
 ish rapture, a form darkened the entrance. It 
 was that of Simon Barton. Lucy thought he 
 was her father and yet not her father, for his 
 grey locks were 'combed smoothly out, while his 
 clothes, unusually clean and decent, took from 
 him that air of vulgarity which was common in 
 his every day attire. 
 
 " You dont mean to say that you are really 
 going," almost screamed Lucy, ^' Oh ! how de- 
 lightful." 
 
 " To be sure I am," replied the old man, 
 cheerfully, " I am going to take care of my 
 little queen, and the princess royal, Lotte." 
 
 Oh ! how happy she felt at those words. 
 She bounded along with her companions like a 
 freed bird, while her father took charge of 
 Lotte, and even lifted her in his arms when she 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 35 
 
 grew weary. Betty followed with a well laden 
 basket, in the distance, grinning at such an un- 
 usual thing as a holiday, while Harry ventured 
 to address a few manly remarks to the .trans- 
 formed ogre, half doubting his own identity in 
 venturing so near. It was a day never to be 
 forgotten by any of the party. The queen's 
 white rosebuds were an emblem of her fair 
 self, expressing youth and purity, and as they 
 were half hidden by green leaves — modesty. 
 The table was laid out in the open air and 
 loaded with good things, and a merry dance 
 ended the day. — Simon Barton kept aloof from 
 the elder portion of the assembly, but his time 
 was fully occupied by his care of Lotte and in 
 watching his queen-daughter, his beautiful Lucy. 
 He called her to prepare to return home in the 
 midst of the gayest dance, and she left her 
 pleasures at his bidding, without a murmur. 
 On their return home, after the household 
 wants had been attended to, Lucy ventured to 
 lay her hand upon her father's shoulder and 
 thank him for his kindness. 
 
 •' Thank you, father," said she ; " what a nice 
 day we have had, and only think that you were 
 the cause of all our pleasure.'? 
 
 " I am glad you were pleased," replied he ; 
 
 =91 
 
 =^ 
 
36 THE DIAMOND CROSS 
 
 " you were a good child to come away from that 
 dance when I called you. Are you going to bed 
 now ?" 
 
 "No, sir, my Bible has to be read first — after 
 so much enjoyment I should be doubly thankful, 
 — good night." 
 
 " Stop, Lucy," said her father, and then fol- 
 lowed a well remembered pause, " you read it 
 to me in the morning, why not at night too .^" 
 Did she not hope after that ? I know that she 
 did. 
 
 Soon a change came over Simon Barton. ' 
 Some disease seemed to have seized upon his 
 frame, and to Lucy's sorrow, he refused to con- 
 sult any medical man, saying that he would be 
 better soon, but day after day saw him sink 
 lower and draw nearer to that " bourne from 
 which no traveller returns." His neighbors 
 had long ago been driven away from his doors 
 by his rude conduct, and the little book-store 
 became more unfrequented, while Lucy's cares 
 accumulated each hour. She did not know that 
 the thread of her father's life would snap soon 
 and suddenly. 
 
 Just four years had passed since the bright 
 and beautiful lady had crossed the threshold of 
 the old book-store. Lucy was now fourteen, 
 l^ '' - = . — — ^ 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 37 
 
 and her numerous duties and responsibilities had 
 given a thoughtful shadow to her lovely face, 
 while her tender care of Lotte, whom she tried 
 hard not to spoil, was touching in the extreme. 
 One morning, as she stood at her father's 
 door, knocking for admittance, she thought she 
 heard a groan, and not being answered by the 
 usual " come in," she entered. A sad and 
 heart-rending scene met her gaze. Her father 
 was stretched on the bed almost lifeless, trying 
 to articulate, but in vain. " What is the mat- 
 ter, dear father ? do answer me," she screamed. 
 '' What can I do, where can I go for you .^" 
 To her appeal the only thing she could dis- 
 tinguish was the word " call," and she rushed 
 madly into the street, her face pale as death, 
 and her long ringlets tossing in the air. Her 
 wild and frightened air attracted the attention 
 of a lady who was passing by in a carriage, and 
 she called to the coachman to stop. " Child," 
 said she, " what is the matter ; why are you 
 screaming, at this early hour, like a maniac, in 
 the street .?" " Oh, my father, my father," was 
 her reply. " Where is he, tell me," said the 
 lady, " and I will go to him." " He is very ill," 
 she replied breathlessly. " Oh ! do come in 
 and see him." The lady, who was dressed in 
 
38 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 deep mourning, showed by her sad face that a 
 great sorrow had lately passed over her. She 
 held by the hand a beautiful boy, who looked 
 up to his mother in silent wonder, and followed 
 Lucy into Simon Barton's room. A feeling of 
 recognition came across the lady as she entered 
 the humble store, and a shade of pain crossed 
 her lovely countenance. Yes, it must be, it was 
 the store from which she bought the books just 
 before her departure, and they were never looked 
 into, for from that moment her husband gradu- 
 ally grew worse and required her whole atten- 
 tion, and at last died a lingering death in a for- 
 eign land. And that exquisite frantic child, 
 just budding into womanhood, was the little 
 girl who had so pleased her, looking, as she 
 held Lotte in her arms at the door, like a child 
 Madonna. While these thoughts were passing 
 through her mind, she entered Barton's room. 
 A glance told her that he was very ill, and she 
 supposed from his imperfect speech that he 
 must have had a fit during the night. She 
 dispatched the frightened servant for a restora- 
 tive, and after he had swallowed some, his speech 
 returned more freely. '' Are you better now ?" 
 said the lady sympathizingly. " Better in body," 
 he replied, " but I feel that I am dying ; would 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 39 
 
 to God that I was better in heart." " Perhaps 
 you may not be so very ill after all," said the 
 lady ; " but if you feel that within you which 
 tells you are dying, believe and you shall be 
 saved." " But I have done so many cruel, 
 so many unjust things," returned he, " that 
 there can be no hope — none. I have wronged 
 my angel wife ; I have wronged my children ; 
 and in this way I have ruined my own chance 
 of salvation. Lady, I do not know who you 
 are, but your face is familiar, and you look like 
 one who has had trials and overcome evil. Can 
 I ti:ust you with a few incidents of my past life, 
 and will you take an interest in my poor orphans 
 when I am gone .^" The lady promised the al- 
 most dying man what he required of her, but he 
 was interrupted in his narrative by the entrance 
 of a physician, who, after feeling his pulse, de- 
 clared that he could not live through the day, 
 nor could he do much to relieve him. He left 
 some drops, to be taken at intervals. When 
 Simon Barton heard the decision of the doctor, 
 he looked at Lucy and laid his hand upon her 
 head and said, " You will not miss your old 
 father much ; he was cruel and unkind to you, 
 my daughter. Pray for me. Your voice I 
 know will reach heaven." " Try and be calm. 
 
 r;^ 
 
40 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 my friend, for that dear girl's sake," said the 
 lady ; "it is not too late even now to take up 
 the cross of Christ. It is light to a believer." 
 " The cross, the cross," said the old man wildly. 
 "Oh, my beloved child, my Lucy, would that I 
 had taken your advice and given up that cross 
 which has helped me to so much sin. Lady, I 
 have here in my possession a valuable cross 
 which is not mine. It was found in the street 
 by my child, who was ceaseless in her endeavors 
 to have me to restore it to its owner, but I was 
 perverse and sinful, and kept it concealed, hop- 
 ing for a day in which to turn it to my advan- 
 tage. If you will take it and exert yourself to 
 discover to whom it belongs, you shall have my 
 gratitude here and hereafter." He took from 
 under his pillow a small package and handed it 
 to the stranger. She seemed in a dream, and 
 when she unfolded the paper, a scream of wild 
 surprise and delight burst from her lips: " Heaven 
 be praised, it is mine ; his gift, and found at 
 last." She then related to Barton how vainly 
 she had tried to remember where she could have 
 lost it, but now recalled to her mind that she had 
 taken out her watch, to the chain of which it 
 was attached, just before his door. " Madam," 
 replied Barton, " I have no excuse for keeping 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 41 
 
 it SO long in my possession, and I can only hope 
 for forgiveness from that tribunal to which I am 
 fast going. Come here, Lucy, your father's eyes 
 grow dim, and as you stand by me, you look like 
 a seraph waiting at the gate through which I 
 must go to be judged. What account shall I 
 give your mother of you when I meet her ques- 
 tioning eyes ? Ah, nothing but praise can ev^r 
 attend your actions. You have endeavored to 
 make your father a better man, and if there is 
 any hope of forgiveness for me, I shall trace it 
 all to your gentle care and forbearance." Lucy 
 sank down in tearful agony upon the bed, and 
 sobbed out the words, " Oh, dear father, I can- 
 not part with you now when you are so kind, so 
 changed ; if you could only live, we would all be 
 so happy. " But this wish was vain, for the spirit 
 wrestled for an instant with the body, and then 
 took its flight upward into the presence of God, 
 and Lucy, in the midst of her new-found joy, 
 felt that she was indeed an orphan. Mrs. Mor- 
 dant led the weeping girl from the room and 
 begged her to moderate her grief for Lotte's 
 sake, who was playing with her little boy, quite 
 unconscious of her father's death, but Lucy was 
 inconsoUable and went to her own little room to 
 weep undisturbed. The only furniture that this 
 
2^ ' =: 
 
 42 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 room contained was a small bed for herself, a 
 crib for Lotte, and one chair. No carpet cov- 
 ered the floor, and a kind of wooden chest served 
 the inmates for a wardrobe. And yet Lucy 
 loved the space that its four walls inclosed, for 
 here she had spent all her happy hours. It 
 was a sort of bright place from which she had 
 tried to shut out tears, and to cheat herself into 
 the belief that her life was full of sunshine. But 
 now, this beloved spot and the whole world 
 seemed darkened to her. Mrs. Mordant re- 
 mained for seveMil minutes in deep thought in 
 the little book-store. When she looked up 
 from her reverie, she perceived that her own 
 child and Lotte had already become good 
 friends, and the sight pleased her benevolent 
 heart. He was mending a little wooden cart 
 for Lotte, and boasting of his strong arm all 
 the while, and she looked on in high admiration 
 of his superior powers. Mrs. Mordant left them, 
 and knocking at Lucy's door, entered. She 
 looked around at the poverty there, shudder- 
 ing, and lifting Lucy's head gently from its 
 grief-stricken attitude, said, " My child, I have 
 come to make you an oJOTer, which you must not 
 refuse. You are an orphan and poor, while I 
 have countless riches at my command. After 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 43 
 
 you have seen your father carried to the grave, 
 will you come with Lotte and live with me, and 
 be a sister to my Albert ?" Lucy looked at her 
 for a moment, and bursting into a flood of tears, 
 took her hand and kissed it, thanking her again 
 and again for all her kindness. Then, after the 
 funeral was over, Mrs. Mordant took the chil- 
 dren to the hotel where she had taken rooms, 
 and they remained there until she had dispatched 
 letters to her home to have everything arranged 
 for their reception, and had purchased something 
 for them in the way of dress, 'more fit for the 
 sisters than their present garb. 
 
 It was like a fairy tale to Lucy, when she 
 found herself before the elegant mansion which 
 was now to be her home. A flight of the purest 
 marble steps led into a large porch, the roof of 
 which was supported by four immense pillars. 
 She expected every instant that the brazen 
 trumpet, of which she had read in " Beauty 
 and the Beast," would sound, and that invisible 
 hands would lead her out. She was tired and 
 worn out with excitement, and availed herself 
 of Mrs. Mordant's suggestion that she should 
 immediately retire for the night, and with Lotte 
 in her arms, she sunk into a delicious and dream- 
 less repose. The sun was high in the heavens 
 
44 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 the next morning, when a kind-looking servant 
 girl drew the curtains and told her that Mrs. 
 Mordant had sent to awaken her. Lucy started 
 up and looked around the room. It was the 
 beau ideal of an apartment for a young maiden. 
 A white muslin curtain drooped over the richly 
 carved bedstead and shaded the large windows ; 
 a soft carpet, in which her white, bare feet were 
 nearly buried, covered the floor. A door opened 
 out upon a terrace, in which plants of every de- 
 scription grew in beautiful vases, and the carol 
 of uncaged birds, chanting their last songs as a 
 farewell to summer, met her delighted ear. A 
 prayer of thankfulness rose in her heart for the 
 kind friends raised up to her in time of need, 
 and the sisters repeated their devotions side by 
 side. When they went down stairs, Mrs. Mor- 
 dant received them with a mother's tenderness, 
 and after a sumptuous breakfast, attended by tall 
 servants in livery, which put Lucy again in mind 
 of enchanted lands, they walked into the beau- 
 tiful gardens and gathered flowers, which they 
 tastefully arranged for the sitting rooms. Mrs. 
 Mordant tried by every means in her power to 
 make Lucy forget her late bereavement, and 
 soon smiles played over the beauty of her face, 
 and she learned to call her new friend ' mother' 
 
THE DIAMOND CROSS. 45 
 
 and to take an interest in all her plans for im- 
 proving the grounds and in educating the neigh- 
 boring poor. The best teachers were procured 
 for Lucy and Lotte, and soon, with their natural 
 talents and industry, they became accomplished 
 in every branch in which they were instructed, 
 and the time passed happily away. 
 
 It was a few years after the removal of the 
 sisters to the home of Mrs. Mordant, that my 
 story ends. Lucy was sitting in the luxurious 
 parlor, lost in deep thought. An Italian book 
 that she had been reading was half closed be- 
 tween her fingers, and her thoughts wandered 
 back to by-gone scenes. What a contrast her 
 Present and her Past. The promise of her 
 beauty of mind and features was entirely ful- 
 filled, and her form borrowed no lustre from 
 the light of foreign ornament, while her pure 
 white dress was an emblem of the heart which 
 beat in her bosom, unspoiled by change and 
 prosperity. As she sat in deep reverie, she 
 heard a footstep and Albert entered. With 
 such good influences about him, he had escaped, 
 unscathed so far, through the fiery trials of 
 youth ; and home, and home alone, was the 
 centre of all his joys. His fine, manly figure 
 told of health and strength. 
 
46 THE DIAMOND CROSS. 
 
 " Still reading," said he to Lucy, as lie ap- 
 proached her ; '* put down that everlasting 
 book and walk with me, sister mine. You do 
 not know what a sunset you are losing, and 
 mother and Lotte are awaiting us in the orchard. 
 Will you come .^" 
 
 " Yes, and I am glad that you have come for 
 me, Albert, for I was dwelling on a dangerous 
 and sad theme — the Past." 
 
 As they went into the delicious and perfumed 
 garden, they saw Lotte and Mrs. Mordant, 
 linked arm in arm, approaching them in the 
 distance. 
 
 " How fond," said Lucy, pointing towards 
 them, they are of each other; every day we 
 are bound closer together, and Oh," said she, 
 with a sudden burst of gratitude, " how kind 
 your mother is to us. How many, many com- 
 forts of life we have, to which we were not born. 
 I am happier and more grateful every moment 
 I live. What a blessed fate it was that brought 
 her footsteps to our humble door !" 
 
 " Say, rather," replied Albert, " what a 
 blessed fate it was that brought your footsteps 
 to our door, and which has given me two sisters 
 more precious than all the gems of Peru." 
 
 " Hush, Albert," replied Lucy ; do not speak 
 
LINES. 47 
 
 SO extravagantly, but reserve your raptures for 
 higher themes." Lucy smiled kindly on him as 
 she rebuked him, and Mrs. Mordant and Lotte 
 came up. 
 
 The deep grief of Mrs. Mordant was still 
 fresh in her mind, but the gentle acts of the 
 devoted trio made a bright spot for her on earth 
 which she had little expected to enjoy, and as 
 time sped on, they found peace in leaning upon 
 thtit Cross^ upon which the Christian builds all 
 his hopes. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 ! HEARTS that God hath touched can tell 
 
 How o'er this earth — in ruin laid — 
 Still breathes at times the Sabbath spell, 
 
 'Mid sin and sorrow undecayed ! 
 What sympathies in earth and air 
 With man's appointed rest there are ; 
 And how a light comes down from Heaven 
 To crown the day that God hath given ! 
 
 -r'is 
 
-% 
 
 48 
 
 PEAYER. 
 
 Wake ! little child, the morn is gay ; 
 
 The air is fresh and cool ; 
 But pause a while, to kneel and pray, 
 Before you go to merry play — 
 
 Before you go to school. 
 
 # 
 Kneel down and speak the holy words ; 
 
 God loves your simple prayer 
 Above the sweet songs of the birds, 
 The bleatings of the gentle herds. 
 
 The flowers that scent the air. 
 
 And when the quiet evening's come, 
 
 And dew-drops wet the sod, 
 When bats and owls begin to roam, 
 And flocks and herds are driven home, 
 Then pray again to God. 
 
 Because you need Him day and night. 
 To shield you with His arm ; 
 
 To help you always to do right ; 
 
 To feed your soul and give it light, 
 And keep you safe from harm. 
 
THE BUFFALO HUNT. 49 
 
 THE BUFFALO HUNT. 
 
 Chance led me, while travelling in the far 
 West, into the company of a noted hunter, by 
 the name of William Carter, better known as 
 " BuiFalo Bill." One day Bill invited me to 
 join a party who were going out on a hunting 
 trip to replenish their stock of Buffalo meat. 
 Being at leisure, and having, in the little West- 
 ern village where I was then staying, few sources 
 of amusement, I was glad enough to embrace 
 any opportunity which promised to afford adven- 
 ture and excitement. 
 
 Our party was soon ready. We were all 
 mounted on fine horses and armed with rifles. 
 We carried plenty of ammunition and provi- 
 sions, enough to supply our wants till we should 
 reach the hunting ground. Most of my com- 
 panions were native backwoods-men, who were 
 familiar with the country, and had been accus- 
 tomed to the use of the rifle and to the life of 
 the hunter from their childhood. The party 
 consisted of ten persons in all. 
 
50 THE BUFFALO HUNT. 
 
 I have not room to tell you about our journey. 
 I will only say that it was a pleasant one to me, 
 and that I saw and heard much that was new 
 and interesting. My comrades were men of 
 rude manners and rough outside, but I found 
 them intelligent, frank and warm-hearted. One 
 of them, Jim Hilton, was a great story-teller, 
 and amused us much with his tales of back- 
 woods life and adventure. 
 
 About sunset on the third day of our journey, 
 we reached the borders of the prairie on which 
 we expected to find our game. Here we kindled 
 our fires, and encamped, full of great anticipa- 
 tions of the fine sport we should have on the 
 n^xt day. We were not disappointed, as you 
 will see. 
 
 "We rose early, ate our frugal breakfast, and 
 were scfbn mounted and ready for action. We 
 rode out upon the vast, ocean-like prairie before 
 us, but kept near its borders. We advanced 
 several miles without seeing £w living thing, or 
 hearing a sound, save our own voices, and the 
 tramp of our steeds. At length, " Bufialo Bill" 
 ordered the party to halt. 
 
 " I hear them," said he. " We're in luck 
 to-day. We shall soon have plenty of sport.'' 
 
 We paused and listened. At first I could 
 
THE BUFFALO HUNT. 51 
 
 hear nothing. But the practised ear of the old 
 hunter was not in fault. We rode on, and as 
 we approached them I could hear, very dis- 
 tinctly, the mingled sounds of bellowing and 
 tramping, made by a large herd of buffaloes. 
 We soon saw them moving, like a great black 
 cloud along the surface of the plain. They were 
 feeding, jostling each other, fighting and paw- 
 ing the ground with great fury, and kept up a 
 perpetual bellowing. 
 
 " The best way will be to hide ourselves 
 among the trees, on the borders of the prairie,'' 
 said Bill. " We can get one shot at them be- 
 fore they see us." 
 
 We were soon among the trees and bushes, 
 awaiting the approach of the herd. 
 
 " Now, mind your rifles, boys,'' said our 
 leader, " and make targets of the fattest ones in 
 the crowd." 
 
 When they were near enough, we all fired, at 
 once, into the herd. Then came such a rush- 
 ing and bellowing as few have ever heard. 
 The poor animals hardly knew which way to 
 turn, and some of them rushed into the woods, 
 towards our place of concealment, and we with 
 difiiculty escaped being crushed by them. One 
 huge bull, which had been wounded, and was 
 
% 
 
 52 THE BUFFALO HUNT. 
 
 very fierce, attacked one of our men, and though 
 he was a skilful horseman, he narrowly escaped 
 being unhorsed and killed. 
 
 We pursued the flying herd out upon the 
 prairie, and fired at them several times more ; 
 our hunters loading their rifles as they rode with 
 great dexterity. We then turned back to take 
 possession of our spoils. Several fine animals 
 had been killed, and securing the skins and the 
 choicest portions of the flesh, we returned to our 
 camp. 
 
 We remained several days in that vicinity, 
 and had further opportunities of testing our 
 skill, and the metal of our horses, in the 
 chase. I shall not soon forget my first Buf- 
 falo Hunt. 
 
 The proper name of the animal, about which 
 I have been telling you, is the Bison^ but he is 
 almost universally called the Bufialo, in this 
 country. The true Bufialo is a native of Asia 
 and Africa, but is often domesticated in Europe, 
 and used for ploughing and other labor. 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
THE fisher's child. 53 
 
 THE FISHER'S CHILD. 
 
 Through all the morn the fishers toiled, 
 
 With wonderful success, 
 Yet naught but curses passed the lips 
 
 That had such cause to bless. 
 
 Three hardy men were in the boat, 
 
 While leaning o'er its side, 
 A little child with dimpled hand 
 
 Was plashing in the tide. 
 
 Anon his arm grew motionless. 
 His large wild eyes were bent 
 
 Upon the darkling depths below. 
 As on a book intent. 
 
 And soothing lessons, strangely sweet, 
 
 From out the lake he read. 
 While fleecy trains of summer clouds 
 
 Were floating over head. 
 
 Too heavenly pure his visions grew 
 
 For waking hours below. 
 Then sleep upon his dreamy eyes 
 
 Let fall the lids of snow. 
 
% 
 
 54 THE fisher's child. 
 
 Long hours lie sweetly slumbered on. 
 
 Till tumult met his ear. 
 He woke, and found the hardy men 
 
 Were agonized with fear. 
 
 Black, ragged clouds across the sky. 
 
 In masses wild were whirl'd. 
 The bearers of a mighty wind. 
 
 That seemed to shake the world. 
 
 The lake appeared an angry sea. 
 
 And with each boiling wave. 
 Still nearer to the rocky shore 
 
 The tiny vessel drave. 
 
 In fixed despair the fishers sat. 
 
 Amid the dashing spray, 
 And each upon the other looked. 
 
 And wished he dared to pray. 
 
 Then spoke the child, "We need not fear. 
 
 Our Lord must with us be, 
 For all the morn, his loving face 
 
 Was bending down to me." 
 
 He ceased, then knelt, and to the clouds 
 
 Upraised his trustful eye ; 
 ^Although they could not hear his prayer. 
 
 They saw his God's reply. 
 
 In safety round the rugged point 
 
 At once the boat was swept, 
 To where, within a sheltered bay. 
 
 The quiet waters slept. 
 
SKETCH OF JOHN POJJNDS. 59 
 
 tures," though his discourses would scarcely 
 bear that title in these days. He would interest 
 the smallest pupil, by talking playfully, and 
 indeed, by making a pleasure of his task. Giv- 
 ing to one a printed hand-bill, he would make 
 them spell the words upon it, and tell him all 
 they could about them. The pupils of his 
 school had few '' text-books," as we call them ; 
 old newspapers, leaves of books, and some 
 printed cards, were the chief sources of their 
 knowledge, besides the cheerful lips of their kind 
 teacher. 
 
 Thus did years pass by, and still John Pounds 
 taught the ragged boys and girls of Portsmouth. 
 Yery few heeded his noble labors, and none re- 
 corded them, except those who benefitted by 
 them, and made the record in their hearts. 
 Now and then a stalwart man would come into 
 the little school-shop, and take the old man by 
 the hand, reminding him of the time when he 
 taught him his letters, and gave him all the in- 
 struction he ever received in youth. It was 
 happiness enough for the poor shoe-mender to 
 receive such tributes for his goodness — such 
 fruits of hi* labors — and he remembered always 
 the promise, " Cast thy bread upon the waters, 
 and it shall be seen after many days." 
 
60 SKETCH OF JOHN POUNDS. 
 
 Many a boy did he reclaim, or, what was still 
 better, preserve from vicious habits, and prepare 
 him for usefulness in after life. He lived a 
 long and useful life — ^having more than filled up 
 the measure of his days — and reached the age 
 of seventy-two years. 
 
 On New Years Day, 1839, while he was look- 
 ing at a picture of his school — then just com- 
 pleted by Mr. Sheaf — ^he suddenly fell down, 
 and almost instantly expired. His death was 
 felt by many to be a public calamity. His pupils 
 were almost inconsolable in their grief. When 
 they came the next day to school, and learned 
 that their teacher was dead, some of them 
 fainted with sorrow, and many sobbed with deep 
 grief. Day after day, with sad faces and tearful 
 eyes, came some of the younger ones, and ling- 
 ered about the door of the now closed school- 
 room, receiving but sad consolation from the poor 
 youth, who, like them, had now lost his best 
 friend. 
 
 " Eagged-schools, " as they are called in 
 honor of their founder, became popular in seve- 
 ral parts of England, and those of Bristol 
 acquired much fame. They accomplished a 
 great deal of good among the destitute classes, 
 who, of all others, most need instruction. 
 
THANK GOD FOR HOME AND FRIENDS. 61 
 
 The name of John Pounds is far more famous 
 now than it was ten years ago. While he lived 
 and labored, the world knew little about him or 
 his work ; but when he ceased from his labors, 
 men began to think of them as they deserved, and 
 the wise and good are now willing to ascribe 
 honor, and gratitude also, to the name and 
 memory of John Pounds, the founder of the 
 " E-agged schools." 
 
 THANK aOD FOR HOME AND FRIENDS. 
 
 The night was dark ; no radiant star 
 
 Was glistening in the sky, 
 And with a voice of moaning sad, 
 
 The winds went whistling by ; 
 We sat around the cheerful fire, 
 
 With thought that comfort sends, 
 Aunt Mary sung with grateful heart, 
 
 " Thank God for home and friends." 
 
 And while she sang, a hasty rap 
 
 Was heard upon the door. 
 And shivering in the cold there stood 
 
 A woman, old and poor ; 
 
62 THANK GOD FOR HOME AND FRIENDS. 
 
 " Oh lady, come," she cried aloud, 
 
 " Or else some succor send, 
 For at my hut's a suffering child. 
 
 Who has no home nor friend." 
 
 Aunt Mary threw her cloak around. 
 
 And o'er the dismal moor. 
 She hurried on with hasty steps. 
 
 Till she reached the cottage door ; 
 She heard this piteous prayer breathed out, 
 
 " Oh, Heaven, some angel send 
 To bear me from this cruel world. 
 
 For I've no home nor friend." 
 
 Aunt Mary soothed this praying child. 
 
 Who sobbing told her tale. 
 Of how, within a woodland cot. 
 
 She lived in some sweet vale. 
 Till death had come, with icy hand. 
 
 Life's silver chain to rend ; 
 An^ both her parents in the grave, 
 
 She had no home nor friend. 
 
 And while the winds went howling by. 
 
 In tones so strange and wild, 
 Aunt Mary reached our happy home 
 
 With that poor suffering child ; 
 " Now sit," she said by this warm blaze, 
 
 And while the flame ascends, 
 Oh, children, sing with all your hearts, 
 
 * Thank God for home and friends.' " 
 
GIOTTO, THE PAINTER. 63 
 
 Then loud we sung, with cheerful voice, 
 
 To Him who comfort sends. 
 While fervently that child sang out, 
 
 "Thank God for home and friends ;" 
 Oh, children, by your happy hearths. 
 
 As your evening prayer ascends. 
 Let the music? of its burthen be, 
 
 ** Thank God for home and friends." 
 
 GIOTTO, THE PAINTER. 
 
 Of the many pleasant stories which are re- 
 corded in books, of the humble origin of men 
 who have become distinguished for great attain- 
 ments in Art or Science, that of Giotto, an 
 Italian painter, is one which interested us very 
 deeply, and we will narrate it for the gratifica- 
 tion of our little readers — simply stating that we 
 derive the story from the " Anecdotes of the 
 Early Painters," in Chambers' Miscellany. 
 
 In a small town, called Yespignana, about 
 forty miles from the beautiful and renowned 
 city of Florence, there lived in the early part 
 of the thirteenth century, a poor laborer by the 
 name of Bondone. He had one child only, a 
 
64 
 
 GIOTTO, THE PAINTER. 
 
 son, who, though he had no advantages of edu- 
 cation, exhibited such quickness and vivacity 
 of intellect, as to delight the unsophisticated 
 rustics among whom he dwelt, and to fill his 
 poor father's heart with mingled pride and 
 sorrow — pride for his boy's powers, and sorrow 
 that he could not properly develop them. 
 
 When this lad was ten years old, his father 
 set him to taking care of sheep, and as he tended 
 his little flock in the meadow, or on the road- 
 side, he used to stretch himself upon the ground, 
 and indulge his young fancy by drawing in the 
 sand or upon pieces of slate stone, any of the 
 objects around. He used, for pencils, broken 
 pieces of slate, or sometimes a pointed stick, 
 and his principal models were his own innocent 
 sheep. 
 
 While he was employed, one bright summer 
 day, sketching upon a smooth stone, a horseman 
 approached him, and drew near enough to look 
 at his work, without attracting the boy's atten- 
 tion. To his surprise he saw upon the stone a 
 figure of a sheep, drawn with exceeding spirit 
 and truthfulness. 
 
 '' What is your name, my boy .?" said the 
 traveller. 
 
 The boy instantly springing to his feet and 
 
 =^ 
 
GIOTTO, THE PAINTER. 65 
 
 looking startled, replied, " I am little Giotto, 
 the only son of Bondone — the workman — if it 
 please thee, signore." 
 
 " Griotto, eh r" said the horseman, " and how 
 would Giotto like to come and live with me, and 
 learn to paint sheep and everything else he 
 pleased?" 
 
 The child's eyes sparkled as he replied, 
 
 " If father will let me, I will go any where 
 in the world to learn to do that — I will go and 
 ask him, signore." 
 
 " Do, my child, and I will go with you." 
 
 The traveller went with Giotto to the cottage 
 of Bondone, and there announced himself to the 
 laborer as a well known painter, Cimabue. He 
 asked the old man's permission to take Giotto to 
 Florence and make a painter of him — a request 
 which Bondone first wondered at and then con- 
 sented to, as he saw that Giotto's bright eyes 
 wore full of desire to go, though his lips said not 
 a word. 
 
 Giotto went with his kind patron to Florence 
 — the great school of the arts — and became a 
 pupil in the studio of Cimabue. His progress 
 was rapid, and surprised even his master, who 
 encouraged him in every possible way. 
 
 It happened on one occasion, that Cimabue 
 
 — ^ 
 
66 GIOTTO, THE PAINTER. 
 
 came into his studio, and seeing a fly upon the 
 nose of an unfinished head that was still upon 
 the easel, he advanced to brush it ofi" with his 
 hand. Great was his wonder to discover that it 
 was only a painted fly — and he exclaimed, eag- 
 erly, yet as half in anger — 
 
 " Who has dared to do this ?" 
 
 '^ It was I," said Giotto, who now crept tim- 
 idly from a corner. " I beg your pardon, signore, 
 I did not think any harm in doing it." 
 
 " Nor was there any, my boy," cried Cima- 
 bue — " You are a painter, and I am proud to 
 confess your great talent." 
 
 Poor Giotto ! he was almost too happy to con- 
 tain himself, and kissed his master's hand with 
 delight. From that hour he labored with greater 
 diligence, and his fame soon spread abroad. 
 
 One day he received a command from Pope 
 Benedict to send a design for a church that was 
 to be erected. All painters were also architects 
 in those early days ; and Giotto instantly com- 
 plied with the message. He took a sheet of 
 paper and drew a perfect circle, without any 
 instruments save his hand and his arm, and 
 handing it to the messengers said : 
 
 " This is my design, bear it to his holiness, 
 for I shall offer no other." 
 
GIOTTO, THE PAINTER. 67 
 
 In vain the messengers remonstrated with 
 him, and at length they departed with the 
 circle. The Pope had wisdom enough to see 
 that Giotto's exhibition of his art was perfect, 
 and he sent for him to Rome, where he con- 
 ferred upon him rewards and honors. From 
 that day there was a new proverb in Italy, — 
 " Eound as Griotto's 0" was upon every body's 
 lips. 
 
 Giotto thenceforward received the patronage 
 and secured the friendship of the greatest and 
 wisest men of his time. He became intimate 
 with Dante, Boccacio and Petrarch, and at 
 length the poor peasant boy of Yespanagno 
 died, full of years and renown, at Milan, in 
 1836, honored alike for his genius and his 
 Christian virtues. 
 
 The moral of this beautiful little story is 
 brieiy told in a well known couplet : 
 
 *' Honor and shame from no condition rise, 
 Act well your part, there all the honor lies." 
 
 z^ 
 
68 THE MAN-ANGEL. 
 
 THE MAN-ANGEL. 
 
 The heart-blossom that I pluck to weave into 
 your little garland, is a very sweet one — a pale 
 floweret of memory that often opens and sheds 
 its fragrance around me in the night time. It 
 is my recollection of an angel that I once knew. 
 Now I see your eyes begin to twinkle, and a 
 smile play around your rose-bud lips ; for you 
 do not believe that I ever indeed knew an angel, 
 and think that I intend to " make up" a story 
 only to amuse you ; but I am serious : I once 
 knew an angel, and used to go to see him, and 
 sometimes he would come to see me. 
 
 How do you suppose he looked ? Do you 
 think his long sunny curls fell over shoulders 
 as fair as moonlight ; that his delicate feet were 
 like mother-of-pearl ; and that his wings rustled 
 softly as he folded them together, as the leaves 
 of the aspen do ; that his words flowed forth a 
 perpetual music — an unceasing song of joy ; and 
 that he made his home in some bright star, such 
 as Sirius, to which he would float ofi" in the even- 
 
THE MAN-ANGEL. 69 
 
 ing, looking in the distance like a silvery cloud, 
 amidst the blue air ? You are all wrong. He 
 was none of that. It is true he had a lovely 
 face, because it was full of love for everything ; 
 and his lips were beautiful, because they spoke 
 comfort to every body ; and his eye was full of 
 light, which it had drawn from Heaven, and 
 which it shed upon earth ; but when I knew 
 him his hair was white, for the sorrows of many 
 years had bleached it ; and his feet were encased 
 in stout leather shoes, which were covered with 
 dust in travelling from house to house on his 
 errands of charity ; and his clothes were very 
 plain, for the money which would have bought 
 him finer was given to clothe the naked. 
 
 His house was an humble one — a long, low, 
 brick dwelling, that had three rooms. One of 
 these was his school room ; for he spent many 
 years among those dear little beings, who are 
 the only things in all our world of which Christ 
 has said — ^^ Of such is the kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 In his room you would find a bed and a table, 
 a cupboard and a few chairs. If there were 
 other pieces of furniture, they were usually lent 
 to others, who perhaps may not have needed 
 them so much. Upon the wall hung a few pic- 
 tures of his friends. One was a miniature of 
 1^ - ' ' - = 
 
70 THE MAN-ANGEL. 
 
 Thomas Jefferson, given by the hand of the 
 President himself to this Man- Angel, and I have 
 often thought that the great author of the Dec- 
 laration of Independence might veil his face 
 before this — his early friend. 
 
 In the windows of his room were sweet and 
 blushing verbenas, and " lady's ear-drops," and 
 blowing roses ; and upon the table, under the 
 window, lay the old Bible. This was his casket 
 of jewels, and hence he drew the ornaments that 
 made him so glorious. 
 
 How often in this room, have I looked at the 
 dear old man and his gentle wife, while their two 
 grand-children played about the door ! and I 
 have tried to think of somebody in history or in 
 romance to whom I could compare him. Some- 
 times I have thought of the Vicar of Wakefield, 
 but the Vicar was not so pious, and I have said 
 to myself, "No, he is a Man- Angel ;" and I 
 have felt there was something awful in the pres- 
 ence of such sublime virtue. 
 
 On one occasion, after a severe illness, I heard 
 him say, " Death looked me in the face, and I 
 thank Grod, I could look him in the face." 
 Think of that 1 To be able to look death in 
 the face ! and with that serene, high look ! 
 "Was it not beautiful } 
 
THE MAN-ANGEL. 71 
 
 I might tell you many stories that would in- 
 terest you, and make you love this being, and 
 make you love virtue more. I could tell you 
 how often, when I have been weary and de- 
 pressed, he has come, and, sitting quietly beside 
 me, has spoken to me like a messenger from 
 Heaven, so encouragingly and kindly, that he 
 has left my heart gladdened, as he has gone 
 forth on his mission to pour the bright waters 
 of consolation on some other drooping head. 
 He was an apostle, baptizing every heart with 
 
 joy- 
 
 I had not known him long, when a dreadful 
 sickness swept through our town. Many of the 
 people fled in terror ; many remained trembling 
 every hour, lest death should enter their dwell- 
 ings. Then might be seen at all times, this 
 Man-Angel — " unhasting, unresting" — making 
 his rounds amidst sickness, and suffering, and 
 death. The perverse patient who refused to 
 take medicine from all others, received the 
 bitter draught from his hand. " When the ear 
 heard him, it blessed him ; and when the eye 
 saw him, it gave witness unto him." 
 
 It seems but yesterday that he was here 
 " with us, but not of us." At last, one sad 
 morning, it was said, — *' He also is ill ;" and 
 
72 THE MAN-ANGEL. 
 
 every physician in the place was around his 
 bed, and his lowly dwelling was crowded with 
 those that loved him, and every one felt it a 
 privilege to be permitted to hand him a drink 
 of water, or to adjust his pillow, or to wipe the 
 cold sweat from his brow. There the rich and 
 the poor met together to do him honor, and 
 they tried very hard to save him ; but he said, 
 ^ — " Nay, if it be God's will, I would rather die." 
 And one would not wonder at this ; for it was 
 natural that he should not wish to stay with us^ 
 because he was not like us ; but he wanted to 
 go where his Father was, and where his brother 
 angels were, and where his fortune was, that he 
 had " sent before him in the shape of alms." 
 Was he not right } 
 
 I looked on the face of the dying saint ; and 
 my soul kept praying silently to Grod, that the 
 mantle of this Elijah might fall upon me ; but 
 0, I am not like him ! 
 
 They dressed him in a suit of clothes which 
 the ladies of the town had given him, and which 
 he would not wear while he lived, because he 
 would wear nothing he had not paid for himself, 
 so independent was he ; and then they spread a 
 white sheet over him ; and when the people 
 were gone, and the house was hushed, I rever- 
 
THE STUFFED BAT. 73 
 
 ently turned down the sheet and gazed on the 
 face of death. 0, I have seen most beautiful 
 things ; beautiful painting, and beautiful sculp- 
 ture ! I have gazed upon the face of a lovely 
 woman, until my heart has " reeled with its ful- 
 ness." In nature and in art I have seen much 
 that is a delight to look upon. But never, 
 Tiever^ have I seen anything more solemnly 
 beautiful than the dead face of that " Man- 
 Angel." 
 
 -^V-NrTV/VVVVrv/VV— 
 
 THE STUFFED BAT. 
 
 BY MRS. MARTIN. 
 
 What is strength of nerve, mamma } inquired 
 a little girl of her mother ; I do not think I well 
 understand the expression. I can best explain 
 it, I think, by illustration, replied the mother ; 
 for were I to tell you it is firmness of body and 
 mind, on any emergency, you would still enter- 
 tain but a confused idea of its true meaning. 
 To proceed to my illustration, then, which shall 
 be brief and simple. 
 
--% 
 
 74 THE STUFFED BAT. 
 
 Mj friend, Mrs. G-regg, is a person of great 
 firmness of mind, for though brought up in plain 
 circumstances in the country, and suddenly 
 translated to the city, where wealth, and all 
 that it can command, awaited her, yet did she 
 resist every allurement to gaiety and fashion — 
 keeping on the even tenor of her way, doing and 
 getting good, in the unostentatious manner to 
 which she had been accustomed, while, instead 
 of " gold, and pearls, and costly array," she 
 exhibited only " the ornament of a meek and 
 quiet spirit, which in the sight of Grod is of 
 great price." But, though this friend of mine 
 manifested this firmness of mind, or strength of 
 religious principle, yet from constitutional deli- 
 cacy of body, and want of proper discipline, she 
 had very little strength of nerve. She would 
 faint at the sight of blood ; she would tremble 
 and turn pale at the spectacle of a wound, and 
 thus be incapacitated for rendering any personal 
 service in such cases. She confessed, too, to 
 unreasonable antipathies and prejudices ; espe- 
 cially had she an abhorrence of bats. She was 
 lamenting this, her infirmity, to her venerable 
 friend and neighbor, Dr. B., the celebrated 
 Naturalist, who was at the same time engaged 
 in the minute examination of a bat. But, Dr. 
 
 =^ 
 
THE STUFFED BAT. 75 
 
 B., said she, I think we can do a great many 
 diifficult things, if we try^ and I am going to try- 
 to overcome this foolish weakness of mine. I 
 mean to assist you with your experiments in 
 natural science to-day. I want to help you 
 to dissect and stuff that bat. We proceeded to 
 the task, said Dr. B., (for to him I owe the re- 
 lation.) At first, she turned pale and trembled. 
 Soon wonder and admiration at the admirable 
 contrivance and design displayed in the forma- 
 tion of the little creature overcame every other 
 feeling, and adoration of the Creator took the 
 place of abhorrence of his work. She then re- 
 quested that she might perform the office of 
 stuffing the bat herself, without my assistance. 
 Never again, said she, will I be foolishly afraid 
 of a bat, but with him always associate the 
 power and benevolence of his Creator. I think 
 I have to-day received a profitable lesson. She 
 was nearly through her task, when called off to 
 some household duty, she stuck her threaded 
 needle in the skin of the bat, till she might 
 return and put the finishing stitch. 
 
 In about half an hour, when she had performed 
 the duties requiring her attention, and was re- 
 turning to finish the bat, a great commotion and 
 excitement were observed in the yard, then loud 
 
% 
 
 76 THE STUFFED BAT. 
 
 screams, " he is killed ! he is killed !" then the 
 body of her eldest boy, borne by several men, 
 was brought in, mangled and bleeding. He had 
 ventured too near some machinery, had become 
 entangled in it, and was thereby terribly bruised 
 and lacerated. 
 
 The mother, pale, but firm, received her child 
 in her arms, gave directions, calmly and clearly, 
 where everything was to be found for his relief, 
 and during a dreadful surgical operation, on 
 which was suspended the issue of life or death, 
 her unflinching post was by her child, encour- 
 aging, soothing, and sustaining him. Admirable 
 woman, said the surgeon ; the success of the op- 
 eration has been greatly owing to her assistance. 
 Would, in the course of the practice, we might 
 oftener meet with, in females, this noble, useful 
 strength of nerve. When I returned to the 
 room we had been sitting in, said Dr. B., I 
 noticed that the threaded needle left sticking 
 in the stuifed bat, was removed. It had been 
 found most convenient for sewing up the wound 
 of the lacerated boy. I thought to myself, said 
 the doctor, maybe my stuffed bat had something 
 to do with that mother's strength of nerve. 
 Certain it is, she had received from it a fine 
 disciplinary lesson. 
 
^ - ' — — '" ' •" 
 
 PICCIOLA. 77 
 
 My daughter, while we should neglect no 
 proper means for bracing our bodies and minds 
 for the duties of life, we must not forget to ask 
 Grod's blessing on these means. (My friend, a 
 woman of prayer, no doubt thus enforced her 
 disciplinary lesson.) Thus doubly fortified, it 
 shall, in all cases, be our privilege to adopt the 
 language of Scripture, " When I am weak, then 
 am I strong." 
 
 PICCIOLA.* 
 
 Charles Yeramont, Count de Charney, was 
 one of the most accomplished and wealthy young 
 nobles in France. He came into the possession 
 of his fortune about the time Napoleon Bona- 
 parte was made First Consul, and during several 
 years ranked among the stars of Parisian society. 
 Unfortunately, his mind became imbued with 
 the sceptical philosophy which then ruled all 
 
 * The charming book from which this story is abridged, was 
 written in French, by M. X. B. Saintine. It has deservedly be- 
 come a classic, and besides being an exquisite narrative, it is so 
 pervaded by a moral and religious spirit as to commend it to the 
 Christian as well as the scholar. 
 % 
 
78 PICCIOLA. 
 
 spirits in France. Charney possessed all worldly 
 advantages ; he was young, of fine appearance, 
 high rank, large possessions and gifted with more 
 than common talents, which he had well culti- 
 vated. But Charney was unhappy; nothing 
 gave him satisfaction, nothing touched his heart. 
 His mind, which was part of his immortal na- 
 ture, was restless and uneasy because limited to 
 worldly knowledge ; bounded by earth, the as- 
 pirations of his spiritual being were checked : he 
 saw nowhere a nobler, loftier being than man, 
 than himself. He admired nature, but she was 
 dumb, she did not speak to him of God, for in 
 his heart he had said, '' There is no God." He 
 saw around him only imperfections and weakness 
 in his fellow men, and he turned aside wearied 
 and disgusted with life. 
 
 Seeking excitement, however, for his active 
 powers could not rest, he engaged in a conspiracy 
 against Bonaparte ; the plot was detected, the 
 conspirators punished ; Charney was imprisoned 
 in the fortress of Fenestrella. Here he had no 
 luxuries, not even comforts ; no books, no writing 
 materials, no means of amusement. With a piece 
 of coal he wrote sentences upon the wall, and in 
 his bitterness he wrote, " Chance, though hlindy 
 is the author of Creation .'" He engraved de- 
 
PICCIOLA. 79 
 
 signs on his wooden table, he passed whole hours 
 buried in gloomy, hopeless revery. He saw at 
 a small window, visible from his own grated 
 window, a man, a prisoner like himself; he 
 inquired of the jailor how the man amused 
 himself. 
 
 " Catching insects," said Ludovic with a 
 smile. 
 
 Charney had detested his fellow-prisoner as a 
 human being, he now despised him as a fool. 
 But which was the wiser, Charney in his scep- 
 ticism, or the man for so many years a prisoner, 
 who passed his time in praying to God, for he 
 was a Christian, and in making a collection of 
 insects, from whose mechanism and habits he 
 learned much of Grod's designs ? 
 
 One day Count Charney sat in his little stone 
 paved court yard ; it was surrounded by high 
 walls, no trees or vines overshadowed it ; nothing 
 was to be seen but the stones at his feet, the 
 stone walls around, and a little sky whose brief 
 sunshine mocked the heart of the captive . Look- 
 ing gloomily on the pavement, he noticed that 
 the earth between two of the huge stones, was 
 broken, and stooping down and pushing it aside 
 he saw a blade of something green springing up. 
 He was about to crush it with his foot, when the 
 % 
 
80 PICCIOLA. 
 
 » — 
 
 breeze brought to him a breath of the perfume 
 of flowers. He was touched and interested, and 
 examined the little stranger to see how it had 
 been able to make its way into the world ; he 
 saw how its leaves were folded up and covered 
 to protect them while so young and tender. He 
 mused upon this adaptation to its wants, and 
 resolved to cherish the plant. 
 
 Day by day the little leaves unfolded and 
 deepened in hue, the stem strengthened and 
 stoutly held itself up ; the Count watched it 
 with increasing interest ; he saw the down upon 
 the stem and asked himself why it was there, 
 and the next morning he saw the hoar-frost had 
 lodged upon it, prevented by it from reaching 
 the plant itself. When the wind blew, the 
 tender stem bent and escaped its fury ; if it 
 received injury, the sunshine came out and 
 healed it, the pores of the leaves drank in dew 
 to nourish it. Charney watched it ; "picao^<2," 
 said he — this is the Italian for ''poor little 
 thing." Count Charney was really touched 
 with affection for the prison plant, and when 
 he saw how it was nourished and cared for by 
 its Creator, he went into his prison, and wrote 
 upon the wall, after the sentence, " chance is 
 the author of creation," '' Perhaps." 
 
PICCIOLA. 81 
 
 By and by the Count learned that Ludovic, 
 whom he hated doubly, because he was a man 
 and because he was his jailor, perceiving his 
 interest in the plant, watered and tended it for 
 him. Charney's heart softened towards him, he 
 began to believe there was good as well as ecil 
 in human beings, and he gTew more loving to his 
 species. As time passed on he fell sick. Lud- 
 ovic nursed him tenderly ; he fancied the plant 
 might possess valuable medicinal qualities, since 
 the Count was so careful of it, and when the 
 sick man became delirous and death seemed 
 very near, poor Ludovic, in his despair, cut off 
 some of Picciola's leaves and made a strong 
 drink of them for the invalid. Whether the 
 plant possessed any power, or nature was about 
 to terminate the struggle favorably, I cannot 
 say, but Charney at once grew better. When 
 well enough to walk again in the court yard, he 
 regarded with more affection than ever the plant 
 which had become not only the mistress of his 
 thoughts, but had proved herself his physician. 
 Picciola was now in full bloom. Charney ob- 
 served the flowers following the sun in its course ; 
 saw how the petals folded themselves when the 
 rain was coming, and finally observed how its 
 perfume varied at different hours of the day. 
 
82 PICCIOLA. 
 
 The other prisoner observing the Count's de- 
 votion to the flower, sent him by Ludovic a mi- 
 croscope which magnified a hundred times the 
 beauties of his favorite. Charney was all grat- 
 itude to the owner of the microscope and to the 
 jailor. Girhardi, so the prisoner was called, 
 possessed one child, Theresa ; she was good and 
 beautiful, of rare gifts and entirely devoted to 
 her father, whose imprisonment was her only 
 thought, her constant grief. She came often to 
 see her father, and from his window observed 
 and became interested in Charney. It was to 
 her thoughtful kindness he owed the invaluable 
 microscope, which Girhardi insisted on his re- 
 taining. He was overwhelmed with gratitude, 
 and he considered that he owed it all to Picciola. 
 He blessed the little flower which had restored 
 to him his humanity ; but for her these men 
 would still be despised. He blessed her that 
 she had taught him lessons of her Creator, of 
 God, of Heaven, — for if there is a God there is 
 a Heaven, an Eternity. He had written upon 
 the wall, " God is hut a word ;" he added to it, 
 "/^ not this word the one which explains the enigma 
 of the Universe 7^^ 
 
 But a change came over Picciola ; she faded, 
 she drooped. Charney was alarmed ; he watered 
 
PICCIOLA. 83 
 
 and supported her, but to no purpose ; the open- 
 ing between the two stones was too narrow, — 
 they were pressing upon the stem, and Picciola 
 would die ! Neither jailor nor superintendant 
 could give him permission to remove the stones. 
 He hastened to his chamber almost in despair, 
 but there was one hope. Girhardi had found 
 means to inform him that Napoleon, now Em- 
 peror, was going to Milan ; he would pass not 
 far from Fenestrella. Charney took one of his 
 finest handkerchiefs, he made ink of soot and 
 water, and wrote upon the handkerchief a peti- 
 tion to the Emperor — ^for liberty ? Oh, no ! 
 for permission to remove the flagstones of ^ the 
 yard, that his Picciola might not die ! Theresa 
 undertook to carry the petition : — tied to a 
 string, Grirhardi drew it up into his prison, and 
 Theresa set out for Turin, where the Emperor 
 was said to be. When she arrived there, he had 
 gone to Alexandria, double the distance poor 
 Theresa had already traversed. She was almost 
 hopeless, but quite so when her guide refused to 
 accompany her any farther. But money and 
 earnestness procured her a conveyance, and she 
 at length reached Marengo, where the Emperor 
 was holding a review of his troops in commem- 
 oration of his victory there, five years before. 
 
% 
 
 84 PICCIOLA. 
 
 She hastened and presented her petition — she 
 was refused ! 
 
 Poor Charney ! Theresa was forbidden to ap- 
 proach the prisoner again. Officers were sent 
 to enquire into the loose control which allowed 
 Charney to send a petition to the Emperor. 
 His room was examined, the jailor reprimanded : 
 — Charney had built a little shelter of sticks 
 about Picciola, to protect her from sun and wind 
 - — the superintendant tore it down ; the bench 
 on which he had sat to watch her was ordered 
 to be carried away ; they were about to kill 
 Picciola ; Charney was in agony. Just then 
 two strangers appeared, a paper was put into 
 his hands, and he read a gracious missive signed 
 by the lovely hand of the most amiable of women, 
 Josephine. She said the Emperor had granted 
 the Count's petition, and she recommended the 
 Count to the especial favor of the jailor. 
 
 " Long live the Empress !" shouted Ludovic. 
 
 Charney kissed the signature, and was mute^. 
 
 As days passed on, Charney was happy in his 
 love for his flower, in the favors he procured for 
 her and himself through the jailor ; but poor 
 Grirhardi was unable to communicate with him ; 
 over him the watch was redoubled ; for him no 
 Josephine had yet been moved to petition. One 
 % =-^0 
 
— % 
 
 PICCIOLA. 85 
 
 day a paper fell at Charney's feet — he read on 
 it, '^ Hope, and tell your neighbor to hope^for 
 God does not forget you.'^^ Poor Theresa ! she 
 wrote it, and knew not that Charney could no 
 longer speak to her father. 
 
 But the next morning a great happiness was 
 in store for him ; Grirhardi was removed into the 
 next chamber to his own : the friends for the 
 first time met. Theresa had not petitioned for 
 their happiness in vain ; once near Josephine, 
 her father must receive some favor. The old 
 man, we have said, was a Christian ; his only 
 son had died in the service of Napoleon ; base 
 perjurors had informed the Emperor that Gir- 
 hardi, exasperated against him, sought his life, 
 and for this he was imprisoned. Now that he 
 and Charney were together, he every day in- 
 structed the Count in spiritual wisdom. With 
 Picciola for a text book, he expounded to him 
 the evidences of a God, as visible in all His 
 works, until, with Newton, Charney could ex- 
 claim : 
 
 " The universe is one perfect whole — all is 
 harmony— all the evidence of one Almighty 
 Will. Our feeble minds cannot grasp it at 
 once, but we know, from the perfection of parts, 
 that it is so." 
 
86 PICCIOLA. 
 
 But Girha-rdi was soon released from all cap- 
 tivity ; the good Empress interceded for him, 
 and Theresa, the noble Theresa, was worthy the 
 happiness she enjoyed when, as a messenger of 
 liberty, she came to remove him from his prison. 
 Charney saw her for the first time. As he had 
 mused beside his flower, Picciola had often ap- 
 peared before him in the semblance of a young 
 and exceedingly lovely and pure maiden ; he 
 had learned to love the creation of his fancy 
 represented by Picciola. In Theresa, he re- 
 cognised the fair girl of his dreams. He had 
 long ago sent her a flower of Picciola — accident 
 revealed to him a locket hidden in her dress, 
 containing on one side the gray hair of her 
 father, on the other the faded flower ! Thus 
 had he seen her in his dreams, except that she 
 then wore the flower in her hair ; now it was on 
 her heart. 
 
 Why need we continue this story longer ? 
 Charney's release followed soon after Grirhardi's, 
 and he bore away from the fortress with him, 
 Picciola in. his hand, and in his heart true love 
 to man, and faith in Grod, which she had brought 
 him. Theresa became his wife, and Picciola 
 was cherished, until a living flower, an infant 
 son, enhanced the blessedness of Charney. 
 
 %:z 
 
STANZAS. 87 
 
 When Ludovic, honest, good Ludovic came to 
 stand as godfather to the young heir, he saw 
 Picciola faded and forgotten in the midst of so 
 much happiness. But it was well, for the 
 mission of the prison-flower was fulfilled. 
 
 — vr%/\/\/» »\/%^N^N/\/^— 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 BY MRS. E. F. EL. LET. 
 
 How can you bid me immure myself, pray. 
 When Nature about me is smiling and bright ? 
 
 When all out of doors look so lovely and gay, 
 And the sky is so full of its soul-cheering light } 
 
 How can you bid me o'er musty tomes pore, 
 
 And read my eyes out, while my head aches in 
 keeping, 
 When the woodlands and fields teach such beautiful 
 lore. 
 And my heart to their gladness responsive is leap- 
 ing? 
 
 Like the " sweet bard of Avon," far better than books 
 I love to peruse those rich blossoming pages ; 
 
88 STANZAS. 
 
 And the sermons in stones, trees, and swift running 
 brooks. 
 Are more dear to my mind than the wisdom of 
 
 I was born for rejoicing ! a " summer child" truly ; 
 
 And kindred I claim with each wild joyous thing ; 
 The light frolic breeze, or the streamlet unruly. 
 
 Or a cloud at its play, or a bird on the wing ! 
 
 Could you chain the blithe waves, dancing wild in their 
 glee ? 
 Could you check the glad mock-bird, his carol re- 
 peating ? 
 Hold the laughing leaves still, that are fluttering so 
 free. 
 Or the sun-gleams that o'er the green meadows are 
 fleeting ? 
 
 And why is my spi-rit attuned like a lute 
 
 To the music that all things around me are feeling, 
 
 If its voice in that concert alone must be mute — 
 If I shut out the doctrine of Nature's revealing ? 
 
 % ■~ 'd 
 
THREE CHAPTERS IN THE, ETC. 89 
 
 THKEE CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE 
 OF A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was the month of March, and never was 
 there known in that rough, blustering month, a 
 more rough and blustering day than the one on 
 which our story opens. During the whole week 
 clouds had been gathering in the sky, a-nd fierce 
 winds had pushed forth from the north and east, 
 and driven them hither and thither. Saturday 
 was a very gloomy day, — the storm was close at 
 hand, and on Sunday the rain came down in 
 torrents, keeping from the house of Grod all who 
 usually went up thither with other motives than 
 those Grod has bidden us to feel when we enter 
 his earthly courts. Still a small congregation 
 of devout worshippers had assembled for after- 
 noon service, in the old church in the village of 
 Conway, and when Mr. Hobart had finished the 
 service and the people dispersed, they heeded 
 
90 THREE CHAPTERS IN THE 
 
 not the rain, but said to one another, " It has 
 been good for ns that we went up thither." 
 
 Samuel, the gray-haired negro of Mr. Hobart, 
 who performed the duties of church sexton, was 
 just closing the doors, as the last lingerer de- 
 parted, when his attention was arrested by a 
 groan, which sounded close beside him. The 
 old man started — 
 
 '' Bress me ! what dat .?" said he. 
 
 No answer was returned but another groan, and 
 a half murmured word convinced him that he was 
 not deceived, and that some human being was 
 near him and in distress. He hastened around 
 an angle whence the sound seemed to come, 
 when a sight greeted his eyes which almost de- 
 prived him of his senses. Sitting at the base 
 of a pillar which supported the heavy stone work 
 around the top of the church, her head thrown 
 back against the cold marble and the pitiless 
 rain beating on her unprotected face and bosom, 
 was a woman, delicate and young, and once beau- 
 tiful, but now. Oh ! how emaciated, how deplor- 
 able her aspect ! Her long black hair hung 
 upon her shoulders, heavy with the rain, a thin 
 shawl was torn from her feeble grasp by the 
 wind, and upon her breast lay a beautiful infant 
 — its sweet eyes opened in wonder at the rude 
 
LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL. 91 
 
 storm raging about them, and its dimpled hands 
 playing with the ebon tresses of the woman. 
 
 Samuel did not long stand motionless ; he 
 took from his shoulders an old cloak which had 
 once done service for his master, and proceeded 
 to wrap it about both mother and child, while he 
 ejaculated " Bress me," repeatedly, and in a 
 manner which showed he was rather invoking 
 blessings on the miserable beings before him. 
 He asked no questions — he saw misery and suf- 
 fering — and his kind heart only suggested com- 
 fort and relief. He was a strong man still, and 
 the poor woman was not much heavier than a 
 baby ; his strong arms encircled mother and 
 child, and he hastened across the church-yard 
 with them, and entered the garden of Mr. Ho- 
 bart's house. The minister was looking from 
 the study window, when he saw old Samuel with 
 his singular burden. 
 
 " Martha, Martha !" called Mr. Hobart, and 
 as his house-keeper (for he was a man bereft 
 of wife and child,) made her appearance, 
 " Martha," said he, " Samuel has found in the 
 storm some object of pity, who needs our kindest 
 care. Let her be brought in here and laid upon 
 my couch, and do you remain and see what may 
 be needed." 
 
92 THREE CHAPTERS IN THE 
 
 Old Samuel deposited the poor creature on 
 tlie couch by the blazing fire, and proceeding to 
 divest her of the mantle, revealed the smiling 
 babe. It seemed to have been but little affected 
 bj the misery its mother had endured ; though 
 a little tired, its limbs were still rounded and 
 dimpled, its head was covered with waves of 
 soft fair hair, its blue eyes were clear and bright, 
 and its rosy mouth ever ready to smile and coo. 
 As Martha lifted the sweet child from its resting 
 place, she involuntarily pressed her lips to its 
 cheek, and Mr. Hobart gazed at it with eyes 
 dewy with emotion. The mother saw the ca- 
 resses, and noted the gentleman's manner. 
 
 " Thank Grod," she murmured, " my Lillie 
 is safe ; has a home where she will be loved. 
 Oh ! Father of Mercies, I bless thee for this 
 consolation in my dying hour," and overcome 
 by her feelings, she fainted in the arms of the 
 minister, who was hastening to support her. 
 When they had recovered her from her swoon, 
 Martha prepared for her a comfortable bed in a 
 room close at hand, to which they removed her 
 and there administered some refreshment. Most 
 tenderly did Martha nurse her and the little 
 Lillie ; the child throve upon it, but the mother 
 grew weaker, as day by day passed on, and she 
 
LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL. 93 
 
 received the kindest attentions from all at the par- 
 sonage. There was no hope of life for her, and 
 she knew it. The approach of death did not 
 trouble her, only as she thought of her child ; 
 and if she must leave it, more tender fi*iends 
 could not be found for it. Before she died, she 
 had a long interview with Mr. Hobart ; what she 
 told him of herself and Lillie, shall be made 
 known in another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Several years passed on. Lillie Moore, such 
 was the infant's name, had grown to be a lovely 
 and intelligent girl ; she was perhaps ten years 
 old when I shall again introduce her to you. 
 Mr. Hobart still preached to the Conway Church, 
 and Martha Dale was still his housekeeper. She 
 was a distant relation of the minister, and when 
 death had taken away his two children, and sick- 
 ness had prostrated his wife upon a couch from 
 which she should never rise, he had sent for his 
 cousin and given her charge of his house. She 
 nursed Mrs. Hobart with a sister's tenderness, 
 but the victim of consumption soon found rest in 
 her grave, and Mr. Hobart was left alone but for 
 
 %= 
 
94 THREE CHAPTERS IN THE 
 
 Martha ; when Providence gave him the little 
 Lillie to protect and train as she grew older. 
 Martha Dale conscientiously and judiciously 
 fulfilled to the orphan the duties of a mother, 
 and the little girl grew in beauty and goodness 
 and knowledge. 
 
 One warm summer day Martha put aside her 
 work, and calling Lillie, who had just finished 
 her lessons in the library, said to her she would 
 like to listen while the child should read to her 
 from the Bible. Lillie readily obeyed, for it 
 made her happy to be able to do anything for 
 one she loved as she did her good nurse. As 
 Lillie proceeded in her reading, she came to the 
 passage in which children are bidden to obey and 
 honor their parents. She looked up from her 
 book and said to Martha : 
 
 " And if they have no father and mother. 
 Aunt Martha, I suppose they must pay their 
 duty as children to those who do for them what 
 parents would do ; you and Uncle Hobart are 
 like parents to me." 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Martha, " and your Uncle 
 Hobart is indeed almost as near to you as a 
 parent ; I know he loves you as well." 
 
 " Why did he say the other day, that he 
 wished my name was Helen .?" 
 
LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL. 95 
 
 " Because that was the name of his wife 
 whom he loved very dearly, and you, my dear 
 child, are the daughter of that lady's brother." 
 
 Lillie looked up in wonder, and Martha con- 
 tinued : " Before your dear mother died she 
 told us who she was, and now that you were in 
 the very home she was seeking for you. Henry 
 Moore, your father, was a sea captain, and when 
 he left his wife for the first time after his mar- 
 riage, a sad presentiment of evil seemed to hang 
 over him. He told her he had a sister in the 
 upper part of the State, married to a clergyman, 
 and begged her if anything should happen to him 
 or to herself, that she should need a friend, to 
 promise him to go to Helen Hobart. He had 
 offended his sister soon after her marriage, and 
 had not heard from her for several years, ' but 
 she loves me still, I know,' he said, ' and my 
 wife will find her all a sister should be.' 
 
 " His fears were verified. Months passed on 
 after Captain Moore sailed, and only once was 
 he heard from ; then a year went by ; and no 
 tidings came, and it was supposed the ship had 
 been wrecked at sea, and all on board of her had 
 perished. The poor young wife had given birth 
 to you, my little Lillie, a few months after your 
 father sailed. When nothing was heard from him. 
 
% 
 
 96 THREE CHAPTERS IN THE 
 
 and his sad fate seemed confirmed, she thought 
 she could die ; she had no wish to live now, but 
 her child must be saved. So she travelled till 
 her money was spent, by the public conveyances, 
 and then leaving her scanty stock of clothes at 
 the last stopping-place, she took you in her 
 arms and tried to walk from Elton to Conway. 
 Old Samuel told you the other day how he found 
 you, and you know your mother died here, sur- 
 rounded by comforts and rendered happy in her 
 last hours, by the knowledge that you were so 
 well provided for. 
 
 '^ And now, Lillie, shut up the book, I must 
 go and give Kitty directions about the supper. 
 Wipe away your tears, my darling, and run and 
 play in the garden where I see your uncle is 
 walking." 
 
 Lillie obeyed the kind old lady, but her heart 
 was full, so she walked by the side of Mr. Ho- 
 bart, and questioning him more concerning her 
 parents, ended by expressing her belief that 
 her papa was not really dead, that he had been 
 saved when his vessel was lost, and that some 
 day she should see him. 
 
 How far her conjectures ^^ere right I will tell 
 you in the next chapter, which will interest you 
 much more than these, I hope. 
 
LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL. 97 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Gently the years passed on, and Lillie Moore 
 was fourteen. She was as sweet and gentle a 
 little maiden as your fancy could depict. I 
 knew Lillie well, and never was the most ill- 
 natured person able to say anything ill of her. 
 She was to her kind protectors all that the ten- 
 derest daughter could have been, and as for 
 them, their " hearts were bound up" in the 
 child : she was the light of their eyes and the 
 joy of their souls, and the blessedness of life 
 itself to them. I was often at the parsonage in 
 those days, and one evening which I spent there, 
 I shall remember as long as memory is left me. 
 
 It was Christmas night. The day had been 
 as beautiful as the sun could make, in a world 
 divested of green leaves, of its birds and flowers. 
 That morning Mr. Hobart had held divine service 
 in his church, in commemoration of Christ's na- 
 tivity, and after church a few choice friends had 
 accompanied him home and partaken of his 
 Christmas dinner. In the evening Lillie was 
 to have some of her friends to visit hef, and 
 witness a scene peculiar to the pastor's house. 
 
=% 
 
 98 THREE CHAPTERS IN THE 
 
 Since her infancy, Mr. Hobart and Martha had 
 spared no pains to make this child happy ; but 
 Christmas was the happy day of the year to 
 Lillie, and now they usually celebrated it by a 
 Christmas Tree, as it is called. 
 
 Soon after dark the young people came drop- 
 ping in, until some twelve or fifteen young girls 
 were assembled in the little drawing-room. Then 
 Mr. Hobart lighted the wax tapers, which were 
 almost innumerable, on the branches of the tree, 
 and when it was fairly illuminated, his guests 
 were summoned to admire it. Desiring to look 
 upon it as upon a picture, I stepped out upon the 
 piazza which surrounded that portion of the 
 house, and Oh ! I wish I had the pencil of an ar- 
 tist to paint for you the scene which I looked on. 
 
 In the centre of the room was the Christmas 
 Tree, reaching nearly to the ceiling ; it was a 
 beautiful cedar, as symmetrical as possible ; 
 upon every bough were hung the gifts which 
 Lillie had received from her friends on that 
 day ; — also those she intended presenting to her 
 young friends invited there. There were neck- 
 laces of coral, silver birds, and silver arrows, 
 baskets of bonbons and cornucopias already 
 emptying their stores of plenty on the carpet. 
 Bunches of delicious grapes, rosy apples, and 
 % 
 
LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL. 99 
 
 luscious looking oranges seemed growing from 
 the branches ; and every tiny bough bore its 
 lighted taper, making such a blaze of brightness 
 about the whole, as quite dazzled the beholder. 
 Underneath the tree, resting against its trunk, 
 were the weightier gifts, which the branches 
 could not sustain. There were costly books, 
 fine pictures, and two large dolls which I found 
 were intended as gifts to two little pets. Fan 
 Austin and Fid Williams, to whom dolls were 
 still the choice companions. Mr. Hobart stood 
 near the tree^, taking from its bounteous stores 
 the gifts, which Lillie was distributing to the de- 
 lighted children. 
 
 How lovely Lillie looked, as she thus enacted 
 Lady Bountiful, and with what fondness her 
 uncle regarded her. There were some in the 
 room as old as she was, but none who possessed 
 her graceful self-possession, her gentle, yet dig- 
 nified carriage, her winning smile and voice of 
 melody. By and by Mr. Hobart asked for some 
 music ; then I saw the little ones. Fan Austin 
 and Fid Williams, begin to caper about ; Fid 
 was still with her nurse, for she was not more 
 than two or three years old, and the little crea- 
 ture jumped about — dancing, as she considered 
 it — certainly keeping time, though with most 
 
100 THREE CHAPTERS IN THE 
 
 ludicrous motions, to the piano. Fan, also, 
 danced and whirled around, to the great amuse- 
 ment of the older girls. In the midst of this 
 merriment, while the sounds of mirth within pre- 
 vented my hearing anything out of doors, I be- 
 came conscious of some one standing near me. 
 It was none of the Rector's other guests, for 
 they, with himself and aunt Martha, were in the 
 drawing room. As I turned around, I saw in 
 the full light that fell upon him from the win- 
 dow, that it was, a gentleman and a stranger who 
 thus intruded. Surprised at the intrusion, and 
 at the emotion he manifested, I did not for a 
 moment know what to say. 
 
 While I thus hesitated, he seemed to arouse 
 himself from the thoughts which had called forth 
 the sigh that had first attracted my attention, 
 and he apologetically addressed me thus : — 
 
 " Be not severe, madam, in your judgment 
 of a stranger. You will soon know who I am, 
 and will not censure me for having, as you doubt- 
 less consider it, intruded on these festivities. 
 Will you have the goodness to let Mr. Hobart 
 know that a gentleman wishes to see him .^" 
 
 I entered the house and informed the minister 
 that a stranger desired his presence in the library. 
 When he had gone to him, I remained among 
 
%=: 
 
 LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL., - 101" 
 
 the guests in the drawing room, but I saw no 
 longer the beautiful Christmas Tree and the 
 merry children. I was thinking of the stranger, 
 from whom I had just parted— the singular and 
 apparently stealthy approach to the house — his 
 peculiar manner, and his intimation that I should 
 know more of him. At that moment my eye 
 rested on Lillie ; I started as I saw in her coun- 
 tenance a most striking resemblance to the 
 stranger. There was the same Grecian profile, 
 the short upper lip, so very beautiful when in 
 combination with the classic outline to which it 
 belongs, the large mild blue eyes, the very tones 
 of voice were hauntingly similar. I remem- 
 bered, then, all I had known of LUlie's early 
 life, and of her introduction into the Rector's 
 family, and I decided in my own mind that a 
 relative, at least, of the orphan, was near her. 
 
 While thus meditating, she was summoned 
 from the apartment. In a few minutes the 
 minister entered alone, with a voice which elec- 
 trified the little company, with the news it con- 
 veyed ; he told them that his brother-in-law, 
 Captain Moore, the father of his little Lillie, 
 had just arrived, and the dear girl had received 
 in her father, a Christmas gift, which the magical 
 tree could not think of equalling. 
 
102 , thaes chapters in the, etc. 
 
 All ! that was a very happy evening at the 
 rectory. Captain Moore and his daughter joined 
 the company soon, and the little people listened 
 with wonder to his narrative of the dangers and 
 imminent perils from which he had escaped ; 
 from the wrath of the sea on the night his ship 
 was lost, from the famine which threatened the 
 few who had saved their lives in the long boat, 
 from the perils of pirates and savages, and all 
 other dangers from which the mercy of God had 
 protected him during the last fourteen years. 
 
 He had returned to find his sister dead, his 
 wife dead : he also feared the child whom he 
 had never seen had also died, and that no being 
 who might claim relationship with him was left 
 to welcome him home after such a life of disaster 
 and suffering. He had ascertained on reaching 
 that village, where he knew his sister's husband 
 still lived, that the minister had a little girl liv- 
 ing with him whom he called his niece, and who 
 bore the name of " Lillie Moore." He saw the 
 child, and parental instinct told him she was his 
 own. " God be thanked for such a treasure," 
 said he, as she nestled her dear head on his 
 breast. 
 
 Pear little reader, this is not all a fiction. 
 
 ^% 
 
 
BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 103 
 
 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 
 
 One morning, there was a little girl sitting on 
 the door-step of a pleasant cottage near the 
 common. She was thin and pale. Her head 
 was resting upon her slender hand. There was 
 a touching sadness in her sweet face, which the 
 dull, heavy expression about her jet black eyes, 
 did not destroy. What was she thinking of, — 
 sitting thus alone ^ Perhaps of that pretty flower- 
 garden, which she had cultivated with so much 
 taste and care ? Those blue morning-glories, 
 and bright yellow nasturtians, which she had 
 taught to climb to her window ? — or those four- 
 o'clocks, which she had planted in so straight a 
 line, under the little fence which encircled the 
 flower bed } She might have been thinking of 
 these, — perhaps wondering whether she should 
 see these flowers, which she had been cultivating 
 with so much care, open their pretty leaves to 
 another summer's sun. 
 
 Her name was Helen. For several weeks she 
 had seemed to be drooping, without any partic- 
 
=% 
 
 104 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 
 
 ular disease ; inconstant in her attendance at 
 school, and losing gradually her interest in all 
 her former employments. Helen had one sister, 
 Clara, a little older than herself, and several 
 brothers. While she was most indisposed they 
 had expressed a great deal of sympathy, and 
 tried to amuse her, and had willingly given up 
 their own enjoyments, to promote hers. But 
 children will too often be selfish ; and when 
 Helen, for some days, appeared better and able 
 to run about and amuse herself, they would for- 
 get how peculiarly sensitive she had become, and 
 the cross words which they occasionally spoke, 
 and the neglect with which they sometimes 
 treated her, wounded her feelings, and caused 
 her to shed many bitter tears, as she lay awake 
 on her little cot at night. 
 
 This day she seemed better, and it was some- 
 thing her sister had said to her just before, which 
 gave that expression of sadness to her face, as 
 she sat at the door of the cottage. Clara soon 
 came to her again. 
 
 " Helen, mother says you must go to school 
 to-day ; so get up, come along and get ready, 
 and not be moping there any longer." 
 
 " Did Ma say so .^" asked Helen. 
 
 " Yes, she did," answered Clara ; you are 
 
BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 105 
 
 well enougli I know, for you always say you are 
 sick, at school-time. Get your bonnet, for I 
 shan't wait." 
 
 Helen got up slowly, and wiping with her 
 apron the tear which had started in her eye, 
 she made her preparations to obey her mother's 
 command. Now Clara had a very irritable dis- 
 position. She could not bear to have Helen 
 receive any more attention or sympathy than 
 herself ; and unless she were really so sick as 
 to excite her fears ^ she never would allow her to 
 be sick at all. She was determined not to go 
 to school alone this.morning, and had persuaded 
 her mother to make her sister go with her. 
 
 In a few moments, they were both ready : 
 but now a difficulty presented itself. The dis- 
 tance to school was so great, that they seldom 
 returned at noon. Their dinner had been packed 
 for them, in a large basket which stood in the 
 entry. Upon whom, now, should the task of 
 carrying this devolve ? 
 
 " Helen," said Ckra, ^' I've carried the basket 
 every day for a week ; it's your turn now." 
 
 " But it is twice as heavy now," said the little 
 girl, " I can but just lift it." 
 
 *' Well, I dont care," cried her sister, " I 
 have got my geography and atlas to carry ; so 
 
106 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 
 
 take it up, and come along, Miss Fudge. I 
 shan't touch it." 
 
 Helen took up the basket, without saying 
 another word, though it required all her little 
 strength, and walked slowly behind her sister. 
 She tried hard to keep from crying, but the 
 tears would come, as fast as she wiped them off. 
 They walked on thus in silence for about a 
 quarter of an hour. Clara felt too much ill- 
 humor to take the least notice of her sister. 
 She knew she had done wrong, and felt uneasy, 
 but was yet too proud to give up, and was de- 
 termined to hold out ; excusing herself by think- 
 ing, — " Well, Helen is always saying she is sick, ' 
 and making a great fuss. It's just good enough 
 for her." When she had reached the half-way 
 stone, she had half a mind not to let her rest 
 there, as usual ; but the habit was too strong 
 to be easily broken, and she sat down sullenly 
 to wait for Helen to come up. 
 
 This was a spot which few could have passed 
 unnoticed. The broad flat stone was shaded by 
 a beautiful weeping willow, whose branches hung 
 so low, that even little Maria could reach them 
 by standing on tiptoe ; — and around the trunk 
 of this tree ran a little brook, which came up 
 just to this rustic seat, and then turned off into 
 
BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 107 
 
 the next meadow. It would seem as if the 
 beauty of this place must have charmed away 
 the evil spirit which was raging in Clara's 
 breast ; — but no ! The cool shade brought no 
 refreshment to those evil passions, and the little 
 ripples which sparkled in the sunbeam did not 
 for one moment divert her attention from her 
 own cross feelings. As I said before, she sat 
 sullenly, till Helen came up, and then began to 
 scold her for being so slow. 
 
 " Why don't you come along faster, Helen ; 
 you will be late at school, and I don't care if 
 you are : you deserve a good scolding for act- 
 ing so." 
 
 " Why Clara, I am very tired ^ my head does 
 ache, and this basket is very heavy. I do think 
 you ought to carry it the rest of the way." 
 
 " Do give it to me then," said Clara, and 
 snatched it from her with such violence that the 
 cover came off. The apples rolled out and fell 
 into the water, the gingerbread followed, and 
 the pie rolled into the du't. It has been truly 
 said, " Anger is a short madness ;" for how 
 little reason have those who indulge in it. 
 Helen was not to blame for the accident, but 
 Clara did not stop to think of this. Yexed at 
 having thus lost her dinner, she turned and gave 
 % — ^ 
 
108 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 
 
 her little sister a push, and then walked on as 
 rapidly as possible, ' could she have foreseen 
 the consequences of this rash act — could she 
 have known the bitter anguish which it would 
 afterwards cause her, worlds would not have 
 tempted her to do it ; lv,t Clara was angry. 
 Helen was seated just on the edge of the stone, 
 and she fell into the water. It was not deep. 
 She had waded there many a day with her shoes 
 and stockings off, and she easily got out again, 
 but it frightened her very much and took away 
 all her strength. She could not even call to her 
 sister, or cry. A strange feeling came over her, 
 such as she had never had before. She laid her 
 head on the stone, closed her eyes, and thought 
 she was going to die, and she wished her mother 
 was there. Then she seemed to sleep for a few 
 moments ; — ^but by and by she felt better, and, 
 getting up, she took her empty basket and walked 
 on, as fast as she was able, towards school. 
 
 It was nearly half done when she arrived 
 there, and as she entered the room, all noticed 
 her pale face and wet dress. She took her seat, 
 and placing her book before her, leaned her ach- 
 ing head upon her hand, and attempted to study, 
 but in vain. She could not fix her attention at 
 all. The strange feeling began to come over 
 % 
 
BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 109 
 
 her once more ; the letters all mingled together, 
 —the room grew dark, — the shrill voice of the 
 little child screaming its A B C in front of her 
 desk, grew fainter and fainter ; her head sunk 
 upon her book, and she fell to the floor. 
 
 Fainting was so unusual in this school, that all 
 was instantly confusion, and it was some minutes 
 before the teacher could restore order. Helen 
 was brought to the air, two of her companions 
 were despatched for water, and none were allowed . 
 to remain near excepting Clara, who stood by, 
 trembling from head to foot, and almost as white 
 as the insensible object before her. ! what 
 a moment of anguish was this, — deep, bitter 
 anguish. Her anger melted away at once, and 
 she would almost have sacrificed her own life, 
 to have recalled the events of the morning. 
 That was impossible. The future, however, 
 was still before her, and she determined never 
 again to indulge her temper, or be unkind to 
 any one. If Helen only recovered, the future 
 should be spent in atoning for her past unkind- 
 ness. It seemed for a short time indeed, as if 
 she would be called upon to fulfil these promises. 
 Helen gradually grew better, and in about an 
 hour was apparently as well as usual. It was 
 judged best, however, for her to return home, 
 
 r^ 
 
110 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 
 
 and a farmer, who happened to pass in a new 
 gig, very kindly offered to take her. Clara 
 could not play with the girls as usual, — she 
 could not study. Her heart was full, and she 
 was very impatient to be once more by her 
 sister's side. The recesses were spent in col- 
 lecting pictures, notes, and little books ; — and 
 the long study hours were employed in printing 
 stories. In this way, she attempted to quiet 
 that still small voice, whose secret whispers 
 were destroying all her happiness. how 
 eagerly she watched the sun in his slow pro- 
 gress round the school-house ; and when at last 
 he threw his slanting beams through the west 
 window, she was the first to obey the joyful 
 signal ; and books, papers, pen and ink instantly 
 disappeared from her desk. 
 
 Clara did not linger on her way home. She 
 even passed the " half way stone" with no other 
 notice than a deep sigh. She hurried to her 
 sister's bed-side, impatient to show her the 
 curiosities she had collected, and to make up, 
 by every little attention, for her unkindness. 
 Helen was asleep. Her face was no longer 
 pale, but flushed with a burning fever. Her 
 little hands were hot, and as she tossed rest- 
 lessly about on her pillow, she would mutter to 
 
^^ 
 
 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. Ill 
 
 herself, — sometimes calling on her sister, to 
 " stop, stop," and then again begging her not to 
 throw her to the fishes. 
 
 Clara watched long, in agony, for her to wake. 
 This she did at last ; but it brought no relief to 
 the distressed sister and friends. She did not 
 know them, and continued to talk incoherently 
 about the events of the morning. It was too 
 much for Clara to bear. She retired to her 
 own little room, and lonely bed, and wept till 
 she could weep no more. 
 
 By the first dawn of light, she was at her 
 sister's bed-side ; but there was no alteration. 
 For three days, Helen continued in this state. 
 I would not, if I could, describe the agony of 
 Clara, as she heard herself thus called upon, 
 and deservedly reproached by the dear sufferer. 
 Her punishment was, indeed, greater than she 
 could bear. At the close of the third day, 
 Helen gave signs of returning consciousness, — 
 inquired if the cold water which she drank 
 would injure her, — recognised her mother, and 
 very anxiously called for Clara. She had just 
 stepped out, and was immediately told of this. 
 how joyful was the summons ! She hastened 
 to her sister, who, as she approached, looked up 
 and smiled. The feverish flush from her cheek 
 
112 BE KIND TO YOUR SISTER. 
 
 was gone, — she was almost deadly pale. By 
 her own request her head had been raised upon 
 two or three pillows, and her little emaciated 
 hands were folded over the white coverlid. 
 Clara was entirely overcome, she could only 
 weep ; and as she stooped to kiss her sister's 
 white lips, the child threw her arms around her 
 neck, and drew her still nearer. It was a long 
 embrace ; — then her arms moved convulsively, 
 and fell motionless by her side ; — there were a 
 few struggles, — she gasped once or twice, — and 
 little Helen never breathed again. 
 
 Days and weeks, and months rolled on. Time 
 had somewhat healed the wound which grief for 
 the loss of an only sister had made ; but it had 
 not power to remove from Clara's heart the 
 remembrance of her former unkindness. It 
 poisoned many an hour. She never took her 
 little basket of dinner, now so light, or in her 
 solitary walk to school passed the " half way 
 stone," without a deep sigh, and often a tear of 
 bitter regret. 
 
 Children who art what Clara was^ go now and 
 be what Clara w, — mild, — amiable, — obliging 
 and pleasant to all. 
 
THE child's coffin. 113 
 
 THE CHILD'S COFFIN. 
 
 BY CAROLINE HOWARD. 
 
 I SAW a coffin borne along the street. 
 
 With footsteps slow ; 
 I saw the mourners, with their heavy feet. 
 
 Bow weeping low. 
 
 They told me that a little one slept there 
 
 Alone and cold, 
 And that the damp clods of the earth would soon 
 
 Her form enfold. 
 
 I joined the few who followed to the grave. 
 
 Subdued and stilled, 
 And thoughts of what she would be, and had been. 
 
 My bosom filled. 
 
 They told me that in sickness, when the pains 
 
 Robbed her of rest. 
 She meekly folded her white, trembling hands 
 
 Upon her breast ; • 
 
 And looking up to Heaven resigned and meek. 
 
 With earnest eyes. 
 Asked God with broken tones to call her up 
 
 Into the skies. 
 
114 THE child's coffin. 
 
 Into the skies where friends to friends would go 
 
 And fondly meet, 
 And learn the miseries of life and death 
 
 At Jesus' feet. 
 
 I saw the coffin lowered in the ground 
 
 'Neath the cold sod, 
 And turned and left her calmly sleeping there, 
 
 Alone with God. 
 
 At night I dreamed a dream of beauty rare, 
 
 About the child ; 
 I saw her in the star-paved courts above, 
 
 Still sweet and mild. 
 
 But round her head a radiant brightness shone, 
 
 And in her eyes 
 A light seraphic beamed, that took its hues 
 
 From Paradise. 
 
 As she had said, at Jesus' feet she sat. 
 
 And garlands wove ; 
 Each blossom seemed a gift of heavenly worth, 
 
 A word of love. 
 
 And sister angels came there to be blessed. 
 
 And as she smiled, 
 Our Saviour smiled, and with his sacred hands 
 
 Crowned the bright child. 
 
 And then a strain arose of love and praise. 
 
 And children sang ; 
 And the wide heavens, with Jesus in the midst, 
 
 With music rang. 
 
THE MIRACLE. 115 
 
 =% 
 
 And often when my soul is faint and dark 
 
 With this earth's fears, 
 The coffin's gloom, and pain, and doubt, and dread, 
 • And bitter tears — 
 
 I think I see the child, once lowly laid. 
 
 Soar and arise, 
 And smiling, sit at Jesus' holy feet 
 
 In seraph guise. 
 
 There doubt is o'er, for memories sweet descend 
 
 From Heaven above. 
 Where that child- angel weaves her garlands bright 
 
 Of Heaven-born love. 
 
 THE MIRACLE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER. 
 
 One day, in Spring, the youthful Solomon sat 
 under a palm, in the garden of the King, his 
 father, looking on the earth, in deep thought. 
 Nathan, his teacher, came to him, and said, 
 " Upon what dost thou ponder so earnestly, be- 
 neath the palm tree ?" 
 
 The youth raised his head, and answered, 
 " Nathan, I would fain see a miracle." 
 
 =i« 
 
=9S 
 
 116 THE MIRACLE. 
 
 The Prophet smiled ; " I also, in my early 
 years, indulged such a wish." 
 
 *^ And was it ever fulfilled ?" asked the prince, 
 eagerly.' 
 
 '' A man of God,'' pursued Nathan, " came 
 to me, bringing in his hand a pomegranate seed. 
 ' Lo !' said he, ' what this stone shall become !' 
 He made, with his finger, a hole in the earth, 
 wherein he laid the seed, and covered it. As 
 he withdrew his hand, the turf heaved, and I 
 saw two leaves come forth, which I had hardly 
 noticed, when I saw them entwine with each 
 other, and fortn a stem, enveloped in bark ; and 
 the stem became visibly higher and thicker. 
 
 " Then spake to me the man of Grod : * Grive 
 heed !' and while I looked, behold ! boughs spread 
 themselves on the stem, even as branches on the 
 candlesticks of the altar. 
 
 " I was astonished ; but the man of Grod 
 commanded me to be silent and observe. 
 ' See,' said he, ' soon shall a new creation 
 begin.' 
 
 " Then took he water in his hand from the 
 brook which flowed near us, and sprinkled it 
 three times over the branches, and lo ! they 
 were covered at once with green leaves, and 
 spread over us a cool shade, mingled with re- 
 % ■ 
 
THE MIRACLE. 117 
 
 freshing fragrance. . ' Whence,' cried I, ^ this 
 odor, with the delicious shade P 
 
 *' ' See'st thou not ?' said the holy man, 
 * those purple-colored flowers, which sprout 
 forth from the green leaves, and hang down in 
 clusters ?' 
 
 " I would have spoken, but a soft wind swept 
 the leaves, and strewed the flowers around us, 
 as the snow is swept from the cloud. Scarcely 
 were the flowers fallen, when I saw, hanging be- 
 tween the leaves, the red pomegranate, like the 
 almonds upon Aaron's rod. The man of God 
 left me in deep wonder." 
 
 Here Nathan ceased. Then asked Sojomon, 
 hastily, *' Where is he .'* What was the name 
 of that godlike man } Does he yet live ?" 
 
 Nathan answered, " Son of David, I have told 
 you a dream." 
 
 Then Solomon was troubled in his mind, and 
 said, " Why hast thou thus deceived me .^" 
 
 " I have not deceived thee, my son," replied 
 the Prophet. " Look ! in thy father's garden 
 may^st thou behold all I have described. I)oes 
 not the same happen to yonder pomegranate, and 
 other trees .^" 
 
 " Yes," answered Solomon ; " but unnoticed, 
 and in a lono^ time." 
 
118 THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL. 
 
 "Is it less a godlike work," said Nathan, 
 "because it is done in silence, and unmarked ? 
 To me, it seems the greater miracle. 
 
 " Learn to know Nature^ and Jier works ! 
 Then shalt thou acknowledge a Supreme Power, 
 and behold miracles wrought continually around 
 thee." 
 
 THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL. 
 
 Is there no hope ? the sick man said, 
 The silent doctor shook his head, 
 And took his leave, with signs of sorrow, 
 Despairing of his fee to-morrow. 
 When thus the man, with gasping breath, 
 I feel the chilling wound of death : 
 Since I must bid the world adieu. 
 Let me my former life review. 
 I grant my bargains well were made. 
 But all men overreach in trade ; 
 'Tis self-defence in each profession : 
 Sure self-defence is no transgression ! 
 The little portion in my hands, 
 * By good security on lands. 
 Is well increas'd. If unawares 
 My justice to myself and heirs 
 Hath let my debtor rot in jail, 
 For want of good, sufficient bail ; 
 
 :r^ 
 
THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL. 119 
 
 If I by writ, or bond, or deed, 
 
 Reduc'd a family to need. 
 
 My will hath made the world amends ; 
 
 My hope on charity depends. 
 
 When I am number'd with the dead. 
 
 And all my pious gifts are read, 
 
 By Heav'n and earth 'twill then be known. 
 
 My charities were amply shown. 
 
 An Angel came. Ah friend ! he cry'd, 
 No more in flatt'ring hope confide. 
 Can thy good deeds in former times, 
 Outweigh the balance of thy crimes ? 
 What widow or what orphan prays 
 To crown thy life with length of days ? 
 A pious action's in thy pow'r. 
 Embrace with joy the happy hour ; 
 Now, while you draw the vital air. 
 Prove your intention is sincere : 
 This instant give an hundred pound ; 
 Your neighbors want, and you abound. 
 
 But why such haste ! the sick man whines. 
 Who knows as yet what Heav'n designs ? 
 Perhaps I may recover still. 
 That sum and more are in my will. 
 
 Fool, says the vision, now 'tis plain. 
 Your life, your soul, your Heaven was gain. 
 From every side, with all your might. 
 You scraped and scraped beyond your right ; 
 And after death would fain atone. 
 By giving what is not your own. 
 
 While there is life there's hope, he cried : 
 Then why such haste ? so groan'd and died. 
 
 %= 
 
120 THE OLD SERVANT. 
 
 THE OLD SERVANT. 
 
 Mr. Leonard, though possessed of a good 
 heart, excellent abilities, and an upright mind, 
 did not at all make his family happy ; the vio- 
 lence of his temper prevailed over these good 
 qualities, and sometimes rendered him the most 
 unamiable of men. His wife in vain showed 
 all the sweetness and moderation with which 
 Nature had endowed her. Young Edmond, her 
 son, more struck by these terrible bursts of 
 passion than by the affection that his father 
 evinced for him at other times, was always con- 
 strained and trembling in his presence. One 
 person only dared sometimes endeavor to bring 
 him to reason ; this was Maurice, an old serv- 
 ant, who had lived with the father of his present 
 master, and had for sixty years been attached to 
 the family. Mr. Leonard, without feeling for 
 the old servant all the regard that his fidelity 
 merited, preserved, however, a certain reserve 
 towards this venerable man. 
 
 Disagreeing with all his neighbors, who en- 
 % 
 
THE OLD SERVANT. 121 
 
 deavored to avoid him as soon as his impetuous 
 humor began to manifest itself, Mr. Leonard 
 chose rather to complain of their conduct than 
 to confess himself to blame. In his usual man- 
 ner, he sought to quarrel with one of them re- 
 specting the limits of a wood. His neighbor, an 
 honorable man, and incapable of yielding any- 
 thing that he knew justly belonged to him, as- 
 serted his pretensions with firmness ; and a law- 
 suit was about to commence, when Maurice, who 
 had known for so many years all the boundaries 
 of Mr. Leonard's estate, informed his master 
 that he was in error respecting this affair. Mr. 
 Leonard haughtily replied, that he had a title 
 to it. 
 
 The law-suit commenced ; Mr. Leonard think- 
 ing he was right, because he wished it ; not that 
 a small portion of wood tempted his avarice, but 
 because his self-love was interested. The title, 
 however, upon which he grounded his claim had 
 nothing valid in it ; and when it was necessary 
 to bring forward witnesses in support of it, he 
 desired Maurice to depose in his favor. 
 
 " Do not hope it," replied the old servant ; 
 '' I never knew how to tell a falsehood, and I 
 will not burthen myself with this sin at the age 
 of seventy-eight. I have done my duty, in pre- 
 
122 THE OLD SERVANT. 
 
 viouslj informing you that your pretensions were 
 unjust : you have not believed me ; and I will 
 not betray my conscience to satisfy you." 
 
 Mr. Leonard, in a transport of rage, called 
 him an ungrateful villain, and commanded him 
 to deliver his bill, for what was due to him in 
 wages. " It is time/' he added, " that I dis- 
 burthen myself of a servant unworthy of my 
 kindness, and who carries his audacity so far as 
 to forget that I am his master and he is my 
 valet." 
 
 To these hard words, which rent his heart, 
 Maurice made no answer, but retired to his 
 chamber, and began to weep bitterly. Mr. 
 Leonard would not allow himself time to be 
 softened, but immediately sought another do- 
 mestic. On the arrival of this stranger, Madame 
 Leonard and her son, with a tender solicitude, 
 went to poor Maurice ; Edmond embraced him 
 in tears, and Madame Leonard thus addressed 
 him : — " What ! good old man, is it possible 
 you can think of leaving us ? — whatever may 
 be the violence of my husband, he loves you ; 
 and you only have any influence over his 
 mind." 
 
 Maurice raised his head with surprise. 
 
 " You strive in vain to conceal it from us," 
 
THE OLD SERVANT. 123 
 
 cried Edmond, sighing ; "we have seen the 
 man who is to replace you." 
 
 " You have seen him !" exclaimed Maurice, 
 quickly ; " is it possible that my master will be 
 unfeeling enough to discharge me .'"' 
 
 He then related, in a tremulous voice, what 
 had passed. Madame Leonard, affected by the 
 grief of the old man, assured him that her hus- 
 band would not fail to repent, and that he must 
 excuse an action excited by passion. 
 
 " No, no," replied Maurice, with resolution, 
 " he no longer loves me, and I ought to quit him 
 forever. I know that he is violent ; but having 
 already made choice of another servant — ah ! 
 there is no doubt of his intention. It is to no 
 purpose that I have closed the eyes of his worthy 
 father ; that I have carried him in my arms ; 
 and that I have with fatherly care watched the 
 infant years of his own son ; — he has discharged 
 me in my old age, and has forgotten my long 
 services, and the attachment I have ever shown 
 for him." 
 
 Maurice wept bitterly in uttering these words ; 
 but his resolution was taken, and sorrow took 
 possession of his heart. Edmond bathed his 
 hands with tears ; and Madame Leonard also 
 showed him every mark of esteem and regret. 
 % - - ^ 
 
124 THE OLD SERVANT. 
 
 Maurice left the house on the same day, with- 
 out demanding anything of his master, and taking 
 nothing with him but the produce of his savings 
 and a small parcel of clothes which was carried 
 by a young servant by the order of Madame 
 Leonard. 
 
 It was not without some emotion that Mr. 
 Leonard learned the departure of this good old 
 man : he wished to have held out to him an op- 
 portunity of being again received into favor. 
 Offended at his conduct, he suppressed the 
 secret sentiment that pleaded in his favor, and 
 sent Maurice the money he had not deigned to 
 claim. 
 
 Having retired to an humble lodging at the 
 extremity of the town, Maurice lived, if not 
 happy, at least in peace, until he was seized 
 with an attack of the gout, during which he was 
 robbed of all his money. Edmond frequently 
 visited him, without the knowledge of his father, 
 and carried him nourishing food, and the dessert 
 of which he deprived himself. The society of 
 this child, whom he had always loved, was a 
 great consolation to the good old man, who shed 
 tears of joy whenever he saw him seated near 
 his pillow. Madame Leonard, without appearing 
 to sanction it, entirely approved of her son's 
 
THE OLD SERVANT. 125 
 
 conduct, and always doubled his portion at 
 table. 
 
 These attentions were very desirable to poor 
 Maurice, who had nearly lost his appetite ; but 
 it did not save him from the cruel situation in 
 which he was placed in consequence of having 
 been robbed. Edmond was still ignorant of 
 this misfortune, until one day he was witness to 
 the menaces of Maurice's landlord, who threat- 
 ened to turn him out of doors. Edmond, seized 
 with pity at the sufferings of the poor old man, 
 begged the inhuman landlord to retire, and prom- 
 ised to satisfy him before the day had passed. 
 He immediately repaired to his mother, and, 
 falling on his knees before her, entreated that 
 she would hasten to the assistance of Maurice. 
 Madame Leonard, who was not in possession of 
 any money, and unwilling to ask her husband, 
 secretly sold a pair of ear-rings. 
 
 The money produced by this sale appeased 
 the landlord for the present ; but as it could 
 not last long, the old man, not wishing to abuse 
 the generosity of Edmond and his mother, re- 
 quested to be conveyed to an hospital. Edmond 
 in tears supplicated him not to make himself so 
 miserable ; he vowed a thousand times never to 
 abandon him. Maurice, deeply affected by the 
 ^ — 
 
126 THE OLD SERVANT. 
 
 tenderness of the child, strove to soften this idea ; 
 Edmond would not listen to anything. The same 
 day, fearing to importune his mother, he decided 
 upon selling a beautiful edition of the Iliad, which 
 he had received as a prize in his class. Scarcely 
 had he entered the shop of the bookseller, with 
 whom he hoped to arrange the sale, than he per- 
 ceived his father seated near the counter. Ed- 
 mond was so frightened at this meeting, that he 
 let his books fall. 
 
 " What do you want here, my child .?" cried 
 Mr. Leonard, surprised ; " and why all these 
 books .?" 
 
 Edmond blushed and stammered ; dreading the 
 anger of his father, he could only press his hand 
 and weep. Mr. Leonard, painfully affected at 
 the trouble in which he saw his son, took him 
 aside, and with gentleness requested him to 
 confess the truth, previously assuring him that 
 he was ready to forgive him if he was in fault. 
 Emboldened by this unexpected moderation, Ed- 
 mond replied, with downcast eyes, that he came 
 to sell his books, to prevent Maurice from going 
 into a hospital. 
 
 These few words acted like a flash of lightning 
 on Mr. Leonard ; a mixture of repentance and 
 tenderness seized him, so that his eyes filled 
 
THE OLD SERVANT. 127 
 
 with tears. " Conduct me to Maurice," said he 
 to his son, embracing him. 
 
 Edmond, overwhelmed with joy, did not wait 
 to have the order repeated. On approaching 
 the lodgings, they met a handbarrow, upon 
 which an old man, enveloped in blankets, lay 
 extended ; — it was Maurice, whom they were 
 conveying to the hospital. Mr. Leonard held 
 Edmond, who would have thrown himself into 
 his arms, and directed the porters to carry the 
 patient to his own house. Maurice, whose suf- 
 ferings were great, did not observe this meeting. 
 They put him into the bed which he had so long 
 occupied ; the old man cast his eyes upon all 
 that he could observe ; he dared not believe 
 them, but imagined he was in a delirious fever. 
 At length he perceived Edmond ; tears bathed 
 his venerable cheeks, he extended his feeble 
 arms towards him : — " My son ! my dear son !" 
 cried he, "you have then followed me ! — em- 
 brace me, that I may be sure I am not deceived 
 by a sweet dream, for my eyes certainly deceive 
 me — ^I do not know where I am !" 
 
 " What !" cried Edmond, pressing him in his 
 arms, " do not you recollect your old bed- 
 chamber .?" 
 
 %- 
 
128 THE OLD SERVANT. 
 
 " It appears to me that this is the house of 
 Mr. Leonard," continued Maurice. 
 
 "It is also thy future residence, good old 
 man," interrupted Mr. Leonard, embracing 
 him ; " forget my injustice, and never leave 
 us." 
 
 Maurice wept with joy when he heard these 
 words. Madame Leonard came, in her turn, to 
 express the pleasure she felt on seeing him again 
 in the midst of them. The satisfaction he ex- 
 perienced, together with the care and attention 
 which he received, accelerated his cure and pro- 
 longed his days, and he ever considered Edmond 
 as his little benefactor. 
 
 Mr. Leonard, struck with the cruelty of which 
 he had been guilty by abandoning himself to the 
 impulse of passion, determined, in consequence, 
 to entirely overcome this fault. This violence 
 of temper, which makes a good heart so far for- 
 get itself, is seldom of long duration ; but self- 
 love often prolongs its effects : the shame of 
 confessing a fault prevents the reparation of it, 
 and the heart secretly disavows it a long time 
 before the conduct can conform itself to the 
 measure of repentance. 
 
 %=z 
 
THE child's companion. 129 
 
 THE CHILD'S COMPANION. 
 
 A liiTTiiE child went wandering 
 Through life's uncertain ways. 
 
 With never changing purity 
 Upon his cherub face. 
 
 His hand seemed clasping tenderly 
 A dear, though viewless guide, 
 
 He gently moved, as keeping step 
 With some one at his side. 
 
 When overcome with weariness. 
 
 With hunger, pain or grief. 
 He pressed the hand beseechingly. 
 
 And quickly found relief. 
 
 He suffered not from loneliness. 
 That friendless orphan child. 
 
 For he had sweet companionship 
 In town and desert wild. 
 
 To join in strife or revelry. 
 
 If he inclined to stray. 
 He felt a touch restraining him, ' 
 
 And leading him away. 
 
% 
 
 130 THE child's companion. 
 
 He chafed not at this watchfulness, 
 
 But blessed his loving care 
 Who walked with him so faithfully. 
 
 Amid the silent air. 
 
 At length that childish countenance 
 
 Grew pallid with disease, 
 His frame was weak and tottering, 
 
 And trembling were his knees. 
 
 Then on support invisible. 
 
 More fondly he would lean. 
 And added peace and holiness 
 
 Were on his features seen. 
 
 He smiled to see how rapidly 
 
 He wasted to the bone. 
 For thus he felt more certainly 
 
 The hand that clasped his own. 
 
 One morning he was motionless — 
 
 Relaxed his tender hold — 
 The body of the wanderer 
 
 Was lifeless, stiff and cold. 
 
 But when amid the dawning light 
 
 Above, he seemed to die, 
 Two shining spirits, hand in hand. 
 
 Went soaring up the sky. 
 
^ ' ■ -^^^^ 
 
 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 131 
 
 THE FALL FEOM THE SWING. 
 
 A TRUE STQ-RY 
 
 BT CAROLINE HOWARD. 
 
 I SHALL never, no, never forget it," said the 
 gentleman. 
 
 "Can you tell me about it ?" said my mother, 
 in her gentle sympathizing tone. 
 
 " Yes, draw nearer." 
 
 I had been sewing very busily before 'these 
 words were uttered, not interested in what my 
 mother and her guest were conversing about. I 
 merely heard the murmur of their voices, but 
 that did not disturb my quiet, and I turned over 
 in my mind my past, present, and future plans, 
 scarcely conscious that any one was in the room 
 but myself; but these words uttered by the 
 gentleman were so emphatic that I almost 
 thought that his invitation was for me to draw 
 near too, and I laid aside my work, and listened 
 to the following thrilling story : 
 
 " Francis Walpole and I were friends in our 
 
132 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 
 
 childhood, friends in the widest sense of a school- 
 boy's interpretation of that sacred word, and we 
 were neighbors in the broad and beautiful coun- 
 try where there were no bounds to our pleasures 
 and no city restraints in our rambles. It seemed 
 as if I could not love and prize him enough, and 
 I sought for no other companionship and cared 
 for no other ear in which to whisper my triumphs, 
 failures or wrongs. His arm and his advice were 
 always at my service, and ijaany a hard blow did 
 he gain for defending my cause, right or wrong. 
 I love to dwell. upon his refined and manly beauty, 
 his strangely powerful strength of muscle, his 
 determination when he felt that his cause was 
 just ; and few were the boys, even older than 
 he, who feared not to feel a blow that he could 
 give either in jest or in earnest. I said that we 
 were neighbors in the country, but besides our 
 family and his, two others lived near us on terms 
 of great intimacy. The grounds of each house 
 met in a kind of court yard, with no inhospitable 
 fences to intervene, and we made a play ground 
 of this large space, and had ample room to in- 
 dulge in the usual sports of boys, such as cricket, 
 leap frog, marbles and kites, while the girls chose 
 the more feminine diversions of battledoor, ball, 
 and the skipping rope. But whatever were our 
 
^^ 
 
 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 133 
 
 separate sports, we met on common ground in a 
 swing, which Mr. Walpole, who was a kind and 
 indulgent father, had erected for his son. Noth- 
 ing was more fascinating. It consisted of two 
 very high upright posts, with a cross piece on 
 the top, from which the rope was suspended. 
 The swing held two children easily, and we 
 seldom paid a visit to the upper regions alone. 
 Sometimes we rough boys mounted the air-car 
 together, wild with joy and frolic, or at other 
 times we would give the ropes a gentle impulse, 
 while sweet Annie Morris floated to and fro, only 
 wanting wings, in our imaginations, to resemble 
 a flying angel ; and sometimes, to our shame be 
 it spoken, we twisted the rope while wild Bet 
 Dayton was held prisoner, and released it on a 
 concerted signal while it carried the unfortunate 
 girl whirling round and round, till she grew weary 
 of asking mercy at our hands, or until we had 
 obtained a promise from her, which she never 
 afterwards kept, of playing upon us no more 
 practical jokes. Oh ! merry times did that old 
 swing see, but alas ! it saw a sad scene too. 
 One afternoon, a party of six girls and boys were 
 gathered around it, ready to take their turn in 
 our air-car, as we called it. Each selected his 
 or her companion for the voyage. Annie Morris 
 
 k • - ^ 
 
134 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 
 
 chose Dick White, for she knew that he, like 
 herself, did not like to swing very high, and wild 
 Bet Dayton found a corresponding spirit in Tom 
 Stephens, who boasted that he could throw a 
 ball so nicely upward, that he could catch it in 
 the next forward motion, before it could fall to 
 the ground. We had often heard of, but never 
 had seen this wonderful feat j however, we did 
 not for one instant doubt Tom's word. As 
 usual, Frank and I with arms interlaced awaited 
 our turn together. It was a delicious afternoon, 
 the skies were glowing with the red rays of the 
 departing sun, and the air was full of fragrance. 
 From the open windows of the four neighbor's 
 houses, a friendly face was occasionally seen, 
 or a mother or sister would smile upon our 
 sport." 
 
 Here the gentleman paused suddenly, cov- 
 ered his face with his hand, and sighed so 
 deeply, that I thought that the action and the 
 sigh were an earnest of something very sad that 
 he was going to relate, and so it proved. 
 
 " At length our turn came. '' We can beat 
 them all," said Frank, with a loud ringing laugh 
 — " hallo ! John, what do you say to trying to 
 touch one of those low white clouds that come 
 so temptingly near us .^" 
 
 ^ 
 
"=% 
 
 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 135 
 
 " With all my heart," replied I, " nothing 
 venture, nothing have ! push, you lazy fellows — 
 all's ready, one, two, three ; we're off," and with 
 the united efforts of the two other boys we soon 
 attained a respectable height, and felt as happy 
 as birds in the air. Higher and higher we 
 swung, higher than we had ever ventured before. 
 The boys below seemed like dwarfs to our eyes, 
 and the girls' white dresses like fairy robes. 
 
 "Is not this almost too high," said I to 
 Frank, tremblingly, for I felt a sensation of 
 dizziness as I looked below. 
 
 " Too high !" exclaimed Frank, who I believe 
 never feared anything, " too high ! you coward, 
 no ! I tell you we could not be too near the 
 skies if we followed the flight of that swallow 
 yonder." 
 
 Upward and upward, higher and higher, nearer 
 the swallow we soared. "We heard our compan- 
 ions below screaming to us to stop, and we saw 
 from the windows of the neighbor's houses hand- 
 kerchiefs waving, which we always understood 
 as a signal to return home, and Frank, who was 
 always thoughtful of the feelings of others and 
 obedient to his parents' slightest wish, stopped 
 his exertions to keep the swing going, intending 
 to let the motion " die away" gradually. 
 
 =)« 
 
% 
 
 136 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. ' 
 
 " Let US give tlie setting sun three cheers," 
 said he, " before he leaves us," and holding out 
 both his hands and waving them above his head, 
 (for he depended upon being balanced by his 
 feet,) he gave one singing shout gushing out 
 from the very fulness of a happy heart, lost his 
 equilibrium, and fell down, down, down, helpless 
 to the earth." 
 
 The gentleman shivered here as if he were 
 cold, and again covered up his eyes and drew 
 nearer to the fire. Mother made a motion for 
 him to proceed, and at last he said : 
 
 " There he remained, and there I beheld him, 
 as each forward and backward motion of the 
 swing brought me nearer to the ground. I was 
 helpless myself, and I dared not spring out for 
 two reasons. One was, that I thought that I 
 might crush him, for I could not calculate my 
 distance ; and the other was, that just after his 
 fall the swing was too great a distance from the 
 earth for me to have attempted it. The children 
 screamed, and made several ineffectual attempts 
 to draw him out, but the continued vibration of 
 the pendulum-like swing prevented their touch- 
 ing him, as he was immediately under the path 
 which it described. At length his mother came 
 with a crowd of friends, and I, freed from my 
 
 %- 
 
THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 137 
 
 unhappy position, looked on frightened and with 
 tearful eyes. 
 
 " His mother ! merciful heaven, shall I ever 
 forget her strange expression, as she looked for 
 some signs of blood, some bruise, to tell her 
 where the injury was, and in vain ? or will her 
 idiotic stare and her continued, ever continued 
 screams forever come up to my mind, curdling 
 my blood in my veins, and making a trembler of 
 me even now ? 
 
 " All was tried on the spot that kindness could 
 suggest, to bring him back to life and to us, but 
 with no effect. A messenger was instantly des- 
 patched to the nearest town, where his father 
 pursued his business, and for a physician, al- 
 though we felt that the aid of the latter would 
 be useless. 
 
 " Mrs. Walpole was a slight and delicate 
 woman, but she took the body in her arms, and 
 scarcely staggered beneath its heavy weight ; 
 and on she went, accepting no offers of assist- 
 ance from the busy neighbors, until she laid him 
 on a couch in her own room, and then sinking 
 down by his side with her strength over-tasked, 
 she fainted. Every one who wished, came in to 
 look at the lovely boy, beautiful beyond descrip- 
 tion. His long dark eye-lashes, the longest I 
 
 %' :-^ 
 
13S 
 
 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 
 
 ever saw, swept his pale cheeks, and his lips, so 
 brilliant once, were indeed still smiling, but it 
 was the smile of carved marble. Every restora- 
 tive that we could think of, was tried again and 
 again, but the hand slid lifelessly from our loving 
 grasp, and the heart-beats seemed hushed for- 
 ever. The town of • w*s several miles 
 
 distant, and it would be some hours before we 
 could hope for the arrival of Mr. Walpole and 
 the physician. The ladies gathered round, and 
 measured the white shroud which was to cover 
 my beloved friend. Mrs. Walpole looked on 
 unresisting, and saw them close his white eye- 
 lids more securely, and press together his smiling 
 lips, but as they were about to clothe him in the 
 accustomed robe of death, she stayed their hands, 
 and whispered hoarsely, 
 
 '' Only let his father see him as he is, so life- 
 like, so beautiful — array him not yet in the gar- 
 ments of the grave. A shroud ! My Francis 
 in a shroud ! Oh, no ! it cannot be ; let me. die 
 rather. Her wish was granted, for her husband, 
 many miles in advance of the physician, rushed 
 into the room, and beheld the boy whom he had 
 left in the early morning, with a parting blessing 
 on his beloved head, now stretched out with no 
 smile to greet him, and no welcome in his voice. 
 
^ =% 
 
 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 139 
 
 What cared he for the light of the sun, or the 
 moon, or the stars, now that the light of his life 
 had departed ? He only felt that his boy was 
 claimed by a new parent — Death ! 
 
 '' The physician came at last, but no encour- 
 aging smile was upon his benevolent countenance 
 as he felt the boy's pulse, and while we all 
 watched him, hopeful even in our despair. He 
 pushed the thick curls from his white brow, and 
 pressed his fingers upon the pulseless temples 
 of our idol ; he felt his heart, the seat of life, but- 
 at each action a greater cloud of disappointment 
 shaded his face. " At any rate," said he, with 
 a mournful, sympathizing smile, " we will leave 
 no means untried, and we will see if the blood is 
 entirely stagnated." 
 
 " We all gathered round, wondering that the 
 use of the lancet had not occurred to us before, 
 and blamed each other for the omission, but as is 
 often the case in great danger, we had neglected 
 the only means that could have restored con- 
 sciousness, had there been life there. We took 
 a fresh gleam of hope from the proceeding. 
 Each heart seemed beating with a redoubled 
 impetus." 
 
 The gentleman stopped again here, and smiled 
 as if communing with himself, but I did not like 
 
140 THE FALL FROM THE SWING. 
 
 the interruption, for I felt as I were standing by 
 the insensible child awaiting the issue, and I 
 impatiently exclaimed, " Well ?" 
 
 He recollected himself and continued. *' The 
 lancet did its work surely, nobly. No blood 
 flowed for some time, but at length a drop slowly 
 oozed from the puncture, and another, and 
 another, until at last it came as freely as we 
 could desire, and then a slight tinge of pink 
 colored those silent lips, and a soft sigh came 
 from his breast, as audible to us though as if it 
 had been a trumpet's blast. There was life, 
 there was hope. The physician motioned us to 
 be quiet, the mother suppressed her screams of 
 joy, while the father wept silently, bewildered 
 by this sudden transition from agony to bliss, and 
 we, who stood around, simultaneously bent our 
 knees in silent prayer, each oficring a petition to 
 the Giver of all good, to continue the life which 
 hung suspended there. And the prayer was 
 granted. For three days, my friend, who was 
 the object of so many prayers, was unconscious 
 of all that was passing around ; but on the 
 fourth, his eyes opened calmly upon earth's 
 scenes, and before long, he was enabled to en- 
 gage once more in the duties and pleasures that 
 belong to earth. Whether in that long trance 
 § 1— ='^ 
 
LINES. 141 
 
 of unconsciousness, his soul journeyed to the land 
 of pure spirits, and there learned lessons of 
 beauty and goodness, I know not, nor can he 
 fathom that parting of the spirit from the body, 
 but this I do know, that since that awakening 
 hour, the steps of my friend have been onward 
 and heavenward, trying to lead other souls into 
 the land of pure spirits, and endeavoring to 
 reach, by the holiness of his life here^ the perfect 
 rest hereafter. 
 
 ^ 
 
 _rf^/vw^/^/\/v^/^<— 
 
 LINES. 
 
 BY MRS. ELLET. 
 
 WEARY heart ! there is a rest for thee ; 
 
 truant heart ! there is a blessed home ! 
 An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea, 
 
 Where storms that vex the waters never come. 
 Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle. 
 
 Vocal its air with music from above ; 
 There meets the exile-heart a welcoming smile ; 
 
 There ever speaks a summoning voice of love 
 Unto the heavy laden and distressed — 
 
 " Come unto me, and I will give you rest." 
 
142 SYMPATHY. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 How beautiful is sympathy, especially in the 
 young ! See how kindly the boy looks in the 
 face of the sleeping old man. half unwilling to 
 awaken him, though it is time to pursue his 
 journey. The little girl, who has come from 
 the neighboring village to pick berries, peeps 
 timidly from behind the stump ; and she also is 
 sorry for the over-wearied traveller, though she 
 ventures not to come near. The poorest can 
 give consolation, and find it, too, in acts of kind- 
 ness and benevolence*. 
 
 A mother, who was in the habit of asking her 
 children, before they retired at night, what they 
 had done during the day to make others hajpj^y^ 
 found her young twin daughters silent. The 
 older ones spoke modestly of deeds and disposi- 
 tions, founded on the golden rule, '' Do unto 
 others as you would they should do unto you." 
 . Still those little bright faces were bowed down 
 in serious silence. 
 
SYMPATHY. 143 
 
 The question was repeated. " I can remem- 
 ber nothing good all this day, dear mother ! only 
 one of my school-fellows was happy, because she 
 had gained the head of the class ; and I smiled 
 on her, and ran to kiss her. So she said I was 
 good. This is all, dear mother." 
 
 The other spoke still more timidly. " A little 
 girl who sat by me on the bench at school, had 
 lost a baby brother. . I saw that while she studied 
 her lesson, she, hid her face in her book, and 
 cried. I felt sorry, and laid my face on the 
 same book, and cried with her. Then she 
 looked up and was comforted, and put her arms 
 round my neck. But I do not know why she 
 said that I had done her good." 
 
 The mother knew how to prize the first blos- 
 somings of sympathy. She said, " Come to my 
 arms, beloved ones ! To rejoice with those who 
 rejoice, and to weep with those who weep, is to 
 obey our blessed Redeemer." 
 
 % — ^ 
 
144 THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 THE EOSE AND THE GRAVE. 
 
 FBOM THE FBENCH. 
 
 BY MRS. ELIiET. 
 
 The Rose said to the Grave — * 
 
 " sullen tomb, 
 "Where go the souls that day hy day 
 
 Pass to thy gloom ?" 
 
 The Grave said to the Rose — 
 
 " flower of love, 
 Where go the dews, night on thy breast 
 
 Sheds from above ?" 
 
 The Rose said to the Grave — 
 
 " A perfume rare 
 My leaves from dews of night distil. 
 
 Sweetening the air." 
 
 The Grave said to the Rose — 
 
 " To me 'tis given 
 To make of souls that come to me 
 
 Angels in Heaven." 
 
PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 145 
 
 PEESEYERANCE AGAINST DIFFI- 
 CULTIES. 
 
 Theodore was a boy of good abilities, and 
 engaging manners ; but he had the failing of 
 being extremely impatient in his temper, and 
 inclined to extremes. He was ardent in all his 
 pursuits, but could bear no disappointment ; and 
 if the least thing went wrong, he gave up what 
 he was about in a pet, and could not be prevailed 
 upon to resume it. His father, Mr. Carle ton, 
 had given him a bed in the garden, which he had 
 cultivated with great delight. The borders were 
 set with double daisies of different colors, next 
 to which was a row,of auriculas and polyanthuses. 
 Beyond, were stocks and other taller flowers and 
 shrubs ; and a beautiful damask rose graced the 
 centre. This rose was just budding, and Theo- 
 dore watched its daily progress with great in- 
 terest. One unfortunate day, the door of the 
 garden being left open, a drove of pigs entered, 
 and began to riot on the herbs and flowers. An 
 alarm being sounded, Theodore and the servant 
 
^ % 
 
 146 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 boy rushed upon them, smacking their whips. 
 The whole herd, in affright, took their course 
 across Theodore's flower bed, on which some of 
 them had before been grazing. Stocks, daisies, 
 and auriculas, were all trampled down or torn 
 up ; and, what was worst of all, one of the swine 
 ran directly over the beautiful rose tree, and 
 broke off its stem level with the ground. When 
 Theodore came up, and beheld all the mischief, 
 and especially his favorite rose strewed on the 
 soil, rage and grief choked his utterance. After 
 standing a-while, the picture of despair, he 
 snatched up a spade that stood near, and, with 
 furious haste, dug over the whole bed, and buried 
 all the relics of his flowers deep under the soil. 
 This exertion being ended, he burst into tears, 
 and silently left the garden. 
 
 His father, who had beheld the scene at a 
 distance, though somewhat diverted at the boy's 
 childish violence, yet began seriously to reflect 
 on the future consequences of such a temper, if 
 suffered to grow up without restraint. He said 
 nothing to him at the time, but in the afternoon 
 he took him a walk into a neighboring parish. 
 
 There was a large wild common, and at the 
 skirts of it a neat farm-house, with fields lying 
 round it, all well fenced, and cultivated in the 
 
~ :r:.— ^=^ 
 
 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 147' 
 
 best manner. The air was sweetened with the 
 bean flower and clover. An orchard of fine 
 young fruit-trees lay behind the house ; and 
 before it, a little garden, gay with all the flowers 
 of the season. A stand of bee-hives was on the 
 southern side, sheltered by a thick hedge of 
 honey-suckle and sweet-brier. The farm-yard 
 was stocked with pigs and poultry. A herd of 
 cows was just coming home to be milked. Every- 
 thing wore the aspect of plenty and good manage- 
 ment. The charms of the scene struck Theo- 
 dore very forcibly, and he expressed his pleasure 
 in the warmest terms. " This place," said his 
 father, " belongs to a njan who is the most strik- 
 ing example I know of patient fortitude, bearing 
 up against misfortune ; and all that you see is 
 the reward of his own perseverance. I am a 
 little acquainted with him ; and we will go in 
 and beg a draught of milk, and try if we can 
 prevail upon him to tell us his story." Theo- 
 dore willingly accompanied his father. They 
 were received by the farmer with cordial frank- 
 ness. After they were seated, Mr. Carleton 
 said to the farmer, " Mr. Hardman, I have 
 often heard of part of your adventures, but 
 never had a regular account of the whole. If 
 you will favor me and my little boy with the 
 
148 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 story of them, we shall think ourselves much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 " Indeed, sir," said he, " there's little in them 
 worth telling of, as far as I know. I have had 
 my ups and downs in the world, to be sure, but 
 so have many men beside. However, if you 
 wish to hear about them, they are at your ser- 
 vice ; and I can't say but it gives me pleasure 
 sometimes to talk over old matters, and think 
 how much better things have turned out than 
 might have been expected." 
 
 "Now I am of opinion," said Mr. Carleton, 
 " that from your spirit and perseverance, a 
 good conclusion might always have been ex- 
 pected." 
 
 " You are pleased to compliment, sir," re- 
 plied the farmer, " but I will begin without more 
 words. 
 
 " You may perhaps have heard that my father 
 was a man of good estate. He thought of noth- 
 ing, poor man, but how to spend it ; and he had 
 the uncommon luck to spend it twice over. For 
 when he was obliged to sell it the first time, it 
 was bought in by a relation, who left it him again 
 by his will. But my poor father was not a man 
 to take warning. He fell to living as he had 
 done before, and just made his estate and his 
 % 
 
PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 149 
 
 life hold out together. He died at the age of 
 five-and-forty, and left his family beggars. I 
 believe he would not have taken to drinking as 
 he did, had it not been for his impatient temper, 
 which made him fret and vex himself for every 
 trifle, and then he would endeavor to drown his 
 care in liquor. 
 
 " It was my lot to be taken by my mother's 
 brother, who was master of a merchant ship. 
 I served him as an apprentice several years, and 
 suffered a good deal of the usual hardship of a 
 sailor's life. He had just made me his mate in 
 a voyage up the Mediterranean, when we had 
 the misfortune to be wrecked on the coast of 
 Morocco. The ship struck at some distance 
 from shore, and we lay a long, stormy night 
 with the waves dashing over us, expecting every 
 moment to perish. My uncle and several of the 
 crew died of fatigue and want, and by morning 
 but four of us were left alive. My companions 
 were so disheartened, that they thought of noth- 
 ing but submitting to their fate. For my part, 
 1 thought life still worth struggling for ; and the 
 weather having become calmer, I persuaded 
 them to join me in making a kind of raft, by 
 the help of which, with much toil and danger, 
 we reached the land. Here we were seized by 
 H = 
 
150 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 the barbarous inhabitants, and carried up to the 
 country for slaves to the emperor. We were 
 employed about some public buildings, made to 
 work very hard with the whip at our backs, and 
 allowed nothing but water and a kind of pulse. 
 I have heard persons talk as if there was little 
 in being a slave but the name ; but they who 
 have been slaves themselves, I am sure will 
 never make light of slavery in others. A ran- 
 som was set on our heads, but so high, that it 
 seemed impossible for poor friendless creatures 
 like us ever to pay it. The thought of perpetual 
 servitude, together with the hard treatment we 
 met with, quite overcame my poor companions. 
 They drooped and died, one after another. I 
 still thought it not impossible to mend my con- 
 dition, and perhaps to recover my freedom. We 
 worked about twelve hours in the day, and had 
 one holyday in the week. I employed my leisure 
 time in learning to make mats and flag baskets, 
 in which I soon became so expert as to have a 
 good many for sale, and thereby got a little 
 money to purchase better food, and several 
 small conveniences. We were afterwards set 
 to work in the emperor's gardens ; and here I 
 showed so much good will and attention, that I 
 got into favor with the overseer. He had a 
 
z:^ 
 
 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 151 
 
 large garden of his own ; and he made interest 
 for me to be suffered to work for him alone, on 
 the condition of paying a man to do my duty. 
 I soon became so useful to him, that he treated 
 me more like a hired servant than a slave, and 
 gave me regular wages. I learned the language 
 of the country, and might have passed my time 
 comfortably enough, could I have accomodated 
 myself to their manners and religion, and forgot 
 my native land. I saved all I could, in order 
 to purchase my freedom ; but the ransom was 
 so high, that I had little prospect of being able 
 to do it for some years to come. A circum- 
 stance, however, happened, which brought it 
 about at once. Some villains one night laid a 
 plot to murder my master and plunder his 
 house. I slept in a little shed in the garden 
 where the tools lay ; and being awakened by a 
 noise, I saw four men break through the fence, 
 and walk up an alley towards the house. I crept 
 out with a spade in my hand, and silently fol- 
 lowed them. They made a hole with instru- 
 ments in the house-wall big enough for a man 
 to enter at. Two of them had got in, and the 
 third was beginning to enter, when I rushed 
 forward, and with a blow of my spade clove the 
 skull of one of the robbers, and gave the other 
 
 -^ 
 
! 152 
 
 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST HFFICULTIES. 
 
 sucli a stroke on the shoulder as disabled him. 
 I then made a loud outcry to alarm the family. 
 My master and his son, who lay in the house, 
 arose, and having let me in, we secured the two 
 others, after a sharp conflict, in which I received 
 a severe wound with a dagger. My master, who 
 looked upon me as his preserver, had all possi- 
 ble care taken of me ; and as soon as I was 
 cured, made me a present of my liberty. He 
 would fain have kept me with him, but my mind 
 was so much bent on returning to my native 
 country, that I immediately set out to the near- 
 est sea-port, and took my passage in a vessel 
 going to Gibraltar. 
 
 " From this place I returned in the first ship 
 for England. As soon as we arrived in the 
 Downs, and I was rejoicing at the sight of the 
 white cliffs, a man-of-war's boat came on board, 
 and pressed into the king's service all of us who 
 were seamen. I could not but think it hard 
 that this should be my welcome at home, after 
 a long slavery ; but there was no remedy. I 
 resolved to do my duty in my station, and leave 
 the rest to providence. I was abroad during 
 the remainder of the war, and saw many a stout 
 fellow sink under disease and despondence. My 
 knowledge of seamanship procured my promotion 
 
PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 153 
 
 to the post of a petty officer, and at the peace, 
 I was paid off, and received a pretty sum for 
 wages and prize-money. With this, I set off 
 for London. I had experienced too much dis- 
 tress from want to be inclined to squander away 
 my money, so I put it into a banker's hands, and 
 began to look out for some new way of life. 
 
 " Unfortunately, there were some things of 
 which I had no more experience than a child, 
 and the tricks of London were among these. 
 An advertisement offering extraordinary ad- 
 vantages to a partner in a commercial concern, 
 who could bring; a small capital, tempted me to 
 make inquiry about the matter ; and I was soon 
 cajoled by a plausible, artful fellow, to venture 
 my whole stock in it. . The business was a man- 
 ufacture, about which I knew nothing at all ; 
 but as I was not afraid of my labor, I set about 
 working as they directed me, with great dili- 
 gence, and thought all was going on prosper- 
 ously. One morning, on coming to the office, 
 I found my partners decamped ; and the same 
 day I was arrested for a considerable sum due 
 by the partnership. It was in vain for me to 
 think of getting bail, so I was obliged to go to 
 prison. Here I should have been half starved 
 but for my Moorish trade of mat-making, by the 
 
 — ^ 
 
154 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 help of which I bettered my condition for some 
 months ; when the creditors, finding that nothing 
 could be got out of me, sufiered me to be set at 
 liberty. 
 
 " I was now in the wide world without a 
 farthing or a friend, but I thanked God that I 
 had health and limbs left. I did not choose to 
 trust the sea again, but preferred my other new 
 trade of gardening ; so I applied to a nursery- 
 man near town, and was received as a day la- 
 borer. I set myself cheerfully to work, taking 
 care to be in the grounds the first man in the 
 morning and the last at night. I acquainted my 
 employer with all the practices I had observed 
 in Morocco, and got him, in return, to instruct 
 me in his own. In time, I came to be considered 
 as a skilful workman, and was advanced to higher 
 wages. My afi*airs were in a flourishing state. 
 I was well fed and comfortably lodged, and saved 
 money into the bargain. About this time I fell 
 in company with a young v/oman at service, very 
 notable and well behaved, who seemed well 
 qualified for a wife to a working man. I ven- 
 tured to make an offer to her, which proved not 
 disagreeable ; and after we had calculated a 
 little how we were to live, we married. I took 
 a cottage with an acre or two of land to it, and 
 
 I nt'— 
 
lr= 
 
 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 155 
 
 my wife's savings furnished our house and bought 
 a cow. All my leisure time I spent upon my 
 piece of ground, which I made very productive ; 
 and the profits of my cow, with my wages, sup- 
 ported us very well. No mortal, I think, could 
 be happier than I was after a hard day's work, 
 by my own fireside, with my wife beside me, and 
 our little infant on my knee. 
 
 " After this way of life had lasted two or three 
 years, a gentleman who had dealt largely with 
 my master for young plants, asked him if he 
 could recommend an honest, industrious man 
 for a tenant, upon some land that he had lately 
 taken in from the sea. My master, willing to 
 do me a kindness, mentioned me. I was tempted 
 by the proposal, and going down to view the 
 premises, I took a farm upon a lease at a low 
 rent, and removed my family and goods to it, 
 one hundred and fifty miles from London. 
 There was ground enough for money, but much 
 was left to be done for it in draining, manuring, 
 and fencing. Then it required more stock than 
 I was able to furnish ; so, though unwilling, I 
 was obliged to borrow some money of my land- 
 lord, who let me have it at moderate interest. 
 I began with good heart, and worked late and 
 early to put things in the best condition. My 
 
§r= 
 
 156 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 first misfortune was, that the place proved un- 
 healthy to us. I fell into a lingering ague, 
 which reduced my strength, and hindered my 
 business. My wife took a slow fever, and so did 
 our eldest child. The poor child died ; and 
 grief for this event increased my wife's illness. 
 Then the rot got among my sheep, and carried 
 ofi" the best part of my flock. I bore up against 
 distress as well as I could ; and, by the kindness 
 of my landlord, was enabled to bring things tol- 
 erably about again. We regained our health, 
 and began to be seasoned to the climate. As 
 we were cheering ourselves with the prospect of 
 better times, a dreadful storm arose — it was one 
 night in February ; I shall never forget it — and 
 drove the spring tide with such fury against our 
 sea-banks, that they gave way. The water 
 rushed in with such force, that all was presently 
 a sea. Two hours before daylight, I was awak- 
 ened by the noise of the waves dashing against 
 our house, and bursting in at the door. We 
 had just time to carry the children up stairs, 
 before all was afloat in the room. When day 
 appeared, we could see nothing from the windows 
 but water. All the out-houses, ricks, and uten- 
 sils were swept away, and all the cattle and sheep 
 drowned. The sea kept rising, and the force of 
 
PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 157 
 
 the current bore so hard against our house, that 
 we thought every moment it must fall. We 
 clasped our babes to our breasts, and expected 
 nothing but present death. At length, we es- 
 pied a boat coming to us. With a good deal of 
 difficulty, it got under our window, and took us 
 in, with a servant maid and boy. A few clothes 
 was all the property we saved ; and we had not 
 left the house half an hour before it fell, and in 
 a minute nothing was to be seen of it. Not 
 only the farm-house, but the farm itself was 
 gone. 
 
 " I was now again a ruined man, and what 
 was worst, I had three partners in my ruin. My 
 wife and I looked at one another, and then at 
 our little ones, and wept. Neither of us had a 
 word of comfort to say. At last thought I, this 
 country is not Morocco, however. Here are 
 good souls that will pity our case, and perhaps 
 relieve tls. Then I have a character, and a pair 
 of hands. Things are bad, but they might have 
 been worse. I took my wife by the hand and 
 knelt down. She did the same. I thanked 
 God for his mercy in saving our lives, and 
 prayed that he would continue to protect us. 
 We rose up with lightened hearts, and were 
 able to talk calmly about our condition. It 
 
158 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 was my desire to return to my former master, 
 the nursery-man ; but how to convey my family 
 so far without money was the difficulty. Indeed, 
 I was much worse than nothing, for I owed a 
 good deal to my landlord. He came down upon 
 the news of the misfortune, and though his own 
 losses were heavy, he not only forgave my debt 
 and released me from all obligations, but made 
 me a small present. Some charitable neighbors 
 did the same ; but I was most of all affected by 
 the kindness of our late maid-servant, who in- 
 sisted upon our accepting of a crown which she 
 had saved out of her wages. Poor girl ! we had 
 always treated her like one of ourselves, and she 
 felt for us like one. 
 
 '' As soon as we had got some necessaries, 
 and the weather was tolerable, we set out on 
 our long march. My wife carried her infant in 
 her arms. I took the older child upon my back, 
 and a bundle of clothes in my hand. We could 
 walk but a few miles a-day, but we now and then 
 got a lift in an empty wagon or cart, which was 
 a great help to us. One day we met with a 
 farmer returning with his team from market, 
 who let us ride, and entered into conversation 
 with rae. I told him my adventures, by which 
 he seemed much interested ; and learning that 
 
^ — % 
 
 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 159 
 
 I was skilled in managing trees, he acquainted 
 me that a nobleman in his neighborhood was 
 making great plantations, and would very likely 
 be glad to engage me ; and he offered to carry 
 us to the place. As all I was seeking was a 
 living by my labor, I thought the sooner I got 
 it, the better ; so, I thankfully accepted his 
 offer. He took us to the nobleman's steward, 
 and made known our case. The steward wrote 
 to my old master for a character ; and receiving 
 a favorable one, he hired me as a principal 
 manager of a new plantation, and settled me 
 and my family in a snug cottage near it. He 
 advanced us somewhat for a little furniture and 
 present subsistence ; and we had once more a 
 hoTM. 0, sir, how many blessings are contained 
 in that word to those who have known the want 
 of it! 
 
 " I entered upon my new employment with as 
 much satisfaction as if I was taking possession 
 of an estate. My wife had enough to do in 
 taking care of the house and children ; so it lay 
 with me to provide for all, and I may say that 
 I was not idle. Besides my weekly pay from 
 the steward, I contrived to make a little money 
 at leisure times by pruning and dressing gentle- 
 men's fruit-trees. I was allowed a piece of 
 
160 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 waste ground behind the house for a garden, 
 and I spent a good deal of labor in bringing it 
 into order. My old master sent me down a 
 present, some choice young trees and flower 
 roots, which I planted, and they throve wonder- 
 fully. Things went oji almost as I could desire. 
 The situation being dry and healthy, my wife 
 recovered her lost bloom, and the children 
 sprung up like my plants. I began to hope 
 that I was almost out of further misfortune ; 
 but it was not so ordered. 
 
 " I had been three years in this situation, 
 when my lord died. He was succeeded by a 
 very dissipated young man, deep in debt, who 
 presently put a stop to the planting and improv- 
 ing of the estate, and sent orders to turn off all 
 the workmen. This was a great blow to me ; 
 however, I still hoped to be allowed to keep my 
 little house and garden, and I thought I could 
 then maintain myself as a nursery-man and 
 gardener. But a new steward was sent down, 
 with directions to rack the tenants to the ut- 
 most. He asked me as much rent for the place 
 as if I had found the garden ready made to my 
 hands ; and when I told him it was impossible 
 for me to pay it, he gave me notice to quit im- 
 mediately. He would neither suffer me to take 
 
PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 161 
 
 away my trees and plants, nor allow me anything 
 for them. His view, I found, was to put in a 
 favorite of his own, and set him up at my ex- 
 pense. I remonstrated against this cruel in- 
 justice, but could obtain nothing but hard words. 
 As I saw it would be the ruin of me to be turned 
 out in that manner, I determined, rather hastily, 
 to go up to London, and plead my cause with 
 my new lord. I took a sorrowful leave of my 
 family, and walking to the next market town, I 
 got a place on the outside of the stage-coach. 
 When we were within thirty or forty miles of 
 London, the coachman overturned the carriage, 
 and I pitched directly on my head, and was 
 taken up senseless. Nobody knew anything 
 about me ; so I was carried to the next village, 
 where the overseer had me taken to the parish 
 workhouse. Here I lay a fortnight, much neg- 
 lected, before I came to my senses. As soon as 
 I became sensible of my condition, I was almost 
 distracted in thinking of the distress my poor 
 wife must be under on my account, not hearing 
 anything of me. I lay another fortnight before 
 I was fit to travel, for, besides the hurt on my 
 head, I had a broken collar-bone, and several 
 bruises. My money had somehow all got out 
 of my pocket, and I had no other means of 
 
%= 
 
 162 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 getting away than by being passed to my own 
 parish. I returned in sad plight indeed, and 
 found my wife very ill in bed. My children 
 were crying about her, and almost starving. 
 We should now have been quite lost, had I not 
 raised a little money by selling our furniture ; 
 for I was yet unable to work. As soon as my 
 wife was somewhat recovered, we were forced to 
 quit our house. I cried like a child on leaving 
 my blooming garden and flourishing plantations, 
 and was almost tempted to demolish them, rather 
 than another should unjustly reap the fruit of 
 my labors. But I checked myself, and I am 
 glad I did. We took lodgings in a neighboring 
 village, and I went round among the gentlemen 
 of the country to see if I could get a little emr 
 ployment. In the meantime, the former steward 
 came down to settle accounts with his successor, 
 and was much concerned to find me in such a 
 situation. He was a very able and honest man, 
 and had been engaged by another nobleman to 
 superintend a large improvable estate in a dis- 
 tant part of the kingdom. He told me, if I 
 would try my fortune with him once more, he 
 would endeavor to procure me a new settlement. 
 I had nothing to lose, and therefore was willing 
 enough to run any hazard ; but I was destitute 
 
PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 163 
 
 of means to convey my family to such a distance. 
 My good friend, who was much provoked at the 
 injustice of the new steward, said so much to 
 him, that he brought him to make me an allow- 
 ance for my garden ; and with that I was enabled 
 to make another removal. It was to the place 
 I now inhabit. 
 
 ^' When I came here, sir, all tlys farm was a 
 naked common, like that you crossed in coming. 
 My lord got an inclosure bill for his part of it, 
 and the steward divided it into different farms, 
 and let it on improving leases to several tenants. 
 A dreary spot, to be sure, it looked at first, 
 enough to sink a man's heart to sit down upon 
 it! I had a little unfinished cottage given me 
 to live in, and as I had nothing to stock a farm, 
 I was for some years employed as head laborer 
 and planter about the new inclosures. By very 
 hard working and saving, together with a little 
 help, I was at length enabled to take a small 
 part of the ground I now occupy. I had various 
 discouragements, from bad seasons and other 
 accidents. One year the distemper carried off 
 four out of seven cows that I kept ; another 
 year I lost two of my best horses. A high wind 
 once almost entirely destroyed an orchard I had 
 just planted, and blew down my biggest barn. 
 
164 PERSEVERANCE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 But I was too mucli used to misfortunes to be 
 easily disheartened, and my way always was to 
 set about repairing them in the best manner I 
 could, and leave the rest to Heaven. This 
 method seems to have answered at last. I 
 have now gone on many years in a course of 
 continued prosperity, adding field to field, in- 
 creasing my stock, and bringing up a numerous 
 family with credit. My dear wife, who was my 
 faithful partner through so much distress, con- 
 tinues to share my prosperous state : and few 
 couples in the kingdom, I believe, have more 
 cause to be thankful for their lot. This, sir, is 
 my history. You see it contains nothing very 
 extraordinary ; but if it impresses on the mind 
 of this young gentleman the maxim, that pa- 
 tience and perseverance will scarcely fail of a 
 good issue, the time you have spent in listening 
 to it will not be entirely lost." 
 
 Mr. Carle ton thanked the good farmer very 
 heartily for the instruction and amusement he 
 had afforded them, and took leave with many 
 expressions of regard. Theodore and he walked 
 home, talking by the way of what they had 
 heard. 
 
 Next morning, Mr. Oarleton, looking out of 
 the window, saw Theodore hard at his work in the 
 
^ - — 
 
 THE FADING LEAVES 165 
 
 garden. He was carefully disinterring his buried 
 flowers, trimming and cleaning them, and plant- 
 ing them anew. He had got the gardener to 
 cut a slip of the broken rose tree, and set it in 
 the middle, to give it a chance for growing. 
 By noon, everything was laid smooth and neat, 
 and the bed was well filled. All its splendor, 
 indeed, was gone for the present, but it seemed 
 in a hopeful way to revive again. Theodore 
 looked with pleasure over his work ; but his 
 father felt more pleasure in witnessing the first 
 fruits of farmer Hardman's story. 
 
 THE FADINa LEAVES. 
 
 BY MARY HEMPIiE. 
 
 A YoujvG child stood in a shadowy wood, 
 
 And her eyes were dim with tears, 
 And a shade was resting sadly there, 
 
 Too deep for her tender years : 
 Yet she knew not why — she knew not why. 
 
 For her heart like a happy bird, 
 Came quickly — ^joyously leaping up. 
 
 Whenever the boughs were stir'd. 
 
166 THE FADING LEAVES. 
 
 The sky was clear, but the leaves were sere, 
 
 And the young child watched them fall, 
 And she saw how the tallest, proudest trees. 
 
 Were stripped the first of all : 
 Then, with lips apart, to her own pure heart. 
 
 She said what their fading taught. 
 For even the leaves in the silent woods. 
 
 Are all with lessons fraught. 
 
 " I am fair and young — ^I am gay and strong, 
 
 But so was this noble tree. 
 Yet the breath of winter has withered that. 
 
 And vv^inter may come to me : 
 But my Father, who gave to the tree its bloom. 
 
 And covers the daisied sod ; 
 Will bring back Spring — for them — for me. 
 
 If I love and worship God." 
 
 Oh ! even a child may read aright 
 
 The pages open'd there ; 
 For the spirit of love — that dwells in light. 
 
 Is reigning everywhere. 
 
 r^ 
 
Harry's dinner. 167 
 
 HARRY'S DINNER. 
 
 Robert Bowen was a day-laborer. When 
 he married his tidy wife, Mary, he took her to a 
 small cottage, just out of the village of Somer- 
 field. Although there were but two rooms in 
 the house, there was always a neat, cheerful air 
 within ; and many a passing traveller long re- 
 membered the cup of cold water and the nice 
 home-made bread given him by the pretty mis- 
 tress of the wayside cottage. The grass plat, 
 in front, enclosed a cluster of carefully-chosen 
 flowering plants, which were never without a 
 bright blossom to wave at the passers-by. 
 
 " It is hard parting with this snug place," 
 said Robert Bowen to his wife. " There's not 
 a prettier spot for miles round. Five happy 
 years we've passed here, not to leave out the 
 time when the boy and I were lying, side by 
 side, with the fever. I never knew what you 
 were worth, Mary, till the strength all left my 
 bones, and I lay, like an infant, in the bed. 
 And the boy, too : where would he have been 
 
168 Harry's dinner. 
 
 but for your nursing ? ^^ut for that unlucky 
 fever, we should not be turned out of house 
 and home. And a shame it is for honest people, 
 like ourselves, to be turned out, for a trifle of 
 rent, and that, the first time we've been behind- 
 hand in five years." 
 
 " Fie, Robert," said Mary, ^' look at the boy, 
 and be thankful. My heart would be fit to 
 break if he was under the cold ground ; but, 
 with his rosy face to look at, and your strong 
 arm to bear upon, it's little to me where I go. 
 With God's sky over us, we sha'n't want for a 
 roof to cover us. Cheer up, Robert ; don't let 
 the boy see you down-hearted. Think of the 
 time when we thought to lose him, and this will 
 seem a bright day to you." 
 
 Thus they talked together, as they packed 
 their scanty supply of furniture upon a cart that 
 was to bear them away. One by one, the 
 heavier articles were brought out, each causing 
 a train of associations. Some had been given 
 Mary by the lady with whom she was at service 
 before her marriage, but the greater part had 
 been added, from time to time, to the little 
 store, from their united savings. 
 
 Harry, the little boy, did not see anything 
 sad in the change they were about to make. 
 % = 
 
Harry's dinner 169 
 
 He ran, backwards and forwards, with great 
 glee, carrying such moveables as his strength 
 would permit. Occasionally, when his parents 
 seemed to lift a load with difficulty, he would 
 take hold with his dimpled hands, and bend his 
 fat shoulder to the work as earnestly as if he 
 really were of great assistance. 
 
 The once cheerful home soon looked bare and 
 desolate, and the empty house gave back a sad 
 echo, as Eobert turned, for the last time, the 
 familiar key. 
 
 Harry pulled a nosegay from the spring flowers 
 that adorned the yard, and then was perched on 
 the bed that surmounted the furniture, and there 
 he rode, with as much satisfaction as if he had 
 been in a golden coach. 
 
 Robert and Mary walked slowly at his side, 
 thinking sadly of the future. They were going 
 to Robert's father's house. The old man had 
 kindly urged them to stay with him until they 
 could find some new and less expensive home 
 than that they were forced to leave. But he was 
 poor, like themselves, and they shrank from re- 
 ceiving assistance from one who had so little to 
 spare. 
 
 Ten weary miles were before them. Almost 
 in silence they moved along, till, way-worn and 
 k - - -^ 
 
170 
 
 HARRY'S DINNER. 
 
 dusty, they sat down, at noon, to rest. Harry 
 was taken from his high seat, and the little group 
 gathered under the shade of a low tree, to take 
 their simple luncheon. 
 
 " Thank God ! we have bread to eat," said 
 Mary, as she drew out a nice loaf from the clean 
 basket on her arm. Robert had little appetite, 
 but Harry soon dispatched a generous slice, and 
 was holding the loaf towards his mother, with a 
 request for " more," when a stranger drew near 
 to them. He was a sportsman, as the gun over 
 his shoulder and the half-filled game-bag plainly 
 told. His rapid footsteps soon brought him to 
 their side. 
 
 The new-comer had a round, cheerful count- 
 enance, and, flushed and animated as it now was, 
 by recent exercise, he certainly seemed anything 
 but repulsive. Yet, as they looked at him, 
 Robert turned away his head, and Mary's eyes 
 filled with tears. Not so Harry ; he longed to 
 make acquaintance with the pleasant-looking 
 gentleman, and have a nearer view of the gay- 
 plumaged birds in the game-bag. The loaf was 
 yet in his hand, and, with artless politeness, he 
 asked the sportsman to take some of his dinner. 
 
 The stranger was hungry. He accepted the 
 offer, and ate the simple fare with a keen relish. 
 
 %^ 
 
Harry's dinner. 171 
 
 " Now, who are you, my little man ?" said 
 he, when he had finished, " and what brought 
 you here to take your dinner ?" 
 
 " My name is Harry Bowen," answered the 
 boy. 
 
 The name — the furniture cart — the dejected 
 couple — were enough to tell the story. A look 
 of real sorrow passed over the sportsman's face. 
 Extending his hand to Kobert, he said, " I am 
 sorry for you, my poor fellow ; this is all owing 
 to my foolish eagerness for sport. Can you for- 
 give your selfish landlord .?" 
 
 Robert grasped the hand that was extended 
 to him, and listened eagerly to the words that 
 followed. 
 
 " I was up before light this morning to have 
 a good day's hunt ; just as I was all ready 
 to start, that scamp of an agent came to me 
 with a long story about the laborers on my es- 
 tate, and asked my permission to turn every one 
 out who refused to pay his rent. In my hurry 
 to be gone, thoughtless fellow that I was, I said, 
 ' Anything, anything you please, only let me be 
 gone ;' and hastened away from him. Your 
 little boy, here, has taught me a lesson ; he 
 has not shared his dinner with me in vain. 
 Right good bread it was, and he shall share 
 
=5^ 
 
 172 Harry's dinner. 
 
 some of my abundance in return. My little 
 friend shall have his home, rent-free, this year, 
 for giving a hungry man such a nice luncheon. 
 Come, right about face, and go back to the 
 cottage ; I can't lose such tidy tenants. I shall 
 look in on you as I go home, and shall not sleep 
 a wink unless I find you as snug as if nothing 
 had happened." 
 
 Before the astonished group had time to thank 
 the repentant landlord, he had whistled to his 
 dogs and disappeared. 
 
 Harry had looked on in wondering silence, 
 while the conversation took place, but now 
 seeing his father all bright with new hope and 
 his mother smiling through her tears, he capered 
 about in high spirits, and when again mounted 
 on the moving furniture, he sang snatches from 
 " Mother Groose," at the top of his voice, until 
 lulled by the slow motion of the cart and over- 
 come with weariness, he fell asleep on the bed 
 like a tired kitten on a cushion. 
 
 How prettily the little cottage looked to 
 Robert and Mary, as they paused at the gate. 
 The perfume of the flowers seemed to give them 
 welcome, and the old house cat, who could not 
 be persuaded to leave the spot, came purring to 
 meet them. 
 
 ^ii§ 
 
Harry's dinner. 173 
 
 With right good will each article of furniture 
 was put in its accustomed place. The bright 
 pans again shone from the walls, and the old 
 clock ticked upon the mantle-piece. 
 
 The happy party ceased not from their pleas- 
 ant labor, until all was again tidy and cheerful 
 in their beloved home. 
 
 With twilight came the landlord, weary with 
 the day's chase, and chilled with the falling dews. 
 A bright fire was upon the hearth, and the tea 
 kettle sung merrily of the approaching meal, 
 and an unusual meal it was in that humble 
 cottage ; for he insisted upon supping with them 
 upon the result of his sport. He watched 
 Mary's skilful cookery, now and then suggesting 
 an improvement, or lending a hand to better the 
 fire, and when all was at length prepared he sat 
 at their rustic table with so easy a grace that 
 they almost forgot that he was not their equal. 
 
 He led them to speak of their hopes and 
 wishes, and as their honest hearts were laid 
 open to him, he felt that they had in their 
 sterling virtue a treasure better than all his 
 riches. 
 
 That day was a blessing to the landlord and 
 all who were connected with him ; he resolved 
 to know more of his tenantry, and to be himself 
 % . — 
 
% 
 
 174 EARLY PIETY. 
 
 their example. Many a laborer profited by 
 Harry's parted bread. Not that the sportsman 
 forgot to hunt — but he no longer allowed his 
 favorite amusement to interfere with his duties ; 
 and often the sick cottager made a dainty supper 
 on the game left by the landlord, when returning 
 from a successful chase. 
 
 EARLY PIETY. 
 
 BY MISS C. W. BARBER. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson stood one bright Sabbath morn- 
 ing in June, at the door of her nice little cottage, 
 with her two children, John and Dorcas, one 
 upon either side. The children were dressed, 
 ready for the Sabbath School, in the neighboring 
 town, and the carriage was waiting for them at 
 the garden gate, but they lingered for a few 
 moments upon the threshold, to repeat their 
 lessons to their mother, and listen to her ex- 
 planations, so that they might be fully prepared 
 for their respective classes. Dorcas' lesson, es- 
 pecially, was one of much interest, and her sweet 
 
^ % 
 
 EARLY PIETY. 175 
 
 little face grew very serious, as she repeated 
 those comforting words, uttered by the Saviour 
 to his disciples, just before his crucifixion : 
 " Let not your hearts be troubled ; ye believe 
 m Grod, believe also in me. In my Father's 
 house there are many mansions ; if it were not 
 so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a 
 place for you, that where I am, there ye may 
 be also." When she came to the last words 
 she said : 
 
 " Is not that very comforting, mamma ? 
 How good the Saviour was to come down, and 
 suffer so muck for us ; how good to be crucified 
 for our sins, and then to go and prepare beauti- 
 ful places for us in Grod's house, in Heaven ; 
 Isn't it very comforting, mamma .^" * 
 
 " It is indeed, my daughter," said Mrs. Em- 
 erson, tenderly — " no human mind can think for 
 a moment, of the scheme of salvation, devised 
 and wrought out by the Saviour, without being 
 affected, it would seem, by his goodness and 
 love, and yet many, my dear children, instead 
 of loving this precious Saviour, and obeying his 
 commands, revile his name, and " open his 
 wounds afresh." But I hear the bell ringing, 
 and you must go now. Be sure to call for little 
 Sammy Baker and Susan Strong, on your way 
 
%=: 
 
 176 EARLY PIETY. 
 
 to the chapel, and don't forget to ask how old 
 Mrs. Stone, the crippled lady, does to-day." 
 John and Dorcas promised to do all this, and 
 then kissing their dear mother, started upon 
 their short journey. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson stood, and looked after them, 
 until the carriage was out of sight. She was a 
 good and wise mother— one who, like the apostle 
 of old, desired above all things, '' to see her chil- 
 dren walking in the truth." Some little boys 
 and girls imagine that they cannot become ckris- 
 tians until they are grown. They think that 
 piety is something that is not expected in chil- 
 dren, but the Saviour expects and desires that 
 even little children, should enter his fold, and 
 b§x3ome his lambs. '' Those that seek me early 
 shall find me," says the Bible. Ay, and in 
 finding Grod, my dear little friends, you find 
 peace and happiness, so precious that gold can- 
 not buy it. Will you not then, like little Dorcas 
 and John Emerson, early seek an interest in the 
 dear Redeemer } 
 
 The children found little Sammy Baker and 
 Susan Strong all ready to go with them to the 
 Sabbath School. It was a cheerful sight to see 
 them on their way, chatting pleasantly to each 
 other, of their lessons and their teachers* Sammy 
 
EARLY PIETY. 177 
 
 < 
 
 and Susan were both orphans, but they lived 
 with a kind, christian lady, who had adopted 
 them and treated them as tenderly as an own 
 mother would have done. She early taught 
 them to love their Bibles and their Sabbath 
 School — to fear to sin, because Grod's eye was 
 ever upon them. We should like very much to 
 accompany our little Sabbath School scholars to 
 the church, and listen to their recitations, but 
 that would make our story too long, so we will 
 hasten on, and see how bright and beautiful 
 early piety ^ can make that gloomiest of all paths 
 — the one leading to the grave. 
 
 Sammy Baker was a delicate, sickly boy, and 
 had been so all his life. He could not join his 
 companions in their wild, rude plays, because 
 such exercise made him sick, but nevertheless 
 he was so lovely and gentle in his disposition, 
 that even the most boisterous loved him. In 
 the week succeeding the Sabbath in which our 
 young friends went to Sunday School together, 
 Mrs. Emerson was pained by the intelligence 
 that little Sammy was very sick, and that the 
 physician feared he would die. She instantly 
 resolved that she would visit him, and as Dorcas 
 and John much wished to accompany her, she 
 suffered them to do so. 
 
178 EARLY PIETY. 
 
 They found, on their arrival at Sammy's bed- 
 side, that he was dying. His little face was as 
 white as that of a corpse ; his breath came slowly, 
 accompanied by a groan, and the blood was 
 growing purple and settling beneath his nails. 
 His eyes alone looked natural ; in them slept 
 the same soft, sweet, patient expression, which 
 had marked his hours of health. 
 
 John and Dorcas had never before seen any- 
 body die, and their little play-mate was so ghastly 
 and pale, that they at first shrunk back, and 
 feared to approach him, but their mother went 
 close up to him, and pressed her hand upon his 
 clammy forehead, and felt his fluttering pulse. 
 Her example inspired them with courage, and 
 finally they too approached him. 
 
 Although little Sammy was so far gone, he 
 was still sensible of everything that occurred 
 around him. When Susan wept, as if her heart 
 would break, he called her to him, and told her 
 that he was not afraid to die^ for the Saviour 
 was with him^ and was making his dying couch 
 
 " Feel soft as downy pillars are." 
 
 He spoke also to John and Dorcas, of God, and 
 the beautiful place which He has prepared for 
 
=^ 
 
 EARLY PIETY. 179 
 
 those who love Him. He exhorted them above 
 all things, to fear to sin, and serve the Saviour 
 with all their heart, now in the morning of their 
 lives. He desired Susan to bring to him his 
 little chest of books, and when he had received 
 it, he drew with his stiffeninor finojers several 
 small volumes out and gave them to his little 
 companions. He then desired them all to sing 
 for him, some sweet hymns, and while listening 
 to the melody, " fell asleep in Christ." 
 
 A beautiful smile lingered upon his lips, even 
 after he was dead ; a smile that seemed to say 
 that the spirit was happy in God's presence. 
 
 That death-bed scene, Dorcas and John never 
 forgot. My dear little readers, what Jesus 
 Christ did for little Sammy upon his death-bed, 
 he can and will do for you, if you only serve him 
 in your early youth as Sammy did. Will you 
 not then early seek his smilling face .? Will 
 you not cling to his cross, and hide yourselves 
 as it were, under the shadow of his mighty 
 throne } 
 
 } 
 
^-- 
 
 180 THE BONNIE BAIRNS. 
 
 %= 
 
 THE BONNIE BAIRNS. 
 
 A. BALLAD. 
 
 [Some of the old ballads are more touching and beautiful thau 
 anything written now-a-days. The following specimen is taken 
 from " Songs of Scotland, ancient and modern, edited by Allan 
 Cunningham." It must be understood that the spirits of the 
 children are poetically represented as pleading for heavenly 
 mercy in behalf of the mother who slew them.] 
 
 The lady she walked in yon wild wood, 
 
 Aneath the hollin tree, 
 And she was aware of twa bonnie Ibairns 
 
 Were running at her knee. 
 
 The tane it pulled the red, red rose, 
 
 Wi' a hand as soft as silk ; 
 The other, it pulled the lily pale, 
 
 Wi' a hand mair white than milk.* 
 
 " Now, why pull ye the red rose, fair bairns ? 
 
 And why the white lily ?" 
 ** 0, we sue wi' them at the seat of grace 
 
 For the soul of thee, ladye !" 
 
 * The rose and lily were esteemed as mystical emblems of 
 Christianity. The reference in the last verse " Take her where 
 ■waters rin"— to " the fountain opened for sin"— is very beautiful. 
 
THE BONNIE BAIRNS. 181 
 
 " bide wi' me, my twa bonnie bairns, 
 
 I'll cleid ye rich and fine ; 
 And a' for the blae berries of the wood— 
 
 Yese hae white bread and wine." 
 
 She heard a voice — a sweet low voice 
 
 Say — " Weans, ye tarry lang :" — 
 She stretched her head to the youngest bairn — 
 
 ** Kiss me before ye gang." 
 
 She sought to take a lily hand, 
 
 And to kiss a rosy chin ; 
 0, nought sae pure can bide the touch 
 
 Of a hand red wet wi' sin ! 
 
 The stars were shooting to and fro — 
 
 And wild fire filled the air. 
 As that lady followed thae bonnie bairns 
 
 For three lang hours and mair. 
 
 ** where dwell ye — my ain sweet bairns ? 
 
 I'm woe and weary grown !" 
 " Lady, we live where woe never is — 
 
 In a land to flesh unknown." 
 
 There came a shape which seemed to her 
 
 Like a rainbow 'mang the rain 
 And sair those sweet babes plead for her ; 
 
 But they plead and plead in vain ! 
 
 " And 0, and 0," said the youngest babe, 
 
 " My mother maun come in !" 
 " And 0, and 0," said the eldest babe, 
 
 " Wash her twa hands frae sin !" 
 
 k^ 
 
?^== 
 
 182 
 
 THE SPECTRE BAT. 
 
 1 
 
 ** And 0, and 0," said the youngest babe, 
 *' She nursed me on her knee ;" 
 
 ** And 0, and 0," said the eldest babe, 
 *' She's a mither yet to me !" 
 
 *' And 0, and 0," said the babies baith, 
 
 ** Take her where waters rin, 
 And white as the milk of her white breast. 
 
 Wash her twa hands frae sin !" 
 
 — '>-rcr\/>.rv/\/V-u->^>*. 
 
 %^- 
 
 THE SPECTEE BAT. 
 
 A DIALOGUE AT A MENAGERIE. 
 Present. — Father, Henry, Ellen and Robert. 
 
 Ellen. — Oh, Robert, what an odd looking 
 creature — like a Gruinea pig with wings, I de- 
 clare. 
 
 Robert. — I don't thank you, Ellen, for think- 
 ing that ugly thing looks like my pretty Gruinea 
 pig. It don't a bit, Miss — does it Harry } 
 
 Harry. — Well, Bob — a sort of yes, and a sort 
 of no ! That yoke round its neck don't look like 
 wings though, Nelly. 
 
=^ 
 
 THE SPECTRE BAT. 183 
 
 Robert. — No, and it dont look like a Guinea 
 pig, it looks to me more like a little bear ! 
 
 JSllen — laughing — Ha ! ha ! a bear indeed, 
 Robert — now I should'nt think he'd bear that 
 if he could get out of that cage ! 
 
 Harry. — Well, well, but what is the name of 
 the ugly thing ? Will you please to tell us. 
 Father ? 
 
 Father, — Yes, my son, it is called the Spectre 
 Bat, and is a very curious animal, as much de- 
 serving your notice as any in the collection. 
 
 Ellen. — I never heard of it before. 
 
 Robert. — Is it like the Yampyre Bat, Buffon 
 tells about ? 
 
 Father. — It is described by Buffon as well as 
 the Yampyre Bat, which it resembles more in 
 its habits than in its appearance. It is even 
 sometimes called Vampyre. 
 
 Ellen. — What is the meaning of vampyre, 
 father } 
 
 Father. — It is the name of an imaginary 
 monster, supposed to live by sucking the blood 
 of human beings, and it is still believed by some 
 nations, that it is a real being, and that persons 
 whose blood is sucked by a Vampyre, become 
 Yampyres in turn, and rise up from their graves 
 to suck the blood of their friends. 
 
 =^ 
 
184 THE SPECTRE BAT. 
 
 AIL — What a horrible idea. How can any- 
 body believe it ! 
 
 Father. — How indeed, my children ? and yet 
 they do. But the Yampyre Bat is really said 
 by naturalists to suck the blood of persons, wljile 
 asleep. It is a native of Africa and Asia, and 
 of some of the South Sea Islands. But this is 
 not the Yampyre Bat. It is the Spectre Bat, 
 and like the Yampyre, it sucks blood, chiefly of 
 cattle and other animals, but sometimes of hu- 
 man beings, when asleep. It is smaller than 
 the Yampyre Bat. The yoke, as Harry called 
 it, is a membrane, which it expands and uses as 
 wings. 
 
 JEllen. — There, there, I was right. 
 
 Father. — The Spectre Bat is found in New 
 Holland, and South America. Sometimes such 
 immense numbers are seen together that they 
 look like a black cloud. They are not like the 
 common bat, given to frequenting solitary places, 
 but they sometimes darken a whole street in a 
 town, by flocking to it in such multitudes. The 
 membrane of this animal can be stretched out 
 to the length of four or five feet, though it is 
 ordinarily folded upon its body as you see it now. 
 
 Ellen. — I cannot bear to look at. it. The. 
 hateful thing, to suck the blood of other ani- 
 
THE SPECTRE BAT. 185 
 
 mals, and even of men when asleep. Is it very 
 ferocious in its habits ^ 
 
 Father. — By no means. It can be perfectly 
 tamed, and so suddenly that those caught in the 
 morning will, sometimes, before night, eat from 
 the hand, and in a week be just as domestic as 
 if born in the house. An English officer had a 
 female of this species, who would hang upon a 
 perch by one leg, for ten or twelve hours with- 
 out change of position. They are sometimes 
 seen in the forests, hanging in this way to limbs 
 of trees. 
 
 Harry. — ^We are much obliged to you, father, 
 for your kindness in telling us all about this 
 ' winged Guinea pig' of Ellen's ; though I never 
 should have taken that yoke for wings, I am sure, 
 and that pyramid on its nose looks like a fool's 
 cap ! 
 
 Robert. — -It looks like a third ear, and I should 
 call it one if I had ever heard of an animal with 
 more than two ears. 
 
 Ellen, — Especially " a little bear," eh, brother 
 Robert t 
 [All laughing — leave the cage of the Spectre 
 Bat.] 
 
 .« 
 
186 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 BUSl IDLENESS. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson being obliged to leave borne 
 for six weeks, ber daugbters, Cbarlotte and 
 Caroline, received permission to employ tbe 
 time of ber absence as tbey pleased ; tbat is, 
 sbe did not require of tbem tbe usual strict at- 
 tention to particular bours, and particular studies, 
 but allowed tbem to cboose tbeir own employ- 
 ments ; only recommending tbem to make a 
 good use of tbe license, and apprizing tbem, 
 tbat on ber return sbe sbould require an exact 
 account of tbe manner in wbicb tbe interval bad 
 been employed. 
 
 Tbe carriage tbat conveyed tbeir motber away 
 was scarcely out of bearing, wben Cbarlotte, de- 
 ligbted witb ber freedom, bastened up stairs to 
 tbe scbool room, wbere sbe looked around on 
 books, globes, maps, and drawings, to select 
 some new employment for tbe morning. Long 
 before sbe bad decided upon any, ber sister bad 
 quietly seated berself at ber accustomed station, 
 tbinking tbat sbe could do notbing better tban 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 187 
 
 finish the French exercise she had begun the 
 day before. Charlotte, however, declined at- 
 tending to French that day, and, after much 
 indecision, and saying, " I have a great mind 
 to — ," three several times, without finishing the 
 sentence, she at last took down a volume of 
 Cowper, and read in different parts for about 
 half an hour ; then, throwing it aside, she said 
 she had a great mind to put the book shelves in 
 order, a duty which she commenced with great 
 spirit ; but in the course of her laudable under- 
 taking she met with an old manuscript in short- 
 hand ; whereupon she exclaimed to her sister, 
 " Caroline, don't you remember that old Mr. 
 Henderson once promised he would teach us 
 short-hand ? How much I should like to learn ! 
 — only mamma thought we had not time ; but 
 now, this would be such a good opportunity. I 
 am sure I could learn it well in six weeks ; and 
 how convenient it would be ! One could take 
 down sermons, or anything, and I could make 
 Rachael learn, and then how very pleasant it 
 would be to write to each other in short-hand ! 
 Indeed, it would be convenient in a hundred 
 ways." So saying, she ran up stairs without 
 any farther delay, and putting on her hat and 
 spencer, set off to old Mr. Henderson's. 
 
§^^ 
 
 %:= 
 
 188 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 Mr. Henderson happened to be at dinner ; 
 nevertheless Charlotte obtained admittance, on 
 the plea of urgent business ; but she entered his 
 apartment so much out of breath, and in such 
 apparent agitation that the old gentleman, rising 
 hastily from the table, and looking anxiously at 
 her over his spectacles, inquired, in a tremulous 
 tone, what was the matter ! When Charlotte 
 explained her business, therefore, he appeared 
 a little disconcerted ; but having gently reproved 
 her for her undue eagerness, he composedly re- 
 sumed his knife and fork, though his hand shook 
 much more than usual during the remainder of 
 his meal. However, being very good-natured, 
 as soon as he had dined he cheerfully gave Char- 
 lotte her first lesson in short-hand, promising to 
 repeat it regularly every morning. 
 
 Charlotte returned home in high glee ; she, at 
 this juncture, considered short-hand as one of 
 the most useful, and decidedly the most interest- 
 ing of acquirements ; and she continued to ex- 
 ercise herself in it all the rest of the day. She 
 was exceedingly pleased at being able already to 
 write two or three words, which neither her 
 sister, nor even her father, could decypher. 
 For three successive mornings Charlotte punc- 
 tually kept her appointment with Mr. Hender- 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 189 
 
 son ; but on the fourth she sent a shabby excuse 
 to her kind master ; and, -if the truth must be 
 told, he from that time saw no more of his 
 scholar. Now the cause of this desertion was 
 twofold : first, and principally, her zeal for short- 
 hand, which for the last eight-and-forty hours 
 had been sensibly declining in its temperature, 
 was, on the above morning, within half a degree 
 of freezing point ; and besides this, a new and 
 far more arduous and important undertaking 
 had by this time suggested itself to her mind. 
 Like many young persons of desultory inclina- 
 tions, Charlotte often amused herself with writ- 
 ing verses ; and it now occurred to her, that 
 an abridged history of England in verse was still 
 a desideratum* in literature. She commenced 
 this task with her usual diligence ; but was 
 somewhat discouraged in the outset by the dif- 
 ficulty of finding a rhyme to Saxon^ whom, she 
 indulged the unpatriotic wish, that the Danes 
 had laid a tax on. But though she got over 
 this obstacle by a new construction of the line, 
 she found these difficulties occur so continually, 
 that she soon felt a more thorough disgust at this 
 employment than at the preceding one ; so the 
 epic stopped short, some hundred years before 
 
 ♦ Something desirable. 
 
190 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 the Norman conquest. Difficulty ^ which quickens 
 the ardor of industry, always damps, and gener- 
 ally extinguishes the false zeal of caprice and 
 versatility. Charlotte's next undertaking was, 
 to be sure, a rapid descent from the last in the 
 scale of dignity. She now thought, that by 
 working very hard during the remainder of the 
 time, she should be able to accomplish a patch- 
 work counterpane, large enough for her own 
 little tent bed ; and the ease of this employ- 
 ment formed a most agreeable contrast in her 
 mind with the extreme difficulty of the last. 
 Accordingly, as if commissioned with a search 
 warrant, she ransacked all her mother's draws, 
 bags, and bundles, in quest of new pieces ; and 
 these spoils proving very insufficient, she set off 
 to tax all her friends, and to tease all the linen- 
 drapers in the town for their odds and ends ; 
 urging that she wanted some 'particularly. As 
 she was posting along the street on this business, 
 she espied at a distance a person whom she had 
 no wish to encounter, namely, old Mr. Hender- 
 son. To avoid the meeting she crossed over ; 
 but this manoeuvre did not succeed ; for no 
 sooner had they come opposite each other, than, 
 to her great confusion, he called out all across 
 the street, in his loud and tremulous voice, and 
 
%^ 
 
 BUSY IDLENESS. 191 
 
 shaking his stick at her, " How d'ye do, Miss 
 Short-hand 1 I thought how it would he ! 
 fie ! fie !" 
 
 Charlotte hurried on ; and her thoughts soon 
 returned to the idea of the splendid radiating 
 star which she designed for the centre-piece of 
 her counterpane. While she was arranging the 
 different patterns, and forming the alterations 
 of light and shade, her interest continued una- 
 bated ; but when she came to the practical part 
 of sewing piece to piece with unvarying same- 
 ness, as usual, it began to flag. She sighed 
 several times, and cast many disconsolate looks 
 at the endless hexagons and octagons, before she 
 indulged any distinct idea of relinquishing her 
 task ; at length, however, it did forcibly occur 
 to her, that, after all^ she was not obliged to go 
 on with it ; and that, really, patchwork was a 
 thing that was better done by degrees, when one 
 happens to want a job, than to be finished all at 
 once. So with this thought (which would have 
 been a very good one if it had occurred in proper 
 time) she suddenly drew out her needle, thrust 
 all her pieces, arranged and unarranged, into a 
 drawer, and began to meditate a new project. 
 
 Fortunately, just at this juncture, some young 
 ladies of their acquaintance called upon Charlotte 
 
192 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 and Caroline. They were attempting to estab- 
 lish a society among their young friends for 
 working for the poor ; and came to request 
 their assistance. Caroline very cheerfully en- 
 tered into the design ; but as for Charlotte, 
 nothing could exceed the forwardness of her 
 zeal. She took it up so warmly, that Caroline's 
 appeared, in comparison, only lukewarm. It 
 was proposed, that each member of the society 
 should have an equal proportion of the work to 
 do at her own house ; but when the articles 
 came to be distributed, Charlotte, in the heat 
 of her benevolence, desired that a double por- 
 tion might be allotted to her. Some of the 
 younger ones admired her industrious inten- 
 tions ; but the better judging advised her not 
 to undertake too much at once. However, she 
 would not be satisfied till her request was com- 
 plied with. When the parcels of work arrived, 
 Charlotte with exultation seized the larger one, 
 and without a minute's delay commenced her 
 charitable labors. The following morning she 
 rose at four o'clock, to resume the employ- 
 ment ; and not a little self-complacency did 
 she feel, when, after nearly two hours' hard 
 work, she still heard Caroline breathing in a 
 sound sleep. But alas ! Charlotte soon found 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 193 
 
 that work is work^ of whatever nature, or for 
 whatever purpose. She now inwardly regretted 
 that she had asked for more than her share ; and 
 the cowardly thought that, after all, she was not 
 obliged to do it, next occurred to her. For the 
 present, she squeezed all the things, done and 
 undone, into what she called her Dorcas bag ; 
 and to banish unpleasant thoughts she opened 
 the first book that happened to lie within reach : 
 it proved to be " An Introduction to Botany." 
 Of this she had not read more than a page and 
 a half, before she determined to collect some 
 specimens herself; and having found a blank 
 copy-book, she hastened into the garden, where, 
 gathering a few common flowers, she proceeded 
 to dissect them, not, it is to be feared, with 
 much scientific nicety. Perhaps as many as 
 three pages of this copy-book were bespread 
 with her specimens, before she discovered that 
 botany was a dry study. 
 
 It would be too tedious to enumerate all the 
 subsequent ephemeral undertakings which filled 
 up the remainder of the six weeks. At the ex- 
 piration of that time, Mrs. Dawson returned. 
 On the next morning after her arrival, she re- 
 minded her daughters of the account she ex- 
 pected of their employments during her absence ; 
 
^= 
 
 194 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 and desired them to set out, on two tables in the 
 school room, everything they had done that could 
 be so exhibited ; together with the books they 
 had been reading. Charlotte would gladly have 
 been excused her part of the exhibition ; but 
 this was not permitted ; and she reluctantly 
 followed her sister to make the preparation. 
 When the two tables were spread, their mother 
 was summoned to attend. Caroline's, which 
 was first examined, contained, first, her various 
 exercises in the difierent branches of study, 
 regularly executed, the same as usual ; and 
 there were papers placed in the books she was 
 reading in school hours, to show how far she had 
 proceeded in them. Besides these, she had read 
 in her leisure time, in French, Florian's Numa 
 Pompilius, and in English, Mrs. More's Practi- 
 cal Piety, and some part of Johnson's Lives of 
 the Poets. All the needle-work which had been 
 left to do or not, at her option, was neatly fin- 
 ished ; and her parcel of linen for the poor was 
 also completely and well done. The only in- 
 stance in which Caroline had availed herself of 
 her mother's license, was, that she had prolonged 
 her drawing lessons a little every day, in order 
 to present her mother with a pretty pair of 
 screens, with flowers copied from nature ; these 
 
 r^l 
 
BUSY IDLENESS. 195 
 
 were last of all placed upon the table, with an 
 affectionate note, requesting her acceptance of 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson, having carefully examined this 
 table, proceeded to the other, which was quite 
 piled up with different articles. Here, amid 
 the heap, were her three pages of short-hand ; 
 several scraps of paper containing fragments of 
 her poetical history ; the piece (not large enough 
 for a dolPs cradle) of her patchwork counter- 
 pane ; her botanical specimens ; together with 
 the large unfinished pile out of the Dorcas hag ; 
 many of the articles of which were begun, but 
 not one quite finished. There was a baby's cap 
 with no border, a frock body without sleeves, 
 and the skirt only half hemmed at the bottom ; 
 and slides, tapes, and button-holes, were all, 
 without exception, omitted. After these fol- 
 lowed a great variety of thirds, halves, and 
 quarters of undertakings, each, perhaps, good 
 in itself J but quite useless in its unfinished state. 
 
 The examination being at length ended, Mrs. 
 Dawson retired, without a single comment, to 
 her dressing-room ; where, in about an hour 
 afterwards, she summoned the girls to attend 
 her. Here, also, were two tables laid out, with 
 several articles on each. Their mother then 
 
 % ■ _ ^:z=:=^ 
 
196 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 leading Caroline to the first, told her that, as 
 the reward of her industry and perseverance^ the 
 contents of that table were her own. Here, 
 with joyful surprise, she beheld, first, a little 
 gold watch, which Mrs. Dawson said she thought 
 a suitable present for one who had made a good 
 use of her time ; a small telescope next ap- 
 peared ; and lastly, Paley's Natural Theology, 
 neatly bound. Charlotte was then desired to 
 take possession of the contents of the other table, 
 which were considerably more numerous. The 
 first prize she drew out was a beautiful French 
 fan ; but upon opening it, it stretched out in an 
 oblong shape, for want of the pin to confine the 
 sticks at the bottom. Then followed a new par- 
 asol ; but when unfurled there was no catch to 
 confine it, so that it would not remain spread. 
 A penknife handle without a blade, and a blade 
 without a handle, next presented themselves to 
 her astonished gaze. In great confusion she 
 then unroUod a paper, which discovered a teles- 
 cope apparently like her sister's ; but on apply- 
 ing it to her eye, she found it did not contain a 
 single lens ; so that it was no better than a roll 
 of pasteboard. She was, however, greatly en- 
 couraged to discover, that the last remaining 
 article was a watch ; for, as she heard it tick. 
 
'% 
 
 %rz 
 
 BUSY IDLENESS. 197 
 
 she felt no doubt that this, at least, was com- 
 plete ; but, upon examination, she discovered 
 that there was no hour hand ; the minute hand 
 alone pursuing its lonely and useless track. 
 
 Charlotte, whose conscience had very soon 
 explained to her the moral of all this, now 
 turned from the tantalizing table in confusion, 
 and burst into an agony of tears. Caroline wept 
 also, and Mrs. Dawson, after an interval of si- 
 lence, thus addressed her daughters : 
 
 "It is quite needless for me to explain my 
 reasons for making you such presents, Charlotte. 
 I assure you, your papa and I have had a very 
 painful employment the past hour in spoiling 
 them all for you. If I had found on your table 
 . in the school room any one thing that had been 
 properly j^m^^ec?, you would have received one 
 complete present to answer it ; but this you 
 know was not the case. I should be very glad 
 if this disappointment should teach you what I 
 have hitherto vainly endeavored to impress upon 
 you, that as all those things, pretty or useful as 
 they are in themselves, are rendered totally use- 
 less for want of comjpleteiiess ; so exertion, with- 
 out perseverance^ is no better than lusy idleness. 
 That employment does not deserve the name of 
 industry, which requires the stimulus of novelty 
 
 m 
 
=% 
 
 198 BUSY IDLENESS. 
 
 to keep it going. Those who will only work so 
 long as they are amused^ will do dd more good 
 in the world, either to themselves or others, 
 than those who refuse to work at all. If I had 
 required you to pass the six weeks of my absence 
 in bed, or in counting your fingers, you would, I 
 suppose, have thought it a sad waste of time ; 
 and yet, I appeal to you whether (with the ex- 
 ception of an hour or two of needle-work) the 
 whole mass of articles on your table could pro- 
 duce anything more useful. And thus, my 
 dear, may life be squandered away, in a suc- 
 cession of busy nothings. 
 
 " I have now a proposal to make to you. 
 These presents, which you are to take posses- 
 sion of as they are, I advise you to lay by care- 
 fully. Whenever you can show me anything 
 which you have begun, and vohinidixWy finished^ 
 you may at the same time bring with you one of 
 these things, beginning with those of least value, 
 to which I will immediately add the part that is 
 deficient. Thus, by degrees, you may have 
 them all completed ; and if by this means you 
 should acquire the wise and virtuous habit of 
 jter sever ancCy it will be far more valuable to you 
 than the richest present you could possibly re- 
 ceive." 
 
 =ifg 
 
— % 
 
 JOY ON MAY MORNING. 199 
 
 JOY ON MAY MORNING. 
 
 Come sisters ! arise, for tte morning is breaking, 
 The mist from the meadow is stealing away ; 
 
 The birds, in the wild- wood, their sweet notes are 
 chaunting 
 To hail the blithe dawn of the morning of May ! 
 
 The white thorn is blooming, all bright in the hedges, 
 The buttercup shines in the meadow so green ; 
 
 The daisy lifts up its wet eye to the sunshine, 
 And the crocus peeps out the gay hedge-rows be- 
 tween. 
 
 We'll away to the woods while the dew-drops are 
 sparkling, 
 Like gems on the flow'rets that smile as we pass ; 
 Ere the sun has dried up the sweet dews from the 
 forest. 
 Or scattered the odors that lurk in the grass. 
 
 Then away ! then away ! — ^for the morning is passing, 
 The dew is departing from bud and from leaf ; 
 
 The sun o'er the forest already is darting. 
 And casting his long dancing shadows beneath. 
 
200 THE new-year's wish. 
 
 THE NEW-YEAR'S WISH. 
 
 Upon a certain new-year's day, Edward Vesey 
 came into the parlor, just before breakfast was 
 ready. He advanced, and, with the greatest 
 gravity, saluting his father, began, in a solemn 
 tone of voice, as follows : — 
 
 " As formerly the Romans were accustomed, 
 every new-year's day, to wish their friends all 
 
 happiness, so /, thrice-honored father, come, • 
 
 so I, thrice-honored father, come, — come, — 
 come, " 
 
 The little orator here stopped short. It was 
 in vain he fretted, rubbed his forehead, and 
 began to fumble in his pockets. The remain- 
 der of this excellent harangue was not forth 
 coming. The poor little boy was vexed, and 
 quite in agitation. Mr. Yesey saw and pitied 
 his embarrassment, and, embracing him, in- 
 quired if the oration was his own composition. 
 
 " Oh ! no, indeed, father," said Edward, ^' I 
 am not half learned enough for such a task. It 
 was my brother that drew it up. You should 
 
 % 
 
THE new-year's WISH. 201 
 
 have heard the whole. He told me that it was 
 in periods ; and the periods, he said, were 
 rounded off into the bargain. I will but run 
 it over once, and you shall hear it then ; or 
 would you rather hear mamma's } I have that 
 perfectly, I am sure. It is extracted from the 
 Grrecian History." 
 
 " No, no, Edward, it is not necessary ; and 
 your mother and myself, without it, are as 
 much indebted both to your affection and your 
 brother's.'' 
 
 " Oh, he was a fortnight, I assure you, at the 
 %ork ; and I employed much time in learning 
 them. What an unlucky thing, that I should 
 now forget, when I most wanted to remember 
 it ! No longer ago than last night, believe me, 
 I delivered the whole speech, without the least 
 hesitation, in the other room, — speaking to the 
 clock, if it could but tell you." 
 
 " I was then reading in the library," said 
 his father, " and to comfort you, must say, I 
 heard it." 
 
 " Did you ?" exclaimed Edward, with anima- 
 tion. " I am glad of that ! and do you not 
 think, father, that I spoke it very well .?" 
 
 " Surprisingly, I must acknowledge," said 
 Mr. Yesey, with a smile. 
 
 =% 
 
202 THE new-year's wish. 
 
 '' But, really, father, was it not very fine ?" 
 
 " Your brother has quite crammed it full of 
 eloquence, I allow," said his father. " And yet 
 I should have liked a single word or two much 
 better from yourself." 
 
 "But, certainly, father, to say that I wish a 
 person a happy new-year, and nothing else, is 
 far too common to give pleasure." 
 
 " Yes ; but why nothing else ? Could you 
 not, previously, have thought within yourself, 
 what I wished most of all to enjoy during the 
 course of this new year .?" 
 
 "Oh, that would not be difficult. You wish, 
 no doubt, to have your health, to see your fam- 
 ily, your friends and fortune flourish, and to 
 enjoy much pleasure." 
 
 " Well, do you not wish me all this .^" 
 
 " Yes, with all my heart." 
 
 " Why, then, could you not have made me 
 up yourself a compliment, without requiring the 
 assistance of another .^" 
 
 " Really," replied Edward, " I did not think 
 myself so learned ; but it is always so when you 
 instruct me ; I find out things which I did not 
 think were in me. I can now make compliments 
 to every one that I know. I need say nothing 
 but what I have mentioned just this moment." 
 
 k — =^ 
 
y '• " -=^ — 
 
 THE new-year's WISH. 203 
 
 " It might apply very well to many people," 
 said his father, " but should certainly be diflferent 
 with respect to others." 
 
 *' Yes, I understand you pretty well, father ; 
 but I do not know what the difference should 
 be ; so please explain it to me." 
 
 *' Well," said Mr. Yesey, " there are a mul- 
 titude of what are called good things, that one 
 may wish any person to enjoy ; such as those 
 which you mentioned just now ; there are others 
 that refer to different individuals according to 
 their situations, age, and duties. For example ; 
 one may wish to a person who is happy already, 
 the long continuation of his happiness ; to an 
 unhappy man, the end of his affliction ; to a 
 man in office, that Grod's providence may bless 
 his labors for the public welfare, give him neces- 
 sary penetration, with the gift of perseverance 
 to continue in them, and establish the enjoyment 
 of felicity among his countrymen, by way of 
 recompense on his endeavors. 
 
 "To an old man, one may wish a length of 
 life exempt from every inconveniency ; to chil- 
 dren, on the other hand, the preservation of 
 their parents, progress in their studies, with a 
 love of the arts ; to parents, the completion of 
 their hopes, in bringing up their children ; every 
 =^ — ^ 
 
204 THE new-year's wish. 
 
 species of prosperity to such as are our benefac- 
 tors, and the long continuation of their kindness. 
 It is our duty even to call to mind our enemies, 
 and to pray that God may show them the in- 
 justice of their conduct, and inspire them with a 
 wish of meriting our friendship." 
 
 " Oh, father," exclaimed Edward, " now I 
 shall have a budget of compliments for every 
 one. I shall know what sort of wishes they 
 will expect, and have no occasion for my broth- 
 er's rounded periods, as he calls them ; but why, 
 as we should always have these wishes in our 
 heart, pray tell me why the first day of the year, 
 in preference to any other, should be pitched 
 upon to publish them .?" 
 
 " Because," replied his father, " our life is, 
 as it were, a ladder, every step of which is rep- 
 resented by a year. It is natural that our friends 
 should flock together, and rejoice with us, when 
 our foot has got in safety on the step next to 
 that which we lately trod, and to express their 
 wish that we should climb the rest with equal 
 safety. Do you understand me .?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, sir, perfectly." 
 
 *' It is, however, in my power to make this 
 clearer still," said his father, " by using what 
 we call another figure. Do you remember, then. 
 
THE new-year's WISH. 205 
 
 our going to the top of that fine church in Lon- 
 don, called St. Paul's .?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, indeed I do," said Edward. " Oh, 
 what a charming prospect from the golden gal- 
 lery there ! Why, you remember, we could 
 see all London, and a great deal of the country 
 from it !'Ji 
 
 " Grreenwich Hospital particularly struck your 
 eye," said his father, " and as you could not then 
 have any notion of the distance, you proposed 
 that we should the following week go there on 
 foot to dinner." 
 
 " Well, father, and did I not walk the whole 
 long journey like a man .?" 
 
 " Yes, I had no reason to find fault with your 
 performance ; but remember, I took care, at 
 every mile-stone on the road, to make you sit 
 and rest a little." 
 
 " So you did ; and it was, in my opinion, no 
 bad idea at the first, to put up those figured 
 stones beside the road. One knows, at any 
 time, what distance he has walked, how much 
 is still to come, and so regulates his pace ac- 
 cordingly." 
 
 " In this," remarked Mr. Vesey, " you have 
 yourself explained the advantages which arise 
 from our dividing life into those equal portions 
 
=% 
 
 206 THE new-year's wish. 
 
 that we call years : for every year is something 
 like a mile-stone in the road of life." 
 
 " I understand you," said Edward ; " and the 
 seasons are, perhaps, so many quarter-miles, 
 which tell us that we shall very soon arrive at 
 the next stone." 
 
 " I am glad," said Mr. Vesey, ^ that this 
 little journey is still fresh in your remembrance. 
 If you take it in a proper point of view, it will 
 exhibit a true picture of life. Remember, if 
 you can, the different circumstances that took 
 place while you were posting on to Greenwich ; 
 tell them in the order in which they happened, 
 as well as you are able, and we will make the 
 application." 
 
 '' I should scarcely remember the whole busi- 
 ness better, had it happened yesterday. At 
 first, as I was full of spirits, and desired to let 
 you see it, I set out upon a trot, and made a 
 number of trips ; I do not well know how many. 
 You advised me to go slowly, as the journey 
 would be rather long. Upon the way, I asked 
 for information about everything of which I did 
 not know the meaning, and you gave it to me. 
 When we happened to go by a bit of grass, we 
 sat down on it, and you read a story-book that 
 you had brought out in your pocket. Then we 
 
THE new-year's WISH. 207 
 
 walked again, and as we went along, you told 
 me many other things, both useful and diverting 
 likewise. In this manner, though the weather 
 was not altogether fine, though we had some- 
 times rain, and once a hail-storm to encounter, 
 we arrived at Grreenwich, I remember, very fresh 
 and hearty." 
 
 " Very faithfully related," said Mr. Yesey, 
 " but for some few circumstances, which, how- 
 ever, I am glad you have not introduced ; as 
 for example, your attention to a poor blind man, 
 whom you caught by the arm, if you remember, 
 to prevent him from falling upon a heap of stones 
 that lay before him, and on which he might have 
 broken his limbs ; the assistance that you af- 
 forded a poor washerwoman's boy, by picking up 
 a handkerchief which had fallen out of his cart ; 
 but particularly the alms that you gave to several 
 people on the road." 
 
 " Do you think, then, father," said Edward, 
 " that I forgot them .? I know that we should 
 not boast of any good that we may have had the 
 opportunity of doing But let me have the ap- 
 plication that you just mentioned." 
 
 " The look, then, which you cast round you 
 from the golden gallery, all over London, and a 
 great deal, as you mentioned, of the country, is 
 
 k — .=^Jt 
 
208 THE new-year's wish. 
 
 expressive of the first reflections of a child upon 
 the multitude about him. The long walk that 
 you chose to G-reenwich, is the journey which 
 we propose to ourselves through life. The 
 eagerness with which you wished to hurry on 
 at setting out, without consulting your ability 
 for running, and which cost you such repeated 
 trips, is the natural impetuosity of youth, which 
 would excite us to the worst excesses if a faith- 
 ful and experienced friend were not to moderate 
 it. The instruction that you have derived, as 
 we were walking on, from reading and conversing 
 with me, and the actions of good will and charity 
 that you performed, took ofi" from the fatigue of 
 such a journey ; and you finished it thereby with 
 satisfaction to yourself, though there had fallen 
 much rain, and even hail. 
 
 " These circumstances, too, convey instruc- 
 tion ; for in life there are no other means than 
 the performance of our duty, to keep off dis- 
 quietude, and to cherish peace within us, not- 
 withstanding those vicissitudes of fortune which 
 would otherwise, perhaps, go near to overwhelm 
 us." 
 
 *' Yes, yes, father, all this suits wonderfully 
 well, and I shall have much happiness, I see 
 beforehand, in the year that is now begun." 
 , -^ , ^ 
 
THE new-year's WISH. 209 I 
 
 " It rests with yourself alone," said Mr. Yesey, 
 " to make the year quite happy ; but, once more, 
 let us return to our excursion. Do you recol- 
 lect, when, in going round, that we might see a 
 little of the Park, we came upon Blackheath ? 
 The heavens were then serene, and we could 
 see behind us all the way that we had been 
 walking." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," answered Edward, " and I 
 was proud of having walked so far !" 
 
 " By proud^^^ said Mr. Yesey, " you mean 
 rejoiced. Are you then equally rejoiced at 
 present, while your reason, which now dawns 
 within you, pauses and casts back a look upon 
 the way that you have already made in life ? 
 You entered it quite weak and naked, without 
 any means of making, in the least degree, pro- 
 vision for your wants. It was your mother who 
 gave you your first food, and it is I that have 
 the forethought to provide for you. How do we 
 desire you to repay us } We want nothing more 
 than that you should yourself endeavor to be 
 happy, by becoming just and honest ; by learn- 
 ing your several duties ; and by seriously in- 
 tending to discharge them. Have you then ful- 
 filled these few conditions, no less advantageous 
 to yourself than easy } Have you first of all 
 
 %:^ 
 
210 
 
 been grateful for Grod's goodness, who has given 
 you parents possessing the means to bring you 
 up in ease and honor ? Have you always shown 
 those parents the obedience and respect that you 
 owe them ? Have you paid attention to the 
 precepts of your teachers ? Have you never 
 given occasion for your brothers or your sisters 
 to complain of envy or injustice in you ? Have 
 you always treated those who wait upon you 
 with a proper sort of condescension, and at no 
 time claimed from their inferior situation what 
 it was their duty to refuse you ? In a word, do 
 you possess that love of justice, that equality of 
 conduct, and that moderation, which we, by our 
 instruction, are, at all times, doing what we can 
 to set before you ?" 
 
 ^' 1 hope, father," replied Edward, as his eyes 
 were bent upon the ground, '' that you will for- 
 get the past, and look only to the future. All 
 that I ought to have done, I promise, by God's 
 blessing, to do hereafter." 
 
 *' I accept your promise," said his father, em- 
 bracing him ; " if fully kept, you may be per- 
 suaded, it will ensure your happiness, not only 
 throughout the year you have just commenced, 
 but throughout your life." 
 
§c — — 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 211 
 
 FAIRY LAND, 
 
 OR JESSIE AND HER. KITTEN. 
 
 BY CAROLINE HOWARD. 
 
 Give me your whole attention. Open those 
 ^ large blue eyes — not too wide, for they frighten 
 me, and whoever heard of violets frightening 
 any body ? Let me see those bright lips parted 
 in expectation, and those fair hands clasped as 
 if waiting for my words — and listen to me. 
 This is a regular fairy story — none of your true 
 and true stories, but something as fanciful as a 
 bird in its flight, or a comet in its course, or 
 anything zig-zag and unreal in the world. 
 
 Said little Jessie Harding, one day to her 
 mother, " Mamma, may I take my kitten and 
 go into the woods ?" 
 
 " Yes, my love, but come back before twelve, 
 — come back before the sun scorches the pale 
 flowers, to help me tie up my creepers on the 
 arbors, and before your papa will miss his little 
 Jessie." 
 % —. — — =- 
 
g^ — =% 
 
 212 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 " Yes, mamma," said Jessie, " I am only 
 going to teach my mocking bird a new song, 
 and to wash my kitten, and to gather some wild 
 
 flowers, and to " 
 
 " Very well, dear," said the mother, '' go." 
 And Jessie went with her kitty to the deep, 
 still, dark, green woods. Did she ever come 
 back again ? The kitty did. If you shut your 
 blue eyes a minute you can see her in imagina- 
 tion, as she runs with her kitten in her arms to 
 the fresh cool stream. She looks almost like a 
 fairy, for her step is so light that she scarce 
 touches the ground. Her white dress is care- 
 fully tucked up at the sides, for a neat little 
 girl she is, and her voice rings out a childish 
 song of happiness and glee. The kitty did not 
 like the washing much, but Jessie was very de- 
 termined, and scolded or coaxed her until it was 
 all over. 
 
 *' My dear Arabella Victoria Marie Antonette, 
 (that was the kitten's name,) you are behaving 
 in a very shameful manner," she said : " it is 
 some weeks since you have been washed, and I 
 am washed every day ; you must not scratch me 
 you naughty thing, or I must, duck you, and 
 then you may be drowned. No, you shant be 
 drowned, there — you are almost clean — ^just let 
 % ~ * - ^ 
 
8^ 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 213 
 
 me wash this disagreeable black spot from your 
 head, and all will be over." The kitty came 
 out of the stream looking very miserable, and as 
 if life were a thing not at all to be desired, but 
 Jessie rubbed her T>hite and black sides quite 
 dry and wrapped her in a shawl, and the kitten 
 slept as quietly as a tired child. Jessie then 
 took off her shoes and stockings, and sitting on 
 the bank, dipt her white and dimpled feet into 
 the glad waters and laughed because she had 
 achieved so great a thing as kitty's bath. 
 
 " My !" said she, clapping her hands, " didn't 
 she kick, and didn't she struggle, and didn't I 
 wash her infamous eyes and her disgraceful 
 ears ! Come feet, the water is very pleasant no 
 doubt, but home you must go." " But home 
 you must not go^^^ said a voice near her, about 
 as loud as the sound of a guitar. " You must 
 fly over the three perils, for our queen has fallen 
 in love with you, and haS a seat prepared for 
 you on her ivory throne, and has sent me to 
 bring you to her !" Jessie looked up and saw 
 peering into her face — a fairy ! Her heart beat 
 violently when she beheld the impudent little 
 creature seated in a bell-shaped flower, rocking 
 away like a child in a swing, and uttering those 
 bold words. Her heart beat quick, but she 
 
%z 
 
 % 
 
 214 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 gazed steadfastly at the Fairy Queen's messen- 
 ger, until the rocking motion made her quite 
 sea-sick. He was a gay looking little fellow, 
 with a rose leaf twisted into a cocked hat, and a 
 jacket of rose leaves buttoned with dew drops. 
 He had a reckless, determined air about him 
 which made Jessie tremble even while she 
 gazed. However, she returned his glance boldly, 
 and quietly wiping her fair feet in her apron, 
 she put on her shoes and stockings and took up 
 her kitty to go. 
 
 " Put down the kitten," said the fairy. 
 
 " I would like to oblige you," said Jessie, 
 " but I must be at home to give papa his lunch, 
 and I have remained here too long already." 
 
 " So you wont go when our Queen invites 
 you ,^" replied the fairy. " You had better 
 come, for she has ordered a bed of humming- 
 bird's down for your ladyship, and a cup of 
 coffee made from ground pearls. If you will 
 not come of your own accord, I must bring you 
 by force." 
 
 Jessie was frightened now, and clasping her 
 kitten more closely in her arms, she prepared 
 to run home ; her home so quiet and inviting, 
 where her parents were listening for her welcome 
 step, and watching for her beaming smile. As 
 
3t g 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 215 
 
 the fairy perceived her intention, he turned a 
 somerset over the branch and stood directly in' 
 her path. 
 
 " Stir not a step at your peril," said he, 
 siernly, and Jessie's feet refused to move at 
 her will. He looked with his bold, bright eyes 
 at the kitten, and Arabella Victoria Marie An- 
 tonette dropped from her sheltering arms and 
 sped onwards with trot, canter, and gallop to- 
 wards that home where her parents were listen- 
 ing for her welcome step, and watching for her 
 beaming smile. Jessie tried to follow, but the 
 fairy's spell was over her, and she could not 
 move a limb, neither could she speak. He 
 cruelly produced, from she did not know where, 
 a gold chain which clanked as he wound it about 
 her white and delicate arms, and binding her 
 wrists so tightly together that it hurt her tender 
 flesh, he drew her onward and onward to the 
 habitation of the Queen of the Fairies. Whether 
 it was in earth, or sea, or air, Jessie knew not, 
 but she followed her guide blindly, with her 
 white eye-lids, which he had breathed upon, 
 closed upon her once smiling eyes. There were 
 two words in her heart which she tried in vain 
 to utter. They were papa and mamma, and she 
 thought of their intense sorrow at seeing the 
 % ^ 
 
g^ 
 
 216 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 ^itten return alone ; their desperate search 
 through the woods ; their useless search through 
 the world, and their agonizing imagining that 
 she might be sleeping in death beneath the deep 
 waters of the leaping stream. But this mattered 
 not, nor stopped her in her onward course. She 
 knew the fairy's chain galled and tore her soft 
 arms, but she did not care for that — she only 
 cared for her home, so quiet and inviting, where 
 her parents were listening for her welcome step, 
 and watching for her beaming smile. Some- 
 times she felt that the air was hot, sometimes 
 cold. Sometimes she knew that it was dark, 
 and again a light appeared to beam around, but 
 she feared no changes save the sad change in 
 her poor parents' hearts. Suddenly the bold 
 fairy stopped, and coming near her breathed on 
 her shoulders. Two wings^nstantly sprung from 
 them, and still guiding her by the chain, the 
 companions soared aloft and onward, and then 
 alighted at a trap gate double locked. As the 
 fairy knocked three times, Jessie's eyes opened, 
 and she looked around her. The immense 
 brazen gates creaked on their ponderous hinges, 
 and groaned like sick giants. They seemed a 
 boundary to an inner and an outer world, and as 
 she entered and they closed upon her, Jessie 
 
% 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 217 
 
 §4= 
 
 felt as one would feel who enters alive into a- 
 grave. 
 
 On an ivory throne sat the Fairy Queen, as 
 beautiful as the day. Her sweet breath per- 
 fumed the air like a thousand violets, and her 
 haughty and determined bearing was an embodi- 
 ment of majesty. She smiled as she beheld 
 Jessie, but the smile, so much like heat lightning 
 over the heaven of her face, was exchanged for 
 an expression of anger too terrible to be borne. 
 
 " Slave !" said she, glancing sternly at the 
 fairy who had so cruelly obeyed her mandate, 
 '' is this the way to execute my commands } 
 Did I order you to wring those delicate wrists 
 with your inhuman tortures } Did I order you 
 to drag this mortal, whose presence I so coveted, 
 into my court like a felon } Fie," continued 
 she, with increasing anger, stamping her tiny 
 foot and curling her ruby lip, " you so called 
 protector of injured innocence, you mirror of 
 chivalry, begone ! What, ho guards, confine 
 that fellow for life in the east bee-hive prison." 
 
 Jessie pleaded for her late companion, but in 
 vain ; and she felt that the little Queen's man- 
 date was as unalterable as the laws of the Medes 
 and Persians. 
 
 Oh, the dreary, dreary days in the golden 
 
- — % 
 
 218 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 jail of fairy land ; how leaden were the wings 
 upon which they slowly sped. And yet the 
 Queen did everything to chase away the deep 
 and settled gloom, which shaded the face of the 
 little maiden. She gathered gorgeous jewels 
 which grew in clusters like flowers, for the new 
 favorite — she culled flowers more exquisite than 
 tongue can tell, and wove them into chaplets for 
 her hair. Balls were given in her honor, where 
 everything bright and beautiful tempted her to 
 return once more to her gay mood. But alas ! 
 her young head drooped, and spite of love, and 
 devotion, and pleasure, her homesick heart 
 sighed for the simple pleasures of her country 
 life. Night after night the stranger devised 
 some plan of escape from those enchanted 
 regions, but the morning's dawn told her how 
 useless they were. Besides the brazen gate 
 which guarded fairy land, the three perils arose 
 to her imagination to shut out heaven from her 
 view, and she knew that if she attempted to es- 
 cape, death would be the penalty. One day the 
 fairy Queen, blushing like a rich rose bud, called 
 her into her presence and said these words : 
 
 " Jessie, I am going to be married, to the 
 most powerful, the noblest, the fairest of fairies. 
 Hitherto, I have found no one worthy of my 
 
FAIRY LAND. 219 
 
 heart, but now,^^ added the exquisite creature, 
 hiding her face in a sprig of Indian creeper, " I 
 have found the idol of my most exaggerated 
 dreams, and I am going to link my fate with his. 
 We are to meet in my enchanted castle, some 
 leagues distant, and as no mortal has ever been 
 permitted to witness such a ceremony as the 
 nuptials of a fairy, I must leave you here almost 
 alone. Only two guards will remain, also the 
 prisoner in the bee-hive. He endures tortures 
 every day, according to my commands ; and 
 remember, when I am roused, if my wrath is so 
 terrible to my own kind, it is worse th*an terrible 
 to a mortal who offends me. I love you, Jessie, 
 and would keep you with me always. After a 
 time your deep grief will subside into content- 
 ment, your contentment into happiness, and you 
 will become like one of us. Beware, I say again, 
 of attempting to escape. It is useless, utterly 
 useless ; for beside the brazen gate, which can 
 only open to my fairy lock-keeper, yonder yawns 
 the sea of fire which encircles this isle, next to 
 that the mountain of ice — beyond that, the gar- 
 den of fruit, guarded by monster giants, whose 
 frown alone creates insensibility. When I re- 
 turn home with my heart's delight, my chosen 
 love, I shall study your happiness more than 
 
= - % 
 
 220 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 ever, and I shall teach him to love my Jessie 
 too !" 
 
 " Oh ! Queen," said Jessie, passionately, 
 and falling at the fairy's feet, " I thank you for 
 all your kindness, but I am not happy here, and 
 I never can be happy ; night after night I weep 
 whole rivers of tears — night after night I pray 
 that your hard heart may be softened, and that 
 you will allow me to return to my own home. 
 Oh ! if you would only let me go back to my 
 own parents, I would thank you so much, and I 
 would tell them how good and kind you were, 
 and how so great a Queen made herself more 
 noble still by such a kind action." 
 
 " Silence," answered the fairy, sternly, utter- 
 ing the first harsh words that she had ever done 
 to Jessie ; " a whole life-time of prayers and 
 tears is of no avail. Here you are, and here 
 you. must remain, for my commands are not to 
 be disputed ; and as a warning, I will tell you 
 the fate of the only mortal beside yourself, who 
 has ever been within these gates. I loved, as I 
 do you, a bright, brave, frank boy, some sum- 
 mers older than you are, and I had him brought 
 hither. As he entered my dominions, his sweet 
 smiles faded, and the demon of discontent dis- 
 figured his lovely face. I warned him, but my 
 % 
 
--% 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 221 
 
 kindness was not appreciated. My love changed 
 to hate, and he is chained in the garden of fruit, 
 guarded by my monster giants. Beware of the 
 like fate !" 
 
 Jessie could only weep at this terrible tale, 
 and when the Queen motioned her to kneel upon 
 the first step of her throne that she might kiss 
 her. brow, she did so mechanically, but she 
 neither felt nor cared how great an honor it was 
 to be kissed by a Fairy Queen. Then the 
 gorgeous train departed, and Jessie was left 
 alone with the two guards and the prisoner in 
 the bee-hive. She had heard many secrets 
 since her sojourn in Fairy Land. She had seen 
 flowers growing ; she had learned how to put 
 seed into the ground which in one day would 
 spring into a plant and bear glorious blossoms ; 
 she knew in what plants the fiercest poisons 
 were centered ; and the difierent powers of 
 poisons were known to her also, from those 
 which would create insensibility, to those which 
 would cause instant death. When the bridal 
 train went, she remembered these things, and 
 her little brain was perplexed in finding out how 
 to turn them to advantage. She knew that a 
 mortal could never cause the death of a fairy, 
 nor did her tender heart desire such an evil, 
 
 ^ 
 
222 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 but she hoped to be able to create insensibility, 
 and she hastened to gather the flowers of a cer- 
 tain kind, and to distil them for her purpose. 
 This she was only enabled to do at night, when 
 the guards were resting from their labors of the 
 day, and when they thought that she was secure 
 in sleep herself. At last, in these stolen mo- 
 ments of trembling anxiety, she completed her 
 work, and when it' was over she prepared to put 
 her schemes into execution. What was her 
 work to be ? I will tell you. 
 
 Jessie took the precious vial which contained 
 the liquid, and in the deep silence of night, pro- 
 ceeded to the sleeping bower of the drowsy 
 guards. They thought, they dreamed of no 
 harm, and her light tread did not awaken them. 
 You might have seen her eyes glisten like dia- 
 monds, as she carefully, but with trembling hand 
 poured a drop of the enchanted liquid upon each 
 eye-lid of the sleepers. You might have seen 
 her placid smile of content, as she heard the 
 deep-drawn sigh of each fairy, which assured 
 her, by the knowledge she had of the poison, 
 that it had taken sure effect, and that they would 
 remain insensible for many nights and days. 
 But alas ! her case was hopeless still, and she 
 was almost sorry for what she had done, for 
 
g^ -— - ' = 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 223 
 
 there, towering up before her, were those fatal 
 gates, and she sat down and wept at her own 
 forlorn state. Suddenly she dried her eyes, for 
 she remembered the bee-hive fairy. She could 
 not attempt to escape, and leave him in misery ; 
 so she formed the worthy and benevolent design 
 of rescuing him from his captivity. She ran 
 towards the prison, and heard the poor little 
 fellow's groan's before she had quite reached 
 the place. 
 
 " Little sufferer," said she, as she approached 
 the formidable hive, "can I do anything for 
 you .^" 
 
 " Who is that," answered a forlorn voice, 
 " who speaks so kindly ? I have not heard a 
 word of kindness for a long time.'' 
 
 " It is I," answered Jessie, " who have come 
 to free you, and if you promise not to thwart 
 me in my plan of attempting to escape, I will 
 let you out of this miserable dungeon.'' 
 
 " Oh !" answered the fairy ,'^ falling upon his 
 knees, " this is really rendering good for evil. 
 I solemnly declare to you, that if you will have 
 the goodness to liberate me, I will not only thank 
 you and be eternally grateful, but I will assist 
 you to escape ; and I, who would not be safe 
 here longer, for my doom on the return of the 
 
224: FAIRY LAND. 
 
 Queen would be death, will go with you and help 
 you along on your perilous path, — and then when 
 you are safe at home, I will wing my way over 
 mountains and seas, and will find a haven of 
 rest in some fairy tribe in distant lands." 
 
 Jessie was too overjoyed to speak, and she 
 silently drew the bolt of the terrible bee -hive, 
 not without some danger for herself from the 
 infuriated tenants, and there the once bright 
 and gentlemanly fairy stood before her, his gay 
 apparel stained and disfigured, and his whole ap- 
 pearance altered. He ^again bent his knee to 
 Jessie, and said, in accents of gallantry : 
 
 " You alone do I acknowledge as my Queen ; 
 you alone will I guide or follow, as the case may 
 be, to the ends of the earth." 
 
 The fairy had unfortunately lost the power 
 of flying, for the wings which had formerly glit- 
 tered on his shoulders were bruised and useless ; 
 so the little mortal and the fairy consulted to- 
 gether with earnest intent, for a means of es- 
 cape. 
 
 "If we could only get over those brazen 
 gates," said the fairy, " half the difficulty would 
 be over, but alas ! there they stand at the very 
 beginning of our journey, and it is impossible to 
 pass them by, as the keeper who opened them 
 
 ^ 
 
FAIRY LAND. 225 
 
 for our entrance has gone with the Queen to her 
 marriage." 
 
 *' Ah," said Jessie, " then all is in vain, and 
 we must remain here, subject to the Queen's 
 wrath when she returns." 
 
 As the little maiden said these words she 
 leaned heavily against the tall brazen structure, 
 grief-bowed and despondent, but her whole frame 
 shook with pleasure as she felt the gates yield a 
 little to the pressure of her light form. The 
 fairy perceived this also, and upon examining 
 them more particularly, they found that the 
 gates were not locked at all, and that the gate- 
 keeper in the hurrynof his departure must have 
 forgotten to do his last duty. Then with glad 
 hearts they opened the gate upon its groaning 
 hinges, and gliding out found themselves still in 
 fairy land, but out in the broad uncultivated 
 fields. Next came the sea of fire that girdled 
 the whole island round. When Jessie saw this 
 roaring element, this ocean of flame, raging and 
 boiling up near her, she burst into a passion of 
 tears. Life seemed very dark to the child, and 
 she almost wished herself safe again in the pal- 
 ace ; but it was too late to retrace hor path, for 
 the rage of the Queen was more terrible than a 
 whole universe of fire. He at least seemed to 
 
226 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 know wliat to do, for lie told Jessie that hidden 
 in an immense tree near the bank of the stream, 
 was a boat made of asbestos. He told her that 
 this was a kind of wood upon which fire had no 
 effect, and that it was used by inferior fairies 
 who came to visit them, who could not fly, or 
 for those of their own kind who had accidentally 
 injured their plumes. Of course his strength 
 was not much, for he was weakened by his long 
 confinement ; but his will was great, and he as- 
 sisted Jessie to draw the boat with its two as- 
 bestos oars to the brink, and never was vessel 
 launched with such rejoicings. It was a terrible 
 thing to Jessie to find herself upon that strange 
 sea, almost parched with the overpowering heat, 
 but the watch-words — father and mother ! — 
 nerved her heart and her arm, and the mute 
 couple soon found themselves over the narrow 
 sea and at the opposite shore. It was an easy 
 thing to climb up the low banks, and setting the 
 boat adrift, they watched it for a moment float 
 down the fiery stream. The fairy proposed giv- 
 ing nine cheers, but Jessie only ofibred up a 
 silent prayer of gratitude, and went onward on 
 her journey. It was a day's travel from the 
 river of flames to the mountain of ice, and the 
 new companions trudged bravely along the same 
 
FAIRY LAND. 227 
 
 road. The fairy entertained Jessie with all the 
 adventures of his life, and I can assure you that 
 some were as strange as the one in \vhich they 
 were now engaged. He had been a wild fellow, 
 and he was a merry and agreeable one. It was 
 to Jessie's advantage that she had such a tire- 
 less companion with her, for had she been alone 
 her spirits must have died within her, and she 
 would have become faint on the way. She said 
 all the prayers she knew to the fairy, into whose 
 breast she hoped to instil some portion of grati- 
 tude for their escape ; but alas ! he only laughed 
 or sung, and Jessie smiled through her tears at 
 his antics. His voice was^very sweet and flute- 
 like, and this was his favorite song, not very 
 good poetry, by the by : 
 
 *' Through the brass gate. 
 
 Over the sea. 
 Nothing can stop 
 
 Jessie and me. 
 
 She with her gentle step, 
 
 I with my bold, 
 Onward will go 
 
 Through the heat and the cold — 
 
 Over the mountain 
 
 Covered with ice. 
 Through the broad garden 
 
 We'll bound in a trice. 
 
— = % 
 
 228 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 Then through the woods 
 
 By the old woodland stream. 
 We'll find ourselves walking 
 
 Like folks in a dream. 
 
 Then the white cottage 
 
 We'll spy through the trees, 
 No more we'll be prey 
 
 To monsters or bees. 
 
 She to her mother. 
 
 With arms wide spread out ; 
 She to her father, 
 
 With glad joyous shout, 
 
 I, to the ends of the 
 
 Broad earth, will go. 
 Feeling the sadness 
 
 The desolate know ; 
 
 Will mourn like a dove 
 Bereft of its mate" — 
 
 Jessie was always so affected at this point, 
 that she never heard the end of the song ; for 
 she invariably requested the fairy to stop at the 
 word "mate," which request, with his usual 
 politeness, he granted. But at last serious 
 times came, and all singing was suspended, — 
 for there before them, like a huge looking-glass 
 % 
 
FAIRY LAND. 229 
 
 for giants and monsters, rose the tall mountain 
 of ice. How were they to cross it ? They 
 themselves did not know for some time, but at 
 last they found a way. Jessie began as usual 
 to cry, but the bold fairy kissed her flushed 
 cheek and told her to be comforted, and he 
 would go in search of something with which to 
 scale the mountain. He remained away so long 
 that Jessie thought he would never return, and 
 she was just about to give up in despair, when 
 she discovered him at a little distance, trailing 
 along a kind of walking stick, with a mournful 
 countenance. 
 
 " Alas ! Jessie,'' said he, " I can find nothing 
 but this, and your shoes are so slippery that you 
 will never be able to climb the mountain, and 
 we must lie down here and die !" 
 
 Jessie felt in her pocket for her handkerchief, 
 (the usual refuge for the distressed,) and a 
 gleam of joy lighted up her countenance. 
 
 She had exchanged the elegant clothes the 
 Queen had given her for those made by her 
 mother, and which she had on when the fairy 
 found her by the stream. In the pocket then 
 of this homely dress she felt a hard substance, 
 and drawing it out she discovered that it was a 
 package of tacks which her father had given her, 
 
=5iS 
 
 230 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 together with a little hammer, to make a cart 
 which her kitten was to draw. The desperate 
 are always fruitful in inventions, and she called 
 the fairy and told him her plan. It was this : 
 to insert these little nails firmly in her shoes so 
 that they might cling to the ice, and thus, to- 
 gether with the staif, she hoped that they might 
 scale the mountain. Nor was she mistaken. 
 But how was the fairy to ascend ? His wings 
 had not quite grown out and he could only fly a 
 short distance, but Jessie volunteered to have 
 him percfi on her shoulder, which the little 
 fellow gladly did ; nor did she regret her offer 
 at all, for when she was weary he cheered her, 
 and when sad he encouraged her, until they ar- 
 rived at the summit of the Ice Mountain. They 
 stopped for a while to look at the prospect. It 
 was perfectly sublime. Trees of the richest 
 dyes, birds of the gayest plumage colored the 
 landscape. The golden sunlight played over 
 the palace of Fairy Land, which glittered with 
 its thousand jewels. The Sea of Fire wound 
 like a burnished thread through the woodlands, 
 while the G-arden of Fruit, although distant, 
 sent its exquisite perfume all around. Jessie 
 gazed quite delighted, and seemed inclined to 
 remain there forever, but the fairy reminded 
 
 =^ 
 
FAIRY LAND. 231 
 
 her that they still had a great peril before them. 
 " And," said he, shaking his head and shutting 
 his eyes, as near-sighted people do in order to 
 see better, " I distinguish something that looks 
 like the bridal train yonder in the distance, and 
 we must be up and going." It was an easy 
 matter to descend the mountain. They slid 
 very quietly down to the bottom, and although 
 Jessie was almost frozen to death, and though 
 her cheeks and her little nose were as rosy as 
 the red clouds over the Lake of Fire, her heart 
 kept her body warm, for that was burning with 
 the love of the dear ones at home. At the foot 
 of the mountain the fairy brought Jessie some 
 water, in one of her shoes, for refreshment, and 
 a few bright looking apples he had gathered 
 from one of a group of rich green trees. Jessie 
 took the proffered gifts with great willingness, 
 for the little bag of provisions she had brought 
 from Fairy Land had nearly given out. Indeed 
 it was so long since her companion had tasted 
 anything like tolerable food in his prison, that 
 he ate too voraciously of her store to enable the 
 supply to last very long. 
 
 After a short nap under the inviting cluster 
 of apple trees, which refreshed Jessie very much, 
 she looked towards the last and worst peril, the 
 
 ott ■ — j5 
 
232 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 Garden of Fruit Trees, and then up to heaven, 
 and took the first step towards the dreaded spot. 
 It was a whole day's journey to this place, and 
 you may be sure that the travellers made a 
 thousand plans to overcome the dangers which 
 awaited them ; but in vain. Nothing would 
 answer ; and even the fairy seemed in despair. 
 He looked at his wings, now grown quite re- 
 spectably, and he looked at Jessie, and shook 
 his head. *' No ! even if I could fly," said he, 
 " she would be left to be devoured by the giants, 
 and I must not suffer that. Oh, no ! I could 
 not leave this gentle and generous mortal to 
 perish here ; and yet my wings have grown 
 finely, and I dare say I might fly. I will try. 
 Her feelings will be dreadful when she sees me 
 about to leave her. It is too painful to think 
 of;" and this brave, bold coxcomb spread abroad 
 his small wings of purple and gold, and soaring 
 up into the air, gave one thought to liberty and 
 a happy home in distant lands, and another to 
 the child who stood looking up with wonder in 
 her innocent eyes, and in an instant more he was 
 by her side. Poised, for an instant, between 
 heaven and earth, the noble fairy formed the 
 ~ resolution, for the sake of Jessie, not to go — a 
 resolution, I think, worthy of a king. He placed 
 % - ^ 
 
FAIRY LAND. 233 
 
 his white and daintj^. finger upon his brow for an 
 instant, as if in deep thought, and then said to 
 his companion, as if struck with a new idea, 
 " Have you the vial, and is there any more 
 poison in it ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Jessie, gladly, holding up the 
 vial, which she had in her bosom, " enough to 
 make twenty giants insensible, if it would have 
 such an effect." 
 
 " Certainly it would," returned the fairy ; 
 " and you know that they always sleep standing, 
 at the entrance of the garden, in order to be 
 better prepared against intruders. This is my 
 plan : I will take the vial, and, while they slum- 
 ber, fly near enough, with noiseless wing, to drop 
 some of the liquid upon the eyes of each, and, 
 if all prospers, we shall be free. But remember, 
 my little lady, that this is an undertaking of 
 great danger, and it will require the boldness of 
 a Bonaparte, the skill of a Wellington, the cau- 
 tion of a Washington, and the every thing of a 
 fairy ; and it must be done in the night, when 
 the giants are dreaming of breakfasts of little 
 children, dinners of boys and girls, and suppers 
 of men and women. We can hear their snores, 
 and we shall know by that when to approach. 
 If the plan succeeds, they will remain for some 
 
234 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 time insensible, as if they were dead, and when 
 they awake, hurrah ! we shall be far, far away 
 from their dominions. Do you fully appreciate, 
 madam," continued the fairy, bowing, " the 
 dangers that I undertake for you, and the way 
 in which I risk my most precious life for your 
 sake .?" 
 
 Jessie turned away to hide a smile, and then, 
 with a lovely grace, thanked her companion for 
 all his trouble. It was really a most peculiar 
 undertaking, and how it was accomplished I 
 know not ; but, as they heard the snore of the 
 giants beat the air, like thunder, the fairy bade 
 Jessie an affectionate farewell, and, mounting 
 high in the air, with the precious vial in his 
 hands, was soon out of sight. Thump, thump, 
 thump went Jessie's heart, as she stood behind 
 a tree, as if that could shield her from the rage 
 of a giant, and she trembled so that she wished 
 the ground might open and take her in. She 
 clasped the tree with her shaking hands, and, 
 closing her eyes, awaited her doom. Hush ! 
 hush ! — what is that sound, like an earthquake, 
 that stuns her where she stands } And, hark ! 
 — ^yet another, and a groan that seems like the 
 voice of a multitude ! Jessie could bear it no 
 longer, and, giving one long and hopeless scream, 
 ^=- 
 
FAIRY LAND. 235 
 
 fell upon the earth, fainting. How long she re- 
 mained in this situation, it is not for me to say, 
 but when she recovered from her death-like 
 swoon, she opened her eyes upon the fairy, who 
 was bending over her, with anxious looks, and 
 sprinkling water upon her white face. He 
 clasped his little fingers, with an air of grati- 
 tude, and, bending on one knee before her, 
 said, " Queen of the woodlands, we are free ! 
 But your majesty cannot praise me too much 
 for my valor and discretion. Yes, / dropped 
 the liquid upon their eyes — / saw them fall — 
 and / flew here to tell you the tale, and 
 
 To take you home to your parents' arms, 
 Where you shall be safe and free from alarms." 
 
 Oh ! how exquisite the dawning of that day 
 was to our little flower, Jessie. Hope raised 
 her bowed head — hope directed her willing 
 steps— hope nerved her tired frame — and her 
 voice burst forth into song, as she entered that 
 delicious garden — the Garden of Fruits. She 
 turned away her head from the prostrate giants, 
 for she did not care to look upon anything re- 
 pulsive and disagreeable, and her light feet kept 
 time to the music which her voice uttered : 
 % ■■ • — ^ 
 
236 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 " Mother, mother, I come to thee ; 
 Open thine arms to welcome me ; 
 Press me to thy yearning breast, 
 And let me there delighted rest, 
 
 Moth?r, I come to thee ! 
 
 Father, father, with voice so mild. 
 Welcome, welcome thy truant child ; 
 Let me ne'er leave the home I love, 
 Till called to the brighter one above. 
 Father, I come to thee ! 
 
 My flowers, my birds, my kitten dear, 
 For you has been shed the bitter tear : 
 No more shall I pine, or murmur, or sigh, 
 As my steps to the portal of home draw nigh. 
 Sweet home, I come to thee !" 
 
 As Jessie sung the last line of that song, 
 which gushed out of her heart like the trill of 
 a bird, a voice took up the measure, but in a 
 tone so sad, so broken, that the tears streamed 
 down her face as she stopped to listen. It said. 
 
 ' Sweet home, sweet home ! — no more, no more 
 Shall I see the home that I adore ! 
 My mother's prayer, my mother's smile. 
 In dreams alone my heart beguile. 
 
 Mother and home, good-bye. 
 
 ^ 
 
FAIRY LAND. 237 
 
 I have been years imprisoned here — l 
 
 My youthful heart is old and seer : 
 
 I ask not joy, and the whole world's charms, 
 
 But only death in my mother's arms. 
 
 Mother and home, good-bye." 
 
 Could Jessie hear that song, and not search 
 for the broken heart which uttered it } I think 
 not. The warm tears stole down her cheeks, 
 and her hand stayed from gathering a golden 
 apple which hung temptingly near her. She 
 looked above, below, and around, and, at last, 
 chained to a luxuriant nectarine tree, whose 
 fruit was too high to be reached by his emaciated 
 hands, she saw the being from whose despairing 
 soul that song had issued — the veritable boy 
 who had so incurred the Fairy Queen's anger, 
 with his dark eyes, shaded with their long, 
 drooping lashes, cast down in despondency, and 
 the fresh morning air playing with his damp 
 curls. Was there ever such a bound as that 
 which Jessie gave to his side } Was there ever 
 such a pitying look as that which she cast upon 
 the chained child .? Never ! But, then — Was 
 there ever such joy on any human face when he 
 told her that the key which unlocked the chain 
 was hidden under a large stone near } I must 
 say, again. Never ! Jessie lifted it — how, I do 
 
238 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 not know, for it was a very heavy stone ; but 
 we can do great things sometimes, when urged 
 on by love and rectitude of purpose ; and, while 
 the fairy ate, with inexpressible satisfaction, the 
 choicest or golden pippins, she set the prisoner 
 at liberty. And, what did the boy do when he 
 felt the great load taken from his heart, and his 
 body unshackled } First, he thanked God, and 
 then, opening wide his freed arms, welcomed 
 Jessie to them, as a brother would a sister ; 
 but the fairy would not let them ask or answer 
 any questions within the precincts of Fairy 
 Land. And then they began to travel in good 
 earnest ; never stopping to gather one of the 
 golden apples which tempted them on their way, 
 but only looking, with admiring eyes, upon the 
 .rich, green foliage which clothed the glistening 
 /ruit with greater beauty. Of the trio, I think 
 that the fairy showed the most happiness, for he 
 was here, and there, and everywhere, talking, 
 laughing, and singing ; but I am sorry to say 
 that the burden of his song was always his own 
 bravery, or his own beauty. The joy of the 
 others was more subdued and heartfelt the 
 nearer they advanced towards the magic spot 
 of home. Jessie learned that the boy's name 
 was Ernest, and that he had lived a few miles 
 
% 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 239 
 
 ^= 
 
 from her father's cottage. She vaguely remem- 
 bered a poor, desolate widow, who, a long time 
 ago, had come to the homestead to inquire after 
 her lost child, and her hopeless and despairing 
 glance still remained on her memory. 
 
 And has Jessie indeed so nearly reached the 
 end of her homeward journey, and is that indeed 
 the stream from which she was torn away from 
 all that was dear in life } Truly she has, but 
 the fairy is no more there beside her, like a ty- 
 rant urging her on her way towards Fairy Land ; 
 but as a suppliant on one knee before her, he 
 implores her in the most affected manner to for- 
 give him, actually forcing a tear into each eye. 
 And Jessie freely forgives him all. 
 
 My little reader, have you ever been tired 
 and sleepy, and have you found rest and sleep, 
 at home ? has unkindness made you miserable, 
 and have you found sympathy and happiness, at 
 home ? Then you may know how, in a small 
 degree, to sympathise with those children who 
 stood one night — their long journey over — look- 
 ing through the window of the cottage at the 
 scene within. I shall look with them, and tell 
 you what they there saw and heard. The soiled 
 white muslin, which draped the casement, shaded 
 them from view, and they listened as for their 
 
--% 
 
 240 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 lives. They saw a poor fire burning xipon the 
 hearth, and a group of three around it — Jessie's 
 father and mother, and the childless widow, who 
 had been so long robbed of her son. They saw 
 a look of care on the brow of each, as they con- 
 versed together. Jessie's flower pot graced the 
 low mantle, but alas, the flowers were withered 
 and uncared for. Cages were there too, but the 
 birds had long since pined and died, while a 
 solemn looking cat moved about uneasily and 
 unnoticed. The father heaved a long deep sigh, 
 the widow sobbed aloud, while the wife silently 
 wiped her tears away. 
 
 " It is of no use," said the father, at last, ^' to 
 give up to this deep, deep grief any more. The 
 loss of my child should not make an idler of me. 
 I must not waste my years unprofitably, but 
 must go about my daily concerns and try to 
 make the cottage more comfortable, and the 
 farm more productive, for those who are de- 
 pendent upon me. Wife and neighbor, I am 
 ashamed of these tears, and will begin to-morrow 
 to work in truth." 
 
 '' Yes," replied the widow, ^' as you say, its 
 no use to sorrow ; for God's will must be done. 
 A brother and a sister have you been to me 
 since you met me in our mutual search for our 
 
 =i« 
 
=% 
 
 FAIRY LAND. 241 
 
 children, and Grod will reward you for offering a 
 home to the stricken and broken hearted." 
 
 And Jessie's mother said nothing but, " My 
 child ! my child ! my child !" 
 
 " It is dark and mysterious," said the father, 
 " and some day, here or hereafter, we shall know 
 more about^it," and then a tender recollection 
 overcame his manliness, and he sobbed, " yes, 
 here night after night, in these arms did her 
 gentle form rest, her willing feet were never 
 tired of doing for others, and her sweet voice 
 gladdened the hardest heart." 
 
 And then the widow passionately exclaimed, 
 " Oh my lost, lost Ernest ! how often in illness 
 have you been my help and stay ; how often did 
 your hand smooth my pillow or my throbbing 
 head, how oftezx would the music of your voice 
 lull me to sleep or cheer me with accents of joy 
 and hope. Ernest, come back once more to say 
 ' good bye,' and I will be willing to part with you 
 forever. But why do I dwell on that which 
 never again can be c hush, heart ; hush, rebel- 
 lious heart." 
 
 And Jessie's mother said naught but " My 
 child ! my child ! my child !" 
 
 There was a knock at that cottage door, and 
 the boy and girl stood before them in all their 
 
 =^ 
 
242 FAIRY LAND. 
 
 youth and beauty. Poor parents, poor deluded 
 parents ; they thought that it was a dream come 
 to mock them, and they smiled at each other 
 and at the blessed vision, afraid to move, lest 
 they should disturb the exquisite loveliness of 
 that phantom picture. But ah, it was no dream, 
 husband, and wife, and widow ; those children 
 were human^ and yours^ — and to your breasts, 
 to the penetralia of your hearts you took them, 
 and perfect joy, and perfect love spread their 
 white wing over that humble cottage. 
 
 When all the rapture of the meeting was over, 
 then came the story of the adventures of each ; 
 and the fairy received the thanks and admiration 
 of all, to his heart's content. His relation of 
 all that had happened was listened to with great 
 reverence, and nobody blamed lyjpa for making 
 himself the hero, and everybody loved him for 
 his daring and constancy. Even Arabella Vic- 
 toria Marie Antoinette, when he had ended all 
 that he had to say, gave a mew of approbation, 
 and rubbed her silken sides against this most 
 potent hero. The end of my story is, that that 
 night the fairy disappeared from the happy group, 
 and was seen no more. 
 
THE SECRET. 243 
 
 ,THE SECRET. 
 
 BY JENNIE EliDER. 
 
 Bend thee down to me and listen, 
 I have something sweet to tell ; 
 
 Ah ! thy dark eyes flash and glisten ; 
 Hast thou, by thy spirit's spell. 
 
 Gained the secret I would tell ? 
 
 " No," you say, well, then come near me : 
 Yester-evening, when the moon — 
 
 Anna, loVd one, wont you hear me. 
 Why away so very soon ? 
 
 As I said, 'twas when the moon 
 
 Bathed the earth in softest glory. 
 
 Spangling flower, and shrub, and tree ; 
 
 Stop, thou shalt hear all my story ; 
 A sweet gift was given me. 
 
 By one who should be dear to thee. 
 
 Why do thy eyes more brightly glisten ? 
 
 Why is, with sighs, thy bosom stirred ? 
 ** False," you say, Anna, listen. 
 
 To this one explaining word : 
 'Twas a little singing bird. 
 
244 FANNY AND LOUISA. 
 
 FANNY AND LOUISA 
 
 Poor Maria, who had been a widow two 
 years, was working alone near her fire : it was 
 past midnight, and her two little children, Fanny 
 and Louisa, were sleeping upon a miserable 
 bed, when somebody knocked at the door. 
 Maria arose, a little alarmed on hearing a noise 
 at this hour, and demanded who was there ? 
 
 " I pray you give me a light," was the reply ; 
 Maria recognized the voice to be that of Bridget, 
 her neighbor, and instantly opened the door. 
 
 " I have frightened you," said Bridget, as she 
 entered, " but I assure you it was very far from 
 my intention ; for the truth is, my husband must 
 depart very early to-morrow morning for the 
 fair, and I have just recollected that his gaiters 
 want some repair, — so I got up to do them; 
 but, not having found any fire on my hearth, 
 and, perceiving a light in your house, I came to 
 ask you for one." 
 
 *' You are very welcome," replied Maria ; 
 *' but, if you have not any fire in your house, 
 % 
 
FANNY AND LOUISA. 245 
 
 you will find it very cold to work without : and, 
 although mine is very small, I beg you will bring 
 your work here, and sit with me." 
 
 " Ah ! very willingly," replied Bridget ; and 
 she went immediately for her husband's gaiters : 
 as soon as she was seated near the poor widow, 
 she said, " I prevent you, perhaps, from going 
 to bed, Maria; and I remember you were up 
 very late last night." 
 
 "Me go to bed!" replied Maria, "oh! I 
 don't think of it, I assure you. It is necessary 
 that I finish spinning this thread, without which 
 my poor little ones will not have any bread for 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " But, are you not punctually paid for the 
 time you pass in the service of the old Marcella .?" 
 
 " Yes ! but, during the illness of Louisa, I 
 received two weeks in advance : I now wish to 
 repay this ; and, therefore, must work six days 
 more, as I at present do, before I shall have 
 cleared myself." 
 
 " And during this time you intend to sit up 
 all night, after having worked hard the whole 
 day ! My dear neighbor, you will not be able 
 to bear it, — you will certainly make yourself ill.'' 
 
 " Even though I should die," replied Maria, 
 sighing, " how can I do otherwise } Shall I 
 
-% 
 
 246 FANNY AND LOUISA 
 
 leave my poor little girls without bread, or not 
 pay what I owe ?'^ 
 
 " Why do you not sell something to relieve 
 your present distress ?" 
 
 " Ah ! my good friend," replied Maria, " it 
 is first necessary to have something to sell. 
 Would this miserable bed, on which my chil- 
 dren repose, bring me money, — or the mattress 
 on which I lie ? — or who would buy this old 
 wormeaten chest, in which I put the few clothes 
 we have ?" 
 
 "No, my good neighbor, that is not what I 
 mean : but what hinders you from selling this 
 fine sheep that you have ? — it is fat and young, 
 and I'll engage you will get more than two 
 guineas for it." 
 
 " Very true," replied Maria, " yet I am not 
 able to bring my mind to it, the children love it 
 so dearly : shall I cause them so much sorrow .'' 
 Poor little darlings ! it is the only joy that they 
 have. When they are cold, or when I have 
 only a morsel of dry bread to give them, they 
 amuse themselves with their sheep, and that 
 consoles them. Alas ! my dear neighbor, par- 
 don me this weakness ; but I prefer sitting up 
 every night, to afflicting the hearts of my poor 
 
FANNY AND LOUISA. 247 
 
 Maria and her neighbor chatted thus until 
 day-break ; when, having finished their work, 
 they separated. The widow approached her 
 children's bed, and found Fanny awake ; after 
 giving each a kiss she left them to take home 
 her spinning. She soon returned, with a small 
 loaf in her hand ; and, after dressing her two 
 little girls, and hearing them recite their morn- 
 ing-prayer, she departed for her day's work, re- 
 questing Bridget to watch her children during 
 her absence, as usual. Louisa hastened to set 
 the sheep, which was bleating, at liberty, and 
 the two sisters conducted it to the pasturage, in 
 a field near their mother's house. Instead of 
 caressing the sheep, as she was accustomed to 
 do, Fanny regarded it with a thoughtful melan- 
 choly air ; for which Louisa did not fail to re- 
 proach her. 
 
 " What has poor Sylvia done .?" said she to 
 her sister ; " you look at it as our mother does 
 when she is angry with us. Is it because you 
 do not love it any longer .?" 
 
 *' I love it very much," replied Fanny ; " but 
 Louisa, if you knew what I heard last night, 
 whilst you slept !" 
 
 " Did not you sleep then ?" demanded Louisa. 
 
 " I awoke on hearing Bridget, our neighbor, 
 % - • - ■ ■-*»' 
 
§^ 
 
 ^% 
 
 248 
 
 FANNY AND LOUISA. 
 
 conversing with mother : she said, * if you thus 
 sit up every night, you will fall ill, and die ;' 
 and mother replied to her, * it is necessary that 
 I should gain some bread for my children.' 
 ' But why will you not sell your sheep .^' asked 
 Bridget. On which mother answered, * I prefer 
 to die rather than make my poor children so 
 unhappy.' They said much more : I listened 
 without saying a word, and have found out that 
 we must sell Sylvia, to prevent our dear mother 
 from dying." 
 
 " Sell Sylvia !" replied Louisa, crying : " it 
 will then be no longer ours !" 
 
 " No, indeed," said Fanny, also crying ; 
 " they will give us money for it, and we shall 
 not any longer possess the sheep." 
 
 " Who then will conduct it to the pasture .^" 
 
 " I know not ; but it will not be our pleasant 
 task." 
 
 " I will not sell Sylvia !" exclaimed Louisa, 
 sighing. 
 
 " But if our good mother should die !" said 
 Fanny ; " do we not love her better than we do 
 Sylvia .?" 
 
 " How will this prevent her from dying .^" 
 asked Louisa. 
 
 " Do you not understand me, then ?" replied 
 
FANNY AND LOUISA. 249 
 
 Fanny : " we shall give Sylvia for some money, 
 and shall see her no more ; but this money will 
 prevent the necessity of our mother sitting up 
 all night to work for our bread, and she can then 
 sleep as we do." 
 
 " Does she not sleep, Fanny P^ 
 
 '' Alas ! no ; while we repose from night till 
 morning, she continues sitting on the hearth, 
 and spinning all night." 
 
 " Poor dear mamma !" cried Louisa, affected ; 
 " let us sell Sylvia, in order that she may sleep 
 also." 
 
 " Do you really mean so, Louisa .^" 
 
 " Yes, I do," replied Louisa, weeping. 
 
 '' You will not change your mind P 
 
 '' No, no, I will not indeed." 
 
 " Then let us seek Bridget ; she will tell us 
 to whom we can sell our poor Sylvia." 
 
 The two children went to their neighbor, and 
 Fanny imparted to her the resolution they had 
 taken. Bridget praised them, and confirmed 
 them more and more in their good design, by 
 making them comprehend all the trouble that 
 Maria endured in consequence of her affection 
 for them. " Now, my good little girls," con- 
 tinued Bridget, '' we will go together, and take 
 the sheep to the house of Francis the butcher." 
 
250 FANNY AND LOUISA. 
 
 " The butcher !'' cried Fanny, trembling ; 
 " is it not he who kills the lambs ?" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure ; it is necessary to kill in 
 order to sell them.'' 
 
 " He will kill Sylvia then P^ continued Fanny. 
 
 " It is better that Sylvia should die than your 
 good mother .?" replied Bridget. 
 
 " That is very true," said Fanny, weeping. 
 
 " What will they do to Sylvia .^" demanded 
 Louisa sorrowfully of her sister. 
 
 " They will doubtless do the same to her that 
 I saw them, the other day, do to a little lamb," 
 replied Fanny ; " they extended its throat, and 
 plunged a large knife — " 
 
 She could not finish ; Louisa held down her 
 head, and cried bitterly. Sylvia began to bleat 
 at this instant ; the two sisters threw themselves 
 upon her, uttering cries of despair, so that Brid- 
 get had much trouble to comfort them. At 
 length they became more resigned, and con- 
 sented to take their sheep to the butcher's. 
 Each of them took Bridget by the hand, and 
 walked with sorrowful hearts and eyes overflow- 
 ing with tears ; Sylvia gaily followed, without 
 evincing the least inquietude at its fate, brows- 
 ing at intervals the herbs which he found in his 
 path. 
 
 U-^ 
 
8^ % 
 
 FANNY AND LOUISA. 251 
 
 On entering the butcher's shop, Bridget told 
 him that Maria's little girls had come to sell him 
 their sheep, that the money might serve to sup- 
 port their mother. Francis, who had often en- 
 deavored to prevail on Maria to sell it, instantly 
 gave two pounds for it, which Bridget delivered 
 to Fanny. The child could not help exclaiming, 
 with tears of joy, " Thank God, poor mamma 
 will sleep to-night !" 
 
 Louisa leaped with joy at this idea, and would 
 also see the money ; but, when it was necessary 
 to quit Sylvia, the cries and tears were resumed. 
 
 "Alas! Mr. Francis," said Fanny to the 
 butcher, " if you could keep it without plunging 
 your great knife in its throat." 
 
 ''It is so good," said Louisa, " you will be 
 much pleased to see it follow you, and eat from 
 your hand." 
 
 Francis told them he would consider of it, not 
 wishing to grieve them any more. Sylvia was 
 shut up, and his late young mistresses returned 
 home with Bridget, who endeavored all the way 
 to make them view the good side only of what 
 they had done. 
 
 When Maria returned from her day's work, 
 her two little girls threw themselves into her 
 arms, and showed her the money. — " Look, 
 % ^ 
 
252 FANNY AND LOUISA. 
 
 mamma, you no longer need pass the night in 
 working ; you will sleep, and not die." 
 
 " Where does this money come from .^" asked 
 Maria. 
 
 " We have sold Sylvia," cried Fanny. 
 
 " Yes," added Louisa, restraining her tears ; 
 " but Francis said that, perhaps, he would not 
 put his large knife in its throat." 
 
 *' Poor little dears !" replied Maria, greatly 
 affected ; *' this sacrifice must have cost you 
 much pain : who advised you to do so .?" 
 
 Fanny related to her moth(3r what she had 
 overheard the preceding night — their conversa- 
 tion in the little paddock, and what had followed. 
 Maria was so delighted with this proof of their 
 affection for her, that she wept with joy, and 
 lavished on them the most tender caresses. 
 Fanny and Louisa would not go to sleep until 
 their mother was in bed also ; after which, they 
 embraced, and wished each other a good night. 
 
 Whilst they slept together upon their little 
 bed, at the side of the good Maria, who blessed 
 Heaven for having given her such amiable chil- 
 dren, the faithful Sylvia, shut up with other vic- 
 tims like itself, bleated sorrowfully after its young 
 companions : a lady, who was composing an in- 
 genious History in an apartment near the butch- 
 
FANNY AND LOUISA 253 
 
 er's house, was annoyed by the repeated cries 
 of the sheep ; she called her old housekeeper, 
 who, instead of answering, was sleeping in the 
 chimney corner. The lady, perceiving her in 
 such a profound sleep, would not awake her, but 
 went down herself to the butcher to know if he 
 had not any means of silencing the bleating 
 sheep ; when the butcher's daughter related to 
 her all that regarded the poor animal. The 
 lady, affected at the conduct of Fanny and 
 Louisa, determined to recompence them by re- 
 turning their faithful Sylvia : she therefore re- 
 purchased it of the butcher, intending the next 
 morning to take it herself to the cottage of 
 Maria ; but scarcely was Sylvia set at liberty, 
 than it ran bleating to its first home. 
 
 On hearing its well known voice, Fanny and 
 Louisa, who were still in bed, jumped up, and 
 hastened to open the door to Sylvia. They 
 called Maria, who was with her neighbor Brid- 
 get, and showed the sheep to her, with trans- 
 ports of inexpressible joy. Maria was obliged 
 to change this joy into sorrow, b} declaring to 
 them that they could not keep the sheep with- 
 out returning the money ; that probably Sylvia 
 had escaped, and therefore they must immedi- 
 ately take it back to Francis. The tears began 
 
254 GO AHEAD. 
 
 to flow ; Maria, sensible of their misery, wislied 
 to return the money ; but Fanny, drying up her 
 tears, begged her mother to dress her, that she 
 might go and return Sylvia. 
 
 The lady who had redeemed the sheep arrived 
 at this moment, and informed the two sisters 
 that both the money and the sheep was theirs. 
 Maria returned the most grateful thanks for her 
 generosity ; and Fanny and Louisa, having each 
 of them made a curtesy, began to caress Sylvia, 
 which played a thousand little gambols. The 
 lady, not satisfied with haying rendered them 
 thus happy, gave more money to Maria, and 
 retired to write this little history. 
 
 aO AHEAD. 
 
 Never doubt a righteous cause ; 
 Go ahead ! 
 Throw yourself completely in ; 
 Conscience shaping all your laws, 
 Manfully through thick and thin. 
 Go ahead ! 
 
HONORIA AND JENNY. 255 
 
 HONORIA AND JENNY; 
 
 HISTORY OF THE DAUGHTEH OF AN AMBAS- 
 SADOR, AND THAT OF A COACHMAN. 
 
 The duke of Mirocles, a French ambassador 
 at the ottoman court, had but one child which 
 was a girl, named Honoria. A liberal education 
 was bestowed on her : she had masters of all 
 descriptions ; and they placed her in the hands 
 of two pious and respectable women, who en- 
 deavored to make her love religion and virtue ; 
 for she had no longer a mother. 
 
 The first years of Honoria passed in retire- 
 ment, but she derived from it no benefit. Im- 
 patient to appear in the world and to make her- 
 self conspicuous, she was more occupied with 
 ornamenting her person than storing her mind 
 with useful knowledge, and, vain of the rank 
 which her father held, she learned nothing, nor 
 displayed any one virtue with which they had 
 sought to inspire her. 
 
256 HONORIA AND JENNY. 
 
 A young girl, who served her as waiting-maid, 
 had profited by the instruction intended for her 
 young mistress. This was Jenny, the daughter 
 of the duke's coachman. The caprices of Hon- 
 oria, to which she was constantly exposed, had 
 given her an unchangeable complaisance and 
 gentleness ; but these two qualities did not pre- 
 vent her mind from having a firmness in virtue 
 that rendered her incapable of doing -anything 
 contrary to her duty. 
 
 Although Honoria never ceased to torment 
 her with her fancies and ill-humor, she was 
 nevertheless very partial to Jenny ; so much 
 empire has real virtue over the heart. The 
 Duke de Mirocles married his daughter to a rich 
 and powerful nobleman, and Jenny still con- 
 tinued with her mistress, and accompanied her 
 to the house of her husband. 
 
 From this moment Honoria lost sight of the 
 sanctity of her engagement, nor saw in her mar- 
 riage anything more than a door opened to every 
 folly ; and she gave herself up entirely to pleas- 
 ure. Immense sums were sacrificed daily in the 
 most frivolous manner, and in most expensive 
 parties, which drew upon her the remonstrances 
 of her husband. Jenny herself sometimes dared 
 to take the liberty of warning her ; but Honoria 
 
IIONORIA AND JENNY. 257 
 
 would not listen to anything. One day, when 
 she was at the waters of Aix, in Provence, an 
 English gentleman, with whom she became ac- 
 quainted, blamed her extravagant conduct, her 
 passion for play, and her imperious humor. He 
 at the same time bestowed much praise on Jenny, 
 who was now become the companion of Honoria ; 
 he spoke of her modest and reserved deportment, 
 the sweetness of her disposition, and her good 
 sense. Honoria heard this humiliating com- 
 parison, and resolved to be revenged on this 
 young Englishman, by marrying him to the 
 daughter of her father's coachman. She one 
 day called Jenny, and declared to her that she 
 would marry her to a rich Englishman, if she 
 had spirit enough to second her. Jenny, much 
 surprised, replied, that her father had already 
 chose the husband he destined for her ; and, al- 
 though she had never seen him herself, she had 
 sufficient confidence in the kindness of her father, 
 and the respect that she owed him would not 
 permit her to think of any other. 
 
 " You are childish, and very impertinent," 
 replied Honoria : " dare your father say any- 
 thing when I speak } and cannot I do more for 
 you than he and all your family together ? and 
 would not poor Jerome be delighted to see you 
 
258 HONORIA AND JENNY. 
 
 become the wife of a gentleman ; for since I 
 must tell you, it is a young English nobleman 
 to whom I intend to marry you : and yet you 
 are not sensible of the honor I intend you." 
 
 "It is so great, madam," replied Jenny, 
 " that I cannot conceive how a nobleman can 
 think of the daughter of a poor coachman," 
 
 " How silly you are !" cried Honoria ; " can- 
 not you guess that it is necessary to hide from 
 him for some time the lowness of your birth ? 
 Thanks to the partiality I have had for you, 
 your exterior has something more about it than 
 girls of your rank in general. I will carry my 
 complaisance even so far as to make this Eng- 
 lishman believe that you are a relation of mine 
 falkn into misfortune. — Why do you cry .?" 
 
 " I cannot help it, madam : your contempt 
 for me is too apparent in this circumstance to 
 be supported without sorrow. My birth does 
 not at all humiliate me ; and, though my re- 
 spected parent is one of your father's servants, 
 he is the most faithful of them. But I blush to 
 think that you believe me capable of deceiving 
 an honorable man ; for I assure you, madam, 
 I have no desire to raise myself at the expense 
 of my happiness and that of the individual you 
 would have me deceive : and I am far from re- 
 
^ — 
 
 HONORIA AND JENNY. 259 
 
 garding as an advantage the alliance you pro- 
 pose ; even could I contract it without imposi- 
 tion, I should always fear that my husband 
 would not treat my father with that respect I 
 must ever consider due to him." 
 
 Honor ia employed in turn caresses and threats 
 to overcome the virtuous Jenny ; but, as nothing 
 could make her deviate from the path of virtue, 
 she, in a fury, took from her all the presents 
 she had made her, and sent her to her father's 
 house. 
 
 Jenny now occupied herself in her domestic 
 duties with the same sweetness and simplicity 
 she had those of waiting-maid and companion. 
 She married the man that her father had chosen, 
 who was a locksmith of probity, comfortably set- 
 tled, and industrious. 
 
 By a chain of events which frequently happen 
 in courts, the Duke de Mirocles was disgraced, 
 and reduced to live forgotten and solitary in one 
 of his country-houses. It was thought his only 
 child would quit the busy world to live near him, 
 and soften by her tenderness that melancholy 
 which disgraced courtiers usually experience : 
 they were deceived in this expectation ; — Hon- 
 oria continued her pleasures, and gave herself 
 up to gaming and dissipation. The duke was 
 
%::: 
 
 260 HONORIA AND JENNY. 
 
 SO afflicted at the conduct of his only child, that 
 he died of grief ; and, when his daughter heard 
 of his death, in returning from a ball, she shed 
 a few tears for decency-sake, and retired for 
 three months to one of her estates, taking with 
 her all those companions of her pleasures which 
 she could persuade to mourn with her. At the 
 end of this period, she again returned to Paris 
 and its gaieties. 
 
 Whilst this insensible daughter was thus pub- 
 lishing her own disgrace, Jenny was performing 
 the last sad duties at the side at her father's 
 bed. The old man, inconsolable for the loss of 
 a master whom he had served forty years, soon 
 followed him to the tomb : he expired in the 
 arms of his affectionate daughter, more happy in 
 obscurity than the Duke de Mirocles in the bosom 
 of opulence and grandeur. Jenny wept a long 
 time for a beloved parent, and, though still young, 
 she shut herself up in the bosom of her family. 
 
 Honoria and Jenny were now become mothers : 
 the former neglected the duties of this state, as 
 she had scorned those of daughter and wife ; 
 and her children, consigned to the care of mer- 
 cenaries in the country, were abandoned to all 
 the vices that could attack their youth ; while 
 the latter, bearing hers in her maternal arms. 
 
=:^ 
 
 HONORIA AND JENNY. 261 
 
 took care of their health in their early infancy, 
 and of their education at a more advanced age ; 
 her sons became worthy tradesmen, like their 
 father, — and her daughters, virtuous and happy. 
 
 Honoria, advanced in years, was yet smitten 
 with that world she could no longer charm, hav- 
 ing now lost, by late hours and excess, those 
 attractions she once possessed ; and, half ruined 
 by gambling, she was always quarrelling with 
 her husband and her own children. She at 
 length became an object of disgust and ridicule 
 in company ; and the more she endeavored to 
 disguise her age and vexation, the more the 
 world took a wicked pleasure in overwhelming 
 her with the keenest satire. Becoming a widow, 
 she found in her own children, whose minds she 
 had neglected to form or improve, instruments 
 of punishment ; for, to put an end to her ex- 
 pensive follies, they had her shut up as mentally 
 deranged, and she finished her days in a convent, 
 where the good Jenny was the only one who at- 
 tended and endeavored to console her. 
 
 The fate of Jenny was very different ! — No 
 one could behold her, with her husband and her 
 children, without feelings of veneration. Age 
 only rendered her more interesting ; her face 
 still wore a pleasing freshness, which arose from 
 
a serenity of soul, and an expression of virtue 
 spread an inexpressible charm over th^ whole 
 countenance. She had shown herself in all sit- 
 uations so worthy of esteem, that one scarcely 
 perceived she was growing old ; her husband 
 and children were happy, and saw no one to 
 compare with her ; even Honoria, on receiving 
 her attentions, could scarce persuade herself 
 that they were both of the same age. 
 
 Thus you see, my dear young readers, that 
 high birth does not preserve us from the per- 
 versity of the heart, and that virtue is amiable 
 in whatever situation it is found. 
 
 HARRY HART AND "OLD BUCK." 
 
 BY A liADY. 
 
 Harry Hart was about ten years old. He 
 was not a very bad boy, and was generally very 
 well liked among the boys of Clarksville, but I 
 am sorry to say that when made angry, he had 
 no command whatever over his temper, and 
 
HARRY HART AND " OLD BUCK." 263 
 
 used then to do things he would be very much 
 pained to remember. 
 
 His brother, Lucius, was fourteen, and being 
 an amiable boy and a good scholar, was a greater 
 favorite even than Harry. A neighbor, for whom 
 Lucius had done some rather important service, 
 gave him a fine goat as a token of his gratitude. 
 " Old Buck," as the boys called him, was a 
 high-spirited fellow ; he would allow the boys to 
 ride upon his back, but always resented any at- 
 tempt at imposition. 
 
 One day Master Harry Hart dressed himself 
 up as a page of the " olden time," and getting 
 on his steed as he called " Old Buck," he played 
 at carrying messages to and from noble Lords, 
 in whose employ he fancied himself. 
 
 " Ah," said he to himself, ^' they used spurs 
 then," (you will see Harry did not know that 
 only knights wore spurs) " well, I must have 
 some spurs." So he fastened some tacks in 
 a piece of leather and bound it on the sides of 
 his feet ; then he again mounted the goat and 
 spurred him on. Poor Buck resented such cru- 
 elty and tried to throw Harry off, which he at 
 last managed to do. Harry was not much hurt 
 by his roll in the dust, but he was made very 
 angry, and getting a large cudgel he struck 
 ■ ^ 
 
e^- 
 
 264 HARRY HART AND " OLD BUCK." 
 
 several hard blows on the old goat's head. This 
 blind rage had its reward ; " Old Buck" fell 
 down quite dead, and in this state was found by 
 his master, young Lucius. The conscience 
 stricken Harry was still gazing remorsefully at 
 his victim when Lucius came up. 
 
 " Ah, Lucius, he is dead, I have killed him, 
 what shall I do ? What do you think of me .?" 
 
 " That you are a passionate little boy, Harry, 
 and you ought to be thankful that it is only a 
 goat you have killed. Sometimes I have feared 
 you would kill some person in your fits of pas- 
 sion." 
 
 Harry learned a lesson. He always thought 
 of poor Buck when he grew angry, and after a 
 while he acquired control of his temper, and is 
 now a good man. Perhaps you know him, 
 reader ; I do. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 941146 
 
 
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