THE LOST CHILDREN.
 
 THE 
 
 LOST CHILDREN, 
 
 OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY T. S. A R T H U R. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY CROOME. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO. 
 1854.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by 
 
 UPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO. 
 
 in the Clerk's OClee of the District Court of the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania, 
 
 FRETTED BY C. SHERMAS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN 7 
 
 HARSH WORDS AND KIND WORDS.: 14 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS 23 
 
 GOOD AND EVIL ANIMALS 37 
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE 40 
 
 THE STORY OF THE LITTLE LAMB 50 
 
 THE YOUNG TEACHER 55 
 
 A CONVERSATION 69 
 
 SPEAK KINDLY 72 
 
 I CAN'T DO IT 85 
 
 A GENTLEMAN 92 
 
 THE SABBATH-SCHOOL 97 
 
 FIRST EARNINGS 103 
 
 GOD SEES US 129 
 
 THE PET SPARROW 133 
 
 THE POWER OF KIND WORDS 150
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 " rFELL us the story about the lost chil- 
 dren, dear mother/' said George, lay- 
 ing down his playthings and coming to his 
 mother's side. 
 
 " Oh, yes, do, mother, please," added the 
 little boy's sister; a bright-eyed, rosy- 
 cheeked girl, just ten years old. 
 
 " I told you the story yesterday," replied 
 the mother. 
 
 "I know you did/' answered George. 
 " But we want to hear it again. Tell it to 
 us, dear mother, and we will be such good 
 children !" 
 
 " There was once a little boy and girl," 
 began the mother; " no older than you are,
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 my children, who got lost in a thick, dark 
 wood, in which were fierce wild beasts. 
 They were brother and sister, and their 
 names were Edward and Ellen. They 
 were playing near their father's house one 
 day, when Edward said, ' Come, sister, let 
 us go across the field into the woods yonder, 
 and gather some pretty* flowers for mamma.' 
 
 "Ellen was pleased at the thought of 
 getting for her dear mamma a beautiful 
 bunch of flowers, and so she said, 0h, 
 yes, brother, let us go/ 
 
 " So this little boy and girl went across 
 the field and into the woods, where they 
 wandered about, gathering a great many 
 bright wild flowers. When their hands 
 were full, Ellen said, 'Now, brother, let 
 us go home/ 
 
 " They took hold of each other's hands 
 and started, as they thought, toward their 
 home ; but I am sorry to say they went 
 away from, instead of toward their home, 
 and soon found that they were lost in a 
 thick, dark wood. Poor Ellen began to
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 9 
 
 cry. Edward put his arm around her, 
 and said 
 
 "* Don't cry, sister, we will find our way 
 home.' 
 
 " C 0h, no, Edward," she said, 'we are 
 lost in the woods, and it will soon be dark. 
 Oh ! we shall be eaten up by the wolves.' 
 
 " c The wolves will not eat us up,' replied 
 the brave-hearted little boy, confidently. 
 c So don't cry, sister.' 
 
 " * Oh, yes, I am sure they will/ 
 
 " i Don't be afraid. I know they won't 
 hurt us. "Wolves are wicked animals, but 
 if we pray to God to take care of us, He 
 will not let the wolves hurt us.' 
 
 " c Oh, let us pray then,' said Ellen. And 
 all alone in the gloomy forest, this dear 
 little boy and his sister knelt down and 
 prayed that God would keep the wicked 
 wolves from hurting them.' 
 
 "After they had prayed, Ellen's tears 
 dried up, and she took hold of Edward's 
 arm, and clung close to his side. Just 
 then u deep growl sounded through the
 
 10 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 forest, and presently they saw a long gray 
 wolf coming fiercely toward them. 
 
 " The children dropped upon their knees, 
 and Edward said aloud 
 
 " ' Our Father in heaven, keep the wolves 
 from hurting us/ 
 
 " They had no sooner prayed that prayer 
 than the wolf stopped right still for a 
 minute or two, and then ran off another 
 way. 
 
 " They were very much frightened, and 
 trembled all over. Ellen said 
 
 " ' God has made the wicked wolf go 
 away He will not let him hurt us. Oh, 
 I wish He would show us the way home. 
 It is getting so dark.' 
 
 " ' Let us ask Him to show us the way 
 home/ said Edward. 
 
 "Again the lost children knelt down 
 and prayed. They were still on their 
 knees when they heard afar off, the sound 
 of their father's voice calling them. Oh ! 
 how their little hearts jumped for joy. 
 They sprang up, and ran as fast as they
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 11 
 
 could in the direction from which the 
 sound came. In a little while they were 
 in their father's arms, crying for joy." 
 
 " I am so glad !" exclaimed George and 
 his sister at once; " God wouldn't let the 
 wicked wolf eat them up." 
 
 "No, my children. He kept them from 
 all harm. Ahd if you will be good, and 
 pray to him, He will protect you in every 
 danger." 
 
 " Don't you know any more stories about 
 lost children, dear mother ?" asked George. 
 
 "Shall I tell you about the Children of 
 Men, who were once lost in the Wilder- 
 ness of Sin ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, do mother. But who were 
 the Children of Men?" 
 
 " All the people in the world are called 
 the Children of Men." 
 
 " And were all the people in the world 
 once lost, dear mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, all mankind were once lost, and 
 about to be destroyed by hungry wolves
 
 12 THE LOST CHILDREN. 
 
 but the Lord saved them, and brought 
 them out of the wilderness." 
 
 " Won't you tell us all about it, mother?" 
 
 " Yes, if you will listen very attentively. 
 I do not mean that all children of men 
 were lost in just such a wood as Edward 
 and Ellen were lost in; nor, that they 
 were in danger of being eaten up by such 
 wolves as threatened to eat up this dear 
 little boy and girl." 
 
 "What kind of wolves were they?" 
 asked the children. 
 
 " They were just such things in their 
 hearts as corresponded to wolves and every 
 evil and hurtful beast wicked passions. 
 But let me tell you all about it. The 
 Lord made men innocent and good. All 
 things around them were as beautiful as 
 the fairest garden you have ever seen. 
 In their hearts dwelt only those good feel- 
 ings to which the larnbs and doves and all 
 good animals correspond. They were very 
 happy, and angels were their companions. 
 
 " But, after a while, the children of men
 
 THE LOST CHILDREN. 18 
 
 began to forget the good Lord who made 
 them, and gave them every blessing they 
 enjoyed. At the same time that they forgot 
 God, they forgot to love one another. The 
 innocent lambs began to die in their bosoms, 
 and evil beasts of prey to take their place. 
 They hated, instead of loving oe another. 
 Then war, dreadful war, first appeared on 
 the earth. Men not only hated, but sought 
 to kill each other. Wicked spirits possessed 
 them, soul and body. They were as if 
 lost in a great wilderness, and about to be 
 destroyed by the wild beasts that were in 
 their hearts. 
 
 " It was then that the Lord came and 
 saved them. He drove out the evil spirits 
 and cruel beasts, and led the lost Children 
 of Men out of this dark and fearful wilder- 
 ness. It was Jesus Christ, of whom you 
 read in the New Testament, the Lord of 
 Heaven and Earth, who did this. When 
 you are older, and can understand better 
 I will tell you more about the lost Children 
 of Men, and the good Lord who saved them."
 
 
 HAESH WORDS AND KIND 
 WOKDS. 
 
 " TTEKE ! lend me your knife, Bill; I've 
 left mine in the house," said Edgar 
 Harris to his younger brother. He spoke 
 in a rude voice, and his manner was im- 
 perative. 
 
 " No, I won't ! Go and get your own 
 knife," replied William, in a tone quite as 
 ungracious as that in which the request, or 
 rather command, had been made. 
 
 " I don't wish to go into the house. 
 Give me your knife, I say. I only want 
 it for a minute." 
 
 14
 
 HARSH WORDS AND KIND WORDS. 15 
 
 "I never lend my knife, nor give it, 
 either," returned William. "Get your 
 own." 
 
 " You are the most disobliging fellow I 
 ever saw," retorted Edgar, angrily rising 
 up and going into the house to get his own 
 knife. " Don't ask me for a favour, for I'll 
 never grant it." 
 
 This very unbrotherly conversation took 
 place just beneath the window near which 
 Mr. Harris, the father of the lads, was 
 seated. He overheard it all, and was, as 
 may be supposed, grieved that his sons 
 should treat each other so unkindly. But 
 he said nothing to them then, nor did he 
 let them know that he heard the language 
 which had passed between them. 
 
 In a little while Edgar returned, and as he 
 sat down in the place where he had been 
 seated before, he said 
 
 " No thanks to you for your old knife I 
 Keep it to yourself in welcome. I wouldn't 
 Tise it now, if you were to give it to me.'' 
 
 "I am glad you are so independent,'*
 
 16 HARSH WORDS AND KIXD WORDS. 
 
 retorted William. " I hope you will al- 
 ways be so." 
 
 And then the boys fretted each other for 
 some time. 
 
 On the next day, Edgar was building a 
 house with sticks, and William was rolling 
 a hoop. By accident, the hoop was turned 
 from its right course, and broke down a 
 part of Edgar's house. William was just 
 going to say how sorry he was for the 
 accident, and to offer to repair the damage 
 that was done, when his brother, with his 
 face red with passion, cried out 
 
 " Just see what you have done ! If you 
 don't clear out with your hoop, I'll call 
 father. You did it on purpose." 
 
 " Do, go and call him ! I'll go with you," 
 said William, in a sneering, tantalizing tone. 
 " Come ! come along now." 
 
 For a little while the boys stood and 
 growled at each other like two ill-natured 
 dogs, and then Edgar commenced repairing 
 his house, and William went to rolling his 
 iioop again. The latter was strongly
 
 HARSH WORDS AND KIND WORDS. 17 
 
 tempted to repeat, in earnest, what he had 
 done at first by accident, by way of retalia- 
 tion upon his brother for his spiteful man- 
 ner toward him ; but being naturally of a 
 good disposition, and forgiving in his tem- 
 per, he soon forgot his bad feelings, and 
 enjoyed his play as much as he had done 
 before. 
 
 This little circumstance Mr. Harris had 
 also observed. 
 
 A day or two afterward, Edgar came to 
 his father with a complaint against his 
 brother. 
 
 " I never saw such a boy," said he. "He 
 won't do the least thing to oblige me. If 
 I ask him to lend me his knife, or ball, or 
 any thing that he has, he snaps me up 
 short with a refusal." 
 
 " Perhaps you don't ask him right," sug- 
 gested the father. " Perhaps you don't 
 speak kindly to him. I hardly think that 
 William is ill-disposed and disobliging 
 naturally, There must be some fault on 
 your part, I am sure."
 
 18 HARSH WORDS AND KIXD WORDS. 
 
 " I don't know how I can be in fault, 
 father," said Edgar. 
 
 " William refused to let you have his 
 knife the other day, although he was not 
 using it himself, did he not ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Do you remember how you asked him 
 for it ?" 
 
 " No, sir, not now, particularly." 
 
 " Well, as I happened to overhear you, 
 I can repeat your words, though I hardly 
 think I can get your very tone and manner. 
 Your words were, 'Here, lend me your 
 knife, Bill;' and your voice and manner 
 were exceedingly offensive. I did not at 
 all wonder that William refused your re- 
 quest. If you had spoken to him in a 
 kind manner, I am sure he would have 
 handed you his knife instantly. But no 
 one likes to be ordered, in a domineering 
 way, to do any thing at all. I know you 
 would resent it in William, as quickly as 
 he resents it in you. Correct your own 
 fault, my son, and in a little while you
 
 HARSH WORDS AND KIXD WORDS. 19 
 
 will have no complaint to make of Wil- 
 liam." 
 
 Edgar felt rebuked. What his father 
 said he saw to be true. 
 
 "Whenever you want William to do 
 any thing for you," continued the father, 
 " use kind words instead of harsh ones, and 
 you will find him as obliging as you could 
 wish. I have observed you both a good 
 deal, and I notice that you rarely ever 
 speak to William in a proper manner, but 
 are rude and overbearing. Correct this 
 evil in yourself, and all will be right with 
 him. Kind words are far more powerful 
 than harsh words, and their effect a hun- 
 dred-fold greater." 
 
 On the next day, as Edgar was at work 
 in the garden, and William standing at 
 the gate looking on, Edgar wanted a rake 
 that was in the summer-house. " He was 
 just going to say, " Go and get me that 
 rake, Bill!" but he checked himself, and. 
 made his request in a different form, and
 
 20 HARSH WORDS AND KIND WORDS. 
 
 in a better tone than those words would 
 have been uttered in. 
 
 " Won't you get me the small rake that 
 lies in the summer-house, William?" said 
 he. The words and tone involved a re- 
 quest, not a command, and William in- 
 stantly replied 
 
 "Certainly;" and bounded away to get 
 the rake for his brother. 
 
 " Thank you," said Edgar, as he received 
 the rake. 
 
 "Don't you want the watering-pot?" 
 asked William. 
 
 "Yes, I do; and you may bring it full 
 of water, if you please," was the reply. 
 
 Off William went for the watering-pot, 
 and soon returned with it full of water. 
 As he stood near one of Edgar's flower-beds 
 lie forgot himself and stepped back with 
 his foot upon some pansies. 
 
 "There! just look at you!" exclaimed 
 Edgar, thrown off his guard. 
 
 William, who had felt drawn toward his 
 brother on account of his kind manner,
 
 HARSH WORDS AND KIXD WORDS. 21 
 
 was hurt at this sudden change in his 
 words and tone. He was tempted to retort 
 harshly, and even to set his foot more 
 roughly upon the pansies. But he checked 
 himself, and turning away, walked slowly 
 from the garden. 
 
 Edgar, who had repented of his rude 
 words and unkind manner the moment he 
 had time to think, was very sorry that he 
 had been thrown off of his guard, and re- 
 solved to be more careful in the future. 
 And he was more careful. The next time 
 he spoke to his brother, it was in a kind 
 and gentle manner, and he saw its effect. 
 Since then, he has been watchful over him- 
 self, and now he finds that William is one 
 of the most obliging boys anywhere to be 
 found. 
 
 " So much for kind words, my son," said 
 his father, on noticing the great change 
 that had taken place. "Never forget, 
 throughout your whole life, that kind 
 words are far more potent than harsh 
 ones. I have found them so, and you
 
 22 HARSH WORDS AND KIND WORDS. 
 
 have already proved the truth of what I 
 say." 
 
 And so will every one who tries them. 
 Make the experiment, young friends, and 
 you will find it to succeed in every case. 

 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD 
 ANGELS. 
 
 , Ady and Jane, it's time you 
 were in bed," said Mrs. Freeman to 
 her two little girls, about nine o'clock one 
 evening. Ady was nine years old, and 
 Jane was a year and a half younger. The 
 two children had been sitting at the work- 
 table with their mother, one of them study- 
 ing her lesson, and the other engaged on a 
 piece of fancy needlework. 
 
 "Papa hasn't come yet," answered Ady. 
 
 " No, dear. But it's getting late, and is 
 time you were in bed. He may not be 
 home for an hour." 
 
 Ady laid aside her work and left the ta- 
 ble, and Jane closed her books and put 
 them away in her school-satchel.
 
 24 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 
 
 "You can light the little lamp on the 
 mantel-piece," said Mrs. Freeman, after a 
 few minutes, looking around as she spoke, 
 when she saw that the children had both 
 put on their bonnets, and were tying their 
 warm capes close about their necks. She 
 understood very well the meaning of this; 
 and, therefore, did not ask a question, al- 
 though the tears came to her eyes, and her 
 voice trembled as she said 
 
 "It is very cold out, to-night, children." 
 
 "But we won't feel it, mother," replied 
 Ady. " We'll run along very quickly." 
 
 And the two little ones went out, before 
 their mother, whose feelings were choking 
 her, could say a word more. As they closed 
 the door after them, and left her alone, she 
 raised her eyes upward, and murmured 
 
 "God bless and reward the dear chil- 
 dren!" 
 
 It was a bleak, winter night; and, as the 
 little adventurers stepped into the street, 
 the wind swept fiercely along, and almost 
 drove them back against the door. But
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD AXGELS. 25 
 
 they caught each other tightly by the hands, 
 and bending their little forms to meet the 
 pressure of the cold, rushing air, hurried 
 on the way they were going as fast as their 
 feet could move. The streets were dark 
 and deserted, but the children were not 
 afraid ; love filled their hearts, and left no 
 room for fear. 
 
 They did not speak a word to each other 
 as they hastened along. After going for a 
 distance of several blocks, they stopped be- 
 fore a house, over the door of which was a 
 handsome, ornamental gas-lamp, bearing 
 the words "Oysters and Kefreshments." 
 It was a strange place for two little girls 
 like them to enter, and at such an hour; 
 but after standing for a moment, they push- 
 ed against the green door, which turned 
 lightly on its hinges, and stepped into a 
 large and brilliantly lighted bar-room. 
 
 "Bless us!" exclaimed a man, who sat 
 reading at a table. " Here are those babes 
 
 again I 
 
 Ady and Jane stood still, near the door,
 
 26 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 
 
 and looked all around the room. But not 
 seeing the object of their search, they went 
 up to the bar, and said timidly to a man 
 who stood behind it, pouring liquor into 
 glasses 
 
 "Has papa been here to-night?" 
 The man leaned over the bar, until his 
 face was close to the children, when he 
 said, in an angry way, 
 
 "I don't know any thing about your 
 father. And, see here! don't you come 
 here any more. If you do, I'll call my big 
 dog out of the yard and make him bite 
 
 you." 
 
 Ady and Jane felt frightened, as well by 
 the harsh manner as the angry words of the 
 man, and they started back from him, and 
 were turning toward the door with sad 
 faces, when the person who had first re- 
 marked their entrance called out, loud 
 enough for them to hear him 
 
 "Come here, my little girls." 
 
 The children stopped and looked at him,
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 27 
 
 when lie beckoned for them to approach, 
 and they did so. 
 
 "Are you looking for your father?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, sir/' replied Ady. 
 
 "What did that man at the bar say to 
 you?" 
 
 "He said papa wasn't here; and that if 
 we came any more, he would set his dog on 
 us." 
 
 "He did!" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The man knit his brows for an instant. 
 Then he said 
 
 "Who sent you here?" 
 
 " Nobody," answered Ady. 
 
 "Don't your mother know you have 
 come?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. She told us to go to bed; but 
 we couldn't go until papa was home. And 
 so we came for him, first." 
 
 "He is here!" 
 
 "Is he?" And the children's faces 
 brightened. 
 
 IX.-C
 
 28 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 
 
 " Yes. He's at the other side of the room 
 asleep. I'll wake him for you." 
 
 Half intoxicated, and sound asleep, it 
 was with some difficulty that Mr. Freeman 
 could be aroused. 
 
 As soon, however, as his eyes were fairly 
 opened, and he found that Ady and Jane 
 had each grasped tightly one of his hands, 
 he arose up, and yielding passively to their 
 direction, suffered them to lead him away. 
 
 "Oh dear!" exclaimed a man who had 
 looked on with wonder and deep interest. 
 " That's a temperance lecture that I can't 
 stand. God bles the little ones!" he ad- 
 ded with emotion, " and give them a sober 
 fetter." 
 
 " I guess you never saw them before ?" 
 said one of the bar-keepers lightly. 
 
 " No ; and I never wish to again ; at least 
 in this place. Who is their father?" 
 
 "Freeman, the lawyer." 
 
 "Not the one who, a few years ago, con- 
 ducted, with so much ability, the case 
 against the Marine Insurance Company ?"
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 29 
 
 "The same." 
 
 " Is it possible?" 
 
 A little group now formed around the 
 man, and a good deal was said about Free- 
 man and his fall from sobriety. One who 
 had several times seen Ady and Jane come 
 in, and lead him home as they had just 
 done, spoke of them with much feeling, 
 and all agreed that it was a most touching 
 case. 
 
 "To see," said one, "how passively he 
 yields himself to the little things, when they 
 come after him. I feel, sometimes, when 
 I see them, almost weak enough to -shed 
 tears." 
 
 "They are his good angels," remarked 
 another. "But I'm afraid they are not 
 strong enough to lead him back to the 
 paths he has forsaken." 
 
 " You can think what you please about 
 it, gentlemen," spoke up the landlord, "but 
 I can tell you my opinion on the subject : 
 I wouldn't give much for the mother who 
 would let two little things like them go
 
 30 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 
 
 wandering about the street alone, at this 
 time of night." 
 
 One of those who had expressed interest 
 in the children, felt angry at this remark, 
 and he retorted with some bitterness 
 
 " And I would give less for the man who 
 would make their father drunk !" 
 
 "Ditto to that," responded one of the 
 company. 
 
 "And here's my hand to that," said 
 another. 
 
 The landlord, finding that the majority 
 of his company were likely to be against 
 him, smothered his angry feelings and kept 
 silence. A few minutes afterward, two 
 or three of the inmates of the bar-room 
 went away. 
 
 About ten o'clock on the next morning, 
 while Mr. Freeman, who was generally 
 sober in the fore part of the day, was in 
 his office, a stranger entered, and after 
 sitting down, said 
 
 "I must crave your pardon beforehand
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD AXGELS. 81 
 
 for what I am going to say. Will you 
 promise not to be offended ?" 
 
 " If you offer me an insult I will resent 
 it," said the lawyer. 
 
 " So far from that, I come with the de- 
 sire to do you a great service." 
 
 " Very well. Say on." 
 
 " I was at Lawson's refectory last night." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And I saw something there that 
 touched my heart. If I slept at all last 
 night, it was only to dream of it. I am a 
 father, sir ! I have two little girls ; and I 
 love them tenderly. Oh, sir ! the thought 
 of their coming out, in the cold winter 
 night, in search of me, in such a polluted 
 place, makes the blood feel cold in my 
 veins." 
 
 Words so unexpected, coming upon Mr. 
 Freeman when he was comparatively sober, 
 disturbed him deeply. In spite of all his 
 endeavours to remain calm, he trembled 
 all over. He made an effort to say some- 
 thing in reply; but could not utter a word.
 
 32' THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 
 
 " My dear sir," pursued the strange?, 
 "you have fallen at the hand of the mon- 
 ster intemperance, and I feel that I am in 
 great peril. You have not, however, fallen 
 hopelessly. You may yet rise, if you will. 
 Let me, then, in the name of the sweet 
 babes who have shown, in so wonderful a 
 manner, their love for you, conjure you to 
 rise superior to this deadly foe. Reward 
 those dear children with the highest bless- 
 ing their hearts can desire. Come with 
 me and sign the pledge of freedom. Let 
 us, though strangers to each other, unite 
 in this one good act. Come !" 
 
 Half bewildered, yet with a new hope in 
 his heart, Freeman arose, and suffered the 
 man, who drew his arm within his, to 
 lejftl him away. Before they separated, 
 both had signed the pledge. 
 
 That evening, unexpectedly, and to the 
 joy of his family, Mr. Freeman was per- 
 fectly sober when he came home. After 
 tea, while Ady and Jane were standing on 
 either side of him, as he sat near tiieir
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD AXGELS. 33 
 
 mother, an arm around each of them, he 
 said, in a low whisper, as he bent his head 
 down and drew them closer 
 
 " You will never have to come for me 
 again." 
 
 The children lifted their eyes quickly to 
 his face, but half understanding what he 
 meant. 
 
 " I will never go there again," he added. 
 " I will always stay at home with you." 
 
 Ady and Jane, now comprehending what 
 their father meant, overcome with joy, hid 
 their faces in his lap and wept for very 
 gladness. 
 
 Low as all this had been said, every 
 word reached the mother's ear ; and while 
 her heart yet stood trembling between hope 
 and fear, Mr. Freeman drew a paper from 
 his pocket and threw it on the table by 
 which she was sitting. She opened it 
 hastily. It was a pledge, with his well- 
 known signature subscribed at the bot- 
 tom. 
 
 With a cry of joy she sprang to his side,
 
 34 THE DRUNKARD'S GOOD ANGELS. 
 
 and his arms encircled his wife as well as 
 his little ones, in a fonder embrace than 
 they had known for years. 
 
 The children's love had saved their 
 father. They were, indeed, his good 
 angels.
 
 1 A N C E N ii. 
 
 (9)
 
 GOOD AND EVIL ANIMALS. 
 
 are in the world a great many 
 "* animals, and all of them correspond to 
 good or evil qualities in men. The good 
 animals are innocent and useful; but the 
 evil animals are cruel and hurtful. Sheep, 
 and cows, and doves are good animals; but 
 wolves, and bears, and hawks are evil 
 animals. Every one loves the gentle 
 lambs that sport in the green fields, but 
 no one likes the cruel wolves that tear 
 these dear lambs in pieces. 
 
 In the picture you will see a flock of 
 sheep, with some children and their mo-
 
 38 GOOD AND EVIL ANIMALS. 
 
 ther gazing at them. How gentle, and 
 innocent, and mild they look ! They are 
 safe in the fold where no wicked beasts can 
 harm them. Sometimes a sheep or a lamb 
 will stra} 7 from the fold, and then the good 
 shepherd will go off into the woods and 
 mountains to seek the lost one ; and when 
 he has found him, he will, if it be a poor 
 little lamb, take him in his arms and carry 
 him back again; or, if a sheep, lead him 
 kindly to the fold from w T hich he had 
 strayed away. 
 
 Do you know, dear children, who is your 
 good Shepherd? He is the Lord, and he 
 is ever watching over you, and seeking to 
 protect you from the wolves. 
 
 You think there are no wolves to harm 
 you ! All evil tempers and bad passions, 
 my children, are wolves ; and these, if you 
 let them come into your hearts, will greatly 
 harm, and, perhaps, in the end, destroy 
 you. You stray from this good Shepherd 
 when you indulge in wicked tempers, or 
 do wicked things; and you are then in
 
 GOOD AND EVIL ANIMALS. 39 
 
 great danger from the wolves. Keep 
 within the sheep-fold, dear little ones, 
 and your good Shepherd will ever be near 
 to save you from all harm. When you love 
 each other, and seek to make each other 
 happy; when you are obedient to your 
 parents and teachers; then are you within 
 the heavenly sheepfold; then are you safe 
 from the wolves.
 
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 T^RANK HARROLD, when lie was about 
 -*- twelve years old, got acquainted with 
 some bad boys of his own age. Before this 
 Frank was a very good lad, and gave his 
 mother no trouble. Mrs. Harrold was a 
 very pious woman, and early taught her 
 son that there was a God in heaven, who 
 was to be loved and worshipped by living 
 in obedience to his commands, which were 
 written in the Bible. As soon as he could 
 speak he was taught to say his prayers on 
 going to bed ; and when he had learned to 
 read, the Holy Book was oftener in his 
 hands than any other. Mrs. Harrold had 
 great comfort of mind in thinking about
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRATE. 41 
 
 her boy ; for there was every promise of 
 his growing up to be a good and useful 
 man. He was obedient to her in all things, 
 and kind to his playmates; and never 
 seemed so happy as when he could oblige 
 some one. v 
 
 But, as we have said, when Frank was 
 about twelve years old, he got into the 
 company of bad boys, who enticed him 
 away into evil. It was sad to see the 
 change that soon passed over him. He 
 learned to use bad language : that is, low, 
 obsceie, and profane language; such as 
 may be heard from the gangs of vicious 
 boys, to be seen congregated at particular 
 times, in all our towns or large cities. 
 From being kind to others, he soon learned, 
 to feel pleasure in giving pain through 
 direct personal injury, by ridicule, or by 
 wounding the feelings of those weaker 
 than himself. 
 
 Alas! how quickly do the angels go 
 away from us, when, by our evil thoughts % 
 and acts, we associate our minds with evil
 
 42 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 spirits, who ever stand waiting to flow in 
 upon us and rule our lives. If we would 
 keep out these enemies, we must keep our 
 thoughts pure, and guard our lips as we 
 would guard a precious treasure in a golden 
 casket. Bad language does not correspond 
 to any thing in heaven ; it only corresponds 
 to something evil in hell. When a boy, 
 therefore, swears, or uses any kind of ob- 
 scene or bad language, the evil spirits who 
 are always trying to enter his mind, per- 
 ceive something that is congenial to them- 
 selves, and come in. Immediately o4 this 
 occurring, the good angels, who cannot 
 occupy the same habitation with evil 
 spirits, retire, and then the boy is more 
 under the influence of evil than of good. 
 The only way to cast them out again, and 
 bring back those other and better com- 
 panions, is to refrain from evil speaking 
 of any kind, and also to push away evil 
 thoughts, when the angels will return and 
 fill the mind with their own pure thoughts 
 and peaceful feelings. It is the same when
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 43 
 
 a boy gets angry with his companions, or 
 when he permits himself to have covetous 
 thoughts, or tells a lie, or does or thinks 
 any thing that is evil. The moment this 
 takes place, there is a change. Evil spirits 
 perceive their own, and flow into it, while 
 the good angels are cast out. Only in what 
 is good in the mind, can the latter abide ; 
 and when good is removed, they must go 
 with it. 
 
 If this is understood by the thoughtful 
 young reader, he will see how important it 
 is fo him to watch over his temper and 
 guard his lips. Let him not, as he values 
 his best interests, give way to any wrong 
 desire, indulge in any bad temper, or use 
 any but pure and innocent language. If 
 he so watch over his thoughts, words, and 
 actions, and look for help from above, he 
 need be in no fear of evil, for it cannot 
 reach him. 
 
 But Frank Harrold did not thus guard 
 himself. He thought, when he heard boys 
 of his own age swear, and saw them smoke
 
 44 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 disgusting cigars, and drink drams, that all 
 this was manly. At first, he felt such an 
 inward reluctance such a painful drawing 
 back when he made an attempt to swear, 
 in imitation of his bad companions, that he 
 could not utter the word that was in his 
 thoughts. But, after a while, he forced 
 out a wicked oath ; and then it all came 
 easy enough. Swearing led to other and 
 worse vices; and so the feet of the poor 
 lad, having once entered an evil way, 
 began to move in it swiftly. 
 
 Mrs. Harrold was deeply distressed at 
 this sad change in her boy, and did every 
 thing in her power to win him away from 
 his dangerous companions. But their 
 power over him was so great, that all she 
 said made little or no impression upon his 
 mind. At last, when she talked to him, 
 he would get angry, and speak unkindly 
 to his good mother ; and even though tears 
 would come into her eyes when he did so, 
 not the least movement of repentance or 
 pity was in his heart.
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 45 
 
 And so it went on. The lad grew worse 
 and worse; and, when he was eighteen 
 years old, had become so debased in his 
 conduct, and so idle in his habits, that no 
 one would have him in his employ. About 
 this time a recruiting-sergeant came into 
 the town, and Frank, when half intoxi- 
 cated, was induced to enlist as a soldier for 
 a term of five years. He felt bad enough 
 when he became fully sober, and reflected 
 upon what he had done. But repentance 
 was now too late. As for his mother, she 
 was almost heart-broken. 
 
 In a few weeks, Frank was sent off to 
 the frontier, among the Indians, where, for 
 five years, he endured various hardships, 
 and lived among people of the worst class. 
 As a common soldier, he was tyrannized 
 over by petty officers, and made to suffer 
 indignities and degradation worse than is 
 endured by many slaves at the South. 
 And for all this, his pay was no more than 
 the hired domestic in his mother's house 
 had regularly received. Once he was
 
 46 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 thrown from a horse, while riding in a 
 troop over a prairie, and had his leg broken ; 
 once he was shot in the knee by an 
 Indian; and the wound, from which he 
 suffered dreadful pain, kept him in the 
 hospital attached to the barracks for two 
 or three months. Exposed in all weathers, 
 in a sickly region, he was frequently ill 
 with raging fevers. But, when bowed in 
 pain and sickness, there was no gentle 
 mother's hand to make smooth his pil- 
 low, and no mother's voice to speak 
 loving words in his ears. The hospital 
 nurse was a rough soldier, and the physi- 
 cian of the regiment a cruel tyrant, who 
 could safely exercise his overbearing spirit 
 on poor sick dragoons, that dared not re- 
 sent his outrages and indignities. Ah ! it 
 was all very different from what it would 
 have been, had Frank grown up an indus- 
 trious, obedient, and good boy. Thus it is, 
 that evil ever brings its own punishment. 
 Frank, while lying sick, used to think of
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 47 
 
 all this ; and such thoughts always made 
 his heart ache. 
 
 A year before the soldier's term of ser- 
 vice expired, news came to him that his 
 mother was dead. Oh ! how he wept over 
 this sad intelligence. How bitterly he re- 
 pented of the evil into which he had fallen; 
 and by which not only his own life, but 
 that of his excellent mother, had been 
 rendered miserable ! 
 
 " I have killed her !" he murmured, as 
 his eyes grew dim, and he could not see 
 the lines of writing in the letter that con- 
 veyed the afflicting news. From the day 
 Frank received this letter, until his term 
 of service expired, no one saw him smile. 
 On receiving his discharge, he returned, as 
 quickly as he could come, to his native 
 village. But he did not go among the 
 people, nor seek out old friends, nor search 
 for employment. He went to the grave- 
 yard, where, by the side of the green 
 mound of earth that had covered for many 
 years the mouldering ashes of his father,
 
 48 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 he found that another had been buried 
 and knew the fresh-made grave as the one 
 which contained the earthly remains of his 
 mother. For hours he sat here and wept. 
 Then he went from the little enclosure, 
 feeling, as he did so, that he was an out- 
 cast in the world. Despairing thoughts 
 began to arise, and evil suggestions were 
 flowing into his mind. But, amid these, 
 arose the image of his mother ; and then 
 his thoughts went back to the time when, 
 a little child, he knelt beside her, and 
 prayed that he might not be led into 
 temptation. So softened were his feelings, 
 that, sinking upon his knee, he clasped his 
 hands, and prayed aloud, as his heart went 
 upward 
 
 " Lead me not into temptation !" 
 And as he did so, there came a light 
 into his heart, and a good purpose formed 
 in his mind. 
 
 " I have had enough of this evil life," he 
 said; "it brings nothing but suffering. 
 Dear mother in heaven! draw near thy
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 
 unliappy child ! Be to him a good angel, 
 as thou wert in the early days of childhood 
 and innocence." 
 
 After saying this, the young man arose, 
 and returning to the grave of his mother, 
 sat there again and wept. But the shadows 
 of evening, that soon began to fall, warned 
 him that he must retire ; and then he went 
 away, firm in his purpose to lead a new 
 life. 
 
 Glad are we to say, that this good pur. 
 pose was never broken, and that Frank 
 Harrold is now a sober, industrious young 
 man ; engaged in useful employments, and 
 as happy as could be expected for one who 
 must have so many painful memories. 
 
 Dear children! Give not a moment's 
 place to evil in your minds ; for evil is a 
 cruel tyrant, and leads into the worst 
 slavery, and. the most direful sufferings, 
 all who give themselves up to its influence. 
 Only the good are happy.
 
 THE STORY OF A LITTLE. 
 LAMB. 
 
 ET a book and read me a pretty 
 story/' said little Anna to her sister 
 Jane. 
 
 " Shall I read to you about the lamb 
 that was lost, and came near dying ?" 
 
 "And heard the tinkling of a distant 
 sheep-bell ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh yes, sister Jane, read me that 
 pretty story. I love to hear it." 
 
 So Jane took up a book in which the 
 story was printed, and read to Anna about 
 the little lamb. 
 
 " It was on a soft morning in May, when 
 a certain little lamb was called from sleep
 
 THE STORY OF A LITTLE LAMB. 51 
 
 by the tinkling of the sheep-bell. Slowly 
 he raised his head, still keeping his fore- 
 feet bent under his bosom, and looked with 
 a sleepy eye after his mother, who had 
 just trotted away from his side. Again 
 the bell sounded, and the pretty little 
 lamb rose upon his feet, and was soon 
 leaping by his mother's side. Now, the 
 field in which these sheep dwelt was a 
 place of great beauty; the verdant hill, 
 the sparkling streamlet, the shady tree, 
 the green pasture, were all there ; it seemed 
 a quiet fold apart from the rest of the world 
 a pleasant place on purpose for that 
 happy little flock. Now, the little lamb 
 of which I have been speaking was the 
 darling of the flock ; no other had so white 
 a fleece, so mild an eye, so gentle a nature. 
 One day, as this little lamb was playing by 
 himself, at a short distance from the fold, 
 he was espied by an eagle, who no sooner 
 beheld him than he darted clown, and, 
 seizing him in his talons, bore him far 
 awav from the little flock. Oh ! it was sad
 
 52 THE STORY OF A LITTLE LAMB. 
 
 to see the sheep look after their darling 
 lamb ; and the poor little lamb once caught 
 the distant tinkling of the sweet bell it had 
 BO loved to follow. Now, as the eagle was 
 flying over a valley, an archer shot an 
 arrow which went into its heart, and it fell 
 with the lamb at the archer's feet. Then 
 the archer took the lamb home to his child, 
 and bade him take care of the poor little 
 creature. Now the child had a tender 
 heart, and he took the lamb, and bathed its 
 wounds, and washed the blood from its 
 snowy fleece, and wept. But the lamb 
 began to revive, and the child was glad; 
 and he took a silken cord and placed it 
 about his neck, and led the lamb about 
 with him wherever he went ; and in the 
 joy of his heart he thought the lamb must 
 be as happy as himself. But it pined for 
 the loss of its mother's love, and the peace 
 it had known amid the happy little flock 
 in the far-off fold. One summer day, the 
 child, being weary with long rambling, fell 
 asleep on a bank of flowers, still holding
 
 THE STORY OF A LITTLE LAMB. 53 
 
 the silken cord tightly in his hand ; but 
 looser and looser it became, till it slipped 
 away from his grasp, and the little lamb 
 fled away from him for ever. 
 
 "Onward and onward went the lamb, 
 not knowing whither. After a time it 
 began to rain, and the thunder rolled 
 and the lightning flashed. The poor little 
 lamb trembled ; but when the thunder was 
 not heard for a moment, he forgot his 
 sorrows, and stopped to nibble a daisy; 
 then, startled by a sudden flash, he looked 
 up in terror, and was again driven onward 
 by the loud-pealing thunder. On he went, 
 over a wide common, till he came to the 
 foot of a steep hill, which, with weary feet, 
 he climbed; but when he had gained the 
 summit, weak and trembling, he laid down 
 to die ; his eyes became dim, and his heart 
 beat faintly in his bosom : but the thought 
 of his mother and the peaceful fold, the 
 sweet flowers, and all things he had loved 
 in the first happy moments of his little life
 
 54 THE STORY OF A LITTLE LAMB. 
 
 were present to his eye : and the poor lamb 
 closed his eyes in sorrow. 
 
 " But as his heart grew more faint, he 
 was startled by the tinkling of a distant 
 bell ; and slowly raising his head, he beheld 
 his own little flock in their own happy 
 fold ; and new life awoke in his heart, and 
 new light shone from his eyes, and new 
 strength came to his feet, and in a moment 
 more the lost lamb was by his mother's side, 
 telling how he had been called back to life 
 by the tinkling of that sweet sheep-bell."
 
 
 THE YOUNG TBACHEE. 
 
 " T WISH I knew how to read!" said one 
 little boy to another. 
 
 " Then why don't you learn ?" asked his 
 companion. 
 
 "Because I have no one to teach me, 
 and my mother is too poor to send me to 
 school," replied the boy. 
 
 The name of the little boy who could 
 read was Albert Parker, and the name of 
 the one who could not read was Henry 
 Morrison. 
 
 "I think I could teach you/' said 
 Albert.
 
 56 THE YOUXG TEACHER. 
 
 " Do you ? Oh, I wish you would try, 
 for I want to learn to read very much." 
 
 The earnestness with which Henry spoke 
 made Albert resolve that he would at least 
 try, although, as he was but a small boy, 
 and had only just learned to read himself, 
 he did not feel certain that he could teach 
 Henry; but, then, he determined in his 
 own mind; young as he was, that he would 
 make the trial. 
 
 "Do you know your A, B, C's?" asked 
 Albert. 
 
 " Oh yes. I can say them all through." 
 
 " Will you come into our house now, and 
 try to learn? I have got all my books 
 there." 
 
 Of course Henry consented, and the twa 
 boys went into the house, and sat down on 
 two little chairs, that Albert's mother gave 
 them to sit on, when she learned her son's 
 kind intentions. She felt very glad to see 
 him, so early in life, in the effort to do good; 
 for she was a woman who loved the Lord 
 and her neighbour, and had taught her
 
 THE YOUXG TEACHER. 57 
 
 boy that it was right for him to try and do 
 the same. She looked on and listened, 
 with a heart full of pleasure, to the young 
 teacher and his pupil. 
 
 Albert. You know all your A, B, C's? 
 
 Henry. Yes ; I know every one of them. 
 
 A. Then you must learn your A-b ab's 
 next. 
 
 E. Well, where are they ? 
 
 A. (Turning over the leaves of one of 
 his little books.) Here they are. Now 
 begin. What letter is that ? 
 
 E. A. 
 
 A. And the little one alongside of it? 
 
 E. B. 
 
 A. Well; A-b spells ab. Now what let- 
 ter is that ? 
 
 H. E. 
 
 A. And the little one? 
 
 E. B. 
 
 A. That spells eb. And this i-b ib, o-b 
 ob, and u-b ub. Now try and see if you 
 can say the whole line ? 
 
 E. A-b
 
 58 THE YOUNG TEACHER. 
 
 A. Ab. 
 
 H. Oh yes; A-b ab, e-b eb, i-b ib, o-b ob, 
 u-b ub. 
 
 A. Yes; that is all right. Why, how 
 fast you learn ! Now go over it again. 
 
 And Henry commenced the lesson and 
 went all through it, without missing a 
 single one of the little words. Then Al- 
 bert tried him in his B-a ba's, and soon he 
 could say all of these. For an hour the 
 little boys were all intent, the one in teach- 
 ing and the other in learning. At the end 
 of this time, Henry could give the true 
 sound of all the words of two letters in the 
 primer. 
 
 Albert's mother had been attentive to 
 all that passed, as she sat engaged in sew- 
 ing, and when the little boys laid aside 
 their book, she said 
 
 " You must come here every day, Henry, 
 and let Albert teach you to read." 
 
 Henry promised that he would come, 
 and then the little boys went out and
 
 THE YOUNG TEACHER. 59 
 
 played until it was time for Henry to go 
 home. 
 
 On the next day, after Albert had re- 
 turned from school, Henry Morrison came 
 again, and took another lesson. And so he 
 continued coming every day. At the end 
 of a week he could spell out some of the 
 easy lines that were in the first reading- 
 book, such as 
 
 "My son, go not in the way of bad 
 men." 
 
 Now Albert's father, when he saw that 
 Henry Morrison was so eager to learn, 
 thought within himself that he would 
 send him to school. So, after he had been 
 to see, and had talked with his mother, 
 who promised to keep him always clean, 
 and his clothes neatly mended, he entered 
 him at the same school to which his own 
 son went. 
 
 The reason why Mr. Parker was willing 
 to place Henry at the same school to which 
 his own son was going, was because he 
 saw that Henry was a good boy; that he
 
 60 THE YOUXG TEACHER. 
 
 never said bad words, nor had any bad 
 habits. He was not, therefore, afraid to 
 let his own son be in company with him. 
 
 You may suppose that Henry Morrison 
 learned very fast at school. And so he 
 did. In a few months he caught up to 
 Albert and soon went rapidly past him. 
 But it is pleasing to be able to say, that 
 Albert Parker had not a single unkind or 
 envious feeling toward Henry on this 
 account, but was, on the contrary, exceed- 
 ingly pleased. 
 
 " How is it, Albert," his father said to 
 him one day, " that Henry learns so much 
 faster than you do ?" 
 
 Albert thought, at first, that this ques- 
 tion was meant for a rebuke, but when he 
 looked up into his father's face, he saw 
 that it was not. 
 
 " I don't know how it is, father," he 
 answered, "but he can and does learn 
 faster than I can, and I am glad of it." 
 
 " Glad of it, Albert ! And why so ?" 
 
 "Why, you know, father, that Henry
 
 THE YOUXG TEACHER. 61 
 
 can't go to school as long as I can, and so 
 he ought to learn a great deal faster. I 
 shall be learning on still when he has to be 
 put out to a trade, to get his own living." 
 
 "And so you do not envy him, because 
 he learns so much faster than you do ?" 
 
 "Oh no, father; why should I? It would, 
 be wicked in me, would it not ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my son. And I am glad to 
 hear you say that you are pleased to see 
 your little friend learn faster than you can. 
 Still, you must try your best." 
 
 "And so I do, father. And I learn as 
 fast as any boy in my class. But the 
 schoolmaster says that Henry is the fastest 
 boy in the whole school." 
 
 For three years Mr. Parker continued to 
 send Henry to school, after which it became 
 necessary for him to go out to a trade, as 
 his poor mother could not support him any 
 longer. When he left the school, he was 
 far in advance of all the other scholars, and 
 his desire to learn was still greater than it 
 had ever been.
 
 62 THE YOUXG TEACHER. 
 
 He felt very grateful to Mr. Parker, and, 
 before he went to his trade, came and 
 thanked him for his great kindness to him. 
 While the poor boy thus expressed his 
 gratitude, Mr. Parker felt doubly repaid for 
 all he had done. 
 
 "You are now far in advance, Henry, 
 of most boys when they go to a trade," 
 said he, " and if you will only employ your 
 spare time in improving yourself, you may 
 rise high in the world, and be very useful 
 when you grow up to be a man. Some of 
 the best and greatest men in the country, 
 when boys, were poor like you, and had to 
 work at trades. Persevere, then, as they 
 did, and you will rise as high. But above 
 all, Henry, ever remember that you are in 
 the presence of the good and holy Lord, 
 who cannot look upon sin with the least 
 degree of allowance. Let His command- 
 ments be ever before you. Do not break 
 the least one of them wilfully ; for, if you 
 do, unhappiness will surely follow. And 
 now, my boy," his kind benefactor added
 
 THE YOUNG TEACHER. 63 
 
 fervently, " may our Heavenly Father ever 
 have you in his holy keeping." 
 
 Throughout his whole life Henry Mor- 
 rison did not forget the impression of that 
 moment. As an apprentice, instead of 
 wasting, as too many boys do, their leisure 
 time in idleness, his books were always re- 
 sorted to, and some information gained at 
 every spare moment. Still, he was careful 
 never to neglect his work, nor to hurry 
 through it so as. not to do it well. This his 
 master, who was a kind man, saw, and he 
 therefore took pleasure in seeing him at 
 his books, when his work was done. 
 
 Albert continued to be the friend of 
 Henry. They met every Sabbath at the 
 Sunday-school, and frequently the latter 
 would go home and spend the evening in 
 Mr. Barker's family. 
 
 Thus he continued to improve his mind, 
 until he arrived at the age of manhood, 
 when, his mother having died several years 
 before, he removed many hundred miles 
 away from his native place.
 
 64 THE YOUNG TEACHER. 
 
 It was about ten years afterward that 
 Albert Parker was travelling in the West, 
 and stopped a few days at Louisville, 
 Kentucky. 
 
 He attended church on the Sabbath-day, 
 as was his custom, whether at home or 
 abroad; for the pious instructions received 
 in early life had been like good seed sown 
 upon good ground. 
 
 When the minister arose in the pulpit, 
 there seemed to Albert something strangely 
 familiar in his face and form; but when 
 he spoke, his voice sounded like that of an 
 old friend. 
 
 "Surely I have seen him before," said 
 he, as he looked at him earnestly, and 
 tried to remember where and when he had 
 met with him. But he could recall neither 
 the time, the place, nor the circumstance. 
 
 He listened to the sermon with the 
 deepest attention. It was full of true and 
 beautiful thoughts, and the style and lan- 
 guage were eloquent and imposing. His 
 text was
 
 THE YOUXG TEACHER. 65 
 
 Cast thy bread upon the waters: for 
 thou shalt find it after many days!' 
 Eccles. xi. 1. 
 
 In closing, he said " I will give you a 
 practical illustration of what I have been 
 trying to impress upon your minds. Two 
 little boys, about ten years of age, were 
 playing together. One of them was a poor 
 boy, and could not read. Young as he 
 was, he felt an anxious desire to learn like 
 other boys, but his mother was poor, and 
 could not send him to school. c I wish I 
 could read !' said he, to his companion. 
 ' Then why don't you learn ?' asked the 
 other little boy ; and he replied, < Because 
 I have no one to teach me, and my mother 
 is too poor to send me to school/ Then the 
 boy who could read said, that ' he thought 
 he could teach him, and if the other were 
 willing he would try.' Of course he was 
 willing, and the two little boys sat down 
 together, one as teacher and the other as 
 scholar, and while the one endeavoured to 
 impart the little that he had learned, the
 
 66 THE YOUNG TEACHER. 
 
 other tried as hard to receive what his 
 young friend so earnestly endeavoured to 
 give. And in this way the poor boy 
 learned to read. The father of his little 
 friend, on seeing him so anxious to learn, 
 sent him to school for three years. That 
 poor boy, in the providence of the Lord, is 
 now your minister. His kind teacher he 
 has neither seen nor heard from for many 
 years, but he yet hopes to meet him. The 
 bread cast, more than twenty years ago, 
 upon the waters, he will yet find." 
 
 As soon as the minister began to speak 
 of that early scene, the countenance of 
 Henry Morrison grew at once familiar to 
 Albert Parker. Their meeting after service 
 was indeed a joyful one. Tears moistened 
 their eyes, as they grasped each other's 
 hands and uttered their heartfelt expres- 
 sions of delight. 
 
 Years have passed since that pleasant 
 interview, and both are now ministers, 
 eminent for talents and usefulness.
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 sister was ill, and you were 
 so sorry, mother, why did you not 
 pray to God? would he not have made 
 her well?" 
 
 " Perhaps not, my child." 
 
 "Why, mother, would not God have 
 heard your prayer ?" 
 
 " Yes, but he might not have seen fit to 
 grant such a prayer, if I had been disposed 
 to make it." 
 
 " If you had been disposed to make it ! 
 Mother, did you not wish that sister might 
 get well ?" 
 
 " Certainly I wished it; but I wish still 
 more that what God sees will be best for
 
 70 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 me, and for those I love, may happen, be- 
 cause I know that God is ever striving to 
 do us every possible good, and he might 
 have known that it would not have been 
 either for my real good, or your sister's, to 
 grant such a prayer. Why did I not give 
 you the cake which you wished for yester- 
 day?" 
 
 "Because you thought it would make 
 me sick." 
 
 "And yet you wished very much for the 
 cake. And you know that I love you, and 
 would like to grant you any enjoyment that 
 is good for you ; but you do not know so well 
 as I do, that to grant some of your wishes 
 would be hurtful to you. Now, God watches 
 over our spiritual health and happiness, 
 with far more love and care than that with 
 which the tenderest parents watch over 
 their children. He knows and grants what 
 he sees will promote these, and he with- 
 holds that only which he knows would do 
 us harm. Remember, then, my dear little 
 boy, that the Lord knows what is good for
 
 A CONVERSATION. 71 
 
 us, and is always ready to give it. Our 
 prayers are needful, therefore, only to make 
 us feel and acknowledge our constant de- 
 pendence upon him, and to express our 
 grateful sense of his continual goodness 
 and our humble submission to his will."
 
 SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 CHOUGH intemperate, and at times idle, 
 Mr. Marker had not wholly given 
 himself up to the evil of drinking. He 
 worked pretty regularly at his trade, and 
 gave the greater part uf his earnings to his 
 wife. But he spent at least a dollar and a 
 half a week in liquor, and sometimes more. 
 This sum, added to what might have been 
 earned in the time lost in consequence of 
 intemperate habits, shows a good deal of 
 money wasted, which, if spent in his fa- 
 mily, would have given them many com- 
 forts. 
 
 In consequence of this, poor Mrs. Marker 
 had to work harder and harder every day;
 
 SPEAK KINDLY. 73 
 
 and yet their comforts diminished instead 
 of increasing. Not possessing naturally 
 much evenness of temper, nor a great deal 
 of fortitude, she was, at times, very impa- 
 tient and fretful ; and she became, in the 
 end, so much worried by her husband's 
 conduct, that she hardly ever gave him a 
 pleasant word when he was in the house, 
 and was often the cause of his going out 
 and spending evenings in the taverns when 
 he felt inclined to remain at home. 
 
 Mary, their oldest child, was, at the time 
 of which we are writing, just eleven years 
 of age. She loved her father very much, 
 notwithstanding his evil ways ; and it often 
 caused her to go off by herself alone, and 
 cry, when angry words passed between him 
 and her mother. 
 
 One evening, Mr. Marker brought a book 
 home for Mary, which was received by her 
 with great joy. But she had scarcely taken 
 it in her hand, before her mother said 
 fretfully 
 
 "What's that?"
 
 74 SPEAK KIXDLY. 
 
 " Its a book that papa has bought me," 
 replied Mary, holding up her present. 
 
 "He must have plenty of money to 
 throw away," said the mother ill-naturedly, 
 for she never could let any opportunity 
 that presented itself pass without saying 
 something that was unkind to her hus- 
 band. A man who has been drinking is 
 never entirely rational; and as Mr. Marker 
 had poured two or three glasses of fiery li- 
 quid down his throat, he was not, of course, 
 in a fit state for reason and self-control. 
 As usual on such occasions, he had some- 
 thing to say in return, and one remark fol- 
 lowed another, until there was a Avar of 
 words. So soon as this had subsided, the 
 unhappy family went to supper, but none 
 of them could eat with any relish. After 
 they had left the table, Mr. Marker, in sit- 
 ting down for the purpose of reading, hap- 
 pened to say something that his wife 
 thought silly and men, after they have 
 been drinking, generally talk silly enough 
 when she said to him
 
 SPEAK KINDLY. 75 
 
 " Do hush, will you ! I hate to hear any 
 one talk like a fool!" 
 
 Mary was never happier than when her 
 father remained at home during the even- 
 ing ; and if her mother had taken half the 
 pains to induce him to do so, that she did, 
 he would have been with them four or five 
 evenings every week, instead of in the grog- 
 shop, as was generally the case. v 
 
 Poor child ! How sad she felt when she 
 saw her father throw down his paper and 
 go angrily from the house. 
 
 " If mother would only be kind to him," 
 she said to herself, " I am sure he would do 
 better." 
 
 The little present he had brought her 
 showed the affection that was in his heart 
 for Mary, debased as it was, and the child's 
 feelings were affected with more than a 
 usual tenderness by the token. The stroke 
 of a lash upon her back could not have 
 hurt her half so much as did the angry 
 words uttered by her mother, and when 
 she saw their effect in fairly driving her
 
 76 SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 father from the house, she could not refrain 
 from weeping. The book, which she had 
 hoped to enjoy for an hour, was laid away 
 out of sight, and she shrank into a corner 
 of the room with a heavy weight of grief on 
 her young heart. All her thoughts were 
 with her father. She knew where he had 
 gone, and was, alas ! too well assured that 
 when he came home he would be so much 
 intoxicated as scarcely to be conscious of 
 any thing. 
 
 Mrs. Marker was often sorry for her un- 
 guarded and ill-chosen words, after she saw 
 the effect of them. It was so on this occa- 
 sion. Poor woman ! how heavily did she 
 sigh as she sat down with her sewing, after 
 having put the supper things away. The 
 effect of her words had been too marked 
 not to leave a feeling of self-condemnation ; 
 and this feeling is, perhaps, of all others, 
 most painful to bear. 
 
 Mr. Marker had been gone only a few 
 minutes, when Mary arose and left the 
 room. Upon a chair in the passage lay an
 
 SPEAK KINDLY. 77 
 
 old shawl, which she threw over her 
 head, and then glided noiselessly from the 
 house. 
 
 The night was cold, and Mary shivered 
 when the heavy air first struck upon her 
 thinly-clad form. But she soon forgot the 
 wintry atmosphere through which she was 
 passing. A few blocks away, was one of 
 those man-traps, called refectories, into 
 which, if any one goes, he is in great dan- 
 ger of being ruined both in body and soul. 
 To this place Mary knew that her father 
 went often, and thither she directed her 
 rapid steps. A brilliant gas-lamp burned 
 just in front, of the refectory, and there 
 was a beautiful transparency in the window. 
 Without, all looked attractive ; and there 
 was a promise of good cheer within to 
 tempt the unwary. Before the door Mary 
 stood for a few moments, and then entered, 
 stealthily, like one who felt that. Jier pre- 
 sence would be unwelcome. 
 
 Mr. Marker, on leaving home, felt very 
 much fretted in his temper. Something had
 
 78 SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 occurred during the day to cause him to 
 reflect; and the consequence was, that he 
 had indulged his appetite for drink less fre- 
 quently than usual. When he returned to 
 his family in the evening, although he had 
 been drinking, he was nearer to being a 
 sober man than he had been for weeks. 
 This, unfortunately, his wife did not per- 
 ceive, and her harsh language came, there- 
 fore, upon certain good resolutions, like 
 wind upon the chaff, and -scattered them in 
 the air. 
 
 On going from the house in a passion, 
 Mr. Marker went, as his little daughter had 
 supposed, to the refectory. On entering, 
 he called for a glass of ale, and taking it to 
 a table, sat down with a newspaper in his 
 hand. After taking a draught of the liquor, 
 he commenced reading. But he found little, 
 if any thing, to interest him. His mind 
 was disturbed ; and there was a picture in 
 his imagination, that, if possible, he would 
 have shut out a picture of home; but he 
 could not. The pleasure that lit up Mary's
 
 SPEAK KINDLY. 79 
 
 face, when lie gave her the book he had 
 bought, he saw instantly fade before the 
 unkindly spoken word of her mother, and 
 with a certain bitterness of feeling he 
 clenched his hands uneasily and set his 
 teeth tightly together. But, even while he 
 blamed his wife for her fretful temper, 
 thoughts of his own evil doings and their 
 consequences upon his family, came forcing" 
 themselves into his mind, and his feelings 
 smarted under the self-accusations of his 
 own conscience. He had, after running his 
 eye hurriedly over the newspaper, reading 
 a line here and there, but not perceiving 
 any meaning in what he read, thrown it 
 down, and was just lifting his glass to take 
 another draught of ale, when he saw Mary 
 enter the door and look timidly around. 
 The glass, before it reached his lips, was 
 returned to the table : so much surprised 
 was he at the appearance of his child in. 
 such a place. 
 
 It was a moment or two before Mary saw 
 her father ; but as soon as her eyes rested
 
 80 SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 upon him, she went quickly over to where 
 he sat, and taking hold of his hand, said, 
 in a low but very tender voice 
 
 "Come, papa!" 
 
 Against angry words, the spirit of the 
 man had instantly rebelled ; but his heart 
 turned toward his child with her loving 
 gentle tones, and, as if led by an angel from 
 amidst a company of evil spirits, he arose 
 and followed her out into the pure cold air. 
 
 Still holding tightly the hand of her fa- 
 ther, Mary moved on toward their home, 
 and he walked by her side as passively as 
 if no will of his own remained. 
 
 When they reached their cheerless dwell- 
 ing, both entered, side by side. Mrs. Mar- 
 ker, who, until that moment, was not 
 aware that Mary had left the house, looked 
 up from her work with surprise. She was 
 about saying something, when Mary sprang 
 toward her and whispered in her ear, in an 
 earnest, imploring voice, yet so distinctly, 
 that her father heard her words "Oh, 
 mamma speak kindly !"
 
 SPEAK KINDLY. ,81 
 
 Mrs. Marker's form drooped over her 
 work, as if nearly all strength had left her. 
 Her face bent low to her needle, but still, 
 for the gathering tears, she could not see. 
 Her husband sat down at a short distance 
 from her, feeling very strange. For a few 
 minutes all was silent. Suddenly Mrs. 
 Marker let her sewing fall from her hands, 
 and rising up, went over to where her hus- 
 band sat with his eyes upon the floor. 
 
 "Edward," she said, in a low, serious 
 voice, " do what you will, I'll never speak 
 unkindly again." 
 
 " And I'll never drink another drop !" he 
 replied in an animated voice, springing to 
 his feet. 
 
 In a moment they were in each other's 
 arms, and, in tears, gave pledges for a new 
 and a better life. 
 
 Oh ! it was a joyful time for Mary. She 
 scarcely slept that night for thinking of 
 the happy days that were to come. And 
 she has not been disappointed. Mr. Mar- 
 ker signed the temperance-pledge on the
 
 82 SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 very next day, and faithfully has he kept 
 it since. Than his, few happier homes are 
 now to be found; and no one in that house 
 is happier than Mary. 
 
 Oh ! there is a wonderful power in kind 
 words.
 
 I CAN'T DO IT. 
 
 " T CAN'T do it !" said Henry Bradford, 
 throwing down his pen and dividers, 
 and exhibiting other signs of impatience. 
 
 This happened at school, and the teacher's 
 eyes were upon Henry at the time, although 
 the boy did not know it. 
 
 "Can't do what, Henry?" asked the 
 teacher, calling to the lad across the school- 
 room. 
 
 " Can't work out this problem, sir," re- 
 plied the lad, looking confused. 
 
 " Have you tried to do it ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " How long have you tried ?" 
 
 " I've been trying for an hour, sir."
 
 84- i CAN'T DO 
 
 "Bring it to me and let me see what 
 you are doing." 
 
 The boy left his seat and came up as 
 directed. After the teacher had looked 
 over his work for a few minutes, he said 
 
 "You must try again, Henry. You 
 have gone the right way about it, but you 
 have made an error in your calculations." 
 
 The boy went back to his seat, saying 
 to himself, as he did so, " Its no use to 
 try I can't do it." 
 
 But he knew that he must follow the 
 direction of his teacher, and so he sat down 
 and commenced going over all the calcula- 
 tions again; he had not been more than 
 ten minutes at this before he discovered 
 where the error lay. 
 
 " Never say c I can't do it/ again, Henry," 
 said his teacher, when he took him up 
 ihe problem accurately worked out. " The 
 l3oy who says that often is never worth 
 much as a man." 
 
 When Henry went home he told his 
 father what the teacher had said.
 
 i CAN'T DO IT. 85 
 
 " He spoke the truth, my son," remarked 
 Mr. Bradford. " I remember a lad who, 
 when he was about your age, had so little 
 confidence in himself that he was discour- 
 aged at any and every thing requiring 
 effort. He was always saying, just as you 
 are, i I can't do it.' And yet, like you, he 
 had as good abilities as most boys." 
 
 " Was he never worth much as a man ?" 
 asked Henry, innocently. 
 
 Mr. Bradford smiled, and said 
 
 " Oh yes. He did very well as a man ; 
 but he was cured of his want of confidence 
 in his own abilities before he became a 
 man, or I doubt if he would have turned 
 out good for much." 
 
 " How was he cured, father ?" 
 
 "I will tell you; and I hope you will 
 profit by what I am going to relate. This 
 lad's name was Henry. One day, when he 
 was only fifteen years of age, his father 
 said to him 
 
 " * Henry, my business has got so bad 
 that I am compelled to send away my
 
 I CAN T DO IT. 
 
 clerk. You have been going to school for 
 a good many years, and have studied book- 
 keeping, and I suppose can take charge of 
 my books very well. I must take you 
 from school and make you my clerk/ 
 
 " ' I can't do it indeed/ replied the lad, 
 frightened at the very idea. 
 
 " ' Oh yes, you can/ answered his father. 
 'To-morrow you must begin, as William 
 leaves me to-day/ 
 
 " On the next morning Henry went to 
 his father's store. When he was shown 
 the huge ledger and journal, also the day* 
 book, bill-book, cash-cook, sales-book, &c., 
 he felt sure that he could not keep them, 
 and said, as he was always in the l&bit of 
 doing, when any difficulty presented itself: 
 c I can't do it.' 
 
 " ' Yes, but I tell you that you can do it, 
 and yoikmust do it/ answered the father, 
 a good deal out of patience with him. 
 Try ! you can do that, at least/ 
 
 " The boy never liked to have his father
 
 i CAN'T DO IT. 87 
 
 displeased with him : he looked up into his 
 face and replied 
 
 " ' I will try, father; but I ' 
 
 " ' We don't want any " but's" about it, 
 Henry/ he said quickly. ' Try try try 
 always be ready to try to do any thing, 
 and you will soon be able to do almost 
 every thing.' 
 
 "As Henry's father was so much in 
 earnest about the matter, he had nothing 
 to do but to try. To his own delight and 
 astonishment, before a week had passed he 
 understood the books so well that he could 
 make all the first entries, and carry every 
 thing through to the ledger. 
 
 " c Iflou see what can be done by trying,' 
 said his father to him. 
 
 " f Yes, sir ; b\it indeed I didn't think I 
 could do it. It looked so hard.' 
 
 " c Every thing looks hard that you don't 
 know how to do, my son. But never say 
 you can't do any thing, until you have 
 tried. ' It will be very strange if you say 
 it afterward.'
 
 I CAN T DO IT. 
 
 "Henry continued to keep his father's 
 books, and to assist him in his business, 
 which improved very much in the course 
 of a couple of years. At the end of this 
 time his father said to him 
 
 " ' Henry, I want you to go out to South 
 America with a cargo of flour, in the brig 
 Mary, which I have just purchased.' 
 
 "Henry shrank back at the thought. 
 He knew nothing of South America, nor 
 of the manner of doing business there. He 
 had never studied the Spanish language. 
 In fact, he felt himself totally unfitted to 
 go. But his father wouldn't hear a word 
 of objection. 
 
 " C I don't know the language,' said 
 Henry. 
 
 " ' The vessel won't be ready for a 
 month,' was the reply; ' study Spanish 
 during that time.' 
 
 " c But I cant acquire a knowledge of 
 the Spanish language in a month/ he re- 
 plied. 
 
 "'Try, try, try, Henry! Don't say
 
 i CAN'T DO IT. 89 
 
 "can't" to any thing. Learn all you can, 
 and then study the language for yourself 
 on the outward voyage, and spend as 
 much time as possible in conversing with 
 the captain, who speaks Spanish very well. 
 My word for it, by the time you reach Rio 
 you will be able to speak enough of the 
 language to answer every purpose.' 
 
 " Henry commenced taking lessons in 
 Spanish immediately, and informed him- 
 self as minutely as possible about the 
 manner of trading in South America. By 
 the time the vessel sailed, he felt a good 
 deal more confidence in himself. When he 
 arrived on the coast, he found no difficulty 
 whatever in carrying out the purposes of 
 the voyage. It was just as easy, almost, 
 as posting his father's books after he had 
 learned how to do it. 
 
 "Til never say " I can't do it," again,' 
 he said to his father on returning home. 
 'I believe I can do almost any thing, if 
 I try.' 
 
 " * And so you can, my son. It isn't so
 
 90 i CAN'T DO IT. 
 
 much the want of ability that keeps men 
 from accomplishing great things, as the 
 want of confidence and energy. Be ready 
 to attempt any thing that comes in your 
 way to do, and never say, " I can't do it ;" 
 at least, not until you have tried/ 
 
 " Henry was as good as his word. From 
 that time he never permitted any difficulty 
 to discourage him, and many and many a 
 one he has had to encounter and overcome. 
 He is now a man, and has a son who is 
 just as easily disheartened as he once was, 
 and who, if he does not overcome this dis- 
 position, will never be as successful in the 
 world as his father has been." 
 
 "Why, father! It wasn't you, was it?" 
 exclaimed Henry in surprise. 
 
 "Yes, my son. I have told you my 
 own history. I was just such a boy as 
 you are, and I was always saying, < I can't 
 do it/ whenever I encountered any little 
 difficulty. But I learned that all I had to 
 do was to try, and I could do any thing.
 
 i CAN'T DO IT. 91 
 
 And if you ever expect to make a man, 
 you must try" 
 
 " I will try, father," said Henry, inspired 
 with a determination to conquer his weak- 
 ness. And he did try, and gradually 
 learned that a little perseverance would 
 enable him to overcome almost any diffi- 
 culty, no matter how discouraging it was 
 at first to look upon.
 
 A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 very gentle with her, my son," said 
 Mrs. Butler, as she tied on her little 
 girl's bonnet, and sent her out to play with 
 her elder brother. 
 
 They had not been out very long before 
 a cry was heard, and presently Julius came 
 in and threw down his hat, saying 
 
 " I hate playing witn girls ! There's no 
 fun with them ; they cry in a minute." 
 
 "What have you been doing to your 
 sister ? I see her lying there on the gravel 
 walk : you have torn her frock and pushed 
 her down. I am afraid you forgot my 
 caution to be gentle." 
 
 "Gentle ! Boys can't be gentle, mother;
 
 A GENTLEMAN. 93 
 
 its their nature to be rough, and hardy, 
 and boisterous. They are the stuff soldiers 
 and sailors are made of. Its very well to 
 talk of a gentle girl ; but a gentle boy it 
 sounds ridiculous ! I should be ready to 
 knock a fellow down for calling me so!" 
 
 "And yet, Julius, you would be very 
 angry, a few years hence, if any one were 
 to say you were not a gentle man." 
 
 "A gentle man. I never thought of 
 dividing the word in that way before. 
 Being gentle always seems to me like 
 being weak and womanish." 
 
 " This is so far from being the case, my 
 son, that you will always find that the 
 bravest men are the most gentle. The 
 spirit of chivalry that you so much admire, 
 was a spirit of the noblest courage, and the 
 utmost gentleness combined. Still I dare 
 say you would rather be called a manly 
 than a gentle boy?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, mother." 
 
 "Well, then, my son, it is my greatest 
 wish that you should endeavour to unite
 
 94 A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the two. Show yourself manly when you 
 are exposed to danger or see others in 
 peril ; be manly when called on to speak 
 the truth, though the speaking of it may 
 bring reproach upon you; be manly when 
 you are in sickness and pain. At the same 
 time be gentle, whether you be with females 
 or with men ; be gentle toward all men. 
 By putting the two qualities together, you 
 will deserve a name which, perhaps, you 
 will not so greatly object to." 
 
 " I see what you mean dear mother, and 
 I will endeavour to be what you wish a 
 gentlemanly boy."
 
 THE LITTLE BOY WHO DIDX'T WANT TO GO TO SABBATH-SCHOOL. 
 .(9) Page 97.
 
 THE SABBATH-SCHOOL. 
 
 " T WISH I didn't have to go to Sunday- 
 school," said Harry Sandford to his 
 mother, as she was pinning on his clean 
 collar, and brushing his hair nicely, one 
 bright Sabbath afternoon. 
 
 " Would you rather stay at home ?" ask- 
 ed his mother. 
 
 "Oh yes. A great deal rather." 
 "Would you play all the time?" 
 "I would play some, and read some, and 
 do a good many things. I think it is 
 enough to go to school all the week." 
 
 "But to-day is Sunday. It is the Lord's 
 day. What does that commandment say 
 which speaks of the Sabbath?"
 
 98 THE SABBATH-SCHOOL. 
 
 " It says, c Six days shalt thou labour and 
 do all thy work, but the seventh day is the 
 Sabbath of the Lord thy God. In it, thou 
 shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy man- 
 servant, nor thy maid-servant, thy ox, nor 
 thy ass, nor thy stranger that is within thy 
 gates. For in six days the Lord made the 
 heavens and the earth, the sea, and all 
 that in them is, and rested on the seventh 
 day; wherefore the Lord blessed the Sab- 
 bath-day and hallowed it.'" 
 
 "What do you think this means, my 
 son?" 
 
 "It means that we mustn't work on Sun- 
 day, doesn't it?" 
 
 "It means, that on the Lord's holy day 
 we should rest from all worldly employ- 
 ments, and raise our thoughts to heavenly 
 things. The Lord gives us six days in 
 which to labour and do all our natural 
 work, and then the Sabbath comes; the 
 Sabbath, in which our hands are no longer 
 required to labour, nor our thoughts to be 
 engaged in worldly things. On this blessed
 
 THE SABBATH-SCHOOL. 99 
 
 day we can lift up our minds and think 
 about the Lord, and meet together to wor- 
 ship him, and return him our thanks for 
 the many blessings that we receive from 
 him. Now, you, my son, have many hours, 
 each day of the week, for playing, and read- 
 ing your pretty books. Should you not, 
 then, on the Sabbath, not only be willing 
 but glad to go to Sunday-school, where, 
 with other little children, you can read and 
 hear about the Lord and heaven, and learn 
 to love one another? I know that this will 
 be much better for you." 
 
 " But the commandment doesn't say that 
 little boys must go to Sunday-school," said 
 Harry. " I am sure I can rest from labour 
 as well by staying at home." 
 
 " Do you believe you will think as much 
 about the Lord and be as thankful to him 
 for all his blessings?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. I can read in the Bible 
 the same as I do at school." 
 
 " And chant and sing hymns of praise to 
 the Lord?"
 
 100 THE SABBATH-SCHOOL. 
 
 Little Harry's eyes dropped to the floor. 
 
 "And see your kind teacher's face, and 
 hear all the excellent things she says to 
 the children, and love her as well?" con- 
 tinued the mother. 
 
 "I can't do all that, I know," returned 
 the boy. 
 
 "I know you cannot, my son. Now 
 think. Do you not know, that when you 
 are in company with many persons, you 
 soon get interested in what they are all do- 
 ing and saying; but that while you are by 
 yourself, you cannot remain long interested 
 in any thing, nor will your interest be as 
 strong as it would be if others shared the 
 pleasure with you. Is not this so ? Think." 
 
 "I never like to read to myself as well 
 as I do aloud for you to hear," said the 
 boy. 
 
 " Nor to play by yourself as well as you 
 do with other children?" 
 
 "Oh no, ma'am." 
 
 "Nor would you be able to keep the 
 commandment, ' Remember the Sabbath-
 
 THE SABBATH-SCHOOL. 101 
 
 day to keep it holy/ as well alone, as if you 
 were associated with other little boys and 
 girls, met together for the same purpose. 
 Do jou now think that you would?" 
 
 "I am afraid not, mother." 
 
 " I am sure that you would not, Henry. 
 And it is for this reason that your father 
 and mother wish you to go to the Sabbath- 
 school. It is for this reason that your 
 teachers meet with you every Sabbath. 
 They know that they can do you good 
 when you are all together and they can 
 see you and talk to you face to face." 
 
 "I don't want to stay at home now," 
 said little Harry, putting his arms around 
 his mother's neck and kissing her. " I will 
 go to the Sabbath-school, for I know it will 
 be better for me." t 
 
 "And not only better for you, my son," 
 said the mother. " It will be better for the 
 other little boys and girls. Think of that !" 
 
 " Why, how can that be, mother ?" 
 
 " If the company of others helps you to 
 think of the Lord and his goodness, your
 
 102 THE SABBATH-SCHOOL. 
 
 company will help them to do the same. 
 You all help each other. For the sake of 
 other little boys and girls, then, it is your 
 duty to go to school. Your presence adds 
 one to the company, and makes it stronger. 
 If you stay away, and another and another 
 stay away, the few who are left will not 
 find the school so pleasant, nor be able, 
 while there, to take so much delight in 
 reading the word, and singing in praise of 
 the LordV goodness. For the sake of 
 others, then, as well as yourself, my dear 
 boy, you must go regularly to the Sabbath- 
 school. It is one of your first duties in 
 life, and an easy one. Do not let the wish 
 to neglect it find any place in your mind,"
 
 FIEST EAENINGS. 
 
 ~j\ TOST boys are inclined to be spend- 
 thrifts. Sixpences and shillings burn 
 holes in their pockets or slip through their 
 fingers like so much quicksilver. It was 
 not so with Ned Billings; though this 
 could hardly be placed to the account of 
 his over-carefulness of money; for money 
 was a thing that rarely grew hot in his 
 pockets or made his fingers uneasy. In- 
 temperance had brought his father to an 
 early grave; and his sad-hearted mother 
 was laid in her last resting-place ere he 
 was five years old. From that time he 
 knew not the comforts of a home. An 
 aunt gave him shelter under her roof, and
 
 104 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 a seat at her table; but both were grudg- 
 ingly bestowed. As for clothing, he had 
 little beyond what decency required. But 
 Ned was a boy of a cheerful, buoyant tem- 
 per. He went singing and laughing on 
 his way through life, as happy, apparently, 
 as if he were in the enjoyment of every 
 external comfort. The common school of 
 the village in which he lived, afforded him 
 the rudiments of an education ; and, wild 
 and apparently reckless as he was out of 
 school, he was rarely behind in his class. 
 By the time he was twelve years old, Ned's 
 mind was very well furnished for one of 
 his age ; though, to judge from his exterior, 
 he would hardly have been thought com- 
 petent to spell a word in three syllables. 
 
 The older the lad grew, the less comfort- 
 able did he find his home, and the more 
 clearly did he perceive that his support 
 was felt as a burden by his aunt, who 
 hardly ever gave him a pleasant word. 
 This was the state of affairs when, one 
 day, as Ned was strolling idly along, a boy
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 105 
 
 several years older, named Andrew Chester, 
 the son of a storekeeper, who had been 
 sent to carry a pretty heavy bundle to a 
 customer who lived at some distance, called 
 to him and said 
 
 " I'll give you a shilling if you will take 
 this home." 
 
 "Agreed!" was Ned's instant reply. 
 u Where is it to go?" 
 
 "Over to Hargrove's." 
 
 Ned took hold of the bundle, and lifted 
 it. The weight was considerable for one 
 of his strength, and the distance to go was 
 over a mile; but this caused no hesitation. 
 A shilling was an amount of money so far 
 beyond any thing he had ever possessed, 
 that the temptation was not to be resisted. 
 
 " I'll stay here and play ball until you 
 come back," said Andrew as he helped to 
 place th bundle on Ned's shoulders. " I've 
 got the shilling all ready for you." And 
 he displayed the money before the eyes of 
 the poor boy. 
 
 Ned started off at a quick pace; but he
 
 106 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 had gone only a few hundred yards when he 
 found himself staggering under a weight that 
 was too much for his strength. Aware that 
 if he laid it down, in order to rest, he would 
 not be able to replace it on his shoulder 
 again, he braced himself under his burden, 
 and moved along as rapidly as he could 
 walk. But, ere a third of the distance was 
 accomplished, his strength failed, and bundle 
 and boy both fell upon the ground. After 
 resting for ten minutes, Ned made an effort 
 to raise his burden ; but the attempt was 
 fruitless. A man passing at the time gave 
 him the required assistance, arid once more 
 he started on his errand. The next resting- 
 place for his bundle was on a fence; a hun- 
 dred yards farther on, a tall stump served 
 the same purpose. And thus, pausing to 
 rest himself and recover his strength every 
 twenty or thirty yards, he succeeded in 
 accomplishing the whole distance. 
 
 When Ned came back, Andrew Chester, 
 who had enjoyed his ball-playing for nearly 
 an hour, paid over the shilling according to
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 107 
 
 agreement. The sight of this money a 
 large sum in the lad's eyes affected him 
 with new pleasure. Here were his first 
 earnings, and, as he looked at the coin, 
 different thoughts from any he had here- 
 tofore known began to pass through his 
 mind. He felt that he had in him the 
 power to be independent. He had hands 
 to work, feet to walk, and a willing mind. 
 
 Ned's first earnings were not spent in 
 gratifying his appetite. He had worked 
 too hard for his shilling to part with it 
 lightly. Again and again he looked at the 
 money ; and each time he surveyed it, it 
 appeared more attractive in his eyes. At 
 last it was carefully deposited in his pocket, 
 to be more carefully hidden away in the 
 little garret where he slept, on his return 
 home. 
 
 For half the night Ned lay awake, his 
 mind too busy with the new thoughts 
 which had entered it to sink into the obli- 
 vion of sleep. The world was opening 
 before him, young as he was. He saw
 
 108 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 paths in which his feet could walk ; and 
 he felt eager to move in them. On the 
 next morning, after taking a glance at his 
 shilling, he started forth, and going to the 
 store of Mr. Chester, saw Andrew, and asked 
 him if he would have any more bundles 
 for him to carry. The father of Andrew 
 Chester, though in very good circumstances, 
 had no idea of raising his son in idleness. 
 He knew the value of industrious habits, 
 and, in order to form them in Andrew, who 
 was disposed to be indolent, he took him 
 from school when he was fifteen, and 
 placed him in his store. The lad was very 
 well pleased with the change at first, for 
 he did not much like his books. But he 
 soon grew weary of attending in the store 
 and carrying home goods to customers, and, 
 whenever an opportunity offered, endea- 
 voured to escape from the duties required 
 of him. As his father let him have money 
 pretty freely, he did not value it much ; 
 and had parted willingly enough with a 
 shilling in order to escape carrying a heavy
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 109 
 
 bundle for a long distance, while at the 
 same time he secured the pleasure of an 
 hour's sport. 
 
 The application of Ned was favourably 
 received by Andrew; and it was agreed 
 between them that the former should re- 
 ceive three cents for every package he took 
 home for the latter, who it must be under- 
 stood, did not much like to be seen carrying 
 bundles of goods about the village. Ned, 
 it was also agreed, should be waiting some- 
 where in the neighbourhood, and meet 
 Andrew as soon as he came forth with 
 goods in his hands. While he conveyed 
 them to the customers, Andrew would be 
 free to enjoy himself as he liked. For three 
 weeks this arrangement was continued. 
 By this time, Ned had over a dollar in his 
 little treasury. Not a single copper had 
 he spent in any self-indulgence. But a 
 change came over his golden dream. Mr. 
 Chester discovered what was going on, and, 
 after severely reprimanding Andrew, posi- 
 tively forbade him making any further
 
 110 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 delegation of his work. Poor Ned was 
 grievously disappointed when this intel- 
 ligence reached his ears. Already he had 
 begun to make calculations for the future. 
 But the beautiful castles he had built were 
 but airy structures, and faded away into 
 nothingness. 
 
 The new ideas and purposes awakened 
 in the mind of Ned could not sleep again. 
 They were ever present before his mind. 
 One day, a few weeks after the sudden 
 closing of his arrangement with Andrew 
 Chester, he said to the relative who had 
 given him, with grudging, a home, " Aunt, 
 if you'll give me some clothes, I'll go to 
 New York and take care of myself." 
 
 " To York !" exclaimed the aunt, taken 
 by surprise. " What'll you do there-?" 
 
 " Work," was the confident reply. " I'm 
 old enough and strong enough." 
 
 "You don't know what you're talking 
 about, Ned," petulantly returned the aunt, 
 who hardly ever gave the boy a kind 
 word.
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. Ill 
 
 "Oh yes, I do," said Ned. "Only give 
 me some decent clothes, and I'll never 
 trouble you again as long as I live." 
 
 Ned continued to urge this point, day 
 after day, until the aunt, becoming con- 
 vinced that he was really in earnest, 
 granted the request. A coarse suit of 
 clothes was made up for him, and a pair 
 of shoes and a new hat bought. With 
 these, his dollar hid away in his pockets, 
 as much money besides as would pay stage- 
 hire to New York, and his aunt's blessing, 
 such as it was, Ned turned his back upon 
 his home and his face to the world, feeling 
 strong and confident. A few hours' ride 
 brought him to the great city. Never had 
 he felt so much alone as he did while wan- 
 dering along the crowded streets, which he 
 did until the sober hues of evening re- 
 minded him that he had nowhere to lay 
 his head. By this time he was hungry 
 and fatigued. Not a copper had he spent 
 since his arrival, notwithstanding the 
 tempting array of fruit and confectionery
 
 112 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 that met his eyes at almost every turn. 
 Now the calls of nature were not to be dis- 
 regarded, and, buying some buns, he seated 
 himself on the steps of a large house in the 
 upper part of the city, and commenced eat- 
 ing his evening meal. While thus engaged, 
 a man stopped before him, and, after Jooking 
 at him for some moments, said, as if satis- 
 fied with his observation 
 
 " Eating your supper, I see." 
 
 Ned looked an affirmative, but made no 
 reply. 
 
 "After supper, where do you expect to 
 sleep ?" said the man, leaning as he spoke 
 upon the iron-railing. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Ned. 
 
 " Don't know ! You're from the country ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "What brought you to town?" 
 
 " I've come to get work and take care 
 of myself." 
 
 "You have ! When did you come?" 
 
 "To-day." 
 
 "Where from?"
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 113 
 
 " p " 
 
 " Have you no friends in the city ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Are your father and mother alive ?" 
 
 " No, sir. I've lived with my aunt ever 
 since I was a little boy." 
 
 "And did she let you come into the city 
 to take care of yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Her affection for you must be strong," 
 said the man, half to himself. "Have you 
 any money ?" he added. 
 
 The boy hesitated a moment or two, and 
 then replied 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 ^ Seven shillings and sixpence." 
 
 " Where did you get this money?" 
 
 " I earned it." 
 
 " Since you came to this city?" 
 
 " No, sir : I earned it in P . But, I 
 
 couldn't get any thing more to do there, 
 and so I thought I'd come to New York, 
 where there was plenty of work."-
 
 114 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 Something about Ned interested the 
 man, and as he lived in the house, he said 
 to him, after a hurried reflection as to the 
 propriety of doing so 
 
 "Come in. I'd like to have some more 
 talk with you." 
 
 Ned followed the man, who took him 
 into his kitchen, and told a servant to give 
 him some supper; and also to let him re- 
 main there until he sent for him. 
 
 A further interview with the lad in- 
 terested the man still more. He was a 
 lawyer, named Folwell, who had risen from 
 a poor boy, through the force of his own 
 character, to eminence and fortune. 
 
 " The boy needs a friend, and if he be 
 worthy, he shall find one in me," said Mr. 
 Folwell to himself, after his second con- 
 ference with Ned. With this feeling he 
 gave him a shelter under his roof for the 
 night, and, on the next day, took him to 
 his office in order to more accurately deter- 
 mine what was in him. To his surprise, he 
 found that Ned could write a pretty fair
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 115 
 
 hand, and could make ordinary calculations 
 quite as well as most boys of his age. 
 Moreover he was quick, earnest, and intelli- 
 gent, and eager to enter upon any employ- 
 ment that was assigned him. 
 
 " He's got the right kind of stuff in him," 
 said Mr. Folwell, after testing Ned's cha- 
 racter and abilities in various ways. " Just 
 such a lad as I should like to educate in 
 my own profession." 
 
 Of course, Ned had no objection to any 
 thing his new-found friend had to propose. 
 It was, therefore, settled that he should 
 enter his service and give himself up im- 
 plicitly to his direction. 
 
 A year after Ned came to the city, Mr. 
 Chester called upon Mr. Folwell, and ar- 
 ranged with him that his son Andrew 
 should read law in his office. Up to this 
 time, Ned had found but few chances of 
 adding to his first earnings, which had 
 never been touched beyond the sixpence it 
 cost him for his supper on the evening of 
 his first arrival in New York. Occasionally,
 
 116 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 Mr. Folwell had given him a shilling to 
 spend for himself; but the little coin had 
 in no instance passed through his fingers, 
 but was safely deposited to swell the trea- 
 sure he was hoarding. Andrew's arrival in 
 the city made a new era for Ned. Pocket- 
 money had he in profusion, and, as before, 
 he availed himself of Ned's readiness to 
 perform 'almost any service, fti order to 
 gratify his natural indolence. Dollars 
 found their way now to the boy's accumu- 
 lating fund more rapidly than shillings did 
 before. 
 
 "How much money have you, Ned?" 
 asked Andrew, one day after he had been 
 a year in the city. 
 
 " Six dollars," replied Ned. 
 
 " Lend it to me until week after next, 
 and I'll pay you back seven ?" 
 
 Ned hesitated. 
 
 "Don't be afraid. I'll pay it. You 
 know I get money from home every 
 month." 
 
 "I'm not afraid," replied Ned. "I'll
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 117 
 
 bring you the money when I come from 
 dinner." 
 
 This was done. The six dollars were 
 lent, and seven paid back, as agreed upon, 
 at the time specified. Here was the begin- 
 ning of new operations. Andrew now spent 
 his money more freely, because he knew 
 that when it was gone, he could borrow 
 from Ned until another supply came; and 
 the young usurer was even more eager to 
 lend than he was to borrow. This had 
 been going on for several months, when 
 Mr. Folwell became aware of what was in 
 progress. After a serious conversation with 
 Andrew upon the folly and danger of the 
 course of life he was adopting, he called 
 Ned into his private office, and after refer- 
 ring to the subject, *said to him 
 
 " Are you not aware that what you are 
 doing is wrong ?" 
 
 " No, sir," replied Ned, looking Mr. Fol- 
 well, without a quivering eyelid, in the 
 face. 
 
 " It is, Edward, very wrong ; for you
 
 118 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 are taking advantage of Andrew's weak- 
 ness and prodigal habits, to get his money 
 from him. I understand, that for five dollars 
 lent to him for a week or two, he pays you 
 six dollars. Is this so ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. He offered me that." 
 
 " But it was wrong for you to take it. 
 You should have been willing to oblige 
 him without the exaction of this exorbi- 
 tant interest. Where did you get so much 
 money to lend ?" 
 
 " I had seven shillings and sixpence 
 when I came here, and you have given me 
 a good many shillings since." 
 
 " Haven't you spent any thing?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 ' But I haven't given you enough to 
 make the sum of money I learn you have 
 in possession." 
 
 " No, sir. But, since Andrew has been 
 in New York, he has paid me a good deal 
 for doing things for him." 
 
 " How much has he paid you for lending 
 him money ?"
 
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 119 
 
 " Six dollars," replied Ned, after think- 
 ing for a few moments. 
 
 "Six dollars!" Mr. Folwell shook his 
 head and looked grave. " I don't like this 
 at all. It's the worst thing Tve seen about 
 you, Edward." 
 
 "If I've done wrong, I'm sorry," said 
 Ned, his face becoming serious. " I didn't 
 know there was any harm in it." 
 
 " There is always harm in seeking our 
 own good through injury to another," re- 
 plied Mr. Folwell. " This you have done in 
 taking the money of Andrew for a little ser- 
 vice that you ought to have cheerfully ren- 
 dered him. It put you to no inconvenience 
 whatever in doing the favour he asked of 
 you ; but you would not grant it unless paid 
 a most exorbitant price. Sheer selfishness, 
 and not a spirit of good-will, influenced you. 
 Thus your heart was hardened toward your 
 fellows instead of being filled with kind- 
 ness. This is a wrong beginning, my boy, 
 and will lead you to grow up into a man
 
 ) 
 
 120 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 of oppression. Why are you hoarding up 
 your money?" 
 
 " I'm going to keep it until I become a 
 man." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 Mr. Folwell shook his head. 
 
 "I don't like this, Edward, at all. It 
 isn't good to love money for itself. Money 
 is the medium of usefulness in society, and 
 should be accumulated and used as the 
 means of accomplishing some desired pur- 
 pose. To gather and hoard it as an object 
 of possession is wrong. No one can do it 
 and not become a selfish, bad man. I want 
 you to think of this. To-morrow I will 
 talk to you again." 
 
 Ned's mind was thrown all into confusion 
 by this unexpected reproof from Mr. Fol- 
 well. At first, he could not understand 
 the meaning of the strange language that 
 had been used; but, as he thought of it 
 more and more, a dim perception of the 
 truth began to dawn. On the next day, Mr.
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 121 
 
 Folwell again referred to the subject, and 
 succeeded in making a stronger impression 
 on the mind of the lad. From that time 
 he observed him more closely, and sought 
 in every possible way to give him higher 
 and truer views in regard to the use of 
 money. He induced him to spend a portion 
 of what he had accumulated in articles that 
 he could use in the better furnishing of his 
 mind. For instance, he offered to pay for 
 musical instruction, if Edward would buy 
 himself a flute. It cost the boy a struggle 
 to do this ; but after it was done, and he 
 commenced taking lessons, he by no means 
 regretted the act. Thus, by ever keeping 
 his mind on the boy's particular bias of 
 character, Mr. Folwell was able to bend it 
 into a better form ere it had hardened into 
 permanency. 
 
 As for Andrew Chester, his indolence 
 and tendency to self-indulgence were so 
 great that little promise of future usefulness 
 was apparent. When he was old enough 
 to be admitted to the bar, he had nothing
 
 122 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 like the legal knowledge possessed by Ed- 
 ward Billings. In his first case, he paid 
 the latter for searching out the legal au- 
 thorities required for its successful presen- 
 tation to the court, and gained his cause 
 alone through the aid received from a 
 stripling three years younger than himself. 
 The money received for prosecuting this 
 case constituted Andrew Chester's first 
 earnings. 
 
 "Do you see that, Ned," said he, exhi- 
 biting a fifty-dollar bank-bill in triumph. 
 
 Edward Billings opened his eyes. 
 
 " There's my first fee ! A good beginning, 
 is it not ? I'm off for Saratoga to-morrow, 
 and don't mean to come back while a dollar 
 of it remains." 
 
 " I wouldn't do that," said Edward. 
 
 "Why wouldn't you?" quickly asked 
 Andrew. 
 
 "Of all money, I wouldn't waste my 
 first earnings. Keep them as nest-eggs." 
 
 "You're a miser, Ned. A real money- 
 lover."
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 123 
 
 " I'm not a money-waster. Dollars don't 
 come so easily that I can afford to throw 
 them away. But, if you will spend your 
 first fee, do it in some useful way. Buy 
 your mother or sister a present ; or spend 
 it in law books. Any thing but waste it 
 in self-indulgence." , 
 
 " Don't preach to me, Ned," replied 
 Andrew, laughing. " My mother and sis- 
 ters don't want any of my presents ; and 
 father has promised me a five hundred 
 dollar library. I'm off for Saratoga; that's 
 settled. I mean to have a good time on 
 my first fee." 
 
 And Andrew kept his word. When he 
 came back, every dollar of his first earn- 
 ings were spent, and he applied to Ed- 
 ward Billings for a loan. When the latter 
 was admitted to the bar, Andrew had ob- 
 tained a very fair practice for the time he 
 had been in the profession ; but it cost him 
 three times what he earned to live. His 
 father, of course, made up the deficiency. 
 
 Very different from this was Edward's
 
 124 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 manner of commencing the world. He 
 understood too well the value of money to 
 waste it in mere idle pleasure and personal 
 gratification. The first fee he received was 
 twenty dollars. Instead of spending it, as 
 Andrew had done, he laid it carefully away 
 to help serve as the means of his support; 
 for, from the time of his admission to the 
 bar, he had felt under obligation to meet 
 entirely his own expenses. 'A natural 
 feeling of independence would not permit 
 him any longer to lean upon his kind 
 patron. His careful habits had, during his 
 minority, enabled him to save up about 
 sixty dollars, which now came in as a 
 temporary means of self-subsistence. Mr. 
 Folwell, who had availed himself of his 
 services for so many years, still retained 
 them to a certain extent, and the regular 
 amount paid to Edward for this service 
 helped him considerably. 
 
 A few years showed the result of the 
 different modes of entering the world pur- 
 sued by the two young men. He who
 
 FIRST EARNINGS. 125 
 
 spent foolishly his first earnings, continued 
 to waste what came in subsequently ; and 
 he who was careful of his first earnings 
 continued to be careful of his after receipts. 
 About the time Andrew reached his 
 twenty-seventh year, his father died; and, 
 on the division of his property, twelve 
 thousand dollars came to him as his share 
 of the estate. This was in two houses in 
 
 P and a farm in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Scarcely a week elapsed after this division 
 took place, before Andrew applied to Ed- 
 ward Billings for a loan of one thousand 
 dollars on a mortgage of the farm. The 
 latter had the money in bank, and took the 
 mortgage. This money he had saved from 
 his professional earnings. Andrew might 
 have laid up money also ; but as he spent 
 his first earnings, so he continued to spend. 
 Ten years afterward, and Edward Billings 
 was worth twenty thousand dollars, while 
 Andrew Chester was not worth a penny. 
 Each had gone on as he began, and here 
 was the result. Disheartened by this result,
 
 126 FIRST EARNINGS. 
 
 Chester, who had acquired dissolute habits, 
 fell into intemperance, and gradually sank 
 lower and lower, until he became a social 
 cast-off a wretched cumberer of the ground. 
 And thus he died in the prime of manhood. 
 
 Edward Billings still lives, and is one of 
 the most intelligent and successful members 
 of the bar in the State of New York. He 
 has acquired large wealth; and, he has 
 gained it fairly. The error into which his 
 love of accumulation first led him was pro- 
 perly corrected at the time when a new 
 and healthier form was given to his grow- 
 ing character. 
 
 Few men succeed who do not begin 
 right. Early errors are too frequently re- 
 produced in all the after life. This wasting 
 of first earnings is one of these errors. Let 
 all who are entering the world beware how 
 they fall into it.
 
 THE LOKD SEES US. 
 
 little boys were walking along the 
 road, on their way home from school, 
 and passed by an orchard in which were 
 trees full of ripe fruit. There was no house 
 in sight, and no one but themselves in the 
 road or in the fields. 
 
 " Come, Thomas," said Lewis, the elder 
 of the two brothers, "let us go over the 
 fence and get some nice apples. Nobody 
 will see us ?" 
 
 " I am afraid," replied Thomas. 
 
 "Why are you afraid?" 
 
 " I am sure somebody will see us." 
 
 " How can any one see us ? There is
 
 130 THE LORD SEES US. 
 
 nobody in sight. Come along ! I am not 
 afraid." 
 
 After some more persuasion, Thomas said 
 he would go, and then these two little boys 
 climbed over the fence to take the apples 
 that did npt belong to them. That was 
 very wrong. It was a sin against God. It 
 was breaking one of his holy command- 
 ments. Do you know which commandment 
 it was? Thou shalt not steal. Yes, my 
 son, that is the commandment these little 
 boys were breaking. And they thought no 
 one saw them. But they were mistaken. 
 
 " Who did see them ?" 
 
 Listen, and you shall hear. Thomas fol- 
 lowed his brother Lewis over the fence, 
 and they went to a tree full of red apples, 
 and commenced throwing up stones to 
 knock the fruit down. Two or three beau- 
 tiful apples had fallen, when Thomas, who 
 had picked up one, and had it nearly in 
 his pocket, let it fall, and said to his brother 
 in a low voice, and with a look of alarm : 
 
 " Somebody does see us, Lewis."
 
 THE LORD SEES US. 131 
 
 " Who sees us ?" said Lewis, dropping 
 an apple he had just commenced eating, 
 and looking all around. 
 
 " The Lord sees us" answered Thomas. 
 " You know, mother says the Lord always 
 sees us." 
 
 Lewis had two apples in his pocket, but 
 he took them both out and threw them 
 upon the ground, and taking his brother 
 by the hand, said 
 
 " Yes, the Lord sees us I forgot that." 
 Then the two children hurried out of the 
 orchard as fast as they could go, and went 
 home and told their mother what they had 
 done, and she said to them 
 
 "Yes, my children, the Lord always 
 sees you : never forget that. But you should 
 not do any thing wrong, even if the Lord 
 could not see you. He says, Thou slialt not 
 steal, and because he says so, you should 
 never take any thing that belongs to 
 another. It is evil to do so; and you 
 should shun all evil as sin against God. 
 
 IX. L
 
 132 THE LORD SEES US. 
 
 I am glad you have told me of your fault. 
 Always come to me and tell me when 
 you do wrong, and I will help you to do 
 
 right." 

 
 THE PET SPAKROW. 
 
 E following pleasant story is from the 
 French. The translation is by a 
 friend. 
 
 Madame Helvetius, the amiable wife of 
 the celebrated author of that name, had 
 a remarkable fondness for birds. At her 
 country residence a large and beautiful 
 aviary had been fitted up, in which wasa_ 
 large collection of these little favourites. 
 But this benevolent lady, aware that no* 
 luxuries can compensate for the loss of 
 independence and liberty, allowed her 
 guests to rove at pleasure in the neighbour- 
 hood during the day, and only closed their 
 dwelling-place at night, to preserve them
 
 134 THE PET SPARROW. 
 
 from destructive animals. It is true that, 
 at the appearance of fine weather, the 
 number diminished very much and few 
 returned after the cold winds and storms 
 of March had passed ; preferring an insect 
 picked up at random, the muddy water of 
 a pond, the shelter of the foliage of a tree, 
 to the grains of millet, the limpid water, 
 and the downy nests of the aviary. In the 
 winter, however, when it was more difficult 
 to obtain food, numbers were again attracted 
 to these pleasant quarters. 
 
 Madame Helvetius usually spent the 
 winter season in Paris, whither she went 
 toward the end of January, but she never 
 left her then numerous and cherished guests 
 without regret. The winter of 1788, so 
 remarkable for its intense cold, and the 
 great amount of suffering experienced 
 during the first two months of the year, 
 will long be remembered in France. The 
 swiftest mountain streams were frozen, 
 and some of the oldest forests partially 
 destroyed. Beasts of prey, pressed by hun-
 
 THE PET SPARKOW. 135 
 
 ger, were to be seen prowling around the 
 villages, plundering the sheepfolds and 
 devouring every living thing that they 
 could find. Travellers were frequently 
 found upon the roads frozen to death and 
 seemingly petrified. Thousands of birds 
 were caught in the snares set for them, into 
 which they rushed, enticed by the smallest 
 morsel of food, and regardless of danger. 
 One might almost have been led to suppose 
 that the earth had changed its position, 
 and that France now occupied the place of 
 Nova Zembla or Greenland. 
 
 Madame Helvetius extended her succours 
 to all the needy in the quarter of Paris 
 where she was established. Her kind heart 
 felt for all the suffering beings which sur- 
 rounded her. 
 
 Her favourites, the birds, were also re- 
 membered. The windows of her apartment 
 looked out upon a terrace, upon which she. 
 threw grain that was eagerly sought every 
 morning by a number of sparrows which, 
 at night, took shelter in the stables, and
 
 136 THE PET SPAKROW. 
 
 during the day sought everywhere for 
 food. She delighted to step out, notwith- 
 standing the rigour of the weather, to scat- 
 ter grains to the poor birds, which would 
 flock around, tamed by their necessities, 
 and sometimes almost fly into her apart- 
 ment. 
 
 One day, as she was standing upon the 
 terrace, enjoying the eager haste with which 
 the little creatures caught up the food 
 thrown to them, a sparrow lit upon her 
 shoulder, flew upon her hand, and then 
 nestled in her bosom. Supposing at first 
 that its boldness was caused by the suffer- 
 ing it experienced from the extreme cold, 
 she caressed it and carried it to the fire. 
 But perceiving that it perched familiarly 
 on her hand, and did not appear to feel the 
 least dread, she concluded it must be a pet 
 of some one, which had escaped, and been 
 attracted to the terrace, like the other 
 birds, by the grain scattered there. After 
 having detained the little thing for some 
 time, Madame Helvetius, not wishing to
 
 THE PET SPARROW. 187 
 
 deprive it of its liberty, opened a window, 
 and, with a kiss, let it go, saying 
 
 " Fly quickly, thou little wanderer, to 
 those who doubtless regret thy loss ; but if 
 thou dost not find an asylum, return and 
 take refuge in this bosom, which will 
 always be ready to receive and cherish 
 thee!" 
 
 The bird flew away, and soon disappeared 
 among the trees of the garden. 
 
 The next day, when Madame Helvetius 
 came out as usual upon the terrace, the 
 same sparrow flew familiarly down upon 
 her hand, and seemed to express by its 
 confidence the liveliest gratitude to its 
 kind protectress. In caressing the bird, 
 Madame Helvetius perceived around its 
 neck a piece of blue silk lace, to which 
 was attached the end of the finger of a 
 glove formed into a little bag. Passing it 
 between her fingers, she thought she per- 
 ceived the crepitation of paper ; she opened 
 it with the liveliest curiosity, and found in 
 it a very small piece of paper folded into
 
 138 THE PET SPARROW. 
 
 the narrowest compass, upon which were 
 written several lines bearing every evi- 
 dence of haste and agitation, the ink being 
 scarcely dry. The two first lines had been 
 changed from Racine to read 
 
 " Thou givest food to the young of the bird, 
 And thy goodness extends to all nature." 
 
 Moved as much as surprised, Madame 
 Helvetius hastened to read the rest of the 
 billet, which contained the following: 
 
 " Virtuous persons in your vicinity are 
 suffering from want; will you do less for 
 them than for the numerous family which 
 you feed every morning ?" 
 
 " No !" said she, giving away to her 
 emotion, " it would be impossible to resist 
 a demand so touching !" 
 
 And going to the desk, she took from it 
 a bank-note of six hundred livres, and 
 placing it in vthe little bag, gave the spar- 
 row r many kisses for its commission, ^and 
 let it fly. She watched carefully its flight, 
 in the hope of discovering the house from 
 which it had come, but it was soon lost to
 
 THE PET SPARROW. 189 
 
 her ^ view among the trees of the garden. 
 She was at a loss to imagine how the spar- 
 row had been taught to bear this message 
 to her. 
 
 "By what means," said she to herself, 
 "was it made to direct its flight toward 
 my apartment, at the moment when I was 
 feeding his companions in misfortune; to 
 light upon my shoulder and to distinguish 
 me ; in a word, to choose me to relieve the 
 sufferings of those of whom it is the charm- 
 ing representative ? I am lost in astonish- 
 ment !" 
 
 Many days passed, during which Ma- 
 dame Helvetius thought constantly of this 
 singular occurrence. She mentioned it, 
 however, to no one, as that would have 
 been to reveal what it might be supposed 
 she considered a meritorious action. Some- 
 times, too, as she had much knowledge of 
 the world, she was inclined to believe that 
 she might have been the dupe of some dis- 
 honest persons, for, ever, among the really 
 
 IX. 9
 
 140 THE PET SPARROW. 
 
 needy, are those who present false claima 
 to our charity. 
 
 A few mornings after, as she was brush- 
 ing away the snow, to attract her little 
 favourites, the faithful messenger returned, 
 bearing upon its neck the same little bag, 
 into which this kind-hearted lady had put 
 the bank-note. She prepared herself for a 
 new demand upon her purse, but what was 
 her surprise to find a note, couched in these 
 terms : 
 
 " Your generosity has saved an almost 
 perishing artist with a large family. Rest 
 assured that the six hundred livres will be 
 returned to you, as soon as the spring 
 enables us, by the labour of our hands, 
 to acquire sufficient to pay it back to you." 
 
 Madame Helvetius read many times this 
 anonymous note, and, as she perceived that 
 many words were blotted, as if the tears 
 of the writer had fallen upon the paper, 
 she was no longer able to restrain her's, 
 and felt more than ever pleased that she 
 had yielded to the first promptings of her
 
 THE PET SPARROW. 141 
 
 heart. She retained the little messenger 
 for some time, loading it with caresses; 
 but feeling that the bird must be dear to 
 those who had committed their destiny to 
 the little creature, she set it free, after 
 having placed in the bag the following 
 answer to the note : 
 
 " In sending the note, I had intended it 
 as a gift ; but I cannot now consider it in 
 that light, for the happiness of having been 
 useful renders me your debtor." 
 
 A considerable time elapsed without 
 again bringing the sparrow. Madame 
 Helvetius would sometimes think she re- 
 cognised it among the crowd that daily 
 came to her terrace ; but the moment she 
 attempted to approach them with the in- 
 tention of taking it up, the whole flock 
 would take to flight as if she were a bird 
 of prey. 
 
 At last, as the intensity of the cold di- 
 minished, and the melting snow, giving 
 way under the rays of the sun, which be- 
 came every day more powerful, announced
 
 142 THE PET SPARROW. 
 
 the approach of spring. Madame Helve- 
 tius now vainly threw out grain upon the 
 terrace : it attracted but a small number of 
 her dear guests : already finding sufficient 
 for their necessities, and already occupied 
 in building their nests, they rarely came to 
 this feeding-place. They appeared, indeed, 
 to grow wilder as the fine weather ap- 
 proached. In the beginning of May this 
 lady left Paris for her residence in the 
 country, that she might repair the evils of 
 the past winter. She hastened to restore 
 her aviary, which had suffered some injury 
 by the frost, to its former comfortable con- 
 dition; and each time she looked upon a 
 sparrow in her collection, her mind natu- 
 rally reverted to the charming little mes- 
 senger of the unknown family. Although 
 this species of bird are not remarkable 
 either for the variety of their songs or the 
 beauty of their plumage, Madame Helve- 
 tius now showed a predilection for all spar- 
 rows ; the reason for which was known 
 only to her own generous heart.
 
 THE PET SPARROW. 143 
 
 Toward the middle of summer she was 
 compelled, in consequence of some business 
 matters, to give up her country occupations 
 and go to Paris. A few days after her 
 arrival, as she was inhaling the pure morn- 
 ing air from- her pleasant terrace, she per- 
 ceived the faithful sparrow, bearing upon 
 its neck the same little bag; but it was 
 flying about from spot to spot, seemingly 
 undecided whether to alight, and not ap- 
 pearing to recognise its former friend. She 
 vainly called it, throwing grain and making 
 a thousand caressing signs : the bird passed 
 and repassed, above her head, seeming to 
 have a wish to alight, yet still fearing to 
 do so. Madame Helve tius then thought 
 that it might be some change of dress 
 which caused this estrangement, and, en- 
 tering her apartment, she hastily put on 
 the winter clothing in which she had re- 
 ceived the sparrow many months before, 
 and reappeared upon the terrace. The 
 bird instantaneously alighted familiarly 
 upon her shoulder, expressing pleasure and
 
 144 THE PET SPARROW. 
 
 confidence by all its movements. She has- 
 tened to open the bag, and found in it the 
 same sum she had placed there some 
 months before, with a note, containing 
 these words : 
 
 " We hasten to return to ,you the sum 
 you had the kindness to lend us ; but, for 
 your benevolence, we retain our gratitude, 
 which will remain for ever engraved upon 
 our hearts !" 
 
 She was at first tempted to return the 
 sum, but she reflected that this would be 
 to deprive these estimable persons of the 
 sweet pleasure of liquidating what they 
 must have considered a sacred debt. She 
 then desired to accustom the intelligent 
 little emissary to her summer clothing, and, 
 putting off her velvet dress and furred 
 pelisse, she appeared in a simple white 
 muslin gown. The pet sparrow soon be- 
 came familiar with the new dress; and as 
 its intelligence and the service it had ren- 
 dered often procured its liberty, the little 
 creature would come every morning to the
 
 THE PET SPARROW. 145 
 
 terrace of Madame Helve this, arid, if she did 
 not at once make her appearance, would 
 peck at the window, never leaving without, 
 as it were, paying homage to its bene- 
 factress. 
 
 On a Sunday morning a few days after, 
 Madame Helvetius had been enjoying her- 
 self in the Jardin des Plantes, her favourite 
 promenade, and, becoming a little wearied, 
 had set down with some friends of distinc- 
 tion to rest herself. As she was conversing 
 with them, the messenger sparrow flew 
 from the lap of a young girl seated upon a 
 bank of turf opposite to her, lit upon her 
 shoulder, and, by its actions, seemed to 
 recognise her. 
 
 " Why, this is my pretty emissary," 
 said she, covering the little thing with 
 kisses ; " but how, I wonder, came it in a 
 public garden, in the midst" 
 
 "Excuse me, inadame," said a young 
 girl, about ten or twelve years of age, 
 coming up, "but this pet sparrow is my 
 sister's."
 
 146 THE PET SPARROW. 
 
 "And who is your sister, my little 
 dear ?" 
 
 "That young girl there, dressed in 
 white, whom you see near my father and 
 mother. The sparrow belongs to her, ma- 
 dame, I assure you; and she would not 
 part with it for all the world." 
 
 She pointed out a girl of apparently six- 
 teen or seventeen years of age, with an 
 interesting countenance, who, blushing with 
 joy and surprise, said to her parents 
 
 " It is she ! Yes, it is herself!" 
 
 Madame Helvetius soon found herself 
 surrounded by the now happy family, all ex- 
 pressing the liveliest feelings of gratitude. 
 The eldest daughter was so much agitated 
 that she could not utter a word, but taking 
 the hands of Madame Helvetius in her 
 own, she pressed them to her heart, cover- 
 ing them with tears. The faithful sparrow, 
 flying from one to another, seemed to par- 
 take of the general emotion, and completed 
 the refreshing picture. 
 
 When, at last, the young Lise, which
 
 THE PET SPARROW. 147 
 
 was the name of the girl, found herself 
 able to speak, she informed Madame Hel- 
 vetius that she was the daughter of a 
 carver of wood, named Yalmont; that in 
 consequence of her father's long illness and 
 want of employment, his whole family had 
 been reduced to the extreme of necessity. 
 She said that the reputation of Madame 
 Helvetius for benevolence had inspired her 
 with the idea of trying to procure the 
 succour for which the pride of her father 
 would not have allowed her to make appli- 
 cation; and that, without the knowledge 
 of her parents, she made the attempt of 
 sending her sparrow, the sagacity of which 
 had enabled her to succeed beyond her 
 most sanguine expectations. 
 
 " But I cannot understand," said Madame 
 Helvetius, " the means by which you were 
 enabled to direct the flight of your little 
 messenger to my apartment." 
 
 " Oh, madame ! if you knew how much 
 pain it cost me !" replied the young Lise, 
 caressing the sparrow, which was now
 
 148 THE PET SPARROW. 
 
 nestling in her bosom. " I was compelled 
 to expose him to the cold, and to have the 
 cruelty to deprive him of food for entire 
 days, that he might become attracted by 
 the grains which you threw out to the 
 other birds, and become familiar with you. 
 I could see all from the window of my 
 chamber, which looked down upon your 
 garden. Sometimes the poor little fright- 
 ened thing would, when thrust out, fly 
 about the neighbourhood, and return after 
 a long time, attracted by my voice ; some- 
 times, pursued by the savage sparrows, he 
 would return wounded by their beaks, with 
 torn wings. At last, I saw him one day fly 
 around you and light upon your shoulder ; 
 the next day, after having kept him from 
 food, watching the moment when you came 
 out upon the terrace, to scatter the grain, 
 I ventured to send my first note. You 
 know the rest !" 
 
 Madame Helvetius, notwithstanding the 
 number of persons that surrounded her, was 
 unable to restrain her emotion. She saw
 
 THE PET SPARROW. 149 
 
 in this interesting occurrence, the most 
 beautiful and touching instance of filial 
 piety. She pressed to her heart many 
 times the young girl, thanked her for 
 having chosen herself as the instrument to 
 relieve an estimable family, and begged 
 her still to allow the dear little bird to 
 visit her frequently. 
 
 May we not, on this occasion, say to 
 the reader, that it is better to extend your 
 charity to many who are unworthy, than 
 to neglect, through fear of imposition, one 
 who really needs assistance.
 
 THE POWER OF KIND WORDS. 
 
 BAKER, and his brother 
 
 Thomas and sister Ellen, were play- 
 ing on the green lawn in front of their 
 mother's door, when a lad named Henry 
 Green came along the road, and, seeing the 
 children enjoying themselves, opened the 
 gate and came in. He was rather an ill- 
 natured boy, and generally took more plea- 
 sure in teasing and annoying others than 
 in being happy with them. When William 
 saw him coming in through the gate, he 
 called out to him and said, in a harsh way : 
 " You may just clear out, Henry Green, 
 and go about your business ! We don't 
 want you here."
 
 THE POWER OF KIND WORDS. 151 
 
 But Henry did not in the least regard 
 what William said. He came directly for- 
 ward, and joined in the sport as freely as 
 if he had been invited instead of repulsed. 
 In a little while he began to pull Ellen 
 about rudely, and to push Thomas, so 
 as nearly to throw them down upon the 
 grass. 
 
 ." Go home, Henry Green! Nobody sent 
 for you ! Nobody wants you here !" said 
 William Baker, in quite an angry tone. 
 
 It was of no use, however. William 
 might as well have spoken to the wind. 
 His words were entirely unheeded by 
 Henry, whose conduct became ruder and 
 more offensive. 
 
 Mrs. Baker, who sat at the window, saw 
 and heard all that was passing. As soon 
 as she could, catch the eye of her excited 
 son, she beckoned him to come to her, 
 which he promptly did. 
 
 "Try kind words on him," said she, 
 " you will find them more powerful than 
 harsh words. You spoke very harshly to
 
 152 THE POWER OF KIND WORDS. 
 
 Henry when he came in, and I was sorry 
 to hear it." 
 
 " It won't do any good, mother. He's a 
 rude, bad boy, and I wish he would stay 
 away. Won't you make him go home ?" 
 
 " First go and speak to him in a gentler 
 way than you did just now. Try to subdue 
 him with kindness." 
 
 William felt that he had been wrong in 
 letting his angry feelings express them- 
 selves in angry words. So he left his 
 mother and went down upon the lawn, 
 where Henry was amusing himself by try- 
 ing to trip the children, with a long stick, 
 as they ran about on the green. 
 
 " Henry," said he, cheerfully and plea- 
 santly, " if you were fishing in the river, 
 and I was to come and throw stones in 
 where your line fell, and scare away all 
 the fish, would you like it ?" 
 
 " No, I should not," the lad replied. 
 
 " It wouldn't be kind in me." 
 
 " No, of course it wouldn't." 
 
 " Well, now, Henry," William tried to
 
 THE POWER OF KIND WORDS. 153 
 
 smile and to speak very pleasantly, " we 
 are playing here and trying to enjoy our- 
 selves. Is it right for you to come and 
 interrupt us by tripping our feet, pulling: 
 us about, and pushing us down ? I am sur 
 you will not think so if you reflect a mo- 
 ment. So don't do it any more, Henry." 
 
 " No, I will not," replied Henry promptly. 
 " I am sorry that I disturbed you. I didn't 
 think what I was doing. And now I re- 
 member, father told ine not to stay, and I 
 must run home." 
 
 So Henry Green went quickly away, 
 and the children were left to enjoy them- 
 selves. 
 
 " Didn't I tell you that kind words were 
 more powerful than harsh words, "William," 
 said his mother, after Henry had gone 
 away. " When we speak harshly to our 
 fellows, we arouse their angry feelings, 
 and then the evil spirits have power over 
 them; but, when we speak kindly, we 
 affect them with gentleness, and good 
 spirits then flow into this latter state, and
 
 154 THE POWER OF KIND WORDS. 
 
 excite in them better thoughts and inten- 
 tions. How quickly Henry changed when 
 you changed your manner and the cha- 
 of your language ! Do not forget 
 this, my son. Do not forget that kind 
 words have double the power of harsh 
 ones." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSOX * 00.
 
 
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