as Ser ses baits a, a are by Se Rents ena eescaee me ts nee poh sea sSpee caes =H es y Ban , te Be ee es Pees see Neto Bae ae Uden ep atest eases eerie RENAL cee 2 st ent per eiee : Ss Se ste ares Bear rans Sie ata sae Ga Sie pete pes ae : Soares aaa Fa DOR hear Re ee oe Siaane tena Saree Penis pearance Pe piste sd Eee aoe e se otc wees Seas Sans steoteray caine seer e e Phere ae Shere Rin ees oe 2c cs ees SPs ese iG aoe See aeeieenats Se ‘e siete} Reece cert ae reaps Rahs yk Se eye a Ana P2 5 ¥ 2 i & P, Y & Ses soe OR ten cre aN SaLIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA GIFT OF Miss Mary Barnes FauntleroyAf 4 7 g oe —_ / LF” L— Sain BO ad ° or os d ss / — s 4 / “ J K 5 F ftp —. % a = E m7 aee er THE MYSTERIOUS CARICATURE. Page 31.Et \ | THE YOUNG WOOD-CARVER. Be Page 136. | | | Thomas Welson and Sons, LONDON, ZEDINS URGH, AND NEW YORKEEE © HiLDREN’S MIRROR: A Treasury of Stories, By COUSIN: KATE. ‘ O wad some power the giftie gie us To see ourselves as ithers see us.” BuRNS. Teondon: J] NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER 7ROW. EDINBURGH ; AND NEW YORK. 1887/ f j i 2 - 2 * at ‘ Bene’Pape oe spans eaten @ ontents. THE CHATTER-BOX, ... THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK, THE VIOLET, THE PIN, THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY, THE PIGS, ... NEGLIGENT MARY, FINERY, THE SNALL, 42 76 111 148 266 806 ; $ 4 i aZB ys Y , , bTexist of FUlustrations. THE MYSTERIOUS CARICATURE, THE YOUNG WOOD-CARVER, UNCLE CHARLIE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT, MUSIC AND DANCING, A WILLING HELPER, PLEASED LOOKS BEGET KIND WORDS, SELFISHNESS AT WORK, MAIMED, WOUNDED, AND DISABLED DOLLS, Frontispiece Vignette 69a : ‘ THE CHILDREN’S MIRROR. THE CHATTER-BOX. “ MamMA ! mamma! what do you think Uncle Charles has sent us for our Christmas present ?” cried little Harry Lindsay, as he ran into his mamma’s room one fine Christmas forenoon. He was followed by his two sisters, Caroline and Lucy. Their mamma glanced smilingly ata large portfolio which Lucy carried, and answered,— “Perhaps some of Uncle Charles’ pretty pictures.” “Yes, mamma; but what are the pictures about?” cried both the girls. “Oh! that indeed I cannot say; they might be about so many things.” “But guess, mamma, only guess,” Harry urged.IO Brother and Sisters. “Perhaps pictures of you three children, and of baby, Charles, and Helen.” “No,no, mamma; guess again,” theyall cried. “ Likenesses of Shaggie, Touzle, and Wee- wee—of the turtle-doves—of—” “No, no, quite wrong,” said Caroline, laughing. “J should like to have a likeness of dear old Shaggie, though, and Touzle too,” added Harry. “I shall ask Uncle Charles to draw them.” “You nonsensical boy!” said Caroline. “Why, we have Shaggie already with you on his back, and Touzle jumping up to catch the bridle. And such a pretty picture of Wee- wee, mewing for her kitten, which baby has all huddled up in his pinafore. But, mamma, pray guess again.’’ “No, indeed, I shall not,’ Mrs. Lindsay answered, laughing. “ Why, children, J might guess all day—Uncle Charles can make pictures of anything, of everything. You must tell me if you wish me to know.” “Well, mamma, they are pictures about the poems he made us learn last summer,” said Caroline. “There are nine of them, andbet eta nNPictures and Poems. Vi Uncle Charles says that if we make a good use of these he may perhaps send us more.” ‘“ Mamma,’ asked Lucy, “what does Uncle Charles mean by making a good use of them? what use can one make of pictures except to look at them ?” “ And to get pleasure out of them,” suggested Caroline. “Perhaps Uncle Charles means you should get good as well as pleasure out of them.” “But how, mamma? I don’t see how,” Caroline said. ‘“ Perhaps he expects that the picture may help you to remember the moral of the poem— may help it to make a deeper impression on your mind.” “Do you think they can? I hardly under- stand how,” Lucy said, thoughtfully. “Am I not to see the pictures?” Mrs. Lindsay asked, smiling. “Perhaps if I saw them, I could tell you better how Uncle Charles meant them to do you good. Am I to see them, Lucy ?” “Oh! to be sure, mamma,” opening the portfolio, “See, here is the first: ‘The Chatter-box. Is not it pretty?”12 Learning a Lesson. « But now, mamma, what is the good we are to get from it?” asked both Harry and Caroline. “T think it is as I said) Look at the expression of the lady’s face. How annoyed and vexed she looks! Don’t you think the picture tells you even more plainly than the poem, that a constant chatter-box must often be our ‘aversion?’ Don’t you think that the recollection of that lady’s face might often keep you from annoying people as the Lucy of the picture is annoying her?” “The Lucy—that is you, Miss Lu,” said Harry, laughing. Lucy only laughed. Her conscience was clear. She was no great talker. She and Harry looked at the picture, and tried to imi- tate the lady’s looks and gestures of disgust and annoyance. Caroline did not join them. A love of chattering was one of her faults. She did not much like the subject. “JT think,’ said Mrs. Lindsay, after a moment’s consideration, “that the picture shows us also very plainly the selfishness of the chatter-box.” “Oh! mamma! do you think all chatter- boxes are selfish ?” Caroline asked anxiously. (403)A Word for Caroline. I Oo “Indeed, my dear, I do think so. The confirmed chatter-box thinks only of what is in her own mind, of what she has to tell, of what she wishes to know. She cares very little for what other people may be thinking of, or feeling. Is that not selfish?” Caroline turned away her head with a deep blush, and did not speak. Mrs. Lindsay put her arm kindly round her, “Courage, my little Caroline,” she said; “you are not as yet either a confirmed or a very selfish chatter-box, ‘ While you are still young, you can bridle your tongue With a little good sense and exertion,’ and so save yourself from ever becoming, like poor Lucy, ‘our jest and aversion.’ Shall Uncle Charles’ picture of the poor persecuted lady, and the selfish chatter-box, teach you to do that ?”’ “ But, mamma, where do. you see that the chatter-box is selfish?” asked Harry. “T think I can see,’ said the more thought- ful Lucy. “Look, Harry, how bright and happy the little girl looks, while the lady is so much vexed. She is quite glad to get out (403) 214 A Loquacious Girl. her chatter, and does not care a bit how much pain or trouble her interruption may cause. That is selfishness, horrible selfishness.” “To be sure it is,” Harry said assentingly. “ Mamma, was that what you meant?” «Exactly. When I looked at the little girl’s smiling face, and contrasted it with the frowning brow and forbidding gesture of the lady, I was reminded of a poor silly selfish chatter-box whom I knew when I was a little girl like you, Lucy.” “Oh! mamma! tell us about her,” cried Harry and Lucy. Caroline was still silent. Mrs. Lindsay smiled at the eager listening faces of the other two. But she kept her arm round Caroline, as if to remind her that, chatter-box though she might be, she was still very dear to her mother’s heart. “Eliza was the name of my chattering friend,” she began. “She was a pretty clever little girl. She was the eldest of the family ; and while she was a baby, she was a great pet with father, mother, uncles and aunts. When very little, she spoke much more plainly than children of her age usually do; and it was amusing to hear long words come so distinctlyThe Tongue that could not Rest 15 out of such a little mouth. Then, too, she only came into the drawing-room at times when those there wished to amuse themselves with her, and so she was encouraged and tempted on to talk continually. “ By-and-by, however, other young voices came to take their share in the family noise. Quietness came to be more of a rarity and luxury than baby prattie. And Eliza, now able to roam all about the house at all hours, began to be rather a torment with her constant rattling away, ‘ Like water for ever a-dropping.’ In neither drawing-room, dining-room, bed- room, nor study, could her friends be secure of one hour's rest from the busy, chattering, in- terrupting tongue. “ Now her papa and mamma tried to check the evil they had at first encouraged. But it was too late. Hliza had become too confirmed and too determined a chatter-box. Whoever was in the room, or however they were em- ployed, it was all the same to Eliza—chatter, chatter went her tongue without a moments rest, without a moment’s thought for what16 “Flowing on for Ever!” others might think or wish. Her papa or mamma might be tired or unwell, engaged with company, busy with letters, or interested *n a book-—Eliza never thought, never cared, but poured forth her constant stream of silly babble of what she had seen, what she had heard, what she had done or wished to do, where she had gone or meant to go. If a positive command to be quiet silenced her, it was only for a minute. Again the wearisome tongue began, until one got as tired of telling her to be silent as of hearing her talk; and one could only get a little peace by sending her out of the room, or going away one’s self. “The father and mother talked gravely to her, and tried to show her that she gave every one around her a great deal of trouble and pain, and caused every one who came near her to pass many uncomfortable hours, which she could -easily have spared them by merely holding her tongue, and that she made people really dislike her, and avoid her society as a plague and a weariness. Eliza talked far too fast, and too continually, to be able to think of what was said to her. Her friends spoke earnestly and entreatingly, but their wordsMeddling and Marring. 17 fell only on her ear. Before they had reached her mind, or made any impression there, the full, overflowing torrent of her own talk had carried them clean away, to be never more thought of. “Many and many a mortification had she to bear as she grew older; and people began more and more plainly to show that they thought her a nuisance. Her little compa- nions all disliked her. She was always so busy talking, that she never paid attention to what she was doing ; cee and put us out in our games, with the most and spoiled our toys, provoking carelessness. Besides, we, too, had our little stories to tell, our questions to ask, our thoughts to express ; and we had no pa- tience for a companion who was always speak- ing, never listening. So, whenever we could, we kept out of her way, and chose another play-fellow or walking-companion ; and many an hour was she left alone and moping, while we others were playing in some secret corner, rejoicing that Eliza had not found us out. “Her elders, too, avoided her, and would not invite her to their houses. One charming Christmas week all we young people of the18 An Unpleasant Character. village spent with a dear old lady and gentle- man, in a beautiful large country-house, where every kind of amusement was provided to make us happy; and Eliza was left at home, because the old lady said she could not think of allowing her little friends to be annoyed by such a chatter-box. Another time, one of her aunts went to pay a round of visits among their relations in the West of England and in Wales. She was asked to bring one of her nieces with her. But she chose Annie, Eliza's younger sister, and told Eliza plainly that she really could not take one who she knew would be a constant torment to every one to whose house she went. And whenever their grand- papa was ill, he used to ask that Elza might not be the one who was sent to ask for him, because her long tongue wore him out, and gave him a headache. “ When Eliza was about twelve years old, her mamma had a very dangerous illness. Her children were too young to enter fully into the anxiety and alarm felt by their elders. But they missed their mother’s pleasant company and kind care, and many were the lamen- tations heard in nursery and _ school-roomPeaceful Annte! 19 over their long banishment from her room. At this time came out in strong contrast the characters of the two girls of the family—Eliza and Annie. Eliza was, I am sure, really sorry for her mamma’s illness; but she talked so incessantly and tiresomely about her grief, and was besides so noisy, heedless, and troublesome, that every one was inclined to think that her sorrow was nothing but talk. Annie, on the other hand, said very little, but went about the house so gentle, thoughtful, and good,— was so watchful to render any little help that came in her way, and so careful to avoid giv- ing trouble, that no one could help seeing that she was continually thinking of her mother’s state, continually striving to do her service. “The children’s aunt, Miss Grey, came to nurse their mamma, and I remember hearing her tell my mother, that it was difficult to fancy how much poor chattering Eliza plagued, or how much the quiet Annie comforted, every member of the household, during those long weeks of anxiety and sorrow. ven in her worst days Mrs. Grey atways insisted that her husband and sister should leave her at tea- time, in order that the children might not miss20 A Mintstering Spirit. their accustomed pleasure of being with their | father at that meal. At those times Eliza | ) | was, Miss Grey said, a teasing, chattering par- ! rot; Annie, a gentle ministering spirit. How- | ever sad and anxious Mr. Grey might be, or however worn out with watching, Eliza could not be quiet. On and on poured her torrent of foolish, tiresome talk; tiresome useless questions, and still more tiresome and useless entreaties to be allowed to see her mother, until many and many a night she drove her 4 papa from the room, unable any longer to bear the continual wearing-out torment of her long tongue. But Annie went about the room quietly and softly, never intruding herself on any one’s attention, but ever ready to give any little comfort or pleasure that she could ; now bringing her papa a footstool, or her aunt a cushion, that they might rest more comfort- ably in their easy-chairs; always ready to take her father’s empty cup at the right time, to | pick up the handkerchief or newspaper he had aa dropped, to take the little ones out of his way when they were teasing him, or to ring the bell when her aunt wished the tea-tray re- ia moved,Lhe Invalid Mother. 2] ‘When Mrs. Grey got a little better, and wished to see her children, Annie was allowed into her room several days before Eliza. Mr. Grey said he was very sorry for Eliza, but that he really could not help it. He could not trust her to keep quiet for even five minutes, and he did not think it fair to deprive Annie of the pleasure of seeing her mamma because Eliza could not hold her tongue. “Eliza wept and begged, and wore every one out with her incessant complaints and en- treaties ; and at last, though very unwillingly, Mr. Grey allowed her to go in for a few mi- nutes, upon condition that she promised to go away the very instant she was told. Unfor- tunately, immediately after Eliza went in, Miss Grey was called out of the room, She wished to take Eliza with her, for she was afraid to trust her with her mother alone. But Eliza was so unwilling to go that Mrs. Grey inter- ceded for her, and her aunt left her with many strict injunctions to be very quiet, and not to speak except in answer to her mamma's ques- tions. Eliza promised, and meant to keep her word. But,alas! the bad habit of chattering was too strong for her. Soon the stream of22 A Mischievous Tattler. words began to overflow, and went on faster and faster, until Eliza had forgotten every- thing but her own talk. Mrs. Grey was too weak to make her voice be heard above Eliza's loud tongue, and after once or twice trying a gentle entreaty that she would speak more slowly and more softly, she was obliged to give it up, and lying still and silent, bear the an- noyance as best she could. Like all great talkers, Eliza never considered whether what she had to say might be pleasant or unpleasant to her hearers, and often said things which had much better have been left unsaid. Sa it was now. She teased and fretted her mamma with long stories about little family troubles which Mrs. Grey could do nothing to help, but which it grieved her to hear. She told how this child had been naughty, and the other had hurt himself,—how this servant had been careless, and the other idle, until poor Mrs. Grey was fairly worried into a fever, thinking that everything was going wrong in the house while she was confined to bed and unable to put anything right. And when Miss Grey returned, she found her patient very seriously worse, heated, feverish,Worse and Worse. 28 cast down in spirits, and with a violent head- ache. “ After this Mr. Grey insisted on sending Eliza away from home. She could not be al- lowed again to see her mamma ; and she was so troublesome with her constant entreaties and complaints, and it vexed Mrs. Grey so much to know that she was kept away from the room, that it became quite necessary to get rid of her, and she was sent to spend a few weeks with an aunt who lived a long way off. “ We, Eliza’s playmates, heard all this at the time, and were very sorry for her. Surely, we said, she will now be cured of chatter- ing. Surely she must now see the evil and annoyance she gives to every one, and she will now teach herself to hold her tongue. “But it was not so. Poor Eliza came back to her home a worse chatter-box than ever. Her aunt had a silly, idle servant, who liked gossipping better than work, and who was ready to listen to all Eliza’s long stories, and to hear all the gossip she could about every- body and everything. Like most silly people, this woman was a great wonderer and ex-24 From Tattle to Slander. a claimer. Poor Eliza was not accustomed to | be listened to with much patience at home, | | and her new friend’s eager attention, and | loudly expressed surprise and interest, were | very pleasant to her. Soon she began to wish to excite the same interest and wonder in others as well asin Jean ; and at first, hardly knowing that she did so, she got gradually into the habit of making her stories a little more wonderful, a little more interesting than | the truth. That is a habit which, once begun, MT it is difficult to stop; and going on quickly : from one stage to another, Eliza soon be- came one of the worst exaggerators I ever | knew. . “Now was her talking habit worse than ever. Hitherto she had been only tiresome, now she had become mischievous. The most trifling remark made by one neighbour upon another, grew in her hands,—or rather upon her tongue,—ainto the most bitter reproach or cutting contempt; and in more than one case, life-long enmities sprung up between those who had been the dearest friends. I have not time to tell you, even if I could recollect, all the mischief the poor heedless chatter-boxA Village Story. 25 wrought before she left our village ; how one servant lost a good place through Eliza’s ex- ageerated repetition of a few words, never meant for her ear; how our curate’s niece was disappointed in obtaining an excellent appoint- ment, because of a false accusation spread abroad against her character, which was traced to Eliza, and the original foundation of which she could not even recollect; and so on through twenty or thirty cases of greater or less im- portance. But the last piece of mischief | recollect well, for it concerned one whom we all loved. “In our village lived a Mrs. Harland, a widow with a large family and a small income. She was an excellent woman, everybody's friend, and one of the best of mothers. She was very anxious to give her children a good education, and laboured far beyond her strength for the means to do so. They were good chil- dren, devoted to their mother, and careful to use to the utmost every advantage she could get for them. The eldest son, William, was a particularly fine fellow,—very warm-hearted, and so anxious to fit himself for any situation in which he could help his mother. He wasoer =a oan cksnce tetany eee nee SST ESCO TROL Le TTT tt 26 Young William Harland. a hard-working. successful student, and in a few years had learned everything that the vil- lage schoolmaster could teach him, without having any prospect of getting a better in- structor. Just at this time he attracted the notice of a Mr. Lind, a rich gentleman in the cencuntesaalimannsnaenee neighbourhood. Mr. Lind was a very benevo- Hy lent, although a very eccentric man, and when aa he heard how well William Harland had al- | ways behaved, and how anxious he was to improve himself, he offered to give him a pre- sentation to a school, where the sons of indi- gent gentlemen received a first-rate education at small expense. ‘The offer was thankfully ( accepted. It was the very thing Mrs. Har- . | land and William would have most desired, | and William studied harder than ever to pre- | pare himself to pass the introductory exami- | nation. “July came, and everything was going on well. The presentation had been positively i promised, though not as yet given into their He hand. The head-master of the school, who | had been visiting Mr. Lind, had examined aa William, and pronounced him ready to take HH a high place in the class to which he should at T; zeny eelAn Unpleasant Neighbour. 27 belong. The hearts of mother and son were full of joy and hope, when the mischievous chatter-box stepped in to spoil it all) Thus it was,— “JT have said that Mr. Lind was a peculiar man. Generous and kind-hearted he was, but hot-tempered, and unable to bear the least in- terference with any of his numerous whims, —the least encroachment upon what he con- sidered his rights. This last point was a kind of mania with him. He had a large property, and to guard it from trespass, even to its most remote nook and corner, was the business and torment of his life. Unfortunately at the side near the manor-house, Mr. Lind’s estate touched upon a small farm belonging to a surly old farmer, between whom and Mr. Lind there was a continual enmity.