// c^/Zt, / // $ kM; Lt^ctsctJ / * ^^^f^i^^^ TIMELY RKI.IKF. Page :r> (. THE POOR WOODCUTTER, AND OTHER STORIES. BY T. S. ARTHUR. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGTNAL DESTO-XS BY CROOME PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1873. I Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., In the Office of the,ibrarian of Congress at Washington. L i PPI SCOTT S PRESS, PHILADELPHIA. CONTENTS. PACl THE POOR WOODCUTTER 9 AN EVENING AT HOME 41 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING IN STEVE MILLER S BAR-ROOM 57 I LL SEE ABOUT IT 70 A GOOD INVESTMENT 92 BEAUTY 118 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, AND THE MAN 131 THE MERCHANT S DREAM..., .. 143 M118134 INTRODUCTION. WHILE several volumes in this series of books for the young are addressed to children as child ren, others, like this one, are addressed to them as our future men and women, toward which estate they are rapidly advancing, and in which they will need for their guidance all things good and true that can be stored up in their memories. Most of the actors are men and women, and the trials and temptations to which they are subjected, such as are experienced in maturer years. The object is to fix in the young mind, by familiar illustra tions, true principles and just views of life and its varied responsibilities. THE POOR WOODCUTTEK. A S Mr. Edgar was leaving the break fast room, one cold morning in Febru ary, his wife called after him, and said "Our wood is gone; we must have more to-day." " Not all gone !" returned Mr. Edgar, in a tone of surprise. "Yes. Sally says there are only three or four sticks in the cellar." "I thought we had enough to last all winter," said Mr. Edgar. "The cold has been unusually severe, you must remember," was replied. " I know. But it is now only the begin ning of February. A cord of good hickory 10 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. wood ought to have lasted all winter. Per- kins says he doesn t burn but one cord in his air-tight stove from November to April." " I don t know how it is," said Mrs. Ed gar, a little fretfully ; " I m sure the nursery is never too warm." " It s wasted by the servants in kindling fires in the range and heater, I suppose," remarked Mr. Edgar, as he closed the door after him, and went away. Mr. Edgar happened to feel just at this time, particularly poor. His income was not large, yet ample, if dispensed with pro per care, for the comfortable support of his iimiily. A rather freer use of money than was prudent, all things considered, had drained his purse so low as to bring on, as just said, a feeling of poverty; and the thought of having to pay out four or five dollars for wood, when he had believed that there was fuel enough in the cellar to last until spring opened, was, in consequence, most unpleasant. It seemed little better than throwing so mucn money away. No THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 11 such feeling was experienced a week before, when he paid three dollars for concert tickets, nor when, a few days previously, he expended ten dollars in porcelain orna ments for the pier-table and mantel. But it was in liberality of this kind that the poor feeling had its origin. Mr. Ed gar found that money had been going too freely, and that the purse-strings must be held with a tighter hand. Too suddenly upon this resolution came the announce ment that more w r ood was needed. " 111 get only a quarter of a cord," said Mr. Edgar, as he walked along toward his office; "that, surely, ought to carry us through the cold weather." But on reflection, seeing that it was only the first week in February, and that fire would have to be kept up in the stove for nearly three months, Mr. Edgar rather doubted the ability of a quarter of a cord of wood to afford the amount of warmth required. This conclusion of his mind was evidenced by a sigh. Instead of going di- 12 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. rect to the wharf and making the purchase, Mr. Edgar went to his office, where he gave up his thoughts to business until about half-past two o clock. He then stepped down to the wharf, to purchase the wood previously to going home to dinner. He had settled the question as to the quantity that must be bought. Nothing less than half a cord would be sufficient. The day was very cold; colder than he had supposed; for in his comfortable office but few evidences of the degree of tempera ture without was apparent. As he drew near the wood-wharves on the Delaware, the sharp wind came rushing by, causing him to shiver beneath his double-wadded coat. "Any wood, sir?" inquired a carter, tipping his hat to Mr. Edgar, as that gen tleman reached the wharves. " Yes," was replied indifferently. - May I haul it, sir?" "I don t care." THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 13 "Do you wish it sawed?" eagerly asked another. " Oh yes." So that much was settled. Into the little six-by-eight office of the corder, Mr. Edgar thrust himself. It was filled with men, poorly clad, and bearing about them many signs of extreme poverty. Most of them were there waiting for some job to turn up by which they could earn a trifle. The extreme cold had driven them into the office. Mr. Edgar looked at these poor men, but he did not feel any pity for them. Not that he was indifferent to human want or suffering; but his mind was intent on knowing the price of wood, and he was somewhat worried at being compelled to expend money when he felt so very poor. "What is hickory?" inquired Mr. Ed gar, as he crowded up to the corder s desk. " Six dollars," was the answer. "Do you want it sawed, sir?" inquired a man in a quick voice. "I have a sawyer," replied Mr Edgar. 14 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. " Shall I haul it for you ?" asked another. " Too late, Jack," answered a man with a whip under his arm, smiling as he spoke ; " I m ahead of you in that job." " What is oak ?" inquired Mr. Edgar, who thought the hickory too high in price. " Five and a quarter." " The difference is too small. I must have the hickory," was replied. " How much do you want ?" asked the wood-merchant. "Only half a cord." " Do you wish it split ?" inquired a man who looked as if he was acquainted with few of the comforts of life, and was not over-supplied with things necessary. " No," replied the buyer, an expression of impatience escaping him. " Walk out and look at the wood," said the corder ; " you ll find none better on the wharf." " The price is high." " Not for this season. Last year, hickory brought seven dollars." THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 15 Mr. Edgar felt that six dollars was very high. Five and a half he had fixed as a maximum rate in his mind. " Well, I suppose I must take it," fell from his lips in company with a sigh. And he moved down toward the great piles of wood on the wharf, to look at the article he was purchasing. The carter and saw yer were by his side. After selecting the wood, he inquired of the former as to the price of hauling. " Three levies," replied the carter. " Too much. I have never paid over half-a-dollar a cord." " It s the regular price for half a cord of hickory," returned the carter. " What are you going to charge me for sawing ?" asked Mr. Edgar, turning towards a poor Irishman, who stood by with his saw on his arm. " How many cuts will there be ?" " Two. I want it sawed into three pieces." " That will be just a cord ?" "Yes." m. B 16 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. " Seventy-five cents." "What!" " Three quarters is the price of sawing (hickory." " I m sure I never paid over half-a-dollar, or sixty-two cents, at most." " You may have got pine or oak sawed for that, but not hickory," said the sawyer. " Is three quarters the regular price ?" inquired Mr. Edgar of the carter. " Yes, sir," answered the man of the whip, " they always get that. And I m sure, sir, that if you were to run a saw through a cord of hard, seasoned hickory, you wouldn t think yourself too well paid even at seventy-five cents." This was a form of argument that car ried with it a convincing force. Mr. Ed gar disputed the charge no further. While he yet stood musing over the great price his half-cord w r as going to cost him, the man who had asked if he did not wish it ,<plit, and who had followed him along the THE POOR WOODCUTTER. IT wharf, said, as he touched his hat re spectfully " I d like to split it for you, sir." Mr. Edgar remembered, by this time, that he had no one at home who could split the wood after it was sawed. So he in- quired as to the cost, remarking, at the same time, that, as it was for an air-tight stove, not more than half of it would need to be cleft, and that only into two pieces. "I ll do it for half-a-dollar," said the man. " Half-a-dollar !" returned Mr. Edgar, in surprise; "why you ask more than the cost of hauling. Oh no ! I shall give no such price as that I ll split the wood my self, first. If you choose to do it for a quarter, you may. Not one half of it will have to be touched with an axe." The man shook his head, and said that he couldn t walk over a mile and split half a cord of wood for twenty-five cents, even if he was very poor. 18 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. " You re doing nothing," remarked Mi- Edgar. " Though I may get a job before night worth a dollar, instead of a quarter." Mr. Edgar felt, as he looked at the man, whose clothes were poor, and above whose thin face masses of gray hair were visible, that it was hardly generous to beat him down so low for a job of work that it would take him at least a couple of hours, if not more, to perform, so he said " The wood is merely to be thrown into Al ^e vault beneath the pavement. If you will pile it after it is in, I ll give you half- a-dollar." " Very well," replied the man, I will do it." Mr. Edgar next obtained his bill from the corder, and paying it, started home to dinner. It was nearly four o clock when the wood arrived. Half an hour afterward, Mr. Edgar sat down in his parlour with one ol his children on Lis lap, and glanced out of THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 19 the window. The wood-sawyer, a hearty- looking Irishman, was working away with an energy that brought the perspiration to his face, although the thermometer was within five degrees of zero ; but the other man, who was splitting the wood and throwing it into the cellar, was slower in his movements, and appeared to be suffer ing from the severity of the weather. As Mr. Edgar sat at the window of his warm and comfortable parlour, and looked out at this poor man, who swung his axe slowly, he noticed his countenance more particu larly than he had done before. It was marked with many furrows, worn into it by toil or suffering, and had something subdued and sad, as if affliction and disap pointment had been his attendants at some part of his journey through life. As Mr. Edgar looked at him, marking the slow progress he made in his hard work, and then thought of the many comforts he en joyed, a feeling of pity came into his heart. "Poor man! You have to work hard m. 2 B 2 20 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. hr so small a pittance," he said to himself, as he sighed and moved from the window. He made an effort, in doing this, to turn his thoughts from the man ; hut this was not so easily accomplished. In thinking of him, he could not help contrasting his own labour and its reward, with the labour and reward of the woodcutter. "It will take him at least two hours to get through with this work," said he men tally; " and what will the hard labour yield? Fifty cents! And, in all probability, he has a wife and children at home. Ah me ! the condition of the poor is hard enough." With these thoughts came an inclination to pay the man more for his work than he had agreed to give him. This, however, was met, instantly, by an opposing argu ment that arose in his mind almost spon taneously. " A half-dollar for two hours work," said he, " is very good for a labouring-man. Why, that would be two dollars-and-a-half for a day s work of ten hours." THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 21 To meet this came the thought that split ting and piling wood was not steady work ; and that, in all probability, the half-cord upon which the man was now engaged, was his only job for the day. This view of the case was not so pleasant. A recollection of some business at his office which required attention on that af ternoon, caused these thoughts to retire. " When the man is done piling away the wood in the cellar, pay him half-a-dollar," said Mr. Edgar to his wife, as he was leav ing the house to proceed to his office. It was after six o clock when Mr. Edgar returned home. The wind rushed and moaned along the streets, and the cold, which had increased by several degrees since midday, penetrated his warm gar ments, and caused him to shiver as the chilly air seemed to pass through them as if they were but gossamer. On arriving at home, Mr. Edgar was rather surprised to find the man he had employed still cutting 22 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. wood in front of his house, altho Jgh it was getting quite dark. " A n t you done yet ?" said he, as he stood at his door. "Very nearly," replied the man. "I have only a few sticks more to split, and it won t take me a great while to pile it up in the cellar." Mr. Edgar went in and joined his family, who were gathered in the parlours await ing his return. His children were all well clad, healthy, and happy, and both he and his family were in the enjoyment of every comfort. As he sat down among them, he could not help thinking of the man at work before his door, nor was he able to repress a faint sigh, as he thought of what would be the condition of his beloved ones were he able to earn only the pittance he had grudged to the poor labourer. But these thoughts gradually retired, and the man was not again remembered until they were all assembled in the dining-room to partake of the evening meal. Then, the THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 28 room being in the basement, Mr. Edgar could hear him piling the wood below. It was full three hours since the work was commenced, and yet it was not completed. He was in a warm, bright room, clad in his dressing-gown, and with his family around him, while the poor woodcutter was in the cold cellar, alone, toiling by the light of a dim lamp, with his thoughts turning, per haps, upon his little ones who awaited his coming that they might divide the loaf he would bring them. As he thought thus, Mr. Edgar felt how small was the price that awaited the com pletion of the poor man s task. " I will pay him more," said he, in his own mind. But the moment this was con cluded, he remembered that, to do so, would increase the price of his hiilf-cord of wood. The poor feeling came back, and he said " I can t afford this. If I were to over pay every one after this fashion, I would find myself badly off by the end of the year. The carter and wood-sawyer are just as 24 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. much entitled to a higher rate of payment as this man. They have the fixing of their own price, and if they are satisfied, I am sure I ought to be." But, for all this, humanity kept urging the claims of the woodcutter in the cellar. Sometimes Mr. Edgar would determine to act generously, and hand him seventy-five cents on the completion of his work. But that would make his half-cord of wood cost nearly five dollars. " If I were to increase all my expenses at this rate," he argued with himself, " I would be in debt several hundred dollars at the end of the year." And then he would fall back to his ori ginal state, and content himself with the reflection that fifty cents was enough for the job. U A smart man could have done it in half the time it has taken him." This thought laid the matter to rest ; but the rest was only temporary. Thought is the form of the affection; and sympathy THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 25 for the poor woodcutter clothed itself, spontaneously, in generous thoughts. At length the work was done. Mr. Ed gar heard the man s slow, heavy tread, as he ascended the cellar-stairs. Now came the struggle between humanity and the poor feeling from which he had suffered all day. More than a dozen times, before the servant came in and said that the wood cutter had finished his work, did he alter his mind. Now he had seventy-five cents in his fingers, and now fifty. " Half-a-dollar is enough it is all he asked," he would say, as he commenced drawing his hand from his pocket with only the single coin in his fingers. " But he is poor, and has worked very hard. A quar ter of a dollar is a little matter to you, but much to him," would cause the hand to dive down again into the pocket, and take up an additional twenty-five cent piece. But from the other side would come a word, and then only the half-dollar re mained. 20 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. " The man is done," said a domestic, opening the door of the dining-room, while this debate was still going on. The time for the decision had arrived; yet the question was not settled. Regard for another s good had not been able to gain the victory over selfishness. There was still an active struggle. But the ne cessity for an instant determination caused a slight confusion in the mind of Mr. Ed gar, and in this state the half-dollar was handed to the domestic, who took the mo ney and retired. He heard her close the door after her heard her speak to the man in the entry, and heard the man walk away ; while a painful conviction that he had not done right in the case before him impressed itself upon his mind. Now that it was too late to recall the act, he deeply regretted what he had done, or rather what he had neglected to do, and felt that in saving the fourth of a dollar, lie had gained only a disquieted mind. " To think," lie murmured to himself, THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 27 t; that I could have let the saving of such a paltry sum restrain me from the perform ance of an act of humanity. I spend dol lars in the gratification of my senses, and part freely with the money in doing so; but when the question of compensation to a poor labouring-man comes up, I chaffer for the value of a few pennies, and beat down to a minimum price, instead of taking a pleasure in paying liberally. Ah me ! what strange inconsistency !" Leaving Mr. Edgar to his not very plea sant reflections, we will follow the wood cutter. His name was Harlan. He had been better off than now owning at one time a small farm near the city, from which he derived a comfortable support for his family. In an evil hour he was induced to sell this farm and remove to Philadelphia, for the purpose of keeping a store. The result was as might have been expected. Knowing nothing of business, he was not able to conduct it successfully. By the end of three years, he found himself unable III. C 28 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. to go on any longer. Losses from trust- ing out his goods, and from unwise pur chases, added to the greatly increased ex pense of his family from residing in a city, consumed all that he had, and he was forced to close his store, sell off his stock, and set tle up the business. If, after this, he had been even with the world, it would not have been so bad. But debt was added to the burden of his troubles. The question, " What next to do ?" was now more easily asked than answered. Mr. Harlan had no trade at w T hich he could work, and was comparatively a stranger in the city. His chances for getting employ ment were, therefore, small ; and as winter was closing in, he might well begin to feel deeply troubled, especially as his family consisted of his wife and three children. In order to meet some of the most urgent of his creditors, who w r ere not satisfied when they saw the man broken up in business, and every barrel, box, and package of his goods sold off, and the proceeds distributed, THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 29 but still clamoured for their pay and threat ened all manner of consequences if the mo ney did not come, he sold the best of his furniture thus depriving his family of many comforts, and reducing himself to a still lower position. "What shall I do?" Ah ! how often and anxiously was that question asked, and how silent was all around after its utterance. Bread must be had for his little ones, and no man was more willing to work for it than he ; but who would give him work ? By a neighbour who had dealt in his store, and with whom he conferred on the subject, he was advised to try and get a place as labourer in one of the stores on the wharves. Acting on this suggestion, he visited the store of every merchant from South to Vine streets, and asked for work ; but without success. The fall business was over, and many were dis pensing with regular aid instead of employ ing more. " 1 must do something," said the unhap- 30 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. py man, in this crisis of his affairs. " 1 will saw wood do any thing for my chil dren. How does Gardiner manage to get bread ?" he asked of the neighbour before mentioned. He spoke of a poor man living not far off. " By picking up odd jobs along the wharves," replied the man. " He splits and piles up wood, carries bundles, and does little turns of one kind and another for people who may happen to need his services." On this hint Harlan acted. He went on the next day to the wharf, with an axe under his arm, and came home at night as poor as he had gone out in the morning. Several opportunities had offered for ob taining work, but more eager seekers for employment thrust him aside and secured even the jobs for which he had half bar gained. On the day following, he was more successful, and earned a dollar. From that time he went to the wharves regularly in search of work. Sometimes THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 31 he did not earn half-a-dollar during the whole day ; at other times he did better. But the avarage of his gains was not over four dollars a week. This sum he found altogether insufficient for the wants of his family. Many privations were the conse quence. Sickness came at last to add to the distress of the unhappy man. For two weeks he was confined to the house most of the time to his bed and had it not been for the kindness and charity of some neigh bours, his family would have suffered for food. As soon as he could get out again, and before he had so far recovered his strength as to be really able to go to work, he was on the wharf, seeking employment. He earned but a trifle on the first and second days, and on the third day his only job was that obtained from Mr. Edgar. The split ting and piling of half a cord of seasoned hickory wood was work beyond his strength. It took him full three hours to perform it, and when he received his wages and turn- 01 32 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. ed his steps homeward, his head was ach ing violently ; he felt feverish, and almost staggered as he walked. Mr. Edgar, as has been seen, was far from feeling happy. He could not get the thought of the poor labouring-man out of his mind, try as he would, nor help feeling that, even though he had paid him the price agreed upon for his work, he had not dealt by him fairly. So occupied was his mind with this idea, that he was not able to sleep for nearly two hours after retiring for the night. With the morning came back the same thoughts. He felt troubled and ashamed. On going to his office, he found himself still haunted by the man s image. Finally he determined to go to the wharves, search him out, and pay him half-a-dollar more, in hopes thus to ease his conscience, or lay the troubled spirit that was haunting him. Acting up to this resolution, Mr. Edgar went down to the Delaware, and walked along the wood- wharves for ten or fifteen minutes, in hopes THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 33 of seeing the man. But his search was not successful. As he was about going away, he met the sawyer who had been at his house on the day before, and remembered him. a Have you seen any thing of the man who split my wood for me yesterday ?" he asked of the sawyer. " He hasn t been on the wharf to-day," was replied. " Where does he live ?" " In Federal street, near Seventh." " Do you know his name ?" " Yes, sir. His name is Harlan." "Is he very poor ?" "Yes, sir; and he s been sick. He wasn t able to undertake such a job as he had yesterday, and I m afraid it has put him back." "Has he a family?" " Oh yes. He has a wife and children." Mr. Edgar stood musing for some mo ments, Then he asked particularly as to 34 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. the man s residence, and on being told, went away. In a small room, in the third story of a house in the lower part of the city, sat a man in a deeply desponding attitude. Three children were near him, the oldest not over seven years of age ; and a woman stood by the fire of a few coals that scarcely took the chill from the air of the small apartment, washing. The woman worked on in si lence, and the man sat with his eyes gloomily cast upon the floor. " Indeed, Jane," said the man, " I must go out and earn something to-day. All that I received yesterday is gone ; and when our dinner is eaten, there will not be a mouthful of food left," The man, as he walked across the room, staggered, and had to lean against the wall to support himself. He was very j: ale, and his eyes were drooping and dim. The wife left her washing instantly, and going to her husband s side, took hold of his arm and drew him towards the bed THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 35 that was in the room, saying, as she did so "You must lie down, Henry. Indeed you must ; for you are sick. Don t think of going out. You are not able to work, and the attempt will do you harm. I am sure you could not walk a square." While she yet spoke, she had drawn him to the bed, upon which he sank down, murmuring " Heaven help us !" Just then came a knock at the door. On being opened, a man stepped in and said " Does Mr. Harlan live here ?" At this inquiry, the sick man started up, and recognised in the visiter the person for whom he had done the job of work on the day previous, that had proved too much for his strength. Hope instantly came into his despairing heart, and he cried " sir save my children !" All nighf, the man had lain in a raging m. s 36 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. fever, and his pulses yet beat quickly and irregularly. He had little more strength than a child. The excitement caused by this sudden and unexpected appearance, was too much for him, and he fell back, on making this almost wildly uttered appeal, so exhausted that he panted like a fright ened child who had shrunk trembling upon its mother s bosom. Mr. Edgar, for he was the visiter, felt deeply moved by what he saw and heard. Sitting down by the bedside, and speaking a word of encouragement to the poor man in order to quiet his mind, he proceeded to make inquiries of the wife as to their cir cumstances and the causes which had led to their present destitution. The narra tive affected him much. " No, no," said he, after the wife had finished her relation, which ended with a reference to her husband s wish to go out and look for work on that day, " he must remain in bed, and I will send him a phy sician. Here is more than he could earn ;" THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 37 and he handed the woman a couple of dol lars. "Get necessary food for yourself and children. To-morrow I will either see you myself, or send to know if Mr. Harlan is better. In the mean time, don t let your minds be troubled. Better em ployment can be had for you, I am very sure." " If we were only back in the country again !" sighed the woman. "Oh yes," said Mr. Harlan; "if we were only on some little place in the coun try ! It was a sad day for us when w r e turned our thoughts towards the city." " The way may open for you to get back," returned Mr. Edgar; "at least, hope for the best. You have evidently reached the lowest point in the descending circle of for tune, and it is but fair to think that the movement will now be upward." When Mr. Edgar retired, it was with a deeper feeling of sympathy for the poor than he had ever known; and his cheek burned as he called to mind the many in- 38 THE POOR WOODCUTTER. stances in which he had paid them their small wages with a grudging spirit, and meanly beaten them down in their prices for work, when these prices were already so low as to be scarcely sufficient for the commonest necessaries of life. He thought of the many times he had chaffered for a sixpence or a shilling with a porter or poor labourer, and after gaining a trifling ad vantage at the expense of justice, thrown double the amount away in some foolish expenditure. All this was humiliating, but salutary. It was a lesson in life not soon to be forgotten. In Mr. Harlan s case he took an active interest. He saw that his family were properly cared for until he was able to go to work again, and then ob tained for him the place of overseer on the farm of an acquaintance who wanted a com petent farmer. When spring opened, Har- lan went back to the country with a hope ful spirit, and Mr. Edgar went on his way through life more thoughtful than he had been, and far more considerate of the poor. AN EVENING AT HOME. Pa-e 47. AN EVENING AT HOME. "N OT going to the ball?" said Mrs. Lind ley, with a look and tone of surprise. " What has come over the girl ?" " I don t know, but she says she is not going." "Doesn t her dress fit?" " Yes, beautifully." " What is the matter, then?" " Indeed, ma, I cannot tell. You had better go up and see her. It is the strangest notion in the world. Why, you couldn t hire me to stay at home." Mrs. Lindley went up-stairs, and, enter ing her daughter s room, found her sitting on the side of the bed, with a beautiful ball-dress in her hand. in. D 41 42 AN EVENING AT HOME. "It isn t possible, Helen, that you are not going to this ball ?" said she. Helen looked up with a half-serious, half- smiling expression on her face : "I ve been trying, for the last half- hour," she replied, "to decide whether I ought to go, or stay at home. I think, perhaps, I ought to remain at home." " But what earthly reason can you have for doing so? Don t you like your dress ?" " Oh yes ! very much. I think it beau tiful." "Doesn t it fit you?" " As well as any dress I ever had." " Are you not well?" " Very well." " Then why not go to the ball ?" It will be the largest and most fashionable of the season. You know that your father and myself are both going. We shall want to see you there, of course. Your father will require some very good reason for your ab sence." AN EVENING AT HOME. 43 Helen looked perplexed at her m ether s last remark. " Do you think father will be displeased if I remain at home?" she asked. " I think he will, unless you can satisfy him that your reason for doing so is a very good one. Nor shall I feel that you are doing right. I wish all my children to act under the government of a sound judg ment. Impulse, or reasons not to be spoken of freely to their parents, should in no case influence their actions." Helen sat thoughtful for more than a minute, and then said, her eyes growing dim as she spoke " I wish to stay at home for Edward s sake." " And why for his, my dear ?" " He doesn t go to the ball, you know." " Because he is too young, and too back ward. You couldn t hire him to go there. But, that is no reason why you should re main at home. You would never partake of any social amusement were this always to 44 AN EVENING AT HOME. influence you. Let him spend the evening in reading. He must not expect his sisters to deny them selves all recreation in which he cannot or will not -participate." " He does not. I know he would not hear to such a thing as my staying at home on his account." "Then why stay?" " Because I feel that I ought to do so This is the way I have felt all day, when ever I have thought of going. If I were to go, I know that I would not have a moment s enjoyment. He need not know why I remain at home. To tell him that I did not wish to go will satisfy his mind." " I shall not urge the matter, Helen," Mrs. Lindley said, after a silence of some moments. " You are old enough to judge in a matter of this kind for yourself. But I must say, I think you rather foolish. You will not find Edward disposed to sa crifice so much for you." " Of that I do not think, mother. Of thi>^ I ought not to think." AN EVENING AT HOME. 45 "Perhaps not. Well, you may do as like. But I don t know what your father will say." Mrs. Lindley then left the room. EdAvard Lindley was at the critical age of eighteen ; that period when many young men, especially those who have been blest with sisters, would have highly enjoyed a ball. But Edward was shy, timid, and bashful in company, and could hardly ever be induced to go out to parties with his sis ters. Still, he was intelligent for his years, and companionable. His many good quali ties endeared him to his family, and drew forth from his sisters toward him a very tender regard. Among his male friends were several about his own age, members of families with whom his own was on friendly terms. With these he associated frequently, and with two or three others, quite intimately. For a month or two Helen noticed that one or another of these young friends called every now and then for Edward, 46 AN EVENING AT HOME. in the evening, and that he went out with them and stayed until bedtime. But unless his sisters were from home, he never went of his own accord. The fact of his being out with these young men had, from the first, troubled Helen; though the reason of her feeling troubled she could not tell. Edward had good principles, and she could not bring herself to entertain fears of any clearly defined evil. Still a sensation of uneasiness was always produced when he was from home in the evening. Her knowing that Edward would go out after they had all left, was the reason why Helen did not wish to attend the ball. The first thought of this had produced an unpleasant sensation in her mind, which increased the longer she debated the ques tion of going away or remaining at home. Finally, she decided that she would not go. This decision took place after the inter view with her mother, which was onlj half an hour from the time of starting. Edward knew nothing of the intention AN EVENING AT HOME. 47 of his sister. He was in his own room, dressing to go out, and supposed, when he heard the carriage drive from the door, that Helen had gone with the other mem bers of the family. On descending to the parlour, he was surprised to find her sitting by the centre table, with a book in her hand. " Helen ! Is this you ! I thought you had gone to the ball. Are you not well ?" he said quickly and with surprise, coming up to her side. Looking into her brother s face with a smile of sisterly regard, Helen replied, " I have concluded to stay at home this even ing. I am going to keep you company." " Are you, indeed ! Right glad am I of it ! though I am sorry you have deprived yourself of the pleasure of this ball, which, I believe, is to be a very brilliant one. I was just going out, because it is so dull at home when you are all away." " I am not particularly desirous of going to the ball. So little so, that the thought 48 AN EVENING AT HOME. of your being left here all alone had suffi cient influence over me to keep me away." " Indeed ! Well, I must say you are kind," Edward returned, with feeling. The self-sacrificing act of his sister had touched him sensibly. Both Helen and her brother played well. She upon the harp and piano, and he upon the flute and violin. Both were fond of music, and practised and played frequently together. Part of the evening was spent in this way, much to the satisfaction of each. Then an hour passed in reading and con versation, after which music was again re sorted to. Thus lapsed the time pleasantly until the hour for retiring came, when they separated, both with an internal feeling of pleasure more delightful than they had ex perienced for a long time. It was nearly three o clock before Mr. and Mrs. Lindley, and the daughter who had accompanied them to the ball, came home. Hours be fore, the senses of both Edward and Helen had been locked in forgetfulness. AN EVENING AT HOME. 49 Time passed on. Edward Lindley grew up and became a man of sound principles a blessing to his family and society. He saw his sisters well married ; and himself, final ly, led to the altar a lovely maiden. She made him a truly happj husband. On the night of his wedding, as he sat beside Helen, he paused for some time, in the midst of a pleasant conversation, thought fully. At last he said " Do you remember, sister, the night you stayed home from the ball to keep me com pany?" " That was many years ago. Yes, I re member it very well, now you have re called it to my mind." " I have often since thought, Helen," he said, with a serious air, " that by the simple act of thus remaining at home for my sake, you were the means of saving me from de struction." " How so ?" asked the sister. " I was just then beginning to form an intimate association with young men of 50 AN EVENING AT HOME. my own age, nearly all of whom have since turned out badly. I did not care a great deal about their company ; still, I liked so ciety, and used to be with them frequently especially when you and Mary wen^ out in the evening. On the night of the ball to which you were going, these young men had a supper, and I was to have been with them. I did not wish particularly to join them, but preferred doing so to remaining at home alone. To find you, as I did, so un expectedly, in the parlour, was an agree able surprise indeed. I stayed at home with a new pleasure, which was heightened by the thought that it was your love for me that had made you deny yourself for my gratification. We read together on that evening, we played together, we talked of many things. In your mind I had never before seen so much to inspire my own with high and pure thoughts. I remembered the conversation of the young men with whom I had been associating, and in which I had taken pleasure, with something like AN EVENING AT HOME. 51 disgust. It was low, sensual, and too much of it vile and demoralizing. Never, from that Lour, did I join them. Their way, even in the early stage of life s journey, I saw to be downward, and downward it has ever since been tending. How often since have I thought of that point in time, so full-fraught with good and evil influences ! Those few hours spent with you seemed to take scales from my eyes. I saw with a new vision. I thought and felt differently. Had you gone to the ball, and I to meet those young men, no one can tell what might have been the consequences. Sen sual indulgences, carried to excess, amid songs and sentiments calculated to awaken evil instead of good feelings, might have stamped upon my young and delicate mind a bias to low affections that never would have been eradicated. That was the great starting-point in life the period when I was coming into a state of rationality and freedom. The good prevailed over the evil, and by the agency of my sister, as an angel 52 AN EVENING AT HOME. sent by the Author of all benefits to save me." Like Helen Lindley, let every elder sis ter be thoughtful of her brothers at that critical period in life, when the boy is about passing up to the stage of manhood, and she may save them from many a snare set for their unwary feet by the evil one. In closing this little sketch, we can say no thing better than has already been said by an accomplished American authoress, Mrs. Farrar : " So many temptations," she remarks, " beset young men, of which young women know nothing, that it is of the utmost importance that your brothers evenings should be happily past at home, that their friends should be your friends, that their engagements should be the same as yours, and that various innocent amuse ments should be provided for them in the family circle. Music is an accomplishment chiefly valuable as a home enjoyment, as rallying round the piano the various mem- AN EVENING AT HOME. 53 bers of a family, and harmonizing their hearts as well as voices, particularly in de votional strains. I know no more agree able and interesting spectacle, than that ot brothers and sisters playing and singing together those elevated compositions in music and poetry which gratify the taste and purify the heart, while their fond pa rents sit delighted by. I have seen and heard an elder sister thus leading the fa mily choir, who was the soul of harmony to the whole household, and whose life was a perfect example of those virtues which I am here endeavouring to inculcate. Let no one say, in reading this chapter, that too much love is here required of sisters, that no one can be expected to lead such a self-sacrificing life : for the sainted one to whom I refer was all I would ask my sis ter to be, and a happier person never lived. To do good and to make others happy was her rule of life, and in this she found the art of making herself so. " Sisters should always be willing to in. 4 ni. E 54 AN EVENING AT HOME. walk, ride, visit with their brothers; and esteem it a privilege to be their companions. It is worth while to learn innocent games for the sake of furnishing brothers with amusements and making home the most agreeable place to them. " I have been told by some, who have passed unharmed through the temptations of youth, that they owed their escape from many dangers to the intimate companion ship of affectionate and pure-minded sis ters. They have been saved from a ha zardous meeting with idle company by some home engagement, of which their sisters were the charm ; they have refrained from mixing with the impure, because they would not bring home thoughts and feelings which they could not share with those trusting, loving friends; they have put aside the wine-cup and abstained from stronger potations, because they would not profane with their fumes the holy kiss with which they were accustomed to bid their sisters good-night." WHY, ANNA! WHAT is THE MATTER?" Page 66. THE TEMPEKANCE MEETING IN STEVE MILLER S BAR-ROOM ^THOMAS LE ROY was a mechanic, who by industry and economy had saved enough to buy himself a neat little cottage, with ground for a garden and pasturage for a cow. Early in the mornings, be fore he went to his work, he gave an hour or two, during the spring and sum mer months, to improving and beautify ing this little homestead. All his fences were in perfect order ; the shrubbery nicely trimmed, and the vines trained in the neatest manner. Every one said that the grounds around his cottage were better kept than any in the neighbourhood. 58 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING When remarks of this kind came to the cars of Le Roy, which was frequently the case, he felt highly gratified, and was sti mulated to increased efforts. But the mechanic, with all his industry and thrift, had one fault, and that a very bad one, for it was a fault that increased by indulgence. He would take his glass occasionally; and would visit, at least two or three times a week, the village tavern, to meet a few acquaintances and talk over the news. This habit troubled his wife, who had, in her own family, seen and felt the evil effects of intemperance, and shrank with an instinctive fear from even the sha dow of the monster. Once or twice she had hinted at the character of her feelings, but the effect produced on the mind of her husband was surprise and displeasure. He felt iii no danger, and was hurt that his wife could even dream of such a thing as his falling into habits of intemperance. At first, Le Roy s visits to the tavern were rarely oftener than once a week, and W STEVE MILLER S BAR-ROOM. 59 then he never drank more than a single glass. He went more for the pleasant com pany he found there. But, in process of time, two evenings in the week saw the mechanic at the tavern ; and it generally took two glasses of an evening to satisfy his increasing desire for liquor. Three evenings and three glasses were the next progressive steps ; and so on, until he felt no longer contented at home a single even ing in the week. The tavern-keeper, whose name was Stephen Miller, had commenced his liquor- selling business some ten years before, and was then about the poorest man in. the vil lage. He was poor, because he was too lazy to work steadily at his trade, which was that of a house-carpenter. At first he opened, in a miserable little shanty of a place, with a few jugs of liquor, and some bad groceries to tempt people to his shop. He didn t seem to do a great deal, but somehow or other, at the end of a year, he was able to buy the furniture of one of the a GO THE TEMPERANCE MEETING taverns in the village, which was sold at the death of the owner, and assume the responsibility of a public-house for the entertainment of travellers. People won dered. They could not understand it. How a man who never seemed to have more than fifty dollars worth of things in his shop could save up three or four hundred dollars in a year the amount of cash paid down by Miller passed their simple comprehension. None but he knew how many glasses and pints were sold in a day, nor how much profit was made on every dram. Two years after this the tavern-stand was sold. Miller was the purchaser, and paid down a thousand dollars of the purchasL-- money! It was a mystery to every one ho\v a man who had been before so thrift less should now be getting along so fast. A couple of years more and Miller bought a farm in the neighbourhood, which one of his best customers, who had fallen into in temperate habits, had neglected, and who, STEVE MILLER S BAR-ROOM. 61 in the end, found himself obliged to sell out Some people began to open their eyes after this. It was plain enough that Jones had lost his property through drunkenness; though all did not see so plainly that, in becoming its owner, Miller had not rendered back to the community in which he lived any equivalent use. Not long after this, the house and acre-lot of another good cus tomer went into the hands of the sheriff, and Miller was the purchaser. " What was Steve Miller looking about here for, this afternoon?" asked Mrs. Le Roy of her husband, one evening when he came home to supper? " I m sure I don t know," replied the me chanic. " Looking about here ?" " Yes, he came along with another man, and stood and looked at the house, and talked for some time ; and then they both went round, and looked over the fence into the garden. I was ashamed to have them do so, for every thing is so neglected to what it used to be." THE TEMPERANCE MEETING Le Roy made some indifferent answer, merely to satisfy his wife, who seemed worried by the incident. But the fact men tioned produced an unpleasant impression on his mind. " I wonder what business he has spying about my place?" said he to himself. "I don t owe him any thing." The satisfaction with which he uttered the last part of the sentence was rather diminished by the recollection that his bill at the store had been suffered to run up until it amounted to over sixty dollars, and that he owed the shoemaker nearly twenty more. Debts like these had never before been permitted to accumulate. After supper he was led by his inclina tions, as usual, to the bar-room of Miller, which was always well filled with pleasant companions. His wife saw him depart witli troubled feelings. She was, alas ! too well aware that he had entered the downward road, and that his steps were on the way to ruin. IN STEVE MILLER S BAR-ROOM. 63 Just off from the bar-room of Miller s tavern was a little parlour, and Le Roy, not feeling very social on that particular evening, took his glass of liquor and news paper and sat apart from the rest of the company, at a table close to the door of this parlour, which stood ajar. He became directly aware that the landlord was in the next room, conversing with some one in an undertone, and as he heard his own name mentioned, he felt excused for listen ing attentively to all that w r as said. " Things don t look as tidy around him as they used to," remarked the person who was talking with Miller. " Not by any means. I was told that this was the case, and walked over to-day to see for myself. Evidently he is running down fast. I asked Phillips about him a little while ago, and he told me that his Lill at the store was sixty dollars. In former times he never owed a cent." " He ll go to the dogs before long. " " I presume so. Well, I shall keep my 64 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING eye on that little place of his. I always had a fancy for it, and would like to get it at a bargain when it goes off, as it will have to before a great while." " You buy a good deal of property?" " Yes." "What did you pay for Shriver s place?" " Nine hundred dollars." "No more?" "No; Shriver refused, once, to my cer tain knowledge, sixteen hundred for it." " He let it run down shamefully." " Oh yes," replied the tavern-keeper. u He became a mere sot, and neglected every thing. I wouldn t trust him, now, for a three-cent glass of whisky. His place was sold, of course, and I bought it at a bargain. I wouldn t take, this hour, an ad vance of four hundred dollars on the pur chase. It s always best to buy property that has been suffered by a drunken fellow to run down for a few years. It gets to look a great deal worse than it really is, and you re sure to buy a bargain." IN STEVE MILLER S BAR-ROOM. 65 u No doubt, you ll have Le Roy s place, in the end, under this system." " To a moral certainty. In about two years he will have to sell ; and see if I am not the man who buys. I want that place for my daughter Jane. As soon as I get it, I will pull down the little kitchen, and build a dining-room twenty feet square where it stands. Half of the garden I will put in a green lawn, and make an orchard of the pasture-ground. You ll hardly know the place in a year after I m the owner." Le Hoy waited to hear no more. Rising up quickly, he left the bar-room without speaking to any one, and started on his way homeward. " Have my place !" he muttered to him self as he hurried along, clenching his fist and setting his teeth firmly as he spoke. " Have my place ! We will see !" On reaching his home and entering sud denly, Le Roy found his wife sitting by her little work-table with her face bent down and buried in her hands. She looked 60 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING up quickly, at the sound of his footsteps, and he saw that tears were on her cheeks. "Why, Anna! what s the matter?" he inquired. "Oh, nothing," she replied evasively, trying to force a smile. Le Roy looked at her for some moments, earnestly, and as he did so, the truth flashed over his mind. She, too, saw as clearly as the tavern-keeper, that he was on the road to ruin ! "Anna," Le Roy spoke seriously, yet with earnestness, and in a tone of affection and confidence, "Anna, I have found out why Steve Miller was spying about here to-day." "Why?" " He wants this place for his daughter Jane." Mrs. Le Roy looked bewildered. " He thinks that, in about two years, I will run it down, so that he will be able to get it for about half its value. He was looking to see how much progress I had IN STEVE MILLER S BAR-ROOM. 67 made in the road to ruin, and thinks the prospect for his getting the place in aboui two years very fair. He will tear down the kitchen, and build a handsome dining- room in its place, and so improve the ground that it will hardly be known as the same spot in a year. But, Anna, he ll find himself mistaken ! I ve got my eyes open. Not while I arn living shall Steve Miller own this property !" Tears of thankfulness gushed from the eyes of Mrs. Le Roy, as she said " Oh, what a mountain you have taken from my heart !" On the next day, Le Roy related to every acquaintance he met the conversation he had heard while in Miller s bar-room; and these told the story to others. So that, before evening, it was all over the village. " Let s go there in a crowd to-night," suggested one, " and organize a temperance society in the bar-room." The suggestion struck the fancy of all m. f>8 THE TEMPERANCE MEETING who heard it That night the bar-room of the tavern-keeper was filled to overflowing. Miller was at first delighted, though a little surprised that no one called for liquor, and at the air of business that sat upon every countenance. " I move that Le Roy take the chair," said one. The mechanic was handed to the post of honour, when he related minutely the occurrences and conversation of the day previous ; and then said that the object of the meeting was to organize a temperance society, and thus prevent the tavern-keeper from getting all their property. " I can assure the gentleman," he said in closing, "that his daughter Jane will never live in my place while I have breath in my body." " My hand to that !" was echoed around the room by a dozen voices. The society was regularly formed, the pledge signed by every individual present, and a vote of thanks to the landlord passed IN STEVE MILLER S BA^-ROOM. 6? for the use of his bar-room. Five minutes afterward he occupied it alone. Stephen Miller s affairs were never after ward as prosperous as they had been;, but fewer estates run down in the village, and fewer families are reduced to beggary. And so it would be in hundreds of towns and villages, if the inhabitants would act as Le Roy and his friends did in this case. I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 1\/TR. EASY sat alone in his counting- room, one afternoon, in a most comfort able frame, both as regards mind and body. A profitable speculation in the morning had brought the former into a state of great complacency, and a good dinner had done all that was required for the repose of the latter. He was in that delicious, half-asleep, half-awake condition, which, oc curring after dinner, is so very pleasant. The newspaper, whose pages at first pos sessed a charm for his eyes, had fallen, with the hand that held it, upon his knee. His head was gently reclined backwards against the top of a high leather-cushioned I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 71 chair; while his eyes, half-opened, saw all things around him but imperfectly. Just at this time the door was quietly opened, and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale, thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered. He approached the merchant with a hesitating step, and soon stood directly before him. Mr. Easy felt disturbed at this intrusion, for so he felt it. He knew the lad to be the son of a poor widow, who had once seen better circumstances than those that now surrounded her. Her husband had, while living, been his intimate friend; and he had promised him, at his dying hour, to be the protector and adviser of his wife and children. He had meant to do all he pro mised ; but, not being very fond of trouble, except where stimulated to activity by the hope of gaining some good for himself, he had not been as thoughtful in regard to Mrs. Mayberry as he ought to have been. She was a modest, shrinking, sensitive wo man, and had, notwithstanding her need of III. 5 F2 72 I LL SEE ABOUT IT. i\ friend and adviser, never called upon Mr. Easy, nor even sent a request for him to act for her in any thing, except once. Her hus band had left her poor. She knew little of the world. She had three quite young children, and one, the oldest, about sixteen. Had Mr. Easy been true to his pledge, he might have thrown many a ray upon her dark path, and lightened her burdened he<irt of many a doubt and fear. But he had permitted more than a year to pass since the death of her husband, without having once called upon her. This neglect had not been intentional. His will was good, but never active at the present mo ment. " To-morrow," or " next week," or " very soon," he would call upon Mrs. May- berry; but to-morrow, or next week, or very soon, had never yet come. As for the widow, soon after her hus band s death, she found that poverty was to be added to affliction. A few hundred dollars riade up the sum of all that she received after the settlement of his busi- I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 73 ness, which had never been in a very pros perous condition. On this, under the ex ercise of extreme frugality, she had been enabled to live for nearly a year. Then her scanty store made it but too apparent that individual exertion was required in order to procure the means of support for her little family. Ignorant of the way in which this was to be done, and having no one to advise her, nearly two months more passed before she could determine what to do. By that time she had but a few dol lars left, and was in a state of great mental distress and uncertainty. She then applied for work at some of the shops, and obtained common sewing, but at prices that could not yield her any thing like a support. Hiram, her oldest son, had been kept at school up to this period. But now she had to withdraw him. It was impossible any longer to pay his tuition fees. He was an intelligent lad active in mind, and pure in his moral principles; but, like his mo ther, sensitive, and inclined to avoid obser 74 vation. Like her, too, he had a proud in dependence of feeling, that made him shrink from asking or accepting a favour, or putting himself under an obligation to any one. lie first became aware of his mother s true condition, when she took him from school, and explained the reason for so doing. At once his mind rose into the determination to do something to aid his mother. He felt a glowing confidence, arising from the con sciousness of strength within. He felt that he had both the will and the power to act, and to act efficiently. " Don t be disheartened, mother," said he, with animation. " I can and will do something. I can help you. You have worked for me a great many years. Now I will work for you." Where there is a will there is a way. But it is often the case, that the will lacks the kind of intelligence that enables it to find the right way at once. So it proved in the case of Hiram Mayberry. He had a strong enough will, but did not know how I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 75 to bring it into activity. Good, without its appropriate truth, is impotent. Of this the poor lad soon became conscious. To the question of his mother " What can you do, child ?" an answer came not so readily. " Oh, I can do a great many things," was easily said; but, even as he said this, a sense of inability followed. The will impels, and then the under standing seeks for the means of effecting the purposes of the will. In the case of young Hiram, thought followed desire. He pondered for many days over the means by which he was to aid his mother. But, the more he thought, the more con scious did he become that, in the world, he was but a weak boy. That however strong might be his purpose, his means of action were limited. His mother could aid him but little. She had but one sugges tion to make, and that was, that he should endeavour to get a situation in some store or counting-rooin. This he attempted to 76 I LL SEE \BOUT IT. do. Following her direction, lie called upon Mr. Easy, who promised to see about looking him up a situation. It happened, the day after, that a neighbour spoke to him about a lad for his store (Mr. Easy had already forgotten his promise) Hiram was recommended, and the man called to see his mother. " How much salary can you afford to give him?" asked Mrs. Mayberry, after learning all about the situation, and feeling satisfied that her son ought to accept of it. "Salary, ma am?" returned the store keeper, in a tone of surprise. " We never give a boy any salary for the first year. The knowledge that is acquired of business is always considered a full compensation. After the first year, if he likes us, and we like him, we may give him seventy-five or a hundred dollars." Poor Mrs. Mayberry s countenance fell immediately. " I wouldn t think of his going out now, if it were not in the hope of his earning I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 77 something," said she, in a disappointed voice. " How much did you expect him to earn ?" was asked by the storekeeper. " I didn t know exactly what to expect. But I supposed that he might earn four or five dollars a week." " Five dollars a week is all we pay our porter, an able-bodied, industrious man," was returned. " If you wish your son to become acquainted with mercantile busi ness, you must not expect him to earn much for three or four years. At a trade, you may receive for him barely a sufficien cy to board and clothe him, but nothing more." This declaration so dampened the feel ings of the mother, that she could not re ply for some moments. At length she said " If you will take my boy, with the un derstanding, that, in case I am not able to support him, or hear of a situation where a salary can be obtained, you will let him 78 leave your employment without hard feel ings, he shall go into your store at once." To this the man consented, and Hiram Mayberry went with him according to agreement. A few weeks passed, and the lad, liking both the business and his em ployer, his mother felt exceedingly anxious for him to remain. But she sadly feared that this could not be. Her little store was just about exhausted, and the most she had yet been able to earn by working for the shops, was a dollar and a half a week. This was not more than sufficient to buy the plainest food for her little flock. It would not pay rent, nor get clothing. To meet the former, recourse was had to the sale of her husband s small, select li brary. Careful mending kept the younger children tolerably decent, and by altering for him the clothes left by his father, she was able to keep Hiram in a suitable con dition to appear at the store of his em ployer. Thus matters went on for several months, I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 79 Mrs. Mayberry working late and early. The natural result was, a gradual failure of strength. In the morning, when she awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy, that to rise required a strong effort; and even after she was up, and attempted to re sume her labours, her trembling frame almost refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length nature gave way. One morning she was so sick that she could not rise. Her head throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain her whole body ached, and her skin burn ed with fever. Hiram got something for the children to eat, and then taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old, in^o the house of a neighbour, who had showed them some good-will, asked her if she would take care of his sister until he returned home at dinner-time. This the neighbour readily consented to do promis ing, also, to call in frequently to see his mother. At dinner-time Hiram found his mother quite ill. She was no better a,t night. For in. a 80 I LL SEE ABOUT IT. three days the fever raged violently. Then, under the careful treatment of their old family physician, it was subdued. After that she gradually recovered, but very slowly. The physician said she must not attempt again to work as she had done. This injunction was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do so. " I don t see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry," a neighbour, who had often aided her by kind advice, said, in reply to the widow s statement of her unhappy con dition. " You cannot maintain these chil dren, certainly. And I don t see how, in your present feeble state, you are going to maintain yourself. There is but one thing that I can advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to endeavour to get two of your children into some orphan asy lum. The youngest you may be able to keep with you. The oldest can support himself at something or other." The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this proposition. She half sobbed, I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 81 caught her breath, and looked her adviser with a strange, bewildered stare in the face. " Oh no ! I cannot do that. I cannot be separated from my dear little children. Who will care for them like a mother?" " It is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is a stern ruler. You cannot keep them with you that is certain. You have not the strength to provide them with even the coarsest food. In an asylum, with a kind matron, they will be better off than under any other circumstances." But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head. " No no no," she replied " I cannot think of such a thing. I cannot be sepa rated from them. I shall soon be able to work again better able than before." The neighbour, who felt deeply for her, did not urge the matter. When Hiram re turned at dinner-time, his face had in it a more animated expression than usual. " Mother," said he, as soon as he came in, " I heard to-day that a boy was wanted at the Gazette-office, who could write a good hand. The wages are to be four dol lars a week." " You did!" Mrs. Mayberry said quickly, her weak frame trembling, although she struggled hard to be composed. " Yes. And Mr. Easy is well acquainted with the publisher, and could get me the place, I am sure." " Then go and see him at once, Hiram. If you can secure it, all will be well; if not, your little brothers and sisters will have to be separated, perhaps sent into an orphan asylum." Mrs. May berry covered her face with hei hands and sobbed bitterly for some mo ments. Hiram ate his frugal meal quickly, and returned to the store, where he had to re main until his employer went home and dined. On his return, he asked liberty to be absent for half an hour, which was granted. He then went to the counting- house of Mr. Easy, and disturbed him as has been seen. Approaching with a timid I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 83 step and a flushed brow, lie said in a con fused and hurried manner " Mr. Easy, there is a lad wanted at the Gazette-office." "Well?" returned Mr. Easy in no very cordial tone. " Mother thought you would be kind enough to speak to Mr. G for me." " Haven t you a place in a store ?" " Yes, sir. But I don t get any wages. And at the Gazette-office they will pay four dollars a week." " But the knowledge of business to be gained where you are will be worth a great deal more than four dollars a week." " I know that, sir. But mother is not able to board and clothe me. I must earn something." " Oh ay, that s it. Very well, I ll see about it for you." " When shall I call, sir?" asked Hiram. " When ? Oh, almost any time. Say to morrow or next day." The lad departed, and Mr. Easy s head 02 84 fell back upon the chair, the impression which had been made upon his mind pass ing away almost as quickly as writing upon water. With anxious, trembling hearts did Mrs. Mayberry and her son wait for the after noon of the succeeding day. On the suc cess of Mr. Easy s application rested all their hopes. Neither she nor Hiram ate over a few mouthfuls at dinner-time. The latter hurried away, and returned to the store, there to w r ait with trembling eager ness until his employer should come from dinner, and he again be free to go and see Mr. Easy. To Mrs. Mayberry the afternoon passed slowly. She had forgotten to tell her son to return home immediately, if the applica tion should be successful. He did not come back, and she had, consequently, to remain in a state of anxious suspense until dark. He came in at the usual hour. His de jected countenance told of disappoint ment. I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 85 " Did you see Mr. Easy ?" asked Mrs. May berry in a low, troubled voice. " Yes. But he hadn t been to the Ga zette-office. He said he had been very busy. But that he would see about it soon." Nothing more was said. The mother and son, after sitting silently and pensive during the evening, retired early to bed. On the next day, urged on by his anxious desire to get the situation of which he had heard, Hiram again called at the counting- room of Mr. Easy, his heart trembling with hope and fear. There were two or three men present. Mr. Easy cast upon him rather an impatient look as he entered. His ap pearance had evidently annoyed the mer chant. Had Hiram consulted his feelings, he would have retired at once. But there was too much at stake. Gliding to a corner of the room, he stood with his hat in his hand, and a look of anxiety upon his face, until Mr. Easy was disengaged. At length the gentlemen with whom he was occupied went away, and Mr. Easy turned toward 86 I LL SEE ABOUT IT. the boy. Hiram looked up eirnestly in his face. " I have really been so much occupied, my lad," said the merchant in a kind of apologetic tone, " as to have entirely for gotten my promise to you. But I will see about it. Come in again to-morrow." Hiram made no answer, but turned with a sigh toward the door. The keen disap pointment expressed in the boy s face, and the touching quietness of his manner, reached the feelings of Mr. Easy. He was not a hard-hearted man, but selfishly indif- rent to others. He could feel deeply enough if he would permit himself to do so. " Stop a minute," said he. And then stood in a musing attitude for a moment or two. " As you seem so anxious about this matter," he added, " if you will wait here a little while, I will step down and see Mr. G at once." The boy s face brightened instantly. Mr. Easy saw the effect of what he said, and it made the task he was about entering upon I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 87 reluctantly a lighter one. Hiram waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, so eager to know the result that he could not compose himself to sit down. The sound of Mr. Easy s step at the door, at length made his heart bounl. The merchant entered. Hi ram looked into his face. One glance was sufficient to dash every dearly cherished hope to the ground. " I am sorry/ said Mr. Easy, " but the place was filled this morning. I was a little too late." The boy w^as unable to control his feel ings. The disappointment was too great. Tears gushed from his eyes as he turned away and left the counting-room without speaking. " I m afraid I ve done wrong," said Mr. Easy to himself, as he stood in a musing attitude, by his desk, about five minutes after Hiram had left. If I had seen about the situation when he first called upon me, I might have secured it for him. But it s too late now." in ti 68 I LL SEE ABOUT ir. After saying this, the merchant placed his thumbs in the annholes of his waist coat, and commenced walking the floor of his counting-room, backwards and forwards. He could not get out of his mind the image of the boy as he turned from him in tears, nor drive away thoughts of the friend s widow whom he had neglected. This state of mind continued all the afternoon. Its na tural effect was to cause him to cast about in his mind for some way of getting em ployment for Hiram that would yield imme diate returns. But nothing presented itself. " I wonder if I couldn t make room for him here ?" he at length said. " He looks like a bright boy. I know Mr. is high ly pleased with him. He spoke of getting four dollars a week. That s a good deal to give to a mere lad. But, I suppose I might make him worth that to me. And now I begin to think seriously about the matter, I believe I cannot keep a clear conscience and any longer remain indi fie rent to the welfare of my old friend s widow and chil- I LL SEE ABOUT IT. 89 dren. I must look after them a little more closely than I have heretofore done." This resolution relieved the mind of Mr. Easy a good deal. When Hiram left the counting-room of the merchant, his spirits were crushed to the very earth. He found his way back, how he hardly knew, to his place of busi ness, and mechanically performed the tasks allotted him until evening. Then he re turned home, reluctant to meet his mother, and yet anxious to relieve her state of sus pense, even if in doing so he should dash a last hope from her heart. When he came in, Mrs. Mayberry lifted her eyes to his inquiringly; but dropped them instantly she needed no words to tell her that he had suffered a bitter disappointment. "You did not get the place?" she at length said, with forced composure. " No it was taken this morning. Mr. Easy promised to see about it. But he didn t do sc. When he w r ent this after noon, it was too lite." 90 I LL SEE ABOUT IT. Hiram said this with a trembling voice and lips that quivered. " Thy will be done !" murmured the widow, lifting her eyes upward. " If these tender ones are to be taken from their mo ther s fold, oh ! do thou temper for them the piercing blast, and be their shelter amid the raging tempests." A tap at the door brought back the thoughts of Mrs. May berry. A brief struggle with her feelings enabled her to overcome them in time to receive a visitor with com posure. It was the merchant. " Mr. Easy !" she said in surprise. " Mrs. Mayberry, how do you do?" There was some restraint and embarrassment in his manner. He was conscious of having neglected the widow of his friend, before he caine. The humble condition in which lie found her quickened that consciousness into a sting. " I m sorry, madam," he said, after he had become seated and made a few inquiries, " that I did not get the place for your son. 91 In fact, I am to blame in the matter. But I have been thinking since that he would suit me exactly, and, if you have no objec tions, I will take him and pay him a salary of two hundred dollars for the first year." Mrs. Mayberry tried to reply, but her feelings were too much excited by this sudden and unlooked-for proposal to allow her to speak for some moments. Even then her assent was made with tears glistening on her cheeks. Arrangements were quickly made for the transfer of Hi ram from the store where he had been en gaged, to the counting-room of Mr. Easy. The salary he received was just enough to enable Mrs. Mayberry, with what she her self earned, to keep her little ones together, until Hiram, who proved a valuable assist ant in Mr. Easy s business, could command a larger salary, and render her more im portant aid. m. H A GOOD INVESTMENT. " CHAT S a smart little fellow of yours," said a gentleman named "Winslow to a labouring-man, who was called in, occa sionally, to do work about his store. " Does he go to school ?" " Not now, sir," replied the poor man. " Why not, Davis ? He looks like a bright lad." " He s got good parts, sir," returned the father, " but" "But what?" asked the gentleman, see ing that the man hesitated. " Times are rather hard now, sir, and I have a large family. It s about as much as I can do to keep hunger and cold away. WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO SCHOOL AGAIN. Page 9C A GOOD INVESTMENT. 95 Ned reads very well, writes a tolerable fair hand, considering all things, and can figure a little. And that s about all I can do for him. The other children are coming for ward, and I reckon he will have to go to a trade middling soon." "How old is Ned?" inquired Mr. Wins- " He s turned of eleven." "You won t put him to a trade before he s thirteen or fourteen ?" " Can t keep him at home idling all that time, Mr. Winslow. It would be his ruin ation. It s young to go out from home, I know, to rough it and tough it among strangers" there was a slight unsteadiness in the poor man s voice "but it s better than doing nothing." " Ned ought to go to school a year or two longer, Davis," said Mr. Winslow, with some interest in his manner. " And as you are not able to pay the quarter-bills, I guess I will have to do it. What say you ? If I pay for Ned s schooling, can you keep 96 A GOOD INVESTMENT. him at home some two or three years longer ?" " I didn t expect that of you, Mr. Wins- low," said the poor man, and his voice now trembled. He uncovered his head as he spoke, almost reverently. " You a n t bound to pay for schooling my boy. Ah, sir!" " But you hav n t answered my question, Davis. What say you ?" "Oh sir, if you are really in earnest?" " I am in earnest. Ned ought to go to school. If you can keep him home a few years longer, I will pay for his education during the time. Ned" Mr. Winslow spoke to the boy " what say you ? Would you like to go to school again ?" " Yes, indeed, sir," quickly answered the boy, while his bright young face was lit up with a gleam of intelligence. " Then you shall go, my fine fellow. There s the right kind of stuff in you, or I m mistaken. We ll give you a trial, at any rate." A GOOD INVESTMENT. 97 Mr. Winslow was as good as his word- Ned was immediately entered at an excellent school. The boy, young as he was, appre ciated the kind act of his benefactor, and resolved to profit by it to the full extent. " I made an investment of ten dollars to day," said Mr. Winslow, half-jestingly, to a mercantile friend, some three months after the occurrence just related took place, " and here s the certificate." He held up a small slip of paper as he spoke. "Ten dollars! A large operation! In what fund ?" " A charity fund." " Oh !" And the friend shrugged his shoulders. " Don t do much in that way myself. No great faith in the security. What dividend do you expect to receive ?" " Don t know. Rather think it will be large." " Better take some more of the stock, if you think it so good. There is plenty in market to be bought at less than par H2 98 A GOOD INVESTMENT. Mr. Winslow smiled, and said tliai in ail probability he would invest a few more small sums in the same way, and see how it would turn out. The little piece of paper which he plea santly called a certificate of stock, was the first quarter-bill he had paid for Ned s schooling. For four years these bills were regularly paid; and then Ned, who had well improved the opportunities so gene rously afforded him, was taken, on the re commendation of Mr. Winslow, into a large importing house. He was at the time in his sixteenth year. Before the lad could en ter upon this employment, however, Mr. Winslow had to make another investment in his charity fund. Ned s father was too poor to give him an outfit of clothing such as was required, in the new position to which he was to be elevated; knowing tlnV. the generous merchant came forward again and furnished the needful supply. As no wages were received by Ned lor <\he first twu years. Mr. Wruslow continued A GOOD INVESTMENT. 99 to buy his clothing, while his father still gave him his board. On reaching the age of eighteen, Ned s employers, who were much pleased with his industry, intelli gence, and attention to business, put him on a salary of three hundred dollars. This made him at once independent. He could pay his own boarding and find his own clothes, and proud did he feel on the day when advanced to so desirable a position. " How comes on your investment?" asked Mr. Winslow s mercantile friend about this time. He spoke jestingly. "It promises very well," was the smil ing reply. "It is rising in the market, then?" " Yes." "Any dividends yet?" " Oh, certainly. Large dividends." " Ah ! You surprise me. What kind of dividends ?" " More than a hundred per cent." " Indeed ! Not in money ?" " Oh no. But in something better than A GOOD INVESTMENT. money. The satisfaction that flows from an act of benevolence wisely done/ " Oh, that s all." The friend spoke with ill-concealed contempt. " Don t you call that something?" asked Mr. Win slow. " It s entirely too unsubstantial for me," replied the other. " I go in for returns of a more tangible character. Those you speak of won t pay my notes." Mr. Winslow smiled, and bade his friend good-morning. " He knows nothing," said he to himself, as he mused on the subject, " of the plea sure of doing good ; and the loss is all on his side. If we have the ability to secure investments of this kind, they are among the best we can make ; and all are able to put at least some money in the fund of good works, let it be ever so small an amount. Have I suffered the abridgment of a single comfort by what I have done ? No. Have I gained in pleasant though Id and feelings by the act? Largely. It ha* A GOOD mVES JMENtf. 101" been a source of perennial enjoyment. I would not have believed that, at so small a cost, I could have secured so much plea sure. And how great the good that may flow from what I have done ! Instead of a mere day-labourer, whose work in the world goes not beyond the handling of boxes, bales, and barrels, or the manufac ture of some article in common use, Ed ward Davis, advanced by education, takes a position of more extended usefulness, and by his higher ability and more intelligent action in society, will be able, if he rightly use the power in his hands, to advance the world s onward movement in a most im portant degree." Thus thought Mr. Winslow, and his heart grew warm within him. Time proved that he had not erred in affording the lad an opportunity for obtaining a good education. His quick mind acquired, in the position in which he was placed, accurate ideas of business, and industry and force of charac ter made these ideas thoroughly practical, 102 * GOOD INVESTMENT. Every year his employers advanced hiw salary, and, on attaining his majority, it was further advanced to the sum of one thousand dollars per annum. With every increase the young man had devoted a larger and larger proportion of his income to improving the condition of his father s family, and when it was raised to the sum last mentioned, he took a neat, comfortable new house, much larger than the family had before lived in, and paid the whole rent himself. Moreover, through his ac quaintance and influence, he was able to get a place for his father at lighter em ployment than he had heretofore been engaged in, and at a higher rate of compen sation. "Any more dividends on your chanty investment?" said Mr. Winslow s friend, about this time. He spoke with the old manner, and from the old feelings. "Yes. Got a dividend to-day. The largest yet received," replied the merchant, smiling. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 103 " Did you ? Hope it does you a great deal of good." " I realize your wish, my friend. It is doing me a great deal of good/ returned Mr. Winslow. " No cash, I presume ?" " Something far better. Let me explain." " Do so, if you please." " You know the particulars of this in vestment ?" said Mr. Winslow. His friend shook his head, and re plied " No. The fact is, I never felt interest enough in the matter to inquire about par ticulars." " Oh, well, then, I must give you a little history. " You know old Davis, who has been working about our store for the last ten or fifteen years ?" " Yes." " My investment was in the education of his son." "Indeed!" 104 A GOOD INVESTMENT. " His father took him from school when he was only eleven years old, because he could not afford to send him any longer, and was about putting the little fellow out to learn a trade. Something interested me in the child, who was a bright lad, and act ing from a good impulse that came over me at the moment, I proposed to his father to send him to school for three or four years, if he would board and clothe him during the time. To this he readily agreed. So I paid for Ned s schooling until he was in his sixteenth year, and then got him into Webb Waldron s store, where he has been ever since." " Webb & Waldron s !" said the friend, evincing some surprise. " I know all their clerks very well, for we do a great deal of business with them. Which is the son of old Mr. Davis?" " The one they call Edward." " Not that tall, fine-looking young man their leading salesman?" " The s ime." A GOOD INVESTMENT. 105 " Is it possible ! Why, he is worth any two clerks in the store." " * I know he is." " For his age, there is not a better sales man in the city." " So I believe," said Mr. Winslow; "nor," he added, " a better man." " I know little of his personal character; but, unless his face deceives me, it cannot but be good." " It is good. Let me say a word about him. The moment his salary increased beyond what was absolutely required to pay his board and find such clothing as his position made it necessary for him to wear, he devoted the entire surplus to rendering his father s family more comfort able." " Highly praiseworthy," said the friend. " I had received, already, many divi dends on my investment," continued Mr. Winslow; "but when that fact came to my knowledge, my dividend exceeded all the other dividends put together." III. 7 III. I 106 A GOOD INVESTMENT. The mercantile friend was silent. If ever in his life he had envied the reward of a good deed, it was at that moment. "To-day," went on Mr. Winslow, "I have received a still larger dividend. I was passing along Buttonwood street, when I met old Mr. Davis coming out of a house, the rent of which, from its appearance, was not less than two hundred and twenty-five dollars. You don t live here, of course ? said I, for I knew the old man s income to be small not over six or seven dollars a week. ( Oh, yes, I do/ he made answer, with a smile. I turned and looked at the house again. How comes this ? I asked. You must be getting better off in the world. So I am, was his reply. Has anybody left you a little fortune? I in quired. No, but you have helped me to one/ said he. i I don t understand you, Mr. Davis/ I made answer. l Edward rents the house for us/ said the old man. Do you understand now ? "I understood him perfectly. It was A GOOD .INVESTMENT. 107 then that I received the largest dividend on -my investment which had yet come into my hands. If they go on increasing at this rate, I shall soon be rich." " Rather unsubstantial kind of riches/ was remarked by the friend. " That which elevates and delights the mind can hardly be called unsubstantial," replied Mr. Winslow. " Gold will not al ways do this." The friend sighed involuntarily. The remarks of Mr. Winslow caused thoughts to flit over his mind that were far from being agreeable. A year or two more went by, and then an addition was made to the firm of Webb & Waldron. Edward Davis received the offer of an interest in the business, which he unhesitatingly accepted. From that day he was in the road to fortune. Three years afterward one of the partners died, when his interest was increased. Twenty-five years from the time Mr. Winslow, acting from a benevolent impulse, 108 A GOOD INVESTMENT. proposed to send young Davis to school, have passed. One day, about this period, Mr. Winslow, who had met with a number of reverses in business, was sitting in his counting-room, with a troubled look on his face, when the mercantile friend before-mentioned came in. His countenance was pale and disturbed. " We are ruined! ruined!" said he, with much agitation. Mr. Winslow started to his feet. " Speak !" he exclaimed. " What new disaster is about to sweep over me ?" " The house of Toledo & Co., in Rio, has suspended." Mr. Winslow struck his hands together, and sank down into the chair from which he had arisen. " Then it is all over," he murmured. "All over!" "It is all over with me," said the other. " A longer struggle would be fruitless. But for this, I might have weathered the gitrm. Twenty thousand dollars of drafts A GOOD INVESTMENT. 10S drawn against my last shipment are back protested, and will be presented to-morrow. I cannot lift them. So ends this matter. So closes a business-life of nearly forty years, in commercial dishonour and personal ruin !" " Are you-certain that they have failed?" asked Mr. Winslow, with something like hope in his tone of voice. " It is too true," was answered. " The Celeste arrived this morning, and her letter- bag was delivered at the post-office half an hour ago. Have you received nothing bv her?" " I was not aware of her arrival. But I will send immediately for my letters." Too true was the information communi cated by the friend. The large commis sion-house of Toledo & Co. had failed, and protested drafts had been returned to a very heavy amount. Mr. Winslow was among the sufferers, and to an extent that was equivalent to ruin; because it threw back upon him the necessity of lifting over J10 A GOOD INVESTMENT. fifteen thousand dollars of protested paper, when his line of payments was already fully up to his utmost ability. For nearly five years, every thing had seemed to go against Mr. Win slow. At the beginning of that period, a son, whom he had set up in business, failed, involving him in a heavy loss. Then, one disaster after another followed, until he found him self in imminent danger of failure. From this time he turned his mind to the considera tion of his affairs with more earnestness than ever, and made every transaction with a degree of prudence and foresight that seemed to guarantee success in whatever he attempted. A deficient supply of flour caused him to venture a large shipment to Rio. The sale was at a handsomely remu nerative profit, but the failure of his con signees, before the payment of his drafts for the proceeds, entirely prostrated him. So hopeless did the merchant consider his case, that he did not even make an effort to get tempoi iry aid in his extremity. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 111 When the friend of Mr. Winslow came with the information that the house of Toledo & Co. had failed, the latter was searching about in his mind for the means of lifting about five thousand dollars worth of paper, which fell due on that day. He had two thousand dollars in bank ; the balance of the sum would have to be raised by borrowing. He had partly fixed upon the resources from which this was to come, when the news of his ill-fortune arrived. Yes, it was ruin. Mr. Winslow saw this in a moment, and his hands fell powerless by his side. He made no further effort to lift his notes, but, after his mind had a little recovered from its first shock, he left his store and retired to his home, to seek in its quiet the calmness and fortitude of which he stood so greatly in need. In this home were his wife and two daughters, who all their lives had enjoyed the many exter nal comforts and elegancies that wealth can procure. The heart of the father ached as his eyes rested upon his children, and he 112 A GOOD INVESTMENT, thought of the sad reverses that awaited them. On entering his dwelling, Mr. Winslow sought the partner of his life, and commu nicated to her without reserve the painful intelligence of his approaching failure. "Is it indeed so hopeless ?" she asked, tears filling her eyes. " I am utterly prostrate !" was the reply, in a voice that was full of anguish. And in the bitterness of the moment, the un fortunate merchant wrung his hands. To Mrs. Win slow, the shock, so unex pected, was very severe ; and it was some time before her mind, after her husband s announcement, acquired any degree of calm ness. ,- 9 About half an hour after Mr. Win slew s return home, and while both his own heart and that of his wife were quivering with pain, a servant came and said that a gentleman had called and wisl ed to see him. " Who is it?" asked the merchant. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 113 " I did not understand his name," replied the servant. Mr. Winslow forced as much external composure as was possible, and then de scended to the parlour. " Mr. Davis/ he said on entering. " Mr. Winslow," returned the visitor, taking the merchant s hand and grasping it warmly. As the two men sat down together, the one addressed as Mr. Davis, said " I was sorry to learn, a little while ago, that you will lose by this failure in Rio." " Heavily. It has ruined me !" replied Mr. Winslow. " Not so bad as that I hope !" said Mr. Davis. " Yes. It has removed the last prop that I leaned on, Mr. Davis. The very last one, and now the worst must come to the worst. It is impossible for me to take up fifteen thousand dollars worth of returned drafts." " Fifteer thousand is the amount?" " Yes." J14 A GOOD INVESTMENT. Mr. Davis smiled encouragingly. " If that is all." said he, " there is no difficulty in the way. I can easily get you the money." Mr. Winslow started, and a warm flush went over his face. " Why didn t you come to me," asked Mr. Davis, " the moment you found your self in such a difficulty ? Surely !" and his voice slightly trembled, " surely you did not think it possible for me to forget the past ! Do not I owe you every thing ? and would I not be one of the basest of men, if I forgot my obligation ? If your need were twice fifteen thousand, and it required the division of my last dollar with you, not a hair of your head should be injured. I did not believe it was possible for you to get into an extremity like this, until I heard it whispered a little while ago." So unexpected a turn in his affairs com pletely unmanned Mr. Winslow. He rover- ed his face and wept for some time, with the uncontrollable passion of a child. A GOOI INVESTMENT. 115 "Ah! sir," he said at last, in a broken < T oice, " I did not expect this, Mr. Davis." ."You had a right to expect it," replied the young man. " Were I to do less than sustain you in any extremity not too great for my ability, I would be unworthy the name of a man. And now, Mr. Win slow, let your heart be at rest. You need not fall under this blow. Your drafts will pro bably come back to you to-morrow T " Yes. To-morrow at the latest." " Very well. I will see that you are provided with the means to lift them. In the mean time, if you are in want of any sums toward your payments of to-day, just let me know." " I can probably get through to-day by my own efforts," said Mr. Winslow. " Probably ? How much do you want?" asked Mr. Davis. " In the neighbourhood of three thousand dollars." " I will send you around a check for that sum immediately," promptly returned the 116 A MOD INVESTMENT. young man, rising as he spoke and drawing forth his watch. " It is nearly two o clock now," he added, " so I will bid you good day. In fifteen minutes you will find a check at your store." And with this Davis retired. All this, which passed in a brief space of time, seemed like a dream to Mr. Wins- low. He could hardly realize its truth. But it was a reality, and he comprehended it more fully, when, on reaching his store, he found there the promised check for three thousand dollars. On the next day the protested drafts came in ; but, thanks to the grateful kind ness of Mr. Davis, now a merchant, with the command of large money facilities, he was able to take them up. The friend before introduced was less fortunate. There was no one to step forward and save him from ruin, and he sank under the sudden pres sure that came upon him. A few days after his failure he met Mr Win slow. A GOOD INVESTMENT. 117 " How is this ?" said he. " How did you weather the storm that drove me under? I thought your condition as hopeless a, mine !" "So did I," answered Mr. Winslow. " But I had forgotten a small investment made years ago. I have spoken of it to you before." The other looked slightly puzzled. " Have you forgotten that investment in the charity-fund, which you thought money thrown away?" " Oh !" Light broke in upon his mind. " You educated Davis. I remember now!" " And Davis, hearing of my extremity, stepped forward and saved me. That was the best investment I ever made !" The friend dropped his eyes to the pave ment, stood for a moment or two without speaking, sighed, and then moved on. How many opportunities for making similar in vestments had he not neglected 1 ni. K BEAUTY. " J>EAUTIFUL !" exclaimed Mary Mar- vel, with a toss of the head and a slight curl of her cherry lips. " There isn t a good feature in her face." " And yet, I think her beautiful/ was the calm reply of Mrs. Hartley. " Why, aunt ! Where are your eyes ?" " Just where they have always been, my child !" " Agnes is a good girl," said Mary, speak ing in a less confident manner. Every one knows this; but, as to being handsome, that is altogether another thing." " Is there not a beauty in goodness, Mary?" asked Mrs. Hartley, in her low, :[uiet way, as she looked, with her calm, 118 DRESSING FOR THE PARTY. 121. BEAUTY. 121 penetrating eyes, into the young girl s face. " Oh yes, of course there is, aunt. But, beauty of goodness is one thing, and beau ty of face another." " The former generally makes itself vi sible in the latter. In a pure, unselfish, lov ing heart lives the very spirit of beauty." " Oh yes, aunt. All that we know. But, let the spirit be ever so beautiful, it cannot re-mould the homely countenance ; the ill- formed mouth, the ugly nose, the wedge- shaped chin must remain to offend the eye of taste." " Do you think Miss Williams very home ly?" asked Mrs. Hartley. " She is deformed, aunt." "Well!" " She has no personal beauty whatever." " Do you think of this when you are with her?" "No. But when I first saw her, she so offended my eyes that I could hardly re* main in the room where she was." 122 BEAUTY. " You do not see her deformity now." " I never think of it." "The spirit of beauty in her heart ha* thrown a veil over her person." " It may be so, aunt. One thing is cer tain, I love her." " More than you do Ellen Lawson?" " I can t bear Ellen Lawson !" The whole manner of the young girl expressed re pugnance. " And yet Ellen, by common consent, is acknowledged to be beautiful." " She is pretty enough; but I don t like her. Proud, vain, ill-tempered. Oh dear ! these spoil every thing." " In other words, the deformity of her spirit throws a veil over the beauty of her person." " Explain it as you will, aunt. Enough that Ellen Lawson is no favourite of mine. Ever as I gaze into her brilliant eyes, a something looks out of them that causes me to shrink from her." The conversation between Mary Marvel BEAUTY. 123 and her aunt was interrupted, a: this point, by the entrance of a visitor. Mary was passing through her twentieth summer. She was handsome; and she knew it. No wonder, then, that she was vain of her good looks. And being vain, no wonder that, in attiring her person, she thought less of maidenly good taste than of that effect which quickly attracts the eye. She had beautiful hair, that curled natu rally, and so, when dressed for company, a perfect shower of glossy ringlets played ostentatiously about her freely exposed snowy neck and shoulders, causing the eyes of many to rest upon and follow her, whose eyes a modest maiden might wish to be turned away. In fact, Mary s attire, which was generally a little in excess, so set off her showy person, that it was scarcely pos sible for her to be in company without be coming the observed of all observers, and drawing around her a group of gay young men, ever ready to offer flattering atten- III. 8 K 2 124 BEAUTY. tions and deal in flattering words where such things are taken in the place of truth and sincerity. Such, with a groundwork of good sense, good principles, and purity of character, was Mary Marvel. Some few days after the conversation with which this sketch opens occurred, Mary was engaged in dressing for an evening party, when her aunt came into her room. " How do I look, aunt ?" inquired Mary, who had nearly completed her toilet. Mrs. Hartley shook her head and looked grave. " What is the matter, aunt ? Am I over dressed, as you say, again ?" " I would rather say, under-dressed," re plied the aunt. " But you certainly are not going in this style ?" " How do you mean?" And Mary threw a glance of satisfaction into her mirror. " You intend wearing your lace-cape ?" " Oh dear, no !" Mary s neck and shoulders were too BEAUTY. 125 beautiful to be hidden even under a film of gossamer. " Nor under-sleeves ?" " Why, a.unt ! How you do talk! " " Where are your combs ?" Mary tossed her head until every free ringlet danced in the brilliant light, and fluttered around her spotless neck and bosom. " Ah, child!" sighed Mrs. Hartley ; "this is all an error, depend upon it. Attire Like yours never won for any maiden that respect for which the heart has reason to be proud." " Oh, aunt ! Why will you talk so ? Do you really think I am so weak as to dress with the mere end of attracting attention ? You pay me a poor compliment !" " Then why do you dress in a manner so unbecoming?" " I think it very becoming !" And Mary threw her eyes again upon the mirror. " Time, I trust, will correct your error," said Mrs. Hartley, speaking partly to her- 126 BEAUTY. self; for experience had taught her how futile it was to attempt to influence her niece in a matter like this. And so, in her " undress," as Mrs. Hart ley made free to call her scanty garments, Mary went to spend the evening in a fashionable company, her head filled with the vain notion that she would, on that occasion, at least, carry off the palm of beauty. And something more than simple vanity was stirring in her heart. There w r as to be a guest at the party in whose eyes she especially desired to appear lovely and that was a young man named Per- cival, whom she had met a few times, and who was just such a one as a maiden might well wish to draw to her side. At a recent meeting, Percival had shown Mary more than ordinary attentions. In fact, the beauty of her person and graces of her mind had made upon his feelings more than a passing impression. On entering the rooms, where a large portion of the company were already as- BEAUTY. 127 sembled, Mary produced, as she had ex pected and desired, some little sensation, and was soon surrounded by a circle of gay young men. Among these, however, she met not Percival. It was, perhaps, half an hour subsequent to her arrival, that Mary s eyes rested on the form of him she had been looking for ever since her entrance. He was standing, alone, in a distant part of the room, and was evidently regarding her with fixed attention. She blushed, and her heart beat quicker as she discovered this. Almost instantly a group of young persons came between her and Percival, and she did not see him again for some twenty mi nutes. Then he was sitting by the side of Agnes Gray, the young lady to whom her aunt referred as being beautiful, and whom she regarded with very different ideas. Agnes wore a plainly made sprigged muslin dress, that fitted close to the neck; her beautiful hair was neatly but not showily arranged, and had a single ornament, which was not conspicuous. 128 BEAUTY. For the first time, an impression of beauty in Agnes affected the mind of Miss Marvel. She had been listening to something said by Mr. Percival, and was just in the act of replying, when Mary s eyes rested upon her; and then the inward beauty of her pure spirit so filled every feature of her face that she looked the very impersonation of loveliness. A sigh heaved the bosom of Mary Marvel, and, from that moment, her proud self-satisfaction vanished. An hour passed, and yet Percival did not seek her in the crowd, though, during that time, he had danced not only with Agnes Gray, but with one or two others. It was toward the close of the evening, and Mary, dispirited and weary, was sitting near one of the doors that opened from the drawing-room, when she heard her name mentioned in an undertone by a person standing in the hall. She listened involun tarily. The remark was " I hardly know whether to pronounce Miss Marvel beautiful or not." BEAUTY. 129 The person answering this remark was Percival ; and his words were " I once thought her beautiful. But that was before I met one more truly beauti ful." " Ah ! Who has carried off the palm in your eyes ?" " You have seen Agnes Gray?" " Oh yes. But she is not so handsome as Miss Marvel." " She has not such regular features ; but the more beautiful spirit within shines forth so radiantly as to throw around her person the very atmosphere of beauty. So artless, so pure, so innocent ! To me, she is the realization of my best dreams of maiden loveliness." "Miss Marvel," remarked the other, " spoils every thing by her vanity and love of display. She dresses in shocking bad taste." " Shocking to me !" said Percival. " Real ly, her arms, neck, and bosom, to-night, are so much exposed that I cannot go near 130 BEAUTY. her. I would almost blush to look into her face ; and yet, I respect and esteem her highly. Pity, that personal vanity should spoil one who has so many good qualities so much to win our love and admira tion." The young men moved away, and Mary heard no more. Enough, however, had reached her ears to overwhelm her with pain and mortification. She soon after re tired from the company. The rest of the night was spent in weeping. The lesson was severe, but salutary. When Percival next met Mary Marvel, her dress and manners were much more to his taste ; but she had changed too late to win him to her side, for his heart now wor shipped at another shrine. THE KNIGHT, THE HEEMIT, AND THE MAN. THE KNIGHT. C IR GUY DE MONTFORT was as brave a knight as ever laid lance in rest or swung his glittering battle-axe. He pos sessed many noble and generous qualities, but they were obscured, alas ! by the strange thirst for human blood that marked the age in which he lived an age when " Love your friends and hate your enemies" had taken the place of " But I say unto you, love your enemies; bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despiteful ly use you and persecute you." III.-L 131 132 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, Ten knights as brave as Sir Guy, and possessing as many noble and generous qualities, had fallen beneath his superior strength and skill in arms; and for this, the bright eyes of beauty looked admiringly upon him fair lips smiled when he ap peared, and minstrels sang of his prowess, in lady s bower and festive hall. At a great tournament given in honour of the marriage of the king s daughter, Sir Guy sent forth his challenge to single and deadly combat ; but, for two days, no one accepted this challenge, although it was three times proclaimed by the herald. On the third day, a young and strange knight rode, with vizor down, into the lists, and accepted the challenge. His slender form, his carriage, and all that appertained to him, showed him to be no match for Guy de Montfort and so it proved. They met and Sir Guy s lance, at the first tilt, pe netrated the corslet of the brave young knight and entered his heart. As he rolled upon the ground, his casque Hew off, and AND THE MAN. a shower of sunny curls fell ever his fair young face and neck. Soon the strange news went thrilling from heart to heart, that the youthful knight who had kissed the dust beneath the- sharp steel of De Montfort, was a maiden I and none other than the beautiful, high- spirited Agnes St. Bertrand, whose father Sir Guy had killed, hut a few months be fore, in a combat to which he had chal lenged him. By order of the king the tournament was suspended, and rampant knights and ladies gay went back to their homes, in soberer mood than when they came forth. Alone in his castle, with the grim faces of his ancestors looking down upon him from the wall, Sir Guy paced to and fro with hurried steps. The Angel of Mercy was nearer to him than she had been for years, and her whispers were distinctly heard. Glory and fame were forgotten by the knight for self was forgotten. The question a strange question for him-*- 134 THE KNIGHT, * What good ?" arose in his mind. He had idlled St. Bert-rand but why ? To add an other leaf to his laurels as a brave knight. But was this leaf worth its cost the broken heart of the fairest and loveliest maiden in the land ? nay, more the life- drops from that broken heart ? For the first time the flush of triumph was chilled by a remembrance of what the triumph had cost him. Then came a shud der, as he thought of the lovely widow who drooped in Arto Castle of the wild pang that snapped the heartstrings of DeCres- sy s bride, when she saw the battle-axe go crashing into her husband s brain of the beautiful betrothed of Sir Gilbert de Ma rion, now a shrieking maniac of Agnes St. Bertrand ! As these sad images came up before the Knight, his pace grew more rapid, and his brows, upon which large beads of sweat were standing, were clasped between his hands with a gesture of agony. " And what for all this ?" he murmured, AND THE MAX. 135 " What for all this ? Am I braver 31 better for such bloody work ?" Through the long night he paced the hall of his castle; but with daydawn he rode forth alone. The sun arose and set; the seasons came and went ; years passed ; but the knight returned not. THE HERMIT. Far from the busy scenes of life dwelt a pious recluse, who, in prayer, fasting, and various forms of penance, sought to find repose for his troubled conscience. His food was pulse, and his drink the pure water that went sparkling in the sunlight past his hermit-cell in the wilderness. Now and then a traveller who had lost his way, or an eager hunter in pursuit of game, met this lonely man in his deep seclusion. To such he spoke eloquently of the vani ties of life and of the wisdom of those who, renouncing these vanities, devote them- L2 136 THE KXIGIIT, THE HERMIT, selves to God; and they left him, believing the hermit to be a wise and happy man. But they erred. Neither prayer nor pe nance filled the aching void that was in his bosom. If he were happy, it was a happiness for which none need have felt an envious wish ; if he were wise, his wis dom partook more of the selfishness of this world than of the holy benevolence of the next. The days came and went; the seasons changed ; years passed ; and still the her mit s prayers went up at morning, and the setting sun looked upon his kneeling form. His body was bent, though not with age ; his long hair whitened, but not with the snows of many winters. Yet all availed not. The solitary one found not in prayer and penance that peace which passeth all understanding. One night he dreamed in his cell that the Angel of Mercy came to him, and said : " It is in vain all in vain ! Art thou not a man, to whom power has been given AND THE MAN. 137 to do good to thy fellow-man ? Is the bird on the tree, the beast in his lair, the worm that crawls upon the earth, thy fellow? Not by prayer, not by meditation, not by penance, is man purified ; not for these are his iniquities washed out. Well done, good and faithful servant/ These are the divine words thou hast not yet learned. Thou callest thyself God s servant; but where is thy work ? I see it not. Where are the hungry thou hast fed ? the naked thou hast clothed ? the sick and the pri soner who have been visited by thee? They are not here in the wilderness !" The angel departed, and the hermit awoke. It was midnight. From the bend ing heavens beamed down myriads of beautiful stars. The dark and solemn woods were still as death, and there was no sound on the air save the clear music of the singing rill, as it went on happily with its work, even in the darkness. " Where is my work ?" murmured the hermit, as he stood with his hot brow un- 138 THE KNIGHT, 1EIE HERMIT, covered in the cool air. " The stars are moving in their courses ; the trees are spreading forth their branches and rising to heaven ; and the stream flows on to the ocean ; but I, superior to all these I, gifted with a will, an understanding, and active energies am doing no work ! Well done, good and faithful servant. Those blessed words cannot be said of me." Morning came, and the hermit saw the bee at its labour, the bird building its nest, and the worm spinning its silken thread. " And is there no work for me, the noblest of all created things ?" said he. The hermit knelt in prayer, but found no utterance. Where was his work ? He had none to bring but evil work. He had li armed his fellow men but where was the good he had done ? Prayers and peni tential deeds wiped away no tear from the eye of sorrow fed not the hungry clothed not the naked. " De Montfort ! it is vain ! there must be charity as well as piety !" AND THE MAN. 139 Thus murmured the hermit, as he arose from his prostrate attitude. When night came, the hermit s cell, far away in the deep, untrodden forest, was tenantless. THE MAN. A fearful plague raged in a great city. In the narrow streets where the poor were crowded together, the hot breath of the pestilence withered up hundreds in a day. Those not striken down, fled, and left the suffering and the dying to their fate. Ter ror extinguished all human sympathies. In the midst of these dreadful scenes, a man clad in plain garments a stranger approached the plague-stricken city. The flying inhabitants warned him of the peril he was about encountering, but he heeded them not. He entered within the walls, and took his way with a firm step to the most infected regions. III. 9 140 THE KNIGHT, THE HERMIT, In the first house that he entered lie found a young maiden alone and almost in the agonies of death ; and her feeble cry was for something to slake her burning thirst. He placed to her lips a cool draught, of which she drank eagerly ; then he sat down to watch by her side. In a little while the hot fever began to abate, and the sufferer slept. Then he lifted her in his arms and bore her beyond the city walls, where the air was purer and where were those appointed to receive and minister to the sick who were brought forth. Again he went into the deadly atmo sphere and among the sick and the dying ; and soon he returned once more with a sleeping infant that he had removed from the infolding arms of its dead mother. There was a calm and holy smile upon the stranger s lips as he looked into the sweet face of the innocent child ere he resigned it to others ; and those who saw that smile said in their hearts " Verily, he hath his reward." AND THE MAN. 141 For weeks the plague hovered, with its black wings, over that devoted city and during the whole time, this stranger to all the inhabitants passed from house to house, supporting a dying head here, giving drink to such as were almost mad with thirst there, and bearing forth in his arms those for whom there was any hope of life. But when "the pestilence that walketh in darkness and wasteth at noonday" had left the city, he was no where to be found. For years the castle of De Montfort was without a lord. Its knightly owner had departed, though to what far country no one knew. At last he returned not on mailed charger, with corslet, casque, and spear a boastful knight, with hands crim soned by his brother s blood, nor as a pious devotee from his cloister; but, as a man, from the city where he had done good deeds amid the dying and the dead. He came to take possesion of his stately castle 142 THE KNIGHT THE HERMIT THE MAN. and his broad lands once more not as a knight, but as a man not to glory once more in his proud elevation, but to use the gifts with which God had endowed him, in making wiser, better, and happier his fellow-men. He had work to do, and he was faithful in its performance. He was no longer a knight-errant^ seeking for adventure wher ever brute courage promised to give him renown ; he was no longer an idle hermit, shrinking from his work in the great har vest-fields of life ; but he was a man, doing valiantly, among his fellow-men, truly noble deeds not deeds of blood, but deeds of moral daring, in an age when the real uses of life were despised by the titled few. There was the bold Knight, the pious Hermit, and the Man; but the MAN waa best and greatest of all. THE MERCHANT S DREAM A LGERON was a merchant. All through "^^ a long summer day he had been en gaged among boxes, bales, and packages; or poring over accounts current; or musing over new adventures. When night came he retired to his quiet chamber and re freshed his wearied mind with music and books. Poetry, and the harmony of sweet sounds, elevated his sentiments, and caused him to think, as he had often before thought, of the emptiness and vanity of mere earth ly pursuits. " In what," said he, " am 1 wasting my time ? Is there any thing in the dull round of mercantile . life to satisfy an immortal spirit ? What true congeniality is there HE. M 143 144 THE MERCHANT S DREAM. between the highly gifted soul and bales of cotton jr pieces of silk? Between the human mind and the dull, insensible ob jects of trade ? Nothing ! Nothing ! How sadly do we waste our lives in the mere pursuit of gold! And after the glittering earth is gained, are we any happier? I think not. The lover of truth the wise, contemplative hermit in his cell is more a man than Algeron !" Thus mused the merchant, and thus he gave utterance to his thoughts sighing as he closed each sentence. The book that he loved was put aside the instrument from which his skilful hand drew eloquent music lay hushed upon a table. He was unhappy. He had remained thus for some time, when the door of his room opened, and a beautiful being entered and stood be fore him. Her countenance was calm and elevated, yet full of sweet benevolence. For a moment she looked at the unhappy merchant, then extending her hand, she said THE MERCHANT S DREAM. 145 " Algeron, I have heard your complaints. Come with me, and look around with a broader intelligence." As she spoke, she laid her finger upon the eyes of the young man. Arising, he found himself in the open air, walking by the side of his strange conductor, along a path that led to a small cottage. Into this they entered. It was a very humble abode but peace and contentment were dwellers in the breasts of its simple-minded occupants an aged female and a little girl. Both were engaged with reels of a curious and somewhat complicated construction; and both sang cheerily at their work. A basin of cocoons on the floor by each of the reels, told Algeron the true nature of their employment. A small basket of fine and smoothly reeled spools were upon a table. While the merchant still looked on, a man entered, and after bargaining for the reeled silk, paid down the price, and carried it away. A few minutes after, the owner of the cottage came in. He asked for his rent, 146 THE MERCHANT S DREAM. and it was given to him. Then he retired. Shortly after, a dealer in provisions stopped at the humble dwelling, and liberally sup plied the wants of its occupants. He re ceived his pay, and drove off, singing gay- ly, while the old woman and the child looked contented and happy. " Come," said his conductor, and Algeron left the cottage. The scene had changed. He was no longer in the open country, but surrounded by small houses. It was a village. Along the streets of this they walked for some time, until they came to a store, which they entered. Standing be side the counter was the same man who had bought the cottagers silk. He had many parcels, which he had collected from many cottages ; and now he was passing them over to the storekeeper, who was as ready to buy as he was to sell. " Another link in the great chain," re marked the mysterious companion signifi cantly. " See how they depend the one upon the other. Can the hermit in his THE MERCHANT S DREAM. 147 cell, idly musing about truths that will not abide for truth is active ; is in fact the power by which good is done to our fellows, and will not remain with any one who does not use it thus serve his fellows? Is his life more excellent, more honourable, more in accordance with the high endowments of the soul, than the life of him who engages in those employments by which all are benefited?" Algeron felt that new light was breaking in upon him. But, as yet, he saw dimly. " Look up," continued his companion, " and see yet another link." The merchant raised his eyes. The scene had again changed. The village had become a large town, with ranges of tall buildings, in which busy hands threw the shuttle, weaving into beautiful fabrics of various patterns the humble fibres ga thered from hundreds of cottages, farm houses, and cocooneries, in all the region roundabout. Through these he wandered with his guide. Here was one tending a 148 THE MERCHANT S DKEAM. loom, there another folding, arranging, or packing into cases the products thereof; and at the head of all was the manufac turer himself. " Is his a useless life ?" asked the guide. " Is he wasting the high endowments of an c o immortal mind in thus devoting himself to the office of gathering in the raw material and reproducing it again as an article of comfort and luxury ? But see ! Another has presented himself. It is the merchant. He has come to receive from this man the products of his looms, and send them over the world, that all may receive and enjoy them. Are his energies wasted ? No, Al- geron ! If the merchant were not to en gage in trade, the manufacturer could not get his goods to market, and would no longer afford the means of subsistence that he now does to hundreds and thousands who produce the raw material. Without him, millions who receive the blessings fur nished by nature and art in places remote from their city or count ry, would be de- THE MERCHANT S DREAM. 149 prived of many comforts, of many delights. The agriculturalist, the manufacturer, the merchant, the artisan all who are en gaged in the various callings that minister to the wants, the comforts, and the luxu ries of life, are honourably employed. So ciety, in all its paHs, is held together by mutual interests. A chain of dependencies binds the whole world together. Sever a single link, and you affect the whole. Look below you. As a merchant, your po sition is intermediate between the producer and the consumer. See how many hun dreds are blessed with the reception of na ture s rich benefits through your means. Could this take place, if you sought only after abstract truth, in idle, dreamy mus ings? Cease, then, to chafe yourself by fallacious reasonings. Rather learn to feel delight in the consciousness that you are the means of diffusing around you many blessings. Think not of the gold you are to gain, as the end of your activity ; for so far as yov do this, you will lose the true 150 THE MERCHANT S DREAM. benefits that may be derived from pursuing with diligence your calling in life that for which by education you are best qualified and into which your inclination leads you." "I see it all now, clear as a sunbeam," Algeron said, with a sudden enthusiasm, as light broke strongly into his mind. The sound of his own voice startled him with its strangeness. For a moment he seemed the centre of a whirling sphere. Then all grew calm, and he found himself sitting alone in his chamber. " Can all this have been but a dream ?" he murmured, thoughtfully. No no it is more than a dream, I have not been taught by a mere phantom of the imagina tion, but by Truth herself beautiful Truth. Her lovely countenance 1 shall never for get, and her words shall rest in my heart like apples of gold in pictures of silver. Henceforth I look upon life with a purified vision. Nothing is mean, nothing is un worthy of pursuit that ministers to the THE MERCHANT S DREAM. 151 good of society. On this rock I rest my feet. Here I stand upon solid ground." From that time, Algeron pursued his business as a merchant with renewed acti vity. The thought that he was minister ing, in his sphere, to the good of all around him, was a happy thought. It cheered him on in every adventure, and brought to his mind, in the hour of retirement, a sweet peace, such as he had never before known. Fully did he prove that the consciousness of doing good to others brings with it the purest delight. THE END. MAGGY S BATY. MAGGY S BABY, OTHER STORIES. BY T. S. A R T H U K. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY CBOOM1 PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO- 1873. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. LIPPI SCOTT S PRESS, PHILADELPHIA. CONTENTS. PAGB MAGGY S BABY 7 CHARLEY S CRUTCH , 16 HARRY AND HIS DOG; OR, THE EVILS OF DIS OBEDIENCE 22 THE BEGGARS 32 A CHRISTMAS STORY 42 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE 66 PRESENCE OF MIND 74 TEMPTATION RESISTED 90 THE TWO WAYS 103 HARRY S DREAM 115 TRUE BENEVOLENCE 125 THE LAMB 132 LITTLE GEORGE AND HIS GRANDMOTHER 138 FADING FLOWERS.... 147 MAGGY S BABY. dear, dear me ! I wish I kne\\ what to do with myself!" sighed Mary Page, as she closed the book she had been trying to read, and threw herself in a lounging position on the sofa. " Put on your things and take a walk. You need fresh air and exercise," said the young lady s mother. "I don t care about walking," replied Mary listlessly. " Your health requires it, my dear," urged Mrs. Page. Seated in the- room with the mother and daughter, was a quiet -looking girl, busily employed with her needle. She did not 8 MAGGY S BABTf. appear to observe what passed between Mrs. Page and Mary ; nor in fact did she, for her mind was as busy as her fingers and both were usefully occupied. Without responding to her mother s last remark, Mary, whose eyes had rested for a moment or two on the form of the young girl, as she bent over the work that lay in her lap, said, with some impatience in her voice and manner " For mercy s sake, Alice ! do stop. It makes me nervous to look at you. No thing but stitch, stitch, stitch, hour in and hour out. What can you be doing ?" The young person thus addressed raised her head, and fixed her mild blue eyes on her interrogator, while a wreath of the heart s warm sunshine played softly about her lips. Then, without replying, she re sumed her employment. " Oh dear !" sighed Mary, again. " Now do exert yourself, my love," said Mrs. Page, in a persuasive tone of voice. " Dress yourself and take a walk." MAGGY S BABY. 9 "Where shall I go?" " Walk out and take the fresh air. "Walk for nothing? Oh dear, no! That s worse than staying in the house; particularly as an hour must be spent be forehand in dressing. Now do, Alice, stop that everlasting stitch, stitch, stitching!" said Mary, more petulantly than when she first addressed her. You make me so nervous that I can scarcely contain myself. What are you doing ?" Again the young girl raised her head, and fixed her gentle eyes on Mary Page. For a few moments she looked at her calmly, yet with a mild reproof in her glance. Then gathering her work in her hands, she arose, and was about leaving the room, when the former interrupted her by saying " Just tell me what you are so wonder fully busy about, Alice? Here, for two days, you have been doing nothing but stitch, stitch. What a fit of industry has come over you." Alice, whose hand was on the door. 10 MAGGY S BABY. paused to hear what Mary tad to say. Then approaching her, she bent over and whispered something in her ear, to which the young lady replied " No it s too much trouble. I don t feel like moving." " But I want you. Come ! I ve some thing particular to say." " Say it here. Ma won t listen, if it s any secret." " Not a word of it until you are in my room," said Alice firmly. There was a decision about her tone and manner that had its effect upon Mary, who slowly raised herself from her reclining po sition, saying as she did so " You are a provoking chit, Alice." The two girls presently left the apart ment together, and ascended to the room of Alice. As soon as they were alone, the latter said " Did you ever see a sweeter babe than Mrs. Martin s?" "Isn t it a darling?" instantly replied MAGGY S BABY. 1] Mary, a light glancing over her face, and sparkling in her eyes. The true heart in her felt instantly the ingenuous appeal of the cousin for that was the relationship borne by the young girls to each other. " Indeed it is," quietly returned Alice. " Do you know," said Mary, with ani mation, that I begged Mrs. Martin to lend me the dear little thing for an hour or two? I declare ! if she d only said yes, if I wouldn t have brought it home in my arms." Alice smiled at her cousin s suddenly awakened enthusiasm. I know where there is just as sweet a baby as Mrs. Martin s ; and what is more, its mother will let you bring it home, if you feel at all inclined to do so." " Do you !" And Mary struck her hands together in expression of her delight. " And pray, where is it? " Not half a square from here." " Whose baby is it ?" "Do you remember Maggy Green, who 12 used to sew for your mother, two or three years ago?" "Yes." " And how she got married and went to live in New Jersey ?" "Yes." "Well, Maggy s husband died three or four months ago, and she has come back to the city." " And is living near us ?" " Yes. She is at the house of a friend, who has kindly given her a home until she is able to get one for herself." " And Maggy has the dear little baby of which you were speaking ?" "Yes." " Is it sweet and clean ?" asked Mary, a slight shade passing over her animated face. " So many of these poor babies are neglect ed by their mothers, and kept in such a condition that one can t bear to look at, much less touch them. A dirty baby ! Oh, dear ! Save me from such an infliction." "It will be our fault if Maggy s baby MAGGY S BABY. 13 isn t always as nice as a new pin/ said Alice. "Now let me show you what I have been doing." And Alice opened a drawer, and lifted therefrom two neatly made baby-frocks, one with a pink and the other with a blue sprig. There was also a white flannel petticoat, a snowy linen shirt, and a pair of white worsted socks, with blue edges and ties. " What beauties !" exclaimed Mary. "And are these for Maggy s baby ?" "Yes." " And did you make them ?" " Yes ; I have just finished a white apron, the < stitch, stitching of which annoyed you so much just now." " Well, you are a queer one, Alice ! And you ve been working these two or three days for Maggy s baby? Why didn t you ask me to help you ?" "You?" Yes, me." " Oh, I ve heard you say, dozens of times, that you had no taste for things useful." 14 MAGGY S BABY. " I say a great many things when Fir. tired of myself and everybody around me. But when are you going to see Maggy and her baby?" " This morning." " I ll go with you," said Mary with ani mation. Already a beautiful glow had come to her cheeks that were before pale ; her eyes were full of life, and every move ment evinced the rapid flow of animal spirits. " I shall be most happy to have your company," replied Alice. " I ll get myself ready in a twinkling." And Mary glanced from the room. In a much shorter time than it usually took Mary to dress herself, she was ready to ac company her cousin, and, chatting together with much animation, they left the house. We will not accompany the young ladies to the humble abode of Maggy Green, where they betook themselves, and where half an hour was spent in washing and dress ing the baby. A lovely babe it was, with MAGGY S BABY. 15 eyes as blue as the bending heavens, and cheeks as fair and beautiful as a newly-open ing flower. Daily, from that time, there was, in the house of Mrs. Page, an object of deep inte rest for Mary an object that drew upon her active love ; for Maggy was taken back into the family, and her baby became the especial care of Alice and her cousin. Not half so frequently did the latter now com plain of being a burden to herself; for there was always something or other that love inspired her to do for the sweet little stranger Maggy s baby; and thus she learned thai only in coming out of ourselves, and living for others, is it possible to find true enjoy ment in life. CHARLEY S CRUTCH. Children s Home" is the name by which an institution in Philadelphia, founded in the true spirit of charity, is known. Some years ago, a few benevolent ladies, moved with compassion for the suf ferings of very young children neglected and abused by intemperate and vicious pa rents, rented a house in South street, a few doors below Ninth, employed a matron, and placed in her care a few little ones, resigned into their hands by mothers who could not or would not provide for them. Among the first inmates of this " Home" were babes but a few months old, some of whom, when received, were in a condition the 1C CHARLEY S CRUTCH. 17 bare thought of which makes the heart ache. From this small beginning, the institu tion grew to importance, and soon there were in " The Children s Home" between sixty and seventy inmates, from the babe of a few months old to the boy and girl of eleven and twelve. All are supported and educated through the unostentatious but true benevolence of a few kind and gene rous-hearted ladies. Visitors to the " Home" sometimes, from a kind impulse, will give the children pen nies. To prevent dissatisfaction and little jealousies, the matron has made it a rule that all money so received by the children shall be placed in a box. This box is open ed, generally, about New-year s day, and the amount expended for fruit and cakes, in which all the children share alike. Among the children was a lame boy, about eight years of age, named Charley, who has to use a crutch. Now, as fully two years had passed since Charley s crutch ?8 CHARLEY S CRUTCH. was made, and he had been growing all that time, it was but a natural consequence that said crutch should have become too short ; or, rather, that Charley should have grown too tall for his crutch. So the little fel low, in using his crutch, had to bend over more and more every day, to his no small inconvenience. The matron noticed the growing defect, but did not know where to get a new crutch for Charley. Some of the lady patronesses, in their regular visits, also observed the child, and spoke of the want of a new crutch. But, some how or other, the new crutch did not come, and Charley continued to hop about, but more and more defectively, as the time wore on. New-year s day came round again, and the box containing the aforementioned pen nies was formally opened by the matron in the presence of all the children. " Now," said she, after the money was counted over, "what shall be bought with these pennies? There is one apiece all round. What will you have, Johnny ? CHARLEY S CRUTCH. 19 speaking to a little fellow whose eyes were fixed on her own. " I ll have a cake," said Johnny. Very well ; Johnny will have a cake. What will you have, Mary ?" " An apple," replied Mary. And so the questions went round one deciding on a cake, one on an apple, and another choosing for his or her New-year s treat a ^ie or candy. At last the ques tion was put to a little fellow, whose large bright eyes sparkled as he half arose in his eagerness, and said " I ll give my penny to buy ChaJey a new crutch." The matron stood for some moments si lent. She was touched by the unexpected answer. " You re a good boy," said she in a changed voice, " to think of Charley poor little fel low! He does want a new crutch very badly. Now, children," she added, speak ing in a cheerful, elevated, encouraging tone, "what say you all to buying Char- IV. 2 B 2 20 CHARLEY S CRUTCH. ley a new crutch ? Which of you will give your pennies for this purpose ? You shall do just as you please Now, let all who are for buying Charley a crutch with these pen nies, hold up their right hands." Instantly the hands of the children flew into the air; some even, in the heartiness of their assent, holding up both hands. " You are good children," said the ma tron, much affected by the incident. " Charley will now have a new crutch, and your pleasure, in seeing him use it day after day, will be far greater than if this money had been expended in candies, cakes, and apples." The sequel to this pleasant story it will not be hard for the reader to imagine. But we will not leave all to the imagination. One of the ladies interested in the Chil dren s Home coming in soon after the oc currence just related, was informed of what had taken place. " Let the children have their treat," said she. "I will get Charley a crutch. AD CHARLEY S CKUTCH. 21 act so unselfish as this must not go unre warded." A neat walnut crutch of the proper length soon took the place of Charley s short, rough ly made pine one, and it filled, for the time, the measure of the child s happiness. The pennies which had been collecting in the box, served their first purpose, and pro duced the long looked-for feast of good things, which were now enjoyed with a double zest by the children. There is a germ of good in the heart of that humble child, (his name even has not reached us,) who, forgetting himself, thought only of his little friend and companion. The instincts of a noble nature are stirring in his young bosom. Humble, unknown, forsaken as he has been, and kept from want and suffering by the hand of charity, there is that in him which gives promise of a man of whom in after years it shall be said " The world is better for his having lived/ 1 HARRY AND HIS DOG; OR, THE EVILS OF DISOBEDIENCE. U /^10ME, Nero," said Harry Long, as he ^ passed out of the house with his satchel in his hand. " Come, old fellow." Nero sprang instantly to his feet, and dashing past the boy, ran a few rods from the house, and then pausing, turned, and, with a look half human in its pleasure and intelligence, waited for Harry to come up with him. Now, Henry s mother had more than once told him that he must not take Nero away when he went to school. But it was so pleasant to have the dog s company along the road to the school-house, that HAK tY AND HIS DOG Page 22. \ THE EVILS OF DISOBEDIENCE. 25 the lad every now and then disobeyed. this injunction, trusting that he would escape punishment. Nero was quite as willing to go with his young master as the latter was to have him in company; and bounded away, as has been seen, at the first word of encour agement. But the two friends had not proceeded far, before the mother of Henry saw them from her window, and instantly came out and called after Nero. She was offended at the disobedience of her son, and uttered some threatening words to both him and the dog. Nero did not, at first, show much incli nation to obey the authoritative voice of Mrs. Long; and if Harry had only spoken a single word, would have gone with him in spite of all opposition. But that word Harry dared not speak, and so the dog stood still, looking back first toward Mrs. Long, and then wishfully after his young master. Finally, Nero returned slowly to the house, and Harry went on as slowly, 26 HARRY AND HIS DOG ; OR, and equally as much disappointed, to school. When Harry returned home, a few hours afterward, his mother received him kind ly, yet with a serious countenance. His first thought was of his disobedience in trying to get Nero to follow him to school ; and, as he expected, she began at once to speak on that subject. " Harry," said she, " I hardly think you can have forgotten what I said to you last week about taking Nero away from home." Henry hung down his head, and did not attempt to offer an excuse for his conduct. " I am extremely sorry," continued Mrs. Long, " that my son should have acted so disobediently. Sorry for his sake ; for dis obedience brings evil into the heart, and this creates unhappiness. And I am also sorry for another cause : to disobey is to do wrong; and wrong-doing, in almost every case, injures others." Harry looked into his mother s face with a glance of inquiry. THE EVILS OF DISOBEDIENCE. 27 " Yes, my son/ she added, " wrong-doing, in almost every case, injures others." " It couldn t have hurt any body if I had taken Nero to school with me. How could it, mother ?" said the boy. Mrs. Long gazed for a few moments into the face of Harry, and then, reaching her hand toward him, said " Come." There was something so serious, not to say solemn, in the face of Mrs. Long, that the lad began to feel a little strangely. " Where, mother ?" he asked. But she did not answer, and he moved along silently by her side. From the sitting-room down-stairs, where the mother had met her boy, they passed along the passage, and up-stairs into a chamber, where, to his surprise, Harry saw his little sister, Phoebe, a sweet child in her second year, lying asleep, and looking so pale and deathly, that the sight caused a shudder to pass through his body. "Oh, mother!" he exclaimed, turning 28 HARKY AND HIS DOG J OR, quickly and grasping the garment of his parent. " Dear mother ! what is the mai> ter with Phoebe ?" " Let us sit down here by the window," said Mrs. Long in a calm voice, " and I will tell you all about what has happened." " Is she dead, mother?" eagerly asked the boy, while tears came into his eyes. " No, my child, she is not dead, thanks to our heavenly Father! But I cannot tell how it would now be, if you had taken Nero off to school with you this morning." " Why, mother ? What did Nero do ?" " Listen, and I will tell you. After I called the dog back, he came and laid him self down on the mat before the door, and placing his head between his forepaws, shut his eyes, and seemed to be sleeping. He remained lying thus for nearly an hour, when, all at once, I saw him start up, listen, and look about him. Presently he ran off and went all around the house. He seemed uneasy about something. First he looked in one direction, and then in THE EVILS OF DISOBEDIENCE. 29 another; snuffed the air; put his nose to the ground and ran a little way from the house, and then came back again. " < What is the matter, Nero ? said I. " He came and fixed his eyes upon my face with a look that to me seemed anx ious, stood for a few moments, and then went to his mat again. But he did not lie there more than an instant before he arose and started off up-stairs. In a little while he came down and seemed more un easy than ever. I began now to feel strangely. " c Where is Phoebe ? I now called out to Margaret, who was in the kitchen. " I am sure I don t know, replied Mar garet. I thought she was with you/ "At this moment, with a short bark, Nero sprang toward the spring. I saw this, and, fearing that Phoebe might have wandered off in that direction, followed quickly. But, ere I had gone halfway, I beheld the noble dog returning with your little sister in his mouth, and the water IV. C 30 HARRY AND HIS DOG J OR, dripping from her hair and clothes. She appeared to be quite dead when I took her into my arms ; and did not show any signs of life for nearly half an hour afterward. Then she began slowly to recover. Oh, my son ! think what might have been the consequence, if our faithful Nero had not been at home." Harry covered his face with his hands, and burying them in his mother s lap, sobbed bitterly. u And will Phoebe get well, mother?" he asked, looking up with tearful eyes, after he had grown calmer. " Yes, my son," replied Mrs. Long. " She is out of all danger, now. God has per mitted her still to remain with us." " Oh ! if she had been drowned," said Harry, the tears flowing afresh. " But for Nero, this painful event might have taken place." " Suppose that he had gone to school with me ?" The boy saddened as he spoke. " Sad, sad might have been the cense- THE EVILS OF DISOBEDIENCE. 31 quences of your disobedience, my son. You now understand what I meant by our wrong acts affecting others as well as our selves. In right-doing, Henry, there is always safety. Never forget this. May the lesson you have now received go with you through the remainder of your life." Just then Phoebe awoke and rose up in bed. Harry ran to her, and putting his arm about her neck, kissed her tenderly. Nero came in soon after, and shared the joy and caresses of his young friend, with whom, not many hours before, he had joined in willing disobedience. But Nero was not to blame in this, for he fol lowed the instinct of his nature. Harry was alone to blame; for he had reason and reflection, and knew that the act he medi tated was wrong, because it was an act of disobedience. THE BEGGARS. A NNA and Willy were walking with fw their mother, one clear, cold day, early in the new year. The shop-windows were still full of elegant and attractive holiday goods, arid the children lingered, at vari ous points along the street, to enjoy the display. Anna had a sixpence, the last that re mained of her Christmas and New-year s gifts, and she had promised herself some pleasure in spending it. She was a tender hearted child. Suffering in others always awakened her sympathy, and made her de sire its relief. Let me give an incident to illustrate her character THE BEGGARS. 33 Anna had been saving her money for Borne time previous to the holidays, and in her little purse was over half a dollar. A few days before Christmas, a lady friend called upon her mother, who had engaged to go with her to a place called the " Chil dren s Home," where were gathered togeth er some thirty or forty little children, from the babe of a few weeks old to the boy and girl of nine or ten little children whose parents were either dead, or too idle and vicious rightly to care for them. Here, they had warm rooms, comfortable food and clothing, kind nurses, and careful teachers. This " Home" was provided by the true kindness of a few excellent ladies, who not only supported it with their money, but visited it regularly to see that their benevo lent purposes were fully carried out. Anna went with her mother to this Chil dren s Home. How quickly was her heart touched by what she saw ! There was a poor little motherless babe, not so old as her little sister Helen. It had large dark 02 THE BEGGARS. eyes, curly hair, and rosy cheeks, just like Helen s. When Anna bent down to kiss it, the tears blinded her, to think that the babe had no kind mother to love and care for it. " Mother," whispered Anna, as they were about going away. "Well, dear? What is it?" asked her mother. " Can t I give my half-dollar to the Chil dren s Home ?" " The half-dollar you saved for Christ mas?" " Yes, mother. I ve got it in my pocket ; and if you ll let me, I ll give it to the Chil dren s Home." " Do so, if you like, my dear," replied Anna s mother, greatly pleased at such an evidence of good feeling and self-denial on the part of Anna, who had, she knew, en tertained other purposes in regard to her money. So Anna gave her half-dollar to the poor, motherless children; and she felt happier THE BEGGARS. 85 for what she had done, than if she had spent it in buying things to gratify herself. Such was Anna, the little girl who was now walking with her mother and brother. " Oh, look !" she cried, stopping sudden ly, and catching hold of her mother s hand. " There is a poor woman and three little children. It s so cold, and they ve got no home. Can t I give them my sixpence ?" " Just look at that unfeeling lady," said Willy, speaking with some indignation, and pointing across the street, where a lady, warmly clad, with her hands protected by a muff, was passing the beggars without offering them a single penny. " That is Mrs. L ," replied the mo ther; "and I know her, my son, to be any thing but an unfeeling woman." " Why don t she offer the beggar a penny, then. I only wish I had some money. I d give it to her very quick. Run over, sis, and give her your sixpence." Now, Willy had spent every cent given to him during the holidays, in buying things 86 THE BEGGARS. for his own use. He did not indulge at all in the luxury of benevolence. " Mrs. L ," replied the mother, "may not think it true charity to encourage women to sit, with their poor little children, in the cold all day, begging for pennies, instead of trying to support them by useful work." " Ah, but mother," spoke up "Will quick ly, " suppose they can t get work to do ?" " Then, don t you think it would be bet ter for them to go with their children to the Almshouse, where they would have warm rooms to stay in, good food to eat, and comfortable clothes to wear, and where they would be required to do some thing useful? Idleness and beggary are next-door neighbours to vice." "Can t I give her my sixpence?" urged Anna, whose heart was too full of sorrow for the little children all exposed to the cold, to feel the force of what her mother said. " Certainly, dear, if you wish to do so. The money is your own," was replied THE BEGGARS. 37 So Anna ran across the street, and placed her sixpence in the woman s hand. When she returned, she looked thoughtful. But little was said by her on her way home. That evening, as she sat alone with her mother Willy and the other children were playing in the nursery she said " I don t think that beggar-woman was a good woman, mother." " Why not, dear?" was the natural in quiry. " I can t tell," said Anna. " But when she looked into my face, I felt afraid. Oh ! I m so glad she is not my mother. I m sure she is not good to her children. Poor little things ! I w^ish they were in the Chil dren s Home. They would be so much better off." " There is no doubt of that, my child." " And the baby, mother. Oh ! it had such a strange look. Its cheeks were red and shining, and its eyes were half closed. It did not look as if it was asleep ; and yet IV. 3 38 THE BEGGARS. it wasn t awake. What could have ailed it, mother?" " Beggar-women," replied the mother, " often give their babes large doses of lau danum, or preparations from this deleteri ous drug, to keep them quiet, while they sit idle in the street." " Does it hurt them, mother?" " It makes them stupid and insensible for a few hours ; and also destroys their health if it does not cause their death, it lays the foundation for wretchedness in the future." " Had the babe I speak of taken lauda num?" " I should think so from what you say," replied the mother. "Oh dear! isn t it dreadful, mother? Why don t they take the poor little chil dren away from such bad women, and put them into the Children s Home. It would be so much better." .,,? " In that I agree with you entirely, Anna. But what is everybody s business, as they THE BEGGARS. say, seems to be anybody s business. Our city officers, who are chosen by the people to attend to the public good, are not al ways as faithful in little things as they should be." " I only wish that I was mayor for a lit tle while," said Anna. " I d take up every woman I found begging in the streets with a baby in her arms that I would ! And if they had been giving them laudanum, or any of that kind of stuff, I d take their babies away from them, and put them in the Children s Home." " That would certainly be wiser than to encourage them in idleness and the ill- treatment of their tender offspring, by giv ing them pennies and sixpences." " But there are some beggars who are deserving?" " I would hardly like to say no, my child," replied the mother thoughtfully. "And yet, I very much doubt if, in this country, any but the idle or vicious become beggars. To give to such, you can easily see, would 40 THE BEGGARS. be no charity; for that would only encou rage them in their evil ways." " I m sorry I gave that woman my six pence," said Anna, after looking serious for some time. " Don t say that, my dear," returned her mother smiling " your act was an unself ish one; you wished to help the needy. There was a good impulse in your heart. Ever cherish such impulses. They come to you from God, who clothes the naked and feeds the hungry. But we should be wise, Anna, as well as good." "Wise! yes; I understand you, mo ther. We should know whether our alms will really do good, before we make them." " Yes, love. That is what I mean. If we give to the idle and vicious, we do them really more harm than good for we fur nish them with the means of continuing in idleness and vice." " I can understand that, mother, very well. I wonder I never thought of it my self." THE BEGGARS. 41 " Many grown people, Anna, are no wiser in this respect than you have been. There are others, again, who make the vice of beggary a plea for not giving at all who push aside every applicant for aid : without even an inquiry into his circum stances. This, you see, is falling into error on the other side. The true spirit is a willingness to help those in need to the best of our ability. When this is felt, there will be no lack of opportunity. " Nor, in giving, need we ever be in much doubt. You were in none when you gave your half-dollar to help the Children s Home." A CHEISTMAS STORY. following true story, written by a ^~ highly valued friend and relative, is so beautifully told, and conveys so sweet a lesson of childlike trust and confidence, that we cannot resist the strong inclination we feel to give it a place in the present volume. Our young friends will thank us for so doing. THE CHILD S FAITH. It was a cold evening, and there was but little fire in Mrs. Hoffman s stove ; so little Frantz sat close by it; and though his thoughts were far away, yet a slight feeling 42 A 3HRISTMAS STOR?. 43 of discomfort from the chilliness mingled with his fancies. His mother s wheel kept on as it al ways did in the winter s long evenings with a low humming sound, that had till now been very cheerful and pleasant to little Frantz; but, somehow, he forgot to notice it this night. Poor Frantz! he scarcely looked like himself, for his head was bent down, and his eyes seemed to be looking straight through the floor, so fixed and intent did his gaze seem. Often and often did the mother s eye turn to her little boy, for never before had the joy-speaking eye of Frantz been so long bent to the earth ; but still the mother said no word, till at last a deep sigh came from the parted lips of Frantz ; then his mother laid her hand softly upon his; yet even that gentle touch startled Frantz, so lost was he in thought ; and when he quickly lifted his face, and saw the questioning look of his mother, his pent-up thoughts burst out at once. 44 A CHRISTMAS STORY. * Oh, mother ! In a week it will be Christ mas-day. Can I not have a Christmas-tree?" The mother s face looked sad, but only for a moment ; she knew that the earnest wish of little Frantz was not likely to be realized ; but she knew, too, that it was best for her boy to learn to bear cheerfully any crossing of his desires which must be ; and she spoke more soothingly and gently than usual, as she said " And what makes my little Frantz set his heart on that now ? He has never had a Christmas-tree before !" "Oh, that is it," exclaimed Frantz; "I never had one. Ever since I was a baby, mother, I have heard of the good Christ- child, who brings beautiful gifts to others. Why does he not bring them to me ? Am I worse than all the rest, mother ?" " No no, Frantz ;" so spoke the mother hastily for in her heart arose a picture of the gentleness, the self-denying fortitude of her little boy, in the midst of trouble; his patience in sickness, his industry in A CHRISTMAS STORY. 45 health, his anxious care to help her in all that his little hands could do. " No no ! my Frantz it is not that." " Well, mother, but is there any reason? Oh ! you do not know how I have dreamed and dreamed of a beautiful tree that I should have this Christmas : it was full of golden fruit and lighted tapers, and under it were laid gifts for you, dear mother : a new Bible, with large print ; and a purse of money, so that you might not have to work so hard, dear mother; and warm clothes that would never let you get cold. And oh ! as I came along the street to-day, and saw the windows shining with their loads of beautiful toys, and gifts of all sorts, and saw the boys and girls running and shouting, and telling how they would not care for any thing else, when the Christmas- day was once come, and they would have their loaded tree then, mother, all the dreams I have had, since I can first re member, came back ; all you have told me of the good Christ-child and of his love for D2 46 A CHRISTMAS STORY. children ; and I half felt, mother, as if 1 was left out, and not loved among the rest." " Dear Frantz," said the mother, " it was a sad, sad thought. Do not let it come into your heart again. Oh ! the Christ- child is always good altogether loving, even when his love is shown in such ways that we do not clearly see it at once. Come closer to me, Frantz." Frantz saw in her mother s face a look of such deep tenderness, that his soul grew full. He took his own little seat, and sat close beside her, and leaned his head against her knee, and the mother said gently " The Christ-child has given you beauti ful gifts, my Frantz; he has given you life, and a warm, earnest heart; he has given you a mother, who loves you so dearly; a home to shelter you; he gives us the light of day, and all the glorious things its reveals, and the stiller beauty of tin 1 night; and he gives us, more than all, a hope of heaven, and a knowledge ol the A CHRISTMAS STORY. 47 path to it. Are not these great gifts, Frantz?" Frantz lifted his face ; he did not speak, but his eyes were full of tears, and his mo ther knew that his heart said " Yes." So she went on : " These are the gifts we most need to make us happy ; others may be good for us, but the Christ-child knows better than we do what we need. If it were good for us, he would give us all we wish for ; but then we might not make a good use of his gifts, or we might grow proud of them, or be so wrapped up in the gifts as to forget the giver. Ah ! my Frantz, let us only ask for what is best for us to have, and he will give it; he loves to give, and only refuses what will hurt us." Again little Frantz had bent his head on his hand, but now it was not sadness, only thought, that was in his face ; and he asked " How can we know what is best what to ask for?" 48 A CHRISTMAS STORY. " If it is not given, think that it is best withheld, and be patient ; if it is given, be thankful, and use the gift aright. See, Frantz !" And the mother arose, and took from a closet a small sum of money. "This," she continued, "is all I have; if any of this is spent for toys or play, I shall not have any to buy shoes for you or for me, and by this I know the Christ-child deems it best for me to be content with what is most necessary, and to give up the pleasure of buying you beautiful golden fruit and coloured tapers." " Could I not do without shoes ?" asked Frantz. " I would go so many errands for the old cobbler, that he would mend my old ones ; and oh ! if that would make it right" "And I- should I do without shoes?" asked the mother. Frantz looked down at the worn-out shoes she had on, and again his heart was full. A CHRISTMAS STORY. 49 "Oh no, mother; you must have shoes. But oh ! how happy the boys must be whose mothers have shoes, and can give them Christmas-trees too !" Long did Frantz lie awake that night and ponder over all his mother had said, and at last a thought sprang into his mind. It was not wrong to ask the Christ-child for what we wish, if we will only patiently bear the withholding. He would ask for the tree. But how ? His mother had told him the Christ-child was ready to answer, and always near. Frantz would write his heart s wish in a letter, and direct it " To the Christ-child." And early in the fair morning, Frantz wrote the letter, and when he met his mo ther, his face was once more the gay, bright face of old ; for in his pocket was the paper which seemed to him a warrant of coming joy, and in his heart was a feeling very like certainty that his wish would be granted ; yet he did not speak of it. It was his first, his glad, darling secret, and it 50 A CHRISTMAS STORY. should be a great surprise to his mother. So he only looked joyful and kissed her; and she laid her hand on his head, and said how glad she was to see her boy so pa tient and cheerful once more. Frantz did many little acts of kindness and industry that day, for in his heart was a fountain of hope and love ; and he wish ed to help every one. But, lively as he was, he did not forget to drop his precious letter in the post-office. When the postmaster came to look over the letters, of course he was much surprised at this one of Frantz, with so strange a di rection; but in a moment he saw that it was in a child s hand, and he opened the letter. It ran thus : "GooD CHRIST-CHILD, " I am a poor little boy, but I have a good mother, who has taught me many things about you; and she has said that you are kind and good, and love little chil dren, and delight to give them gifts, so that A CHRISTMAS STORY. 51 they are not hurtful ones. Now, my mo ther is kind too, and would like to give me all I want, but she is poor, and when I asked her for a Christmas-tree, she could not give me one, because she had* only mo ney enough to buy shoes for us; so I ask you, who are kind and rich, to give me one. I hope I am not a bad boy I am sure my mother does not think I am; and if it is best for me not to have the tree, I will try to be patient, and bear it as a good boy should; but I don t see what hurt a large Bible, or warm clothes, could do tp my mo ther; so, if I may not have the tree, oh! please give her those, and I shall be so happy. "FRANTZ HOFFMAN." Pleased with the simple, childish inno cence of the letter, the post-master put it in his pocket. When he went home, he found a rich lady there, who had come to take tea with his wife; and at the table, when all were assembled, he drew forth the 52 A CHRISTMAS STORY. letter of little Frantz, and read it aloud, telling how it had come into his hands, and saying how the poor little fellow would wonder at never getting his tree, nor ever hearing of his letter again. " But he may hear of it again," said the rich lady, who had listened carefully to every word. " There is so much goodness of heart in the poor boy s love for his mo ther, that it well deserves to be rewarded. He may hear of it again." So the lady remembered the name of the boy ; indeed, she asked the man to give her the letter, which he did, and by its aid she sought and found out where Frantz lived. From some of the neighbours she heard how poor they were, and how little Frantz helped his mother all day cheerfully, and was the best boy in all the neighbourhood; and that Mrs. Hoffman had not now even the money to buy shoes, for that her land lord had raised her rent, and she had to give the little sum laid aside to him. And the lady thought to herself that it would not A CHRISTMAS STORY. 53 be likely to spoil so good a boy by a beau tiful tree; so she had one brought to her house large and full of leaves it was; and she bought all kinds of beautiful and use ful things to hang on it, and little rose- coloured tapers, to be placed among the branches ; and on the table, under the tree, were laid two pairs of shoes, one pair for the mother and one pair for Frantz, and a pair of thick blankets, and a large shawl, and a purse of money, (for the lady knew that poor Mrs. Hoffman must have many wants of which she could not know, and she wanted her to supply them by means of the purse ;) and, best of all, there was a large Bible. If Frantz s dream had suddenly turned into reality, it could not have been more beautiful. So day after day went on, and though Frantz knew not the fate of his letter, he never doubted that all would go well. It was pleasant to see the sunshiny face with which he greeted every morning, as "one IV.-4 TV. E 54 A CHRISTMAS STOBY. day nearer Christmas." And when at last Christmas morning came, bright and clear, there was a leaping, bounding heart in his bosom, and a light in his blue eyes that made his mother smile, though she scarcely knew where their next meal was to come from. The wheel kept on its whirring, and Frantz sat with his eyes fixed on the blue sky, as if he almost thought his ex pected tree would drop down from it. Sud denly a low knock was heard at the door, and a voice asked "Is little Frantz Hoffman here?" Frantz almost flew to the door. "I am Frantz!" he said. And the little maiden who had asked for him, told him to come with her, and his mother must come too. Soon, very soon, was the little party ready, and the maiden led them along gayly to a handsome house, whose door she push ed open, and they entered in. How lightly trod Frantz along the wide passage, for his heart whispered aloud to A CHRISTMAS STORY. 55 him! At the end stood a door just ajar, and as the girl pushed it open, a blaze of light streamed out. Frantz caught his mother s hand and drew her forward, ex claiming "It is my tree my tree! I knew so well it would be ready !" And sure enough, there stood the shin ing tree, all bright with lighted tapers, and laden with sparkling fruit, and on high was an image of the beautiful Christ-child, hold ing out his hand and smiling so lovingly, and below was written "FOR FRANTZ, BECAUSE HE LOVED HIS MOTHER " THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. "TITHAT is the trouble now?" asked Mrs. Ellis, coming into the room where her daughter Maria sat weeping bit terly. " That will tell you," replied Maria, dry ing her tears and handing her mother an open letter. Mrs. Ellis read as follows : " Miss : I have just learned from Harriet Wilson that you made rather free with my name yesterday. Now I would just like to know whether you did or did not say, that you thought me over and above conceited; and if so, what you meant by it? I am not used to be talked about in that way. "ANN HARRIS." 56 Page 63. THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 59 "And did you say so to Harriet Wilson?" asked Mrs. Ellis. "Yes, I did; and now how to get out of it, I am sure I cannot tell. I never dreamed that Harriet was such a tat tler, or I would have been close enough with her." " You cannot deny it, of course ?" "No, not up and down; but then, ma, it will never do in the world to come right out and acknowledge it pointblank. I d make Ann Harris an enemy all my life." "How very unguarded you are, Maria! This is the third or fourth time you have brought yourself into difficulty by a free way of talking to every one." "I know I am imprudent, ma, some times; but then I never can believe that girls with whom I am intimate will act so meanly as to become tattlers and mischief- makers, until it is too late for caution to be of any avail. But I m done with Harriet Wilson. I ve broken off my intimacy with several girls already, for repeating what I 2 60 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. said in confidence, and I ll do the same with her." " It would be much better, Maria," said her mother, "if you would put a bridle on your tongue. This would save both your self and others many unkind thoughts and painful feelings." "I know it would, ma; but then I can t always be watching myself. It s impossi ble ; I try often, but it s of no use." " If you persevere in trying, you will in time gain such a control over yourself as to keep you out of these unpleasant difficul ties." "That may be; but what shall I do now ? Ann has pinned me right down ; and there is no way of getting off, unless I say that Harriet must have misunderstood me." " Which would be prevarication, Maria, if not something more." " True; for I remember well enough that I said exactly what she reported." "And you seriously think, Maria, that Ann is conceited?" THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 61 Yes, ma, I do, or I would not have said so." "I think us you do, Maria; but then, there is to me nothing offensive in the good opinion she seems to entertain of herself." "I agree with you there; and had I not been somewhat ill-natured at the time, I never should have alluded to it." "I suspected as much," Mrs. Ellis re plied. "And under the circumstances, I am of opinion that the best way is for you frankly to own that you did say what has been reported, and why you said it. Such an honest confession will do you both good." " I don t know, ma." "Why do you doubt?" " I don t believe that such an explana tion would soften her angry feelings at all." " I am inclined to think that you feel a reluctance, on your own account, to pursue this course," said Mrs. Ellis. "Well, perhaps I do," returned Maria, after a pause. 62 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. " You are evidently in the wrong, Maria, and a consciousness of this clouds your per ception of the true way to act. Now, if you will let me write your reply to Ann s note, I think all can be brought around again." "You are certainly at liberty to do so, ma; but still, I should like to reserve the power of sending or withholding it, as it seems best to me. Is this asking too much?" " Oh no! I would rather not send a reply, unless you could see clearly that it was a right one." " Then write me an answer, ma." In the course of the day, Mrs. Ellis pre pared the following draft of a reply to Ann s letter of complaint, and submitted it tn Maria : "To Miss Ann Harris: " DEAR ANN : I received your note com plaining that I had, according to report, said unkind things of you. I cannot deny THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 68 that, in a moment of ill-humour, I was tempted to say that I thought you some what conceited ; and, to be frank with you, your manners at times indicate this fault, or peculiarity of character. But it is not half so bad a fault as the one I indulged in when I alluded to it. Now, as I have con fessed that I have a trait in my disposition much worse than the one I alluded to in yours, I must hope that you will forgive me. Ever yours, "MARIA ELLIS." "What do you think of that?" said Mrs. Ellis, after she had finished reading the proposed reply. " It s not exactly such a letter as I should have written, but I believe it s a much bet ter one; so I will send it." " I don t think it can do any harm, and it tells the whole truth, does it not?" "Yes it does, and in pretty plain terms, too," said Maria, smiling. The letter was accordingly sent, and in 61 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. the course of a couple of hours A reply was received from Ann Harris. It read thus : " DEAR MARIA : Your answer to my note has been received, and it has completely dispelled my unkind feelings. Let us for get the unpleasant incident, and be the same to each other that we have so long been. Neither of us is perfect; therefore we must learn to bear and forbear. When I see Harriet Wilson again, I will talk to her about her fondness for retailing bad news. Yours truly, "ANN HARRIS." "You have helped me to get back a friend that I always loved, dear mother!" said Maria, a good deal moved, as she finished reading the note. " I shall try here after to be more guarded than I have been. I must bridle my tongue, as you say, mo ther, unless I am pretty certain about the company I am in." "The best tongue-bridle, Maria," Mrs, THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 65 Ellis replied, "is that which charitable feel ings and charitable thoughts give. If your restraints are merely external, you will ever and anon be giving the rein to your unruly member, and then troubles will be the consequence." Maria hardly understood her mother, and did not reply, and there the conversa tion ceased. On the next morning, Cora Lee, another friend, called in, and after some chat, said " I hear that you have had a little falling out with Ann Harris is it true?" "There has been a little difference, but it is all settled now," replied Maria. " That tattling busybody, Harriet Wilson, went and repeated to her that. I said she was conceited. But she has been well rewarded for her pains; for in a note that I received from Ann, she expressed herself pretty plainly about her; saying that she had a fondness for retailing ill news, and that she should talk to her about it." " She is served perfectly right," the friend 66 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. remarked; then musing, as if suddenly re collecting herself, she added, "but I must be walking; I have several calls to make this morning." As soon as Cora Lee parted with Maria, she turned away to see Harriet Wilson, who was one of her particular friends. "So Harriet," said she, "Maria and Ann Harris have made up their difference, and, from what I can learn from Maria, Ann is pretty hard on you. She is going to take you to task for your fondness for retailing ill news. As for Maria, she don t spare you, but calls you a tattling busybody." Of course, Harriet *vas greatly incensed, and as soon as her friend was gone, put on her bonnet, and posted off to see Ann Har ris. She found that young lady in, and commenced on her something after this wise "I understand, miss, that you say I am a retailer of ill news, and that you mean to take me to task about it." Ann was a good deal surprised, and felt THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 67 pained and confused at this sudden allega tion. But before she could collect herself s ifficiently to reply, Harriet said "I should like to know if what I have heard be true?" "It is true that I said/ Ann now replied calmly, "I would talk to you about your fondness for retailing ill news." " You had no right to make such a charge against me," returned Harriet, in an angry tone, her face flushed and her eyes spark ling. "It is a false" " If you were not angry, I might, perhaps, convince you that I had some ground for what I said," replied Ann, still in a collect ed voice. "All of us have our faults; I have mine, and you have yours; and each of us is too apt to see those of others and to be blind to our own. If, instead of repeat ing to me the remarks made by Maria Ellis, you had reflected a moment as to what pos sible good could grow out of it, and then resolved not to speak of it, all this trouble would have been avoided." IV. F 68 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. "And do you pretend to tell me to my face, that I am fond of retailing ill news?" Harriet asked, her anger greatly increased. " I try, whenever I speak of another, to confine myself to what I think the truth," replied Ann, still in a calm voice, "and this I never retract." "Give me patience!" Harriet ejaculated, her face growing pale with passion. "You are wrong, Harriet," said Ann, " thus to be so much exasperated at a mere trifle. Reflect, whether almost every day you do not, in speaking of your friends, al lude to their faults in a way that you could not bear to be spoken of yourself. This is too common a practice; and be assured that you do not always escape in this gene ral habit of censoriousness. You are not faultless, and it is not in the nature of things that you should be." Harriet could not collect her thoughts for a reply, and Ann, after a pause, went on "If, when Maria Ellis, under the inllu- THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 69 ence of a momentary ill-nature, as she frank ly confesses herself to have been, spoke of me as she thought in calmer moments, you had restrained your propensity to repeat such things, no harm could have resulted from her thoughtless, and I might almost say, innocent allegation. But when you came to me, and told me that she had call ed me conceited, it aroused my feelings and caused me to ask for an explanation. With the frankness of a generous spirit, she at once confessed her fault, and all would have been well again, if she had not thoughtless ly repeated what I said in my note to her about you." But Harriet Wilson, though conscious that she had acted wrong, was so much in censed, as well as mortified, that others should think her wrong, that she neither could nor would confess her fault, but braved it out with anger and defiance. As soon as she had gone away, Ann sat down, and penned a note to Maria Ellis 70 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. "DEAR MARIA: It seems that our little difficulty is not yet ended. I have just re ceived a visit from Harriet Wilson, who has treated me in a very strange manner about what I said in my last note to you in reference to her fondness for repeating ill news. I am sorry that you communicated that to any one, as it has not only prevent ed my making an effort to show Harriet her fault, but has called down upon me her indignant censure. Yours, c. "ANN HARRIS/ "What is the matter now?" asked Mrs. Ellis, who saw, by the sudden change in her daughter s countenance, that the note she had received was b}* no means an agreea ble one. "No more doings of the unrily member, I hope?" Maria s face crimsoned deeply as she handed her mother the note. After Mrs. Ellis had read it, she said, somewhat kindly, for she really felt for Maria in her sant position THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 71 "You have net put on the right tongue- bridle yet, I see." "I suppose not. But indeed, ma, I try to be guarded how and to whom I speak. I never should have dreamed that Cora Lee would have gone right off to Harriet Wil son and told her what I said." " But the best way is not to speak un kindly of any one." " How could I have helped it, mother, in this case?" "By simply questioning yourself as to your real motive for making the communi cation. It was not to do Harriet Wilson good, was it?" " Well, I can t say, mother, that it was." "Your real motive was to make Cora Lee think meanly of her, was it not ?" "Why, ma! do you think I" Ma ria paused and looked upon the floor, while her face crimsoned. "Probe yourself thoroughly, my child. It is of the first importance for you to know distinctly your true character. If you have IV.-5 F 2 72 THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. taken pleasure in the idea of injuring an other because she has wronged or offended you. you have indulged in an evil affection ; and unless that evil affection had lain con cealed in your mind, it never could have been aroused into activity." Maria looked thoughtful and concerned, and her mother continued "Surely, my child, it is not by indulg ing this evil that it is to be weakened, much less by concealing it, even from yourself, after its indulgence. It is better to look it in the face, confess that it is wrong, and then try and shun it." "1 think, mother, I now begin to see what you mean by a tongue-bridle," said Maria, looking up seriously into the face of her kind adviser. "Well, my child?" " It is, that we should shun the cause of evil speaking." "That is it, Maria. If we condemn the feeling that prompts us to speak unkindly of others, and try to conquer it, we shall THE TONGUE-BRIDLE. 78 be in little danger of indulging the bad habit. But if we only curb the busy little member, at the same time that we desire to speak censoriously, we shall be sure, sooner or later, to be betrayed into a word that had better not have been uttered. Kind feel ings for, and a desire to do good to others, is the best tongue-bridle." "I see it plainly enough, now, dear mo ther, and I am resolved to try and put the true bridle upon my tongue." And Maria did try to some purpose. The little difficulty she was in was ami cably settled; for she had all the parties together, confessed her fault, and urged a general reconciliation. If, at any time af terward, she felt the desire to indulge in unkind words ; she turned her thoughts in ward to the unkind feelings that prompted them, and she was soon so much engaged in trying to conquer those feelings, that the desire -to speak from them passed away. She had found the true TONGUE-BRIDLE. PKESENCE OF MIND. Q.EORGE WILLIAMS and Edward Jones, two boys living near together, obtained their parents consent, one Satur day, to go to the mill-pond and skate. There had been some pretty cold weather, and as the ice had formed rapidly, Mr. Jones and Mr. Williams supposed that the surface of the mill-pond was as hard as the floor, and that therefore their boys would be entirely free from danger. Away ran the two boys, with their skates hung around their necks, and their thoughts intent upon the pleasure they were to have on the mill-pond. On reach ing the top of a hill which overlooked the 74 PRESENCE OF MIND. 75 pond, they saw Henry Lee, a school com panion, gliding along over the smooth sur face of the ice as swiftly as a bird on the wing. Eager to join him, they ran shout ing down the hill, and were soon occupied in strapping on their skates. But ere this was completed, the two lads were alarmed by a cry of terror from Henry; and on looking up, they saw that he had broken through the ice, and was struggling in the water. At this, Edward Jones became so fright ened, that he threw off his skates and started back, screaming, toward home; but George Williams, with more presence of mind and courage, seized a long pole that lay upon the shore, and went as quickly as possible to the assistance of the drowning boy. Henry had fallen into what is called an " air-hole," where the ice is very thin ; and as at every attempt he made to extricate himself, the ice broke with the weight of his body, he was in great danger of losing his life unless speedy 76 PRESENCE OF MIND. assistance came. If he remained still and held on to the edges of the ice, he could keep himself up ; but then the water was so cold that in a little while he would get benumbed and lose all power to sustain himself. Be fore, therefore, the frightened Edward Jones could alarm his friends and bring assist ance, he would in all probability, have been lost under the ice. As we have said, George Williams, who was much more courageous than Edward, caught up a pole, and ran as speedily as possible to the place where Henry was struggling in the water. " Don t be frightened, Henry," he called ; " don t be frightened I m coming, and will get you out." At this Henry ceased his violent efforts to extricate himself, and remained quiet until George came up as near as it was prudent to come, and laid his pole across the broken place, so that each end of it rested upon solid ice. " Now, hold on to that," said he coolly. PRESENCE OF MIND. 77 You may be certain the poor lad in Hie water did not wait to be asked twice to do as he was told. With both hands he grasped the stick. Then George lay down at full length, and keeping one hand for support on the pole, crept up so close to the broken place in the ice, that he could grasp one of Henry s hands. " Easy easy," said he in a calm, en couraging voice, as the boy in the water caught his arm eagerly, and was in danger of dragging him in also. This gave Henry more confidence, and restored, in some mea sure, his presence of mind. After this it took but a moment for George Williams to pull Henry out, and get him beyond all danger. The two boys were more than halfway home, when they met a number of men, whom Edward Jones had alarmed by his cries for help, running at full speed to res cue the drowning lad. The praise the} bestowed upon George for his courageous conduct was very pleasant to him, but not 78 PRESENCE OF MIND. half so pleasant as the reflection that he had saved the life of his young playmate. On the evening after this occurrence, Mr. Jones, the father of Edward, took his son into his room, and when they were alone, said to him " How comes it, my boy, that you did not, like George Williams, go immediately to the aid of Henry Lee, when you saw him break through the ice ?" " I was so frightened," replied the boy, " that I didn t know what I was doing." " And this fright would have cost Henry his life, if there had not been another boy near to save him." Edward looked very serious, and his eyes were cast upon the floor. " I m sorry," he said, " but I couldn t help it." " Don t say that, my son," replied Mr. Jones. " This timidity or I might say, cowardice is a weakness that all may, in a great measure, overcome ; and it is the duty of every one to overcome it, for all PRESENCE OF MIND. 79 should be brave, and ready to risk even life to save others. It is not often that persons who so risk their lives receive any injury, for God protects those who seek to protect others. Let me tell you something that happened when I was a boy. Two- children were playing near a spring. One of them was only four years old ; the other was seven. The larger boy s name was Frank. While Frank was building a house with sticks that he had gathered under the trees, he heard a splash, and turning around, saw that his little brother had plunged headforemost into the spring, and was struggling in the water. The spring being deep and narrow it was walled up at the sides there was no chance for the child to extricate himself. " When Frank saw this, he was terribly alarmed, and his heart beat so loud that it seemed to him that any one standing near might have heard it. What did he do? Run away for help ? No, he was a very little boy, but he was thoughtful and brave, IV. G 80 PRESENCE OF MIND. little as he was. Instead of darting off fof home as fast as his feet would carry him, to get some one to come and save his bro ther from drowning, he laid hold of him by the legs, a portion of which were above the water, and applying all his strength, succeeded in dragging the already half- drowned child from the spring. Thus, by his presence of mind and bravery, he saved the life of his brother. " These two children lived near a mill, and were permitted by their parents to play in the mill or about the water, just as they pleased. They didn t think any more of danger than we do when we send you to school over the long bridge that crosses the river. Well, one day they were playing by the side of the deep wooden trough, or sluice, that receives the water from the mill-race, before it is poured upon the great wheels. This is furnished with heavy gates at both ends, by which the water is let on and shut off at pleasure. In this trough the water glides along more rapidly PRESENCE OF MIND. than in the mill-race, and it is drawn under the gate at the lower end, with a very strong,, whirling motion, and thence passes to the water-wheels. "By the side of this deep trough, the- two children of whom I spoke were play ing, when the little one, who had before fallen into the spring, slipped off, and went plunging down into the water. Frank saw him fall. In an instant the child, who was buoyed up by his clothes, went sweep ing down toward the open gate, through which the water was rushing. The delay of half a minute w r ould be fatal. Had Frank become so much frightened as to be unable to act promptly, had he hesitated a moment what to do, his brother would have been lost. But the brave boy sprang at once to his rescue, and leaning down, he caught the child by the clothes, and held on to him eagerly. The water was so far down, and Frank had to stoop so low, that he had not strength to pull his brother out; but he held on to him, and screamed loudly "82 PRESENCE OF MIND. for help. But the noise of the mill was so great that the millers could not hear his voice. Still he held on, and cried out for aid. Nearly five minutes passed before any one came to his assistance; and then ti man, who was going by, saw him, and ran down along the mill-race, and rescued the drowning child. Tims it was that the courage and presence of mind of Frank saved the life of his brother a second time. Now, suppose he had been too frightened to think or act in a proper manner, as you were to day; his brother would, in all probability, have been drawn in under the gate, and been killed on the wheel." Edward shuddered at the thought. " That brave lad," continued Mr. Jones, "was your Uncle Frank; and the brother whose life he saved is now your father." "You, father! you!" exclaimed Edward in surprise. " Yes, my son; I fell into the spring, and your uncle saved me from drowning by his promptness to act; imJ I fell into the mill- PRESENCE OF MIND. 83 race, and was rescued through his courage and presence of mind." Edward s thoughts went back to the mill- pond, and he saw, in imagination, Henry Lee struggling in the hole in the ice; and saw how easy it would have been for him to have gone to his assistance, and rescued him from his perilous situation, instead of running away, frightened out of his wits, screaming for others afar off to do what was needed to be done at the moment. He felt, painfully too, that his playfellow would have been drowned, had not George Wil liams, with true bravery, gone instantly to his aid. It was a moment of self-reproach and mortification. a Many years ago," continued Edward s father, "I remember reading a story of a boy s presence of mind and courage, that I shall never forget. The lad of whom I speak was walking along the road with his mother and a little sister, when, all at once, was heard the startling cry of Mad dog! On looking in the direction from which G2 84 PRESENCE OF MIND, this alarming cry came, a dog was seen run ning toward them, pursued by a crowd of men and boys. A high fence on each side of the road made escape impossible. So frightened did the mother become, that she was fixed to the spot, and her daughter clung to her, screaming in terror. But the boy stepped boldly before his mother and sister, and, as the dog approached, began hurriedly wrapping around his hand and arm a silk handkerchief which he had drawn from his pocket. In a shorter period of time than it has taken me to relate to you the fact, the dog was down upon them. The brave boy, however, did not shrink back an inch. As he stood in front of his mo ther and sister, the mad animal, on coming up, made a spring at him, when the boy, with wonderful coolness, thrust the hand around which he had wound his handker chief, boldly into his mouth, and grasped his tongue. While he kept hold of the dog s tongue, the animal could not bite him; and the handkerchief had protected PRESENCE OF MIND. 85 his hand from being scratched by his teeth, as he thrust it into his open mouth. Ere the dog could recover himself and struggle loose from the boy, the men in pursuit were upon him, with clubs and stones, and in a few minutes he was lying dead, almost at the feet of the heroic boy, who, while he had saved the lives, perhaps, of his mother and sister, remained himself unharmed. "Few boys, not one perhaps in a hun dred," continued Mr. Jones, "would have had his presence of mind and courage, un der similar circumstances; and I doubt very much, if one man in ten could be found to show so brave a spirit. Yet, how much better and safer was it for the boy to act as he did safer for himself, and safer for those he loved. The fact is, my son, but little of danger presents itself as we pass through life, which may not be escaped if we look it boldly in the face, and see what it is like. Unless we understand exactly what the danger is, and in what &6 PRESENCE OF MIND. manner it is approaching, how shall we escape it?" The stories of bravery and self-possession which Mr. Jones related made a very mark ed impression upon the mind of Edward. He saw, by contrast, his own conduct in a most unfavourable light, and he shuddered when he thought of what the consequence to Henry Lee would have been, had not his companion possessed a cooler and more courageous spirit than himself. It was not more than a week after the affair at the mill-pond, that Edward starts ed out with a little brother, not over four years of age, whom he was drawing on a sled, for the purpose of riding down a hill on the smooth snow, a short distance from the house. On the way to this hill, Ed ward had to pass through a field belonging to a neighbour. When nearly across, he hoard the noise of some animal, and looking around, saw a mad bull approaching from the other side of the field. With the first impulse of fear, he dropped the rope with PRESENCE OF MIND. 87 which he was pulling the sled on which sat his little brother, and sprang away, in order to reach the fence before the infuriated animal came up. He had only gone a few steps, however, before he thought of the innocent child on the sled, who would surely be gored to death by the bull, if left where he was. This thought made him stop and turn round. The bull w r as now running toward them, muttering and bel lowing dreadfully. If he went back for his brother, escape was almost impossible; but how could he leave the dear child to a ter rible death without making an effort to save him ? These were the hurried thoughts that rushed through his mind. Then he remembered the mill-pond, the boy and the mad dog, the child in the spring and his brave brother, and what his father had said about being courageous. It took scarcely an instant of time for all this to be presented to the frightened boy. By a strong effort he composed himself, and then ran back to where his brother was still IV. 88 PRESENCE OF MIND. upon the sled. The bull was now very near; but Edward, though he had taken the child in his arms, was able to run so fast as to reach the fence and climb over it before the mad creature could reach them. In less than a quarter of a minute after he was beyond the reach of danger, the bull came dashing up to the fence, foaming and bellowing with rage. "Well and bravely done, my noble boy!" exclaimed Edward s father, who, seeing his children s danger, had been running toward them unperceived. Just as Edward landed, with his brother still clasped in his arms, safely on the right side of the fence, he came up. Edward turned quickly toward his father, who saw that his face was very pale, and that his lips were quivering. " It was a narrow escape, my son," said Mr. Jones, "a very narrow escape. But heaven is always on the side of those who seek to save others that are in danger. If you had hesitated a moment about acting PRESENCE OF MIND. 89 courageously, our dear little Willy would now have been bleeding, it may be, upon the horns of that mad animal. How thank ful I feel that you had the bravery to do as you have done." "And I am thankful, too, father," said the boy, in a trembling voice. " Oh ! if in my cowardice I had permitted Willy to be killed, I should never have been happy again in all my life." After such a trial and triumph, Edward was able in the future to act with becoming presence of mind, in all cases of danger and peril that happened to occur. TEMPTATION RESISTED. CHARLES MURRAY left homo, with his books in his satchel, for school. Before starting, he kissed his little sister, and patted Juno on the head, and as he went singing away, he felt as happy as any little boy could wish to feel. Charles was a good-tempered lad, but he had the fault common to a great many boys, that of being tempted and enticed by others to do things which he knew to be contrary to the wishes of his parents. Such acts never made him feel any happier; for the fear that his disobedience would be found out, added to his consciousness of having done wrong, were far from being pleasant com panions. CHARLES AND HIS MOTHER. Page 99. TEMPTATION RESISTED. 93 On the present occasion, as lie walked briskly in the direction of the school, he repeated over his lessons in his mind, and was intent upon having them so perfect as to be able to repeat every word. He had gone nearly half the distance, and was still thinking over his lessons, when he stopped suddenly as a voice called out, " Halloo, Charley !" Turning in the direction from which the voice came, he saw Archy Benton, with his school-basket in his hand ; but he was going from, instead of in the direction of the school. " Where are you going, Archy ?" asked Charles, calling out to him. " Into the woods for chestnuts." " A n t you going to school to-day ?" " No, indeed. There was a sharp frost last night, and Uncle John says the wind will rattle down the chestnuts like hail." " Did your father say you might go ?" " No, indeed. I asked him, but he said I couldn t go until Saturday. But the hogs IV. II 94 TEMPTATION RESISTED. are in the woods, and will eat the chestnuts all up before Saturday : so I am going to day. Come, go along, won t you? It is such a fine day, and the ground will be covered with nuts. We can get home at the usual time, and no one will suspect that we were not at school." "I should like to go, very well," said Charley ; " but I know that father will be greatly displeased, if he finds it out; and I am afraid he would get to know it, in some way." " How could he get to know it ? Isn t he at his store all the time ?" " But he might think to ask me if I was at school. And I never will tell a lie." " You could say yes, and not tell a lie, either," returned Archy. " You were at school yesterday." " No, I couldn t. A lie, father says, is in the intent to deceive. He would, of course, mean to ask whether I was at school to day, and if I said yes, I would tell a lie." " It isn t so clear to me that you would. TEMPTATION RESISTED. 95 At any rate, I don t see such great harm in a little fib. It doesn t hurt anybody." " Father says a falsehood hurts a boy a great deal more than he thinks fdr. And one day he showed me in the Bible where liars were classed with murderers and other wicked spirits in hell. I can t tell a lie, Archy." " There won t be any need of your doing so," urged Archy ; " for I am sure he will never think to ask you about it. Why should he ?" " I don t know. But whenever I have been doing any thing wrong, he is sure to begin to question me, and lead me on until I betray the secret of my fault." " Never mind. Come and go with me. It is a fine day. We sha n t have an other like it. It will rain on Saturday, I ll bet any thing. So come along, now, and let us have a day in the woods, while we can." Charles was very strongly tempted. When he thought of the confinement of 96 TEMPTATION RESISTED. school, and then of the freedom of a day in the woods, he felt much inclined to go with A rch v. " Come along," said Archy, as Charles stood halancing the matter in his mind. And he took hold of his arm, and drew him in a direction opposite from the school. " Come ! you are just the boy I want. I was thinking about you the moment before I saw you." The temptation to Charles was very strong. " I don t believe I will be found out," he said to himself. "And it is such a pleasant day to go into the woods." Still he held back, and thought of his lather s displeasure if he should discover that he had played the truant. The word " truant," that he repeated mentally, de cided the matter in his mind, and he ex claimed, in a loud and decided voice, as he dragged himself away from the hand of Archy, that had still retained its hold on liis arm, "I ve never played truant yet, ani I don t think I ever will. Father says TEMPTATION RESISTED. 97 he never played truant when he was a boy; and I d like to say the same thing when I get to be a man." " Nonsense, Charley ! come, go with me," urged Archy. But Charles Murray s mind was made up not to play the truant. So he started off for school, saying, as he did so " No, I can t go, Archy , and if I were you, I would wait until Saturday. You will enjoy it so much better when you have your father s consent. It always takes away more than half the pleasure of any enjoyment to think that it is obtained at the cost of disobedience. Come ! go to school with me now, and I will go into the woods with you on Saturday." " No, I can t wait until Saturday. I m sure it will rain; and if it don t, the hogs will eat up every nut that has fallen, long before that time." " There will be plenty left on the trees, if they do. It s as fine sport to knock them down as to pick them up." H2 98 TEMPTATION RESISTED. But Archy s purpose was settled, and no- thing that Charles Murray could say had any influence with him. So the boys parted, the one for his school, and the other for his stolen holiday in the woods. The moment Charles was alone again, he felt no longer any desire to go with Archy. He had successfully resisted the temptation, and the allurement was gone. But even for listening to temptation he had some small punishment, for he was late to school by nearly ten minutes, and had not his lessons as perfect as usual, for which the teacher felt called upon to repri mand him. But this was soon forgotten; and he was so good a boy through the whole day, and studied all his lessons so diligently, that when evening came, the teacher, who had not forgotten the repri mand, said to him " You have been the best boy in the school to-day, Charles. To-morrow morning try and come in time, and be sure that your lessons are well committed to memory." TEMPTATION RESISTED. 99 Charles felt very light and cheerful as he went running, skipping, and singing homeward. His day had been well spent, and happiness was his reward. When he came in sight of home, there was no dread of meeting his father and mother, such as he would have felt if he had played the truant. Every thing looked bright and pleasant; and when Juno came bounding out to meet him, he couldn t help hugging the favourite dog in the joy he felt at see ing her. When Charles met his mother, she looked at him with a more earnest and affection ate gaze than usual. And then the boy noticed that her countenance became se rious. " A n t 3^011 well, mother?" asked Charles. " Yes, my dear, I am very well," she re plied. " But I saw something an hour ago that has made me feel very sad. Archy Benton was brought home from the woods this afternoon, where "he had gone for chest nuts, instead of going to school, as he should 100 TEMPTATION RESISTED. have done, dreadfully hurt. He had fallen from a tree. Both of his arms are broken, and the doctor fears that he has received some internal injury that may cause his death." Charles turned pale when his mothei said this. "Boys rarely get hurt, except when they are acting disobediently, or doing some harm to others," remarked Mrs. Murray. "If Archy had gone to school, this dreadful ac cident would not have happened. His father told him that he might go for chest nuts on Saturday; and if he had waited until then, I am sure he might have gone into the woods and received no harm, for all who do right are protected from evil." "He tried to persuade me to go with him," said Charles. "And I was strongly tempted to do so. But I resisted the tempt ation, and have felt glad about it ever since." Mrs. Murray took her son s hand, and pressing it hard, said, with much feeling "How rejoiced I am that you were able TEMPTATION RESISTED. 101 to resist his persuasions to do wrong. Even if you had not been hurt yourself, the in jury received by Archy would have dis covered to us that you were with him, and then how unhappy your father and I would have been, I cannot tell. And you would have been unhappy, too. Ah! my son, there is only one true course for all of us, and that is to do right. Every deviation from this path brings trouble. An act of a moment may make us wretched for days, weeks, months, or perhaps years. It will be a long, long time before Archy is free from pain of body or mind it may be, that he will never recover. Think how misera ble his parents must feel ; and all because of this single act of disobedience." We cannot say how often Charles said to himself that evening and the next day, when he thought of Archy " Oh, how glad I am that I did not go with him!" When Saturday came, the father and mother of Charles Murray gave him per- 102 TEMPTATION RESISTED. mission to go into the woods for chestnuts. Two or three other boys, who were his school companions, likewise received liberty to go; and they joined Charles, and alto gether made a pleasant party. It did not rain, nor had the hogs eaten up all the nuts, for the lads found plenty under the tall old trees, and in a few hours filled their baskets. Charles said, when he came home, that he had never enjoyed himself better, and was so glad that he had not been tempted to go with Archy Bent on. It was a lesson he never afterward for got. If he was tempted to do what he knew to be wrong, he thought of Archy s day in the woods, and the tempter instantly left him. The boy who had been so badly hurt did not die, as the doctor feared; but he suffered great pain, and was ill for a long time. THE TWO WATS. TAMES LEWIS was fifteen years old. ^ Like many lads of his age, he felt, at times, that the parental hand, which sought to guide him aright, drew upon the reins too often. He wished to do many things that his father disapproved, and often be came impatient when checked by one wiser and more experienced than himself. In this respect, James was like most young persons, who think their parents or guardians over-particular about them, and more inclined to abridge their pleasures than to widen the sphere of their enjoy ments. " I think father is very unkind," we 103 104 THE TWO WAYS. have heard a boy say, when the act of his parent was dictated by the tenderest re gard for his welfare. " Mother never likes to see me enjoy my self," says a little girl, when some restric tion is laid upon her. And yet that very restriction is meant to save her from years of misery in after-life. Children are not apt to think that their parents are older and more experienced than themselves, and, in consequence, know better than they, what is for their good. Nor do they comprehend the loving and thoughtful care, deepening often into anx ious solicitude, with which they are ever regarded. We do not greatly wonder at this, because the minds of children are not perfected, and their store of experience is .small. Still, they are able to understand what their parents teach them, and to act mure wisely than if they followed only their own inclinations. And it is to help them to act more wisely, and thus to se cure happiness in the future, that their pa- THE TWO ^YAYS. 105 rents and friends so often present good pre cepts to their minds, correct in them what they see to be wrong, and seek so con stantly to turn their feet into ways of safety. But we were going to relate something about a lad named James Lewis, who was fifteen years old. A boy who has gained that age generally has his mind pretty well stored from books, and is able to think on a good many subjects. And he is, more over, very apt to have a pretty good opinion of himself and to believe that he knows, even better than his father, what is best for him. James was just such a lad as we have here pictured; and his father often felt troubled about him when he saw how per- severingly he sought to have his own way, even though it was not approved by his parents. " My son," said Mr. Lewis, one day, after having vainly endeavoured to make James understand that something he wished to IV. 7 IV. I 106 THE TWO WAYS. do was wrong, " there are two ways in life one leading to happiness, and the other to misery. At first they run almost side by side, and we may easily step from one to the other ; but soon they diverge wide ly, an<J never come within sight of each other again. The path that leads to de struction, my son, looks more inviting to the young and inexperienced than the one that leads to happiness. The flowers that grow along its margin have brighter hues and a more attractive perfume, while in the distance a hundred bright prospects are given to the eyes. The young are natu rally inclined to walk in this path. But God has given them parents arid friends, to point them to the better way, and lead them therein. They stand as angels of mercy, sent from heaven to guide them to the way of life. James, try and let this thought sink into your mind. And now I leave you free, in this instance, to act as your own mind may direct. I have pointed out the danger that is before you. I huvo THE TWO WAYS. 107 told you that the way in which you desire to walk is not the right way. That which we feel inclined to do, is not always best for us, because our hearts are evil, and in clined to lead us into evil. Left free, as 1 now leave you, let me earnestly entreat you to choose the path of safety. It may not be so inviting at first; you may not be able to enter it except through self-denial : but you will not walk in it long before dis covering that the flowers which spring up here and there have a sweet and soothing perfume, and that your feet are not weary, although the way looked rough when viewed from the point where it diverged from the path I have so earnestly warned you not to take." We are sorry to say that the words of Mr, Lewis did not sink so deeply into the heart of James as they should have done. It is true that he thought about them, and. to a certain extent, comprehended their meaning. But his inclination was stronger than his reason. As his father had not laid 108 THE TWO WAYS. a command on him, he, after a struggle in his own mind between a sense of right and a desire to participate in a pleasure whose charms his imagination had heightened, suffered himself to enter the way in which there w r as no safety, and, before he dreamed of danger, he was led aside into the com mission of an act that violated both human and divine laws. When James returned home, he felt afraid to meet his father. Oh, how unhappy he was ! Never in his life had he been so wretched. He had gathered the first fruit that hung temptingly from the branches that bent over the way he had chosen to walk in, but it had proved as bitter as wormwood. All that his father had said when warning him not to choose the path of error, came vividly to his mind, and al most with tears did he repent of his folly. Alone in his room, bowed down Avith shame and self-condemnation, James Lewis sat, after the shades of evening had fallen. Gradually, as the twilight deepened, am] THE TWO WAYS. 109 as his eyes ceased to reflect the objects around him, the mind of the lad became filled with confused and rapidly varying images. Suddenly there was a great change. He found himself standing on a beautiful plain. From this departed two roads, toward which he was walking. His mind was tranquil and happy. One of these roads looked exceedingly inviting. Bright flowers sprang thickly beside it, and trees, among the branches of which sported birds of gayest plumage, grew all along its borders. The other road presented nothing attrac tive. The margin was nearly barren, and it began at once to ascend a steep and somewhat rugged hill. As James drew near the point where these two ways di verged, he met an old man, with a mild countenance, and eyes lit up by wisdom. " You see before you," said the old man to him, " the Way of Life and the Eoad to Destruction. Choose, now, which you will walk in. The Road to Destruction looks 110 THE TWO WAYS. far more inviting at the entrance than the \Vay of Life ; but the flowers you see have no perfume, the fruits that hang temptingly from the trees are bitter to the taste, and the road which looks so smooth and plea sant is, in reality, rough and stony. " The farther you go in this road, the less attractive it becomes; but, with every step of progress in the Way of Life, the more beautiful Avill all appear. The one leads to death, the other to life. Choose, now, the way in which you will walk." The boy paused only for a few moments. He looked first at the unattractive way, and then at the path so full of beauty. " The old man erred," said he in his heart. " This is the Road to Happiness and to Life, and the other is the way to De struction." And then he entered, with hurry ing fuel, the Road to Destruction. Earnestly the old man called after him, and tenderly did he warn him; but the boy heeded him not. THE TWO WAYS. Ill In his eagerness to reach a spot at a short distance from the point where the two roads separated, and at which there was a beautiful arbour, with a fountain throwing bright waters into the sunny air, his foot struck against a stone that was not perceived, and he fell to the earth with a stunning jar. He was in so much pain from the fall, when he reached the green arbour, that he could not enjoy its pleasant shade, nor take delight in the beautiful fountain. With a groan he threw himself upon the green sward; where he had lain only a few minutes, when he sprang to his feet in sudden terror, for close to him had crept a poisonous serpent, that was just about striking him with its deadly fang. With less ardour the boy moved on in the way he had chosen. Soon a number of flowers, glowing in all the hues of the lainbow, arrested his eyes; and he stepped aside to gather them. But their odour was so offensive that he threw them to the earth quickly. Another flower tempted 112 THE TWO WAYS. him by its beauty ; but, in plucking it, lie tore his hands with thorns. Pausing now, he looked back, and the wish arose in his mind that he had taken the other road. He would have retraced his steps, but he remembered the serpent at the fountain, and feared to go by that dangerous place again. So he moved on once more. Far in advance there opened before him a beautiful prospect, and he pressed on to enjoy the scene. But, all was an illusion like a mirage in the desert. When he gained the spot, the at traction had disappeared. And now the road began to ascend, and to wind along the skirt of a forest. His heart grew faint as he entered deeper and deeper into this gloomy district, and yet saw no open space ahead. As he walked fearfully along, a roar shook the earth; then a beast of prey rushed past him, and struck his fangs deep into the vitals of some weaker animal. Terror gave wings to his feet, and he ran deeper THE TWO WAYS. 118 and deeper into the forest. Night at length began to come. It was with difficulty that he could see his way or keep in the path, which had become so rough that he stum bled at almost every step. His feet were bruised and cut, and he walked onward in pain. " Oh that I had taken the other road !" he said, pausing in the midst of the dark forest, and looking back. But the cry of a wild beast arose in the direction from which he had come. He moved again, when, sud denly, a meteor shot across the sky. By the light which it gave, he saw himself on the very edge of a fearful gulf, down which he gazed in horror. Another step and he would have been lost. The shock startled him from his dream. All was dark in the chamber where James Lewis sat, and it was some moments before he could realize the fact that he was safe in his father s house, with the two ways in life yet before him, and he in freedom to choose the one in which he would walk. 114 THE TWO WAYS. Dear children ! if you wish to enter the right way the Waj of Life, leading to fe licity you must do so through obedience. You cannot, yourselves, know this way. It must be pointed out to you. If left to yourselves, you would be almost certain to take the Road to Destruction. The way of obedience is the way of safety. This way does not look inviting at first, but, when you have once entered it, you will find that it grows more pleasant, attractive, and beautiful, at every step. Unlike the other way, no serpents lurk amid the wav ing grass; no thorns are among its flowers; it leads through no dark forest abounding in ravenous beasts. And, unlike the way which terminates in the gulf of Destruc tion, it ends in the garden of God. HARRY S DREAM. " QUCH a dream as I had, mother!" said Henry Jones, as he took his seat at the breakfast-table ; and he laughed as he spoke. " What was it about ?" asked the boy s mother. " Oh ! It was such a funny dream. I thought old Peter lent me his violin ; and I went out alone with it into the woods, and then sat down upon a rock and began to play. As I drew the bow across the strings, such music filled the air as I never heard before. The very leaves on the trees, and the wind that played among them, grew still to listen. But, more wonderful than this : while I was playing, three of the dearest rabbits you ever saw came leaping 116 116 HARRY S DREAX. along, and they stood and looked at me, with their ears bent back, and their heads turning first on one side and then on the other, to listen. In a little while they all got upon the stump of a tree that had been cut down, and there sat upon their hind- feet, while, with their forefeet they kept time to the music. Just then I heard a noise, and glancing round, I saw an old owl, with his solemn face, looking out from a hollow tree." " An owl !" said Fanny, as she laughed aloud. Fanny was the sister of Henry Jones. " Yes ; a great owl. And he looked so serious ! But I played on as hard as I could play, and the music seemed to go away off through the woods, it was so loud. Pre sently I heard such a rattling among the bushes and such a rushing in the air all around me. A beautiful deer with branch ing horns came bounding along; and when he came near me, he stopped and looked at me with his large dark eyes. His face was gentle as the face of a lamb. I kept HARRY S DREAM. 117 drawing my bow as hard as I could, and the deer stooped down, and lay on the grass and listened. Then all the birds and beasts that were in the great wood came gathering around me, and while I played for them, they hearkened to the music as if they had been human, instead of dumb creatures. The robin was there, and the red-bird ; the wren, the sparrow, the little yellow-bird, the dove, and the beautiful humming-bird. A great eagle came rush ing through the air ; and a hawk stooped down among the birds, but he was so pleased with the music that he did not seek to do any harm, nor were the little birds afraid of him." "What a strange dream!" said Fanny. " How long did they stay ?" " Oh ! a great while. I played for them all for a long time, and never felt so happy in my life." " Did they come near?" asked Fanny. "Yes. The deer laid his head upon my knee, and a sweet little humming-bird IV. K 118 HARRY S DREAM. with blue and golden wings and breast like a rainbow, came close up to me, and almost lit upon my shoulder. A bluebird settled down upon the deer s back, and robin red breast and the sparrow came so close that I could have caught them in my hand." " Robin red-breast and the sparrow !" cried Fanny, clapping her hands. " Why, it was the sparrow, who, a long time ago, shot cock robin with his bow and arrow." " Yes ; but that was all forgotten, and they were the best of friends." " Oh, I wish I had been there !" " But it was only a dream, you know, Fanny," said Henry. " True enough. I was forgetting that And they stayed a long while ?" " Yes. But at last I heard a great roar in the wood. Then the birds started up, fluttering their wings, and were soon glanc ing away over the tree-tops and through the forest. The deer sprang frightened to his feet, and, after looking timidly, first on this side and then on that, bounded off HARRY S DREAM. 11 ( J like an arrow. I now saw a great red lion dashing along and roaring, while his long tail swept angrily around. This so fright ened me, that I awoke." " What a strange dream !" said Fanny. " What could it mean, mother ?" asked Henry, on closing the relation. " I never had such a strange dream before." " Dreams, my son," said Henry s mother, " are of two kinds ; fantastic, or such as have in them no signification whatever; and correspondential, or such as present, in apparent visible form, such objects as cor respond in nature to qualities and attri butes of the mind. Dreams of this kind often come as means of instruction, warn ing, or admonition, and are sent or per mitted to come by the Great Father of us all, who is ever overruling all occur rences, even the most minute, for our spiri tual good." " But what signification could there be in my curious dream ?" asked Harry. " That, my son, is more than I am able 120 to point out; still, my mind sees dimly a remote significance. Do you remember by what name the Lord, when on earth, called Herod." " That fox?" " Yes. But what did he mean by this ?" u He meant that Hp^od was cunning, like a fox." " Yes ; or, in other words, that the qua lity of Herod s mind, which the fox visibly embodies in nature, ruled his actions. He rod had other qualities beside that of cun ning, as all other men have ; but he was a fox, because he suffered this particular qua lity to govern him. You have heard a child called a lamb?" " Yes." " Because a lamb is the visible represent ation of innocence in the world of nature. A cruel man is called a tiger, for a like reason ; the tiger being a natural form of cruelty. And so it is of every beast and bird and flower; in fact, of every visible object below man. They are all images of HARRY S DREAM. 121 things in man. In your dream, then, you saw around you only what was in yourself, images of your affections." Harry looked wonderingly into his mo ther s face. He but half comprehended her meaning. "Why did they all come around me when I played," he inquired. " It is easy to ask questions, my boy," said the mother, smiling, " but it is not al ways so easy to answer them. Let us, how ever, remember, that in music one essential thing is harmony, and that what is harmo nious is in order. Think, at the same time, of all these animals that were so docile at the sound of your music, as affections of your mind, all subdued and in perfect sub jection to the power of true harmony, or that which comes from a life passed in the order for which God designed it. In other words, if you live an orderly and good life, according to the commandments of God, all the affections of your mind will be in sub jection. Good affections will be in their IV. 8 K 2 122 HARRY S DREAM. true activity, while evil affections will yield a powerless obedience, subdued under the influence of what is harmonious and heavenly." The boy did not fully comprehend this ; but it made him thoughtful. " Have I tigers and wolves in me ?" he asked some hours afterward. " You have evil affections, to which these correspond, my son," replied his mother. " But they are young and feeble yet, and you must not give them food to nourish and strengthen them, which you do when you indulge a feeling of cruelty, or seek, from anger, to harm another. That there are human wolves and tigers in the world, more cruel even than the wild beasts of the forest, the dreadful crimes that are almost daily committed too -fully prove. Be watchful, then, my son, that you do not give these evil beasts of the heart power over the innocent lambs and doves that likewise have a place in your bosom." WILLIAM AND THE BEGGAR. Page 126 TRUE BENEVOLENCE. A LITTLE boy, named "William, once *^" had a sixpence given to him. He was a kind-hearted boy. "What shall I do with my sixpence?" said he. "How shall I spend it? Oh! I will buy myself a top and cord !" And away he started for the store where toys were kept for sale. As he went along, he saw a man with soiled and ragged clothes, sitting on the door-step of a house. The man seemed so wretched, that the lad paused to look at him. The man said nothing, and the boy soon went on again ; but he walked slower, and every now and then stopped and look ed back at the miserable creature. When 125 126 TRUE BENEVOLENCE. he got to the shop-door, he paused, and in stead of going in, turned and looked again at the poor man, who was still in sight. " He must be hungry," said the lad to himself thoughtfully. "I can do without a top very well." Back he ran, and without reflecting fur ther, handed the man his sixpence, saying as he did so " Here, poor man, is a sixpence. You must be hungry. Go and get something to eat." The man took the money, and thanked the boy for his generous conduct. William felt happy. He had denied himself an anticipated pleasure in order to relieve the necessities of another, and the thought gave him more delight than he could possibly have received from the pos session of the top he had intended buying. On coming back home, William told his mother of what he had done, and ended by saying " Was it not right, mother?" TRUE BENEVOLENCE. 127 <c You were right, certainly, my son, to deny yourself a pleasure, in order to relieve the distress of another, and I am glad to find in you so unselfish a spirit. Still, it is possible that you have not done so well as you would if you had bought a top, and amused your little sick brother by spinning it for him." " But, mother," said William, "the man looked so poor; and I am sure he was hungry." " Yet, it is very possible that he alone was to blame for this." " How could he help it, mother ?" "If it is the man I saw going past the window half an hour ago, I am very sure he could help it. How was he dressed ?" "He had on a ragged brown coat; and his hat was torn, and one side bent in." " The same man. He is idle and drunken. All the money he gets he spends in liquor, and then goes home intoxicated to ill-treat his wife and half-starved, half-clothed chil dren. With the sixpence you gave him, 128 TRUE BENEVOLENCE. lie will buy liquor. Drinking this will de prive him of his reason, and then infernal spirits will flow into his mind, and prompt him to abuse the helpless, dependent ones in his wretched home. It does such a man no good, my son, to bestow alms upon him ; but, instead, does him harm, and gives him power to harm others." " mother ! I am so sorry," replied William, the tears gathering in his eyes. " I never thought of that. Will you for give me for having done so wrong ?" " I do not blame you, my dear boy," said his mother. "As far as you are concerned, the act was good, for it sprang from a wish to do good to a suffering fellow-creature. You thought the object of your benevo lence one who stood in need of food, with out possessing the ability to obtain it ; and you denied yourself in order to relieve his wants. That was right, and I hope you will ever be as ready to act in a similar spirit." " But it wouldn t be right for me to give money to a drunken man again?" TRUE BENEVOLENCE. 129 u Oh no ! Not if you knew that he was such. In dispensing to the needy of the good gifts that Providence has freely be stowed upon us, it is our duty to see, as far as lies in our power, that the idle and vi cious are not encouraged in their evil ways, by having wants supplied by our hands that it is their duty to supply with their own. I will tell you how you might have spent your sixpence, and done good with it." "How, mother?" " You know the poor woman living around in the court, who used to come and wash for us?" "Mrs. Baker?" " Yes. She is sick. You know that." " Yes, ma am." " She has a fever. If you had bought her a nice orange, and taken it to her, it would have tasted very pleasant to her, and would have cooled her hot lips. Don t you remember how good the orange tasted whicn father brought you home, when you had that raging fever?" 130 TRUE BENEVOLENCE. " mother ! I wish I had thought of that," said William, looking grieved. " If I only had another sixpence !" " You shall have one, my generous- minded boy!" replied his mother, taking a sixpence from her purse, and handing it to William. The lad fairly flew away. In about twenty minutes he came back. But his face was not happy. " Did you get the orange, my son?" asked his mother. " Yes, ma am," he replied. " And Mrs. Baker was so glad to get it. She said it tasted better than any thing she had placed to her lips for a long time. But, mother ! what do you think ? The man to whom I gave the sixpence came stag gering out of the drinking-house, at the corner, and fell so drunk upon the pave ment, that he could not get up ! It was my sixpence that did this !" And the little boy put his hands over iiis face, and burst into tears. TRUE BENEVOLENCE. 131 k{ Do not be grieved, my son," said William s mother, speaking in a kind and soothing voice. "You did not do wrong, for you acted from a desire to benefit the unhappy man. In the Lord s providence, you were permitted to give this man your sixpence ; and let us hope that the Lord will make the act, in some way, promote his good, even though, to all human appear ance, it seems to have done him harm." Thus the mother sought to satisfy her grieving boy. We should all profit by the lesson he was taught. God has given us minds and the ability to reflect. Let us use our reason, and wisely discriminate between true benevolence and mere im pulse. THE LAMB. C^MMA LEE was on her way to school, **** one day, when she found a new-born lamb lying in the soft green grass. She looked all around, but its dam was nowhere to be seen ; so she lifted it tenderly in her arms, and carried it back to her home. As she walked along, the lamb laid its head against her bosom, and looked up at her with its mild eyes, and meek, innocent face. Already she loved it ; when she got home she said "0 mother! Dear mother! Look here! I have found the sweetest little lamb. It was all alone in the field. And I have brought it home. Sha n t it be mine, mo- THE LAMB. 13$ ther ? I will give it some of my bread and milk, and oh ! I will love it so much." But Emma s mother said that the lamb y no doubt, belonged to farmer Wilkins, and that it wouldn t be right for her to keep it. Then Emma looked sad. " It would be wrong, my love," said Mrs. Lee, seeing how sorrowful Emma looked, " for you to keep what belongs to farmer Wilkins. Suppose you had a lamb, and it were to get lost would you think it right for the person who found it to keep it as his own ?" Emma Lee, though a very little girl, was quick to understand a good reason, when it was given. She saw, in a moment, that she had no right to keep the lamb. So she said, though in not a very animated way, for she could not help being grieved at the thought of parting with the innocent crea ture " Hadn t I better carry it over to farmer Wilkins?" 134 THE LAMB. "Yes, dear. It may be his; but, if not, lie can tell you to whom it belongs." So Emma took the lamb in her arma again, ond earned it over to farmer Wil- kins. " I found this dear little lamb all alone in the fields, as I went to school," said Emma, when she saw the farmer. " Mother says it must be yours; and so I have brought it over." " Yes, it is my lamb," said farmer Wil- kins, as he took the little animal from her arms; "and you are a good girl for bring ing it home to me. If the dogs had found it, they would have torn it all to pieces. Here, Kitty," and he spoke to a maid who was standing near, " go into the garden and pick a basket of strawberries for Emma Lee. She found this new-born lamb in the field this morning, and has come all the way here to bring it home." As the farmer said this, he put the lamb upon the ground, but, as Emma thought, not very gently. This awakened all her THE LAMB. 135 sympathies for the little creature, and stooping down, she put her arm around its neck and kissed it. " Dear, sweet lamb !" she murmured. Then looking into the farmer s face, she said, in an earnest voice " You won t hurt the poor lamb ?" "0 no, child, I won t hurt it," replied the farmer, whose feelings were slightly moved by this exhibition of tenderness. "But come into the garden, with Kitty, and get some strawberries." " Thank you !" replied Emma, looking up; "but I don t care about any straw berries to-day." The farmer saw that there were tears in the eyes of the little girl; and he began to understand her real feelings about the lamb. " Do you love the lamb ?" he asked. Emma did not answer in words, but the way in which she drew the creature s head tightly against her bosom, told the farmer how much of tenderness was in her heart. L2 136 THE LAMB. " If that lamb were yours," said farmer Wilkins, "what would you do with it?" Emma s whole face brightened instantly, and her tongue was unloosed. " !" replied she, " I would feed it on new milk from our cow, every day ; and I would make it a nice soft bed to sleep on, where no cold nor rain would touch it. And I would love it so much !" " Take it, then, my good little girl," said the farmer. " I have a great many lambs in my flocks, and shall not miss this one. Take it; it is yours." How overjoyed was Emma at these un expected words! " ! I am so glad !" fell warmly from her lips. Then lifting the lamb once more in her arms, she ran home with it as fast as she could go. Under her kind care, the lamb was so tenderly nursed that it scarce ly missed the mother from which it had been taken; and it soon learned to know Emma s voice, and would follow her about, and sport with her as playfully as a kitten. 1 H E LAMB. 137 Every day when she went to school, her mother had to shut the lamb up in the house,. to keep it from following her; but when she returned, it would see her a good way off, and run skipping along to meet her. Emma would put her arms around its neck, as soon as it came up, kiss it, and say " Dear little lamb ! How I love you !" And though the lamb could not tell, in words, how much it loved its dear young friend, yet Emma could read its love in its eyes, and understand all it would have said had it been gifted with speech. LITTLE GEORGE AND HIS GRANDMOTHER. "Q GRANDMA!" said little George, opening the curtain and looking out of the window " the ground is all covered with snow !" " Yes, my dear, it has snowed during the night, and covered the earth to the depth of several inches." " 0, look at the pretty snow-birds ! See how close they come to the door. But are they not very cold, grandma, their feet are so red?" " No George. The little snow-birds are not afraid of the cold. They are all co vered with soft and warm feathers." 188 LITTLE GEORGE AND HIS GRANDMOTHER. 139 " But a n t their feet cold ? When my teet were once almost frozen, they were red, just like the snow-bird s feet." " Their feet are always red, as well in summer as in winter." " Where do the snow-birds go in the summer-time, grandma ? I never see them after the winter is gone." " They love the snow and the cold, and so they go away off to the north in the summer-time, where they lay their eggs and hatch out their young ones." " Then, if they love the cold so well, why don t they stay there ? It s always cold at the north, you have told me." " They come here for food. In our mild climate grow very many plants, the seeds of which are good food for them." " But it snows here too, grandma, and covers up all the ground." " But not often so deep as to cover up in the woods and corners of the fields the tops of weeds and bushes, from which they may still pick the seeds. See there ! Don t you IV. 9 140 LITTLE GEORGE AND jee that little bird picking out the seeds from a stock which still lifts itself above the enow?" " yes ! Dear little bird ! See ! Now it has come close up to the door, and is picking up the crumbs from the step." " After a deep snow, they always come about the houses and barns, and haystacks, to pick up crumbs and seeds." " Where are they when it don t snow, or when all the snow is melted ?" " In the woods and fields, getting their food from weeds and shrubs." " They all turn to sparrows in the sum mer-time, don t they?" " No, dear. Didn t I tell you that they all left us and went away to the north, where the climate is colder ?" " yes. But then I heard Mr. Murray say, that the little chirping sparrows that live about the houses in summer-time were snow-birds with new feathers on." " Other people besides Mr. Murray have thought so. But a sparrow is a sparrow, HIS GRANDMOTHER. 141 and a snow-bird a snow-bird. But come, it is breakfast-time, and you must eat and get ready for school." " Must I go to school to-day, grandma, all through the deep snow?" little George asked, making a wry face. " You are not afraid of the snow, are you, George ?" " No, I am not afraid of it but then it is so deep, and looks so cold." " It s only a few inches deep/ grandma said, " and I will wrap you up so warm that the cold can t touch you. So come down and get a nice breakfast, and then my little boy will go off as happy as he can be." Like a good many other little boys, George liked to get an excuse for staying away from school, and therefore it was, that as soon as he saw the snow on the ground, he thought that now he could stay at home and have a good frolic. But when his grandmother seemed so in earnest about his going, he felt a little unkind; and though he said nothing more, he coked 142 LITTLE GEORGE AND rather sober as he came down-stairs and seated himself at the breakfast-table. " Wouldn t you like to hear a little story, George ?" his grandma said, after the break fast was over, and she was about getting him ready to go to school. " yes, grandma, tell me a story," and his eyes brightened up, and he looked all interest. " Well, a great many years ago," began George s grandma, " there lived a poor wo man in a cottage, who had one little boy. She hadn t money to buy him such nice, warm clothes as you have, but the best that she could get for him were always kept whole and clean. In the summer-time he worked in her garden sometimes, and some times in the neighbours gardens, who paid him money. This money he always brought to his mother, for he loved her very much. " When the winter-time came, and the ground was all covered up with snow, he could not get any work to do, and then he had time to go to school. His mother was HIS GRANDMOTHER. 143 so anxious that her boy should learn, that she saved a little money, poor as she was, during summer, to pay for his schooling in the winter. " Now the school-house was more than a mile away, and the snow lay for months upon the ground far deeper than it is now, for the winters were a great deal colder then, and it snowed a great deal more. But this little boy never asked to stay home, although he was no bigger than you, and hadn t such a nice, warm great-coat as you have. In the morning he would be up bright and early, and bring in wood for his mother from the wood-pile, and fetch her three or four pails of water from the spring, enough to last all day, and then he would go off to school as happy as a bird. " Well, in this way he got a good educa tion, and when he grew up to be a man, his learning enabled him to earn money enough to keep his poor mother from work ing so hard any longer." " Wasn t he a good little boy, grandma l" IV.-M 144 LITTLE GEORGE AND George said, looking up with a face full of delighted interest. "Yes, George, he was a very good boy; and, when he grew up to be a man, he was a good man." " Where is he now, grandma?" "He is in heaven, my dear. After a while he took sick and died, and they buried his dead body in the ground, but his living spirit that part of him that thought about and loved his mother could not die. It went to heaven. But his mother was not all alone. He left her another little boy, his own boy, whose mother had gone to heaven a little while before him." "And was that little boy good to his grandma ?" " yes." "And did he love her?" " Yes, he loved her very much, and she loved him, and made him warm clothes. But he didn t always like to go to school, Invuuse he didn t know how much good it luul done his father, when he was a little HIS GRANDMOTHER. 145 boy, nor how far his father had to go, even when the snow was deeper and the air colder than it is now." George stood thoughtful by his grand ma s side for a moment or two, and then looking up into her face, asked earnestly " Am I that little boy, grandma?" " Yes, my dear, you are that little boy," she said, stooping down and kissing him tenderly. "And was it my father who got you wood and water, and worked for you in the summer-time, and then went so far to school in the cold and snow ?" " Yes, my dear." " I ll never ask to stay home from school again, if it snows up to the top of the door," he replied, lifting his head with a deter mined air. His grandma was much pleased to see the effect of what she had told him upon his mind. She got his thick over-coat and buttoned it up closely about the neck. Then she took his mittens and warmed 146 LITTLE GEORGE. them all so nicely before she drew them on his little hands. After he was all ready, with his book, and his slate under his arms, she gave him a good kiss, and away he went as happy as a cricket. He never complained of the cold after that. Whenever he saw the snow, he thought of his father when he was a little boy, and of how he had waded through it for more than a mile every day, that he might get to school and learn, and of how much good that learning had done him. FADING FLOWEBS. /"VNE day, when a child, said a cheerful- ^-^ minded friend, who had passed over more than two-thirds of the time usually allotted to men on earth, I went into the field and gathered a bunch of beautiful wild-flowers which I placed in a vase on the mantel-piece. To my eyes they were beautiful; and many times, during the few hours that passed till evening, did I come in from my play to look at them. / had gathered and arranged them they were mine and, therefore, the more highly prized. Early the next morning I arose, and, dressing myself, went to look at my floral M2 U7 148 FADING FLOWERS. treasures. Alas ! they had withered away, and hung with drooping heads over the side of the glass in which I had placed them. A few curled leaves, almost colour less, lay upon the floor, and upon some of them a careless foot had trodden. For a moment I stood bewildered ; then shrank away into a corner of the room, and commenced weeping and sobbing bit terly. - My all of earthly happiness seemed wrecked. My kind mother (I shall never forget her, nor her early lessons of love) came in while my young heart was trembling in its sorrow, and taking my hand, as she sat down by me, inquired, in an anxious tone, the cause of my grief. " My flowers," said I, sobbing more bit- terly ; it was all that my tongue could ar ticulate. Her mother s heart comprehended, the moment her eye caught my faded blossoms, the whole weight of my childish affliction. She did not speak for a few minutes, but FADING FLOWERS. 149 raised me up and laid my head upon her bosom. Her fond affection calmed my in fant transports of sorrow, and I soon looked up composedly into her face; she smiled on me with a smile a mother s countenance can only wear ; but I well remember now that a tear was on her cheek. I thought it strange at the time that my mother should weep ; but I can now well imagine her feelings, as the little accident I have mentioned threw her thoughts upon the future, and brought before her mind, in sad array, the many disappointments that would crowd my path, of which this one was but a gentle prelude. She looked pla cidly on my face for a moment, which was upturned to hers, and then assuming a se rious tone, implanted in my young mind one of her first lessons of patience and en durance a lesson which has never been forgotten. " My dear child," said she, " I am sorry that your flowers have faded; but you know there are many more in the fields. 150 FADING FLOWERS. and much prettier ones in the garden. You can gather a new bouquet." " But I gathered them, mother," said I, " and I liked them flowers better than any others, because they were mine." And I wept again to think that those very ones that / loved should have faded. " Your flowers will often wither, my child," answered my mother ; " and though you may love your own more than any others, yet when their brightness and beauty are gone, you must remember that grieving cannot restore them. Every thing which brings to you pleasure, is one of the flowers of life. Do you not love me more than all those pretty coloured leaves?" I could not say yes but the smiling tears that were in my eyes told her my feelings; and my little arms, twined fondly around her neck, made the strongest affir mative her heart wanted. " I am one of the flowers of life," conti nued she, " and so is your father, and so is FADING FLOWERS. 151 sister Mary. But did you never think that one day these flowers would wither ?" I scarcely comprehended her meaning then, but I did not forget the words she uttered ; and years after, when manhood was upon my brow, and I stood looking down into her grave, the whole truth of her question and allusion came upon my mind, and I wept anew in bitterness of spirit. " Remember, my dear," said she as I continued looking seriously into her face, but half conscious of the force of what she was saying, " that all along your ways through life will spring up pleasant flowers, and your hand will be constantly reaching out and plucking them but, my child, they will all wither. Nothing on earth is permanent. All things are changing and passing away. You will indulge many brilliant anticipations, and, as you spring up to manhood, will have many hopes of happiness in this world; but disappoint ment will follow your steps wherever you tread, and the thorns of sorrow tear your 152 FADING FLOWERS. hands often as you nave reached them out to pluck the blossoms of joy. Yet, amid all this, there is a virtue which takes large ly away from the darkness of the picture ; the virtue of patience. Do you not re member reading in the little book I gave you a day or two since, that 1 To bear is to conquer our fate* ? That means, if we are patient under disap pointment and grief, it will rob them of much of their painrulness. We make .our sorrows deeper than they really are, by thinking and grieving over them. Learn to have patience under all circumstances, and your happiness will be more certain." " And now, my child," continued she, u gather up those leaves from the floor; throw away the withered flowers and get fresh ones." I ran to the field as soon as I had done my breakfast, and collected another bunch as pretty as those I had the day before, and was happy in looking at them in their FADING FLOWERS. 153 nice arrangement upon the shelf where I placed them. In a day or two they faded also, but I remembered the words of my mother, and tried to learn patience. It was a hard lesson at first; but whenever any thing went wrong, I still tried the remedy called patience, and soon found that it was a charm which robbed disappointment of most of its pain. Ever since, said this friend, I have en deavoured to use patience under all circum stances, and find that it brings the mind nearer than any thing else to that content ment which Campbell calls " the all in all of life." THE END. W119134 The t)oor wolcd cutter and M119134 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY