THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 OUR HOMES; 
 
 THEIR 
 
 r $ atfo ftotiw, up aito 
 
 EDITED BT 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
 150 WORTH STREET, CORNER MISSION PI,ACE
 
 Copyrighted oy 
 HUBBARD BROTHERS. 
 
 1888.
 
 PS 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IN the homes of a country its good and evil 
 influences originate. The carefully trained and 
 wisely educated child grows up into a useful 
 citizen, and works in his allotted sphere for the 
 maintenance of general order, while the neglected 
 child, left to the guidance of his own natural evils, 
 and subjected to a thousand temptations to vice 
 and crime, pushes his way to manhood, a tres 
 passer on the rights of others and a scourge upon, 
 the community. Between these extremes are the 
 gradations of good and evil influences, the origins 
 of which may be traced back to the homes in 
 which young life first received its impulses. 
 
 A truism though this may be, its repetition can 
 
 (*> 
 
 1117272
 
 IT PREFACE. 
 
 hardly be made too often ; and we venture it here 
 as a fitting introduction to a volume the object 
 of which is clearly apparent in the title. Nor 
 are home-duties and home-influences confined to 
 the child alone. They embrace all ages, sexes, 
 and conditions of life for who is there so poor ns 
 not to have a home? As our homes are, so will 
 we in a great measure be ; for every day their 
 impress is upon us every day we feel their 
 beauty, or are marred by their disorder and 
 deformity every day we give out salutary or 
 perverting influences, as well as receive them. 
 
 In the various domestic scenes which are here 
 presented, as well as in the grave suggestions and 
 admonitions, we have endeavoured to meet all 
 states ; and furnish incitement to good deeds in 
 all minds. The articles which make up the book 
 are selected from a wide range of sources, and are 
 written by almost as many different authors, so 
 that home and its relations are seen from varied 
 positions, in the hues of many minds, and illus 
 trated by the light of many experiences.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TOE POOR MAN'S FAIRIES page 7 
 
 THRKE NEW YEARS' EVES 8 
 
 THE POWER OF KINDNESS 17 
 
 "OuR PET" . 21 
 
 THANKSGIVINO 22 
 
 HOME . . 27 
 
 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED 31 
 
 THE ART OF LIVING EAST 37 
 
 OH, SING TO ME SOFTLY, MY SISTER 41 
 
 AN EVENING AT HOME 42 
 
 Two YEARS OLD . . 50 
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE 52 
 
 MY MOTHER 61 
 
 Music IN FAMILIES \ 64 
 
 DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR CHILDREN READ? .... 67 
 
 THE PROGRESS or GREEDINESS ...... 70 
 
 THE CRADLE AWAY UP IN THE GARRET 80 
 
 THE HEAVENLY SHEPHERD 84 
 
 HE NEVER KEPT HIS WlFE WAITING 86 
 
 MY OWN FIRESIDE 89 
 
 BE PATIENT WITH THE LITTLE ONES 90 
 
 IIJE INVALID WIFE ........ 92 
 
 "THE OLD FOLKS" 5 
 
 OBEDIENCE, HOW TAUGHT TO CHILDREN . ... 98 
 
 OUR HOMES ... 102 
 
 MRS. WlNTERFORD AND HF.R SERVANTS .... 103 
 
 (5)
 
 Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 THE SPABE BED-ROOM . 119 
 
 DUTY TO PARENTS 1"2 
 
 TUB Two PARTINGS 137 
 
 "ONE SET APART" 145 
 
 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW .... 149 
 
 MUSINGS AND MEMORIES 158 
 
 FILIAL PIETY 160 
 
 GODFATHER VIVIAN Ifi4 
 
 THE STOHY OF THE BROKEN FLOWER-POT . . . .171 
 Is WORK DEGRADING? . . . . . . .176 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD 181 
 
 GIRLS' HEADS AGAINST VEST PATTERNS 190 
 
 FAITHFUL LOVE A FAMILY PICTURE ..... 194 
 
 THE WAY MY MITHER DID IT 198 
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN 202 
 
 A HOME FOR MY MOTHER ....... 208 
 
 A CHILD'S FIRST LETTER . . . , . .210 
 
 LITTLE MOLLY . 212 
 
 FAREWELL TO A SISTER 216 
 
 HEART-SHADOWS 218 
 
 THE DUMB CHILD 222 
 
 A SCENE FROM REAL LIFE 225 
 
 THE FIRST BABY 229 
 
 HOME LIGHTS AND HOME SHADOWS ..... 233 
 
 THE WORTH OF A DJLL 237 
 
 FARMERS' SONS 239 
 
 THE SPIRIT-MAIDEN OF RIIINELAND ..... 254 
 
 PASSING AWAY 260 
 
 HINTS FOR HUSBANDS 263 
 
 BUY ONLY WHAT YOU WANT 2C6 
 
 AN ANGEL BY THE HEARTH ....... 269 
 
 A WORD TO YOUNG HUSBANDS 270 
 
 A WIFE'S SERMON ; OR HINTS TO HUSBANDS .... 274 
 
 MY WIFE 282 
 
 A TRUE WIFE . . . 283 
 
 THE DYING CHILD . . , 284
 
 THE POOR MAN'S FAIRIES 
 
 OH 1 mine is a fairy home, 
 
 Though 'tis humble enough and poof J 
 There are prints of their tiny feet 
 
 All over the sanded floor. 
 
 There are sounds as of elfin glee, 
 That awake me at peep of day ; 
 
 There are wee things about my path, 
 Ere I start with my spade away. 
 
 Last night, ere I left the field, 
 A friend, with a smiling face, 
 
 Came to ask me to go with him 
 To some merry carousing place. 
 
 But methought that the while he talked 
 I was touched with a magic wand 
 
 With a sprightly glimmer of starry eye, 
 And a look I can ne'er withstand.
 
 THREE NEW YEARS' EVES. 
 
 I saw one sweet anxious face 
 
 Await in the porch for me, 
 While three little busy elves 
 
 Were as merry as elves could be 
 
 I saw their sweet looks of love, 
 
 And my heart set off through the wood: 
 So I bade my old friend good-night, 
 
 And followed as fast as I could. 
 
 One fairy had made my tea, 
 
 And another had sliced my bread, 
 
 And a tiny one had clambered my knee 
 For a kiss ere she went to bed. 
 
 And Bess is the fairy queen, 
 And Harry, and Jane, and Kate 
 
 Are the three little busy elves 
 Who clustered around my gate. 
 
 Ch ! mine is a fairy home, 
 
 Though men say there are fairies no more; 
 Still they beckon me when I roam, 
 
 And peep in at my cottage door. 
 
 THREE NEW YEARS' EVES. 
 
 EVE THE FIRST. 
 
 MR. and Mrs. Andrews had been married only a few 
 months, and this was their first New Year's Eve. Theirs 
 was truly a marriage of affection, and congenial tastes 
 drew closer the bonds by which they were united. Fa 
 miliarity with the best authors had developed the mind 
 of Mr. Andrews intellectually ; while a thorough busi-
 
 THREE NEW YEARS' EVES. 9 
 
 ness education gave him a confidence in his own ability 
 to make his way in the world, and left him undisturbed 
 about the future. Mrs. Andrews had been carefully 
 reared by a widowed mother, now removed from her by 
 death, and had experienced just enough of the trials of 
 Belt-dependence to feel the real comforts of her new po 
 sition. 
 
 The home in which they found themselves on this, the 
 first New Year's Eve of their married life, suited, in all 
 respects, their unambitious tastes. It was not large, 
 nor elegantly furnished, in the modern acceptation of 
 that term ; but light from their happy hearts was re 
 flected on every object, making all beautiful in their 
 eyes. 
 
 The intellectual tastes of Mr. Andrews had led him, 
 in the arrangement of his new home, to set apart one 
 small room as a library, and here most of the evenings 
 of the young couple were spent. And it was here they 
 had shut themselves in from the world on their first New 
 Year's Eve, the husband reading aloud from a favourite 
 book, and the happy young wife listening to his manly 
 voice, and treasuring in her memory the sentiments that 
 fell from his lips, while her fingers busied themselves 
 with some elegant needlework. 
 
 This home was their Paradise, into which the tempter 
 had not yet found an entrance. This was their world, 
 beyond which thought had Hot yet strayed, nor imagina 
 tion pictured a scene more desirable. Without was the 
 desolation of winter ; but within, the sunshine of love 
 made all bright as an Arcadian summer. 
 
 Thus it was on their first New Y T ear's Eve.
 
 10 THREE NEW YEARS' EVES. 
 
 EVE THE SECOND. 
 
 They are in the warm library, as on the last 
 Year's Eve. The husband is sitting with a book before 
 him, but not leading, though thought seems busied in 
 its pages. Yet, thought is far away from that quiet 
 place, busying itself with some scheme of worldly gain. 
 Since last year, he has become more absorbed in trade, 
 and more ambitious to rise in the world ; and, as a con 
 sequence, less interested in things purely intellectual. 
 Many times since that first happy New Year's Eve, has 
 his wife gone up to her chamber, after parting with him 
 for the day, and wept as if her heart would break. And 
 why ? He had forgotten the parting kiss, or laid his 
 lips to hera so coldly, that the touch chilled, instead of 
 warming her heart. Oh ! how many times had a doubt 
 of his love come over her, filling her soul with anguish ! 
 
 The pleasant library has another inmate a babe 
 sleeping in its warm cradle. And above this angel 
 visitant, the mother bends and feasts her eyes upon its 
 beauty. A new spring of joy has gushed forth in her 
 spirit new capacities for enjoyment have been created 
 therein. 
 
 In some things, this eve is happier than the last ; yet 
 over the brightness of the scene a flitting shadow passea 
 for the world has come with its tempting bribes, and 
 the heart of Mr. Andrews is not proof against them. 
 
 What we love, comes to the lips in speech. Mr. An- 
 drews's desire to achieve large success in business, often 
 led him to speak of what came first in his thoughts- 
 Many times he had talked with his wife about his future, 
 and gradually inspired her mind with something of the
 
 THREE NEW YEARS* EVES. 11 
 
 ambition that filled his own. And this evening, while 
 the babe slumbered, they talked of the coming year, 
 and the Urge gains that were expected by the husband. 
 More than once it was on his lips to speak of a better 
 house, and more elegant home-surroundings ; but a re 
 collection of the happy hours they had spent in the 
 pleasant room they occupied, caused him to repress the 
 words. 
 
 EVE THE THIRD. 
 
 Three more years have passed with their joys and 
 sorrows. 
 
 "We are on the last hours of the year," said Mrs. 
 Andrews, with a shade of sadness in her voice, as she 
 took up some needlework, and drew near the light, where 
 her husband sat with a newspaper in his hands, appa 
 rently reading. She had just returned from the cham 
 bers above, after seeing their three children safely in 
 bed. 
 
 "Yes," repeated Mr. Andrews, gloomily; "on the 
 last hours of the year." 
 
 " It has not been as happy a year as were the previous 
 ones," said Mrs. AndreAvs. " You have had more trou 
 ble in business, and, somehow, things have been going 
 wrong at home all the time. I don't know what's come 
 over me, but little matters, that once had no power to 
 disturb, now ruffle my feelings sadly. And, then, there's 
 no concealing the fact, that the children grow more un 
 governable every day ; and what is worse, quarrel dread 
 fully among themselves." 
 
 Mr. Andrews made no reply, for the words of his wife 
 brought uy from the past images of home-scenes singu-
 
 12 THREE NEW YEAUs' EVES. 
 
 larly in contrast with the real things of the year just 
 sighing out the last hours of its existence. No ; home 
 Lad not been as happy as during the previous years. 
 
 And why was this? There had been trouble in busi 
 ness, on the husband's side, and he had not always 
 thrown the weight of care from his spirit at day's de 
 cline, and brought a cheerful heart and sunny counte 
 nance home with him. Yet he might have done this ; 
 for the trouble was such as ever comes with increasing 
 business, and should have found a compensation in in 
 creasing gains. Had he wisely left the day's cares and 
 perplexities at his place of business when the doors were 
 shut at night, and let home-affections, and a loving inte 
 rest in the treasured ones of his household, find their 
 true activity, his presence would have been like warm 
 sunshine, dispelling clouds and shadows. But, he was 
 setting his heart upon the world, more and more, every 
 day ; and as worldly interests increased, care and anxi 
 ety increased also, for this is one of the penalties nearly 
 all men pay for prosperity. He had met with some un.- 
 expected losses, and more than one carefully planned 
 operation had entirely failed. This was the trouble in 
 business to which his wife referred ; and of which she 
 had felt at home the disturbing influence. On her part, 
 the trouble had also been experienced. She, too, was 
 Betting her heart on external things, and hoping to find 
 therein rest and peace. The home in which, during the 
 earlier years of her married life, she had enjoyed so 
 much of real happiness, grown poor and mean in her 
 eyes under the stronger light of opening prosperity, 
 must needs be changed for one larger and more elegant.
 
 THREE NEW YEARS' EVES. 18 
 
 Richer clothing, new and costly furniture, and many 
 things for show succeeded, all absorbing her thoughts, 
 and all bringing more or less disturbing influences. 
 
 In the choice of a new house, there had been a differ 
 ence of opinion between Mrs. Andrews and her husband, 
 resulting in much unhappiness on both sides. Ho 
 preferred one part of the city, and she another ; he a 
 roomy, but not very costly house ; she one of rather 
 imposing appearance, more ornamental than comfort* 
 able. Her will was strongest, and her wishes prevailed, 
 But, in the conquest, if it might so be called, she lost 
 more than she gained ; for she lost a portion of her hus 
 band's affection. And her heart's quick instincts were 
 not long in discovering the fact. 
 
 The new house, new furniture, and new friends that 
 suddenly sprung up, absorbed a large portion of Mrs. 
 Andrews's time, as well as thoughts, to the neglect of 
 her children, and loss of real comfort in the household. 
 But neglected children are not passive subjects : nor 
 neglect in matters of domestic comfort a thing of indif 
 ference. They will exist as painful realities ; and this 
 Mrs. Andrews soon proved, to her sorrow. 
 
 This, in brief, is a history of the year, in the waning 
 light of which the husband and wife sat sighing over 
 their disappointed hopes. 
 
 " Do you remember our first New Year's Eve ?" said 
 Mrs. Andrews, in a voice that some vivid recollection 
 of the past had made tremulous with feeling. This was 
 after a long silence. 
 
 For a few moments, her husband looked at her befor
 
 If THREE NEW YEARS EVES. 
 
 replying. Her question had thrown his thoughts back, 
 and now the memory of a happier time was present. 
 
 "There have been none like it since, Anna." The 
 words were spoken earnestly, but sadly. "And yet," 
 he added, after a thoughtful silence, " this ought not tc 
 be. The years should grow brighter with sunshine; not 
 darker with clouds. Something is wrong. Why, as the 
 time goes on, should the pressure of care grow heavier, 
 and our spirits, that desire rest and peace, find the ocean 
 of life more vexed with storms, as the ship advances ? 
 Yes, Anna, I do remember that first New Year's Eve. 
 Alas ! how unlike the present !" 
 
 "We werft poorer in this world's goods, but richer in 
 feelings," said Mrs. Andrews. " That dear little library ! 
 There was a charm about it, never found in any of our 
 richer apartments. The heart's warm sunshine fell all 
 around it, and made every object beautiful." 
 
 " Something is wrong." Mr. Andrews repeated the 
 words more earnestly. " If, since that first pleasant 
 New Year's Eve, the sky above us has grown colder, the 
 path rougher, and our hearts sadder, we cannot be on 
 *he road to happiness. If, with every advancing step, 
 the sunshine continues to fade, we must be on the road 
 to darkness, and not light." 
 
 " The light has grown dimmer, and yet we have been 
 looking for the morning to break in brilliant sunshine !" 
 
 "Our external condition is improved," said Mr. An 
 drews. " We have a better home, and my business has 
 greatly enlarged ; yet, neither of these changes has 
 brought the anticipated pleasure. You are not as happy 
 amid all these elegant surroundings, and I am less satis-
 
 THREE NEW YEARS' EVES. 15 
 
 ficd with largo gains in business, than I was when my 
 income reached scarcely a third of its present amount, 
 Yes, yes, something is wrong, and it behooves us to look 
 well to our ways. If these are the penalties we pay for 
 an improved worldly condition, then wealth must be a 
 curse, instead of a blessing." 
 
 " If we set our hearts upon it," replied Mrs. Andrews, 
 " it will prove a curse. And, dear husband, may not 
 our error lie just here?" 
 
 Mr. Andrews did not reply for some minutes, during 
 which time thought was very busy. He then said, 
 
 " It does lie just where you say, Anna. I am build 
 ing too much on the mere accumulation of wealth, as a 
 means of happiness, and you are permitting your eyes 
 to be dazzled by the surface-glitter of the world 
 around you. We are placing our highest good in mere 
 external things, to the almost total neglect of what is 
 internal, and therefore more real. What are wealth and 
 elegance? what are honour and reputation? what are 
 fine houses and grand villas, if the heart be dissatisfied ? 
 If each returning New Year's Eve find us sadder than 
 before, are we not living in vain?" 
 
 "Dear husband !" said Mrs. Andrews, "let us begin 
 the New Year in a wiser and better life. Come home 
 to me, as of old, leaving the world and its cares behind 
 you ; and I will strive, with an earnest spirit, to disperse 
 all clouds, so that the sunshine may come in, as of old. 
 Let us find, in every passing day, the treasure it brings 
 to our door, and not lose the blessings we have, in a vain 
 longing after some mere ideal good." 
 
 As they talked, the weight of sadness was liftel fron
 
 itJ THREE NEW YEARS' EVE3 
 
 their spirits. Even in truer thoughts and better pur 
 poses, there comes a measure of peace to the troubled 
 heart ; how much more, if thought and purpose give 
 birth to action ! 
 
 The evening closed more brightly than it began. 
 Peace fluttered again above their hearts, seeking therein 
 a nestling- place. 
 
 " We will not forget the world within us, for the world 
 without," said Mr. Andrews, closing the pages of a book, 
 in which he read aloud to his wife, as on their first New 
 Year's Eve ; " the internal, for the external ; the riches 
 of mind and heart, for the wealth that perishes in the 
 using. Our feet have gone astray ; but we are not such 
 distant wanderers from the right path, that we may not 
 find it again !" 
 
 Have you wandered, like them, reader, from the 
 pleasant ways of life ! Have you made the external 
 of more importance than the internal ? If so, pause, 
 as the year wanes, and resolve to begin the next in a 
 wiser subordination of things natural and worldly, to 
 things moral, intellectual, and spiritual. Doing so, you 
 will find that, while you have seemed to see dimly, in 
 the far distance, the beautiful garments of Peace, the 
 fair goddess was knocking at the door of your heart, 
 and vainly seeking an entrance.
 
 THE POWER OF KINDNESS. 
 
 WE lo not know the origin of the following article. 
 It is excellent: 
 
 A certain individual, whom we shall call Bullard, was 
 one of the most cross-grained and peevish of men. It 
 was misery to be near him. He grumbled and snarled 
 incessantly, and found fault with every one and every 
 thing around him. Nothing seemed to please him. He 
 seemed to exist in one perpetual foment of irascible im 
 patience, uncomfortable himself, and sowing the seeda 
 of anger, fretfulness, and discord wherever he appeared. 
 His home was especially unhappy. Bitter retorts and 
 passionate invectives obtained dominant sway. He con 
 stantly railed at his wife, and she replied in the same 
 unloving strain ; the children quickly imbibed a like vin 
 dictive habit, until such a thing as a pleasant look or 
 kindly word was never known among them. 
 
 One day Mr. Bullard was returning to his cheerless 
 dwelling, more feverish in temper than \vas his wont, in 
 consequence of some disappointment, ready to vent his 
 angry spleen upon his family as soon as he arrived. If 
 the supper was not ready to sit down to at the very 
 moment, he would almost turn the house upside down, 
 and strike his wife to the quick with his taunting com 
 plaints. But chancing to approach a little sunny-haired 
 girl, whose mild blue eyes and loving face were such a 
 picture of bursting kindness as he had never seen before, 
 an incident occurred which effected a complete revolu- 
 2
 
 18 THE POWER OF KINDNESS. 
 
 tion in his peevish frame of mind and planted a ne\ 
 feeling in his turbulent breast. The girl, and one, evi 
 dently her older brother, were playing with a small car 
 riage ; and, suddenly turning near a stone step, she 
 accidentally struck the carriage against one corner, and 
 broke it into atoms. In a passionate burst of anger, the 
 boy advanced, and struck his sister a severe blow in the 
 face with his clinched hand, and stamped his feet in a 
 tempest of fury upon the ground. 
 
 But, instead of returning the blow and revengeful 
 speech, after an involuntary cry of pain, the noble girl 
 laid her hand gently on her brother's arm, and looking 
 sorrowfully into his flushed face, softly said, " Oh, 
 brother Tom ! I did not think you would do that." In 
 a moment, as if stung by a hot iron, the boy shrunk 
 back, and hung his head in shame and conscience-stricken 
 pain. Then he said, " Forgive me, dear Helen ! I will 
 never do it again." And scarce had the penitent words 
 left his lips, when his sister's arms were thrown around 
 his neck, and forgiveness sobbed on his breast. Here 
 was a lesson for Bullard ! At first he was quite stunned 
 by it ; he could not understand it. It was something 
 utterly beyond his philosophy. But he felt that it had 
 Bomehow done him good. Bit by bit, as he proceeded 
 on, his own angry feelings vanished, till he felt more 
 calm and kindly than he had done for years. Yea, ho 
 was softened to his heart's core, and he felt something 
 rery like moisture springing to his eyes. 
 
 Little noting the wonderful change which had taken 
 place in her husband's temper, Mrs. Bullard was dread 
 ing his arrival home, for supper was not near ready, and
 
 THE POWER OF KINDNESS. 10 
 
 she had had the misfortune to burn the calces she had 
 baked for that meal. And the children, copying from 
 her, were unusually cross and bad. In vain she had 
 scolded Jind whipped them ; they only snarled and struck 
 each other, and almost drove her distracted with their 
 quarrelling confusion. 
 
 Mr. Billiard entered, and whatever could be the mat 
 ter, Mrs. Bullard could scarcely give credit to her senses. 
 Instead of dashing the door behind him in a pettish 
 crash, and stamping his way forward to the kitchen, he 
 took the crying baby from its bed, and hushed it with 
 the softest and most endearing words he had ever used. 
 And his face had a smile on it a real, kind, sunshiny 
 smile. What strange wonder was this ? Mrs. Bullard 
 was, at first, struck quite dumb with astonishment, and 
 the children stared at their changed father as if at a 
 loss to make the mystery out. He spoke, and actually 
 said, " My dear Mary, is supper nearly ready ? I'm as 
 hungry as a hunter !" Their wonder increased more and 
 more. The children hardly seemed assured whether it 
 was their father or not ; and Mrs. Bullard scarcely knew 
 whether to believe in the evidence of her eyes and ears. 
 But the change was real. Already a blessed feeling 
 diffused through the family circle, like unto the falling 
 of the morning dew, or the fragrant breath of summer 
 flowers. At first, hesitatingly, Mrs. Bullard replied 
 " Supper will be ready directly. But I am so sorry 
 these cakes are burned. Must Willie run to the bakery 
 for a loaf?" "No, never mind," returned Mr. Bullard, 
 "we can scrape off the burned part, and then they will 
 taste as well as need be."
 
 20 THE POWER OP KINDNESS. 
 
 And taste as well they did, and better than cakes had 
 tasted in the Bullard dwelling for a long time before. 
 Not one jarring speech marred the pleasantness of that 
 happy meal. Mr, Bullard's kindly speech and smiling 
 face had descended to his wife, and from both became 
 reflected in their children. The house looked brighter. 
 The beautiful mantle of cheerfulness had fallen on it, 
 nd there was unutterable music in the very ticking of 
 the old clock. Mrs. Bullard cried with delight, when 
 she saw the baby crowing in its smiling father's lap ; 
 and he promised, if the elder ones would be good, to 
 take them on a nice walk with him on the next Sabbath 
 day. And she resolved never more to speak a peevish 
 or angry word again, if constant watchfulness could 
 prevent their utterance, but retain the peaceful happi 
 ness which only kind words and smiles can bring. A 
 happy influence, too, was exerted on the children. They 
 no longer saw peevishness and anger in their parents ; 
 and gradually, but surely, lost it in themselves. And 
 Mr. Bullard, whenever he felt his old bad feelings rising 
 up to find an outer vent, called to mind the conduct of 
 the blue-eyed girl, and resolutely crushed them down. 
 
 Reader, believe us, kind words are the brightest 
 flowers of earth's existence ; they make a very paradise 
 of the humblest home the world can show. Use them, 
 and especially round the fireside circle. They are 
 jewels beyond price, and more precious to heal the 
 wounded heart, and make the weighed-down spirit glad, 
 than all other blessings the earth can give.
 
 "OUR PET." 
 
 We have a little favourite. 
 
 The fairest of all things ; 
 Should you see her, you would call 
 
 A cherub without wings ; 
 Or a fairy, bird, or blossom 
 
 You may call her what you will, 
 To each she bears resemblance, 
 
 But herself is better still. 
 
 Her hair is soft and golden, 
 
 As the petals of a flower ; 
 Her eyes, the blue forget-me-not 
 
 In summer's softest hour ; 
 Her voice is low and joyous 
 
 As the warble of a bird ; 
 Her step, like rustling blossoms, 
 
 By evening zephyrs stirred. 
 
 Her motions are the fairy's, 
 
 So full of witching grace, 
 And you read her guileless nature 
 
 In the sunshine of her face, 
 A pretty April blossom, 
 
 A bright bird of the wild, 
 A fairy or a cherub, 
 
 She yet is but a child. 
 
 Ycu should see our little Alice 
 In her robe of lily white, 
 
 As she steals about on tip-toe 
 To kiss us all " good-night."
 
 22 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Should see her clasp her dimpled hands. 
 
 Beside her little chair. 
 And with tongue that falters often, 
 
 Lisp out her little prayer. 
 
 You should see, Out I'd forgotten, 
 
 It is only " our sweet peV" 
 To others but a common chili, 
 
 To glance at, and forget. 
 A child ! a free, glad-hearted child ; 
 
 Has earth a thing more fair ? 
 Holds Heaven a richer treasure, 
 
 Than the bright ones gathered there ? 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 " THERE, I am thankful !" exclaimed Mrs. Everett, 
 as she seated herself at her very inviting tea-tahle, on 
 the evening previous to our New England festival. The 
 cloth was of dazzling whiteness ; the tea service, though 
 not costly, of glittering purity; and her own matronly 
 figure was very becomingly arrayed. Yet the good lady 
 was manifestly thinking of something above and beneath 
 this agreeable picture, of which she was trie successful 
 artist; for she immediately added, "For the first time 
 einee we were married, Thanksgiving will Gnd us with a 
 house in perfect order, from attic to cellar." 
 
 Mrs. Everett had been a housekeeper for fifteen years, 
 yet the statement she had just made was literally true. 
 Blame her not too severely. The task of keeping a 
 domestic establishment in faultless condition is one re-
 
 THANKSGIVING. 28 
 
 quiring If not the strength of a Hercules, yet a far higher 
 degree jf minute and patient care than any of his world- 
 famous achievements. Mrs. Everett had rightly stated 
 the order of her improvements, for she had begun with 
 the superstructure, and had hut just reached the founda 
 tion of the temple of domestic comfort. Pride and poverty 
 were her only dowry when she wedded, and having been 
 for years dependent upon wealthy relatives, she had ao 
 quired a taste for expensive luxuries, and a love of dis 
 play that was not very consistently manifested. The 
 household duties were performed at first with the aid of 
 one very young and inexperienced domestic, and while 
 the tasteful fingers of the mistress wrought ottomans 
 and other fancy articles for the parlour, the poor little 
 maid presided with sorry dignity over a very slatternly 
 kitchen cabinet. Mr. Everett had been slightly epicu 
 rean in his tastes, but this trait of character soon 
 vanished before the daily abominations that were the 
 results of her juvenile administration. His wardrobe, 
 too, experienced some neglect. His clean linen, when 
 such he wore, sometimes protruded from the elbow of 
 his coat, and embroidered slippers were an indifferent 
 apology for his very disreputable hose. 
 
 The residence of the Everetts was in a flourishing 
 village, which boasted a fair supply of soi-disant aristo 
 cracy, within whose charmed circle it was Mrs. Everett's 
 chief ambition to gain admittance. Yet for some years 
 her very zeal to compass this end defeated itself, for 
 while she received very few calls at home, she sent daily 
 int" the street a placard, on which some of her grossest
 
 24 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 failings were alvertised even her good husband, witfc 
 his unbrushed coat, soiled linen, and ragged gloves. 
 
 " Why have you never called upon Mrs. Everett ?" 
 asked Mrs. Leslie, one day, of Mrs. Grant. (Both 
 ladies were decidedly of the upper ten.) '* I have met 
 her several times, and she seems to me to possess some 
 taste and cultivation. She is very skilful in needle 
 work, and she showed me a drawing, which, when finished, 
 will be positively an ornament to any parlour." 
 
 "I know very little of the lady in question," replied 
 Mrs. Grant ; " but I think her needle is not very fre 
 quently employed upon her husband's clothes ; he is de 
 cidedly the shabbiest-looking man in the whole street." 
 
 " That may be his own fault, perhaps." 
 
 " It probably is so in part, but not altogether ; and 
 although I have seen none of Mrs. Everett's paintings, yet 
 in passing her door I have repeatedly caught glimpses of 
 tableaux vivants of a very uninviting description." 
 
 The good-natured apologist was silent. 
 
 Within the first five years of her married life, Mrs. 
 Everett became the happy mother of three beautiful 
 little girls, and again her nimble fingers were busied 
 with trimmings and embroideries, to enable the darlings 
 to appear in public like those who she fondly hoped 
 might be their future associates. If her husband re 
 monstrated, she reminded him that this finery cost him 
 very little. It did, however, cost him a large deduction 
 from his personal comforts during many weary years. 
 
 Time rolled on, and a lucky combination of circum 
 stances procured the Everetts the honour of dining at 
 Mr. Leslie's, with some very agreeable guests.
 
 THANKSGIVING. 2Jl 
 
 that our gratified desires should always give birth to 
 new ones ! Mry. Everett thenceforward sighed perpe 
 tually for damask napkins and silver forks. It was vain 
 to speak of limited means; she knew a remedy for that 
 evil. There was a book-bindery in the vicinity, and she 
 and her girls might acquire in a quiet way, by folding 
 and stitching, a sum quite sufficient for their purpose. 
 Her husband sighed in secret, but he knew that remon 
 strance was in vain. The task was commenced, and 
 well nigh accomplished ; they were, indeed, at their 
 last day's work, with the household more neglected than 
 ever, when, oh, horror ! Mr. Leslie called upon import 
 ant business. The child who admitted him gratified his 
 expressed wish to see her mother, by taking him directly 
 to the kitchen, and his quick eye took in at a glance the 
 whole condition of the premises. Mrs. Everett received 
 him with a face of scarlet, but she was too proud to 
 apologize, and indeed apology was useless. 
 
 After this unpleasant interruption, the mortified group 
 returned to their task with flagging fingers ; yet it was 
 in due time completed, and the intended purchases made. 
 They felt, however, that they had paid a heavy prjce in 
 the loss of comfort and self-respect, and of that very 
 reputation which they were so anxious to maintain. 
 Another misfortune followed. A malicious neighbour, 
 who envied Mrs. Everett her empty and unsatisfied 
 ambition (what will not mortals envy !), gave vent to 
 her bitterness by circulating a calumnious report. The 
 scandal was unfounded, for, to do justice to our aspiring 
 friend, it was only in the minor morals that she wag 
 deficient. Yet, luring the prevalence of the rumour.
 
 26 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 she was kindly informed that Mr. Leslie had said on 
 hearing it, "I dislike to encourage scandal, but I can 
 believe almost anything of a woman whose public attire 
 is fresh and faultless, yet who honours her fireside with 
 soiled dress, neglected teeth, ana dusty hair, quite in 
 keeping with the surrounding scene." 
 
 The public were soon undeceived with regard to the 
 calumny, but Mrs. Everett never forgot that her real 
 errors had lent a colouring to the statement. She felt 
 that, like the wife of Cnesar, she should have been above 
 suspicion. She perceived that she had missed the sub 
 stance in pursuing a shadow, and with characteristic 
 energy she resolved on an immediate reform. She de 
 termined thenceforward to devote her first attention to 
 her domestic duties, leaving her social position to find 
 its own natural level. A thorough in-doors revolution 
 was what she aimed at, and she found a pleasure in the 
 task that compensated her for the loss of some ambitious 
 visions. 
 
 Circumstances favoured her. She was in the prime 
 of life, with three budding daughters, who inherited her 
 own fprce of character ; and their united energies, once 
 rightly directed, were speedily followed by gratifying 
 results. The husband gave his cordial support to the 
 new order of things, and as day by day some time- 
 honoured nuisance of the establishment disappeared, he 
 regained his cheerfulness, and was even betrayed into 
 acts of unwonted liberality. 
 
 At length the new purpose was achieved. Thanks 
 giving Eve had arrived, and throughout those regene 
 rated premises, "from a thread even to a shoe-latchet,"
 
 HOME 27 
 
 nothing was misplaced or neglected. We will new leave 
 tho household to enjoy the charm of their novel and in 
 teresting position, for although we know not their Thurs 
 day's bill of fare, we douht not its luxuries will be fully 
 enjoyed by calm and thankful hearts. 
 
 Sweet sisters mine, there are many of us who have 
 erred, more or less, after the fashion of Mrs. Everett. 
 If, under less favourable circumstances, we cannot hope 
 for complete success in our endeavours to reform, let us 
 all do something more for those whose comfort depends 
 upon our fidelity, and resolve that, in some respects at 
 least, our domestic circles shall have cause for a future 
 perpetual thanksgiving. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Is there any other word in the vocabulary of nations 
 that is so expressive, so suggestive, so gentle, and so 
 important in its wide signification as that which heads 
 our article ? Home ! What a talisman it is what a 
 spell, what an invocation ! Is there any heart, old or 
 young, that does not beat responsive to the sound of that 
 one word ? Is there any brain so dull into which it does 
 not flash with a gush of suggestive congruous fascina 
 tions? We have all had a home. Perhaps we have not 
 all got one ; but we have certainly all had one. Change 
 of time and circumstances may have so buffeted us about 
 the great world, that we feel too cosmopolitan ; and in an 
 easy adaptation to all places, arid to all sorts of men.
 
 28 HOME. 
 
 we lose that home-feeling which makes some spot an in 
 dividuality, as it were, which nothing else shall be like. 
 Perhaps there are many who, with a philosophic reach 
 ubove common feeling, hold aloof from the domesticity 
 of society, and with a self-inflicted Pariahism, if we may 
 be allowed the expression, will not be of a home homely ; 
 but these are the eccentricities of human nature. We 
 speak of, and we speak to the masses, and to them we 
 say, you have all homes, or you had all homes. 
 
 All men, then, have lost a home, are trying to make 
 a home, or are striving to keep one that they have. 
 Everybody has his or her ideal of somewhere, or some 
 place of rest, of complete satisfaction, where the roar 
 and the din of the great world may not enter, or if 
 heard at all, would be esteemed for its contrast to the 
 serenity within a home, in fact, for without serenity 
 there is no home. We used to think, in our very young 
 days, that the highest title that man could give to man 
 was, his most serene highness ; and we now think that a 
 man who is happy in his home, at his own fireside, with 
 the partner of his heart smiling gently upon him, and 
 his little children looking like shining content (as some 
 author has it), is to all intents and purposes a serene 
 highness. If such a one be not, why, then, as Othello 
 says, "chaos has come again." 
 
 Let us look at that busy merchant upon the mart of 
 nations fire in his eye, keen calculation in every muscle 
 of his face, his brow tinted with something of the colour 
 of the yellow ore he struggles and pants for. He has 
 his moments when with moistened eyes and faint sighs 
 ho thinks of his childhood's home, of his father's fire-
 
 HOME. 29 
 
 iide ; and when there will rise up before him the dim 
 spectral band of past companions, of past affections 
 his mother's tender glance, his father's counsel, the play 
 ful tenderness of a sister's love ; and in comparison with 
 that lost home, not lost through fault or folly of his, but 
 swallowed up in the vortex of time, he will for the mo 
 ment think lightly of his bills, and bonds, and balances, 
 his usuries, and his cash accounts ; and his dream will 
 be yet to make a home where there shall be smiles and 
 peace. 
 
 For what is it that yonder pale student consumes the 
 midnight oil ? Is it for fame ? The empty applause of 
 those whom in his heart of hearts he holds but cheaply ? 
 Ah ! no he is striving for a home. He pictures to him 
 self the vine-clad porch of some simple cottage, and 
 himself upon the threshold, with the hand of her whom 
 he loves in his, and all the world beyond them banished 
 from their contemplation. These men, then, are striving 
 to make a home. They may never reach the goal of 
 their ambition. They may, when the harbour of refuge 
 is within their sight, sink fainting by the way: or they 
 may find that habit is as strong as this first aspiratior 
 after a home, and they go on then striving until the 
 grave closes the account, and gives them a quiet home, 
 indeed. But still they have happiness in the pursuit, 
 if to them it were but an ignus fatuus which they never 
 much cared to reach. 
 
 Some are battling to regain a lost home. They have 
 had the blessing, and treated it like a bauble, until it 
 slipped from them, only then showing itself to them, as) 
 the shadows of adverse circumstances roll between them.
 
 3C HOME. 
 
 and it, what a jewel they have lost; and home is some- 
 thing akin to love, in the respect that once lost, it is not 
 easily recovered again. But such persons will commence 
 their pursuit, and through the crowds of humanity, ag 
 though feasibly looking for some remembered but lost 
 face, they will search for another home like unto the 
 one that has left them. 
 
 Home is the revivifying spell that braces many a 
 heart to do its duty. The mariner, on the wide ocean, 
 as he clings to the frail spar that is alone between him 
 and eternity, thinks of his home, and his grasp tightens,, 
 for he feels that the spirit of that holy word has given, 
 him strength. The soldier, upon the scorching plains 
 of India, dreams of a home at last in his native land ; 
 and as the watch-fire pales at his feet, he smiles as the 
 vision of his native village rises before his mind's eye. 
 The veriest vagrant that begs from door to door has his 
 home, if it be but some deserted hovel into which to 
 crawl at night, when the blasting wind is high and 
 mighty. The home-spell is around and about us all. 
 Give the raggedest urchin you can find in this great 
 city an alms of unwonted amount, and ten to one but 
 he shuffles home with it. The profane and vulgar are 
 accustomed, when they wish that any rude blusterer, 
 upon a public occasion, should be quiet, to advise him 
 to "go home." Even they know that home is the king 
 dom of the heart ; and in the thatched cottage, through 
 which the hollow wind whist/es, as well as in the gor 
 geous palatial pile, redolent of warmth and perfumes, 
 the home-spell lingers, and there is no place like it. 
 
 A happy home ! Oh, what a spell there is in tha
 
 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED. 31 
 
 fords ! Can human ambition point to a higher hope 
 than that, unless it abandons this great sphere and fixes 
 its gaze upon immortality ? And after all, what 19 
 immortality, arid the God-like hope of Christianity, but 
 a happy home for ever ? Is there anything in the wido 
 world so gracious to the heart as the home fireside ? 
 Home voices, their sights and sounds ? Home tears 
 ever have in them a redeeming joy that makes them 
 all but celestial ! 
 
 The man who with humble means and quiet wishes, 
 the man with a mind attuned to the harmonies, and to 
 the beauties of nature, who has a home, where envy and 
 unthankfulness find no place, where dear domestic love 
 and gentleness are the presiding angels, is indeed a Se 
 rene Highness ; and long may he continue so, and may 
 our happy country be ever celebrated as the land of 
 Home and Hearts ! 
 
 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED. 
 
 YES, among the married. Why should they not spealt 
 kindly of each other? the voice of commendation u 
 sweet, doubly sweet from the lips of those we love. It 
 chills the best feelings, weakens the highest aspirations 
 when continuous and sacrificing effort calls forth no 
 kindly return no words of cheer, of encouragement. 
 The snow is ever unimpressible in the deep, hollow, 
 recesses of the mountain cliff, where no straggling beam 
 of merry sunshine melts it with kisses ; cold and whit*
 
 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED. 
 
 it sleeps in perpetual suadow, till its soft roundness con* 
 geals into ice. And so the heart, if forced to abide in 
 the shadow of frowns, under the continual dropping of 
 hard, unkindly words, will assimilate itself to its mate, 
 and become a sad and listless heart, lying heavily and 
 cold in the bosom that should be all filled with glowing 
 sympathies. 
 
 Husbands often do not know with what ceaseless soli 
 citude the duties of a wife and mother are accompanied. 
 They leave home early, many of them ; the routine of 
 business, the same as it was yesterday, and will be 
 months to come, is so thoroughly digested that the per 
 formance is measurably without annoyance. They have 
 no heavy or wearing household work to do, no fretting 
 little ones hanging on to their garments, now to nurse, 
 now to correct, now to instruct, while still the dusting, 
 and the cleansing, and the preparing of food, must be 
 going on, and the little garments must be nicely fitted 
 and made, or all would be untidiness and confusion. Yet 
 how many an adroit manager contrives to get through 
 with all this, willing if she is but appreciated, and her 
 valuable services esteemed to endure, calmly, the triala 
 incident to her lot, keeping care from her pleasant face 
 by a merry spirit and cheerful demeanour. 
 
 But if she never hears the kindly "I thank you," or 
 beholds the beautiful smile that unuttered gratitude 
 spreads upon the countenance of him for whom she baa 
 forsaken all, what immeasurable anguish will she not 
 experience ? 
 
 We have often thought how poignant must be the 
 grief, how heavy the disappointment of the young wife,
 
 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED. 33 
 
 when she first learns that the hushand of her choice is 
 totally indifferent to her studied efforts to please. He- 
 has many times, in former days, praised the glossj 
 beauty of her sunny hair, and curled its rings of gold 
 around his fingers. He has gazed in her face until it il 
 stamped upon the tablets of his heart, yet, through uttei 
 thoughtlessness, he forgets now that it has heen such a 
 talisman of goodness and purity to him, or old associa 
 tions have made him too much their own, to play the 
 lover after the solemn words of ceremony are spoken. 
 He has given her his honour, and a home ; his name, his 
 means ; what more can she want ? 
 
 Gayly as the bird upon the tree by her doorside, does 
 she go carolling about her work. The day seems one 
 long year but still, twilight does come, and she awaita 
 the return of her husband. He has perhaps but slender 
 resources ; he is a labouring man, and their cottage ia 
 humble and low-roofed. How light is her step ; how 
 happy her brow ! Like a skilful painter she has touched 
 and re-touched all the slender luxuries of her home, till 
 they seem to her like the adornings of a paradise. She 
 has taste, refinement, a quick perception of the delicate 
 and beautiful, though mayhap she never has plied her 
 needle at worsted tapestry, traced the outlines of a sin 
 gle tree or flower, or elicited SAveet sounds from harp or 
 piano. 
 
 The hearth is bright and red not a speck of dust is 
 visible. She has brought out all her hoarded wealth, 
 and the tables, the new-varnished bureau, and the arm 
 chair back, shine in snowy garniture. She has placed 
 the little pictures in the best light, hung up the wide 
 z
 
 34 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED 
 
 sampler her child-work at school made all things look 
 cheerful and bright, placed a bouquet of brilliant flowers 
 upon the neat supper-table, and another in the little fire 
 place, and with pleasant anticipations she awaits hia 
 return. 
 
 "How cheerful everything looks!" she murmurs; 
 " and how pleased he will be ! he will commend my care 
 and taste." 
 
 Presently the well-known step draws near ; she flies 
 with a happy smile to meet him, and together they enter 
 their mutual home. 
 
 What ! no sign of surprise ? no new delight on his 
 features ! 
 
 Does he receive all her attention, as a matter of 
 course ? something looked for, expected, easily done, 
 and without price ? Can he not pay her the tribute of 
 a glad smile ? Alas ! he does not believe in praise ; his 
 wife must be disinterested ; must look upon these per 
 formances as stern duties ; if he praise now, and forget 
 to praise again, they may be discontinued. 
 
 She is disappointed, chagrined ; and unless taste and 
 perfect neatness are indispensable to her own comfort, 
 she gradually wearies in well-doing, when a little kindly 
 encouragement, a little praise, might have stimulated 
 her to constant exertion. 
 
 Many a wife becomes careless of her appearance be 
 cause of her husband's indifference. Now, in the simple 
 matter of dress not so simple, either how often men 
 think it beneath their notice to approve the choice of 
 their companions ! We once remarked to a gentleman, 
 that his wife displayed most admirable taste in her attire,
 
 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED. 35 
 
 and what think you was his answer ? With a sigh we 
 record it : " Has she ? well, now, I should hardly know 
 whether she had on a wash-gown or a satin dress." Wo 
 involuntarily disliked him ; and thought that the expres 
 sion upon the countenance of his partner spoke volumes. 
 
 Now we do like to see a husband notice such things, 
 even to particularity. We like to hear him give his opi 
 nion as to whether such and such a thing is becoming to 
 his wife. We are pleased to see a father interested in 
 the little purchases of his children, one who never says 
 with a frown, "Oh! go away; I don't care for such 
 things ; suit yourselves." 
 
 And in household concerns the husband should express 
 his approbation of neatness and order ; he should be 
 grateful for any little effort that may have been put 
 forth to add to his comfort or pleasure ; he should com 
 mend the good graces of his wife, and at fitting times 
 make mention of them. Indeed, not one alone, but 
 both should reciprocate the good offices of the other. 
 We never esteemed a woman the less on hearing her 
 Bay, " I have a good husband ;" we never thought a 
 man wanting in dignity who spoke of his wife as being 
 dear to him, or quoted her amiability or industry as 
 worthy of example before others. Who does not esteem 
 the unaffected praise of a husband or a wife, above that 
 of all others ? No motive but love induces either to 
 
 " Speak the gentle words 
 That sink into the heart." 
 
 Solomon says, " Her husband he praiseth her ;" and 
 only the morose and reserved, who care not to fill the
 
 36 PRAISE AMONG THE MARRIED. 
 
 fount of kindliness by pleasant words, differ from the 
 sacred writer. 
 
 How many a home have we seen glittering with splen 
 dour ; where glowing marble, from Italia's clime, gives a 
 silent welcome to the entering guest; where on the walla 
 hang votive offerings of art that fill the whole soul with 
 their beauty ; where the carpets yield to the lightest 
 pressure, and the rich hangings crimson the palest cheek ! 
 Yet amidst all this show and adorning has the proud 
 wife sat, the choicest piece of furniture there for so 
 her husband regards her. Formal and stern, he has 
 thrown around her the drapery of his chill heart, and it 
 has folded about her like marble. She is "my lady," 
 and nothing more. No outbursts of affection in the form 
 of sweet praise fall upon her ears yet pendants of dia 
 monds drop therefrom, but their shining is like his love, 
 costly and cold. We have heard such a one say, in times 
 gone by, " all this wealth, all this show and pride of 
 station would I resign, for one word of praise from my 
 husband. He never relaxes from the loftiness which has 
 made him feared among men ; he never speaks to me 
 but wjfch measured accents, though he surrounds me with 
 luxuries." 
 
 We wondered not that a stifled sob closed the sen 
 tence ; who had not rather live in a cottage, through 
 which the winds revel and the raindrops fall, with one 
 in whose heart dwell impulses the holiest in our nature, 
 one who is not ashamed or afraid to give fitting commen 
 dation, than in the most gorgeous of earthly palaces, 
 with H companion whose lips are sealed for ever to the 
 expression of fondness, sympathy, and praise?
 
 THE ART OF LIVING EASY 87 
 
 THE ART OF LIVING EASY. 
 
 " I CAN'T see, for my life, how you get along so easy, 
 Mrs. Jones," said merry Ellen, to her mother's nearest 
 neighbour ; " your family is larger than ours, and you 
 have less help but you are always in time. Come when 
 I will, I find things in good order no bustle, fuss, or 
 confusion. Now, we are all work from morning till night, 
 at our house, and our work is never done. There must 
 be witch-work about it some secret do tell us, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " Why, Ellen, I don't know that there is any great 
 secret about it ; all I can tell is, I don't seem to work 
 very hard, but somehow I do get along very easy, as you 
 say, with all that seems to fall to my lot." 
 
 "Well, we all know that, Mrs. Jones, and we know, too, 
 that you do more reading and writing than any of the 
 rest of us, and visit the sick more, and find time for 
 everything that is good oh, there is, and you must tell 
 me all about it." 
 
 " Yes, Ellen, I will tell you all I know about it, for 
 you're real smart, and will make a first-rate wife for 
 Fred some day ; but you must first promise to try and 
 make my secret of practical use to yourself, and teach 
 everybody else." 
 
 Ellen blushed, and almost wished she had not been so 
 impertinent. But Ellen was a good, sensible girl, and 
 was impressed with the idea that Fred would want a 
 wife somewhat resembling his mother in domestic mat-
 
 33 THE ART OF LIVING EAST. 
 
 ters ; so she stooped down and tied her shoe, to hide her 
 confusion. Mrs. Jones laid down the cheese-knife (for 
 it was early in the morning), took up her babe, which her 
 kind heart and arms had taken home, and picked up a 
 basket of green peas that were to be shelled for dinner, 
 and sat down to nurse her little orphan to sleep, take the 
 peas out of the pod, and tell her story. 
 
 " Well, Ellen, my secret is just this : When I go out 
 to shake the table-cloth, I always bring in a stick of 
 wood ; seldom take two steps where one will answer, and 
 try to do everything the shortest way. I pulverize sal- 
 eratus enough to last a month at one time, keep it in a 
 convenient vessel, and then it is always ready for use 
 no untying papers and scattering the floor and cupboard ; 
 no table, rolling-pin, or mortar to clear but once. Instead 
 of beating my eggs with a knife or spoon, I have a whip 
 made of wire, bent in an oblong shape like a tassel, and 
 tied with a bit of twine to a hickory handle, and I can 
 beat the whites of six eggs to a standing form in two 
 minutes as easily as you will in half an hour with a knife. 
 Anybody can make an egg-whip that can whittle a stick, 
 or find a piece of wire, if they cannot afford to buy one. 
 I only mention these things as samples of time-saving. 
 But if you will not be offended, I will tell you a littlo 
 story." 
 
 "Offended! Not I. It's the silliest thing in the 
 world to get offended, particularly at those who wish to 
 do us good. The doctor often has to administer unplea 
 sant drugs to effect a cure." 
 
 "Well then, Ellen, I was out taking tea with a neigh 
 bour last week, and we went into the milk room and
 
 THK ART OF LIVING EAST. 39 
 
 cheese room to see the cheese ; and as we came hack we 
 stopped a few minutes to chat in the kitchen. The lady 
 told the girl she might make some flannel cakes, or grid 
 dle cakes, as some call them, for tea. She started off 
 on the bound to do her duty. First she ran down cellar 
 and brought up the buttermilk jar, holding almost a 
 pailful ; then she ran back for the eggs, untied a half 
 pound of saleratus, scattered a spoonful on the floor and 
 another on the table, rolled it and tied it up ; next 
 turned her buttermilk out and spattered a new dress all 
 about the waist, splashed it over the table on divers 
 things, said "Oh, pshaw !" picked up the saleratus from 
 the floor, cleaned her dress, and brought a plate, and 
 lan to the meal room, and came back with a heaping 
 plate of flour, put it into the pan and stirred away, back 
 und forth, till it was all submerged and all lumps. There 
 was r.ot flour enough ; away she ran again, brought 
 more ; there was still not enough, and the third journey 
 had to be made ; in it was dashed, and she stirred away 
 till her face glowed like a peony. All at once she thought 
 of her eggs, and broke them into the batter. She had 
 forgotten the salt, and ran the fourth time into the meal 
 room. Now her batter was too thick, and more butter 
 milk had to be used, and consequently the saleratus 
 paper had to undergo another operation. Finally, after 
 much labour and toil, and an expenditure of much time, 
 and waste of material, the lumpy batter was ready for 
 use. But here was a new trouble : the fire that was 
 just right half an hour before, was now exhausted ; the 
 griddle which had been set upon the stove in the begin 
 ning, burned rough, the kitchen and ante-room full of
 
 40 THE ART OF LIVING EAST. 
 
 the unpleasant smoke and odour of burnt grease the 
 cakes stuck fast to the iron two messes were wasted 
 before the griddle could be rubbed smooth ; the dish 
 cloths were in sad plight, and the young lady had ex 
 pended as much actual labour as would have prepared 
 the whole meal, set the table and all." 
 
 " Oh dear ! that was me ; anybody might know the 
 picture ! But how would you have managed ?" 
 
 " I should have taken my pan and spoon, put my sal- 
 eratus into the pan, gone down cellar, and with my cup, 
 which I keep in the jar for that purpose, dipped the 
 buttermilk, without spattering it, into my pan ; then 
 broke the eggs carefully into the milk ; gone from there 
 to the meal room and sifted the proper quantity of flour 
 in, and stirred it carefully, thus beating the eggs Avhile 
 I stirred in the flour ; dropped in a little salt and re 
 turned to the kitchen, all in five minutes, without having 
 one thing out of place, except the egg-shells, and those 
 I should have removed some other time. So you see 
 instead of four journeys to the cellar, two to carry back, 
 and four to the meal room, I should have done the whole 
 work, saved my strength, saved the wear and tear of my 
 shoes, saved the soil of my dress, saved the fire, the an 
 noyance, and a good half-hour for something else, and 
 had a better mess of cakes for supper in the bargain. 
 And this is only one half-hour saved in getting supper, 
 by one hand. It took three that night longer to get tea, 
 by one-half, than it would have taken me to have got it 
 alone. 
 
 " But, la me ! here's the baby fast asleep the peas 
 are all shelled, and my story must be wound up, for it's
 
 OH, SING TO ME SOFTLY, MY SISTER. 4.1 
 
 time to 'whey off the curd.' If this bit of experience 
 does yi> any good, I will tell you another story some 
 I*-/ 
 
 OH, SING TO ME SOFTLY, MY SISTER. 
 
 On ! Bing to me softly, my sister, 
 And smile on me, darling, to-night, 
 
 For my soul is encompassed by darkness, 
 And shut from the kingdom of light 1 
 
 I walk in life's valley of shadows, 
 
 Where the fountain's low murmurs are still, 
 Where swiftly through gray mist and vapour, 
 
 Are gliding pale phantoms of ill. 
 
 Thy voice, like the clear thread of silver, 
 That winds through the still grassy lane, 
 
 Shall steal through my heart's silent chambers, 
 And waken their music again. 
 
 Far away from the clouds of the present, 
 
 In the Eden of memory's isle, 
 What visions of peace and of beauty, 
 
 Shall my spirit of sadness beguile ! 
 
 Once more I will rove with sweet fancies, 
 And think the sweet thoughts of a child, 
 
 Once more I will gather Youth's roses, 
 The fairer because they are wild. 
 
 And the light which I know is immortal, 
 That shone on young life's dewy hour, 
 
 Shall steal from its crystalline portal, 
 And brighten fair memory's bower.
 
 42 AN EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 Then sing to me softly, my sister, 
 And pour out thy heart in the strain, 
 
 Till I dream that the beautiful voices 
 Of childhood are singing again. 
 
 So my heart shall grow better and purer, 
 And strength to us both shall be given, 
 
 To work out a priceless salvation, 
 
 And sing with our children in Heaven 1 
 
 AN EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 going to the ball!" said Mrs. Lindley, with a 
 look and tone of surprise. "What has come over the 
 girl?" 
 
 " I don't know, but she says she's not going." 
 
 "Doesn't her ball 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, arid entering her daugh 
 ter's room, found her sitting on the side of the bed, with 
 a beautiful ball dress in her hand. 
 
 " It isn't possible. Helen, that you are not going to 
 this ball ?" she said. 
 
 Helen looked up with a half-serious, half-smiling ex 
 pression on her face. 
 
 "I've been trying, for the last half hour," she replied.
 
 AN EVENING AT HOME. 43 
 
 " 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 ?" 
 
 " O yes ! very much. I think it beautiful." 
 
 "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 absence." 
 
 Helen looked perplexed at her mother'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 judgment. 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 backward. You 
 couldn't hire him to go there. But that is no reason 
 why you should remain at home. You would never par-
 
 44 AN EVENING Af HOME. 
 
 take of any social amusement, were this always to 'a flu 
 ence you. Let him spend the evening in reading. IIo 
 must not expect his sisters to deny themselves all recre 
 ation 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 whenever I have thought of go 
 ing. 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 sacrifice so much for you." 
 
 " Of that I do not think, mother. Of that I ought 
 not to think." 
 
 " Perhaps not. Well, you may do as you like. But 
 I don't know what your father will say." 
 
 Mrs. Lindley then left the room. 
 
 Edward Lindley was at the critical age of eighteen ; 
 that period when many young men, especially those who 
 have been blessed 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 sisters. Still, he was intelligent for his 
 years, and companionable. His many good qualities
 
 AN EVENING AT HOME. 45 
 
 endeared him to his family, and drew forth from his sis 
 ters towards him a very tender regard. 
 
 Amonsj 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, 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 beirio 1 
 
 o 
 
 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 question of going away or 
 remaining at home. Finally, she decided that she would 
 not go. This decision took place after the interview 
 with her mother, which was only half an hour from thp 
 time of starting. 
 
 Edward knew nothing of the intention of his sister. 
 He was in his own room, dressing to go out, and sup 
 posed, when he heard the carriage drive from the door, 
 that Helen had gone with the other members of the 
 family. On descending to the parlour, he was surprised
 
 46 AN EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 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 
 eurprise, coming up to her side. 
 
 " I am very well, brother," she replied, looking into 
 his face with a smile of sisterly regard. " But I have 
 concluded to stay at home this evening. I'm 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 of your being left here 
 all alone had sufficient 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 fre 
 quently together. Part of the evening was spent in this 
 way, much to the satisfaction of each. Then an hour 
 passed in reading and conversation, after which, musio 
 was again resorted 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 experienced for a long time. It waa
 
 AX EVENING AT HOME. 47 
 
 nearly threj o'clock before Mr. and Mrs. Lindley, and 
 the daughter who had accompanied them to the ball, 
 came home. Hours before, the senses of both Edward 
 and Helen had been locked in forgetfulness. 
 
 Time passed on. Edward Lindley grew up and be 
 came a man of sound principles a blessing to his family 
 and society. He saw his sisters well married ; and 
 he himself, finally, led to the altar a lovely maiden. She 
 made him a truly happy 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 company?" 
 
 " That was many years ago. Yes, I remember it very 
 well, now you have recalled 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 destruction." 
 
 " How so ?" asked the sister. 
 
 " I was just then beginning to form an intimate asso 
 ciation with young men of 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 society, 
 and used to be with them frequently especially when 
 you and Mary went 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 
 eo to remaining at home alone. To find you, as I did,
 
 48 AN EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 so unexpectedly, in the parlour, was an agreeable sur 
 prise indeed. I stayed at home with a new pleasure, 
 which was heightened by the thought, that it was yonr 
 love for me that had made you deny yourself for my 
 gratification. We read together on that evening, we 
 played together, AVC 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 tlni 
 conversation of the young men with whom I had been 
 associating, and in which I had taken pleasure, with 
 something like disgust. It was low, sensual, and too 
 much of it vile and demoralizing. Never, from that 
 hour. ; did I join them. Their way, even in the early 
 Btage of life's journey, I saw to be downward, and down 
 ward 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 not have been the consequences. 
 Sensual indulgences, carried to excess, amid songs and 
 sentiments calculated to awaken evil instead of good 
 feelings, might have stamped upon my young and deli 
 cate 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 ra 
 tionality and freedom. The good prevailed over tho 
 evil, and by the agency of my sister, as an angel sent 
 by the Author of all benefits to save me." 
 
 Like Helen Lindley, let every elder sister be thought-
 
 AN EVENING AT HOME. 49 
 
 Ful of her brothers at that critical period in life, when 
 the boy is about passing up to the stage of manhood, 
 tnd she may save them from many a snare set for their 
 imvary feet by the evil one. In closing this little 
 ketch, we can say nothing better than has already 
 Wen said by an accomplished American authoress, Mrs. 
 Ferrar. 
 
 " So many temptations," she says, "beset young men, 
 of which young women know nothing, that it is of the 
 utmost importance that your brothers' evenings should 
 be happily passed at home, that their friends should be 
 your friends, that their engagements should be the same 
 as yours, and that various innocent amusements 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 members of a 
 family, and harmonizing their hearts as well as voices, 
 particularly in devotional strains. I know no more 
 agreeable and interesting spectacle than that of 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 parents sit de 
 lighted by. I have seen and heard an elder sister thus 
 loading the family choir, who was the soul of harmony 
 to the whole household, and whose life was a perfect ex 
 ample of those virtues which I am here endeavouring to 
 inculcate. Let no one say, in reading this chapter, that 
 too much 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 any sis 
 ter to be, and a happier person never lived. To do good 
 4
 
 50 TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 and to make others happy was her rule of life, and iii 
 this she found the art of making herself so. 
 
 " Sisters should always be willing to 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 sisters. They have 
 been saved from a hazardous 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 trust 
 ing, 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." 
 
 TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 PLAYING on the carped near me 
 
 Is a little cherub girl ; 
 And her presence, much I fear me, 
 
 Sets my senses in a whirl ; 
 For a book is open lying, 
 Full of grave philosophying, 
 And I own I'tu vaiuly trying
 
 TWO YEARS OLD. II 
 
 iiiere my thoughts to hold ; 
 But, in spite of my essaying, 
 They will ever more be straying 
 To that cherub near me playing, 
 
 Only two years old ! 
 
 With her hair so long and flaxen, 
 
 And her sunny eyes of blue, 
 And her cheek so plump and waxen, 
 
 She is charming to the view. 
 Then her voice, to all who hear it, 
 Breathes a sweet, entrancing spirit 
 1 to be for ever near it 
 
 Is a joy untold ; 
 For 'tis ever sweetly telling 
 To my heart, with rapture swelling, 
 Of affection inly dwelling 
 
 Only two years old ! 
 
 With a new delight I'm hearing 
 
 All her sweet attempts at words, 
 In their melody endearing 
 
 Sweeter far than any bird's ; 
 And the musical mistaking 
 Which her baby lips are making, 
 For my heart a charm is waking, 
 
 Firmer in its hold 
 
 Than the charm so rich and glowing, 
 From the Roman's lips o'erflowing ; 
 Then fche gives a look so knowing 
 
 Only two years old ! 
 
 Now her ripe and honeyed kisses 
 
 (Honeyed, ripe for me alone) 
 Thrill my soul with varied blisse* 
 
 Venus never yet has known
 
 62 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 When her twining arms are round me 
 AU domestic joy has crowned mt>, 
 And a fervent spell has bound me, 
 
 Never to grow cold. 
 1 there is not, this side of Adenn, 
 Aught with loveliness so laden 
 Aa my little cherub maiden, 
 
 Only two years old ! 
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 TilE tailor's wife had stitched since five in the morn 
 ing. It was now noon the day after Christmas-day, 
 and there really was something for dinner. The tailor 
 was from home the children were out, but it was close 
 upon twelve o'clock, and in a trice they would be back, 
 eager and hungry for their meal. Mrs. Atkins put doAvn 
 her work a very handsome waistcoat of sky-blue satin, 
 sprinkled with stars, and bordered it might be with the 
 zodiac (the border was so strangely beautiful), clapped 
 her thimble on the mantel-piece, and hurried to the cup 
 board. At all events, there was a dinner to-day ; and 
 something seemed to promise to the tailor's wife a 
 brighter time, and a fuller table for the time to come. 
 
 Atkins had gone to make inquiry about a ship that 
 was to sail for the other side of the world ; and though 
 be had not at that time a single piece of Queen Victoria's 
 minted gold, to purchase a passage for himself and 
 family, he nevertheless would learn aU the particulars 
 of cost and necessary preparation. It was a whim, h
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. O3 
 
 for all that, it was a whim that controlled him 
 beyond his powers of self-argument, had he tried to ex- 
 erf-se them. 
 
 And all alone, Mrs. Atkins spread the table. There 
 was a piece of beef left, and a small piece of plum- 
 pudding ; and still the pudding remained small, although 
 Mrs. Atkins turned the plate that contained it round 
 and round half a dozen times, and took half a dozen side 
 long looks at it, as though endeavouring to behold it in 
 the most improved light. But pudding is not to be thus 
 magnified. 
 
 The table laid, Mrs. Atkins thought she would exe 
 cute a few more stitches, filling up the time until Atkins 
 and the children came. As Mrs. Atkins approached the 
 mantel-piece, extending her fingers towards the thimble, 
 the thimble of its own motion fell over upon its side, 
 with one distinct, prolonged sound, as from a silver bell ; 
 Mrs. Atkins's thimble, by the way, being of no such pre 
 cious metal, but of working-day brass. Mrs. Atkins 
 drew back her fingers from the thimble as from a nettle, 
 when the thimble self-moved rolled off the mantel 
 piece, and fell upon the hearth. And then, to the asto 
 nishment and terror of Mrs. Atkins, who, strange to 
 say, could not at that moment scream, though in no for 
 mer accident had she failed, when otherwise determined 
 then, from the thimble began to pour forth, in small, 
 quick puffs, smoke of silvery clearness. Mrs. Atkina 
 dropped in her chair, and sat with her eyes upon the 
 thimble, still puffing a shining vapour puffing, and puff 
 ing, until, in a few minutes, the room was filled as with 
 doud, and every object enveloped in it, save the smal]
 
 64 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 brass thimble that glittered like a speck upon the hearth. 
 In the midst of her terror, Mrs. Atkins thought of her 
 little bit of beef and fragmentary pudding but they 
 were lost to her sight, muffled up in one white cloud that 
 possessed the apartment. 
 
 After some minutes the cloud cleared away, slowly 
 rolling itself up in the chimney, and Mrs. Atkins' 
 brass thimble lay, like any other two-penny implement, 
 upon the hearth. The same well-worn thimble the 
 same familiar common-place that for many a day had 
 armed her sempstress finger. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Atkins ?" said a voice from 
 the mantel-piece. 
 
 Mrs. Atkins jumped round with the shortest of jumps. 
 She looked, and saw a gentleman 
 
 Well, he was the strangest of gentlemen, and he was 
 in the strangest position ! But we will tell every tittle 
 we know about him. 
 
 Measured by tailors' measure, the gentleman's stature 
 might have been about six inches. A gentleman with a 
 very clean and lofty look ; his hair an iron gray ; with 
 a few wisdom scratches made with an iron pen the sort 
 of pen made out of Time's old scythes about the cor 
 ner of his eyes, that had a ceiling-ward look ; a look, 
 moreover, of self-satisfaction. He was very soberly 
 dressed in black very soberly ; and then his white ' 
 neckerchief was white and pure as snowwreath. 
 
 Mrs. Atkins thought she recognised in the miniature 
 man a well-known face ; one of those countenances that, 
 like a royal face upon a shilling, is the property of 
 everybody who can possess it. She hud seen a picture
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 55 
 
 of The Poor Man's Friend, and no, it could not be he ; 
 it was impossible nevertheless, the face of the manni- 
 kin was wondrously like that flesh-and-blood goodness. 
 
 And the little gentleman, though somewhat uneasily, 
 sat among a sprig of Christmas holly that was upon the 
 mantel-piece ; sat, and with his best pains, looked secure 
 amid his bower of spikes. 
 
 " Hadn't you better take a chair, sir, or this stool ?" 
 said Mrs. Atkins, as she passed her apron over a three- 
 legged piece of deal, " you'll be more comfortable, sir." 
 
 " Thank you," said the little man ; his face puckered 
 as he spoke, and shifting uneasily, " thank you ; but 
 people condemned to live in thimbles are not allowed to 
 be comfortable." 
 
 " Poor creatures !" cried Mrs. Atkins ; " it must be a 
 strait lodging, goodness knows. I never heard of such 
 a thing." 
 
 " Benighted, darkened being!" cried the little man 
 in black ; "miserable, forlorn person !" he continued, as 
 though from a platform ; " did you never hear of Solo 
 mon's brazen kettles ?" 
 
 " Never, sir," said the tailor's wife, with great humility. 
 
 "Know, then, that Solomon has at this moment a 
 thousand brazen kettles at the bottom of the sea ; and 
 in every kettle is a prisoner, confined for no good he has 
 done, depend upon it, to hear the sea moan and roar, 
 and answer it with his groans. And as in brazen kettles, 
 BO" and the little man sighed heavily "so in biass 
 thimbles." 
 
 " I don't understand a word of it," said Mrs. Atkins ; 
 and with a resolute hand she took up her thimble, ant!
 
 56 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 turned it over and over, and almost unconsciously 
 brought the thimble to her nose. But it did not smell 
 of sulphur the thimble was the like thimble it was 
 before. 
 
 " For ten years have I lived in that thimble. Ten 
 years," cried the little man and Mrs. Atkins stared 
 now at her visiter, and now took another look at the 
 thimble ; and then she courageously thrust her thimble- 
 finger into the familiar brass, and nodded at the little 
 man among the holly, as much as to say, 
 
 "Now you are well got rid of, I'll take care you 
 Bha'n't get in again." 
 
 The little man seemed to understand the threat of the 
 look, for he said, with a languid smile, 
 
 " It's no matter now ; my ten years are up my time's 
 out to-day. All I have now to do is to confess my past 
 sins and the sufferings they purchased me, and then I 
 pass to peace. I've paid the penalty of my selfishness, 
 and my unquiet ghost will cease to haunt your brazen 
 thimble." 
 
 "A ghost!" cried Mrs. Atkins. "Well, I never 
 thought I could be so bold to a ghost. But then, to be 
 sure, you're such a very little one. What was your 
 name ?" 
 
 "Never mind," said the small man. "I was called 
 The Poor Man's Friend. And I can tell you, Mrs. At 
 kins, that I have paid pretty sharply for the vanity and 
 vexation of the title." 
 
 "That is, I suppose," answered the spirited little 
 woman, " you wasn't his friend at all ? Only the name, 
 like?"
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 67 
 
 "Listen to my story," said the little gentleman, again 
 shifting himself among the holly leaves. " I was, when 
 I was alive and enjoying my proper stature, I was a 
 man of exceeding wealth. Rich indeed was I, and as 
 everybody tKought and at last I got myself to think 
 83 too very good, very benevolent, very pious. Indeed, 
 I had the habit of talking so much about the duties of 
 the rich to the poor that, for the life of me, I never could 
 find sufficient time to perform them. Nevertheless, I 
 could not forbear to talk it was so pleasant, so easy, 
 too ; and with no other effort, it made me a name that 
 smelt among my particular friends like a nice ointment." 
 
 "The more shame for you," said Mrs. Atkins. "To 
 get a good name, and live upon it and do nothing for it ; 
 why it's worse than coining yes, passing bad money ia 
 nothing to it." 
 
 "Very true, Mrs. Atkins," answered the unruffled 
 mannikin. " Very true. Yet there's a deal of brassy 
 character passed for good. And it may sound right 
 enough upon the world's counter, but it won't do, 
 Mrs. Atkins, when the angels come to ring it. It won't 
 io, ma'am." 
 
 "I should say not," replied the tailor's wife, with 
 womanly decision. 
 
 " And so I found. It is now, madam, ten years ago 
 since I died. If you doubt me, take your way to the 
 cemetery. There, madam, you will see my monument. 
 There is no mistaking it 'tis such a handsome thing, 
 with work enough in it to have kept the sculptor and 
 his family for a twelvemonth. I am there, ma'am, in 
 alto relievo in four compartments ; and in all four my
 
 68 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 likeness by lamenting friends is considered very perfect, 
 f a one place I am giving away quartern loaves ; in an 
 other I have taken off my own coat, and am serenely 
 offering the garment to a beggar ; and the third " 
 
 " I recollect. Good as a picture to look at it I saw 
 :t with Tom and the children one Sunday. Then we 
 could get a walk on a Sunday ; and now it's no walk, 
 but for ever stitch. La, bless me ! and that's you in 
 that monument ! Well, I never !" ejaculated Mrs. At 
 kins. " And now I recollect what a lot of fine stuff 
 there's writ about you." 
 
 "Don't name it, ma'am," said the little man, hastily ; 
 " even as I am, my cheek tingles to think of it. And 
 when I reflect " 
 
 "Never mind reflections !" cried the tailor's wife, wich 
 decreasing deference towards her visiter, " but come to 
 the story at once. How did you get in my thimble?" 
 
 " That was my sentence that was my dreadful pun 
 ishment !" cried the little man. 
 
 " Punishment !" echoed Mrs. Atkins. " Well, to be 
 sure, little as you are, it must have cramped you terribly. 
 And what's so very droll, I never felt you !" 
 
 "But I felt you every stitch," said the mannikin, 
 and he seemed to wince at the recollection. " However, 
 to finish my story. You must know that, although I 
 talked to the last day of my life about the duties of the 
 rich, and the rights of the poor although now and then, 
 for the look of the thing, my name sparkled in a guinea 
 subscription for a Home for the Houseless, or some such 
 public benevolence, I would buy buy where I might 
 I vould buy cheap. Every shilling saved 1 considered
 
 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 59 
 
 as d new victory over the extravagance of trade. It was 
 not for me to inquire about wages it was no part of my 
 economy to be assured that the journeyman could get 
 his shoulder of mutton and potatoes " 
 
 " Shoulder of mutton and potatoes !" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Atkins, as though she spoke of culinary marvels of Ma 
 homet's Paradise. " Well, to be sure, we had a bit of 
 beef yesterday, but before then " 
 
 " I cared not if you, and such as you, lived upon bran 
 and water, if cheapness were in the stitches of my coat 
 if my heart, my philanthropic heart, beat beneath a 
 waistcoat that, for economy of cost, defied competition." 
 " More shame for you," said the tailor's wife. "Talk 
 ing of waistcoats, what do you think I get for that blue 
 thing, there ?" 
 
 " Starvation !" answered the mannikin ; " for I see, 
 fine as it is oh, I know the sort of thing, now I see 
 it is one of the glories of prime cost that defy competi 
 tion. A pretty breastplate of defiance," said the little 
 man, " and well is such defiance punished." 
 " How, punished?" asked Mrs. Atkins. 
 " That's it that's the marrow of my story. That is 
 the why and the wherefore that I am here. At this 
 moment now, woman, attend to me, for what I have to 
 say is worth the hearing at this moment there are the 
 ghosts of not less than ten thousand men and women- 
 excellent persons when alive; the very pink of good 
 ness, with delicate white satin feelings, as one may say - 
 ten thousand spirits condemned for a certain time to be 
 imprisoned in thimbles." 
 
 " In thimbles !" exclaimed the tailor's wife.
 
 60 A THIMBLE-FULL OF ROMANCE. 
 
 " In thimbles !" repeated the miniature of the de 
 parted poor man's friend. " And their prison is far 
 worse than the brazen dungeon in which Solomon shuts 
 up his genii ; for they, at least, are not mocked with an 
 open cell with a promise of liberty never, until the 
 appointed time be come, to be obtained. Now the vic 
 tims of the thimble may not budge. They have em 
 ployed the cheapest thimble when alive, and the cheap 
 est thimble is for a time their punishment when dead. 
 My time is up, and my wounds are healing but how, 
 for these ten long years " 
 
 " That's just about the time not quite Tom and I 
 have worked for " 
 
 " For my tailor that was," said the mannikin. " How 
 for the time have you tortured me !" 
 
 "I I couldn't do it," cried Mrs. Atkins, sharply. 
 
 " You couldn't help it 'twas your duty and my fate. 
 Thus, for every stitch you took, I felt your needle-head 
 go clean into what seemed my flesh. And my sense of 
 feeling was sharpened into spiritual suffering. For four 
 teen hours a day have I felt incessantly felt the punc- 
 turos of the tormenting steel. Hundreds of thousands 
 of little daggers piercing me through and through, and 
 with every stitch a jerk that seemed to snatch at every 
 nerve." 
 
 " Mercy on us !" cried the tailor's wife. 
 
 "Ay, mercy on us!" said the little man. "But wo 
 ask mercy in vain who have had no mercy on others 
 Live and let starve, was my inner creed ; it's a wicked 
 religion, Mrs. Atkins, and carries its after-punishment. 
 And depend upon it, they who without care for the corn-
 
 MY MOTHER. 61 
 
 forts, the necessities of the workers, will have only the 
 cheapest work, big as their names may sound, and large 
 as their presence in the world may be their souls dwell 
 in a thimble." 
 
 And here the little man vanished, and the Dutch clock 
 struck twelve, and Atkins, with a brightened face, with 
 a child in either hand, and two following, came home to 
 dinner. Now, whether Mrs. Atkins did or did not tell 
 to her husband her interview with the mannikin, is not 
 here or elsewhere the business of RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 IT was a very cold day in December. My mother 
 was sewing, and my brothers and mvself were very 
 pleasantly engaged in our comfortable sitting-room, 
 when my mother desired me to go to her room and 
 bring her a part of her work. I very petulantly ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " Can't Charles go ? I'm so cold !" 
 " No," said my mother, meekly, " I wish you to go." 
 This irritated me very much, and I said, 
 "I always have to do everything," jerking open the 
 door, and slamming it violently after me. 
 
 My mother called me back, and I stood in the door, 
 illowing a current of cold air to blow upon her, while 
 he lifted her blue eyes to mine, and, with a look of sad- 
 aess I shaJl never forget, said,
 
 2 MY MOTHER. 
 
 " Soon my little daughter will have no mother, then 
 she will feel sorry for this behaviour." 
 
 I started up stairs, muttering, 
 
 " No, you won't die ; you only say that to act on my 
 feelings." 
 
 I returned, handed the parcel to my mother, and re 
 mained cross and sullen for some time ; yet I loved my 
 mother very much, but could not bear to yield my will 
 to hers. 
 
 Several weeks passed away I forgot the occurrence, 
 nor had my mother alluded to it when she was taken 
 suddenly and dangerously ill ; and very soon all hope 
 of her recovery was gone. Then my sin rushed upon 
 my mind, causing the deepest regret. The nature of 
 my mother's disease caused delirium nearly all the time, 
 and I had no opportunity to ask forgiveness. I -would 
 sit beside her bed, while tears coursed rapidly down my 
 cheeks, and her eyes would be fixed upon me. But, ah ! 
 no glance of recognition ; no beaming forth of a mo 
 ther's love was there ! Vacant, vacant, still vacant was 
 that gaze, and I would rush from the room, and wish I 
 could die ! 
 
 Once, during a short interval of consciousness, she 
 looked round the room, and asked for me. I was with 
 my brothers, for I felt as if I must constantly watcb 
 over them, and, when sent for, hastened to her bedside 
 But, alas ! too late ! That same fixed, vacant stare had 
 returned, nor did she ever again recognise me. At the 
 expiration of eleven days from the commencement of 
 her illness, death loosed the "silver cord," and "the 
 weary wheel of life stood still." I was present at the
 
 MY MOTHER. Otf 
 
 beginning of the last struggle, which was long and very 
 severe, but the sight of his almost motherless girl was 
 more than my already agonized father could bear, and 
 he sent me away. I sought my little brothers in the 
 sitting-room, and, as they hung around me with anxicua 
 inquiries about our dying mother, I was indeed "sorry 
 for my behaviour." The agony I endured was too great 
 for tears or utterance, and I thought, when all was over, 
 and my father led me to look upon her form, as it lay 
 calmly and peacefully in the embrace of death, with a 
 heavenly smile upon those lips that had never spoken 
 aught but words of love and kindness, that my heart 
 would break, and I wished it might. 
 
 When I pressed my lips upon that marble brow, it 
 seemed as if its icy coldness would congeal my very 
 heart's blood; and I thought, "Oh! if my blessed mo 
 ther could be restored to me for even a single month, 
 that I might anticipate every wish, and by prompt obe 
 dience and love show her how inexpressibly dear she was 
 to me, and how sorry I was for past follies !" 
 
 But all my wishes were fruitless, and it was now too 
 late to repair the injury I had done. I was the only 
 daughter and eldest child, the constant companion of 
 my mother, who, during the eleven years that I had 
 lived, had kindly watched over me, and instructed me; 
 nor could I call to mind a single instance of unkindnesa 
 or impatience. When I did wrong, she would fix her 
 expressive blue eyes upon me without a word, while the 
 tears would glisten in them, and I could not resist their 
 sad reproof. The instance I have named is the only one
 
 6-1 MUSIC IN FAMILIES. 
 
 that I remember, in which 1 conducted myself so badly 
 towards my mother. 
 
 Twenty years have passed since then, and I am ny- 
 Belf a mother, but that meek, sad look, and tone of 
 Wounded love still haunt me, and of all things I regret 
 having done in childhood, that carries with it the deep 
 est sting. I have often seen girls, and boys, too, act 
 towards a kind and gentle mother as I then did ; and if 
 such children should happen to read this true, sad story, 
 I beg them to change their course ; become kind and 
 obedient to their parents, and then they will be spared 
 the deep sorrow which I still feel when I think of my 
 unkindness to my departed mother. 
 
 MUSIC IN FAMILIES. 
 
 THE old notion, that music could be learned only by 
 those who had a peculiar gift or ear for it, seems to be 
 pretty nearly exploded. It seems to be everywhere 
 conceded, by those who have paid much attention to the 
 subject, that music may be as generally and as success 
 fully taught to young persons as other branches of 
 knowledge. There will, of course, be different degrees 
 of talent and aptness to learn manifested in this as in 
 everything else, and the amount of attainment will vary 
 correspondingly. But does it follow that an art should 
 not be taught at all, because the highest excellence can 
 not be attained in it ? Not one child in a thousand can
 
 MUSIC IN FAMILIES. 65 
 
 excel in penmanship, in drawing, or in mathematics. 
 But who would consider that a sufficient reason for not 
 attempting instructions in those branches ? Since the 
 introduction of music into common schools in this coun 
 try, and in Germany and Prussia, it has been sufficiently 
 demonstrated, that it may be taught with as much suc 
 cess as reading and writing. 
 
 Aside from its importance as a part of public worship, 
 and as a personal accomplishment, it exerts a marked 
 and very beneficial influence in promoting social enjoy 
 ment and kind feeling in the -family. In this view it 
 presents itself to parents in a very attractive light. 
 
 Music serves to make a home pleasant, by engaging 
 many of its inmates in a delightful recreation, and thus 
 dispelling the sourness and gloom which frequently arise 
 from petty disputes, from mortified vanity, from discon 
 tent and envy. It prevents, for the time, at least, evil 
 thoughts and evil speaking, and tends to relieve the 
 minds of both performers and hearers from the depress 
 ing effects of care and melancholy. Young persona 
 need, and will have amusements. If an innocent and 
 improving kind be not provided at home, they will seek 
 for some kind elsewhere. If they find places more 
 agreeable to them than their homes, those homes will be 
 deserted, and thus the gentle and holy influences which 
 ought to encircle the family fireside, will be in a great 
 measure lost. 
 
 The discipline of the heart, afforded by music, is not 
 unimportant. It is a language an expression of sub 
 lime thoughts and pure affections. It is a heavenly 
 employment the delight of angels in another and a 
 6
 
 66 MUSIC IN FAMILIES. 
 
 1/etter world. It begets and perpetuates love ; and love 
 ia from God. Everything which promotes affectionate 
 intercourse between parents and children, and brothers 
 and sisters, is of great value in giving purity and strength 
 to home influences. In these latter days, when improper 
 places of public amusement are so numerous and cheap ; 
 when vice is arrayed in all the charms of painting and 
 sculpture, of poetry, eloquence, and music, concerted 
 and vigorous efforts should be made to preserve the 
 young from their pernicious influence. To do this, they 
 must be kept at home ; 'and to keep them at home, they 
 must be made to love their homes. To secure that love, 
 home must be made agreeable ; and, for this, music is 
 unquestionably one of the cheapest and most efficient 
 means. 
 
 No families are so pleasant as those where the voices 
 of parents and children mingle in sweet, solemn, and 
 exhilarating sounds. No scenes present themselves to 
 the memory, in after life, with more delightful associa 
 tions than those in which favourite tunes and fragments 
 of well-remembered verse are connected with the familiar 
 faces and fond endearments of the domestic hearth. 
 
 Again, music is not without use as an intellectual and 
 also as a physical exercise. The study of it as a science 
 is, perhaps, as good discipline as the study of other sci 
 ences, for it exercises the same faculties of the mind ; 
 while the practice of it as an art gives flexibility, clear 
 ness, and strength to the voice, develops the chest, and 
 invigorates the whole frame. 
 
 A strong prejudice against music has arisen in the 
 tainds of many persons, from the exctss to which it is
 
 DO YOU KNOV WHAT YOUR CHILDREN READ? 67 
 
 Bomedmes carried. If children are taught to sing, it is 
 alleged, they will be so fond of it as to cause it to inter 
 fere with more serious and weighty matters. In some 
 instances it may be so. But it should be remembered 
 that the objection implies the abuse of a thing good in 
 itself, and applies with equal force to social visiting, to 
 reading, and every kind of recreation. Fruit is good ; 
 but to be indulged in with impunity it must be eaten in 
 moderate quantities and at proper times. 
 
 So with music : if practised to such an extent as to 
 cause a waste of time needed for other purposes, or in 
 such a manner as to be a pander to vice, it becomes a 
 source of corruption. But under the control of an en 
 lightened understanding and conscience, it is the hand 
 maid of virtue. Like woman, another of Heaven's kind 
 gifts to man, it "doubles our joys and divides our (sor 
 rows ;" and, like her, too, it finds its most appropriate 
 place, and its sweetest influences, in the bosom of the 
 family. 
 
 DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR CIIILDKKN READ / 
 
 NOT many days since we saw a couple of young lac-?g 
 returning from the city library with two or three volurrea 
 apiece, which they had selected to read, or to be read. 
 In looking over the titles, we inquired of one of the 
 ladies, " Does your father allow you to read such books as 
 these ?" Mark the reply. She said, " He does not 
 know it " We should like to know how many father*
 
 68 DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR CHILDREN READ ? 
 
 and mothers do know what their children arc reading, 
 'ihe facilities for obtaining books, periodicals, and papers 
 never were greater than at the present time. Not only 
 good books, but books, publications, and prints, of the 
 very worst kind, are sown, as it were, broadcast over the 
 land. 
 
 Publications of the vilest kind are eagerly sought by 
 the young, and at an age when they are most easily 
 ruined. By the reading and perusal of uch books and 
 prints, the mind is filled with an imagery that is pon 
 dered over until the heart is corrupted, and sleep, even 
 nature's restorer, is disturbed by the mind's vile imagin 
 ings. Impurity of thought precedes impurity of action ; 
 and where you find the latter it may not unfrequently 
 be traced to the reading of that species of publications 
 to which we have referred. 
 
 It cannot be regarded by any thoughtful parent a 
 matter of indifference as to what his children are read 
 ing. No parent should permit his" children to select 
 reading matter from any public library. The work of 
 selecting books to be read by children should always be 
 done by parents, or by some one whom they can trust. 
 
 There are books and prints in circulation among the 
 young that would put the most depraved to the blush, 
 that is to say, if corruption itself can be tinged by 
 shame. We took a book of this kind from a pupil in 
 school, and consigned it immediately to the fire. The 
 boy was very indignant at the time, but we rejoice to 
 Bay that we have lived long enough to receive his most 
 hearty thanks for it. It was, as we knew, and he can 
 see it now, an act of kindness to him. The book was
 
 DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR CHILDREN READ ? 69 
 
 calculated to awaken impure desires, and to feed and 
 nourish them until they should manifest themselves in 
 acts which lead to the utter ruin and destruction of both 
 body and soul. 
 
 How many a child, after growing to manhood, haa 
 sought an opportunity to thank his parents and teachers 
 for like restraints which at the time seemed cruel and 
 unkind ! The child will seek eagerly that which his pas 
 sions and appetite urge him to, without any reference to 
 the future. Being without knowledge and experience 
 sufficient to guide him, he must be directed by his pa 
 rents and teachers. If they fail through indulgence to 
 guide him aright, such parents and teachers will receive, 
 as is their most just due, the curses of snob children in 
 manhood as have been thus ruined. 
 
 If a child, who has a desire to read, has acquired a 
 taste for light reading, and has free access to a public 
 library well stored with such books, he will read little 
 else than what he ought not to read, and the more he 
 reads the less intellectual power be seems to have, until, 
 as is not unfrequently the case, he becomes a fit inmate 
 for the insane asylum. 
 
 What we would impress upon parents is, that they 
 should know what their children are reading, and that 
 there should be no occasion for them to say, our parents 
 do not know what we are reading, although the children 
 know and confess that they are reading what their pa 
 rents would not approve if they knew the character of 
 the books. Parents cannot be too vigilant in the dis 
 charge of this duty to their children nor can children 
 be too thankful for having parents who take the whole
 
 70 THE PROGRESS OF GREEDINESS. 
 
 oversight of matters which have so important a hearing 
 upon the formation of the character for all the future. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF GREEDINESS. 
 
 THAT much of our happiness and well-heing in after 
 life depends upon education, will be readily admitted by 
 all and yet how few of those who have the care of chil 
 dren manage them properly ! Most people lay down 
 general rules, which they apply to all young people 
 indiscriminately ; never reflecting that tempers vary, 
 and that the management which succeeds with one child 
 may have a very different effect upon another, of a dis 
 similar, though, perhaps, not a worse disposition, which, 
 by a more judicious mode of arrangement, might have 
 been led into amiable habits. Sometimes, indeed, vi-ces 
 are actually induced by the faulty mode of treatment of 
 the best-intentioned people. 
 
 I do not think I was actually greedy ; nay, I am sure 
 I was not so ; anxiety for my health, which was never 
 theless goqd, although I never was a robust child, led 
 my parents to be particularly careful of my diet. 
 " Children should live plainly, and not be permitted to 
 over-eat themselves," they said; a wise rnaxim, certainly, 
 but which, notwithstanding, should be followed with 
 caution. I was never to be permitted to taste tea, but 
 ter, pastry, cheese, beer, cakes, salad, or a hundred 
 other every iay things, which, although unwholesome iu
 
 THE PROGRESS OF GREEDINESS. 71 
 
 any quantity, are not likely to do much harm to any 
 child that takes a sufficiency of exercise, if eaten in 
 moderation. For some of the above-named delicacies, 
 as I then believed them, I had no inclination further 
 than that which leads frail human nature to long for what 
 is rare and difficult to obtain as was plainly proved by 
 my never touching many of these said dainties, when 
 there was no longer any restriction. 
 
 Perhaps I was inclined to think on forbidden fruit 
 more than I should otherwise have done, by seeing my 
 companions great, strong, healthy, noisy children 
 eating as much as they pleased of whatever came before 
 them ; and hearing them express pity for me, as a poor 
 little half-starved thing, that dared not live like other 
 people, and would in consequence most likely never 
 grow. My chief playfellow, a blowsy, gross-feeding, 
 romping cousin of my own, without the slightest inten 
 tion, used to mortify me continually. She ran about 
 without bonnet or gloves, late and early ; I was always 
 dressed in hat, spencer, walking-shoes, and all the et 
 ceteras ; cautioned against going on damp grass, eat 
 ing wild fruit, or walking where the least wind could 
 touch me ; while Maria, all this time, bounding about 
 unchecked, was never ill, and never quiet. She was 
 not much more than one year older than me, but a full 
 head taller, and much stouter ; her legs, upon which she 
 seemed greatly to pride herself, almost as thick as my 
 body, and her arms almost as red as her cheeks. By 
 all the children who visited us she was preferred to me, 
 for she was extremely good-natured ; and being able to 
 go anywhere, used often to leave me on the gravel- walks.
 
 1 2 THE PROGRESS OF GREEDINESS. 
 
 from whence I durst not stir, while she led the youthful 
 band to gambol about the grass, cross the brooks, laugh 
 ing and screaming with delight ; poor little me standing 
 solitary and mortified, having for my only consolation 
 the nursery-maid's remark: "Never mind, Miss Au 
 gusta, you are a good girl, doing as papa and mamma 
 bid you, and not following the example of these 
 naughty, noisy children, who are tearing and dirtying 
 their clothes, and who deserve a good whipping;" or 
 occasionally overhearing a visiter after, however, say- 
 to me, " Maria would make two of you, wRy don't you 
 jump about like her?" observe to another, "Augusta 
 is much more like a gentleman's daughter ; Maria is 
 really a rough, vulgar little thing, although a fine child." 
 I was inclined to look up to one who often, in the kind 
 ness of her heart, used to lift me over puddles, that I 
 might extend my walk without danger of wetting my 
 feet, and pull flowers, which I was never so expert as 
 herself in climbing walls or rocks to attain, lest I should 
 fall down and hurt myself, or, what I dreaded even more, 
 tear my frock ; and as she had a great many brothers 
 and sisters older than herself, she used to carry off their 
 ideas and conversation, and repeat them to me, till I 
 thought her a female Solomon. I had no one to speak 
 to me but those who always adapted their conversation 
 to my age, or younger than my age ; so it was not 
 very extraordinary that I leant to the positively ex- 
 pressed opinion of my young cousin, who gathered from 
 her family that health, height, thick legs, and muscular 
 Strength were the most noble attributes of human nature 
 t) understand all country matters, and sew neatly,
 
 THE PROGRESS OF GREEDINESS. 73 
 
 the most desirable accomplishments. Alas ! for me, I 
 had nothing except the first of the requisites to hoast 
 of ; I was neither tall, strong, nor had I thick legs, 
 large feet, red cheeks, or hrown hands ; I hated sewing, 
 and was not sufficiently among servants and work-people 
 to gain the sort of knowledge which I was told was most 
 to be prized. I did not care for being lady-like, which 
 I fancied was synonymous with mental and bodily weak 
 ness; and I became quiet, timid, and irresolute in com 
 pany, though I tried to be as noisy and vulgar as I 
 could, when alone, by way of practice ; but I never 
 could somehow be, as they expressed it, like "one of 
 them," which I regretted at the time as sincerely as I 
 have rejoiced at it since. 
 
 But, to return to the more immediate subject of this 
 paper. Of the injudicious mode in which my eating 
 and drinking concerns were managed by my affectionate, 
 but not quite wisely-judging parents, I may enumerate 
 some needless mortifications. One day, I accompanied 
 my mother and aunt in a round of country visits : the 
 first place we went to was Titchfield Park, where, as 
 there were young people, I was almost immediately car 
 ried from the drawing-room into the school-room, to be 
 played with and caressed. They showed me their toys 
 and picture-books, gave me a ride on a rocking-horse, 
 and, on parting, a large slice of plum-cake wrapped in 
 paper. I was called off to join the party just as they 
 were stepping into the carriage, where I sat at their 
 feet, waiting for a pause in the conversation ; when, 
 proud of having something of my own, something to 
 give, something to bestow on elder people, I held up my
 
 74 THE PROGRESS OP GREEDINESS. 
 
 piece of cake, and begged them to help themselves, ex 
 ulting in the gratitude (which I thought, comparing 
 their feelings in my mind with what I knew would be 
 my own in the same case) I would raise in their breasts 
 by so precious a gift ; my aunt good-humouredly smiled 
 and said, "No, thank you, love," went on talking; but 
 mamma, as soon as she caught sight of my treasure, 
 cried, " Why, Augusta, who gave you such a thing ? 
 How very imprudent in Miss Titchfield to give such a 
 child a large piece of rich cake ! My dear, you wi.l 
 make yourself sick ; give it me, and I shall take care 
 of it ; you shall have a bit every day, but if you were 
 to eat it all at once you would be ill, and I should be 
 forced to give you senna." I relinquished my cake with 
 a heavy heart, and, although I received every crumb 
 most regularly in the course of five, or six days, my 
 pleasure in the possession of the cake was gone, and I 
 inwardly resolved not to offer to anybody the next good 
 thing I got hold of. Sometime afterwards, I forgot my 
 intended prudence, and, being deprived in a like manner 
 of some nuts, which General Tarrance had given me, I 
 made a resolution to the same effect, which I kept bet 
 ter. Every bit of cake or fruit I could clutch, I ate 
 secretly and quickly, lest some one should find it out 
 and take it from me. I was afraid to offer anything to 
 my playfellows, lest they, not thinking of the conse 
 quences, should imprudently betray me. Servants 
 generally like to indulge children, and many a greasy 
 potato from under the meat, many a piece of baked 
 paste was given me by the cook ; and I still look back 
 with gastronomic delight to the fresh-churned butter,
 
 THE PROGRESS OF GREEDINESS. 75 
 
 spread upon a piece cf oat-cake by the thumb of Tibby, 
 the dairy-maid. I have never tasted butter so good 
 since. I was always looking for something to eat. I 
 ever roamed about seeking what I might devour, from 
 new cheese down to horse-beans. These stolen indulg 
 ences did my body no harm, but the effect they had 
 upon my mind long remained ; and even when I grew 
 up, and was introduced into company, I was warned to 
 avoid this, to take little of that, to be careful of indulg 
 ing in the other. Could any one suspect the unneces 
 sary feelings of mortification entailed upon a child, in 
 being (even when kindly used) treated differently from 
 other children, they would pause before they inflicted 
 so cruel a wound on their young feelings. 
 
 I was taken to , to see a grand procession. At 
 
 the house where we went to there were several young 
 people, of my own age, assembled to enjoy the sight ; 
 and left together we soon became acquainted. When 
 we had strained our little delighted eyes till the last 
 ragged urchin of the rabble that followed had disappear 
 ed, we turned round, and, to our pleasure and surprise, 
 discovered the table covered with plates, upon each of 
 which was a gooseberry tart. Few of the elder part of 
 the company were in the room, and we all advanced, 
 chattering and happy, to the table. I among the rest, 
 when the lady who was in the act of presenting a tart to 
 me was stopped by another, saying, " We must not venture 
 to offer Miss Courtney any until her papa and mamma 
 give her leave ; here is some bread and butter to eat till 
 they come ;" but I, annoyed by this precaution, and the 
 publicity of it, answered crossly, " I mayn't eat butter,
 
 76 THL PROGRESS OP GREEDINESS. 
 
 neither." " Well, then, here is some jelly, my dear." 
 I took it sullenly, kept it some time without even tasting 
 it, but at last hunger prevailed. The rest of the children 
 had demolished their tarts, mine remained en attendant 
 my parent's return, and I began to nibble my bread and 
 jelly. At last my parents entered, were applied to, 
 gave their consent to my having the gooseberries, but nol 
 the crust. Everybody said I was a good girl for not 
 crying, and for refusing the forbidden butter ; but nei 
 ther praises nor fruit gave me any pleasure ; I felt myself 
 an unhappy MARKED child. 
 
 That this love of eating was created by circumstances 
 any one, with much power of discriminating character, 
 might have perceived ; for when I had a story-book which 
 interested me, I was always very unwilling to leave it 
 for a dinner, where were served even my favourite dishes ; 
 still there was always so much talk about eating ; every 
 finger-ache was accounted for by having eaten something 
 that was too rich, or too strong ; whenever anything was 
 well dressed, it was so praised when the reverse, so 
 lamented ; the tasting this, or that, made such a favour, 
 and such little tiny bits given after all, that I learned 
 to consider eating as the chief good. I cannot say, 
 although I liked good things, that I was particularly 
 dainty. I had a vigorous appetite, and a dislike to be 
 different from others, and could not be made to believe 
 that things were unwholesome which were pointed out as 
 such ; as I knew well I had often ate butter, cheese, 
 fruit, unknown to any one, and in large quantities, with 
 out doing my health the slightest hurt ; so, in more ways 
 than one. these silly restrictions did harm.
 
 THE PROGRESS OP GREEDINESS. 77 
 
 At last, in consequence of an addition being about to 
 be built to the house, the family dispersed for a time, 
 and I was sent to school for six months, to be out of the 
 way. At first the mortification I endured in being 
 treated differently from the rest, was very painful to my 
 feelings. I actually longed for water to my milk, as 
 well as butter to my bread, because I alone, of the sixty 
 assembled at Beech House, was without it ; but as, after 
 the first quarter, nothing more upon the subject was said, 
 I was permitted to fare like the rest, and the quantity 
 of stale bread, thinly spread with salt butter, I devoured 
 was incredible, and greatly excited the wonder of my 
 companions, who frequently grumbled, because they did 
 not live so well at school as at home, though few of their 
 papas kept their carriage, as mine did. I eat myself 
 stupid every Saturday, upon a doughy meat-pie, made 
 up of all the scraps of the week, and became so fat that 
 when I went home at the holidays, every one was asto 
 nished. Any one would naturally imagine that the 
 manifest improvement in my appearance would have 
 opened the eyes of my family ; but, no ! the same sys 
 tem recommenced, and I soon lost my flesh again. 
 
 When I married my present husband, whom I really 
 loved, one of my matrimonial castles in the air (well may 
 ye start, ye romantic young ladies!) was, that being 
 mistress of store-rooms and closets, I should be able to 
 eat all the nice things I fancied, as often as I pleased, 
 without restraint. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, no sooner did I feel secure 
 that at any time I might have what I liked, than aU
 
 78 THE PROGRESS OF GREEDINESS. 
 
 desire for having it died away, and, after a few years, 1 
 became quite abstemious. 
 
 Profiting by the mistakes of my parents, I have been 
 careful to pursue a totally different plan with my chil 
 dren, and to let them have every kind of food, in suffi 
 cient quantities, and without remark : healthier, happier 
 children I never saw, and none of them are the least 
 greedy. 
 
 I endeavour also to make them as comfortable and 
 independent as our fortune will permit ; I allow them 
 to have things and places of their own, and as religiously 
 respect their property as I expect them to do mine. 
 They have their own quiet little sitting-room, and when 
 we are together, at meals, or in the evening, I promote 
 mirth and innocent amusement to the utmost of my 
 power. I think it would require a very strong attach 
 ment indeed, for any man to be able to persuade them 
 to exchange their father's house for his. Alas ! how 
 many unhappy marriages have been made, for no worse 
 reasons than a desire to possess a home where they^ could 
 feel independent and comfortable. " I wonder what 
 can make Dora Maitland marry Mr. Beecher, good, and 
 good-looking though he be," said a young lady of my 
 acquaintance, who was evidently very anxious to be 
 married herself; "she and her sisters have such a nice, 
 happy home, a sitting-room, a pony, a garden, liberal 
 pocket-money, and all they want ; were I as comfortable, 
 I know I should not wish to be married for a long time 
 to come ; but as I am quite different at mamma's, and 
 of course cannot indulge them, I am so very uncom 
 fortable, that I shall take the very first respectable man
 
 THE PROGRESS OP GREEDINESS. 79 
 
 that asks me." She accordingly married a very cross 
 aid general, much her senior, and was extremely un 
 happy for six years, when he died, leaving her an easy 
 but not large income. She has had many advantageous 
 proposals since, but resolutely rejects them all. " Why 
 should I marry," she says, "when I am quite comfort 
 able?" One of her sisters ran off with a lieutenant in 
 a marching regiment, another married the curate ; both 
 have large families, small fortunes, and cross husbands ; 
 and both say they never would have married had they 
 been happy at home ; their parents were good, kind 
 people, but made no distinction between a daughter of 
 eight years of age and one of eighteen. Fathers and 
 mothers, reflect upon these truths, and reform ere it is 
 too late ! 
 
 Dora Maitland, whose marriage to an amiable young 
 man excited the wonder of the ci-devant Miss Stevens, 
 was the only one of six sisters who married young. Two 
 of the others, who were engaged, waited till the death 
 of their parents ; and the three who remain yet unmar 
 ried are as united, independent, and happy in their 
 sweet little cottage, as they were in their father's more 
 magnificent mansion. One manages all out-of-doors 
 concerns ; another the house and servants ; and the 
 youngest, who has a weak ankle, receives the company, 
 writes the letters, and takes care of the library : one 
 docs not interfere with the department of the other, and 
 all goes on smoothly. 
 
 If this slight sketch will induce those better fitted for 
 the task, to enlarge upon mistakes in education by well- 
 meaning parents, I shall rejoice in having written this 
 paper.
 
 THE CRADLE AWAY UP IX THE GARRET. 
 
 IT was an old-fashioned little cradle. The proud 
 Haughter-in-law would scorn to have it in the nurserj. 
 Her children sleep in dainty cribs ; and the relic of 
 olden times is pushed into a darkened corner, away up 
 in the garret. It is a quiet autumnal day ; such days 
 are full of memories ; and the old grandmother is think 
 ing, thinking. She arises at length, and totters up, and 
 up, the lofty flights of stairs ; she passes through the 
 elegant rooms ; she gains the garret, and sinks down 
 beside that unsightly cradle, and bows her trembling 
 head over it, as if watching the slumbers of a babe. 
 That little garret, with one long beam of sunlight 
 streaming from the high window; and the spider-webs 
 woven over the rafters, and one cricket, singing lone- 
 somely from some silent corner, is a good place to 
 dream. Memory is unfolding picture after picture, for 
 the grandmother to look upon. 
 
 She sees a cabin home. It is in the flush of summer 
 time ; there are green boughs in the fireplace, and 
 around the clock, and over the mantel-board. There 
 are short, white, muslin curtains, drawn partially across 
 the windows. There are two beds, with a bureau be 
 tween, standing in the eastern part of the room ; and a 
 little stand, with a Bible and hymn-book upon its white 
 fringed cover, beneath the little looking-glass. There 
 is her cupboard, with its brightly-polished pewter, and 
 the pine table, scoured by her own hands. And she is
 
 THE CRADLE AWAY UP IN THE GARRET. 81 
 
 Bitting by the window, her foot gently touching that 
 same dear little cradle ; and her eyes, lifted from her 
 sewing, now and then, to see if her heart's prido is 
 coming. How deliciously her heart is stirred to the 
 music of sweet thoughts ! It is her first-born, her dar 
 ling Johnny, sleeping in the cradle. Never yet have 
 his dewy, rose-bud lips murmured "mother;" but his 
 dimpled arms clasp her neck ; his velvet cheek nestles 
 against her breast, his clear blue eyes look lovingly into 
 her own. She is the young mother again, as memory 
 paints that sweet baby face. She hears the bees hum 
 ming in the little bed of pinks, below the window. She 
 sees the shadow-leaves of the Virginia creepers, playing 
 upon the grass, in the sunlight, as the breeze stirs the 
 long clasping arms that cling about the rough logs. 
 
 She hears the rivulet's ripple, as it winds through 
 mossy spots, and leaves the roots of the old sycamore, 
 whose shadows fall upon her roof. She hears the birds 
 singing, away off in the woods. She sees, oh, best of 
 all, her husband coming home from his daily labour. 
 His step is on the sill, his merry voice speaks her name, 
 and then little Johnny is clasped to his heart. 
 
 Another picture. She is a little older now. It is 
 winter ; there are drifts of snow on the eaves ; as far 
 as she can look, one unbroken mass of snow. She 
 hears the winds moan through the sycamore. The 
 flowers are dead ; the rivulet frozen ; the birds silent. 
 But there is a bright fire upon the hearth, and the cabin 
 home warm with its crimson light. Johnny is playing 
 with father ; and a baby girl, the little Lizzie, is in the 
 crad'e ; fragile, delicate, beautiful ; she has dark eyes, 
 6
 
 82 THE CRADLE AWAY UP IN THE GARRET. 
 
 like mother's, only they bear a sadder, softer look, and 
 her baby-smile seems sad also ; her hands are clasped 
 and thrown above her head, and she smiles in her sleep, 
 as if the angels were whispering to her. 
 
 Another picture. It is in the month of May, and all 
 aut of doors is so beautiful. Flowers in the woodland ; 
 birds in the woodland ; joyous music everywhere. 
 Everywhere ? No, there is sadness in the cabin- 
 house. There is another babe in the cradle. It is ro 
 bust, and the blood of health flows in its veins. It is 
 Charlie. Why are they sad, then ? Johnny sits with 
 his face hidden in his mother's bosom, and she is sob 
 bing. Under the front window is something covered 
 with white. The neighbour-women are moving noise 
 lessly about, speaking but little. Lizzie is in her coffin. 
 There is an empty grave where buttercups dot the grass. 
 Dear little Lizzie ! Joy that the angels took thee home 
 so early. 
 
 Another picture. Johnny has grown up to nearly 
 manhood. Charlie is a stout, merry boy, and there are 
 others about the fireside. The mother is a good deal 
 older now. Her hair is streaked a little with silver ; 
 her brow furrowed, and her cheek very faded. There 
 are fair daughters and sons, that have been born unto 
 her since Lizzie died. Grace, with her dazzling blue 
 eyes and golden hair ; Mary, with sad, dark eyes, like 
 her dead sister ; Annie, with her lips ever dewy with 
 love and joy; Reginald, with eyes and brow so like his 
 father's, and Louis, the youngest, the pet and the dar 
 ling. An unbroken family, but not for long. 
 
 Another picture. She is a widow now. Her beloved
 
 THE CRADLE AWAY UP IN THE GAKUET. 83 
 
 Bleeps with little Lizzie. God knows how bereft she is ; 
 co Him she looks for balm ; to Him she prays for her 
 dear children, and most of all for Reginald the proud, 
 the passionate, wilful Reginald. Ah, the mother's 
 heart ! How it goes with her children How it would 
 bear every pang, that they might be saved ! Yet, how 
 often it is torn, crushed, broken by those she has shel 
 tered in her bosom ! God pity the mother whose heart 
 thus beats against thorns. 
 
 Another picture. Oh God, have pity ! The Louse- 
 hold altar is almost desolate. Years have gone by 
 sad years. No wonder the palsied hand trembles as it 
 clasps the cradle. No wonder tears fall where sunny 
 heads once nestled. No wonder the old grandmother 
 cries out, " Father, have mercy !" for she feels the need 
 of strength and love. Johnny is still with her ; he is 
 growing wealthy. Mary is in the grave, stricken in 
 early womanhood, when life seemed so bright. Beauti-' 
 ful Grace is gone, she knows not whither. Beauty, to 
 her, was a curse, and she fled to a distant Ir.nd with one 
 fascinating as the serpent, but already wedded. Annie 
 joined her fortunes to one, alas! unworthy, and died far 
 from her mother's house, of a broken heart. Reginald 
 went into the gay world was tempted was lost ! and 
 the grave of the drunkard and the debauchee closes over 
 his bright head. Louis, the pet, the youngest, is win 
 ning himself a name beneath Italian skies ; the beauti 
 ful life of the poet-painter is his own, and his face is 
 inspired, almost, by the beautiful associations around 
 him. Over the ocean do his mother's prayers often go 
 to him.
 
 84 THE HEAVENLY SHEPHERD. 
 
 Another picture. Oh no, it is too real. The old 
 garret the to-day the empty cradle. She is living 
 with Johnny, in his costly home. She is considered an 
 intruder by the daughter-in-law ; and her son her 
 Johnny the first-born, whom she has watched over, 
 and cradled on her breast, and loved so, says : " Mother 
 is getting to be quite troublesome ; she is growing 
 childish." 
 
 The desolate old grandmother knows this, and longs 
 for the grave. She has outlived all that makes life 
 attractive. God compass that weary, almost worn-out 
 heart with His love, and take her to His house of many 
 
 THE HEAVENLY SHEPHERD. 
 
 WHEN on my ear your loss was knelled, 
 And tender sympathy upburst, 
 
 A little rill from memory swelled, 
 
 Which once had soothed my bitter thirst. 
 
 And I was fain to bear to you 
 Some portion of its mild relief, 
 
 That it might be as healing dew 
 To steal some fever from your grief. 
 
 A'ter our child's untroubled breath 
 'flr> to the Father took its way, 
 
 on our house the shade of death 
 Like a long twilight hunting lay ;
 
 THE HEAVENLY SHEPHERD. 
 
 And friends came round with us to weep 
 
 Her little spirit's swift remove, 
 This story of the Alpine sheep 
 
 Was told to us by one we love. 
 
 They in the valley's sheltering care 
 Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, 
 
 And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
 The shepherd strives to make them climb 
 
 To airy shelves of pastures green 
 
 That hang around the mountain's side, 
 Whose grass and flowers together lean, 
 And down through mists the sunbeams slid*. 
 
 But nought can tempt the timid things 
 That steep and rugged path to try, 
 
 Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings. 
 And seared below the pastures lie, 
 
 Till in his arms their lambs he takes, 
 
 Along the dizzy verge to go ; 
 Then heedless of the rifts and breaks, 
 
 They followed on o'er rock and snow. 
 
 And in those pastures lifted fair, 
 More dewy soft than lowland mead, 
 
 The shepherd drops his tender care, 
 And sheep and lambs together feed. 
 
 This parable by nature breathed, 
 Blew on me as the South wind free, 
 
 O'er frozen brooks that float unsheathed 
 From icy thraldom to the sea.
 
 86 HE NEVER KEPT HIS WIFE WAITING. 
 
 A blissful vision through the night, 
 Would all my happy senses sway, 
 
 Of the good Shepherd on the height, 
 Or climbing o'er the stony way, 
 
 Holding our little lamb asleep ; 
 
 And like the burthen of the sea, , 
 
 Sounded that voice along the deep, 
 
 Saying, "Arise and follow me." 
 
 HE NEVER KEPT HIS WIFE WAITING. 
 
 " SHE never kept her husband waiting," is the title 
 of a piece we saw in an exchange paper. We wish we 
 could say the same of all husbands they never keep 
 their wives waiting ; but there are many too many 
 wives who burn the midnight oil, waiting the tardy re 
 turn of their husbands. Is it not enough for a half-sick 
 and weary mother, to watch the greater part of the 
 night with a sick and restless infant, but she must, in 
 too many cases, wait and watch many anxious hours for 
 him who ought to share her sorrows, and lighten her 
 cares ? He is enjoying himself away among some con 
 genial friends, while she is at home, mourning over his 
 coldness and neglect, and perhaps weeping over a frail 
 and drooping child. We wish none but drunken and 
 dissolute husbands kept their wives waiting ; but it is 
 often the case the husband is thoughtless ; perhaps he 
 meets a friend, dinner waits, and the wife, who does her
 
 HE NEVER KEPT II1S WIFE WAITING. 87 
 
 own work, is wondering what can keep her husband ; 
 she fears something has happened to him. He surely 
 would not make her wait so ; and in this anxious state 
 she waits, hour after hour, for her husband has been 
 persuaded to dine with a friend, and he is too thought- 
 , less to send his anxious wife word, and she spends the 
 whole afternoon, nervous and anxious, feeling too care 
 worn to have an appetite for her lonesome dinner. Buft 
 her children must be attended to, and her domestic 
 affairs must go on, notwithstanding her sad and dejected 
 condition. After spending the greater part of the day 
 in this manner, she is kept awake through the night 
 with a restless babe, which none but a mother can 
 soothe. Would it be a wonder if, the next morning, 
 she should rise if able to rise at all with an aching 
 head, pale and careworn countenance, instead of a fresh 
 and smiling face, and elastic spirits ? Would it be sur 
 prising if she would be rather slow in preparing break 
 fast, or that her husband had to wait, if that careworn 
 mother had to do her own work, as too many mothers have 
 to do ? Need husbands, who keep their wives waiting, 
 wonder that they fade so soon and look sickly ? A real, 
 true wife and mother is necessarily confined at home the 
 greater part of her time, and seldom sees, any company 
 but that of her children and husband, and it is the duty 
 of the husband, and ought to be his choice, if he loves 
 his wife, to give her as much of his time as he can pos- 
 Bibly take from important business, interesting himself 
 in all that interests her. She thinks more of his com 
 pany than any one else in the wide world does, and 
 when the hour for dinner arrives, she watches with a
 
 88 HE NEVER KEPT HIS WIFE WAITING. 
 
 cheerful expectation of spending a little time in kind 
 and familiar conversation, with one whose company she 
 prizes more than all the world beside ; and in her lonely 
 and retired life, these dinner and tea times are eras of 
 joy, giving a cheerful change to the sameness of her 
 never-ending duties. 
 
 Husband, if you love your wife, do not keep her 
 waiting ; if you meet a friend on your way to dinner, 
 do not let him keep you, for your bosom friend is wait 
 ing and watching for you. When the business of the day 
 is over, do not talk politics, or take a stroll with a compa 
 nion, for tea is ready, and a tired and half-sick wife is wait 
 ing for your company and sympathizing words. If she 
 enjoys your society so much, ought it not to be reciprocal ? 
 She, who gave herself alone to you in all her youth and 
 beauty, and who is willing to stay secluded at home to 
 care for your comfort, and watch over little ones ought 
 you not to prize her company more than all besides ? 
 more than societies, clubs, or the most intelligent and 
 brilliant companions ? There are many men, who are 
 respectable and industrious, and think they love their 
 wives, and are doing their duty, but allow this, that, or 
 the other society or club, to take the time they ought to 
 give their wives.
 
 MT e'.VN FIRESIDE. 
 
 It is a mysti, ".pie that surrounds 
 
 Comforts ?<{ ''flues never known beyond 
 
 Its hallowtd L ait. ' -"s. 
 
 LET others seei f,-r Jjipty joys, 
 
 In ball or concert, rout or play ; 
 Whilst, far from Fashion's idle noise, 
 
 Her gilded domes and trappings gay, 
 1 while the wintry eve away, 
 
 Twixt book and lute the hours divide; 
 And marvel how I e'er could stray 
 
 From thee my own fireside ! 
 
 My own fireside ! Those simple words 
 
 Can bid the sweetest dreams arise, 
 Awaken feeling's tenderest chords, 
 
 And fill with tears of joy mine eyes. 
 What is there my wild heart can prize 
 
 That doth not in thy sphere abide '. 
 Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, 
 
 My own My own fireside ! 
 
 A gentle form is near me now ; 
 
 A small white hand is clasped in mine; 
 I gaze upon her placid brow, 
 
 And ask, what joys can equal thine? 
 A babe, whose beauties half divine, 
 
 In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide ; 
 Where may Love seek a fitter shrine 
 
 Than thou my own fireside ? 
 
 Hy refuge ever from the storm 
 
 Of this world's passion, strife, and care; 
 Though thunder-clouds the skies deform, 
 
 Their fury cannot reach me there i
 
 90 BE PATIENT WITH THE LITTLE ONES 
 
 There all is cheerful, calm and fair; 
 
 Wrath, Envy, Malice, Strife or Pride 
 Hath never made its hated lair 
 
 By thee my own fireside ! 
 
 Shrine of my household deities 1 
 
 Bright scenes of home's unsullied joys, 
 To thee my burdened spirit flies 
 
 When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys ! 
 Thine is the bliss that never cloys ; 
 
 The smile whose truth has oft been tried; 
 What, then, are this world's tinsel toys 
 
 To thee my own fireside ! 
 
 Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, 
 
 That bid my thoughts be all of thee, 
 Thus ever guide my wandering feet 
 
 To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ; 
 Whate'er my future years may be, 
 
 Let joy or grief my fute betide, 
 Be still an Eden bright to me, 
 
 My own my own fireside ! 
 
 BE PATIENT WITH THE LITTLE ONES. 
 
 LA putient with the little ones. Let neither their 
 slow understanding nor their occasional pertness offend 
 you, or provoke the sharp reproof. Remember the world 
 is new to them, and they have no slight task to grasp 
 with their unripened intellects the mass of facts and 
 truths that crowd upon their attt-ntion. You are grown 
 to maturity and strength through years of experience.
 
 TEASING PAPA.
 
 BE PATIENT WITH THE LITTLE ONES. 01 
 
 and it ill becomes you to fret at tlie little child that fails 
 to keep pace with your thought. Teach him patiently, 
 as God teaches you, " line upon line, precept upon pre 
 cept ; here a little, and there a little." Cheer him on 
 in this conflict of mind : in after years his ripe, rich 
 thought shall rise up and call you blessed. 
 
 Bide patiently the endless questionings of your chil 
 dren. Do not roughly crush the springing spirit of free 
 inquiry, with an impatient word or frown, nor attempt, 
 on the contrary, a long and instructive reply to f>very 
 slight and casual question. Seek rather to deepen their 
 curiosity. Convert, if possible, the careless question 
 into a profound and earnest inquiry ; and aim rather to 
 direct and aid, than to answer this inquiry. Let your 
 reply send the little questioner forth, not so much proud 
 of what he has learned, as anxious to know more. Hap 
 py thou, if in giving thy child the molecule of truth 
 he asks for, thou canst whet his curiosity with a glimpse 
 of the mountain of truth lying beyond ; so wilt thou 
 send forth a philosopher, and not a silly pedant into the 
 world. 
 
 Bear patiently the childish humours of those little 
 ones. They are but the untutored pleading of the young 
 spirit for care and cultivation. Irritated into strength, 
 and hardened into habits, they will haunt the whole of 
 life like fiends of despair, and make thy little ones curse 
 the day they were born ; but, corrected kindly and pa 
 tiently, they become the elements of happiness and use 
 fulness. Passions are but fires that may either scorch 
 us with their uncontrolled fury, or may yield us a genial 
 and needful warmth.
 
 92 THE INVALID WIFE. 
 
 Bless your little ones with a patient care of their 
 childhood, and they will certainly consecrate the glory 
 and grace of their manhood to your service. Sow in 
 their hearts the seeds of a, perennial blessedness ; :t3 
 ripened fruit will afford you a perpetual joy. 
 
 THE INVALID WIFE. 
 
 "ALWAYS sick," from month to month, and year to 
 year, friends become accustomed to her pale face and 
 long bony fingers, her slow step and short quick 
 breath, and weary of that faint smile, and inattention 
 to dress, and reluctance to going out ; and they say 
 impatiently, " All she needs is air, exercise, and cheer 
 fulness ; what a drone she has become ! I pity her 
 husband." 
 
 The doctor looks at her with a meaning smile, saying, 
 " You are too sedentary in your habits, madam youi 
 temperament is nervous, little troubles destroy youi 
 equanimity take the world easy, care less for house 
 hold affairs, never mind how the dinner is served up, 
 and take no thought about the children. You have no 
 organic disease, madam, no liver affection, no consump 
 tion ; it is all nervous all mental. Good morning, 
 madam. I pity her husband." 
 
 " All nervous ! this dreadful headache, this knife-like 
 pain in my side, this loss of appetite ? But it must be 
 so, the doctor ought to know ; and I will try to believe
 
 THE INVALID WIFE. 93 
 
 him, and forget my cares ;" and she leans back in her 
 chair with a new resolution to be cheerful. 
 
 "Johnny" comes in, screaming at the top of his lungs, 
 \vith his new pantaloons slitted from top to bottom ; the 
 cook makes the pie crust of bread dough, and dresses 
 the steak with the ends of tallow candles, because the 
 butter is down cellar; and a friend comes home with 
 her husband to dinner, and he looks thunderbolts, and 
 the friend consternation but never mind "dress, 
 laugh, and go out" forget death, and it will forget you 
 either be well, or die, quickly, for friends are all 
 "sorry for" your husband. 
 
 " Complaining women never die," is an old saying, 
 handed down to us from the lips of some rough country 
 quack, who deserved to have had his teeth extracted for 
 his want of sympathy with suffering ; and the same un 
 kind thought is written on the sarcastic mouth of many 
 a modern M. D. to whom the poor invalid appeals foi 
 help, as she drags her weary limbs over the rough path 
 of life without hearing one word of sympathy, or seeing 
 a single finger raised to help her. None realize that her 
 life-strings are snapping asunder so slowly and so noise 
 lessly ; and when the last gives way, and she sinks into 
 the friendly grave, friends hardly miss her, because they 
 have learned so gradually to do without her labours of 
 
 She is gone ! the world feels not the shock of her de 
 parture, as when some great human light fades from the 
 firmament of mind ; and social institutions are not sad 
 dened by her loss, for her pale face was almost a stran 
 ger in their halls.
 
 94 THE INVALID WIFE. 
 
 But there are little loving hearts which miss her geii- 
 tle tone, earnest kiss, and loving blue eyes ; and her 
 husband misses for a little time her sweet, mournful 
 smile, which seemed to say, " I would do more to pro 
 mote your happiness but I am so feeble," and then 
 he forgets, and another more beautiful is taken to his 
 heart and home ; and with dewy eyes and quivering lips 
 those babes pronounce again the name of "Mother !" 
 
 But not to her bosom do they confide all their little 
 griefs and wrongs not there do they sob themselves to 
 sleep. She is long an object of doubt and dread ; and 
 angel although she may be, it is long,' very long, ere she 
 will win them to confidence and love. Every dying 
 mother thinks of this, and every stepmother should 
 realize it, and have patience and piety to begin her 
 work ; for the heart of the child will appeal from the 
 mother that is, to her who is not, when the requirements 
 of the former approach even the shadow of injustice. 
 
 Husbands of invalid wives, (in nine cases out of ten,) 
 we do not pity you you who go in and out so carelessly, 
 asking no questions, and never saying, in a soft, earnest 
 tone, " Would to God that I could help you, dear wife!" 
 You who do not try to realize the capriciousness of the 
 appetite which longs for everything beyond its reach ; 
 who have no sympathy with morbid fears, and no true- 
 hearted mother's apprehensions, lest your babes may be 
 prematurely cast upon the sympathy of the world 
 that sympathy which freezes by the coldness of its heal 
 ing hand. 
 
 Sympathy for you ? What do you suffer aside from 
 Inoenvenienee ? Think, impatient men, as you look
 
 " THE OLD FOLKS." &* 
 
 upon that faded form, of what she was, remember her, 
 as you took her, a beautiful bride, away from the bosom 
 of her mother, and her father's strong, protecting arm 
 did she make no sacrifice for you f Know that for your 
 love she fettered herself with those cares which have 
 racked her brain until they undermined her slender con 
 stitution ; and do not cause her now to say in her heart's 
 deep agony, " I have become an encumbrance, and he 
 will not miss me when I am gone." 
 
 Pity the invalid. Part the damp locks upon her fore 
 head, and kiss it tenderly ; leave her not long alone ; love 
 }>er, and cherish her as you did when the white brida* 
 rose lingered in her sunny tresses, and the carnation of 
 health was upon her rounded cheek ; for surely, though 
 slowly, she is dying ; and when she is gone an angel wilv 
 have gone up to Heaven before you to plead for you at 
 the eternal bar, saying, Father, remember him in mercy, 
 as he remembered me, after all others forsook me, anA 
 life was one long agony. 
 
 " THE OLD FOLKS." 
 
 " I SUPPOSE I must go down and see the old folks, 
 pretty soon, but it is a dull job," said a fashionably- 
 dressed young mar to me one evening. "The country 
 is so dull, after living in the city, that I dread to go 
 there ; there is nothing to look at, and nowhere to go ; 
 but mother is getting pretty feeble, and I ought to go.*'
 
 96 " THE OLD FOLKS." 
 
 I perceived that the "old folks" he so disrespectfully 
 spoke of were no other than his own father and mother. 
 
 " I could get along with one day well enough," he 
 Baid, " but the old folks are never satisfied unless I stay 
 <* week, or three or four days, and I get heart-sick of it, 
 it is so dull. I used to go and see them once or twice a 
 vear, but now it is between two and three years since I 
 have been there. I could go oftener, but it is so tedious ; 
 and then they make sc much of me, and cry so when 
 they see me, that it makes me feel bad, because I do not 
 go as much as I ought ; so sometimes I think I will not 
 30 at all." 
 
 How little had this careless son thought of his aged 
 pa/ents, and how daily, how hourly had those aged pa 
 rents thought of him, and how many fervent prayers had 
 ascended to God for him from that quiet fireside ! He 
 knw not how many evils those prayers had averted from 
 his ungrateful hea-d, or how many blessings they had 
 poured upon him. 
 
 But all sons are not thus ungrateful. A young friend 
 of mine, who has resided sixteen years in the same great 
 metropolis, has never failed twice a year to visit his pa 
 rents and goes oftener, or whenever it is possible for 
 him to leave his business. I accidentally saw a letter he 
 addressed to a sister a short time since, which shows that 
 a young man can be immersed in extensive business, 
 and yet find time to love and venerate his mother. 
 
 "I received a short note from mother," he writes, 
 after hearing that she had been ill. " I am fearful that 
 the is not improving. If she is any worse, or becomes 
 1* igerousl^ ? : ck, I desire to know it. I dread tL*
 
 " THE OLD FOLKS. ' 97 
 
 thought that my, our mother, cannot he spared to ua 
 many years at best it may be but a few months. 1 
 have thought of it very much for a few weeks. Although 
 she has lived nearly her threescore years and ten, and 
 nature has become almost exhausted, yet how I should 
 miss her ! how we all should mourn for her ! What a 
 mother she has been to us ! What a woman ; what an 
 example ; what a Christian ! I am sure of it, I know it, 
 that she has been my dearest object of love and affec 
 tion all the days of my life. However I may have 
 strayed from her bright examples and her teachings, my 
 mother has always been before me, beckonitg me to 
 walk in the right way ; and if I have not prayed my 
 self with the fervour and devotion that I should, I -have 
 always felt that she was supplicating for me. How much 
 she has loved us, how much she has cared for us ! What 
 a sacred treasure, even to the end of our lives, will be 
 the memories of our mother ! 
 
 " I see her now, as she looked to me, when she stood 
 by the bedside of our dying brother, cheering him in his 
 sufferings ; and I hear her say, " The same clock that 
 told the hour of his birth is now telling the hour of his 
 death!" What a scene was that! We knoAv. dear sis 
 ter, that these things must be, and it is not in a melan 
 choly strain that I write ; but every indication of the 
 approaching end of my mother stirs within me all the 
 tenderness of my heart. Her removal will be to the 
 brightest heaven, die when she may. Old age is but the 
 threshold of death, and after a life spent as our mother's 
 has been, the portals of another world can have 110 
 dreary look."
 
 48 OBEDIENCE, HOW TAUGHT TO CHILDREN. 
 
 How ennobling, how touching are this young man's 
 words ! We cannot but respect him for his beautiful re 
 verence and love for his mother. Years of a life in New 
 York, subject lo every snare and every temptation, en 
 gaged in an engrossing and extensive business, with the 
 heat and passion of youth upon him, yet the one steady 
 flame of deep love for his mother burned undimmed in 
 his heart. 
 
 Mothers, she was a mother worthy of such a son. 
 She was a Christian mother. Would you inspire similar 
 love and reverence ? Be like her, an earnest and heart 
 felt follower of the blessed Redeemer. 
 
 And let every heartless, neglectful son remember the 
 thorns of agony his thoughtlessness implants in the 
 hearts of his parents. Let him call to remembrance the 
 helpless years of his childhood, and all the self-sacri 
 ficing love that fills their hearts, and now return to them 
 and to God the love and gratitude which are so justly due 
 
 OBEDIENCE, HOW TAUGHT TO CHILDREN. 
 
 [UNLESS taught in earliest infancy, obedience cannot 
 be taught, or very imperfectly, and with tenfold difficulty. 
 The following scene, from Grace Aguilar's Home Influ- 
 enc*, affords an illustration of the lessons which there 
 are frequent opportunities of inculcating in every young 
 family.] 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton is a young mother, and the little boy
 
 OBEDIENCE, HOW TAUGHT TO CHILDREN. 99 
 
 her only child. Eleanor, Mrs. Hamilton's sister, thinks 
 firmness with so young a child unnecessary severity. 
 
 The day before Eleanor's intended departure, the 
 sisters were sitting together, and little Percy, who now 
 ran firmly without any falls, was playing about the room. 
 He had already displayed a high spirit and passionate 
 temper, with their general accompaniment, self-will, even 
 in trifles, that Mrs. Hamilton felt would render her task 
 a trying one ; but she was firm as she was gentle, and 
 faced the pain of contradicting her darling bravely. 
 
 " Do not touch that, Percy, love," she said, as her 
 little boy stretched out his hand towards a beautiful but 
 fragile toy, that stood with other nick-nacks on a low 
 table. The child looked laughingly and archly towards 
 her and withdrew his hand, but did not move from the 
 table. 
 
 " Come here, Percy, you have not played with these 
 pretty things for a long time ;" and she took from her 
 work-box some gayly-coloured ivory balls, which had 
 been his favourite playthings, but just at present they 
 had lost their charm, and the young gentleman did not 
 move. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton knelt down by him, and said quietly, 
 
 " My Percy will not disobey mamma, will he?" 
 
 " Me want that," he replied, in the pretty, coaxing 
 tone of infancy ; and he twined his little round arms 
 caressingly around her neck. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton felt very much tempted to indulge 
 him, but she resisted. 
 
 " But that is not a fit plaything for you, love ; besides 
 it is not mine, and we must not touch what is not ours.
 
 00 OBEDIENCE, HOW TAUGHT TO CHILDREN. 
 
 Come and see if we cannot find something just as pretty, 
 that you may have." 
 
 And after some minutes' merry play in her lap hia 
 mother hoped he had forgotten it ; but the little gentle 
 man was not, he thought, to be so governed. The for 
 bidden plaything was quietly grasped, and he seated 
 himself on the ground in silent but triumphant glee. 
 
 Surprised at his sudden silence, Mrs. Hamilton looked 
 towards him. It was his first act of decided disobe 
 dience, and she knew she must not waver. Young as 
 he was, he had already learned to know when she was 
 displeased, and when she desired him very gravely to 
 give her the toy, he passionately threw it down, and 
 burst into a violent fit of crying. His nurse took him 
 struggling from the room, and Mrs. Hamilton quietly 
 resumed her work ; but there was such an expression of 
 pain in her countenance, that Eleanor exclaimed, 
 
 " Emmeline ! I have been watching you for the last 
 half-hour, and I cannot comprehend you. Do explain 
 yourself." 
 
 " I will if I can ;" and Mrs. Percy looked up and 
 smiled. 
 
 " Why would you not let that poor little Percy have 
 that toy ?" 
 
 " Because it would have been encouraging his touch 
 ing or taking everything he sees, whether proper for him 
 or not." 
 
 " But he could not understand that." 
 
 " Not now, perhaps ; but I wish him to know that 
 when I speak he must obey one. It is, I think, a mis 
 taken loctrine, that we ought to give children a reason
 
 OBEDIENCE, HOW TAUGHT TO CHILDREN 101 
 
 for all we desire them to do. Obedience can then never 
 be prompt, as it ought to be. And in fact, if we wait 
 until they are old enough to understand the reasons for 
 a command, the task will be much more difficult, from 
 the ascendency which wilfulness may already have ob 
 tained." 
 
 " But then why were you so cruel as to send the poor 
 child up stairs ? Was it not enough to take the toy 
 from him ?" 
 
 "Not quite, for him to remember that he must not 
 touch it again." 
 
 " And do you really think he will not ?" 
 
 " I can only hope so, Eleanor ; but I must not be dis 
 heartened if he do. He is an infant still, and I cannot 
 expect him to learn such a difficult lesson as obedience 
 in one, two, or six lessons." 
 
 " And will he love you as much as if you had given 
 it to him ?" 
 
 " Not at the moment, perhaps, but when he is older 
 he will love me more. And it is that hope which recon 
 ciles me to the pain which refusing to indulge him costs 
 me now," replied the young mother. 
 
 " And voluntarily you will bear the pain which had 
 almost brought tears into the eyes of the severe and 
 stoical Mrs. Hamilton !" exclaimed Eleanor. 
 
 " It was a foolish weakness, my dear Eleanor, for 
 which my husband would have chidden me ; but there 
 must be pain to a mother if called upon to exert autho 
 rity, when inclination so strongly points to indulgence." 
 
 " Well, if ever I have anything to do with children I 
 certainly shall riot be half as particular as you are, Em
 
 102 . OUR HOMES. 
 
 meline. I really cannot imagine what harm gratifying 
 yourself and Percy could possibly have done." 
 
 " If ever you have children, my dear Eleanor, may 
 you have strength of mind and self-control sufficient to 
 forget self, and refuse the gratification of the present 
 moment for the welfare of future years !" 
 
 And so it came to pass. The contrast afforded by 
 the domestic history of the families of the two sisters, 
 as developed in Grace Aguilar's beautiful narrative, 
 affords abundant illustration of the truth, that lessons 
 of obedience must be commenced at life's earliest dawn 
 ing. The good fruit is, usually, not long in appearing. 
 A few years' patient and kind firmness will be rewarded 
 by habitual, cheerful, and instant obedience. 
 
 OUR HOMES. 
 
 GENIUS hath its triumphs, fame its glories, wealth its 
 splendour, success its bright rewards, but the heart only 
 hath its home. Home only ! What more needeth the 
 heart ? What more can it gain ? A true home is more 
 than the world more than honour and pride and for 
 tune more than all earth can give the light the noon 
 day sun may not yield, and yet the tiny flame of one 
 pure beam of love enkindleth, and sympathy makes to 
 burn for ever. 
 
 Home ! How more than beautiful thou art ! how 
 like an untaught religion ! a golden link between the
 
 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 103 
 
 soul and heaven ! when the presence of a pure heart 
 makes thee radiant, and the music of their affecticn 
 floats like the chorals of unseen cherubims around their 
 tranquil hearth ! 
 
 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 " CRASH ! there, I wonder what Bridget has broken 
 now !" exclaimed Mrs. Winterford, as she raised her 
 head, listening, from the bed where she had been lying 
 crumpled miserably up, under one of her attacks of 
 nervous headache. " I think it must be the other large 
 tureen ; nothing else would, fall so heavily. Oh, dear ! 
 we shall not have a dish left in the house at this rate. 
 Why must people be tortured with such girls as Bridget ? 
 Such a breakfast as we had this morning ! The toast 
 burnt to cinders, and the steak pommelled through with 
 slivers of bone, and garnished with ashes ! I do believe 
 a good breakfast would almost have cured my head. I 
 thought, before we were married, that we should be so 
 happy ; and now one could scarcely find a more comfort 
 less home than this. William does all he can, and more 
 than he can afford, to make me happy. To think of 
 hiring two girls for so small a family as ours, and then 
 having nothing done as it ought to be : it is too bad. 
 Oh, how that baby screams ! it will drive me distracted. 
 Catharine, bring him to me, and let me try to quiet 
 him." 
 
 And she crept from the bed to her rocking-chair,
 
 101 MRS. WJNTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 pressing her hands to her temples as she did so, to re 
 press the pain caused by the effort to rise. 
 
 "Where is Willie?" she asked as she took the chill, 
 who had screamed till he was almost in convulsions. 
 
 "I don't know, ma'am," replied Catharine: "he was 
 lilaying on the front door-step when I came up." 
 
 " In the street, I presume, under the heels of the 
 horses," said Mrs. Winterford, with a shiver. " Go and 
 Bee to him immediately ; I never allow him to' play out 
 side the front door. Arid bring me some hot vinegar 
 and bandages, when you come up." 
 
 Mrs. Winterford had lost her mother at an early age, 
 and had been brought up in a boarding-house, so- that, 
 until her marriage, she had known nothing of household 
 cares, or of the management of children. She had now 
 been housekeeping five years, and during that time had 
 tried over forty different girls. Of these some were 
 better than others, but none were good. One was too 
 slovenly to be endured, another was wasteful, some 
 abused the children in her absence, some were dishonest, 
 and others who seemed to do well at first would become 
 very insolent and leave her suddenly without notice ; so 
 that, with one to another, the house was kept in constant 
 confusion. 
 
 Besides this, her own health was poor, and her babe 
 a nervous fretful child, who gave her little rest day or 
 night ; so that, although she loved her husband and ap 
 preciated his efforts to make her happy, she was con 
 stantly distracted and uncomfortable from the various 
 sources of annoyance that surrounded her. 
 
 Catharine was gone a long time, and Mrs. Winterford,
 
 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 105 
 
 after trying in vain to quiet the babe, and feeling too 
 ill to sit up, attempted to call her. She looked for her 
 hand-bell, but it was not in sight, and she then remem 
 bered that Willie had broken the breakfast-bell the day 
 before, and that hers had been carried down to supply 
 the place of it. She then tried to call her, but although 
 she could hear her voice distinctly from the kitchen, 
 which was in the basement directly below her room, she 
 could not make herself heard ; and, exhausted and dis 
 consolate, she threw herself once more upon the bed, 
 with the crying babe beside her. 
 
 Scarcely had she done so, however, when a loud up 
 roar from the kitchen, mingled with Willie's screams, 
 called her once more to her feet. This time she grasped 
 the babe in her arms, and hurrying part way down stairs, 
 called loudly to know what was the matter. 
 
 "Willie's pulled his bath-tub over on to him and 
 broken his head, and wet every stitch there is in him," 
 replied Catharine, screaming from the basement. 
 
 "Bring him to me." 
 
 " He's dripping with water, mum." 
 
 " Bring him to me this instant," said Mrs. Winterford, 
 decidedly. 
 
 Willie was accordingly dragged up stairs, drenched to 
 the skin, and his face covered with blood from a gash 
 over the eye. 
 
 " How did this happen?" asked Mrs. Winterford. 
 
 " He pulled the bath-tub on him, as I was telling 
 yez." 
 
 " Where was the bath-tub, that he could pull it on 
 him?"
 
 106 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 " It was setting on the corner of the sink, jist." 
 
 "And \vhy wasn't it emptied?" 
 
 " Because I had everything to do, and no time to do 
 it in. Ye called me up stairs" the rest of Catha 
 rine's explanation was lost in an unintelligible mutter. 
 
 " Oh, dear !" sighed Mrs. Winterford ; " couldn't 
 Bridget empty the bath-tub ?" 
 
 " She says it's no concern of hers, whether the bath 
 tub is emptied or not," said Catharine. 
 
 Willie's forehead was bathed and bandaged, his wet 
 clothes taken off, and Catharine sent to the bureau to 
 obtain fresh clothing. 
 
 " Where'll I get it, mum ?" 
 
 "In the middle drawer this side." 
 
 " There's nothing here," reported Catharine, after a 
 few moments' tumbling in the drawer. 
 
 " Why, yes there is. Don't toss those things about 
 so, and be quick." 
 
 " Well, I can't find a stitch of Willie's clothes here," 
 Baid Catharine, after fumbling over the drawer a few 
 minutes longer. 
 
 "It is impossible he has ten full suits, and there 
 must be some of them there. Where are the clothes 
 from this week's wash ?" 
 
 "They're not ironed yet." 
 
 "Not ironed yet, and here it is Thursday! Well, 
 there ought to be enough from last week's wash to last 
 this long while yet." 
 
 " Bridget didn't wash them last week ; she put away 
 the rest of the washing after that lady came to take 
 dinner with you."
 
 MRS. W3NTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 107 
 
 *' Put away the rest of the washing !" 
 
 " Yes, mum ; she said she wasn't going to wait upon 
 company and wash too." 
 
 " Wait upon company ! What in the world did she 
 do ? I was particular that she should not be called upon 
 for a step more than usual." 
 
 " That's what she did, mum." 
 
 " Was there ever the like ? Poor child ! not a gar 
 ment to put on, and there he stands shivering with the 
 cold. Put down the windows, Catharine." And Mrs. 
 Winterford, seizing a ragged pair of stockings from the 
 drawer, which she had approached to assist Catharine's 
 search, attempted to put them on. The baby struggled 
 and screamed, and she was obliged to desist. Catharine 
 closed the windows, and was then directed to bring the 
 Boiled clothes that Willie had taken off the day before. 
 As she returned from the closet, they were both startled 
 by a ringing of the door-bell. 
 
 "Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Winterford. "If it's any 
 callers, say that I am engaged ; that I am ill. Don't 
 let any one in." 
 
 Catharine dropped the clothes in the middle of the 
 floor, and went to answer the bell. The last hour's con 
 fusion had increased Mrs. Winterford's headache almost 
 to distraction, and she now dragged herself dizzily to 
 the spot where Catharine had thrown Willie's clothes, 
 and attempted to put them on. 
 
 Catharine returned presently, saying, as she opened 
 the door, " It's somebody has come to stop a lady with 
 two trunks ; I put her in the parlour, and here is whai 
 she gave me."
 
 108 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 " Aunt Mary Markham !" exclaimed Mrs. Winter- 
 ford, reading the card ; " what could have sent her here 
 now ? She of all the world ! there never was a thing 
 out of place in her house. Has the parlour been 
 swept?" 
 
 "No, mum." 
 
 "What shall I do? the candles burnt down in the 
 sockets, and the books and papers on the floor, I dare 
 say," murmured Mrs. Winterford, as she remembered 
 that her husband had been up long after she retired the 
 night before. 
 
 " Willie's been in there, playing horse," said Catha 
 rine, anxious to assist her mistress in the list of aggra 
 vating circumstances on which she seemed disposed to 
 dwell. But she had no further time to arrange her 
 thoughts, for, at this moment, the door opened and Mary 
 Markham entered. 
 
 "I was sorry I sent up my name," she said, "after I 
 heard you were ill ; so I followed the sound of voices, 
 and came up directly, lest you should think it necessary 
 to make some preparation to receive me." 
 
 Mrs. Markham was a woman somewhat past the prime 
 of life, with a mild, calm face, and dark hair mottled 
 with silver combed smoothly away behind her cap. Her 
 figure inclined slightly to embonpoint, and there was that 
 in her whole dress and manner that evidenced a whole 
 some, well-balanced tone of life. It was altogether an 
 Indian-Summer look with the flowers gone and tha 
 dry leaves rustling gently on the still air, but with the 
 all-pervading sunshine still warm and genial, and grown 
 more rich and mellow from its dalliance with life's Au
 
 MHS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 109 
 
 tumn fruits. She had been the wife and was now the 
 widow of a wealthy and influential farmer, in a distant 
 state, and the mother of a large family who were now 
 settled in life and occupying positions of usefulness. 
 Mrs. Winterford had visited her once or twice during 
 her early girlhood; but she remembered very little of 
 her except that she was considered a model of mothers 
 and housekeepers. 
 
 "What is the matter with your babe ?" asked Mrs. 
 Markham, after the first salutations and explanations 
 had passed. 
 
 " Oh ! I do not know," replied Mrs. Winterford, anx 
 iously ; "he cries so a good share of the time. I do not 
 think he's well." 
 
 "Poor little fellow !" said Mrs. Markham, taking him 
 carefully from the hands of his nurse, who was flourish 
 ing him frantically through the air. 
 
 " Oh ! don't take him, aunt," exclaimed Mrs. Winter- 
 ford. " It is very hard for any one to hold him who is 
 not used to it." 
 
 Mrs. Markham folded him up in her arms, very much 
 as if she was used to it ; and Catharine, finding herself 
 at liberty, began to gather up the wet clothes Willie had 
 thrown off. 
 
 " Take them down and dry them by the kitchen fire," 
 said Mrs. Wiaterford, " so that he may have them again 
 as soon as possible, and bring a floor-cloth to wipe the 
 wet from the carpet." 
 
 "What will I do with Willie's clothes?" said Catha 
 rine, again entering the room after a short absence ; 
 *' Bridget says she won't have them by the kitchen fire
 
 110 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 they're in her way. The fire is all out, too. And sho 
 says she don't know how to cook them things the maeter 
 has sent up for dinner." 
 
 " What are they ?" 
 
 "Little birds, mum." 
 
 "Pigeons," said Mrs. Winterford, with a look of dis 
 tress. She remembered that she had expressed a desire 
 for some, a few days before, and now her husband had 
 gent them up with a kind wish to do something to gratify 
 her. " I must go down and see about it," she said, 
 turning sadly from her efforts to arrange the room, with 
 a suspicion that it was very late to cook pigeons even if 
 she were well. 
 
 " Sit down, Mary," said Mrs. Markham, as she folded 
 the quilt over the babe, which, somehow or other, had 
 fallen quietly asleep in her arms ; " or rather lie down, 
 for I perceive you are quite too ill for anything else, 
 and I will go down and show your girl how to cook the 
 pigeons." 
 
 " Oh ! Aunt Mary, I could never think of such a 
 thing," exclaimed Mrs. Winterford, earnestly. 
 
 "Hush, my dear; there," and she arranged the pil 
 lows invitingly; "lie down, and try to quiet yourself. I 
 have had my own way these forty years, and you must 
 do as I tell you." 
 
 Mrs. Winterford was glad to crouch once more upon 
 the bed, saying, feebly, as she did so, 
 
 " You never saw the inside of such a kitchen in your 
 life, I am sure." 
 
 Aunt Mary had something very curious in her pocket, 
 BO that Willie was enticed to follow her softly out of the
 
 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 11] 
 
 leaving his mother, oh ! so quiet she could 
 scarcely remember when it had been so quiet there. 
 
 Something like an hour had elapsed when Mrs. Mark- 
 ham returned, with Willie at her side, looking contented 
 and happy, and his clothes, nicely dried and ironed, 
 upon her arm. " I will put these clothes on Willie, now, 
 if you like," she said, seating herself for the task. 
 
 "Why, how did you dry them so soon?" said Mrs. 
 Winterford, looking up from the drowse into which she 
 was falling. 
 
 " There is a good fire in the kitchen, now, and they 
 dried very soon." 
 
 " Did you get Bridget's permission ?" asked her niece, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " No ; I found a towel-frame and spread them out 
 upon it, without troubling myself about her opinion in 
 the matter. I put the pigeons in for a stew, but if you 
 prefer them broiled they can be taken out for it when 
 they are parboiled ; there was not time to roast them 
 the girl said one o'clock was your dinner hour." 
 
 " You did not do it yourself, I hope ?" 
 
 " Bridget helped me ; but she did not understand it 
 very well. I presume I have done more work of that 
 kind than most people. But how will you have the 
 pigeons ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I prefer them stewed, and I am very much 
 obliged to you, indeed ; but I really feel mortified, aunt, 
 that you should have to go into my kitchen to work be 
 fore you had scarcely untied your bonnet, and you tired 
 with your journey too. Your travelling dress must have 
 suffered. '
 
 112 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS 
 
 " I always carry my big apron in the top of my trunk, 
 wherever I go. Mother's apron is a proverb in the 
 families of my own children, and I spend most of my 
 time with one or other of them. I have now been 
 
 some weeks with my son in.B , so that I have only 
 
 had a few hours' ride in the cars, this morning, and am 
 not at all fatigued. After making you a little visit, I am 
 going on to spend the winter with Helen, who lives in 
 
 W . I am very glad I came just as I did. I don't 
 
 know what would have become of your headache and 
 the dinner without me." 
 
 " No I, indeed. I think some good spirit must have 
 sent you. But how that baby sleeps. I verily believe 
 you magnetized him ; he never sleeps any." 
 
 " I presume he is worn out ; he looked so. You worry 
 him too much. 
 
 " Worry him ?" 
 
 "Yes; I mean you are too nervous yourself; you 
 allow little things to trouble you more than you should." 
 
 " Oh ! aunt ! but the little things are so very trouble 
 some." 
 
 " I have no doubt you find them so, but, for your own 
 good and that of your child, you must endeavour to find 
 them as little so as possible. There, Willie, go and kiss 
 mamma, and tell her that you will keep in prime order 
 until papa comes home to dinner. I told Bridget to 
 make you a nice cup of tea, and you had better not try to 
 get up or care for anything till your headache is over.' 
 
 " How kind you are ! and, now, my guest-chamber is 
 the front one on this floor. Here comes Catharine. She 
 will bring you water and whatever you need."
 
 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 113 
 
 "I'm after carrying up the water and towels now," 
 said Catharine, who had just finished arranging the par 
 lours and halls. Mrs. Winterford experienced a com 
 fortable sensation of surprise that she should have 
 thought of it herself, and Mrs. Markham departed to 
 her own room, taking Willie with her, and advising her 
 niece to keep Catharine near, in order that she might not 
 be disturbed herself when the babe awoke. 
 
 "Bridget says she guesses somebody has come," said 
 Catharine, partly to herself, as she restored the soiled 
 clothes to the closet. 
 
 "Am I then so much of nobody in my own house?" 
 murmured Mrs. Winterford, burying her temples in the 
 cool pillow. 
 
 But she, too, thought that somebody, or some good 
 influence, had come into the house, when, shortly after, 
 Catharine stood by the bed with the hot vinegar and 
 bandages she had ordered so long ago. 
 
 " Will you have these now, mum ?" she said. 
 
 Mrs. Winterford had almost forgotten them herself, 
 and she could not but wonder how Catharine came to be 
 BO thoughtful. 
 
 " What do you think is the reason I am so troubled 
 about my domestics, aunt?" said Mrs. Winterford, one 
 day during Mrs. Markham's visit. "I have changed till 
 I am tired of it, and would rather put up with almost 
 everything than run the risk of trying again." 
 
 "A good servant is a very difficult thing to obtain," 
 said Mrs. Markham, after a few moments' hesitation. 
 " Those who are really efficient find room in other sta- 
 1 8
 
 114 MIIS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 tions, in this country. Besides, I think the relation 
 between mistress and servant is scarcely understood by 
 our ladies, generally." 
 
 " How do you mean ?" 
 
 " There are many who either do not govern their ser 
 vants at all, or if they attempt it, do so with a sort of 
 arrogance or uppishness that is offensive ; and that ia 
 usually met on the part of the servant with the same 
 kind of uppishness, only as much worse in degree as she 
 is below her mistress in refinement." 
 
 " Then you think we really ought to govern our ser 
 rants ? I am not sure that our American servants would 
 submit at all to that opinion." 
 
 " I presume they would submit to it if those they 
 serve would first make sure of it. No one can rule with 
 true dignity unless first convinced of her right to rule. 
 A woman should, of course, be mistress of her own 
 house in every part of it. A part of the agreement 
 between your servant and yourself is, that she shall act 
 under your authority, and this should be observed as 
 much as any other part of the contract. Your imme 
 diate comfort depends upon her conduct more than on 
 that of almost any other person. And the government 
 and proper training of the servants in a household is, 
 in my opinion, a much more difficult study than the 
 training of our own children, of which we read, and 
 hear, and talk so much. Not that we, by any means, 
 take too much pains with these, but that we most wo 
 fully neglect the others. Our servants, for the most 
 part, come to us after years of corrupt training; and
 
 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 115 
 
 we have more to do to eradicate their bad habits than to 
 teach them good. We must first settle in our own minds 
 distinctly and exactly what we require of them, and then 
 we must be sure that they understand it as distinctly. 
 If, with this understanding, they do not choose to abide 
 by your requirements, there need be no words about it. 
 You must look elsewhere for your servants. But you 
 must be sure that you require of them no more than is 
 just and right. You should look to their comfort as 
 much as to that of any other member of the family. 
 Providence has placed them under your influence, and 
 it is your duty to see how that influence is used. It is 
 not enough to vote them all a nuisance, and after taxing 
 your powers of endurance with their faults as long as 
 you can, to shove them off and try others. It is in thia 
 way that the floating mass of servants have been ban 
 died from house to house all their lives, feeling them 
 selves abused, and considering it their chief business to 
 retaliate for that abuse. You must not expect them to 
 fulfil every item of their duty towards you, before you 
 have done your whole duty towards them. This would 
 be to acknowledge them your superiors. And by as 
 much as you consider their position and their tasks less 
 pleasant than your own, by so much should you seek to 
 give them some relaxation some enjoyment. And you 
 should endeavour, as far as possible, that their enjoy 
 ment be of a wholesome kind. They come in too close 
 contact with your children for you to be indifferent to 
 this. They may require patience, but it is certainly 
 worth an effort ; for there is no more important item of 
 domestic comfort than a good servant, if you employ
 
 116 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 one at all. Many remain through their lives a trouble 
 and a nuisance in the families where they live, when a 
 few kind words, and a kittle careful training, might have 
 made them both useful and happy." 
 
 " What do you think of Bridget ?" 
 
 " I think she has capacity enough for a good servant, 
 if she had only a mind to use it." 
 
 "But she is so slovenly." 
 
 " True, she is ; but then it is not because she does not 
 know how to be neat. She does not like to take the 
 trouble necessary to keep things in order. She apolo 
 gized to me, the morning I came, for the dirty kitchen, 
 and really made it quite neat that afternoon, before she 
 ivent to ironing." 
 
 " But, aunt, I don't know how to explain it, but it 
 certainly is true that the girls have both done better 
 since you came here than I ever kne\v them before." 
 
 "Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes, I believe there is a sort of magnetism about it 
 that they feel as if you knew better how things ought 
 to be done than I do. Why should she care so much 
 more for having you see the dirty kitchen than for me ?" 
 
 " People usually care more for strangers ; and then I 
 told her, when I went to show her about the pigeons, 
 that it was impossible to have dinner by the time she 
 named, without a quick, clear fire ; and while she made 
 the fire, I took the stove-brush and shovel, and made all 
 things bright and new about the stove. There is nothing 
 like giving them a model to copy from. Make one part 
 of the kitchen clean for them, and they will endeavoui
 
 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 to bring the rest up to your standard, if they have any 
 neatness about them." 
 
 " Why, aunt, I never thought it necessary for me to 
 meddle with such things. It seems as if two girls could 
 do rny work without my being obliged to clean in the 
 kitchen." 
 
 " But if you find it impossible to have things in ordei 
 without, it is better to make the effort. The comfort 
 you will experience will more than repay you. You 
 always take care of the parlours and your own room, I 
 believe ?" 
 
 " Yes, when I am well. Catharine does it so badly 
 that I arn obliged to do it to keep comfortable ; and this, 
 with the plain sewing of the family, which I endeavour 
 to do, is about as much as I can accomplish." 
 
 " I think you would do better to change with her oc 
 casionally to put up with her careless sweeping, if you 
 cannot teach her to do it well, while you go into the 
 kitchen once or twice a week, or as often as you find 
 necessary, and see that things are arranged to your 
 mind. There is no department of your house that 
 should be trusted entirely to your servants if you wish 
 to be a really good housekeeper, you should keep every 
 thing under your own eye." 
 
 " But, aunt, it would be impossible ; with such health 
 as I have, it would make me a perfect drudge a slave. 
 What would become of the children while I was in the 
 kitchen, cooking steak, &c. ?" 
 
 " I would not have you cook the steak yourself, but 
 you should know how much is brought into the house, 
 and whore it is kept ; and whether the grate is clear
 
 118 MRS. WINTERFORD AND HER SERVANTS. 
 
 from ashes, so that it can be properly cooked. Youi 
 visits to the kitchen may be biief, but they should be 
 frequent and observing. You Avould find, if you super 
 intended Bridget's work, and di\i some of the planning 
 for her, that you would gain tim enough to repay you. 
 Catharine would not need to go into the kitchen to assist 
 her nearly as often as she does, and thus time for plain 
 sewing would be gained. I suppose you know very little 
 about cooking yourself." 
 
 " Oh, I took lessons of Mrs. S.'s cook before I was 
 married, but I often made failures, and I dislike to do 
 it before my girls. It seems to encourage them in doing 
 wrong. They really ought to know more about it than 
 I, for they have done it all their lives." 
 
 " I think, my dear Mary, that you have had a very 
 hard task with your lesson in housekeeping. Your inex 
 perience and poor health have been serious drawbacks. 
 You have had too much to learn at once. You know 
 nothing about the care of children, and I have no doubt 
 the worry they have caused you, and the trouble of poor 
 servants, with the wish to have everything right, and 
 the consciousness that it was not so, have had much to 
 do with your ill health. I have always felt as if I had 
 a matronly duty to perform to my sister's child, and my 
 own namesake ; but my family has been so large, and 
 my cares so many, that I have had little time to think 
 of it until lately." 
 
 " Thank you, aunt. I think you are doing it very 
 well now. If you will only put off your visit to Helen 
 until fall, as I have been urging you, I shall be very
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 119 
 
 grateful, and you will have the consciousness of having 
 performed a good deed." 
 
 " Here is Aunt Markham, mamma this is the car 
 riage, isn't it ?" cried Willie Winterford, as a carriage 
 drew up at the door some years after Mrs. Markham's 
 first visit to the Winterfords. 
 
 Aunt Markham looked as young and hale as ever, as 
 she descended from the carriage, and grasped, one after 
 another, the warm hands that were stretched out to 
 welcome her. 
 
 " And you too, Bridget !" she said, as the broad Irish 
 face of that functionary gleamed good-naturedly up from 
 the end of the hall, to add her welcome to the rest; 
 "are you here yet?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," returned Mrs. Winterford. " Bridget is 
 part and parcel of us. I should about as soon think of 
 leaving the family myself as of having her to leave it. 
 We could not get along at all without her." 
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 
 
 < 
 
 MRS. EDWARD TRACY was said to have been brought 
 up and trained in a good school of domestic manage 
 ment and family economy ; and, as a general rule, she 
 did not approve of spare bed-rooms. 
 
 It was all very well, to be sure, when her mother or 
 per sister paid her a visit, to have somewhere to put
 
 *20 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 
 
 Jicm ; but then as Mrs. Brown, her mother, said, "Ton 
 know, dear, that I don't often, and when I or Kate do 
 come, it would be easy to make up a shake-down foi 
 Mr. Tracy, for a few nights, while we shared your bed." 
 
 And so, no doubt, it would have been, if Mr. Tracy 
 had liked the plan ; but he didn't like it, and on this 
 point he showed signs of intractability very unreason 
 able, as Mrs. T. thought. So for the early years of his 
 married life the gentleman maintained his ground, and 
 kept his spare bed-room. 
 
 Mr. Edward Tracy was a good-natured, easy-tempered 
 man, in a small way of business as a merchant, in the 
 flourishing town of Blank ; that is, a small way with a 
 qualification. It was not so small that he could not 
 afford a neat little private residence in the semi-genteel 
 quarter of the town ; but it was not large enough, by 
 any means, to allow him to keep a carriage, nor even a 
 riding horse : but then he did not want either. Neither 
 was it so small that he had ever shrunk from entertain 
 ing a friend now and then ; and as he was somewhat 
 given to hospitality, he had more friends of a sort, than 
 enemies of any sort, and the "now and then" of his 
 visiters were not like angels' visits, few and far between. 
 But neither was his business so large that he hadn't taken 
 a long time for consideration before entering on the 
 grave cares of matrimony ; he ventured at last, however, 
 %nd was congratulated by his female friends those of 
 them, at any rate, who were already settled in life on 
 having chosen so good a help-meet as Miss Brown ; for 
 everybody knew, said they, what an excellent manager 
 *icr mother is.
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 121 
 
 Well, and so she was ; and so also did Mrs. Edward 
 Tracy prove herself to be : and thence did it arise that 
 there was one point on which, as we said, Mr. Tracy and 
 Mrs. Tracy could not agree and this was the spare bed 
 room. 
 
 Sometimes the disagreement commenced in a sort of 
 coaxing way : "Edward, dear, what a nice sitting-room 
 that spare bed-room would make ! Such a charming 
 prospect from the window, and no alteration required 
 but to take down the bed, and put in a few extra bits of 
 furniture. The same paper-hanging would do, and the 
 Bame chairs ; and you know we have only that little par 
 lour down stairs, and the drawing-room on the first floor. 
 Of .course we don't want to use the drawing-room every 
 day, and the parlour is so dull, looking out into the dirty 
 street, as it does. What do you say, dear?" 
 
 " I would have no objection in the world, Martha, if 
 you would turn the parlour into a spare bed-room." 
 
 "Edward, how ridiculous!" 
 
 " I cannot see any other way, Martha, love ; for you 
 see we must have a spare bed somewhere. There's your 
 mother's coming to spend a week with us soon ; and 
 what should we do with her ?" 
 
 Mrs. Tracy hinted at the shake-down ; but it would 
 not do. "My old friend, Jones, is coming this way 
 next month, and you see we must put him somewhere." 
 
 Martha gently remarked that next month would be a 
 very inconvenient time to receive a gentleman visiter. 
 
 "But really, my dear, I cannot help it. We must 
 try and make it convenient; Jones always has, for I 
 don't know how many years, not missing one, paid me a
 
 122 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 
 
 visit in August ; and I told him that being married 
 would not make any difference. You gave me leave to 
 Bay that, Martha, love." 
 
 " Yes, but I did not know how inconvenient it would 
 be." And there, f )r that time, the conversation dropped. 
 
 Sometimes the disagreement commenced in a way of 
 economical calculation. Martha was a good hand at 
 reckoning: she could demonstrate to a penny how much 
 every visitor added to the expense of house-keeping. 
 
 There was Mr. Jones, for instance, whom, to give the 
 lady her due of praise, she had received when she found 
 there was no help for it, with politeness, and treated so 
 that he had no cause for complaint ; but there was Mr. 
 Jones, who had prolonged his visit to a week. And only 
 think how much that visit had cost ! so much for meat, 
 and so much for drink, and 'twasn't a little that served 
 him either ; and so much for candle-light, and so much 
 for an extra help for a whole day to put things in order 
 after he had left, and so much for sheet-washing, and 
 towel-washing, and so much for 
 
 " Well, but, Martha ah, Martha, thou carest for 
 many things but, Martha, I reckon these extras all in 
 the lump with the rest ; I always have done, love, and I 
 don't see that I am much the poorer for them. At any 
 rate, I can manage to pay my way, and something over ; 
 and that's a comfort. But I really think, my love, you 
 were almost too kind to my old friend Jones, who would 
 Lave been quite content, I am sure, with our plain way 
 r living in general, instead of " 
 
 Mrs. Tracy cut her husband short here. She had no
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 123 
 
 notion, she said, of doing things by halves. If she 
 must have visitors, she would treat them as visitors. 
 
 " And why not as friends, my love ? Just hear what 
 Mr. Emerson says;" and Mr. Tracy took up a book 
 vrhich he had been reading before the discussion com 
 menced, and read as follows : " ' I pray you, excellent 
 wife, involve not yourself and me, to get a curiously 
 rich dinner for thfs man or woman who has alighted 
 at our gates ; nor a bed-chamber made at too great a 
 cost ' " 
 
 Here Martha began to listen complacently: "That's 
 for you, Edward, I think." 
 
 " If the cap fits me, I'll wear it, my love, with a great 
 deal of pleasure ' nor a bed-chamber made up at too 
 great a cost. These things, if they are curious in them, 
 they can get for a few shillings in any village. But 
 rather let the stranger see, if he will, in your looks, 
 accent, and behaviour, your 
 
 " I am sure Mr. Jones has no right to complain of my 
 looks, and accent, and behaviour, Edward." 
 
 " No, my excellent wife, he has not ; but you stop 
 me in an awkward place : ' in your looks, accent, and 
 behaviour, your heart and earnestness, your thought 
 and will, what he cannot buy at any price in any city, 
 and which he may well travel twenty miles, and dine 
 sparely, and sleep hardly, to behold. Let not the em 
 phasis of hospitality lie in bed and board ; but let truth, 
 and love, and honour, and courtesy, flow in thy deeds." 
 
 "All very pretty for a man to write," retorted Mrs. 
 Tracy ; " but give the men the trouble, that's all : 
 fidgeting, and cooking, and bed-making every day."
 
 124 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 
 
 But it was no use what Martha said. For the time, 
 her husband was entrenched in his stronghold and 
 that was the spare bed-room. 
 
 Once, however, Mrs. Tracy gained a little ground. 
 There was a Mr. Smith, and also a Mrs. Smith, who, 
 without thinking it at all necessary to give due notice of 
 their intentions, just looked in at Hope Cottage for a 
 few days, in the course of an autumn excursion they 
 were taking. 
 
 " Had it been anywhere else, friend Tracy," said Mr. 
 Smith, while making himself at home on the evening of 
 his arrival, " I would have sent word beforehand : but 
 said I to my wife ' We needn't take the trouble, for 
 one is always sure of a welcome at this house. There's 
 always a spare bed-room for a friend, and a hearty wel 
 come besides.' Right there; wasn't I?" 
 
 What Mr. Tracy said, or Mrs. Tracy thought, but did 
 not say, in reply, is no matter. The Smiths were dull 
 sort of people, and they stuck like leeches. Having 
 taken possession of the spare bed-room, they kept pos 
 session so long, that even our friend Tracy's hospitality 
 and patience both were in danger of giving way, if it 
 hadn't been for his politeness. Martha kept her own 
 counsel, and pretty much her own bed-room, too, under 
 pretence of violent headaches, until her visitors were 
 fairly gone ; and then she lost her headache, and re 
 gained her speech. 
 
 "Now, Edward, is not this really too bad?" 
 
 " Well, my love, if you mean Mr. and Mrs. Smith's 
 making our house their inn, in so free and easy a man-
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 125 
 
 ner yes, I think so too. It was going a little bit too 
 far." 
 
 " It is all because of that spare bed-room, which you 
 will persist in keeping up, in spite of all I can say," 
 rejoined Mrs. Tracy, in a tone of genuine vexation. 
 
 " There's nothing perfect under the sun, my love : 
 every good thing has its attendant evils, and may be 
 abused," replied Mr. Tracy, philosophically. 
 
 " A spare bed-room isn't a good thing, Mr. Tracy 
 drawing people to one's house, whether or not. Wo 
 might as well set up a common lodging-house or an inn. 
 We should be paid for our trouble then." 
 
 " But, Martha, dear, what should we do when friends 
 whom we like to see, pop in ? There are some, you 
 know " 
 
 " And if they are real friends, they wouldn't mind a 
 little inconvenience. Why not let them sleep out of the 
 house ? I dare say we might get a bed at some neigh 
 bour's, for a night or two, where they might make a 
 profit by having a spare bed-room. I am sure it would 
 be better to pay a few shillings sometimes, than have 
 all the trouble of sleeping visitors in our own house, and 
 losing the use of the room for ourselves." 
 
 " Tut tut tut !" exclaimed Mr. Tracy, and walked 
 
 majestically out of the room, and out of the house also. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Certain events happen in some families, which over 
 turn all existing arrangements ; and, not to be tedious, 
 five years had not elapsed, before the constant dropping 
 had worn away the great stone. In other words, you 
 might have searched in vain from the bottom to the top
 
 126 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 
 
 of Hope Cottage, and found never a spare bed-room. 
 Mrs. Tracy had gained her point : the institution was 
 abolished. 
 
 Mr. Jones had found this out, by being thrown out 
 of doors on the first night of one of his annual visits, 
 to make the best he could of a cold, dreary attic, which 
 had been provided for him in a draughty old house, 
 some distance off, where he lay shivering under the 
 dread of damp sheets and nocturnal companions. He 
 bore the infliction with a good grace, however, but took 
 care to shorten his visit ; and before the next August 
 rolled round, had made an engagement to spend his 
 holiday in another part of the country, with a friend, 
 in whose house spare bed-rooms were not put out of 
 fashion. 
 
 The Smiths had found it out, too, and left Blank, one 
 day, in high dudgeon, not twenty-four hours after they 
 entered it with far other intentions than so speedy a 
 decampment. They had been committed to the tender 
 mercies of the next inn, with a cold apology for the ab 
 sence of the old spare bed-room. They never troubled 
 the Tracys with another visit. 
 
 There was an old school-fellow, and stanch friend of 
 Edward Tracy, who was subpoenaed to the assizes of 
 Blank : and who, never doubting of a welcome, and in 
 woful ignorance of the change which time had wrought, 
 marched boldly up to the door of Hope Cottage, carpet 
 bag in hand, and by a coup de main, obtained possession 
 of the passage. But the carpet-bag was doomed to gc 
 no further. 
 
 And we don't know anything more humiliating of
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 127 
 
 humbling, in a small way, than to be turned away from 
 the very doors of a house where we huve foolishly cal 
 culated on an extraordinary and enthusiastic reception, 
 with the full assurance that we have reckoned without 
 our host. We remember once to have been placed in 
 such a predicament, and cannot, to this day, see a dog 
 sneaking along with his tail between his legs, without 
 being reminded of our mortification. We have taken 
 care, ever since, to make no more such blunders. But 
 this is a digression. 
 
 There was a brother of Edward Tracy, who said that, 
 spare bed or no spare bed, he wasn't going to budge an 
 inch, to say nothing of being turned out of doors at 
 midnight. So he rolled himself up in his cloak, and 
 with a brotherly recommendation to "Ned," to "go to 
 bed and be bothered," threw himself on the hearth-rug 
 before the fire, and made a spare bed of that. 
 
 There were rooms enough in Hope Cottage for every 
 other purpose ; but had the house been twice as large, 
 it would not, under the new dynasty, have been largo 
 enough for a spare bed-room : and herein lay the excel 
 lent thrift of our good manager, who judiciously reckoned 
 that every night's occupation of a spare bed-room by a 
 guest, invited or uninvited, involved sundry other items 
 in the way of dinnerings, supperings, breakfastings, and 
 so forth, in the ordinary way, to say nothing of extra 
 ordinary night-caps, neither of silk, woollen, nor cotton. 
 
 There were inconveniences, to be sure, in this pru 
 dential course ; but, on the whole, it worked well, Mar 
 tha said ; and as she kept her housekeeping book on the 
 most approved and systematically exact plan, who could
 
 128 THE SPAKE BED-ROOM. 
 
 know, if it did not? Not Edward Tracy, certainly, 
 who now and then wondered what had become of so 
 many of his old friends, who, so far as he knew, had 
 neither fled the country, nor found a spare bed in mo 
 ther earth; but who, to him. were as much lost as though 
 they had never existed. And sometimes he sighed when 
 he remembered with what pleasure he had once been 
 wont to 
 
 " Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest." 
 
 But these were only occasional thoughts, for he ac 
 knowledged that, after all, it saved a vast deal of trouble 
 in entertaining visiters, to have it widely known that his 
 
 hospitality did not include both board and lodging. 
 ******** 
 
 There was a letter one morning nothing very unu 
 sual in that but the letter was from an unusual corre 
 spondent. In some far, out-of-the-way corner of the 
 country, lived an elderly maiden, distant cousin of Mr. 
 Tracy. Poor Miss Fryer ! The world hadn't used her 
 well, or somebody in the world had not. Once upon a 
 time, when she and all the rest of the world were half 
 a century younger, she had no lack of friends, for she 
 was rich: but riches had taken to themselves wings, 
 and Miss Fryer became poor. 
 
 " Bless me !" said Mr. Tracy, opening the epistle, 
 " if here isn't a letter from poor Cousin Peggy ; and 
 Martha I say, Martha," he continued, " couldn't we, 
 just for once, put up a spare bed in the old room, for a 
 day or two ?" 
 
 A spare bed ! bless the man, what did he mean ?
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 129 
 
 "Why, Martha, here's poor Cousin Peggy, writes, and 
 tells me she is coming to Blank, and she wants me to 
 take her m for a day or two." 
 
 A pretty thing indeed, that : no, no, Mrs. Tracy said ; 
 she wasn't going to have that trouble, she was sure. If 
 Miss Fryer must come to Blank though what such an 
 elderly person could Avant to be gadding about for, she 
 could not conceive ; but if she must come, they must 
 do the best they could with her, she supposed, but as to 
 her sleeping in the house no, no. She must do as 
 their other visitors did put up with the bed over the 
 way. 
 
 " But, Martha, love, poor Peggy used to be very kind 
 to me when I was a boy. Many's the sixpence she has 
 slipped into my pocket ; and, poor old soul, she'll be 
 frightened to death to go into a strange house and sleep 
 away from her friends. A strange whim, certainly, of 
 poor Peggy, to travel so far from home ; but as she has 
 taken it into her head, why, Martha, love, let us see if 
 we can't make her comfortable." 
 
 But Martha was obdurate. 
 
 " Very well, my love, then you must take it into your 
 iwn hands, for I won't," said Mr. Tracy. 
 
 Poor Miss Fryer made her appearance at the time 
 ehe had fixed. A little shrivelled and wrinkled, shaky 
 old lady, in an old-fashioned, faded silk pelisse, which 
 had been laid up in lavender it would be hard to say 
 bow many years. She was sadly nervous at finding 
 herself so many miles from home, among so many 
 strange faces : even little Ned, as she persisted in call 
 ing Mr. Tracy, to the great annoyance of Mrs. Tracy, 
 9
 
 130 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 
 
 was so altered, she declared, that she shouldn't nav 
 known him again. 
 
 On the cause of her journey, Miss Fryer was myste 
 riously silent ; she had a little business to transact in 
 the morning, or the next day, or the next day after that, 
 she said, and perhaps she might get little Ned to help 
 her in it ; hut she couldn't say more than that. And 
 where should she put her hox ? It was not a big one, 
 she said, for she didn't wish to cumber little Ned's house 
 up too much ; and might she (for all this passed in the 
 first five minutes after the coach had "dropped her 
 down" at Mr. Tracy's door), might she step into her 
 bed-room to set herself to rights a little ? 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course; but," and then "little 
 
 Ned" slipping out of the room came the explanation, 
 curt, and straightforward, and blank, from Martha's 
 lips ; Miss Fryer was welcome to step into her (Martha's) 
 room, to make any little change of dress she might re 
 quire ; but as there wasn't a spare bed-room in the 
 house, Miss Fryer's box should be taken over the way, 
 where Mr. Tracy had engaged a bed for her for a night 
 or two, with an emphasis on the "night or two," as 
 much as to say, " There, now, you know your doom." 
 
 There was an astonishing composure in the little old 
 maid's reception of this astounding announcement. 
 Well, she was but a little body, and she had reckoned 
 she might have been put in some closet or other, but it 
 did not signify at all ; only she wouldn't trouble Mrs. 
 Tracy to send her box over the way at present, if she 
 would be so kind as to give it house-room for an hour 
 or two. And, now she thought of it, she had a call to
 
 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 131 
 
 make in the town, and she would go while her pelisse 
 was on, and that would save a world of trouble. There 
 was no occasion for Mr. Tracy to trouble himself to go 
 with her. It was a good while, to be sure, since she 
 was in Blank, but she could find her way ; and nodding 
 and smiling benignantly, and almost condescendingly 
 on Mrs. Tracy, the little old lady tripped out at the 
 door, and was gone before Martha could have counted 
 twenty. 
 
 Mr. Tracy and Martha had not finished their wonder 
 ment at poor Peggy's erratic motions, when a fresh 
 cause for wonderment sprang up. A knock at the door, 
 a livery servant, and Mr. Hodges' compliments, and he 
 had sent for Miss Fryer's little box. The lady was 
 going to stay at Mr. Hodges'. 
 
 At Mr. Hodges' ! Mr. Hodges ! Hodges ! The 
 aristocratic solicitor ! There must be some mistake. 
 
 No, not half a one. There was poor Peggy, and 
 there she meant to be ; and thither her little box fol 
 lowed her, on the shoulders of a porter whom the livery 
 servant brought with him he being too grand, by three 
 yards of gold lace, to carry a box through Blank, even 
 for his master. 
 
 The mystery did not last many days. There was au 
 estate and an intestate death, and there were title-deeds, 
 and there had been a search for the next heir or heiress; 
 and there was Miss Fryer, whom the persevering Mr. 
 Hodges had hunted out in her obscurity ; and there had 
 been letters passing backwards and forwards, and there 
 were letters of administration taken out, and oaths to 
 be taken, and signatures to be written, and powers to
 
 132 THE SPARE BED-ROOM. 
 
 be granted, and lawyers best know what besides. And 
 Miss Fryer must come to Blank ; and should Mr. Hodgea 
 send his carriage for her ? and would she honour him 
 by making his house her home while she should stay at 
 Blank? 
 
 All this had passed and re-passed ; but Miss Fryer 
 remembered her " little Ned," and her old love for him, 
 and thought that she would pay him a visit, as poor 
 Cousin Peggy, and had made herself happy with thinking 
 of the agreeable surprise she should create by appearing 
 before him, in the end, a full blown gentlewoman, 
 
 " With a plentiful estate." 
 
 But Miss Fryer didn't want perception, and had as 
 much weakness in her way, as Martha Tracy had in 
 hers. And without deigning to call again at the house 
 where she had received so cool a reception, and refusing 
 even to see "little Ned," when he made a call at Mr. 
 Hodges', she started homewards, in the attorney's car 
 riage, as soon as the "little business" was settled. 
 
 Nobody knows how Miss Fryer has made her will, or 
 to whom the estate will descend ; but we fear our friend 
 Edward Tracy will have but a small slice of poor Cousin 
 Peggy's leavings. 
 
 They say he has fitted up his spare bed-room again. 
 But such a chance for a good legacy doesn't happen 
 every day in the year ; and we fear that Mr. Tracy haa 
 "locked the stable-door after the steed is stolen."
 
 DUTY TO PARENTS. 
 
 How seldom do children repay all they owe to the 
 parents who have fostered their days of helplessness! 
 how seldom do they reflect on the magnitude of their 
 obligations towards them ! The old father or mother 
 are shoved aside, while we shower our loving attentions 
 on a stranger. We appear to fancy that, because we 
 can be kind to them any day, their claims may be inde 
 finitely postponed they may "manage" while the alien 
 is courted. Like our Maker, they, our earthly fathers, 
 have the least portion of our time. And yet we would 
 not willingly be ungrateful to Deity or parent we own 
 our vast debt to each, but in words only we make no 
 attempt to repay it, though they are not harsh credit 
 ors, and though so little would satisfy them. 
 
 Why is it so ? Is it because use has deadened grati 
 tude ? We are so accustomed to accept parental sacri 
 fices that they become matters of course ; we take them 
 as habitually as our daily bread, and they excite as little 
 emotion and thankfulness ; yet if either were denied us, 
 we should make the air resound with our clamorous com 
 plaints. Stop the supplies, and we discover how neces 
 sary they have been to our well-being and comfort. 
 When deprived of a parent's cherishing presence and 
 support, we find our irreparable loss ; so, when unable 
 to enjoy the blessings of religious communion and thanks 
 giving, we first truly appreciate their inestimable value. 
 
 No more than we need always be in an ecstasy of
 
 134 DUTY TO PARENTS. 
 
 prayer, i? it necessary that we should be everlastingly 
 chanting the parental praises; but we should at least 
 foster, even when we do not express gratitude ; and then 
 we should find a thousand channels for giving vent to the 
 feelings. Once excited, it will easily show itself. Tho 
 great danger is our liability to forget, or rather never to 
 think on the subject. Want of reflection is the rock on 
 which we split. 
 
 There are but few among us who have not even exag 
 gerated ideas of filial love on paper how far do we 
 carry them out ? We would gladly, like Mademoiselle 
 de Sombreint, the French heroine, swallow the cup of 
 human blood, drain the disgusting potion to the dregs, 
 to save a father's life ; but are we sufficiently careful of 
 his every-day comforts ? 
 
 We may never be called on to risk our lives for a pa 
 rent's ^-to place our honour in the scale against theirs 
 their existence to purchase their comforts by the sacri 
 fice of a broken heart to do one of the thousand-and- 
 one things that are so beautifully interesting in history 
 and romance. In the enthusiasm of the moment we 
 would cheerfully die for them. Pride carries us on 
 pride and excitement ; we scarcely feel the sacrifice ; but 
 could we daily offer ourselves up, in petty, ignoble efforts, 
 often unnoticed and unrewarded ? These are the diffi 
 culties which try affection ; and yet, as more heroical 
 actions are seldom or never required from us, in these 
 alone can our affection be fairly tested on them do our 
 parents' comforts chiefly depend. 
 
 The savoury mess for the old man affection endeared 
 it to Isaac. It was not mere gluttony that drew down
 
 DUTY TO PARENTS. 135 
 
 that warm blessing on the impostor's head. No , tho 
 patriarch felt grateful for many small attentions which 
 had lightened the weight of years. His wishes had been 
 consulted, his tastes remembered. "Bless me, too, oh 
 my father !" Alas ! may it never be our fate to utter 
 that cry in vain ! may it never arise too late ! 
 
 I am not now speaking of the commonly respectful 
 demeanour, of the provision which every child of com 
 monly good feeling would allow the dependent parent I 
 wish to avoid all approaching to an extreme case, and to 
 confine myself to the commonest routine of daily duties. 
 It may be our fate to be placed in circumstances which 
 oblige us to take a different view of duties from our pa 
 rents. They may require what we cannot grant ; but 
 every-day attentions are always in our power, and will 
 sweeten an unavoidable opposition. We can remember 
 the favourite dishes, and procure them, as our infant 
 tastes were consulted, or give up our employment to join 
 in the nightly rubber : it may be tiresome, but how often 
 did they throw aside their pursuits to comply with our 
 childish requests ! We may differ in opinion with them, 
 but we need not parade our difference before the world ; 
 ten to one we may be right ; for each year impercepti 
 bly brings new ideas and manners which they are slow 
 to perceive, but we need not painfully force the change 
 on them. Old age fondly looks back to the scenes of 
 youth let them not see that their children scorn feel 
 ings, institutions, hopes, that were so dear to them. 
 There has been such a mighty advance within the last 
 few years we have enjoyed such numberless advan 
 tages that there is but small vanity in supposing that
 
 136 DUTY TO PARENTS. 
 
 we may be wiser than our forefathers ; but must we 
 therefore constantly contradict their most cherished pre 
 judices ? Let us at least dissent in silence. When we 
 yield, let it be cheerfully : let them not feel that :he 
 attentions on which their comfort &o depends are unwil 
 lingly bestowed. 
 
 A soothing voice, modulated to the deadened ear of 
 age ; a willing compliance with little whims ; a con 
 stantly respectful manner ; these are proofs of gratitude 
 daily within our power, and but too seldom rendered. 
 The common politeness instantly granted to a stranger 
 is seldom accorded to the parent, even when we love 
 them most dearly. Should we like this manner adopted 
 towards ourselves ? It has been well observed that the 
 Christian's golden rule, " Do unto others as ye would be 
 done by," is the most perfect code of good manners. 
 
 The impatient tone when called on to repeat some 
 trivial remark, the careless way in which we assist in 
 their amusements, are alike wrong, and wounding to 
 them. 
 
 A stranger calls on us for some hackneyed air. We 
 instantly smile, and comply with his demand, while papa 
 is snubbed, if his favourite tune be not ours also. It 
 sometimes becomes necessary to check the garrulity of 
 age ; this to a well-disposed mind is a most painful task 
 then let it be done kindly and respectfully. 
 
 How often, too, do we see daughters lolling on their 
 sofa while their mother is toiling in the household ? Can 
 we believe in affection which quiets itself by the remark, 
 "that poor mamma is so very active ?" Why is she so, 
 young lady ? Because you, in your thoughtlessness,
 
 THE TWO PARTINGS. 137 
 
 allow it. It has continued from year to year from 
 when you were too young to remember ; and therefore 
 it never strikes you that your duty should bid it cease. 
 Your mother is as well fitted for leisure, elegant or other 
 wise, as yourself. Your selfish indolence alone denies 
 it her, and yet you calmly sign yourself her " affec 
 tionate daughter." ' Is it right, also, that she should be 
 meanly dressed, while you step out arrayed like a print 
 in a fashion-book ? How calmly you appropriate her 
 ornaments, plume yourself in her feathers ! Take her 
 place for awhile ; relieve her of some portion of her 
 cares. Thus only can we hope that your weekly prayer 
 has been heard; that you do "honour your father and 
 your mother ;" that you have been " enabled to keep 
 this law." 
 
 THE TWO PARTINGS. 
 A PAGE FROM MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 IT was yet early in the autumn ; but, from the great 
 maples that grew on either side my mother's door, leaves 
 gloriously red and golden dropped one by one ; or when 
 the merry wind called for them as it passed, came down 
 in little rustling showers, and danced along with their 
 gay companion, quite wild, it seemed, to find themselves, 
 for the first time in their lives, so far away from home. 
 
 I sat upon the door-step, where the afternoon sun fell 
 broad and warm, and watched the wind and the whirl 
 ing leaves with a heavy heart.
 
 38 THE TWO PARTINGS. 
 
 For a long time I had not moved nor made the least 
 Bound, nor scarcely dared to breathe, for my poor little 
 brother's head rested in my lap. He was sleeping, and 
 I would not have f.woke him for the world. 
 
 As he lay there, so white and still in the clear sun 
 light, I could see how ill he looked, and I felt that what 
 the doctor said was true. Alfred must die. He would 
 go and live among the angels ; and, instead of the little, 
 shrivelled, deformed body that had given him so much 
 Buffering here, he would wear a form as lovely as hia 
 beautiful, dear face had always been. He would be well 
 and strong. He could run and leap like other boys. He 
 would not need me there, to wheel him through the gar 
 den-walks, nor to gather for him the flowers he loved. 
 But I what should I do ? oh ! what should I do with 
 out my brother ? The tears I had so long suppressed, 
 and sobs I could not control, burst forth in a sudden 
 flood of grief, and shook me from head to foot. He 
 opened his loving eyes. He drew down my face to his 
 with both hands, and kissing me said, in his own sweet 
 voice, that was always soft and cheerful, 
 
 " Don't cry, Molly, don't ! You wouldn't, if you 
 knew how happy I am." 
 
 But I only sobbed the more bitterly. " What shall I 
 do? What shall I do ?" 
 
 " It won't be for so very long, Molly," he said ; " and 
 I shan't be really gone, you know. I shall be near you 
 all the time, and shall love you just the same. No mat 
 ter how pleasant Heaven is, I will never forget you for 
 one mir ute, dear Molly never, never ! No ; not if you
 
 THE TWO PARTINGS. 139 
 
 stay here years, and years, and years, I will never stop 
 loving you I will never get tired of waiting for you." 
 
 " But I won't stay years and years," I cried, passion 
 ately ; " I don't want to stay years and years. I want 
 to die. I want to go with you. I will pray to God 
 every day. I will tell Him I do not want to live in this 
 hatf ful world without you, and He will let me go I 
 know He will let me go." 
 
 I knew, in my heart, that these were wicked words ; 
 and when I saw the trouble in my brother's face, I 
 feared he was going to tell me that I was a very naughty 
 girl, as I surely deserved he >should. But he said, 
 
 " I am afraid I have been selfish to think so much 
 about going to Heaven, and to feel so happy thinking 
 of it, when you cannot go, too. I am sure, if it had 
 been any pleasant place in this world, I should not have 
 felt so ; but somehow Heaven seemed different. Still, I 
 know I have been selfish. Dear Molly, forgive me, won't 
 you ?" he asked, eagerly, while the great tears gathered 
 in his eyes. " I would stay if I could. I would not 
 leave you if God would let me stay." 
 
 Such gentle words were harder to bear than any re 
 proach. They filled my heart with shame, and, in a 
 voice broken by fresh sobs, I begged him to be happy 
 again, and said I was glad he was going, and that he 
 had never been selfish, but always so kind and good, just 
 as good as God's angels, and it was I who was a wicked, 
 wicked, selfish girl ; but, if he would only be happy once 
 more, I would be happy too. Yes, I said again, I was 
 glad he was going ; and I should be happier than I had 
 ever been in all my life, thinking of him in Heaven. I
 
 140 THE TWO PARTINGS. 
 
 was happy now ! And I dried my eyes hastily on the 
 corner of my apron, and, pushing back my hair, looked 
 at him and smiled. I am afraid it was not a very joy 
 ous smile, but it restored the cheerfulness to his face, 
 and a sudden peace to my own heart, so that my tears 
 flowed back to their source, and seemed to lie there like 
 a clear and tranquil pool in which the heavens are re 
 flected. 
 
 For some moments we sat in silence. Then he said, 
 thoughtfully, 
 
 " Mother will miss me, too; and Bobby. I know you 
 will do all you can for mother, to make her happy ; and 
 for Bob. Poor Bob ! I am going to Heaven, where ; t 
 is always summer ; and, by-and-bye, you and mother 
 will come too; but poor Bobby will never go to his homo, 
 in the beautiful island that Uncle Robert brought him 
 from. When it snows, Molly, will you turn the back of 
 his cage to the window, and put the geraniums and the 
 rose-tree where he can see them, so that he may think it 
 is summer ?" 
 
 " Yes," I replied, solemnly, " I will do all you say, 
 and everything I can think of to make you happy." 
 
 " And tell Uncle Robert, when he comes, that I left 
 my love for him. I should have liked to have stayed 
 and seen him, but I shall not be here then. Tell him 
 how tame Bob is, and how much I loved him, and how 
 sweetly he sings, and what fun we have had with him. 
 Will you help me in, now, Molly ?" he added, after a 
 pause ; " I am tired, and should like to go to bed." 
 
 Two weeks had passed, and the crimson of our maples
 
 THE TWO PARTINGS. l4l 
 
 let through great patches of sunny sky ; in the chestnut- 
 grove, the ripe nuts rustled down through their scanty, 
 yellow foliage; and, like the little robins of old that 
 covered the children in the wood, a gentle wind fluttered 
 into the church-yard, bringing the bright fall leaves, and 
 dropped them silently on a new-made grave, where we 
 had laid the little earthly garment our angel had worn 
 whilst he was with us. 
 
 I sat there all alone, and I was happy just as I toll! 
 Freddy I would be ; for I thought of him all day, and 
 I dreamed at night such bright dreams ! so full of soft, 
 angelic voices, and radiant faces, and sunshine that came 
 to me from my darling brother's new home. And the 
 words he spoke, too, that last day, kept murmuring in 
 my heart like a living fountain of perfect trust 
 
 " I shan't be really gone, you know. I shall be near 
 you all the time, and shall love you just the same." 
 
 How could I be otherwise than happy ? I was willing 
 now to stay in this world years and years. Yes, I was 
 willing to stay a thousand years, I thought, if God 
 wanted me to, and if He would only help me to grow 
 more and more like Alfred, so that when, at last, it 
 was time for me to go to him, he might see I had tried 
 to be a good girl, and was worthy to live with him, and 
 be his own sister. I knew God had promised to help all 
 who tried, and I intended to try very hard. 
 
 Full of these musings, I arose from the grass, by the 
 little grave where I had been sitting, and pursued my 
 way homeward. 
 
 Only one thought troubled me. Since Freddy left us 
 Bob had drooped, and would not sing. I dressed his cage
 
 142 THE TWO PARTINGS. 
 
 with evergreens. I fed him on apples and sugar. I 
 petted, and talked to him : I talked to him of Freddy, 
 but he only answered by a plaintive chirp that went 
 straight to my heart. It seemed to say, " He has gone 
 to his heaven, and, by-and-bye, you will go too. But 
 my bright home is far, far away ; there my brother sits 
 alone, in the great tree, and mourns for me, and I shall 
 never go to him never, never !" 
 
 So, as I went towards home, my thoughts turned to 
 Bobby, and the promise I had given my brother to do 
 all I could for the happiness of his little pet. 
 
 I was so absorbed that I walked straight up the gar 
 den-path to the door, before I saw that some one stood 
 there, and stretched out his hands to me. 
 
 He caught me in his arms, and carrying me into the 
 house, sat down, and placed me on his knee. It was my 
 dear, kind Uncle Robert. 
 
 " Oh, uncle !" I exclaimed. " Have you been hero 
 long ?" 
 
 "No, my pet, not ten minutes," he replied, in a voice 
 which he tried to make steady and cheerful, for my mo 
 ther's sake and mine ; but he was greatly agitated, for 
 the news of Alfred's death had come upon him suddenly, 
 and he loved my brother very much. I hid my face in 
 his bosom, and for a time we sat quite silent. 
 
 At length I whispered, softly, " Freddy left a message 
 for you, uncle. He left his love for you ; and he would 
 have liked to have waited and seen you, but he could 
 not. And he said Bob had grown very tame, and he 
 loved him very much, and he sang very sweetly, and wa 
 had a great deal of fun with him."
 
 THE TWO PARTINGS. 143 
 
 I supprse Uncle Robert could not trust himself to 
 reply to this message, for he only said, " To-morrow, 
 Molly, I must be off. We are bound for another long 
 voyage." 
 
 " Where to, uncle ?" I asked. 
 
 " To the Southern Seas again." 
 
 " To the island where Bobby came from ?" I inquired, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, to poor Bob's old home." 
 
 I looked at him with wistful eyes, and my heart flut 
 tered ; for a new, bright thought had come into it, and 
 I dared not speak lest he should refuse me lest he 
 should oppose me. 
 
 "What does my Molly want?" he asked, tenderly 
 smoothing my hair. " Speak out, little one. Anything, 
 within the range of possibility, I will do for you. I 
 would bring you home the whole Archipelago in my 
 pocket, if I could." 
 
 " I am afraid you will say no, though, or you will try 
 to persuade me not." 
 
 " I will not say no, if it is possible to say yes ; and I 
 will not try to persuade you not. Honour bright !" he 
 said, smiling, " I promise I will not raise a single objec 
 tion, not even if you ask me to kidnap a young savage 
 for you to play with." 
 
 " I don't want you to bring ne anything. It's about 
 Bobby." I hesitated. 
 
 *' Go on !" said my uncle, encouragingly. 
 
 And I continued : " Just before Freddy went to Hea 
 ven, he said he was so sorry for Bob, because he had 
 been taken away from his beautiful island, that was like
 
 144 THE TWO PARTINGS. 
 
 Heaven to him. And he asked me, would I turn the 
 back of his cage to the window when it snowed, and 
 would I put the flowers by him, and would I do every 
 thing I could to make him happy ? and I promised I 
 would ; and I have done all I can, and he is not happy. 
 He thinks about Freddy, and he thinks about his own 
 brother in the beautiful island, and he will not sing. But 
 I know what would make him happy ; and I want you 
 to take him back with you to his own home, where his 
 brother is waiting for him, just as Freddy is waiting for 
 me, only Freddy knows I shall be sure to go to him 
 some day, but Bob cannot go unless you take him, be 
 cause little birds are not like little boys, you know; they 
 do not live for ever." 
 
 I paused, quite out of breath, and looked eagerly for 
 a ivply, but my uncle did not speak ; he only kissed me, 
 and, drawing my head down on his shoulder, laid his 
 cheek upon my hair. 
 
 I was quite content, however, for I knew that Uncle 
 Robert never broke his word. 
 
 The next morning I was up betimes, and out in the 
 woods, gathering the brightest of evergreens and branches, 
 to deck Bob's cage with for the last time. 
 
 I completely walled it in, and thatched it with hem 
 lock, to keep out the cold wind, and crowned it with a 
 regal crown of flaming autumn leaves. Then I busied 
 myself preparing a bag to contain seed, filled it, labelled 
 it, and sewed it up carefully. 
 
 So the hours slipped away ; and in the afternoon my 
 uncle, after listening with the kindest patience to a thou- 
 band-aml-one directions which I gave him for Bob's com-
 
 "ONE SET APART." 145 
 
 fort during the voyage, bid us farewell; and, with the 
 cage in one hand and his portmanteau in the other, 
 turned down the street of our little village. 
 
 I stood at the door, and watched him till he was out 
 of sight ; and then my heart sank. Oh, it was hard to 
 part with Bob ! I loved him for his own sake, but a hun 
 dred times more for Alfred's. It seemed almost as if 
 he were a part of Freddy, and it was like parting with 
 my brother over again to lose him. 
 
 Perhaps it was selfish, but I was not a little angel yet, 
 like Freddy ; I was only a poor little girl, and just then 
 I felt very sad and lonely. So I ran away and hid, and 
 threw myself on my face, and cried passionately and 
 long. 
 
 After awhile, though the sobs came slower, and my 
 burning eyes grew cool, it seemed as if I heard the dear 
 voice, saying, " Don't cry, Molly, don't ! You wouldn't, 
 if you knew how happy I am !" and I was comforted, 
 and fell asleep, and God let Alfred send me a dream as 
 beautiful as Jacob's, when he slept with his head upon 
 the stone. So that when I awoke, I felt not only quite 
 calm and cheerful, but almost as happy as the angels of 
 Heaven. 
 
 "ONE SET APART." 
 
 LITTLE Josey had been alone a long, long while. lie 
 
 had broken his china dogs, pulled the fringe off from the 
 
 table-cover, admired the variegated birds worked on the 
 
 footstool, until he turned it over had crawled to the 
 
 10
 
 146 " ONE SET APART." 
 
 patch of sunlight resting on the roses on the carpet, and 
 clutched at the golden rings, and played with his trans 
 parent fingers. Still no one came. He fretted, then 
 looked with a sudden, quiet, and vague expression into 
 the fire, magnetically drawn by the bright coals shining 
 through the high fender, into an admiration of its beau 
 ties. Then, as the loneliness of his situation again re 
 called itself to his mind, he cried again softly, and with 
 large tears running down his plump rosy cheeks. 
 
 Josey was cold, hungry, and frightened he had 
 never been alone before ; and the first formed word his 
 little tongue had ever uttered, passed moaningly his 
 pouting lips " mamma !" " mamma !" 
 
 Poor little Josey ! He did not know that she who 
 would have caught him in her arms, and covered him 
 with kisses at this first token of intellect, could no longer 
 hear him ; that she rested on her stately couch, pale as 
 the snow-drops they placed beside her, with her hands 
 calmly folded upon her meek bosom, and a deep solemn 
 sleep settling upon her sweet young face. 
 
 He did not know, little lone orphan, how her hand had 
 been clasped in prayer, and that when her soul went on 
 that long journey, it carried with it a prayer for him to 
 the throne of grace ; that the thought of him was the 
 only cloud upon her heart, as she hastened to join the 
 beloved one who had gone before. 
 
 No. Josey knew not this. He cried still piteously, 
 until strangers came with kind words and sad faces, and 
 carried him down stairs. As he passed her door, he in 
 stinctively murmured the new word " mamma !" " mam 
 ma!" until they hushed him. Then bewildered, fright-
 
 "ONE SET APART." 147 
 
 ened, and weary, he cried, and, hiding his head among 
 the pillows of the familiar cradle, sobbed himself to 
 sleep. 
 
 Smiles dimpled his flushed face in that sleep. An 
 angel mother held him in her arms, soothed his trem 
 bling lips, and whispered words of love into his ear. 
 Still he did not know that he was an orphan. Alas, 
 poor child, he learned it soon enough ! 
 
 The fine house was sold, and all its elegancies. Ex 
 penses were paid, and the small sum remaining put in 
 trust for the boy into the hands of a man of integrity. 
 Josey lived in his family. There were other boys and 
 girls, but they were all "to the manor born." Josey 
 was an intruder. 
 
 He was always a shy, quiet boy, and grew still more 
 so amid this childish throng. He sought out dark cor 
 ners, and glided into them unperceived. lie talked to 
 himself, when alone, and shared no joys or sorrows. He 
 was unlike other children ; they had mothers. He would 
 watch the mother as she impulsively caught to her heart 
 some little prattler, and turn away sadly. No one kissed 
 Mm. No one looked with pride upon his copy-book. No 
 one tied his tippet about his neck Avith care. No one stole 
 on tiptoe at night to his bedside to see if he were com 
 fortably and happily sleeping. No one saved cakes and 
 candy for him in the bureau-drawers, or stuffed his din 
 ner-basket with a favourite morsel. 
 
 No. He was " one set apart." He must take what 
 comes, and be thankful. 
 
 Poor little Josey ! Even the teachers knew he had no 
 mother, and neglected him, or remembered him in long
 
 148 "ONE SET APART." 
 
 tasks, so hopelessly hard that none but a mother could 
 have made easy. And when his head or heart ached, 
 there was no breast to bear all his troubles ; no hand to 
 cool the fever of his brow with its gentle, caressing 
 touch. Poor Josey ! 
 
 A change had gradually passed over Josey. He had 
 grown thin and pale ; his eyes were large and unnatu 
 rally bright ; his form fragile and shadowy. Friends 
 whispered when he passed, and boys made room for him 
 by the winter fire. Little girls shared their dinners with 
 him. Everybody was so kind that he could never do 
 enough for them. 
 
 One day, as he sate by the fire sad and dispirited, the 
 tears would roll down his cheeks. 
 
 " Why does Josey cry ?" said a little child, to her 
 mamma. 
 
 " The poor boy has no mother," returned the parent. 
 
 "Yes," cried the child, with eager voice and manner, 
 " yes, Josey has a mamma ; she is an angel in Heaven." 
 
 The lady took the child in her arms and kissed her, 
 while these words sank deep into Josey's heart. 
 
 "I have a mother," he whispered perpetually to him 
 self; " I will find her." 
 
 The sun rose proudly up one bright Christmas morn 
 ing, and shone in upon Josey's bed, tinging his brown 
 hair with gold, and calling him sluggard, lighting up 
 temptingly the dark corner where hung the full stocking. 
 
 Doors opened and closed. Merry laughter rang 
 through the hall. A gay throng came dancing in.
 
 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTIIEH-IN-LAW. 149 
 
 " Josej, Josej, I wish you a merry Christmas !" 
 
 They crowd around his bed. He sleeps so deeply, 
 and lies so still. His face is white although the thin 
 lips wear a smile. They shudder, and cry loudly, 
 
 " Josey is dead !" 
 
 Yes, Josey has found his mother, and the angels IB 
 Heaven are singing " A happy Christmas to you, 
 Josey !" 
 
 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 I HAVE just been writing a long, long letter to Cousin 
 Hettie. I do not think it advisable to send more than 
 three closely-filled sheets at once, so I will indulge my 
 present mood by writing of her. 
 
 Hettie is a darling creature I wish I might be as 
 good and lovable. She is not beautiful she has a quiet, 
 unobtrusive face, which you might, and probably would, 
 pass unnoticed at first sight ; yet she has such a sweet 
 voice, and when she becomes animated in conversation, 
 her face is so full of expression that many a beauty 
 might envy her the admiration which, all unconsciously 
 to herself, she calls forth. 
 
 Left an orphan at an early age, she was received into 
 my father's family, and we considered her as quite one 
 of ourselves. She certainly was a treasure to us, so 
 active, so cheerful, so ever attentive to the wishes of 
 those around her. Sensitive almost to a fault, she stu 
 died her own quick feelings that she might avoid wound-
 
 150 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 ing those of others but, pardon me, I did not intend 
 10 write of Hettie in her relation to us. 
 
 Last June, on her eighteenth birth-day, she was mar 
 ried to Henry Huntington, whom we considered fully 
 worthy of her. I could not bestow higher praise. lie 
 wished to take his bride to his parental home, imme 
 diately on their marriage, but she desired to take a long 
 tour in the opposite direction. He very readily yielded 
 to her wishes, though I think he would not have done 
 so, had he known that it was not so much a wish to visit 
 
 friends in C , which made her so anxious to go there, 
 
 as a dread of meeting his mother. 
 
 Three years before, with a heart brimful of romantic 
 feeling as what maiden's is not at fifteen? she read 
 Miss Bremer's Neighbours. It was one of the first no 
 vels she had been allowed to read, and every character 
 was to her a reality, whose personal appearance was 
 almost as clearly defined, in her mind, as that of the 
 friends about her. Ma cliere mere, with her overpower 
 ing dignity, made a strong impression upon her ; she 
 loved to think of her and imagine how nicely she could 
 plan to get behind that mantle of dignity she thought 
 she could succeed even better than Franziska. 
 
 When she learned to love Mr. Huntington, she 
 brought his mother before her mental vision as the long- 
 known ma cliere mere. He is a tall, noble-looking man, 
 with a naturally-dignified bearing she looked upon him 
 as almost a being of a higher order, and had many a 
 time half wondered that she was not afraid of him. 
 When he talked to her of his mother, she found little 
 difficulty in receiving everything he said, as only a part
 
 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 151 
 
 of the description of the ideal she had known so long 
 as a whole. He told her he resembled his mother ; that 
 he was the youngest of the family, having a niece older 
 than himself. Adding years only added dignity to this 
 new ma chere mere, and poor Hettie disliked to meet 
 her very much she told me she doubted not her ulti 
 mately feeling at ease in the dreaded presence, provided 
 she were not annihilated by the first glance. When her 
 mother-in-law should find what a useful little woman she 
 could be, she was sure she would unbend to her ; but the 
 first meeting the more she thought of it, the more she 
 wished to delay it. It seemed very natural that Henry 
 should love his mother so well, without any of the undue 
 reverence she felt, because she thought him so superior 
 to others. She knew she could not do justice to herself 
 should she make her first appearance among her new 
 relatives as an expected bride she thought she could 
 do better were she to wait till she could form a slight 
 acquaintance by corresponding. 
 
 In consequence of Hettie's concealed cogitations, they 
 
 went to C , where she introduced her husband with 
 
 no more pride than he would have felt in presenting her 
 to his mother. After their return, Hettie received a 
 brief note from her mother-in-law, which was carefully 
 worded, for old Mrs. Huntington was not sure of the 
 reception her epistle might meet at the hands of her 
 city-bred daughter. 
 
 In early October, Mr. Huntington found that he could 
 leave his business for a week or two, and he gladly 
 availed himself of the opportunity to visit his friends. 
 Hettie saw how delighted he was at the prospect, and
 
 152 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 she tried to feel as elated herself. She was not now 
 anxious to delay the visit ; because she wished to know 
 arid love those so dear to her husband. She examined 
 her wardrobe most critically to select the dresses which 
 would be most suitable. She consulted me on the occa 
 sion, and showed her opinion of my advice by leaving 
 every dress I wished her to take at home, 3xcept her 
 travelling-dress. I wished her to dress showily ; she 
 did not forget that there would be little opportunity for 
 display in country farm-houses. 
 
 Their first day's ride was in the cars, and was very 
 like other days spent travelling thus, stupid and tire 
 some. The next morning proved unpleasant it did not 
 rain, but the clouds portended it. 
 
 Mr. Huntington said they would remain where they 
 were that day, if Hettie wished, but she saw very plainly 
 that the nearer he was to his early home, the more im 
 patient he became to be there ; and she urged their going 
 on, even if it must be, as he assured her, in an awkward, 
 uncovered stage, over a very rough road. 
 
 Even from this unpromising day's ride, Hettie extracts 
 mirthful recollections. There was but one passenger in 
 the stage besides themselves he was a clownish, unre 
 fined fellow, who gave her new ideas of humanity. She 
 was listening, with amusement, to an account he was 
 giving the driver of a visit he made "his woman," when 
 she was a " gal," when he was suddenly interrupted by 
 Jehu's leaving his side most unceremoniously. The 
 king-bolt had broken, leaving the forward wheels totally 
 unconnected with the remainder of the wa^on. The 
 
 O 
 
 burly driver went headlong over the front of the box,
 
 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 153 
 
 hallooing to his horses to stop ; but they dragged him 
 on to the foot of the hill. Hettie looked frightened aa 
 they were thus left in the middle of the road, till she 
 saw the driver shaking himself at the side of his quiet 
 horses then she laughed heartily at the ludicrous 
 scene. 
 
 The rustic was so efficient a helper in this emergency, 
 that very soon all was made safe again, and they tra 
 velled on. He did not finish his story, as probably ho 
 did not think of it till he reached his home, which was 
 near the place of the accident. 
 
 During the afternoon, there was a constant, light, 
 drizzling rain, not rendering it necessary to keep an 
 umbrella spread, since that was so difficult a task amid 
 the tumblings of their clumsy vehicle, but they rode 
 gayly on over hills which Hettie would have called 
 mountains had they been anywhere else. She thinks 
 she never enjoyed any other kisses quite so well as those 
 she stole when the driver was wholly engaged with his 
 horses, going down those long hills they were kisses 
 accompanied by such pleasant shower-baths from Hen 
 ry's saturated whiskers. 
 
 When the stage stopped for the night, both were 
 weary, though Henry would not acknowledge it. 
 
 " To-morroAv night we shall see mother !" he exclaimed, 
 as he entered the cosy little room he had secured for 
 them. Hettie was too much fatigued then to tell him 
 how much she dreaded the time. 
 
 The next morning the weather was fair and the coach 
 fu'.l, but Henry was too impatient to be very willing to 
 Btop at all the little post-offices. After dinner he sue-
 
 154 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 ceeded in obtaining a horse and carriage for the remain 
 der of their journey. The roads did not seem so rough 
 then Hettie was not impatient to reach her destination ; 
 her husband sat beside her, looking so noble, so good 
 he talked to her so pleasantly of the old times, when he 
 knew the occupants of every house they should pass that 
 afternoon, he seemed so much more boyish himself than 
 he had ever done before, that she thought it would be 
 very pleasant to ride thus through life. 
 
 Just at sunset they were passing a most beautiful 
 scene the road was a little ascending, but it did not 
 Beem a common, unromantic road there was a grove of 
 beautiful trees on each side the ground all about was 
 thickly strewn with the bright-coloured leaves, and there 
 was such a softened light over all, it was enchanting. 
 They stopped as Henry said, 
 
 " This was our half-way spot when going to school : 
 many a time have I rested with my brother on that old 
 rock." 
 
 "Might we sit there together now?" whispered Het- 
 tie, as though she feared a loud word might break the 
 enchantment ; she need not have feared. 
 
 Quietly they walked to the old rock how much each 
 lived while they sat there ! Did they not love each 
 other better, now that the sweet spot was so bright with 
 associations in the memory of each ? When riding again, 
 Henry talked more of those old school-mates, and Hettie 
 was so happy to listen. 
 
 Darkness began to steal on as they rode up to a largo 
 farm-house, and Henry exclaimed, 
 
 " This is home !"
 
 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 155 
 
 Ilettie's heart beat almost audibly, she thought. The 
 girl who answered his inquiries said, his father and 
 mother were four miles further on, at his youngest 
 sister's. 
 
 " More riding, that is all," said Hettie, and was quiet. 
 Some time elapsed before a manly arm stole round her, 
 and Henry asked what she was thinking. Then she 
 told him all her foolish fancies all her dread of meeting 
 ma cTiere mre her fear that she should not behave 
 quite properly her wonder whether she should be most 
 like Fanny, Maria, or Ebbe. Before she finished the 
 moon rose, and as she looked to her husband's face, sho 
 saw an expression of mischief; but he said nothing. 
 
 Very soon after, they rode into a large yard; again 
 Ilettie's heart beat how would they receive their un 
 looked-for guest ? Henry exclaimed, 
 
 " Take care of your chickens, or I will run over 
 them !" 
 
 A good-humoured voice instantly replied, " You have 
 come^ have you ! We killed them for you." 
 
 Then Hettie was lifted out, she hardly knew how, and 
 immediately some large, soft arms were round her a 
 motherly or grandmotherly face was looking in hers, 
 and saying, 
 
 " Tlds is our Hettie, is it?" 
 
 There was a heartiness in this first greeting, which 
 made Hettie feel perfectly at ease. She could only 
 wonder that she had ever thought of this good, kind, 
 motherly-looking old lady as like ma chdre mere. She 
 was ready to join Henry in laughing at her own foolish
 
 156 COUSIN IIETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 little self, when she saw that same mischievous expres 
 sion in his face a few moments after. 
 
 Supper for the travellers was soon upon the table, not 
 such a supper as Ilettie had been accustomed to the 
 table was loaded with substantial viands. For an in 
 stant she thought, Shall I ever be able to entertain them 
 like this at our home ? Then she forgot all care for the 
 future credit of her housekeeping, and enjoyed tho 
 evening very much. Was it wonderful she did, with 
 such happy, pleasant companions ? There was her hus 
 band, looking so satisfied, so proud, and appearing so 
 interested in everything about him. His father, with 
 his honest face and silvery hair, full of anecdotes, which 
 seldom failed to raise a laugh. His mother, seeming so 
 delighted to see her youngest son again and welcome 
 his little wife, whom she had learned to love from his 
 descriptions. His sister, so full of matronly cares that 
 all should have every wish promptly gratified, and so 
 glad that her father and mother had happened to be 
 there, that she might thus secure the first visit from her 
 young sister. The brother-in-law evincing sound sense 
 and sturdy good-humour. The children, the younger 
 ones very shy, yet all so unaffectedly glad to see their 
 uncle and his pretty wife. Then there was last, but not 
 least, if we should judge by the amount of attention 
 Henry bestowed on him, old Brock, the house-dog, who 
 had frolicked with him as a child, and now, though grown 
 old and lazy, knew him immediately. 
 
 Hettie was hardly conscious of any effort to please 
 her new relatives, yet it required no very deep know-
 
 COUSIN HETTIE AND HER MOTHER-IN-LAW. 157 
 
 ledge of human nature, to see that all were as much 
 pleased with her as she was with them. 
 
 The next morning she went over the orchard, delight 
 ing her companions, the old gentleman and all the 
 youngsters, by the zest with which she entered into the 
 business of the day apple-picking. 
 
 Soon after breakfast all started for the old homestead 
 Henry was as impatient to be there as his parents 
 were to have him under their own roof. Plow much 
 Hettie enjoyed the week they remained there ! She 
 helped her father at his husking, her mother in the pan 
 try ; she went over the orchard and pastures with Henry, 
 listening while he told her the flavours of the apples 
 before tasting them, or of the games he had played in 
 this corner, the berries which used to grow in that field, 
 and of his boyhood's companions, memories of whom 
 were connnected with every spot. 
 
 Early every afternoon the wagons were at the door, 
 that the old couple and the young might go together to 
 visit other brothers and sisters, or old neighbours. 
 Everywhere old Mrs. Huntington preserved that pro 
 tecting, motherly air, so grateful to Hettie among 
 strange faces. Everywhere she was the same happy, 
 lively old lady, frequently saying such comical things 
 with so demure a face, that Hettie hardly dared laugh 
 all she wished, till she saw, by the twinkling eye, that 
 she might without giving offence. Hettie was delighted 
 with everything, she was as a pet child to all about her 
 her wishes were to be consulted first, lest she should 
 be home-sick. Very little danger of that, she thought 
 It came time to return home all toe soon. She left her
 
 158 MUSINGS AND MEMORIES. 
 
 relatives with hopes that she should see them at her own 
 home right early, promising to pass a month with her 
 mother-in-law next summer. 
 
 They had pleasant weather for their journey home. 
 The next morning after their arrival there, Mr. llunt- 
 ington hrought me the following brief note : 
 
 " DEAR, EM. With no very deep grief, I inform you 
 of my sudden loss of an ideal mother-in-law. If you 
 wish to learn the particulars, I advise you to visit very 
 soon, your loving cousin, HETTIE. 
 
 MUSINGS AND MEMORIES. 
 
 I AM lonely, I am weary, 
 
 Would you know the reason why? 
 'Tis not that the day is dreary, 
 
 Not that clouds o'erhang the sky. 
 No. The April sun is beaming 
 
 Warm and genial as 'twere May, 
 Earth and air in beauty teeming 
 
 Woo my spirit to the gay. 
 
 This new home is very cheerful, 
 
 Husband, children all are here; 
 Yet my eyes are sometimes tearful, 
 
 Tearful for old memories dear. 
 By my window I am sitting, 
 
 Gazing out upon the street ; 
 Thousands to and fro are flitting, 
 
 No familiar glance I meet.
 
 MUSINGS AND MEMORIES. 
 
 Ah ! I miss the birds and flowers 
 
 Of the home I've left behind 
 Miss the hill-tops and the bowers, 
 
 Miss the odour-wafting wind. 
 This is not the same old carpet 
 
 Upon which we danced at night, 
 These are not the time-worn curtain! 
 
 Which shut out the summer light. 
 
 All is changed, e'en to the table 
 
 Where I scribbled rhymes of old, 
 That was cherry, this is marble 
 
 Ah ! 'tis marble, hard and cold. 
 This soft seat of yielding cushion, 
 
 This is not my worn old chair 
 Where I rocked my babes to slumbei 
 
 W r ith a mother's patient care. 
 
 But I will not sigh in sadness, 
 
 Will not let my heart grow cold, 
 Soon twill throb again with gladness, 
 
 Soon these new things will be old. 
 Kind and genial hearts are hovering 
 
 O'er life's pathway everywhere ; 
 They will come and render sacred 
 
 Carpet, curtain, table, chair. 
 
 Flowers of love will spring in beautj 
 
 To my fancy on the street, 
 If the dusty paths are trodden 
 
 Daily by familiar feet. 
 If I scatter seeds of kindness, 
 
 Here and there as best I may, 
 Hoses, fragrant as the old ones, 
 
 Soon will cheer the lonely way.
 
 160 FILIAL PIETY. 
 
 Home so loved old friends so treasureti- 
 Half my heart I'll give to you -, 
 
 Half, I'll keep in good condition, 
 Warm and lighted for the new. 
 
 I may drop a tear of sorrow 
 For the past the far away, 
 
 While I'm pilfering from to-morrow 
 Smiles and sunshines for to-day. 
 
 FILIAL PIETY. 
 
 [A LADY friend says, that the following, frori Mrs. 
 Swisshelm's "Letters to Country Girls," ought to be 
 handsomely printed, framed, and hung up in the chamber 
 of every young woman in the land.] 
 
 "What another lecture!" Yes, girls, another lec 
 ture. I thought long ago that I should have to read to 
 you a long one about minding your mothers. Of course 
 you all know the divine command, " Honour thy father 
 and thy mother," but very few obey it. An undutiful 
 child is an odious character, yet few young people feel 
 the affection for, and show the respect and obedience to 
 their parents that are becoming, right, and beautiful. 
 Did you ever sit and think about the anguish your mo 
 ther endured to give you being? Did you ever recount 
 the days and nights of care, toil, and anxiety you cost 
 her ? Did you ever try to measure the love that sus 
 tained your infancy and guided your youth ? Did you 
 ever think about how much more you owe your mother 
 than you will be able to pay ? If so, did you look sour
 
 FILIAI PIETY. 101 
 
 and cross when she asked you to do anything did you 
 ever vex, ever disobey her ? If you did, it is a sin of 
 no common magnitude, and a shame which should make 
 youu cheek burn every time you think of it. It is a sin 
 that will be sure to bring its reward in this world. I 
 never knew an undutiful daughter make a happy wife 
 and mother. The feeling that enables any one to be 
 unkind to a mother, will make her who indulges it 
 wretched for life. If you should lose your mother, you 
 can little dream how the memory of every unkind look, 
 or undutiful word, every neglect of her wishes, will 
 haunt you. I could never tell you how I sometimes feel 
 in remembering instances of neglect to my mother ; and 
 yet, thanks to her care, I had the name of being a good 
 child. She told me, shortly before she died, that I had 
 never vexed her by any act of disobedience ; and I 
 would not resign the memory of her approbation for the 
 plaudits of a world, even though I knew it was her love 
 that hid the faults and magnified all that was good. I 
 know how many things I might have done to add to her 
 happiness and repay her care that I did not do ; but the 
 grave has cut off all opportunities of rectifying mistakes 
 or atoning for neglects. Never, never lay past for your 
 self the memory of an unkindness to or neglect of your 
 mother. If she is sick, how can you possibly get tired 
 waiting upon her ? How can you trust any one else to 
 take your place about her ? No one could have filled 
 her place to your peevish infancy and troublesome child 
 hood. When she is in her usual health, remember she 
 in not so young and active as you are. Wait upon her. 
 If she wants her knitting, bring it to her, not because 
 11
 
 162 FILIAL PIETY. 
 
 she could not get it herself, but to show that you are 
 thinking about her, and love to do something for her. 
 Learn to comb her hair for her sometimes. It will make 
 you love to be near her. Bring her a drink, fix her cap, 
 pin on her 'kerchief, bring her shoes, get her gloves, or do 
 some other little thing for her. No matter how active 
 and healthy she may be, or how much she may love to 
 work, she will love to have you do any little thing that 
 will show you arj thinking of her. How I should love 
 now to get dov;n on the floor and put the stockings and 
 shoes on mother's dear, fat, white feet, or to stand half 
 an hour combing and toying with her soft, brown hair ! 
 Girls, you do not know the value of your mother, if you 
 have not lost her. Nobody loves you, nobody ever will 
 love you as she does. Do not be ungrateful for that 
 love, do not repay it with coldness, or a curse of cold 
 ness will rest upon you, which you can never shake off. 
 Unloved and unloving you will live and die, if you do 
 not love and honour your father and mother. 
 
 One thing: never call either "old man" or "old 
 woman." It is quite a habit in the country for young 
 people to name their parents thus. This is rude, impu 
 dent, and undutiful. Any aged person is an old man or 
 an old woman. There should be something sacred, 
 something peculiar in the word that designates parents. 
 The tone of voice in which they are addressed should 
 bo affectionate and respectful. A short, surly answer 
 from a child to a parent falls very harshly on the ear of 
 any person who has any idea of filial duty. B^ sure, 
 girls, that you each win for yourselves the name of a 
 dutiful daughter. It is so easy to win, that no one
 
 FILIAL PIETY. 163 
 
 should be without it. It is much easier to he a good 
 daughter than a good wife or mother. There are no 
 conflicting interests between parent and child as between 
 husband and wife. A child's duties are much more 
 easily performed than a parent's ; so that she who is a 
 good daughter may fail to be a good wife or mother ; 
 but she who fails in this first most simple relation, need 
 never hope to fill another well. Be sure, then, that you 
 are a good daughter. It is the best preparation for 
 every other station, and will be its own reward. The 
 secret you dare not tell your mother is a dangerous 
 secret ; and one that will be likely to bring you sorrow. 
 The hours you spend with her will not bring you regret, 
 and you should never feel disappointed or out of humour 
 for not being permitted to go to some place to which you 
 wished to go. You should love her so well that it would 
 not be felt a punishment to give up the gayest party to 
 remain with her. Nothing is more beautiful than to see 
 a girl take off her things and sit smilingly down with 
 mother because she wishes it. But this letter is growing 
 long, and my thoughts have wandered ; so good-night. 
 Go and kiss mother as you used to do when a child, and 
 never grow too large or wise to be a child at her side.
 
 GODFATHER VIVIAN. 
 
 IT was early in a July afternoon when the corriaga 
 Bet me down at Peek wood, whither I had gone to spend 
 the holidays. I walked quickly up the old lane of roses 
 and sweetbriar, thinking all the way of Jenny and Ro 
 bert, and of the delightful days we should pass together. 
 It was such a long time since we had parted last or, at 
 least, it seemed so. I was somewhat disappointed when, 
 instead of Jenny's pretty, laughing face appearing at 
 the door, I beheld the two prim forms of her step-aunts. 
 
 Miss Lucretia and Miss Penelope welcomed me, but 
 not cordially that they never did. 
 
 "Where's Jenny?" said I, giving a half-pressure to 
 the cold fingers which received me. 
 
 "Jenny is with Robert, at present," replied Miss 
 Lucretia, stiffly. 
 
 " And Robert is in disgrace," subjoined Miss Pene 
 lope, austerely. 
 
 A cloud, dark and lowering, overshadowed the pro 
 mised sunshine of the delightful holidays. I stood irre 
 solute half wishing, half fearing to ask if I might go 
 to them. Miss Lucretia anticipated me. 
 
 " You will find your companions in the south room. 
 I will send up your trunk immediately." 
 
 I scarcely waited to hear the second announcement. 
 I was already at the foot of the stairs. Up I flew, two 
 steps at a time, all red, and dusty, and full of love. I 
 found them together in the soutli room. Robert, sitting
 
 GODFATHER VIVIAN. 165 
 
 silently by the window, and Jenny, npon her knees 
 beside him. Oh ! what a glad shout he gave when he 
 saw me, and how Jenny cried and laughed alternately ! 
 For a time, disgrace was forgotten, and it seemed just 
 as if old times on the sea-beach had returned again. 
 But gradually the settled sorrow stole back over Robert's 
 face. 
 
 " What is it all about?" asked I, as we three sat toge 
 ther; and they told me from beginning to end. In a 
 moment of great temptation, Robert had taken that 
 which was not his own. He had stolen he was a thief! 
 Never shall I forget the world of anguish that passed 
 over his countenance as he said these words such a 
 bitter, regretful anguish. 
 
 " And have you told all the circumstances to your 
 aunts?'' I again inquired. 
 
 "No," replied Robert, proudly; "they would neither 
 understand nor believe me if I did." 
 
 " Perhaps they might forgive you." 
 
 " Never ! They have sent up this morning for god 
 father Vivian. I don't know what will be done with me." 
 
 I had heard of godfather Vivian before, but none of 
 us three had ever seen him. He had lived abroad until 
 during the last year, and, though he had sometimes 
 made short visits to Peekwood, it always happened that 
 he came when Jenny and Robert were absent from home. 
 This announcement of his coming silenced us momenta 
 rily. We were all thinking of him. 
 
 "I know," said Robert, mournfully, after a pause, 
 "I know that he is hard-hearted and unfeeling, or else
 
 1 06 GODFATHER VIVIAN. 
 
 they never would have sent for him. I expect to have 
 no mercy shown me." 
 
 " I am afraid you're right, Robert," said I, sadly, and 
 with tears in my eyes. 
 
 "I can foresee everything," exclaimed Jenny, pas 
 sionately, while she held her brother's hand. " I can 
 83e him before me just as if I had known him all my 
 life. Tall, grim, hard, unfeeling, stern, implacable, and 
 unforgiving. That's godfather Vivian." 
 
 It was a faithful picture to us, and we took it home. 
 We decided that he was a very ogre, and that Robert 
 was to prepare for the worst and most speedy of pun 
 ishments. 
 
 Two hours passed away. We sat sorrowful and with 
 out hope. Suddenly, Jenny, who had been watching 
 the window intently, sprang back, clasping her hands, 
 and crying out, 
 
 "He's coming! he's coming! The carriage is just 
 coming up the avenue. Oh ! Robert ! Robert !" 
 
 She threw herself upon the floor, and hid her face 
 upon Robert's knee. 
 
 He sank back in his chair, his brave handsome face 
 looking white and ghostly, with the black curls clinging 
 around it. I gained the window, and looked hastily out. 
 A plain, brown travelling carriage was winding slowly 
 up to the portico. Yes ; godfather Vivian had come. 
 Poor Robert ! it was all over with him. 
 
 Minutes passed away they seemed hours to us and 
 then there was a noise at our chamber door. It opened, 
 and admitted the two step-aunts Miss Lucretia and Misa 
 Penelope. They looked rigid, austere, and boding il."..
 
 GODFATHER VIVIAN. 167 
 
 They beckoned solemnly to Robert. He arose, and 
 walked between them. There was no fear expressed in 
 his face, but he looked worn and wretched. Jenny and 
 I followed ; and thus, in awful state, we proceeded k> 
 the tribunal. 
 
 The door of the old library stood open, as if awaiting 
 our entrance. As we passed in, Robert's head sank 
 lower upon his breast, while Jenny and I walked with 
 downcast eyes. We felt that we were in the dreaded 
 presence, and we did not wish to behold it. 
 
 There was a breathless pause. Then a round, mellow, 
 beautiful voice, full of sweetness, broke the siler.ee. 
 
 " How's this ? Robert, my boy, what's the matter ?" 
 
 I thought that, all at once, a tide of blossoms, and 
 fragrance, and sunshine, had burst into the grim old 
 library. Robert lifted his head and downcast eyes. So 
 did Jenny, and so did I. In the centre of the apart 
 ment, on the old-fashioned hair lounge, sat godfather 
 Vivian. No tall, grim, unfeeling guardian. No stern, 
 implacable, unforgiving ogre. But a hale, healthy per 
 sonage, in the prime of life, with a beautiful, benign 
 countenance, and tender, peaceful, blue eyes. 
 
 A single streak of sunlight, which was playing on the 
 wall, glanced now and then across his grayish-brown 
 hair, and white, unwrinkled brow. 
 
 Robert stood before him, his hair tossed aside from 
 his face, which now wore a reassured, grateful look. 
 The step-aunts seated themselves, upright and gloomy, 
 one on either side. 
 
 " Mr. Vivian," said Miss Lucretia, by way of preface, 
 "a circumstance like this has never happened in my
 
 168 GODFATHER VIVIAN. 
 
 family. I consider my sister's memory disgraced by 
 this unpardonable action which her stepson has com 
 mitted." 
 
 "Mr. Vivian," concluded Miss Penelope, "a March' 
 niont never would have perpetrated an act so unworthy 
 of his ancestors." 
 
 " Go on, Robert," said the mellow voice, mildly. 
 " Tell me all tell everything." 
 
 "Yes, yes, go on," repeated Miss Lucretia, with acri 
 mony. "Be explicit, and don't lie." 
 
 Robert's face flushed, his dark eyes glanced passion 
 ately, and he bit his lips as if to suppress his just anger. 
 Then he became subdued again and sorrowful. 
 
 " Godfather Vivian," he began, but broke down at 
 these words. Then he rallied, and went on, remorse 
 fully, but bravely. 
 
 " For sometime past, in going to my place of employ, 
 I have been in the habit of dropping in to visit a poor 
 family, who live in that vicinity. The family consist 
 of a drunken father, a mother, and a crippled child. 
 While I had a little money to spare, besides what I 
 invested, and what I spent in pastime, I gave it to the 
 poor woman for the sake of her child. 
 
 " For a week past, the child has lain very ill almost 
 at the point of death. During her sufferings, her con 
 stant desire has been for fruit for oranges, which deli 
 cacy her mother was unable to buy with her scanty 
 means. Yesterday, while I stood at the bedside, her 
 pleadings were heart-rending, and I almost cried because 
 I could not give them to her. I had spent foolishly the
 
 GODFATHER VIVIAN. 109 
 
 little pocket-money I had, and there was no more to ba 
 procured until the next month. 
 
 "All the way to my employer's I thought about it, 
 and half the day it haunted me. In the afternoon 1 
 entered the counting-room for some article. The apart 
 ment was empty, no one was near, and upon the desk 
 lay a few bright silver pieces. Temptation was before 
 me. I thought of the sick-bed of the little child, with 
 its parched lips and piteous cry. I forgot what I had 
 come for, and yet lingered in the room. If I took the 
 money, I could easily replace it again. Only one month, 
 and then I would replace it all, perhaps more than I 
 took. Then something whispered to me, ' Oh ! Robert, 
 don't steal,' and I started at my own thoughts. I tried 
 to say my prayers, but I had forgotten them. I glanced 
 involuntarily at the money, and said ' Our Father,' but 
 it wouldn't do." 
 
 Here Robert broke down again, and covered his faco 
 with his hands. Somebody sobbed. It wasn't Robert, 
 nor Miss Lucretia, nor her sister. It wasn't Jenny, 
 either, although she was weeping silently. It was god 
 father Vivian. His face was covered with his white 
 handkerchief, and his breast heaved with emotion. 
 
 Robert continued, shading his eyes with his hand. 
 
 " I left the counting-room, not as I had entered it a 
 few moments before. There was a great Aveight on my 
 heart, and I felt no longer fearless and honest, but 
 trembled at a sound. I hurried away from thought, 
 and the place of my temptation. I bought the oranges, 
 and carried them to the sick-bedside. The mother gave 
 me a blessing, but it sounded more like a curse. I never,
 
 170 GODFATHER VIVIAN. 
 
 never could be upright and honest again : I wa3 so sunk 
 in my own esteem. Oh! sir, I have suffered just here," 
 placing his hand upon his breast, " more than words can 
 tell. It seems as if I had passed through years of pun 
 ishment and horror. The money has been replaced by 
 my aunts, and Heaven knows my torture has been 
 8<jvere." 
 
 Robert ceased speaking, and stood with bowed head, 
 the perfect picture of youthful despair. He asked for 
 no clemency, and he need not have asked for it. 
 
 Godfather Vivian removed the handkerchief from his 
 face. 
 
 " Mr. Vivian," said Miss Lucretia, leaning forward, 
 "he deserves all and everything. Let him not escape." 
 
 "Mr. Vivian, be severe," said Miss Penelope, eyeing 
 him closely. 
 
 Godfather Vivian arose from his seat, calmly and with 
 mild dignity. He spoke clearly and distinctly 
 
 "Judge not, lest ye be judged also." 
 
 The step-aunts exchanged glances. He continued. 
 He spoke eloquently and long. He made an appeal to 
 the stony hearts before him, and they melted at his 
 touch. lie asked them if for one offence he should 
 crush for ever the hopes and springtime of youth. If 
 lie should trample upon repentance, and toss lightly 
 away a soul, noble and brave, but erring. 
 
 There was pathos in his tones a great depth and 
 tenderness. Oh ! how great and good he looked, stand 
 ing there, with love and pity and tears in his eyes ! Ho 
 finished his appeal he turned he held out his arms. 
 
 " Robert, my boy, cheer up ! There's a long lift
 
 THE STORY OF THE BROKEN FLOWER-POT. 171 
 
 before you. Be honest, be strong, be hopeful. Never 
 despair, and never throw away life because of a single 
 false step." 
 
 Miss Lucretia and Miss Penelope sat with downcast 
 eyes, struggling to regain their ancient pride. I buried 
 my head in the window-curtain, and cried heartily. 
 
 When I looked up, Robert was in godfather Vivian's 
 arms, and sobbing upon his brave, broad breast. Jenny 
 was there, too, with her hands clasped about his neck, 
 and her bright hair waving down around him. 
 
 And the tide of blossoms, and fragrance, and sun 
 shine kept swelling arid gliding into the grim library, 
 keeping pace with the round, murmuring, mellow voice. 
 Noble, generous, brave-hearted godfather Vivian ! 
 
 THE STORY OF THE BROKEN FLOWER-POT. 
 
 [PISISTRATUS, the young hero, pushed his mother's 
 favourite flower-pot out of the window, in mischief, and 
 told the truth about it.] From that time I first date 
 the hour when I felt that I loved my father, and knew 
 that he loved me ; from that time, too, he began to con 
 verse with me. He would no longer, if he met me in 
 the garden, pass by with a smile and nod ; he would 
 stop, put his book in his pocket, and though his talk was 
 often above my comprehension, still, somehow, I felt 
 happier and better, and less of an infant, when I thought 
 over it, and tried to puzzle out the meaning ; for he had
 
 172 THE STORY OF THE BROKEN FLOWE-R POT 
 
 a way of suggesting, not teaching ; putting things into 
 my head, and then leaving them to work out their own 
 problems. Not long after this, Mr. Squills made me a 
 present far exceeding in value those usually bestowed 
 on children; it was a beautiful, large domino-box in cut 
 ivory, painted and gilt. This domino-box was my de 
 light. I was never weary of playing at dominoes with 
 Mrs. Primmins, and I slept with the box under my 
 pillow. 
 
 "Ah," said my father, one day, when he found me 
 ranging the ivory parallelograms in the parlour, "ah, 
 you like that better than all your playthings, eh?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, papa." 
 
 " You would be very sorry if your mamma was to 
 throw that box out of the window and break it, for 
 fun ?" 
 
 I looked beseechingly at my father, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 " But, perhaps, you would be very glad," he resumed, 
 " if, suddenly, one of those good fairies you read of 
 could change the domino-box into a beautiful geranium, 
 in a beautiful blue-and-white flower-pot, and that you 
 could have all the pleasure of putting it on your mum- 
 ma's window-sill?" 
 
 "Indeed I would !" said I, half crying. 
 
 "My dear boy, I believe you ; but good wishes don't 
 mend bad actions; good actions mend bad actions." 
 
 So saying, he shut the door, and went out. I cannot 
 tell you how puzzled I was to make out what my father 
 meant by his aphorism ; but I know that I played at 
 dominoes no more that day. The next morning, m^
 
 THE STORY OF THE BROKEN FLOWCR-POT. 173 
 
 father found me seated by myself under a tree in the 
 garden ; he paused, and looked at me with his grave, 
 bright eves, very steadily. 
 
 "My boy," said he, "I am going to walk to (a 
 
 t.mn about two miles off), will you come ? and, by-the- 
 bye, fetch your domino-box; I should like to show it to 
 a person there." 
 
 I ran in for the box, and, not a little proud of walking 
 with my father upon the high-road, we set out. 
 
 "Papa," said I, by the way, "there are no fairies, 
 now." 
 
 "What then, my child?" 
 
 " Why, how then can my domino-box be changed into 
 a geranium and a blue-and-white flower-pot ?" 
 
 " My dear," said my father, leaning his hand on my 
 shoulder, " everybody, who is in earnest to be good, 
 carries two fairies about with him ; one here," and he 
 touched my heart, "and one here," and he touched my 
 forehead. 
 
 "I don't understand, papa." 
 
 " I can wait till you do, Pisistratus. What a name !" 
 
 My father stopped at a nursery-gardener's, and, after 
 looking over the flowers, paused before a large double 
 geranium. 
 
 "Ah, this is finer than that which your mamma was 
 BO fond of. What is the cost, sir?" 
 
 " Only Is, 6d.," said the gardener. 
 
 My father buttoned up his pocket. " I can't afford 
 it to-day," said he, gently, and we walked out. On 
 entering the town, we stopped again, at a china ware 
 house.
 
 174 THE STORY OF THE BROKEN FLOWER-POT. 
 
 '* Have you a flower-pot like that I bought some 
 months ago ? Ah, here is one marked 3s. Qd. Yes, 
 that is the price. Well, when your mamma's birth-day 
 comes again, we must buy her another. That is some 
 months to wait. And we can wait, Master Sisty. For 
 truth, that blooms all the year round, is better than a 
 poor geranium ; and a word that is never broken is bet 
 ter than a piece of delf." 
 
 My head, which had drooped before, rose again, but 
 the rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me. 
 
 " I have called to pay your little bill," said my father, 
 entering the shop of one of those fancy stationers, com 
 mon in country towns, and who sell all kinds of pretty 
 toys and nicknacks ; " and, by the way," he added, as 
 the smiling shopman looked over his books for the entry, 
 " I think my little boy, here, can show you a much 
 handsomer specimen of French workmanship than that 
 work-box which you enticed Mrs. Caxton into raffling 
 for, last winter. Show your domino-box, my dear." 
 
 I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal 
 in his commendations. 
 
 " It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing is 
 worth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young 
 gentleman gets tired of his plaything, what will you give 
 him for it?" 
 
 "Why, sir," said the shopman, "I fear we could not 
 afford to give more than eighteen shillings for it, unless 
 the young gentleman took some of these pretty thinga 
 in exchange." 
 
 "Eighteen shillings!" said my father. "You would
 
 THE STORY OF THE BROKEN FLOWER-POT. 175 
 
 give that ? Well, my boy, whenever you do grow tired 
 of your box, you have ray leave to sell it." 
 
 My father paid his bill, and went out. I lingered be 
 hind, a few moments, and joined him at the end of the 
 street. 
 
 *' Papa ! papa !" I cried, clapping my hands, " we fin 
 buy the geranium we can buy the flower-pot ;" ana I 
 pulled a handful of silver from my pockets. 
 
 " Did I not say right?" said my father, passing his 
 handkerchief over his eyes ; " you have found the two 
 fairies !" 
 
 Oh, how proud, how overjoyed I was, when, after 
 placing vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my 
 mother by the gown, and made her follow me to the 
 spot. 
 
 " It is his doing and his money !" said my father ; 
 "good actions have mended the bad." 
 
 "What !" cried my mother, when she had learned all, 
 " and your poor domino-box that you were so fond of ! 
 We will go back, to-morrow, and buy it back, if it costs 
 us double." 
 
 " Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus ?" asked my father. 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! it would spoil all !" I cried, burying 
 my face on my father's breast. 
 
 " My wife," said my father, solemnly, "this is my 
 first lesson to our child, the sanctity and the happiness 
 of self-sacrifice ; undo not what it should teach to hia 
 dying day." 
 
 And this is the history of the broken flower-pot.
 
 IS WORK DEGRADING? 
 
 MAY I claim your attention again, young friends, tc 
 a subject which is often very erroneously considered by 
 persons of your age ? I have referred to it in my letters 
 and little sketches ; it is based on the golden rule of 
 " Do as you would be done by," and it is for the consi 
 deration of the girl in the embroidered muslin as much 
 as for her in the calico dress and check apron. 
 
 Is service degrading ? By service is meant any kind 
 of aid or assistance which can be rendered to those 
 around us. Is it vulgar to be usefully employed ? Is 
 it menial to take care of your own room, to aid in keep 
 ing the house neat, even to go into the kitchen to cook, 
 if necessary, or to iron, or to clear-starch your own mus 
 lins, when you get old enough for such things? I think 
 not. / call the pride Avhich disdains such things vulgar, 
 and the indolence which fears the effort contemptible. 
 
 I do not think it of much advantage to the intellect 
 to engage in such occupations, but it is a healthful recre 
 ation after study ; it has its own beneficial effect in con 
 quering self-indulgence, and in exercising the faculties 
 of observation and judgment. It makes people consi 
 derate, thoughtful, careful, which are womanly attributes; 
 it encourages neatness and order, which are lady-like. 
 It promotes good-will and kindly feelings, and answers 
 and strengthens loving impulses. It is a moral and 
 physical influence for good. 
 
 I have a friend, who has not the means of hiring a
 
 IS WORK DEGRADING? 177 
 
 servant ; she does everything for her household that can 
 contribute to their health, or comfort, or happiness. Her 
 house is neat, her table well supplied, her children pro 
 perly cared for; and when evening comes, and she sits 
 by her little work-table, repairing the wardrobes of the 
 family, while her husband reads aloud to her some well- 
 written book, I will dare' say her appreciation of it is 
 equal to that of the most refined and elegant lady you 
 can name. Indeed, the healthy tone of her mind, its 
 strong, clear sense, its quickness and freshness, lend a 
 zest to the pleasure which I fear the languid lady can 
 never know. 
 
 When such service is not needed, it is no sin not to 
 give it. But the less you do for others or yourself, the 
 less you are inclined to do. It is so much easier to ask 
 a servant for a glass of water, or to get you a book ; it 
 is so much easier, ay, and more lady-like, you think, I 
 know, to ring a bell for a servant to bring your guest 
 refreshments, or to assist her in removing her things. 
 " It is a servant's place to do such things ; it is ungrace 
 ful, and/ussy, and vulgar to do them yourself," you say. 
 /think the most graceful thing in the world is the yield 
 ing of such service to one you love or respect. / think 
 the lady who degrades herself by such service has a very 
 thin covering of ladyhood over an innately vulgar na 
 ture. She is afraid to stoop, lest this vulgarity be ex 
 posed. If she is too much of a lady to take care of her 
 own room, if necessary, she is sufficiently vulgar to be 
 Willing to be surrounded by slovenliness. 
 
 *' The windows might be so dirty that I could not see 
 12
 
 178 IS WORK DEGRADING T 
 
 through them, and I would never Avash them," said a 
 young girl, one day. 
 
 " My dear" I thought she would not brook my say 
 ing it to her " your dirty windows are vulgar, net your 
 friend who desires to make them bright and clean." 
 
 Which is the lady she who sits b}~ an untidy hearth 
 all day, or she who brushes or wipes it clean before she 
 will sit by it ? She who carefully dusts her room, or she 
 who puts on a dress which has left "carelessness" writ 
 ten upon the half-wiped chair or bedstead, where it 
 hung ? 
 
 " PolLencss is to do and say 
 The kindest thing in the kindest way." 
 
 Which is the lady she who calls up the weary maid- 
 of-all-work from the kitchen to wait upon her, or she 
 who goes into the kitchen, and assists the tired girl at 
 the ironing-table ? 
 
 I want to tell you of two circumstances, which come 
 to my memory, to assist you in your decision. 
 
 I knew two young ladies, cousins, in the South. 
 Their family was highly respectable, well connected, but 
 impoverished. Ann was visiting at her uncle's. They 
 could keep but two servants, who had all their time oc 
 cupied by necessary household labour. The weather 
 was such as belongs to July. Fannie went down to the 
 ironing-room one day in every week, and spent most of 
 this day over Ann's ruffles, white muslin dress, and in 
 numerable skirts. They were equally well educated, 
 and in the evening they were equally Avell dressed, and 
 well looking ; but Fannie, whose active, energetic nature
 
 IS WORK DEGRADING f 179 
 
 was quickened by her healthful exercise wnose heart 
 was glowing with true womanly life and love was the 
 charm of the group in the drawing-room. Fresh, vivid, 
 sparkling, her clear, just ideas of life were charming, 
 her piquancy most captivating. Was she less a lady 
 than the gentle, languidly graceful Annie? 
 
 Once I had the happiness of spending an evening in 
 a singularly interesting family. The mother was a lady 
 of noble foreign birth. She had been brought up at a 
 court, educated Avith the king's nieces, married a man 
 of equally noble family ; her oldest child was born heir 
 to a princely estate, and was cradled in princely luxury. 
 But adversity came. The husband fell into disgrace ; 
 the estate Avas confiscated ; he fled to save his life, and 
 the lady and her little one fled with him. 
 
 When I knew them the husband was again in Europe, 
 
 and Madame sustained herself and her now three 
 
 children in a happy competer'vy, by teaching. I met at 
 her house for she was recognised in the highest circles 
 of the city as a lady some of the most elegant and 
 cultivated persons I have ever known. We had mos f 
 excellent music of the harp, piano, and violin ; all the 
 family excelled as musicians. 
 
 Madame had collected a choice library of five 
 
 hundred volumes in the various modern languages, in 
 all of which she was skilled. 
 
 She conversed charmingly, and her daughters were 
 becoming her rivals in accomplishments and graces. 
 
 There were two servants employed about the house 
 hold, but none appeared in the drawing-room that even 
 ing, except once. When refreshments were to be served,
 
 180 IS WORK DEGRADING ? 
 
 they deposited two trays on a side-table, and from them 
 Heinrich, Nina, and Angelique supplied the company. 
 They brought on smaller trays the dainty cups of choco 
 late, the delicate cakes, and bonbons. A Southern lady, 
 to whom this appeared strange, remarked it to another. 
 Madame heard this almost involuntary remark. 
 
 " It is a custom which I find to be peculiar to my own 
 country, but it pleases me to retain it here. When we 
 wished to show honour to a guest in our own chateau, 
 my father, my husband, or myself, for I was an only 
 child, served him with the wine-cup, and suffered no 
 menial to do anything for him. My children allow the 
 servants to do as little as possible for myself, and they 
 reciprocate all kindly offices amongst each other." 
 
 I knew this family for several years. The eldest girl 
 she who had opened her eyes to this world under a 
 silken canopy, and whose apparellings had been the 
 richest laces and embroideries she whom servants with 
 out number had vied with each other in serving was 
 now the little housekeeper. Every morning she went to 
 market, she transacted for her mother all her out-door 
 business, kept her books of accounts, attended to the 
 comfort of the boarding pupils, and to the family ward 
 robe. 
 
 In the course of a few years, Madame 's health 
 
 failed. Her girls kept up the school as well as they 
 could, but the strictest economy became necessary. One 
 servant was dismissed, and Angelique and Nina took her 
 place about the house. Angelique, the elder, became 
 the milliner and dressmaker for the others. They were
 
 THE CHILDREN OF \UE T ,ORD. 181 
 
 young, but they taught, worked, laboured for their mo 
 ther, each other, and their young brother. 
 
 They have become noble women in such a sense as 
 mere accidents of birth or circumstance could never en 
 noble them. They are ladies in every sense of this 
 word. What says the little miss whose white hands 
 never touched a broom or a duster, whose delicate shoes 
 were never soiled on a wet pavement, who is vainly igno 
 rant of all kitchen details, who could not make up a fire, 
 or brush up a hearth, or remove finger-marks from a 
 door, or burnish the brass, or clear-starch her muslins ? 
 Which is the lady, she or Angelique? 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD. 
 
 LITTLE Franz was the son of a Swiss cowherd ; and 
 in his belted blouse and wooden sandals, with an iron- 
 pointed stick in his hand, small as he was, he wandered 
 by his father's side, as he herded his cows on the sum 
 mer-pasture of Mount Flegere. Franz dearly loved the 
 cows ; he knew all of their characters ; they were to him 
 as dear friends to be lovingly tended, and their milky 
 odour was to him a delicious perfume, and the pure, 
 rich, mountain milk seemed always to him like a heavenly 
 gift. But Franz had other pleasures beside the cows : 
 he dearly loved his father, and he would sit for hours on 
 the lofty mountain side, listening to him, as he talked 
 of the magnificent scenery that piled itself in massive
 
 182 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD. 
 
 grandeur before them. It was truly beautiful. Mount 
 Flegere sbuts in on the north the lovely valley of Cha- 
 mouni, which looks like a little Eden, nestling itself at 
 the foot of Mont Blanc. Now Franz, as a Swiss boy, 
 had a wonderful pride in this lofty mountain ; his father 
 told him that it was the highest point in Europe. So 
 the child ever thought that it was nearest to Heaven ; and 
 oftentimes would he sit in the summer evening watching 
 the sunlight fade upon the hills ; first the dark shadow 
 crept over the green and flowery valley, with its winding 
 stream and clustering white houses, and then the sha 
 dow would creep up the dark and gloomy Mont-au-vert, 
 looking so sombre with its coronal of pines ; and then 
 the Mer-de-glace, that frozen sea, would grow black, and 
 the wonderful glacier de Boisson, with its piled ice, 
 looking like a frozen river that had rushed from the 
 cloud-capped hills, and had been congealed in wild, mad 
 waves. For eighteen long leagues did this grand glacier 
 wind its way back among those solitary mountain wilds ; 
 and it filled the little Franz with awe, thus to watch 
 the darkness creeping up, and up, even till the lofty 
 "Needles," with their tapering, heaven-kissing spires, 
 looked like mighty black giants, holding watch and 
 weird over the lowly valley. But he loved so dearly 
 the rosy glory that lingered long around the snow- 
 covered peak of the great mountain when all else was 
 shrouded in darkness, the sunlight gleamed in a won 
 drous beauty on these glistening heights ; and our little 
 Franz thought that angels must live on just such hills in 
 the celestial Heaven, and he never turned his eyes from 
 Uie lingering glory till it had melted to purple, and then.
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD. 183 
 
 he would, with a serene and holy love in his heart, seek 
 his mother in her mountain home. 
 
 The father of Franz, though a cowherd, was not a 
 vulgar man, he had the native grace that marks those 
 mountain peasants ; and, when a boy, had lived in the 
 family of the good Oberlin, and had brought back with 
 him to his mountain home many beautiful thoughts, 
 many sublime truths ; of all these he talked to the little 
 Franz, and thus his thoughts were elevated ever above 
 the earth. Franz could look at nothing that did not 
 make him think of Heaven. And when the short, warm, 
 bright summer was gone, and the herdsman had driven 
 his cows into the valley below, and there left them in 
 the comfortable winter stalls of their rich owner, ah ! 
 then Franz had pleasant hours, when the wintry winds 
 howled in their mad fury, and the drifting snow almost 
 buried the peasant's cottage. Then it was bright and 
 warm and pleasant in the 'long evenings, when the Al 
 pine pine cast such a cheerful blaze of light into every 
 nook and corner of that small room ; and the good mo 
 ther sat plying her distaff, spinning the wool for the 
 warm winter garment, and the kind father, in the bright 
 firelight, carved those pretty Swiss toys that adorn the 
 shops of Geneva, those little tiny cottages that you have 
 often seen even in America. It is one of the delights 
 of the gentle little Franz, to arrange those carved houses 
 into a city a " heavenly Jerusalem" he called it and 
 \hen to people it in his own fancy ; he had fathers and 
 nothers and Franzes in every house ; they were the an 
 gels of God to him ; and thus he made himself happy 
 with beautiful fancies.
 
 184 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD. 
 
 Franz had never had a child to play with ; he had 
 seen children in the valley, and he longed, oftentimes, 
 to play with them, but he was timid, and was little ac 
 customed to the usual ways of children, so that he had 
 never spoken to a child. Hence the children in his 
 "heavenly Jerusalem" were peculiarly dear to him. 
 
 But winter, too, has its bright days on the Alps, when 
 the sky is blue and cloudless, and the sunlight glitters 
 from mountain side to mountain side, in dazzling bril 
 liancy, and clothes the earth with a jewelled robe of 
 crystalline beauty. It was such a day as this when 
 Franz thought he would make a winter excursion ; it 
 was the first time in his life that he had gone alone on 
 the mountain, when its summer paths were all covered 
 over ; for he was only eight years old. But the father 
 had gone to the valley to make purchases, and the mo 
 ther was using the bright sunshine to do housework, 
 and Franz, left to himself, drew on his hooded sheep 
 skin coat, took his staff in his hand, and followed with 
 eager step the track of a chamois in the snow. The 
 keen mountain air braced his active little limbs, and on 
 and on he went, till a sensation of hunger made him 
 think of his home and his dinner. But, alas ! vain waa 
 this thought, for Franz knew not where he was, the 
 mountain was strange to him, he recognised nothing, he 
 knew not which way to turn. Alone on the wild and 
 desolate mountain, cold and hungry, poor Franz was 
 very sad ; and now, to his terror, the wind began its 
 shrill whistle around the icy crags The little warmth 
 that the bright sun gave was dissipated by the cold, cold 
 winds. Franz wandered about hopelessly, every moment
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD. 185 
 
 nis feet and hands grew more numb ; he could no longer 
 hold his little staff, and finally crouched down in despair, 
 heside a sheltering rock. He knew that he must keep 
 himself awake, or the death-sleep would come. But, 
 hungry and tired and frozen, the child yielded to the 
 lethargy. Yet, as it was coming on, Franz thought he 
 would say his prayers ; but his frozen brain could only 
 recall the words, with which his dear mother always 
 parted from him : 
 
 " Trust God, 
 Dear child ; 
 God, the Lord, 
 Sees and knows 
 Everything." 
 
 And thus Franz slept. But it was a beautiful sleep, 
 for in a moment a glorious summer sun shone around 
 him, so warm and bright, that it seemed an infinite com 
 fort to him ; and he was lying on a green, soft bank ; 
 it was as if he had just ceased uttering his little prayer, 
 and yet how wonderful it was he looked down on a city, 
 not the village of Chamouni, but a city as of finely 
 carved Swiss cottages, ranged in beautiful order on a 
 green and sunny slope high on the smiling mountain 
 side. On one side were rich pasture fields, and cows, 
 so large, and mild, and beautiful, were feeding there ; 
 on the other side of the fair city lay another green field, 
 and still waters were flowing through it, and the whitest 
 lambs were browsing on soft grass and starry-looking 
 flowers, and a wondrous light lay over it all. Franz 
 rubbed his eyes, and looked again it was a living pio
 
 186 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD. 
 
 ture of what he had so often seen in his own mind. But 
 what was his joy to see children, real, beautiful children, 
 walking out of those pretty houses boys and girls, in 
 Swiss dresses. And their blue eyes, and clear mountain 
 complexions, and flowing yellow curls, were prettier far 
 than any that Franz had ever seen. The children 
 greeted each other with a glad joy, and then formed 
 into groups ; and some went into the pastures and ran 
 about in perfect delight, gathering the rich clover flow 
 ers, with which to feed the cows. Some were making 
 garlands, with which they decked the lambs that sported 
 with them ; others climbed the mountain side, and plucked 
 the luscious grapes that hung from white trellises. Franz 
 was charmed it was such a vision of beauty to his 
 delighted eyes. So many children he had never before 
 seen. Presently a little girl stood before him ; she was 
 so bright and gentle that Franz could only think she 
 was an angel of God ; for round her shone a soft, lumi 
 nous light, and her white dress was more pure and 
 glistening than the snows of the mountain, and the 
 wreath of flowers that crowned her bright curls and 
 shining face were blue as a cloudless sky ; but the rosy 
 light in her cheek seemed all at once to change them 
 into roses, for the warm blood rushed into her fair cheek 
 as she said, "Wilt thou come and play?" Franz 
 thought how would his shaggy coat and wooden shoes 
 look in that company. But then again he saw that he 
 too was dressed in beautiful garments, and the little 
 girl held a wreath in one hand, which she smilingly 
 placed on his head ; then she kissed him and said, 
 " Thou art very beautiful ;" and her love filled the heart
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD 187 
 
 ol Franz with an inexpressible happiness. Yes, now he 
 haJ a child to play with, the yearning anguish of his 
 henrt was satisfied, and he followed the dear little one 
 as she bounded before him, looking back so bright and 
 happy. And then she stopped in a grassy spo.t, whero 
 a clear spring bubbled up, and two silver-leafed olive 
 trees interlaced their branches above it, and birds sang 
 in the trees, and the purple grapes hung from the twining 
 vines that clasped their curling tendrils round the trees, 
 clothing them in a rich and wondrous drapery of beauty. 
 The little child bid Franz be seated, and said to him, 
 " Wilt thou drink ?" And she took a crystal cup and 
 dipped it into the sparkling waters. Never did an 
 earthly king drink from such a jewelled cup. And the 
 waters were like life to him. And the -little one said, 
 " These are the waters of truth that our Lord gives us." 
 And Franz said to her, "Whose child art thou?" And 
 she answered, " I am the Lord's child." And she said, 
 " Thou hast drank of the waters of truth, wilt thou not 
 now eat of the bread of life ?" And she held before 
 him a plate of gold, and fine bread was on it. The 
 hungry Franz ate with a boundless delight. Then she 
 plucked purple grapes, and said, " Eat ! for this is the 
 fruit of good works." And she laughingly said, " I 
 think our Lord has let me perform a very good work 
 this happy day, for thou art hungry and thirsty, and He 
 has sent me to fill thy mouth with good things." And 
 the heart of Franz must have beamed out of his eyes, 
 for his heart was filled with good things too. Then the 
 angel-child said, " Shall we not go into the heavenly 
 city, the New Jerusalem?" And she led Franz down
 
 188 THE CHILDREN OP THE LORD. 
 
 the mountain side. But what a wonderful city was tlna 
 when he came near to it ! Afar off he had thought it a city 
 of Swiss cottages, but when he came near he found that 
 " the building of the wall of it was jasper, and the city 
 was pure gold, like unto clear glass ; and the twelve 
 gates were twelve pearls, every several gate was of one 
 pearl ; and the street of the city was pure gold, as it 
 were transparent glass. And the city had no need of 
 the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it, for the glory 
 of God did lighten it." And wonderful it was for Franz, 
 as he walked there in all this magnificence and beauty, 
 to look up and see, as it were, Mont Blanc, towering in a 
 holy grandeur, but bright with an exceeding great glory. 
 The angel said, " That is the hill of the Lord, great and 
 high, and light ever flows from the Divine Sun upon it, 
 and its rosy glory never fades." Franz saw happy 
 children coming in from the green fields, and singing, 
 as they went, holy songs of love to the Lord, and love 
 to each other. And he turned to his companion and 
 said, " Whose are these children ?" and she, smiling, 
 said, " All, all are the Lord's children ; and thou, too, 
 art the child of the Lord !" And the blessedness of 
 our little Franz was like a perfect love ; when all at once 
 the shadow of a great darkness fell upon him ; he could 
 no longer see the angel-child ; for a moment he heard 
 her voice, then he was deaf to that ; the glorious city 
 was shut out from him ; he felt the most dreadful sensa 
 tions a mighty agony the pain of suffocation a ter 
 rible contraction ; and poor Franz opened his eyes in 
 his own peasant home. Oh, he could not bear it the 
 heaven-life was gone. But Franz heard his mother's
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD. 189 
 
 deep sobs, and then he had a great pity for the earth- 
 sorrow, and he opened his eyes and said, "Mother!" 
 And the good mother now wept for joy. Oh, how she 
 had mourned her little Franz ; what agonies she had 
 Buffered at his loss ; and how she and the father had 
 searched until they had found the frozen L y ; and how 
 they had striven to bring back life into thob stiff limbs. 
 Franz listened to it all, but weary tears were in his eyes. 
 All that he could say was, " Ah, mother, I was so happy ! 
 why did you bring me back here ?" But the mother 
 could not understand him ; and it was many days before 
 Franz was strong enough to tell what he had seen in the 
 death-sleep, when his outer body was partially separated 
 from his spirit, and he had come into his spiritual con 
 sciousness. The mother and the father listened with 
 awe; the child had seen angels; he had talked with 
 them eaten and drank with them ; had actually walked 
 in the streets of the heavenly New Jerusalem ; yea, had 
 been an angel himself for a few blissful moments. Then 
 said the loving mother, " Ah, Franz, had I known thy 
 joys I would not have wished thee back." And the 
 pale sickly boy turned his large blue beaming eyes upon 
 her and said, " It is well, dear mother ; I thank the dear 
 God that He let me come back to tell you how happy I 
 was. When I go again, thou wilt not mourn, dear 
 mother." And the mother saw that her little Franz 
 would very soon go again to the beautiful city. But she 
 wiped the tears from her eyes, and was glad in the joys 
 that awaited her only little one. She no more called 
 him hers ; he was the " Lord's child," and she loved him 
 vith a most holy love, and tended him gently, for pining
 
 190 GIRLS' HEADS AGAINST VEST PATTERNS 
 
 sickness had come upon the little mountain boy. And 
 when the early spring came, they dug a grave on the 
 mountain side, and the dust of his body crumbled to its 
 mother earth in sight of the great mountain. And while 
 the mother loved to linger round the green mound, and 
 the father r ove his cattle to feed on that sunny slope, 
 that he mi. nt sit beside the grave of his little one, yd 
 they never mourned ; it was to them a joy and blessed 
 ness that Franz had gone to the great and beautiful 
 city, to sport there for ever with " The Children of the 
 Lord." 
 
 GIRLS' HEADS AGAINST VEST PATTERNS. 
 
 " TICKLED TO DEATH Boys when they arrive at age, 
 and girls when they first lay their heads against a vest 
 pattern."- 
 
 As we never were a boy, we cannot attempt to speak 
 of the sensations one would experience at any age, but 
 we are somewhat curious about that other matter. Can 
 any girl remember how she felt when she first laid her 
 head " against a vest pattern ?" 
 
 How old is she, usually, at that particular and impor 
 tant time ? Can you inform us ? We had always before 
 supposed that little girls had papas who loved and 
 caressed them, and that their heads were laid against 
 vest patterns a thousand times before they could talk. 
 We are certain they have a right to that place for their 
 heads while their fathers live ; and where there is a pro-
 
 GIRLS' HEADS AGAINST VEST PATTERNS. 191 
 
 per state of feeling existing between the parties they 
 will often be laid there. 
 
 Mr. Smith, is that tall and elegant daughter of yours 
 in the habit of it ? Have you become so accustomed to 
 it from her childhood, that you do not go home at night 
 from the business of the day with one-half the pleasure, 
 iv hen you know she is out of town, or visiting her cou 
 sins? It is your own fault, if it is otherwise. Your 
 little girl, of eight or ten, watches the hour for your 
 coming, and stands with longing heart and wistful eyes ; 
 how she would love to bound into your arms, and 
 lay her head there. But your brow is knit, and your 
 head is full of bank stock and merchandise ; you do not 
 even notice her, and she glides away with a quivering 
 lip, and an aching void within. Father, how can you 
 thus defraud your daughter ? You think of her some 
 times with affection, when your business is not very press 
 ing ! Occasionally, once a year, perhaps, you bring home 
 a present for her, and she thanks you, and gives the re 
 quired kiss very respectfully and timidly. At some of 
 these times it may, perhaps, strike you that she is cold. 
 Alas ! you yourself, with your chilling indifference, have 
 frozen over the gushing fountain that would else have 
 fertilized your heart with its overflowing freshness ; you 
 have dimmed the brightness of that jewel, whose spark 
 ling rays would have enlightened and vivified your life ; 
 you have crushed the tender flower, whose fragrance 
 would have penetrated to, and gladdened your very 
 soul. Ah, fathei ! how can you thus have defrauded your 
 self? 
 
 There is often too little manifestation of affection in
 
 192 GIRLS' HEADS AGAINST VEST PATTERNS 
 
 the family circle. This is something peculiai// acooa- 
 sary to the happiness of girls ; if they do not receive it 
 at home, they will be tempted to accept it elsewhere, 
 and you may some fine day find your daughter's head 
 laid against the vest pattern of one whom you would be 
 far from choosing as her companion for life. 
 
 George, or Henry, you really love that pretty sistei 
 of yours, and are often proud of her when in company 
 together. Why do you, when at home, assume an in 
 difference in your manner to her, amounting almost to 
 contempt ? or notice, only to tease her ? Think you, by 
 this, to establish your superiority ? Would it be dero 
 gatory to your incipient manhood to caress and speak 
 kindly to one who loves you devotedly, and who would 
 repay you a thousand-fold for every attention you might 
 bestow ? You live in the same house ; sit at the same 
 table brother and sister. Yet are you companions I 
 had almost said friends, even? You have your own 
 affairs, which you do not condescend to communicate to 
 her, unless it is in a general, boastful kind of a way, to 
 illustrate the above-mentioned superiority, and you will 
 not listen, if she attempts to enlist your sympathy in 
 any of hers. 
 
 Suppose you try the experiment, for once. On com 
 ing home, to-morrow, seat yourself by her side, with the 
 remark that you have something to tell her. 
 
 She may, perhaps, be startled, and think you are at 
 some of your old tricks ; but let her see you are in ear 
 nest. Relate a pleasant scene, or ask her advice about 
 something, and before you have done, if you tell your 
 ttory well, you can have your arm around her waist, and
 
 GIRLS' HEADS AGAINST VEST PATTERNS. 193 
 
 her head against your vest pattern. It will do yourself, 
 as well as her, more good than you can well imagine. 
 You will feel that you have a treasure, a source of de 
 light unthought of before. 
 
 From that time consult with her frequently upon your 
 plans and projects. You will find her faithful, sensible, 
 and quick to arrive at a correct conclusion ; grateful for 
 your confidence, and ready to do anything in her power 
 to assist you. I once knew a brother who said to his 
 sister, in a half-sportive way, 
 
 " You are very pretty prettier than any of the girls 
 I see around, and I believe I will court you" as the 
 term was then used " for my wife." 
 
 " Very well," said she, in the same strain ; " come on, 
 and see if you can get me." 
 
 From that time he redoubled his attentions to her ; 
 and what was the result? Why, the interchange of 
 kindly acts, and the never speaking to each other ex 
 cept in words of affection, strengthened and increased 
 their attachment for each other to a remarkable degree, 
 and they remained through life connected by the strong 
 est and purest ties of friendship. So true it is, that 
 where love is expressed, that love will increase, and 
 where it is repressed or neglected, it will diminish and 
 die. 
 
 Fathers ! Brothers ! The salutary influence of those 
 heads, beautiful in their rich and glossy ringlets, often 
 laid against your vest patterns, against your hearts, will 
 be felt by you in the counting-room, in the street, and 
 in the public assembly, inciting you to good, and turning 
 away your feet from the path to ruin. 
 13
 
 FAITHFUL LOVE A FAMILY PICTURE. 
 
 THE scene is a domestic one ; the season, winter : the 
 time, night. Supper is cleared away, and the infant, 
 held in pa's arm during the performance of that neces 
 sary duty, has been restored to her mother, to nestle, 
 and smile, and sleep. 
 
 John and Charlotte, the elder two, have drawn pic 
 tures on their slates ; Alfred and Robert have romped 
 and tussled upon the floor, by turns, shouting with laugh 
 ter, or crying over short-lived hurts ; pa himself has 
 settled with his green glasses to read a late number of 
 Brother Bird's Medium, while Uncle Frank, weary with 
 the bodily labours of the day, is half asleep in the cor 
 ner, though with his eyes fixed upon Burns's Poems, and 
 making a half-pretence of reading it. 
 
 All at once a simultaneous shout arises from the juve 
 nile group ; there is a throwing down of slates, with a 
 bang, upon the table, and a rush for the possession of 
 pa's knee. The shout is, "Pa, tell us some stories!" 
 And it is clear from the general look of assurance and 
 the happy little faces, both that this is a very common 
 practice at this time of night, and that the practice is a 
 highly pleasing one, if not to pa himself, at least to hia 
 little pets. 
 
 A squabble for the knee results, as usual, in favour of 
 the youngest, by name Robert, by nature coarse and 
 piratical ; and the other three content themselves with 
 leaning full weight upon the shoulders and limbs of the
 
 FAITHFUL LOVE. 195 
 
 beleaguered parent, weights that would crush an ox, but 
 do not discompose a father, who rather looks as though 
 he could hold four or five more. 
 
 " And now who shall hear the first story ?" 
 
 " Sister begin with her!" 
 
 " Well, what shall it be about?" 
 
 "A sailor," says John. 
 
 u A little girl," says sis. 
 
 " A panther," says Alf. 
 
 " A monkey," says Robert. 
 
 " A little girl it shall be, and so all of you listen with 
 all your might. 
 
 " Once there was a little girl, about eight years old, 
 named Mary. And there was a lady who was very kind 
 to Mary, ani made clothes for her and mended them 
 when torn, and washed them when they needed it. And 
 this lady never seemed tired of taking care of Mary. 
 For when she was only a little baby the lady nursed her. 
 When she was old enough to walk, the lady taught her 
 to walk. She taught her to say her letters, and to read, 
 and afterwards to write to sew and to knit. 
 
 " She gave her a little garden and rose-bushes and 
 flower-seeds to plant in it, and a little hoe to kill' the 
 weeds. She taught her how to sing hymns, and night 
 and morning to kneel down at her side to pray God for 
 His blessings. As soon as she got big enough she sent 
 her to school. She paid a great deal of money to the 
 schoolmaster every session, and bought her a great many 
 books. 
 
 " Now how do you think this little girl should have 
 treated that kind, good lady ?"
 
 196 FAITHFUL LOVE. 
 
 " She ought to do what she told her," says John. 
 
 " She ought to love her mighty good," says sis. 
 
 "I'd whip her if she wasn't," says Alf. 
 
 "Never cry a bit," says Rob. 
 
 " Well, now, strange as it may sound to you, that little 
 girl didn't always do what the kind lady told her, and 
 she wasn't always good. Sometimes she was very 
 naughty, sometimes she would tell stories, sometimes 
 quarrel with others. 
 
 " Then this good, kind lady, instead of sending the 
 bad girl off, would correct her for being naughty, and 
 pray God to make her better : and then so soon as the 
 little girl was sorry and would try to be good, the lady 
 would kiss her and love her as well as ever. Now, wasn't 
 that lady a most charming good lady?" 
 
 " Just as good as could be," says John. 
 
 " The goodest ever I heard of," says sis. 
 
 "I'd a whipped her harder," muttered Alf. 
 
 By this time Rob had gone to sleep, and, of course, 
 said nothing. 
 
 " At last this little girl was taken sick, oh, very sick 
 indeed. She had the fever, and was as sick as she could 
 be. Being sick made her very cross and bad. She 
 would scream aloud at the least noise. She would re 
 fuse to take medicine, until they had to pour it down 
 her throat. She lost her senses, and did not know 
 anybody. 
 
 " But the good kind lady, never got tired of watching 
 over her, and taking care of her. For more than seven 
 nights she never went to bed, but sat by the side of the 
 sick little girl, from sunset to sunrise. She never got
 
 FAITHFUL LOVE. 197 
 
 angry with her once. She would take her out of bed, and 
 hold her in her arms. She mixed her medicines. She 
 prayed to God a thousand times that the dear little girl 
 might get well. Oh, she was a dear, good lady, don't 
 you think so ?" 
 
 " But did she get well ?" asked the three. 
 
 "No; poor little Mary died. After all the kind 
 lady's care, after all her trouble, and watching, and 
 everything, she died. They put her into a coffin and 
 huried her. All the other folks soon forgot that there 
 ever had been such a little girl as Mary. But the dear, 
 good lady never forgot it. No, she never forgot little 
 Mary. She kept all her clothes and her little doll. 
 And she cried and mourned whenever she remembered 
 little Mary. She was never happy again after Mary 
 died. And when she died, which was about fire years 
 afterwards, she said she hoped she should find little 
 Mary in Heaven. They buried that kind, good lady by 
 little Mary's side. Now, John, what do you think made 
 that lady love Mary so well, and take so much care of 
 her, and be sorry for her death ?" 
 
 John does not know. He thinks she was a most ex 
 cellent good woman, but 'tis very strange she should 
 think so long about Mary after she was dead. 
 
 "And what say you, Alf?" 
 
 Alf thinks Mary must have had a heap of money or 
 something ! Or else he don't know why the lady should 
 care so much for her. 
 
 " And what says little sis to it ?" 
 
 The little girl has a big tear in each eye ; ai i there 
 is a track down each cheek, where a number of then?
 
 198 THE WAT MY MITHER BID IT. 
 
 have chased each other. She glances towards her mo 
 ther, whose eye meets hers, as if there was a mutual 
 intelligence between them, only understood by the female 
 sex. Then looking boldly up in the father's face, with 
 the air of one who could solve the difficulty with ease, 
 she answered, 
 
 " 'Twas her ma ! the dear, good lady was her ma!" 
 And sure enough little pussy guessed it. 
 
 THE WAY MY MITHER DID IT. 
 
 I STEPPED into the dining-room the other day, and 
 found my nice Scotch help arranging the delf (as she 
 calls it) on the shelves of the cupboard, in a very fanci 
 ful manner. The plates all turned upon their edges 
 against the back, and the saucers bottom up, with each 
 a cup upright, and a spoon inside. 
 
 "Why, Ann," I exclaimed, "don't do so; I don't 
 like it." 
 
 " It's the way my mither did it, in the old country, 
 ina'am, and I think it's so pretty," she replied, with an 
 earnest appealing look, and the tears almost starting 
 from her eyes. 
 
 "And my mother taught me to put them up as they 
 were arranged before," said I. " I think you had better 
 replace them." 
 
 " Just as ye likes," was her answer, in a subdued and 
 rather disappointed, tone "just as ye .likes. Every-
 
 
 THE WAY MY MITHER DID IT. 199 
 
 bt- \y l)<es the ways of a mither, I'm thinking; and be 
 sure jw should have your own way in your own house." 
 An 3 the began to return them to their places with all 
 possible aespatch. 
 
 I saw she looked hurt. Old memories were welling 
 up in her hea/t old memories of days gone by, when 
 in her native land, in the simple cottage beside th& 
 " bonnie Byr^e," she had made the most of her 
 "mither's" scaiwy table furniture. 
 
 She was thinking of the days of her childhood the 
 mer-y days amoutj the heather and the blue-bells, upon 
 the brae. Of Robin, who came over the moor, and sat 
 by the " ingleside," of a winter evening; of the father, 
 who played the bagpipes, and the mother, the good, 
 loving mother, that, 
 
 " Wi' her needle and her shears, 
 Gars auld clothes look amaist as vreel as new." 
 
 And all unconsciously, perchance, had her hands piled 
 up the delf, in fantastic rows. And I had bade her 
 stop. Already I was sorry for the order, so deep and 
 holy a feeling, to my mind, is the love and reverence for 
 a mother. 
 
 "Never mind, Ann," said I; "never mind; put 
 them up to suit yourself, to-day, and another time I will 
 have them my way." 
 
 " Will I, then ?" said she, turning to me, with a faco 
 burning with smiles and thankfulness, while her eyes 
 were almost swimming in tears. " Will I, then ? All 
 the day long, as I go there, I'll be thinking of my 
 mither, and I'll work all the better for ye, for thinking
 
 200 THE WAY MY HITHER DID IT. 
 
 of her. For she taught me many a lesson to be true 
 for those I wrought for. It's but a small thing to bo 
 sure, but it does my heart good, now and then, to be 
 following her ways. For, somehow, I think that she 
 never taught me a wrong thing." 
 
 I turned away. There were old memories tugging at 
 my heart-strings, too, awakened by this simple incident, 
 which had taught me, in one moment, more of the deep, 
 earnest nature of the girl, than months of the common 
 round of daily duty. Who that has had a mother, gentle 
 and kind, that does not love, now and then, " to be fol 
 lowing her ways?" 
 
 Had I sneered at those ways, and touched rudely and 
 roughly that vibrating chord of affection, would Ann 
 have loved me, and gone on with a cheerful, willing 
 heart with my work ? Would her step have been light, 
 and her song plaintive, yet cheerful, through all the day 
 if I had crushed those upspringing memories of a 
 joyous time, by forbidding her this innocent display of 
 individualism ? 
 
 Much is written, and much more talked, of the worth- 
 lessness of hired girls. And how shall we remedy evils ? 
 is the question everywhere echoing in our ears. Much, 
 too, is written and talked, of the tyranny and harshness 
 of employers. 
 
 There is wrong on both sides. There are many very 
 worthless girls, heartless and unfaithful. Many mis 
 tresses of the same stamp. But there are those who 
 are strong, and brave, and true ; who, though circum 
 stances compel them to fill a subordinate position, have 
 hearts and minds that would grace any station in life.
 
 THE WAY MY MITHER DID IT. 201 
 
 Whc shall measure the value of kindness to them ? The 
 sympathetic word in their lonely condition ; the smile 
 of encouragement ; the yielding, now and then, to that 
 earnest feeling of spontaneity, that asks an utterance in 
 every true soul. A word, a look, may bind them to us, 
 and make them fast friends in our hour of need. Ay, 
 lift them up take their feet from the miry " slough of 
 despond," and place them upon the rock of patience 
 and forbearance, and send them onward and upward in 
 the way of duty. A word, and a look, too, may utterly 
 discourage them, by tearing away the delicate tendrils 
 of hope and trust, which have been clinging and reach 
 ing upward for a higher and better life. And they will 
 fall prostrate, trailing all that is beautiful in their natures 
 among the noxious weeds at their feet, with no hand to 
 lift them up, no heart to sympathize with their earnest 
 longing, or to support their feeble efforts. 
 
 They are lost. Lost to themselves, to goodness, and 
 to God, but not to the world around them. For while 
 they grovel, so surely will they drag others down to a 
 level with themselves, and society in generations to come, 
 may feel through its members the wrong done by a word 
 unfitly spoken. 
 
 ]^o single class of persons hold the comfort of families 
 so much in their own hands, as that called " servant 
 girls." If the help in the kitchen is out of tune, there 
 is little harmony in the household. A little patient 
 kindness may make all sunshine ; a little petulance, 
 haughtiness, pride or contempt, may make all storm and 
 darkness. 
 
 Strive encouragingly to cultivate the good and root
 
 202 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 out the evil. Respect tlieir rights as you would have 
 your own respected, remembering that no rights are so 
 Bacred, as the right to our own thoughts, our loves, and 
 our own sweet memories, shrined away in our holy ot 
 holies the heart, where no stranger can enter rudely, 
 or with the sneer of contempt, and not raise within ua 
 antagonism, disgust, or dislike. Their sweet and plea 
 sant memories are as dear to them as the cherished of 
 our own and which, if roughly scoffed aside, simple 
 though they may be, cause them to feel that we are 
 enemies, and not friends spies upon their inner life, 
 and they will be very apt to treat us accordingly. Oh ! 
 there are rights higher and holier than those appertain 
 ing to dollars and cents. There is a justice which is not 
 weighed by pounds and ounces, or measured by hours or 
 minutes. .Thousands may be just, so far as contract 
 goes, living up truly to its very article, yet each and 
 every one be unjust to the true life, unjust to all the 
 better feelings of the soul. 
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 A GRECIAN philosopher being asked why he wept for 
 the death of his son, since the sorrow was in vain, re 
 plied, " I weep on that account." And his answer be 
 came his wisdom. It is only for sophists to contend 
 that we, whose eyes contain the fountains of tears, need 
 never give way to them. It would be unwise not to do 
 BO on some occasions. Sorrow unlocks them in her
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 203 
 
 balmy moods. The first bursts may be bitter and over 
 whelming ; but the soil on which they pour would be 
 worse without them. They refresh the fever of the soul 
 the dry misery which parches the countenance into 
 furrows, and renders us liable to our most terrible 
 "flesh quakes." 
 
 There are sorrows, it is true, so great that to give 
 them some of the ordinary vents, is to run a hazard of 
 being overthrown. These we must rather strengthen 
 ourselves to resist, or bow quietly and dryly down, in 
 order' to let them pass over us, as the traveller does the 
 wind of the desert. But where we feel that teais would 
 relieve us, it is false philosophy to deny ourselves at 
 least that first refreshment ; and it is always false conso 
 lation to tell people that because they cannot help a 
 thing, they are not to mind it. The true way is to let 
 them grapple with the unavoidable sorrow, and try to 
 win it into gentleness by a reasonable yielding. There 
 are griefs so gentle in their very nature, that it would 
 be worse than false heroism to refuse them a tear. Of 
 this kind are the deaths of infants. Particular circum 
 stances may render it more or less advisable to indulge 
 in grief for the loss of a little child ; but, in general, 
 parents should be no more advised to repress their first 
 tears on such an occasion, than to repress their smiles 
 towards a child surviving, or to indulge in any other 
 sympathy. It is an appeal to the same gentle tender 
 ness : and such appeals are never made in vain. The 
 end of them is an acquittal from the harsher bonds of 
 affliction from the tying down of the spirit to one me- 
 bncholy idea.
 
 204 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 It is the nature of tears of this kind, however strongly 
 they may gush forth, to run into quiet waters at last 
 We cannot easily, for the whole course of our lives, 
 think with pain of any good and kind person whom we 
 hi.ve lost. It is the divine nature of their qualities to 
 conquer pain and death itself : to turn the memory of 
 them into pleasure ; to survive with a placid aspect in 
 our imaginations. We are writing at this moment just 
 opposite a spot which contains the grave of one inex 
 pressibly dear to us. We see from our window the trees 
 about it, and the church spire. The green fields lie 
 around. The clouds are travelling overhead, alternately 
 taking away the sunshine, and restoring it. The vernal 
 winds, piping of the flowery summer-time, are neverthe 
 less calling to mind the far distant and dangerous ocean, 
 which the heart that lies in that grave had many reasons 
 to think of. And yet the sight of this spot does not 
 give us pain. So far from it, it is the existence of that 
 grave which doubles every charm of the spot; which 
 links the pleasures of our childhood and manhood toge 
 ther ; which puts a hushing tenderness in the winds, and 
 a patient joy upon the landscape ; which seems to unite 
 heaven and earth, mortality and immortality, the grass 
 of the tomb and the grass of the green field : and gives 
 a more maternal aspect to the whole kindness of nature. 
 It does not hinder gayety itself. Happiness was what 
 its tenant, through all her troubles, would have diffused. 
 To diffuse happiness, and to enjoy it, is not only carrying 
 on her wishes, but realizing her hopes ; and gayety, freed 
 from its only pollutions, malignity and want of sympa 
 thy, is but a child playing about the knees of its mother.
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 205 
 
 The remembered innocence and endearments of a child 
 stand us in stead of virtues that have died older. Chil 
 dren have not exercised the voluntary offices of friend 
 ship ; they have not chosen to be kind and good to us, 
 nor stood by us from conscious will in the hour of ad 
 versity. But they have shared their pleasures and pains 
 with us as well as they could ; the interchange of good 
 offices between us has of necessity been less mingled 
 with the troubles of the world ; the sorrow arising from 
 their death is the only one which we can associate with 
 their memories. These are happy thoughts that cannot 
 die. Our loss may always render them pensive ; but 
 they will not always be painful. It is a part of the 
 benignity of Nature that pain does not survive like plea 
 sure, at any time, much less where the cause of it is an 
 innocent one. The smile will remain reflected by me 
 mory, as the moon reflects the light upon us when the 
 sun has gone into heaven. 
 
 When writers like ourselves quarrel with earthly pain 
 (we mean writers of the same intentions, without imply 
 ing, of course, anything about abilities or otherwise), 
 they are misunderstood, if they are supposed to quarrel 
 with pains of every sort. This would be idle and effemi 
 nate. They do not pretend, indeed, that humanity iiaight 
 not wish, if it could, to be entirely free from pain : for 
 it endeavours, at all times, to turn pain into pleasure, 
 or at least to set off the one with the other, to make the 
 former a zest, and the latter a refreshment. The most 
 unaffected dignity of suffering does this, and if wise ac 
 knowledges it. The greatest benevolence towards others, 
 the most unselfish relish of their pleasures, even at its
 
 206 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 own expense, does but look to increasing the geneial 
 stock of happiness, though content, if it could, to have 
 its identity swallowed up in that splendid contemplation. 
 We are far from meaning that this is to be called selfish 
 ness. We are far, indeed, from thinking so, or of so 
 confounding words. But neither is it to be called pain 
 when most unselfish, if disinterestedness be truly under 
 Btood. The pain that is in it softens into pleasure, as 
 the darker hue of the rainbow melts into the brighter 
 Yet even if a harsher line is to be drawn between the 
 pain and pleasure of the most unselfish mind (and ill 
 health, for instance, may draw it), we should not quarrel 
 with it if it contributed to the general mass of comfort, 
 and were of a nature which general kindliness could not 
 avoid. Made as we are, there are certain pains, with 
 out which it would be difficult to conceive certain great 
 and overbalancing pleasures. We may conceive it pos 
 sible for beings to be made entirely, happy ; but in our 
 composition something of pain seems to be a necessary 
 ingredient, in order that the materials may turn to as 
 fine account as possible, though our clay, in the course 
 of ages and experience, may be refined more and more. 
 We may get rid of the worst earth, though not of earth 
 itself. 
 
 Now the liability to the loss of children or rather 
 what renders us sensible of it, the occasional loss itself 
 seems to be one of these necessary bitters thrown into 
 the cup of humanity. We do not mean that every ono 
 must lose one of his children in order to enjoy the rest; 
 or that every individual loss afflicts us in the same pro 
 portion. We allude to the deaths of infants in general.
 
 DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 207 
 
 These might be as few as we could render them. But 
 if none at all ever took place, we should regard every 
 little child as a man or woman secured ; and it will 
 easily be conceived what a world of endearing cares and 
 hopes this security would endanger. The very idea of 
 infancy would lose its continuity with us. Girls and 
 boys would be future men and women, not present chil 
 dren. They would have attained their full growth in 
 our imaginations, and might as well have been men and 
 women at once. On the other hand, those who have lost 
 an infant are never, as it were, without an infant child. 
 They are the only persons who, in one sense, retain it 
 always, and they furnish their neighbours with the same 
 idea. The other children grow up to manhood and wo 
 manhood, and suffer all the changes of mortality. This 
 one alone is rendered an immortal child. Death has 
 arrested it with his kindly harshness, and blessed it into 
 an eternal image of youth and innocence. 
 
 Of such as these are the pleasantest shapes that visit 
 our fancy and hopes. They are the ever-smiling em 
 blems of joy ; the prettiest pages that wait upon ima 
 gination. Lastly, " Of these are the kingdom of heaven." 
 Wherever there is a province of that benevolent and all- 
 accessible empire, whether on earth or elsewhere, such 
 are the gentle spirits that must inhabit it. To such sim 
 plicity, or the resemblance of it, must they come. Such 
 must be the ready confidence of their hearts, and cre- 
 ativeness of their fancy. And so ignorant must they be 
 of the " knowledge of good and evil," losing their dis 
 cernment o f that self-created trouble, by enjoying the 
 garden before them, and not being ashamed of what is 
 kindly and innocent.
 
 A HOME FOR MY MOTHER. 
 
 THE following interesting narrative of one of those 
 real struggles of the young to assist their parents, which 
 sparkle like diamonds along the pathway of life, is taken 
 from a paper published in Wisconsin. 
 
 Being called, says the narrator, on business to the 
 United States "Land Office," and, while there, await 
 ing the completion of my business, a lad, apparently 
 about sixteen or seventeen years old, came in, and pre 
 sented to the receiver a certificate of purchase for forty 
 acres of land. I was struck with the countenance and 
 general appearance of the lad, and inquired of him for 
 whom he was purchasing the land. 
 
 "For myself, sir," the reply was. 
 
 I then inquired where he got the money. 
 
 " I earned it by my labour," he answered. 
 
 " Then," said I, "you richly deserve the land." 
 
 I then inquired, " Where did you come from ?" 
 
 " New York," said he. 
 
 Feeling an increased desire to know something more 
 of this lad, I asked him whether he had parents, and 
 where they lived ; on this question he took a seat and 
 gave me the following narrative : 
 
 " I am from New York State have there living a 
 father, mother, and five brothers and sisters. I am the 
 oldest child. Father is a drinking man, and often 
 would return home from his day's work drunk, and not
 
 A HOME FOR MY MOTHER. 209 
 
 a cent in his pocket to buy food for the family, having 
 spent all his day's earnings in liquor with his drinking 
 companions ; the family had to depend chiefly on mother 
 and myself for bread ; this distressed mother much, anl 
 had a powerful effect on my feelings. Finding that 
 father would not abstain from liquor, I resolved to make 
 an effort in some way to relieve mother, sisters, and bro 
 thers from want. After revolving things over in my 
 mind, and consulting with mother, I got all the informa 
 tion I could about the Far West, and started for Wis 
 consin with three dollars in my pocket. I left home on 
 foot. After spending my three dollars, I worked occa 
 sionally a day, and renewed my travel so long as money 
 lasted. By labour occasionally, and the charitable treat 
 ment I got on the road, I landed in Wisconsin. Here 
 I got an axe, set to work, and cleared land by the job 
 earned money, saved it, till I gathered $50, which mo 
 ney I now pay for the forty acres of land." 
 
 " Well, my good lad (for by this time I became much 
 interested in his story), what are you going to do with 
 this land?" 
 
 " Why, sir, I will continue to work and earn money, 
 and, when I have spare time, prepare some of my land 
 for culture, raise myself a log house, and, when prepared, 
 will write father and mother, brothers and sisters, to 
 come to Wisconsin and enjoy this home. This land, now 
 bought by me, I design for my mother, which will secure 
 her from want in her declining years." 
 
 "What," said I, " will you do with your father, if he 
 continues to drink ardent spirits to excess?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, when we get him on the farm he will feel at 
 14
 
 210 A CHILD'S FIRST LETTER. 
 
 home, will work at home, will keep no liquor in the house, 
 and in a short time he will be a sober man." 
 
 By this time the receiver handed him his duplicate 
 receipt for his forty acres of land. Rising from his seat 
 on leaving the office, he said, " At last I have a home 
 for my mother!" 
 
 A CHILD'S FIRST LETTER. 
 
 To write to papa, 'tis an enterprise bold 
 For the fairy-like maiden scarce seven years old ; 
 And see ! what excitement the purpose hath wrought 
 In eyes that when gravest seem playing at thought. 
 
 The light little figure surprised into rest 
 The smiles that will come so demurely repressed 
 The long-pausing hand on the paper that lies 
 The sweet puzzled look in the pretty blue eyes. 
 
 'Tis a beautiful picture of childhood in calm, 
 One cheek swelling soft o'er the white dimpled palm 
 Sunk deep in its crimson, and just the clear tip 
 Of an ivory tooth on the full under-lip. 
 
 How the smooth forehead knits ! With her arm roui .d hit 
 
 neck, 
 
 It were easier far than on paper to speak ; 
 We must loop up those ringlets : their rich falling gold 
 Would blot out the story as fast as 'twas told. 
 
 And she meant to have made it in bed, but it seems 
 Sleep melted too soon all her thoughts into dreams ; 
 But, hush ! by that sudden expansion of brow, 
 Some fairy familiar has whispered it now.
 
 A CHILD'S FIRST LETTER. 211 
 
 How she labours exactly each letter to sign, 
 Goes over the whole at the end of each line, 
 And lays down the pen to clap hands with delight, 
 When she finds an idea especially bright. 
 
 At last the small fingers have crept to an end : 
 No statesman his letter 'twixt nations hath penned 
 With more sense of its serious importance, and few 
 In a spirit so loving, so earnest, and true. 
 
 She smiles at that feat so unwonted and grand, 
 Draws a very long breath, rubs the cramped little hand 
 May we read it ? Oh, yes ; my sweet maiden, maybe 
 One day you will write what one only must see. 
 
 " But no one must change it !" No, truly, it ought 
 
 To keep the fresh bloom on each natural thought. 
 
 Who would shake off the dew to the rose-leaf that clings?- 
 
 Or the delicate dust from the butterfly's wings ? 
 
 Is it surely a letter ? So bashfully lies 
 Uncertainty yet in those beautiful eyes, 
 And the parted lips' coral is deepening in glow, 
 And the eager flush mounts to the forehead of snow. 
 
 'Tis informal and slightly discursive, we fear ; 
 Not a line without love, but the love is sincere. 
 Unchanged, papa said he would have it depart, 
 Like a bright leaf dropped out of her innocent heart. 
 
 Great news of her garden, her lamb and her bird, 
 Of mamma, and of baby's last wonderful word ; 
 With an ardent assurance they neither can play, 
 Nor learn, nor be happy, while he is away. 
 
 Will he like it ? Ay, will he ! what letter could seem, 
 Though an angel indited, so charming to him?
 
 f!2 LITTLE MOLLY. 
 
 How the fortunate poem to honour vrc-uld rise 
 That should never be read by more critical eyes I 
 Ah, would for poor rhymesters such favour could bo 
 As waits, my fair child, on thy letter and thee ! 
 
 LITTLE MOLLY. 
 
 THE air was full of sweetness, the tall spire ol the 
 village church had just caught the last rays of the de- 
 Bcending sun, crimsoning its glittering vane ; while in the 
 distance the forest vista, already in shadow, was lit as 
 by enchantment ; innumerable fire-flies were there dis 
 porting through their brilliant voluptuous life, with lus 
 tre ever burning brighter as darkness deepened. Within 
 the little cottage of Jacob Somers, the table had long 
 been spread for the evening meal ; his wife Rachel had 
 displaced and re-arranged, at least a dozen times, the 
 brown loaf, the rich-looking golden cheese, the plate of 
 berries, and the homely milk-jug, seeking thus to wile 
 away the time. She had long ended her household 
 labours, and for an hour and more had been anxiously 
 awaiting the return of her husband. Again she took a 
 Beat by the window, and pressing aside the trailing 
 jasmine and wild rose, which afforded so fragrant a 
 shade from the noontide heat, looked eagerly to the hill 
 side, the path whence he usually returned. Just within 
 eight was the clear lake, so replete with mournful memo 
 ries, as the blinding tears gathered in her eyes. Jacob, 
 with heavy, listless step, entered the r^->m ; he bore the
 
 LITTLE MOLLY. 213 
 
 appearance of one utterly regardless of all things ; hia 
 eye was dull and cold; yet there was a contraction of 
 the brow that spoke of pain, and it might be bitter grief. 
 Carelessly he threw his coat across a chair-back, as he 
 took a seat by the table. No change of countenance 
 betokened interest or affection, as he replied to Rachel's 
 kind words of inquiry. " Yes, the oxen had been long 
 put up ; 'twas hours since he had worked." Then, as if 
 the mere utterance of these few words were painful, he 
 buried his face in his hands, taking no note of the bowl 
 of milk Rachel had pushed towards him. A moment 
 passed ; again the hands were withdrawn ; while, more 
 from habit than necessity, he commenced eating the 
 bread he had broken into the milk. A large Newfound 
 land dog had crept to his feet, and now sought to win his 
 attention ; if possible to engage him in a game of romps 
 as of old ; suddenly Jacob grasped the table like one 
 in a fit, whilst closely, shudderingly, he gazed on the 
 dog. Yes, 'twas plain enough, he held in his teeth a 
 stocking a child's stocking the sight revived all his 
 grief; the assumed calmness fled ; all stoicism was gone ; 
 with each sinew strained, each feature working convul 
 sively, the strong man flung himself on the floor, writhing 
 with anguish. 
 
 And where was Molly ? the farmer's only child his 
 little darling she who had made his home a paradise, 
 by her childish prattle and endearing ways she who 
 had ever welcomed him with kisses ; the hidden pearl, 
 that made a blaze of glory in that lowly cot ; the little 
 one, who, with voice so sweet, would question him of 
 Heaven, till he, the father, had learnt of his child,
 
 214 LITTLE MOLLY. 
 
 " Verily of babes and sucklings hast Thcu perfected Thy 
 praise." 
 
 Molly had been drowned. These few terrible words 
 comprised an eternity of agony. Rachel's memory was 
 no less fond. Her bosom still throbbed with the pres 
 sure of that tiny form she had there hushed to sleep but 
 se'nnight a week, yet, woman-like, she suppressed her 
 grief to comfort the heart whose sobs were so despairing. 
 No ; she had not forgotten how lifelike looked the little 
 one on her funeral couch a smile playing round the 
 dimpled mouth ; the golden curls resting on the fair 
 cheek ; the hands folded over a bunch of violets, fitting 
 emblem of such purity and loveliness all seemed more 
 sleep than death. Her own hands had arranged the 
 robe worn on her birthday festival, and tied up the 
 sleeves with blossom-coloured bows ; and even whilst 
 thus arraying her treasure for the grave whilst her 
 tears fell fastest she felt that " God loveth whom He 
 chasteneth," striving submissively to say, "Not my will, 
 but Thine, Lord ! be done !" 
 
 As all these recollections were stirred afresh by her 
 husband's outburst of sorrow, a shadow seemed to fall 
 from her gaze her duty plainly revealed was before 
 her, to lead Jacob's mind from the ghastliriess and ter 
 ror of death, which now oppressed, to the hope of a life 
 eternal which comforted her. Kneeling, she raised her 
 husband's face, and kissed the embrowned forehead. 
 
 " Be comforted, Jacob, and turn from the cold, wan, 
 dripping form which memory alone presents to you now, 
 to the angel in the bosom of God, that Molly has now 
 pecome."
 
 LITTLE MOLLY. 215 
 
 Thus, whh \vords of grave tenderness and simple 
 teaching^, she strove to lead his mind heavenward to 
 give another bend to the images fancy presented. Long 
 it was before the farmer could find consolation ; long 
 before he could drive away the torturing thought of the 
 loving farewell in the morn, as she climbed his knee and 
 clung to his neck, with the painful contrast which met 
 him on his return at eve a dripping, lifeless mass, 
 drawn from the lake which had drunk up her young life, 
 as in innocent play on its brink, she had slipped and 
 fallen in. But the loving wife persevered, telling of the 
 free, immortal spirit, that had exchanged earth for the 
 beauty of lieaven ; that death Avas not a dark spectre, 
 but a radiant angel, whose embrace had imparted peace 
 everlasting. An unknown calm descended on the 
 mourners, and, as they knelt in prayer, their spirits 
 recognised the presence, though invisible to outward 
 sense, of the child they had lost. In faith they beheld 
 her in gorgeous white vesture, with star-crowned head, 
 leading them, with tender clasp, upwards, ever upwards.
 
 FAREWELL TO A SISTER. 
 
 Go fortVi to thine appointed rest, 
 
 Beyond the broad sea-foam ; 
 Go forth, our fairest and our best, 
 
 To thy far island-home ! 
 With him, thy youthful heart's approved, 
 Thy mate for many a year beloved ; 
 
 In thy full matron bloom 
 Go forth, to act, as fate commands, 
 Thy part of life in other lands. 
 
 Kind thoughts attend thee, from the pl* 
 Where thou hast been so long 
 
 A daily sight, a household face, 
 A mate in work and song; 
 
 A flower to cheer, a lamp to shed 
 
 Soft light beside the sick one's bed : 
 To that beloved throng 
 
 Each act of daily life shall be 
 
 A mute remembrancer of thee. 
 
 Full well we know, where'er thy lot, 
 
 Thou canst not be alone ; 
 For Love, in earth's unkindliest spot, 
 
 Will find, or make its own ; 
 And from the green and living heart 
 New friendships still, like buds, will start: 
 
 But yet, wherever thrown, 
 No ties can cling around thy mind 
 So close as those thou leav'st behind. 
 
 And oft, while gazing on the sea 
 That girds thy lonely isle,
 
 FAREWELL TO A SISTER. 217 
 
 Shall faithful memory bring to thee 
 
 The home so loved erewhile ; 
 Its lightsome rooms, its pleasant bowers, 
 The children, that like opening flowers 
 
 Grew up beneath thy smile ; 
 The hearts that shared from earliest years 
 Thy joys and griefs, thy hopes and fears. 
 
 The sister's brow, so blithe of yore, 
 
 With early care imprest; 
 And she, whose failing eyes no more 
 
 Upon her child may rest ; 
 And kindred forms, and they who eyed 
 Thy beauty with a brother's pride ; 
 
 And friends beloved the best, 
 The kind, the joyous, the sincere, 
 Shall to thine inward sight appear. 
 
 And they, whose dying looks on thee 
 
 In grief and love were cast, 
 The leaves from off our household tree 
 
 Swept by the varying blast, 
 Oft, in the mystery of sleep, 
 Shall Love evoke them from the deep 
 
 Of the unfathomed Past, 
 And Fancy gather round thy bed 
 The spirits of the gentle Dead. 
 
 Farewell ! if on this parting day 
 
 Remorseful thoughts invade 
 One heart, for blessings cast away. 
 
 And fondness ill repaid ; 
 lie will not breathe them let them rest 
 Within the stillness of the breast ; 
 
 Be thy remembrance made 
 A home where chastening thoughts may dwell ; 
 My own true sister, fare thee well 1
 
 HEART-SHADOWS. 
 
 Il was a cold night quite cold, the snow fleecing 
 down, and the hail rattling against the windows. The 
 wild storm-king was out with the blast, intent on mirth 
 ful mischief. The old clock ticked cheerily, and the 
 fitful shadows waved unsteadily on the wall. The win 
 ter was without, but the summer of peace rested in my 
 heart. 
 
 I sat in the great arm-chair, in the fire-twilight, alone, 
 and in a revery, half dreaming, as it were, my past life 
 over again. The golden book of Memory lay unclasped 
 before me every thought, every feeling of by-gone 
 hours traced ineffaceably there. All sorrows, all joys, 
 intermingling and forming link in link, a beautiful 
 chain, without which life would be incomplete. We 
 were friends, Alice and I, early friends and true ones ; 
 she was older and far gentler, with mild, loving eyes, 
 and soft, shadowy, dark hair. I was young and thought 
 less, and I had treasured up in my heart an idol, one 
 worshipped and adored. I dwelt in a beautiful dream, 
 waking and sleeping, and my guardian spirit was ever 
 Alice. Alas ! how rudely was that dream broken ! how 
 inexpressibly sad the knowledge that it could never CDrae 
 again ; and yet all life is but a dream. 
 
 Beautiful in soul was she, and they called her Alice 
 Faye, but to me she was only Alice darling Alice. 
 We were wandering, two hearts in one, through the 
 beautiful Present, seeking not to unveil the rugged
 
 HEART-SHADOWS. 219 
 
 world of Futmity, and knowing and believing that to 
 the Past were confided all estimable things. 
 
 Oh, our Father ! Thou who knowest the frailty of all 
 earth's flowers, lend, oh ! lend us Thy aid to withstand 
 the frosts of adversity, the chilly, wintry winds that 
 crush the already bruised and broken reed. 
 
 How vivid is that memory rising before me now the 
 memory of v our parting ! It was a beautiful, radiant 
 day, late in the summer. Alice and I had been in 
 company with some youthful friends, and now, arm-in 
 arm, were returning through the wood. We bent our 
 steps towards our favourite haunt a hushed, sweet 
 spot, where the grass grew long and luxuriant, and the 
 wild vine trailed its crimson bloom-flowers, dark, yet 
 bright amid the flowers that begemmed the earth. Our 
 accustomed seat was beside a shelving rock, overhung 
 with the graceful honeysuckle and clambering roses, its 
 rude face half hidden by the beautiful objects clinging 
 around it. The wild locust, laden with its pure blos 
 soms, and the poplar, silver-limbed, threw a pleasant 
 shade over it. 
 
 Here, the earth seemed more kind and smiling, and, 
 among all fond memories, this is to me the holiest and 
 best beloved. 
 
 We sat silently Alice's hand clasped fast in mine, 
 and her head leaning down upon my shoulder so confid 
 ingly, so caressingly. The sunlight was glimmering 
 through the glossy leaves, and the rich snowy bl.qsspmjS 
 of the locust were dropping softly softly down around 
 us. 
 
 I: was then that we first awakened from our happy
 
 220 HEART-SHADOWS. 
 
 dream-life for the first time ventured to peep into the 
 unknown futurity. I felt that life was, indeed, but a 
 " walking shadow," and bursting into tears, hid my face 
 amid Alice's bright tresses. 
 
 " Don't cry, Ruby, darling," whispered Alice, very 
 softly, calling me by an endearing name of childhood ; 
 " don't cry, it will not be for a long time not very 
 long." 
 
 Her own voice trembled a little, although she tried 
 hard that it should not. 
 
 "Ah, Alice," said I, sadly, "a dim foreshadowing of 
 the future is twining itself around my spirit that great 
 future, which is a strange world to us. Perhaps we may 
 never meet in friendship again, Alice ; perhaps we may 
 doubt each other's sincerity." 
 
 " No, no, Ruby, dear Ruby," replied Alice, Avinding 
 her arms closer around me, "we'll never doubt each 
 other. Our dearest hopes are anchored in the great 
 sea of the world ; but they will remain steadfast. Oh ! 
 we'll never be estranged, Ruby." 
 
 "Never!" I echoed, and yet, through the mazes of 
 the forest there seemed to float a voice, strangely mourn 
 ful, repeating that vow of eternal friendship, breathing 
 a warning for our sanguine hopes, a knell for our part 
 ing hour. 
 
 Alas ! how slowly, how sadly have the years passed 
 since then, for doubt and mistrust gliding in, severed 
 that sacred chain where we thought it was the strongest. 
 We met again in after years, but the world the world 
 had taught us how to crush the wild, wayward throbbinga 
 of our hearts. We were living and yet dead ; living
 
 HEART-SHADOWS. 221 
 
 as the breath giveth life ; yet dead to all the gentler 
 influences, the holier emotions of that love once so dear 
 to us. And the youthful years that had shadowed us 
 so kindly with their wings, withdrew to weep over the 
 
 ashes of our former friendship. 
 
 ******** 
 
 The fire was gleaming faintly in the chimney, my re- 
 very was over and yet I felt so sad, so lonely sitting 
 there. I thought I felt a soft touch upon my shoulder 
 heard a gentle voice whispering a name of other years 
 Ruby ! I was glad some one had said it ; it was a 
 sweet remembrance in a time of sorrow. Somebody 
 whispered loving words, somebody knelt beside me and 
 pressed a soft cheek to mine. I returned the pressure 
 I wept, yet I knew not why. I only remember that 
 Alice was kneeling there beside me, my own Alice, and 
 that we were friends again. 
 
 It was so sweet, so strangely sweet, to have her there 
 as of old, the same love-light in those kindly eyes, the 
 same holy beauty resting on that placid brow ; I fancied 
 that it was all a dream, and I dared not move, lest the 
 entrancing spell should break. 
 
 That joyful meeting is marked for ever with a "morn' 
 ing star" in the heaven of my existence. And now, 
 e;ich budding hope, each undefined fear, give I hence 
 forth to the sacred keeping of our Father, our Protector, 
 and our God. 
 
 In the hushed and holy stillness of the night, when 
 the stars and flowers keep watch over earth, and every 
 soul ascends on trembling wings to the throne of Him
 
 222 THE DUMB CHILD. 
 
 above, I fall asleep quietly to dream of the angels and 
 of Alice Faye. 
 
 Even so hath He ordained, that we shall give a etnile 
 for every new sunbeam born to the earth, a tear for 
 every blossom untimely withered. 
 
 For every heart hath a sunlight, every soul a shadow. 
 
 THE DUMB CHILD. 
 
 SHE is my only girl : 
 
 I asked for her as some most precious thing; 
 For all unfinished was Love's jewelled ring, 
 
 Till set with this soft pearl ; 
 
 The shade that time brought forth I could not see; 
 How pure, how perfect seemed the gift to me 1 
 
 Oh, ninny a soft old tune 
 I used to sing unto that deadened ear, 
 And suffered nut the lightest footstep near 
 
 Lest she might wake too soon ; 
 And hushed her brother's laughter while she lay 
 Ah, needless care ! I might have let them play \ 
 
 'Twas long ere I believed 
 
 That this one daughter might not speak to me ; 
 Waited and watched, God knows how patiently ! 
 
 How willingly deceived: 
 
 Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith, 
 And tended Hope until it starved to death. 
 
 Oh ! if she could but hear 
 
 For one short hour, till I her tongue m'.ght teach 
 To call me mother, in the broken speech
 
 THE DUMB CHILD. 223 
 
 That thrills the mother's ear ! 
 Alas ! those sealed lips never may be stirred 
 To the deep music of that lovely word. 
 
 My heart it sorely tries 
 To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, 
 Beside her brothers at their evening prayer ; 
 
 Or lift those earnest eyes 
 
 To watch our lips, as though our words she knew,; 
 Then moves her own, as she were speaking too. 
 
 I've watched her looking up 
 To the bright wonder of a sunset sky, 
 With such a depth of meaning in her eye, 
 
 That I could almost hope 
 
 The struggling soul would burst its binding cords, 
 And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words 
 
 The song of bird and bee, 
 The chorus of the breezes, streams and groves, 
 All the grand music to which nature moves, 
 
 Are wasted melody 
 
 To her; the world of sound a tuneless void; 
 While even Silence hath its charm destroyed. 
 
 Her face is very fair 
 Her blue eye beautiful ; of finest mould 
 The soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold, 
 
 Ripples her shining hair. 
 Alas ! this lovely temple closed must be, 
 For He who made it keeps the master-key. 
 
 Wills He the mind within 
 
 Should from earth's Babel-clamour be kept free, 
 E'en that His still small voice and step might be 
 
 Heard at its inner shrine, 
 
 Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill f 
 Then should I grieve ? murmuring heart, be still !
 
 224 THE DUMB CHILD. 
 
 She seems to have a sense 
 Of quiet gladness in her noisoless play. 
 She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, 
 
 Whose voiceless eloquence 
 Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear 
 That even her father would not care for her. 
 
 Thank God it is not so ! 
 And when his sons are playing merrily, 
 She comes and leans her head upon his knee. 
 
 Oh ! at such times I know 
 By his full eye and tones subdued and mild- 
 How his heart yearns over his silent child. 
 
 Not of all gifts bereft, 
 
 Even now. How could I say she did not speakf 
 What real language lights her eye and cheek, 
 
 And renders thanks to Him who left 
 Unto her soul yet open avenues 
 For joy to enter, and for love to use. 
 
 And God in love doth give 
 To her defect a beauty of its own. 
 And we a deeper tenderness have known 
 
 Through that for which we grieve. 
 5fet shall the seal be melted from her ear, 
 Yoa, and my voice shall fill it but not here. 
 
 When that new sense is given, 
 What rapturs will its first experience be, 
 That never woke to meaner melody 
 
 Than the rich songs of heaven, 
 To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round, 
 \V hile angels teach the ecstasies of souud 1
 
 A SCENE FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 "MY wife feels as though she were labouring very 
 hard for the benefit of others." 
 
 This was spoken by a man who considered himself a 
 good husband ; but if he had been one in reality, wouli 
 his wife have been troubled with such feelings ? 
 
 Let us consider the subject, and take an occurrence 
 from every-day life, to illustrate it. 
 
 Mr. B arises in the morning with the intention 
 
 "f going to the city, a distance of twenty miles, and 
 back the same day. In his haste to be gone, he does 
 not observe that his wife is paler than usual. Her health 
 has been poor for a long time, and her altered appear 
 ance now is not even noticed. Although they are in 
 comfortable circumstances, yet neither feel able to keep 
 hired help. As the husband loves neatness and order, 
 for which the wife is remarkable, the latter determines 
 that her washing shall be done in his absence. But 
 many things arise to hinder the wood is poor, and will 
 not burn the babe requires more care than usual. The 
 sun has passed the meridian, and is hastening on his 
 daily course ; but her work is not half done. She toils 
 on with an energy beyond her strength, hoping all will 
 yet be well. She pictures to herself the children, quietly 
 Bleeping in their snug little bed, the floor mopped, the 
 fire bright and cheerful, the table spread with its snowy 
 cloth, and her husband's favourite dish prepared, ere his 
 leturn. 
 
 15
 
 226 A SCEN 1 ! FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 But, alas ! bright anticipations vanish ; the day is 
 past, and " evening shades appear ;" the habe becomes 
 more troublesome, and now takes all the mother's time. 
 She has nearly succeeded in quieting it, when she hears 
 the well-known step on the threshold ; her husband 
 enters ; he sees the unfinished washing, with all its accom 
 paniments of tubs and pails ; the fire is nearly gone out, 
 and his little boy, two years old, is splashing water from 
 
 one thing to another, in great glee. Mr. B seizes 
 
 the child, and places him in a chair in the corner, with 
 so much violence that the room quickly resounds with 
 his screams. He then whips him to still his cries, that 
 his own voice may be heard. Every blow pierces the 
 mother's heart, but she knows remonstrance is vain, and 
 lets things take their course, in silence. 
 
 Her turn comes next, and he can hardly find words 
 strong enough to express his indignation ; among many 
 other things, he tells her she never has anything in 
 order ; he never knew her to have a fire, or a meal of 
 victuals, in season. 
 
 By this time the babe was fairly aroused, and it need 
 ed considerable exertion to hush its plaintive cries ; but 
 by carrying it about in her arms, the mother was at last 
 triumphant. 
 
 She next prepared their evening meal with as much 
 alacrity as exhausted nature would allow ; and, as her 
 husband sipped his tea, and enjoyed the genial warmth 
 of the fire, the irritability of his temper passed off, and 
 with it all thoughts of the late unhappy occurrence. He 
 soon retired to rest, and in refreshing sleep forgot the 
 toils of the day. His wife had now her washing to
 
 A SCENE FROM REAL LIFE. 22"< 
 
 finish, and everything tc put in its place, even to hei 
 husband's bootjack ; for, with all his love of order, he 
 frequently forgets to put up his own things. When she 
 had accomplished all, she, too, retired to rest, but not to 
 Bleep no : every nerve was unstrung ; and as she laid 
 her throbbing head on its pillow, and vainly attempted 
 to sleep, the events of the day would crowd themselves 
 into her mind. Yet she would not allow herself to think 
 unkindly of her husband. She tried to reason thus 
 " Have I not a good husband ? Does he not provide 
 for my actual wants, according to the best of his abi- 
 lity?" 
 
 But, notwithstanding all her endeavours, the cruel 
 words which had been uttered by him in wrath, would 
 rush into her mind, like unbidden guests, until tears be 
 gan to flow in profusion, and memory became busy. 
 Then she thought of the happy home of her girlhood, 
 of the mother that watched over her, of the days when 
 the rose of health bloomed on her cheek, and her brow 
 was unclouded by care. But, most of all, her memory 
 reverted to the bridal day, when her lover promised, in 
 presence of God and man, to love, cherish, and protect, 
 until death should them part. She asked herself if she 
 had ever been unfaithful to the marriage vow ; conscience 
 answered no ; had she not studied her husband's happi 
 ness with untiring zeal, until self was all forgotten, health 
 gone, constitution enfeebled ? And now, as she felt her 
 self less able to perform the duties required of her, she 
 felt that her love had been ill repaid. Thus, after a 
 day of overtasked labour, and nearly a night spent in 
 tears, the wife sunk into an uneasy slumber, to be dis-
 
 228 A SCENE FROM REAL LIFE. 
 
 turbed at intervals by her babe, until the dawn of an 
 other day, when the well-rested husband called upon hia 
 wife to rise, not doubting that she was as much refreshed 
 as himself. 
 
 Now, what had that husband gained by all this ? Had 
 not his wife done her best, and what could she do more ? 
 It is true, he knew not of her grief and tears; he know 
 hot that such treatment was hastening her to the grave ; 
 as she daily sunk under the accumulated weight of care, 
 he knew not that the cause was in any way attributable 
 to himself. 
 
 Yet it would have required but little forbearance oji 
 his part to have spoken a kind word, or sympathized 
 with her a little. She would then have performed the 
 same duties with cheerfulness, and considered herself 
 happy in the possession of such a husband. And when 
 her head rested on its pillow, and she strove to hush its 
 throbbings, no images but such as affection brings would 
 have haunted her imagination; and her slumbers would 
 soon have been as calm as those of the loved ones beside 
 her. 
 
 If any man who has a care-worn wife, chance to read 
 this article, let him look well to the subject ; and, if he 
 wishes to be met with a smile or look of happiness, let 
 him strive by his own example to sow the good seeds of 
 affection, and he will be sure to reap an abundant bar 
 vest, for "virtue is its own reward."
 
 THE FIRST BABY. 
 
 MY old schoolfellow, Mary Thornly, had been married 
 nearly two years when I made my first call on her in 
 her capacity of a mother. 
 
 "Did ywu ever see such a darling ?" she exclaimed, 
 tossing the infant up and down in her arms. " There, 
 baby, that's ma's old friend, Jane. He knows you al 
 ready, I declare," said the delighted parent, as it smiled 
 at a bright ring which I held up to it. " You never 
 saw such a quick child. He follows me with his eyea 
 all about the room. Notice what pretty little feet he 
 has, the darling footsy-tootsies !" and taking both feet 
 in one hand, the mother fondly'kissed them. 
 
 " It certainly is very pretty," said I, trying to be 
 polite, though I could not perceive that the infant was 
 more beautiful than a dozen others I had seen. " It has 
 your eyes exactly, Mary." 
 
 "Yes, and da-da's mouth and chin," said my friend, 
 apostrophizing the child, "hasn't it, precious?" And 
 she almost smothered it with kisses. 
 
 As I walked slowly homeward, I said to myself, " I 
 wonder if, when I marry, I shall ever be so foolish ? 
 Mary used to be a sensible girl." In a fortnight after- 
 war ;ls I called on my friend again. 
 
 "How baby grows !" she said; "don't you see it? 
 I never knew a child grow so fast. Grandma says it's 
 the healthiest child she ever knew." 
 
 To me it seemed that the babe had not grown an inch ,
 
 230 THE FIRST BABY. 
 
 and to avoid the contradiction, I changed the theme. 
 But, in a moment, the doting mother was back to her 
 infant again. 
 
 " I do believe it's beginning to cut its teeth," she said, 
 putting her finger into the little one's mouth. " Just 
 feel how hard the gum is there. Surely that's a tooth 
 coming through. Grandmother will be here to-day, and 
 I'll ask her if it isn't so." 
 
 I laughed, as I replied, " I am entirely ignorant of 
 such matters ; but your child really seems a very fine 
 one." 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; everybody says that. Pretty, pretty 
 dear !" And she tossed it up and down, till I thought 
 the child would have been shaken to pieces ; but the 
 little creature seemed to like the process very much. 
 " Is it crowing at its 'mother ? It's laughing, is it ! 
 Tiny, niny, little dear. What a sweet precious it is !" 
 Arid she finished by almost devouring it with kisses. 
 
 When I next called, the baby was still further ad 
 vanced. 
 
 " Only think," said my friend, when I had made my 
 way to the nursery, where she now kept herself from 
 morning till night, " baby begins to eat. I gave it a 
 piece of meat to-day a bit of real broiled beefsteak !" 
 
 " What !" said I, in my ignorance, for this did look 
 wonderful, "the child eating beefsteak already?" 
 
 " Oh," laughed my friend, seeing my mistake, " what 
 a sad dunce you arc, Jane ! But wait till you have 
 babies of your own. She says you eat beefsteak, dar 
 ling," added the proud mother, addressing the infant, 
 "whon you only suck the juice. You don't want te
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
 
 THE FIRST BABY. 231 
 
 choke yourself, do you, baby ? Eat a beefsteak ! It'a 
 funny, baby, isn't it?" And again she laughed laugh 
 ing all the more because the child sympathetically crowed 
 in return. . 
 
 It was not many weeks before the long-expected teeth 
 really appeared. 
 
 " Jane, Jane, baby has three teeth !" triumphantly 
 cried the mother, as I entered the nursery. " Three 
 teeth, and he's only nine months old ! Did you ever 
 hear of the like?" 
 
 I confessed that I had not. The whole thing, in fact, 
 was out of my range of knowledge. I knew all about 
 Dante in the original, and a dozen other fine-lady ac 
 complishments ; but nothing about babies teething. 
 
 "Just look at the little pearls !" exclaimed my friend, 
 as she opened the child's mouth. " Are they not beau 
 tiful ? You never saw anything so pretty confess that 
 you never did. Precious darling," continued the mo 
 ther, rapturously hugging and kissing the child, "it is 
 wprth its weight in gold !" 
 
 But the crowning miracle of all was when "baby" 
 began to walk. Its learning to creep had been duly 
 heralded to me. So also had its being able to stand 
 alone ; though this meant, I found, standing with the 
 support of a chair. But when it really walked alone, 
 the important fact was announced to me in a note, for 
 my good friend could not wait till I called. 
 
 " Stand there," she said to me in an exulting voice. 
 "No, stoop, I mean ; how can you be so stupid ?" And, 
 as I obeyed, she took her station about, a yard off, hold 
 ing the little one by either arm. " Now, see him," she
 
 232 THE FIRST BABY. 
 
 cried, as lie toddled towards me, and finally succeeued 
 in gaining my arms, though once or twice I fancied he 
 would fall, a contingency from which he was protected, 
 however, by his mother holding her hands on either sido 
 of him, an inch or two off. *' There, did you ever see 
 anything so extraordinary ? He's not a year old, 
 either." 
 
 By this time I began to be considerably interested in 
 ' baby" myself. He had learned to know me, and would 
 begin to crow whenever I entered the nursery ; and ] 
 was, therefore, almost as delighted as my friend, when. 
 for the first time, he pronounced my name. " Djane,'' 
 he said, " Djane !" 
 
 His mother almost devoured him with kisses in return 
 for this wonderful triumph of the vocal organs ; and 
 when she had finished, I, in turn, smothered him with 
 caresses. 
 
 I never after that smiled, even to myself, at the ex 
 travagance of my friend's affection for her baby ; the 
 little love had twined himself around my own heart 
 strings. How could I ? 
 
 And now that I am a mother myself, I feel less incli 
 nation still to laugh, as others may do, over that mys 
 tery )f mysteries a mother's love for her baby.
 
 HOME LIGHTS AND HOME SHADOWS. 
 
 " WHAT a quiet man Mr. Mason is. and what nice 
 children he has! I never hear any noise when I go 
 there." 
 
 What strange notions people have of nice, quiet peo 
 ple ! thought I, as I heard the foregoing observation from 
 a man, whose kindly disposition and cheerful face were 
 a perfect preventive of the quiet, nice order that reigned 
 in Mr. Mason's house. When he came home, the cheer 
 ful smile on his lip, the kind inquiry, or some pleasantly 
 related piece of news, set all the lips to smiling, and all 
 the tongues to talking around his table ; and the very 
 noise he seemed to have deprecated, was the music to 
 which his life was happily gliding on, of which he him 
 self was the key-note a perfect contrast to the gloomy 
 order that reigned in the house of the quiet Mr. Mason. 
 
 I will give you a short sketch of this gentleman. He 
 was, in the estimation of the world, and his own also, 
 one of the best of men. By careful industry, he had 
 acquired some property, among which was a nice dwelling, 
 wherein his mother, himself, and only sister lived. As 
 his means increased, he furnished it very nicely. Ilia 
 mother was very industrious, and his sister very tasty ; 
 and many inventions of their needles gave an air of 
 elegance to what, in other hands, would have appeared 
 plain. In the course of time, the mother died. I for 
 got to say, that, although Mr. Mason was always spoken 
 of as one of the best of sons and brothers, the family
 
 234 HOME LIGHTS AND HOME SHADOWS. 
 
 always appeared uneasy until his opinion of what they 
 may have done was known. When it was asked if he 
 did not disapprove, they inferred it pleased him, for "he 
 was one that never praised." " It will do well enough," 
 vas the wannest encomium he ever used. The brothei 
 and sister were left together. Poor girl ! her mother 
 had been her only companion her brother had never 
 seemed to care for society. Of a warm, cheerful temper, 
 and with ardent affections, her whole heart now turned 
 to her brother ; and he, tender from grief for the loss 
 of his mother, seemed to throw off for awhile that cold 
 quietness, that is more depressing to an affectionate dis 
 position than active unkindness. When he came home, 
 he would tell her of some of the doings of the world in 
 which he mixed, and of which she only knew the exte 
 rior. Again the colour came to her cheek, and her 
 buoyant laugh had something like the merry ring it 
 used to have in her mother's lifetime. Occasionally it 
 appeared to startle her brother ; but he thought of the 
 many hours she had been alone, and he could not find it 
 in his heart to reprove her. 
 
 But soon the old habit of fault-finding returned. Any 
 thing that did not exactly suit him, was sure to render him 
 cold and silent ; and often a meal passed without any 
 thing but monosyllables. If she would try to entertain 
 him with any little incident that came under her obser 
 vation, " He took no interest in such trifles." Her 
 joyous laugh was repressed with the observation, " That 
 it was too boisterous ; the neighbours would hear her." 
 The house was soon quiet enough after that. Alone, 
 without any one to speak to, while her brother was at
 
 HOME LIGHTS AND HOME SHADOWS. 235 
 
 his business, you would not have known when he was at 
 home, from any signs of life that were about the house. 
 
 I loved Betty Mason, and could not help pitying the 
 orphan girl, for I knew how truly her mother had been 
 " all the world to her ;" and I often took my sewing and 
 went in to sit with her. I knew she was devotedly 
 attached to her brother, and therefore did not think it 
 strange she should be so anxious that everything she did 
 should please him. But one thing puzzled me, and that 
 was, that she appeared to be far more cheerful for two 
 or three months after her mother's death, than after 
 wards. She appeared more depressed, and complained 
 more of her loss, when from the time that had elapsed, 
 she woufd have become reconciled to it. I soon pene 
 trated the secret, for I found, that in her brother's 
 presence she was not the same impulsive, warm being, 
 but acted with a precision and quietness that was not 
 natural to her character : and, when on the plea that 
 she thought she ought not to be a burden to her brother, 
 she told me she was going to accept a situation in a fine 
 school, I admired the good sense and independence of 
 my friend. 
 
 I asked her brother what he thought of Betty's plan. 
 Tie said he " saw no necessity for her doing anything 
 for a living ; but she was her own mistress ; she could 
 do what she pleased." My cheeks burned at the cold 
 indifference of this speech. I knew that with one-quarter 
 the physical, and only healthful mental exertion, she waa 
 going to obtain a genteel independence. She would be 
 absent from home from Monday till Friday. She left 
 the house in the charge of a good servant, and once a
 
 236 HOME LIGHTS AND HOME SHADOWS. 
 
 week gave it a good regulating. She soon recovered 
 the tone of her spirits ; and her brother, who really 
 missed her presence, was too glad of her weekly return, 
 to find fault with her now buoyant spirits, for, like most 
 persons of a peevish, fault-finding disposition, he was 
 rather wavering; and her decision of character, now 
 fully developed by intercourse with the world, and a 
 sense of independence, overruled his foolish notions, and 
 compelled him to be happier than he ever was. 
 
 But such a girl as Betty Mason was not born to 
 "blush unseen;" and a fine man of congenial character 
 sought and won her. George Edgar it was, who, at the 
 beginning of our story, had just returned from a visit to 
 his quiet brother-in-law's, and was so much admiring the 
 quietness of his household. 
 
 After Betty's marriage, Edward Mason had married 
 a gentle, timid girl, and thought he would be very happy ; 
 but his querulous disposition, and the habit of irrrita- 
 bility at the slightest thing that did not please him ; and 
 worse than all, omitting to commend anything, no matter 
 how great an effort had been made by his wife to consult 
 his taste and conform to his wishes, depressed the timid 
 creature by his side into ill-health. His children were 
 sickly, quiet little things, without energy enough for a 
 hearty laugh, or health-giving romp ; and he was con 
 stantly fretting about doctors' bills and medicine, and 
 telling his friends how much more fortunate they were 
 than he had been with his children; never suspecting 
 that he poisoned the spring of his own happiness at the 
 source. 
 
 Why did he not show a cheerful face to his wife, and
 
 THE WORTH OF A DOLL. 237 
 
 warm her heart with a sense of duty fulfilled, instead 
 of grudging the slightest word of praise ? Why did he 
 repress the joyous laugh of childhood, and make hia 
 house so quiet and dull, that one always felt, on leaving, 
 as if just escaped from a sick chamber ? 
 
 0, give me the man that will smile a warm, genial, 
 lionrtfelt smile when I please him, even though he frown 
 when I don't ; and keep me far from the one that " will 
 never praise." 
 
 THE WORTH OF A DOLL. 
 
 A TRACT has been written on the worth of a dollar ; 
 but I know not that any one has written upon the first 
 four letters of that word doll-wr. I think much might 
 be said upon it. With your leave, I will say a few 
 words. 
 
 Many parents seem to overlook the importance of 
 providing home amusement, home instruction, and home 
 employment, for their children. The minds of children 
 are active, and they need something to interest them, 
 amuse, instruct, and employ thei'i. 
 
 As soon as my oldest daughter was able to speak, I 
 procured for her a box of blocks, with the letters of the 
 alphabet marked upon them. With these she amused 
 herself, and soon learned the whole alphabet, and also 
 to spell words by selecting and arranging the proper 
 letters. 
 
 In like manner, I procured for my son the Infant'a 
 Library as soon as he could repeat the letters. First
 
 238 THE WORTH OF A DOLL. 
 
 these thirty-six little books were read to him ; very soon 
 he learned to read them himself, and read them over 
 and over again ; and I have no doubt they were of aa 
 much service to him as the next six months' schooling, 
 though they cost but twenty-five cents. 
 
 Last fall I sent for a DOLL for my little daughter. It 
 did not cost a dollar ; but it was better than I intended 
 to get, and of course cost more. But after she had 
 been in possession of it for some six months, I began to 
 reckon up the worth of it to her, and I was really sur 
 prised to find the sum so great. 
 
 1. -In the first place, it had made her contented 
 at home, and kept her out of the streets ; and 
 
 this was surely worth to her at least . . $25 00 
 
 2. It had taught her to sew, cut and fit 
 dresses, and make hats and bonnets, without 
 without calling on her feeble mother for aid, at 
 
 least 25 00 
 
 3. It had cultivated a cheerful, contented, and 
 happy disposition, ..... 25 00 
 
 4. It had furnished self-employment, amuse 
 ment, and instruction ; and so relieved her sick 
 mother from care, , 25 00 
 
 5. It had helped to develop those traits so 
 amiable and lovely in a female, sisterly and mo 
 therly affection, and love for domestic duties, 50 00 
 
 6. As a motive to diligence in study and atten 
 tion to other duties, it had been worth at least 50 00 
 
 7. Other benefits unthought of, or indescriba 
 ble, at least 100 00 
 
 Whole amount, .... $oOO 00
 
 FARMERS' SONS. 289 
 
 So, in a short time, I found the little doll had already 
 been worth more than three hundred dollars! Of course 
 I concluded that the few shillings had been profitably 
 expended: and I am led to think that if all parents 
 would furnish their children with some appropriate home 
 amusements and employments, it would be greatly to the 
 advantage of both parents and children. It may not bo 
 necessary for all to purchase dolls; but if they would 
 expend some few dollars in getting good books, papers, 
 and the like for themselves and their children, I have 
 no doubt that in less than a year they would find it a 
 real saving. A little spent in this way might save, much 
 needless expense. If it is difficult to estimate the worth 
 of a doll, who can tell the value of a good book, or of 
 a useful paper ? 
 
 Some abhor idolatry who are yet not so much afraid 
 of dollar-worship ! For a little child to play with a doll 
 is a very harmless kind of i-dol-a-try ; and though many 
 can tell tke value of a dollar, I very much doubt whe 
 ther any one can estimate, in a family of children, the 
 worth of a doll! 
 
 FARMERS' SONS. 
 
 WHEN a young man leaves his home in the country 
 for a less desirable one in the city, or elsewhere, the 
 inference, as a general thing, is, either that he is 
 " spoiled" by indulgence on the part of the parents, or, 
 by certain influences which may have fallen upon him,
 
 240 FARMERS, SONS. 
 
 led to despise labour on a farm, and induced Lo seek a 
 less laborious and more easy mode of life. That these 
 are not the only causes which induce boys to leave a 
 good home and farm, the following sketch may perhaps 
 show. 
 
 "I arn really very glad to see you, Mrs. Gove, this 
 afternoon. Do you know that it is nearly a whole year 
 since I've had this pleasure, and you my nearest neigh 
 bour ?" 
 
 " I did not think it was so long, but but, I have a 
 great deal of care." 
 
 " Yes, you certainly must have. Let us take our 
 work and sit on the piazza ; it is much cooler there, and 
 secluded from the sun." 
 
 " Can we see our meadow from there, Mrs. Norton ?" 
 
 "Let me see 0, yes, very well." 
 
 " Mr. Gove, with the men and Billy, have gone down 
 to the lower field fencing, and he wished me to have an 
 eye on the meadow, as that fence is all down and our 
 cattle are in the road. I see you have finished planting, 
 Mrs. Norton. You have everything done in season, and 
 yet you never seem hurried, or fretted. You must take 
 comfort." 
 
 " Why, as to that, we feel that there is nothing worth 
 doing, but is worth doing well ; and feeling thus, we own 
 but little land, a small farm compared with yours, and 
 we find no difficulty in having our work done at the right 
 time." 
 
 " Yes, and I can hardly realize, Mrs. Norton, that 
 this is the same place where 1 played, when a child, 'us 
 so changed, and so beautifully changed ; these hand.sumc
 
 THE FARMER'S BOY.
 
 FARMERS' SOP.S. 2U 
 
 trees why in this very spot twenty years ago a su-ml 
 bank 'twas, in which nothing grew but dock and tansiey. 
 I used to get the double tansey for grandmother, to co 
 lour her cheese with. I am not surprised that my Billy 
 should say, as he did to-day, that he was never so happy 
 as when he was under the ash-tree down by the spring, 
 lleally, Mrs. Norton, that is the only one near our 
 house, and that is fast going to decay. You have vines, 
 trees and shrubs, and beautiful flowers ; why, it Heems 
 to me these things must tend to make home pleasant." 
 
 " You are right, Mrs. Gove ; we feel that by cultivat 
 ing a taste for the beautiful in nature, we improve the 
 character and soften the heart." 
 
 " I know you are right ; and not for my sake, but on 
 Billy's account, I wish I could make Mr. Gove think as 
 we do. But perhaps I do wrong to speak in this wwy, 
 for Mr. Gove has more care now than any one man 
 ought to have, and I know that he has no time for any 
 thing but barely to take care of what he has, without 
 making any improvements. But I am in hopes when 
 William grows up, that he will get time to set trees and 
 make our home pleasant, for a more ardent lover of na 
 ture I surely never saw." 
 
 " Mrs. Gove, of course your husband knows his own 
 business, but I've often thought that it would be for your 
 interest all round, if your husband had less land to care 
 for. I mean, if he would sell some, it certainly would 
 lessen his care as well as your own." 
 
 " Perhaps so, but really Mr. Gove doesn't think it 
 looks just right for a man to part with property which 
 has been handed down from father to son, until it is 
 10
 
 212 FARMERS' SONS. 
 
 now in the fourth generation. 'Tis true I have a good 
 deal of care, and must work hard, but I have no reason 
 to complain, though 'twould be very nice, what little 
 time I have to sew, to sit in such a cool, delightful place 
 as this. Perhaps I'm all wrong, and think too much of 
 these things." 
 
 Mrs. Gove was returning from the visit to her neigh 
 bour, which they had mutually enjoyed, when a pat on 
 the shoulder caused her to exclaim, "Are you tired, 
 Billy?" as she gazed earnestly at that pale face, and 
 Bought to read the language of those dark and handsome 
 eyes. " Are you tired, my dear ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother, 0, I am very tired ; for don't you 
 tnink after I had helped father as long as he had any 
 thing for me to do, I went into that pretty grove where 
 sis and I played the week before she died, and there, 
 right by a little mossy bank, was a little larch- ree ; and, 
 mother, I wanted very much to dig it up and bring it 
 home, and set it out by your bedroom window. 1 am 
 sure, mother, it would look beautifully there, and then 
 I never should see it without thinking of little Alice." 
 
 " Did your father take it up for you ?" said Mrs. 
 Cove, as she strove to force back the tears that would 
 jomc. 
 
 " No, mother ; I took the spade and tried ; I dug all 
 -iround it, but I couldn't start it a bit, when I tried to 
 onll it up, and then I asked father if he would let Mike 
 take it up for me. You know, mother, that Mike is a 
 good hand, for he helped take up and set out all Mr, 
 Norton's trees." 
 
 "And what did your father "ay, my dear?"
 
 FARMERS' SONS. 215 
 
 "lie said, 'don't be so foolish, child we've no time 
 to fool away,' or something of that kind. I wish / had 
 strength to pull it up ; but I don't know as father would 
 let me set it out. Do you think it is foolish, mother?" 
 
 "My dear child, your father has a great deal of caro 
 and anxiety, and you heard him say this morning, when 
 the man called to tell him his fence all lay flat, arid 
 everybody's cattle were in, that his work was driving 
 him continually; so perhaps father thought 'twould be 
 wrong to spend the time that is now so precious to us, 
 in doing what we could get along without doing." 
 
 "Well, mother, does father take much comfort? He 
 is always behindhand, and he never finishes all the jobs 
 he begins. Why, don't you know last summer we had 
 so much to do that we did not get time to hoe that piece 
 of corn between the woods, and I heard father say my 
 self, that it did not begin to pay for the ploughing. And, 
 mother, you know I heard it talked over at the store, 
 how father had to pay for that strip of land he bought 
 of Mr. Chase, twice, because he did not get time to make 
 the deed, and Mr. Chase died before 'twas done. When 
 I hear people say to father, 'you are the richest man in 
 town,' or, ' you own the most land,' why, I think, well, 
 I don't see as father is any happier than the neighbours, 
 that haven't half as much. Why, I heard father say 
 to-day that he was harassed to death." 
 
 The night after the above conversation, as Billy waa 
 quietly sleeping, and Mr. Gove sat with his arms folded, 
 and his eyes resting on the wall, Mrs. Gove asked her 
 husband, in rather a timid tone, if he had noticed how 
 fully Mr. Norton's fruit trees had blown.
 
 2-14 FARMERS' SONS. 
 
 " Well, I believe I saw them, or heard some one pea!{ 
 of it. But I am tired." 
 
 " Yes, I think you must be ; you've worked hard all 
 day." 
 
 "I have worked like a dog, and what does it amount 
 to?" 
 
 "Do you think," said his wife, "considering we have 
 to work so hard and hire so much help, that it i~ for 
 your interest to keep all the land ?" 
 
 " Think I don't think anything about it. ve got 
 it, and I must take care of it. I should look well spend 
 ing what has so long been in the family. As long aa 
 property is in land it is safe ; but change it into money, 
 or anything else, and ten to one 'tis soon gone, nobody 
 knows where." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right ; but it seems to me you could 
 take much better care of less, make it more profitable, 
 and at the same time relieve yourself of this care and 
 anxiety, which I fear is wearing upon you. And then 
 you know William is slender. I don't think he'll ever 
 be able to work as hard as you have done." 
 
 " He never will, if he is brought up to think he is 
 too good to work. He has notions in his head now, that 
 * fancy will do him no good. You have been over to 
 Norton's this afternoon. I suppose his wife advised yon 
 what was best for us to do. Why, Betsey, can't you 
 Bee through it all ? They have been and sold half of 
 their farm, and laid out the money in trees, and I don't 
 know what all, sent the boys to school instead of teach 
 ing them to work, and so she wants us to do the same. 
 Ha ! ha ! misery likes company. The long and short
 
 FARMERS' SONS, 245 
 
 of it is, Betsey, Mrs. Norton wanted to get rid of work. 
 I wish they had sold the whole concern and cleared out, 
 for I see plainly you nor William can go over there, but 
 it bewitches you. No you will never see me covering 
 my land, or surrounding my house with boughten trees. 
 If I had time, I should like well enough to set out a 
 maple or something near the house. I should like one 
 or two for the horses to stand under, but I haven't the 
 time, neither do I think it best to encourage any such 
 notions in the boy. You know how it is ' if you give 
 an inch they'll take an ell.' He begged hard for us to 
 dig up a larch this afternoon, but indulgence will spoil 
 any child. If I had done that for him, why he would 
 only have wanted more ; and if he got too many such 
 notions, why he is headstrong, and the first we should 
 know he would be off like others we know of. No ; the 
 only way to get along with children is to be strict; no 
 arguing with them, and no giving way to their foolish 
 wants." 
 
 " Do you think it was indulgence that made George 
 White go to New York ? I don't know but what it might 
 be, his mother was dreadful careful of him." 
 
 " I should like to know what 'tis makes boys leave 
 their fathers' homes and farms, and go off to the city, 
 and barely get their board, if it isn't letting them have 
 their will and way." 
 
 " I have no doubt that over-indulgence begets self- 
 will, and overcomes a child's sense of duty, so that re 
 straint is thrown off, and parental obligation disregarded ; 
 btit, husband, I do believe one thing, and that is, if we 
 wish Willie to love his home, we must make it happy,
 
 246 FARMERS' SONS. 
 
 if we wish his warmest affections to cluster around (his 
 place, \ve mint make it attractive. You think the Nor 
 ton boys are indulged too much, hut this indulgence is 
 nothing more than a, desire on the parents' part, judi 
 ciously carried out, to make them useful and kappy. 
 And I believe they take the right course. No children 
 love their home better than they do. Mrs. N. tells me 
 that it is with the greatest reluctance that they leave 
 home in the vacation, to visit their cousins in the city." 
 
 "Well, well, don't say any more, for I have as much 
 as I can do to get through the day's work, and I for one 
 want to sleep in the night ! Mrs. Norton is welcome to 
 her notions, and I will have mine !" 
 
 "While Mr. G. is wrapped in the "sweet sleep of the 
 labouring man," and Mrs. G. is revolving in her own 
 mind the many different plans which suggest themselves 
 to a. mother's ever-watchful heart, for the good of her 
 boy, let us take a peep at the character of both parents 
 arid child. 
 
 Had a stranger inquired of almost any one in N., 
 "What sort of a man is Mr. Gove ?" the answer would 
 probably be to this effect: "Fine man, sir, upright, ho 
 nest, and firm ; trifles don't move him." Granted but 
 let us see if there can be, with these good qualities, no 
 thing wanting. 
 
 Mr. G. was stern; in his view, the "smoothing orer" 
 >f an affair was never advisable. Billy, as a child, had 
 nuch to contend with in the way of passion, pride, arid 
 self-will ; like almost all children, occasional acts of 
 thoughtlessness and hasty impulse led him into error 
 and its painful consequences. Had his father beer
 
 FARMERS' SONS. 247 
 
 careful to "do justice to his better qualities, while at 
 the same time he blamed and convinced him of his 
 faults," all might have been well; but Mr. G. never 
 met his errors in "love and conquered them by forgive 
 ness." Unjust harshness actually confirmed him in er 
 ror. Mr. G. was spoken of as a generous man ; but, to 
 use the beautiful language of one departed, " There are 
 those who are lavish in attention and presents to friends, 
 but who never imagine that their own home circle has 
 the first and strongest claim to kindness, whether of 
 word or deed. Affections and thoughts lavished on 
 comparative strangers never radiate on home ; but when 
 given to home first, they shed light and kindness far 
 and near." Mr. G. never won the heart of his child. 
 How was it with the mother ? She possessed the rare 
 combination of " gentleness with firmness, submissive- 
 ness with dignity." Her anxious desire was to do jus 
 tice to his better feelings, and while she wished to edu 
 cate his mind, she was more anxious that his heart 
 should be won and taught. 
 
 But little change, outwardly, was visible in the Gove 
 family when William had reached his eighteenth year. 
 The homestead remained the same save some marks 
 which " Time's effacing fingers" had not failed to make. 
 The "ash-tree" by the spring was gone, and the maple 
 "for the horse to stand under," had never been "set 
 out." 
 
 One fine morning in May, William asked his father 
 if he might have the sorrel horse to go to the village 
 adjoining. Permission was given on condition that he
 
 248 FARMERS' SONS. 
 
 would return before dinner. Dinner came, and with it 
 came William. 
 
 " What has our William been doing !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Gove, as he gave a hasty glance at the window. " Cut 
 ting a wagon load of withes." 
 
 " I don't .know ; but I can't see very well without my 
 glasses." 
 
 'Twas easy to see, however, that that hasty glance 
 had ruffled the smooth current of his thoughts, for he at 
 once knew that withes needed no roots. William took 
 out the horse, wheeled the wagon into the shed, and 
 entering the long kitchen, seated himself at the table. 
 The mother, with her quick perception, failed not to 
 understand why that shadow rested upon the father's 
 brow. Hardly a word was spoken Mr. G., upon leaving 
 the table, took up a newspaper, a thing which he rarely 
 had time to do ; it was evident to Billy, however, that 
 he was not reading very intently, for the paper was 
 upside down. When William left the house, he went 
 directly for the spade and hoe, and walking deliberately 
 down the hillside, south of the house, commenced making 
 holes twelve feet apart, where he had helped his father 
 plough the day before. He had thus been engaged 
 half an hour, when, rising to wipe the heavy drops of 
 moisture from his forehead, he saw his father looking 
 earnestly at him. 
 
 " What are you doing, William ?" 
 
 " I am fixing places to set out trees !" 
 
 "What kind of trees?" 
 
 " Peach and pear trees, sir." 
 
 " Where did you get them ?"
 
 FARMERS' BONS. 249 
 
 "I bought them at a tree auction to-day." 
 
 " You did ! Well, you can't set them here, sir !" 
 
 "I can't -what's the reason?" 
 
 " There are reasons enough, though I am under no 
 obligations to tell children ; yet I won't be particular 
 this time. In the first place, I wish you to understand 
 once for all, that you take one step too far when you 
 buy trees without leave or license ; and more than that, 
 proceed deliberately to put them on my best corn land. 
 And now you can do what you please with the trees. 
 You have taken far too much liberty. You shall never 
 set them on my land." 
 
 Without one word, William shouldered his spade and 
 walked to the house. His mother, who stood at the 
 corner window, although she had heard no word spoken, 
 understood the Avhole affair perfectly. She saw William 
 shoulder the spade, and then her heart beat heavily ; 
 but quickly raising the corner of her apron, she wiped 
 away the tears which were fast falling, and met her son 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Well, mother, I've done," said he, as he sunk down 
 on the old kitchen chair ; " I've done trying to be any 
 thing here. He won't let me be anybody !" 
 
 " My child, don't speak so disrespectfully of your 
 father. He, Billy, that sounds dreadfully ; never say 
 that again, my son." 
 
 "I can't help it, mother; I shan't stay here. You 
 know what I told you last week, mother, and to-day I 
 have had something come across my feelings, harder 
 to bear than all. When I was coming from the village, 
 I met a man with a double wagon, and a bo:iutiful larch
 
 2&0 FARMERS' SONS 
 
 tree in it. I was hoping to buy it, so I asked him where 
 he got it. ' Squire Gove gave it to me,' he replied. 0, 
 mother, wasn't that too much ? I asked him who took 
 it up ; and he said his Irishman, that he called Mike 
 I could have torn that tree in splinters, mother. I rode 
 round by the grove, and sure enough, 'twas gone ; and 
 the mossy seat all trampled and torn. Do you think 
 after that I would ask him to let me set out the trees ? 
 No, mother, if father can do without me, I can do with 
 out him. I shall go away as soon as you can get my 
 things ready. Of course, the folks will say, ' What an 
 ungrateful boy, to leave his father alone ;' but why 
 can't father try to please me as well as others as well 
 as strangers? There are the Norton boys if father 
 had done one-quarter for me that their father has done 
 for them, I should be very, very happy. 0, mother, 
 don't feel so bad you must not blame me. I know 
 you are a real Christian, mother, but I ain't like you : 
 you overlook, and forgive everything. I am somewhat 
 like father ; I wish I was just like you." 
 
 William expected his mother would entreat him to 
 stay at home ; but no, not one word did she say in 
 favour of it. She knew these were little things to cause 
 the boy to leave the home of his youth for a home among 
 strangers ; but she knew also that the joys and griefs 
 at home are almost all made up of little, very little 
 things. 
 
 We will hasten over the particulars of William's 
 leaving home, and only say that his father's parting 
 words were, " I can do without you as long as you can 
 without me, W T illiam." In four weeks from this leave-
 
 FARMERS' SONS. 251 
 
 taking, William was a sort of waiter on board a Missis 
 sippi steamboat. 
 
 Mr. Gove bired an extra hand : many people sbook 
 their heads meaningly, and said it was a pity, a great 
 pity, but nothing new or strange, for an only child to be 
 spoiled by indulgence ; but then, he was a pretty, bright 
 boy, and they supposed it came hard to punish him; 
 but " Spare the rod and spoil the child," was Scripture. 
 
 The summer was passed, the golden grain was gar 
 nered, and the rich fruits secured, when Mr. Gove, who 
 had grown somewhat moody of late, called Mike to the 
 back door, and giving him some directions, took his hat, 
 and passing out the other door, joined him. 
 
 " Let me see, you have the spade and hoe. Well, 
 now, come down with me to the side of the hill where 
 the early corn was planted ; and do you remember where 
 the holes were, that William made last spring ?" 
 
 " And sure 'tis not me that's afthur forgatting sich 
 things ; for didn't I put a flat stone by every bite of 
 'um ; and didn't I in hoeing and harvest keep them 
 from being shoved a bit ? For do you mind, sir, I set a 
 dale by the boy he wouldn't hurt a baste, sir, and his 
 heart is as big as a whale." 
 
 " Well, well, that's enough, Mike. Now, you bring 
 all the trees you buried in the swamp, and set them out 
 just as you did Norton's ; and do you know which were 
 the trees designed for the holes William had opened?" 
 
 "And faith, I mind it well; for didn't I tie a string 
 round 'um, and lay 'um jes so ?" 
 
 "Well, set them right; and when you have done 
 them, call me from the house."
 
 252 FARMERS' SONS. 
 
 Mr. G. took the arm-chair, and moving it to the bed 
 room window, seemed lost in thought. Surely, he must 
 be sick ; for he never was known to sit down of a week 
 day except at meal times. 
 
 Two hours passed, and Mike was passing the window, 
 when he was thus accosted by Mr. G. : " Have you 
 done, Mike?" 
 
 " Sure, sir, a plasant job to me ; I was lazy to quat it." 
 
 " Now take your spade, and prepare a place by this 
 window, where you see I've placed the stick, for a larger 
 tree. Now, if you have it right, go over to Captain 
 Burns', and ask him if he will sell me that larch-tree in 
 the west corner of his birch lot. Tell him the price ia 
 no object ; and be careful you don't break any of the 
 small roots ; be very careful, Mike." 
 
 " No fear o' that, sir." 
 
 " Stop, that is not all. When you come home, call at 
 Smith's, and tell him I have concluded to let him have 
 the land, and tell him to come over this afternoon, and 
 Squire Norton will be here to fix the writings. Tell all 
 who inquire for me that I am sick." 
 
 Before night, one-third of Mr. Gove's land was in 
 Mr. Smith's possession, and the deeds on record. The 
 larch seemed quite at home by the bedroom window. 
 
 And now, what strange spell was this upon Mr. G^ve ? 
 
 " 0, there are moments in our life, 
 When but a thought, a word, a look has power 
 To wrest the cup of happiness aside, 
 And stamp us wretched." 
 
 The evening before, Mr. G. chanced to take ur a
 
 FARMERS' SONS. 253 
 
 Bt.'hool-book of William's, and on a blank leaf were 
 written, in a neat school-boy hand, these simple lines : 
 
 " Tis the last blooming summer these eyes shall behold; 
 Long;, long ere another, this heart shall be cold : 
 tor 0, its warm feelings on earth have been chilled, 
 And I grieve not that shortly its pulse will be stilled." 
 
 Mr. G. dropped the book, and wandered, he hardly 
 knew whither, till he found himself in the swamp where 
 William's trees were buried. What followed, the reader 
 already knows. 
 
 Mrs. G. had finished her day's work, and was seating 
 herself in the little rocking-chair, when Mr. G. called 
 to her from the bedroom. 
 
 " Betsey, will you sit in here ? I want you to write 
 a letter to William to-night." 
 
 " To-night ! Why it is after nine o'clock !" 
 
 " I know it, but I shall feel better if it is done to 
 night. I feel sick all over, and perhaps I am nervous." 
 
 " I will write what you wish me to, my dear husband." 
 
 " 0, don't say so but tell Billy I wish him to come 
 home without delay ; tell him for the love he bears his 
 mother, and for the love I bear him, to come now. Say 
 that my hand trembles so, I can't write thi; but I say 
 it from my inmost heart." 
 
 Mrs. G., with an overflowing heart, quickly performed 
 the delightful task. 
 
 "And now, Betsey, I will try to ask God to 
 over that boy, and to soften my own proud heart." 
 
 "0 ! when the heart is full -when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up f->r utterance,
 
 254 THE SPIRIT-MAIDEN OF RHIN ELAND. 
 
 And the poor common words of courtesy 
 
 Are such a very mockery how much 
 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer." 
 
 June, beautiful June, the " month of roses," found 
 Mr. G. in that "old arm-chair," by the bedroom win 
 dow, but 0, how changed ! 
 
 " His hair was thin, and on his brow 
 A record of the cares of many a year, 
 Cares that were ended and forgotten now." 
 
 It was the last day of his earthly existence. The 
 gentle breeze, as it swept through the light foliage of 
 that beautiful larch, caused him to open those eyes so 
 soon to be closed for ever and as they met, for the 
 last time on earth, those of his own Billy, upon whose 
 arm his head rested, he whispered, " I die happy now,' 
 and the scene of life had closed. 
 
 THE SPIRIT-MAIDEN OF RHINELAND. 
 
 IT was almost evening ; the sun was sinking upon it3 
 imperial couch of gorgeous clouds, whilst beautiful beams 
 of crimson and gold were reflected through the trees. 
 The calm, broad-bosomed Rhine slept along its green- 
 embowered banks, and the dying sun-rays twinkled and 
 flashed in its blue depths. 
 
 The summer air was soft, and sweet as a breath of 
 roses ; and a gush of dreamy melody from some idling
 
 THE SPIRIT-MAIDEN OF RHINELAND. 255 
 
 bark upon the water, stole as a " spirit's presence" over 
 the earth. 
 
 Paul stood at the door of his father's mansion, watch 
 ing the changing colours 'of the beautiful landscape. 
 His heart was overflowing with a burst of tumultuoua 
 emotions, thanksgiving and praise to the Watchful One. 
 He turned his head over his shoulder, and glanced back 
 into the chamber which he had but just left ; there, in 
 his accustomed place, the evening glow tinging his silvery 
 locks, sat the blind and aged father, and at his side, 
 upon a low stool, was seated his young cousin, the meek 
 and fair-haired Bertha. 
 
 The maiden held her lute, and her white fingers 
 glanced like snow-flakes over the glistening chords as 
 she played a light wild melody. She was singing a 
 Rhinish love-song, and her voice, so sweet and low, fell 
 like the tones of a silver bell upon the evening air. 
 
 A soft and holy influence was enveloping Paul's 
 senses ; but he thought he saw a white figure glancing 
 in the wood, and a spirit-voice seemed calling to him, as 
 it said, 
 
 " Paul ! Paul ! where art thou ?" 
 
 The voice called, and the echoes caught the wild, 
 witching melody, and Paul knew that it was the voice 
 of his spirit-maiden singing to him. He walked forth 
 into the wood with a saddened heart, and seated himself 
 upon a mossy stone. 
 
 " Etheria ! Etheria ! here is thy Paul," he called in 
 answer; but the voice was silent, and he heard only the 
 sound of the wind, as it moved in the leaves, or the 
 dreamy tinklings of the fountain.
 
 256 THE SPIRIT-MAIDEN OF RHINELAND. 
 
 Paul had never seen his spirit-maiden, save in hifl 
 dreams, when she came to him clothed in all her virgin 
 beauty, and whispered to him of her love. But she 
 floated upon every gold-tinted cloud. She smiled in the 
 shining sunlight, and breathed words of love in the 
 beautiful flowers. He saw her not, and yet he loved. 
 
 The sun was gone quite down, and had left, as a re 
 membrance of what had passed, and what was yet to 
 be, a crown of glorious rose-clouds lingering in the sky. 
 Paul wandered again sorrowfully towards the mansion. 
 Bertha was sitting at the tablette, with her Bible open 
 before her, and she read to the aged man the holy words. 
 Never had she looked so lovely. Her soft blue eyea 
 were filled with tears as she read, and her bright fair 
 hair fell like a beautiful veil over her neck and shoul 
 ders. As Paul gazed upon her beauty, a gleam of flash 
 ing silver light glanced through the apartment ; but an 
 instant, and it was gone again. It was not the moon 
 light it was the smile of the spirit-maiden. And Paul 
 thought no more of the fair Bertha, but mourned for hia 
 
 O 
 
 soul's shadow. 
 
 When the devotion was over, Bertha led the old man 
 to his chamber, and returning again, found Paul sitting 
 listless and gloomy. 
 
 " Paul," whispered the beautiful Rhinish maiden, aa 
 she laid her hand gently upon his arm, " thou art sor 
 rowful, and I may not comfort thee." 
 
 Her tones were very sad and reproachful. Paul drevp 
 her towards him, and kissed her fair brow. 
 
 " I am sorrowful, my beloved Bertha," he said, mourn 
 fully, " for I must leave this beautiful Rhineland nvy
 
 THE SPIRIT-MAIDEN OF RHINELAND. 257 
 
 Bpirif-love awaiteth me. Hearest thou not her voice 
 calling me ? Seest thou not her wavy tresses beckoning 
 me? My love awaiteth me, and I may not stay." 
 
 Bertha knew of his strange love for the spirit-maiden, 
 and she bowed her face amid her ringlets, and wept. 
 
 " Weep not, my beloved one," said Paul, in a soothing 
 voice ; " weep not, I shall soon return again, and thy 
 heart shall be made glad by the gay smiles and witching 
 tones of my own spirit-maiden." 
 
 Bertha pushed back the drooping tresses from her 
 weeping face, and gliding from his embrace reached the 
 door. 
 
 " Paul," she whispered, sadly, " when thou art far 
 distant, forget not the maiden of Khineland." 
 
 Alas ! Paul knew not the deep and holy love which 
 rested in that innocent heart for him. 
 
 Paul reclined upon his couch, but slept not. The 
 moon looked down at him, and the stars twinkled and 
 danced in the sky. A voice full of mirth and witchery 
 came floating on the breeze, and whispering in the leaf 
 lets. Paul arose from his couch, and stealing from his 
 chamber, gained the open air. With quickened foot 
 steps he reached the wood, and hastened to the fountain. 
 And there, among the trees, stood a maiden of wondrous 
 beauty, clad in shadowy garments, beckoning and smiling 
 through the shower of the fountain. 
 
 Paul sprang to catch the beautiful form in his em 
 brace ; but, as he came nearer, it still receded the 
 mirthful tones still calling, 
 
 " Paul ! Paul ! where art thou?" 
 
 Sometimes she hid among the trees., and then again 
 17
 
 258 THE SPIRJ /-MAIDEN OF REIINELAND. 
 
 her soft breath fanned his cheek, and her dark tressea 
 fell like a cloud over his face. Now she vanished in a 
 wreath of spray, or seemed lost in her own strain of 
 fairy music, and then she floated in the moonlight, 
 smiling, and waving her white arms. But ever sang she, 
 and ever followed the youth. 
 
 Paul stood upon the summit of a high mountain, 
 whither he had followed his spirit-love. His father's 
 mansion was lost to view, and the spirit-maiden had 
 vanished in a mist of snow her voice was hushed. He 
 had reached the highest peak : but he was alone the 
 clouds above, and the snow below. He thought he heard 
 the vesper-bell ringing on the air, and Bertha's voice 
 reading the evening devotion ; the lulling sound of 
 dreamy whisperings bewildered him, and he sank upon 
 
 the ground insensible. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The years pass by in their varied attire, ever choosing 
 a new devotee to worship at the shrines of bitter sorrow, 
 or awakening hopes. The aged father was long since 
 dead, and was buried upon the banks of the beautiful 
 Rhine. The witchern drooped its branches over his 
 grave, and the " sad bird" sang mournfully in the green 
 leaves. 
 
 The gentle Bertha dwelt alone in the old mansion, 
 more beautiful and more beloved than before. She often 
 thought of her old love, Paul, but he had disappeared 
 years ago, and was perhaps buried in a foreign land. 
 Thus, like a fair lily, she bloomed in sequestered loveli 
 ness upon the banks of the Rhine, ever modest, gentle, 
 and meek
 
 THE SPIRIT-MAIDEN OF KHINELANP. 259 
 
 One lovely day, when the summer had returned again 
 in fragrance and flowers, Bertha sat at her lattice net 
 ting a silken fillet to bind her fair tresses. Old memo 
 ries came crowding around her heart, and tears trembled 
 upon her golden lashes. She thought of one so dear to 
 her heart Paul. A tall, sun-burnt man, with a sad 
 dened, care-worn look upon his features, came slowly up 
 the pathway which led to the door. He was changed 
 much changed, and older, but Bertha's heart knew that 
 it was Paul. He reached the door-way Bertha threw 
 down her silken net, and, gliding to the door, cried, 
 "Paul! Paul! is it thou ?" 
 
 In an instant he folded her in his arms, and she rest 
 ed, weeping and smiling, upon his breast. 
 
 " And the spirit-maiden, Paul?" asked the fair Bertha, 
 as they sat, side by side, in the father's hall, as in days 
 of yore. 
 
 " Ask me not, Bertha," he answered, in a low voice, 
 as he pressed her hand still closer in his, " ask me not. 
 It is enough, alas ! too much to know that I sought for the 
 ideal, and knew not the true value of the real. Hal I 
 but dreamed how fond and true was the gentle heart that 
 beat for me in mine own Rhineland, then would the 
 spirit-maiden have been, indeed, as a shadow." 
 
 Bertha felt that she was beloved at last, and she 
 rested her fair cheek fondly upon his bosom, whispering, 
 
 " Oh, Paul ! shall we not be happy now?" 
 * * * * 
 
 Many ah, how many have deserted the substance, 
 which was within their grasp, for the shadow, which, un 
 certain, flits hither and thither ! ^Ideal bliss takes winga
 
 260 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 and flies away ; real happiness folds its pinions amid 
 the flowers of earth, nor seeks a better resting-place. 
 The substance places a wreath of emerald around the 
 heart, unchanging in its hues ; the shadow rests in the 
 soul as an opal, with its many beauties. Then seek not 
 for a happiness greater than that of the present hour ; 
 the morn arises in golden beauty, but the night may be 
 a clouded sky, starless and unsearchable. 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 WE do not sufficiently avail ourselves of this trite and 
 common saying there is a world of meaning in it, that 
 would brush away many a tear, and many a silly care 
 which is spent upon trifles ; for it is a fact that tears are 
 shed about very small matters. 
 
 A mother bought for her little daughter a new bonnet, 
 but the colour was not exactly the shade of her friend 
 Ellen's, neither was it the precise shape. She wept till 
 her eyes were red, and she had to stay from school. The 
 bonnet was worn but a few weeks, and laid away for a 
 mourning one, and the tears were needed for the parent's 
 (lying bed. 
 
 A young lady has been dreadfully mortified. She 
 forgot to change the things in the pocket of her dress, 
 and what did she do but draw out a coarse shilling hand 
 kerchief, in the parlour, before ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 " Oh what a crime, to use such a poor thing in any
 
 PASSING AWAY. 25J 
 
 way, and leave one's self liable to such a mistake if it 
 was clean, no matter dear me, it was horrible !" 
 
 My dear, it was not a shadow in contrast with that 
 pert answer you gave to your dear mamrria as you left 
 the room. Who cared for that pocket handkerchief? 
 every one was absorbed in their own interests the next 
 we hear of some of that little party, one or more were 
 on the other side of the globe ; and if they remembered 
 anything about you. it was something you said, or some 
 pleasant or unpleasant temper you indicated in your be 
 haviour or expression. 
 
 " Your bonnet looks exceedingly stiff and plain," said 
 one sister to another ; " it needs the touches of Madame, 
 to give it a pretty, easy air." "Passing away, it will 
 be with the trash in the garret this time next year ;" and 
 skipped off to her music lesson. 
 
 " This dress is a perfect eye sore to me," said Mrs 
 Landon to her husband, " and if you had not overper 
 suaded me I would not have bought it I might hav< 
 known it was entirely out of fashion, and would be, be 
 fore I could put it on." Her husband made no reply, 
 for he too well remembered the drain it was upon his 
 small funds to purchase that dress, and for him to say 
 he hoped it would do for a good while to come, would 
 only be adding fuel to the flame. So he remained 
 silent. Poor woman, who is minding her dress? if she 
 is making a comfortable home for her children, and 
 striving to help her struggling husband through his dif 
 ficulties, she is indeed beautifully decorated. 
 
 "Your hat would look sweet," said Amelia to her 
 friend, "if that ribbon was a different colour." "Oh
 
 262 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 don't name it to me, it has given me a deal of trouble, 
 I never put it on but I hate it, I cannot bear to look at 
 it ir. the glass I have tried every way to manage to 
 buy a new ribb'on like Mary Fanshaw's, but cannot make 
 it out. You know papa gives us a stated sum for our 
 clothing.*' Dear child, it was the last bonnet she wore 
 disease confined her to the house for months, and then 
 she was clad for the tomb. 
 
 " I am sick and tired of looking at this old-fashioned 
 furniture ; and really, Mr. Edmund, you must get me 
 something new, if it is only for this parlour ; I am 
 ashamed to go with my neighbours to call, and expect 
 them back again, for we do look so shabby we have 
 not had a new sofa or chair since we were married." 
 Mr. Edmund was shaving, and it was just as well for 
 him and his wife too, for he began to think of the old 
 sofa in his New England home, that had belonged to 
 his grandmother, and how pleased his mother was when 
 it was brought into her house. As a sequel to his 
 thoughts he let slip from his tongue, "delightful hours." 
 We may suppose they were the happy, easy, contented 
 ones, he had passed in that thrifty, unambitious home 
 where the old sofa was so prominent a piece of furniture. 
 
 Even the unfashionable sofa and chairs went under 
 the hammer, and poor Mrs. E. had to content herself 
 with less elegant comforts. 
 
 How often we should let "well enough" alone, in our 
 homes, our dress, husbands, wives, and children! 
 
 " Oh ! did you notice that elegant dress Sophy Est- 
 more had on, when she called on her bridal tour ? I did 
 not know which to admire most, the dress, the fit, or hei
 
 HINTS FOR HUSBANDS. 263 
 
 beautiful figure all seemed so perfect. She looked so 
 sweet, as she took her husband's arm when they left the 
 door he appeared perfectly happy." 
 
 Yes, and did you know she was buried last week, 
 dressed for the grave in her bridal attire ? 
 
 " What a shabby lace that is on Mary Green's neck ! 
 I would not wear lace if I could not have something 
 better than that." "Indeed!" replied a voice in the 
 distance ; " then Mary Green is better off than you ; 
 for she is perfectly contented to wear that which is 
 within the bounds of her circumstances ; and would not 
 have her dear papa tried and troubled, to provide her 
 with vanities that are passing away." 
 
 HINTS FOR HUSBANDS. 
 
 THERE is an article afloat in the papers entitled 
 " Golden Rules for Wives," which enjoins upon the ladies 
 a rather abject submission to their husbands' will and 
 whims. Iron rules, not golden ones, we should call 
 them. But the art of living together in harmony is a 
 very difficult art ; and, instead of confuting the posi 
 tions of the authors of the Rules aforesaid, we offer the 
 following, as the substance of what a wife likes in a 
 husband : 
 
 Fidelity is her heart's first and most just demand. 
 The act of infidelity a true wife cannot forgive -it 
 rudely breaks the tie that bound her heart to his, and 
 that tie can never more exist.
 
 264 HINTS FOR HUSBANDS. 
 
 The first place in her husband's affections no true wife 
 can learn to do without. When she loses that, she has 
 lost her husband ; she is a widow ; and has to endure 
 the pangs of bereavement intensified by the presence of 
 what she no longer possesses. There is a living mummy 
 in the house, reminding her of her loss in the most pain 
 ful manner. 
 
 A woman likes her husband to excel in those qualitiet* 
 which distinguish the masculine from the feminine being 
 such as strength, courage, fortitude, and judgment. She 
 wants her husband to be wholly a MAN. She cannot 
 entirely love one whom she cannot entirely respect, be 
 lieve in, and rely on. 
 
 A wife dearly likes to have her husband stand high 
 in the regard of the community in which they reside. 
 She likes to be thought by her own sex a tortunate wo 
 man in having such a husband as she has. She has a 
 taste for the respectable, desires to have a good-looking 
 front door, and to keep up a good appearance generally. 
 Some wives, it is said, carry this too far ; and some hus 
 bands, we know, are dangerously complaisant in yield 
 ing to the front-door ambition of their wives. But a 
 good husband will like to gratify his wife in this respect 
 as far as he can, without sacrificing more important 
 objects. 
 
 Perfect sincerity a wife expects, or at least has a right 
 to expect, from her husband. She desires to know the 
 real state of the case, however it may be concealed from 
 the world. It wrings her heart, and wounds her pride, 
 to discover that her husband has not wholly confided in 
 her. A man may profitably consult his wife on almost
 
 HINTS FOR HUSBANDS. 265 
 
 any project ; it is due to her that he should do so, and 
 she is glad to be consulted. 
 
 Above most other things, a wife craves from her hus 
 band appreciation. The great majority of wives lead 
 lives of severe and anxious toil. With unimaginable 
 anguish and peril to their own lives, they become mo 
 thers. Their children require incessant care. " Only 
 the eye of God watches like a mother's," says Fanny 
 
 \t ' w v 
 
 Fern, in that chapter of " Ruth Hall" which depicts 
 with such power and truth a mother's agonizing anxie 
 ties. And besides her maternal cares, a wife is the 
 queen-regent of a household kingdom. She has to 
 think, and plan, and work for everybody. If, in all 
 her labours and cares, she feels that she has her hus 
 band's sympathy and gratitude ; if he helps her where 
 a man can help a woman ; if he notices her efforts, ap 
 plauds her skill, and allows for her deficiencies all is 
 well. But to endure all this, and yet meet with no ap 
 preciating word, or glance, or act from him for whom 
 and whose she toils and bears, is very bitter. 
 
 A wife likes her husband to show her all due respect 
 in the presence of others ; she cannot endure to be re 
 proved or criticised by him when others can hear it. 
 Indeed, it is most wrong in a husband thus to put his 
 wife to shame ; and we cannot help secretly admiring 
 the spirit of that Frenchwoman who, when her husband 
 had so wronged her, refused ever again to utter a word, 
 and for twenty years lived in the house a dumb woman. 
 We admire her spirit, though not her mode of manifest 
 ing it. Husbands owe the most profound respect to 
 their wives, for their wives are the mothers of their
 
 266 BUY ONLY WHAT YOU WANT. 
 
 children. No man has the slightest claim to the charac 
 ter of a gentleman who is not more scrupulously polite 
 to his wife than to any other woman. We refer here to 
 the essentials of politeness, not its forms ; we mean 
 kindness and justice in little things. 
 
 A wife likes her husband to be considerate. Unex 
 pected kindnesses and unsolicited favours touch her 
 heart. She appreciates the softened tread when she ia 
 oick ; she enjoys the gift brought from a distance, and 
 everything which proves to her that her husband thinks 
 of her comfort and her good. 
 
 Husband, reflect on these things ! Your wife has 
 confided her happiness to you. You can make it un 
 speakably wretched, if you are ignoble and short-sighted. 
 Let the .contest between husbands and wives be this 
 which shall do most for the happiness of the other. 
 
 BUY ONLY WHAT YOU WANT. 
 
 To buy nothing you do not want is a maxim as old 
 almost as society itself. But it is also one that is con 
 tinually slipping out of mind, and which cannot, there 
 fore, be brought forward again too frequently. Spending 
 money, in fact, is a vice common to human nature. 
 Where one man degrades himself by being a miser, ten 
 run constant peril of ruining themselves by extrava 
 gance. It is so fine to have elegant furniture, to live 
 iu a handsome house, or to dress one's wife and children
 
 BUY ONLY WHAT YOU WANT. 267 
 
 in rich apparel, that it requires an unusual degree of 
 firmness, especially in this prosperous age, to resist the 
 temptation. If everybody was compelled to pay cash 
 for such gratifications, there would he some slight check 
 on this tendency to useless expenditure. But credit is 
 so easily obtained in this country, and buyers are so 
 sanguine of being ready when settling day comes, that 
 thousands of families are induced annually to cripple 
 their future comforts, by indulging in present follies. 
 Half the men who reach old age impoverished, and per 
 haps even a greater number, owe their dependent con 
 dition, at that saddest of all times to be beggared, to 
 early extravagance. 
 
 If we were all to buy only what we wanted, this would 
 not be. We are far from recommending a niggardly 
 parsimony ; for one of the purposes of wealth is that it 
 should be distributed in encouraging trade and the arts. 
 But still even the wealthiest, with few exceptions, fre 
 quently buy what they do not want ; while those less 
 favoured incessantly violate this golden rule. The 
 preacher, lawyer, or physician, attracted by some new 
 and costly book, persuades himself that his profession 
 requires he should have it, and spends on it a sum that 
 he often needs for more necessary purposes before the 
 year is over. The wife, charmed by a new style of 
 dress, lavishes away her money, is delighted for a while, 
 but lives to repent it, if she is a woman of sense. The 
 father, proud of his daughter, thinks no expense too 
 great to gratify her whims. The young man, fond of 
 horses, does not stop to count the cost when coveting a 
 famous trotter. The fashionable couple, who like to be
 
 268 BUY ONLY WHAT YOU WANT 
 
 surrounded with mirrors, pictures, and fine furniture 
 generally, squander money disproportionately on such 
 costly gewgaws. Yet all learn, sooner or later, to re 
 gret what they have done, since they find they havo 
 added nothing to their happiness, as tens of thousands 
 have discovered before, after buying what they did not 
 really want. 
 
 Franklin's homely story about the whistle would be 
 well to be remembered by us all. It is not enough that 
 a purchase gratifies us at the time. To be a judicious 
 expenditure, it should be such a one as we can recur to 
 afterwards with satisfaction. If Mrs. A., when she 
 moves into her new house, spends so much money on 
 furniture that her husband's dinners suffer by it, is he 
 not paying too dear for his whistle ? If Mrs. B. givea 
 so elegant a party to her friends that the housekeeping 
 is stinted all the rest of the winter; if Mrs. C., by 
 going to Cape May with her daughters, makes such an 
 inroad on her husband's salary, that his old coat has to 
 last another winter ; if Mrs. D.'s piano for that prodigy, 
 " Our Marianne," takes the earnings of whole weeks 
 what is all this but paying too dear for the whistle ? 
 Whenever we buy what we don't want, we deprive our 
 selves of things we really require. To be wise is to err, 
 if anything, on the other side. If we deny ourselves a 
 little, if we learn to buy nothing until we are sure we 
 want it, we shall both avoid its perils and extravagance 
 and discipline our characters. Amid the hurry and 
 temptations of this prosperous age, it is well to recall 
 occasionally these old maxims of prudence and wisdom, 
 Time thus spent is not wasted.
 
 THEY tell me unseen spirits 
 
 Around about us glide ; 
 Beside the stilly waters 
 
 Our erring footsteps guide: 
 'Tis pleasant, thus believing 
 
 Their ministry on earth : 
 I know an angel sitteth 
 
 This moment by my hearth. 
 
 If false-lights, on life's waters., 
 
 To wreck my soul appear ; 
 With finger upward pointing, 
 
 She turns me with a tear : 
 'Twere base to slight the warning, 
 
 And count it little worth, 
 Of her, the loving angel, 
 
 That sitteth by my hearth. 
 
 She wins me with caresses 
 
 Frm passion's dark defiles ; 
 She guides me when I falter, 
 
 And strengthens me with smiles; 
 It may be, unseen angels 
 
 Beside me journey forth, 
 I know that one is sitting 
 
 This moment by my hearth. 
 
 A loving wife. brothers, 
 
 An angel here below ; 
 Alas ! your eyes are holden 
 
 Too often till they go ; 
 Ye upward look while grieving, 
 
 When they have passed from earth ; 
 cherish well, those sitting 
 
 This moment by the hearth !
 
 A WORD TO YOUNG HUSBANDS. 
 
 WALKING the other day with a valued friend who had 
 been confined a week or two by sickness to his room, he 
 remarked that a husband might learn a good lesson by 
 being occasionally confined to his house, by having in 
 this way an opportunity of witnessing the cares and 
 never-ending toils of his wife, whose burdens and duties, 
 and patient endurance, he might never have otherwise 
 understood. There is a great deal in this thought. 
 Men, especially young men, are called by their business 
 during the day mostly away from home, returning only 
 at the hours for meals ; and as they then see nearly the 
 same routine of duty, they begin to think it is their own 
 lot to perform all the drudgery, and to be exercised with 
 the weight of care and responsibility. But such a man 
 has got a wrong view of the case ; he needs an oppor 
 tunity for more extended observation ; and it is perhaps 
 for this very reason that a kind providence arrests him 
 by sickness, that he may learn in pain what he would 
 fail to observe in health. 
 
 We have seen a good many things said to wives, espe 
 cially to young wives, exposing their faults, perhaps 1 
 magnifying them, and expounding to them, in none of 
 the kindest terms, their duty and the offices pertaining 
 to a woman's sphere. Now, we believe that wives, as a 
 whole, are really better than they are admitted to be. 
 We doubt if there can be found a great number of wives 
 who are disagreeable and negligent, without some pal-
 
 A WORD TO YOUNG HLSBANDS. 271 
 
 pable coldness or shortcoming on the part of their hus 
 bands. So far as we have had an opportunity for 
 observation, they are far more devoted and faithful than 
 those who style themselves their lords, and "who, by the 
 customs of society, have other and generally more plea- 
 Bant and varied duties to perform. We protest then 
 against these lectures so often and so obtrusively 
 addressed to the ladies, and insist upon it that they 
 must, most of them, have been written by some fusty 
 bachelors who know no better, or by some inconsiderate 
 husbands who deserve to have been old bachelors to the 
 end of their lives. 
 
 But is there nothing to be said on the other side ? 
 Are husbands so generally the perfect, amiable, injured 
 beings they are so often represented ? Men sometimes 
 declare that their wives' extravagance has picked their 
 pockets ; that their never-ceasing tongues have robbed 
 them of their peace ; and their general disagreeableness 
 has driven them to the tavern and gaming-table ; but 
 this is generally the wicked excuse for a most wicked 
 life on their own part. The fact is, men often lose their 
 interest in their homes by their own neglect to make 
 their homes interesting and pleasant. It should never 
 be forgotten that the wife has her rights as sacred 
 
 O 
 
 after marriage as before and a good husband's devotion 
 to the wife after marriage will concede to her quite as 
 much attention as he gallantly did while a lover. If it 
 is otherwise, he most generally is at fault. 
 
 Take a few examples. Before marriage, a young man 
 would feel some delicacy about accepting an invitation 
 to spend an evening in company where his lady-love had
 
 272 A WORD TO YOUNG HUSBANDS. 
 
 not been invited. After marriage, is he always as par 
 ticular? During the days of courtship, his gallantry 
 would demand that he should make himself agreeable to 
 her ; after marriage, it often happens that he thinks 
 more of being agreeable to himself. How often it hap 
 pens that married men, after having been away from 
 home the livelong day, during which the wife has toiled 
 at her duties, go at evening to some place of amusement, 
 and leave her to toil on alone, uncheered and unhappy ! 
 How often it happens that her kindest offices pass unob 
 served and unrewarded even by a smile, and her best 
 efforts are condemned by the fault-finding husband ! 
 
 How often it happens, even when the evening is spent 
 at home, that it is employed in silent reading, or some 
 other way that does not recognise the wife's right to 
 share in the enjoyment even of the fireside ! 
 
 Look, ye husbands, a moment, and remember what 
 your wife was when you took her, not from compulsion, 
 but from your own choice ; a choice, based, probably, on 
 what you considered her superiority to all others. She 
 was young, perhaps the idol of a happy home ; she was 
 gay and blithe as the lark, and the brothers and sisters 
 at her father's fireside cherished her as an object of 
 endearment. Yet she left all to join her destiny with 
 yours ; to make your home happy, and to do all that 
 woman's love could prompt, and woman's ingenuity 
 devise, to meet your wishes, and to lighten the burdens 
 which might press upon you in your pilgrimage. She, 
 of course, had her expectations too. She could not 
 entertain feelings which promised so much without form 
 ing some idea of reciprocation on your part ; and she
 
 A WORD TO YOUNG HUSBANDS. 273 
 
 did expect you would, after marriage, perform those 
 kind offices of which you were so la vdsh in the days of 
 your betrothment. 
 
 She became your wife ! left her own home for youra 
 burst asunder as it were, the bands of love which had 
 bound her to her father's fireside, and sought no other 
 home than your affections ; left, it may be, the ease and 
 delicacy of a home of indulgence and now, what must 
 be her feelings, if she gradually awakes to the conscious 
 ness that you love her less than before ; that your even 
 ings are spent abroad ; that you only come home at all 
 to satisfy the demands of your hunger, and to find a 
 resting-place for your head when weary, or a nurse for 
 your sick-chamber when diseased ? 
 
 Why did she leave the bright hearth of her youthful 
 days ? Why did you ask her to give up the enjoyment 
 of a happy home ? Was it simply to darn your stock 
 ings, mend your clothes, take care of your children, and 
 witch over your sick-bed ? Was it simply to conduce 
 to your own comfort ? Or was there some understanding 
 that she was to be made happy in her connexion with 
 the man she had dared to love ? 
 
 Nor is it a sufficient answer that you reply that you 
 give her a home ; that you feed and clothe her. You 
 do this for your health. You would do it for an indif 
 ferent housekeeper. She is your wife, and unless you 
 attend to her wants, and some way answer the reasonable 
 expectation you raised by your attention before mar 
 riage, you need not wonder if she be dejected, and her 
 heart sink into insensibility ; but if this be so, think well 
 who is the cause of it. 
 18
 
 A WIFE'S SERMON ; OR, HINTS TO HUSBANDS. 
 
 " HUSBANDS, love your wives, and be not bitter against 
 them." This shall be my text, which I had some trouble 
 in finding. Kind admonitions, which the great apostle 
 addressed to husbands and wives, met my eye ; but they 
 were not the precise words I wished to find. I consulted 
 " Cruden," but at first with no better success. I began 
 to feel myself in a situation similar to his who spoke of 
 " those beautiful words of Holy Writ, ' He tempers the 
 wind to the shorn lamb.'" But another effort gained 
 me the victory. I looked for the " litter 1 word in the 
 sentence, and there it is, in Col. iii. 19. Perhaps the 
 class here addressed may likewise have overlooked this 
 passage. 
 
 That young man who has just left Hymen's altar, 
 may consider Paul " as rather weak," to address such 
 an admonition to any who sustain the delightful relation 
 into which he has just entered. Very well ; if he never 
 needs it, he shall be forgiven for not understanding its 
 necessity. 
 
 Says another, more mature, "Such commands, of 
 course, were intended for the immoral ; for the drunk 
 ard, who leaves his wife to suffer, or comes home from 
 his midnight revels to give her a deeper sense of wretch 
 edness ; for the gambler, who takes from the drawer the 
 Bcanty earnings which his wife has laid by for the hour 
 of sickness, and which his hard heart has refused to 
 supply ; for the faithless husband, who, forgetful of his
 
 A WIFE'S SERMON. 275 
 
 marriage vow, finds in the society of the " strange wo 
 man" an inducement to forsake his home. I do not 
 wonder that one so devoted as Paul to doing good to his 
 fellow-men, and so desirous to aid his fellow-men in a 
 faithful discharge of duty, should have left a word of 
 caution for all. 
 
 But, friends, look more carefully, and you will per 
 ceive that the apostle was addressing a very different 
 class of persons, members of the church at Colosse. 
 professors of religion, and, for aught we know, " in 
 good and regular standing." 
 
 " Well," says another, "I care not for whom it was 
 written. I believe a little common sense will help me 
 to understand my duty as a husband as well as Paul 
 did, who probably was not a married man. When I am 
 engaged for the support of my wife and. children, 
 harassed almost to death with cares, I expect when I go 
 to my house to have a quiet home, and to find my Avife 
 ready to receive me. She has nothing to do but the 
 work of her own family, and there are only six of us, 
 including the baby. I wonder what she finds to do. 
 Reads, probably ; she always had a fondness for books, 
 and now I think of it, I found a volume on the foot of 
 the cradle. I even spoke to her once because she let 
 the children play with my books ; but she was the guilty 
 one, I suspect, after all, as she said nothing in reply. 
 Well, if it be so, I will propose that she take in sewing, 
 or bind shoes, and help me support the family. I can't 
 d everything." 
 
 If I could utter a word in the ear of this man, J 
 would say, " It is pleasant to find you so well under
 
 276 A WIFE'S SERMON. 
 
 et.nd the peculiarly easy lot of your wife, and the de 
 lightfully comfortable situation she is called to fill for 
 your special benefit. But then here is the text ; it is 
 meant for some one ' Husbands, love your wives, bo not 
 BITTER against them.' Your remarks have an air of 
 severity, and I will draw my bow at a venture." 
 
 " Bitter" is a word which conveys an unpleasant idea. 
 Bid you never notice the sad contortions of a child's 
 face when he takes a disagreeable medicine ? I have 
 known a babe entirely weaned by just applying a bitter 
 substance to the fountain from which it had been accus 
 tomed to receive its nourishment. It turned away with 
 loathing and disgust. Can it be that bitter words would 
 ever cause a wife to turn from the plighted love of her 
 youth ? Try not the dangerous experiment. 
 
 I have seen the unshed tear tremble in the eye, as 
 some careless, thoughtless, but harsh word of a husband 
 caused a mental struggle, and told of the more than 
 childless self-control which his wife possessed. I knew a 
 man whose praise was in all the churches, a professor in 
 one of our theological schools, and I am not quite sure 
 that he did not write a commentary on Paul, who needed 
 this admonition. He never used his wife unkindly, as 
 the world understands that word ; but every day he said 
 unkind, unpleasant things, which seemed to her very 
 "bitter." He was quite an alchemist ; he always brought 
 his crucible to the table when he partook of his meals, 
 and among the pleasant viands prepared under the care 
 ful eye of his wife, he always found something which 
 was not right, something bitter for his wife. He sleeps 
 in the village jhurchyard now. and his intellectual a,d-
 
 A WIFE'S SERMON. 2 r 7 
 
 ra reared a tablet to his memory, and over the 
 unpleasant remembrances of his private life charitable 
 friends draw a veil, which we would not remove, and 
 offer the apology, " He was a very nervous man." 
 
 To-night, when you have taken your tea, got your 
 letters and papers from the post-office, read them, and 
 when you feel inclined to doze in your easy chair (with 
 your feet comfortably resting on the stove, or in another 
 chair), hear a word of remonstrance. Do not speak 
 again as unkindly as you did when you came home, and 
 found the baby crying, and the older ones rather noisy : 
 do not call your home a "bedlam," and tell your better 
 half "you do wish she would give the children their 
 supper earlier, and get them to bed, so that you can 
 have a little quiet." Perhaps you were tired, very likely 
 it was so ; but your wife, with " nothing to do" but her 
 own work, and see to her children, is more, far more 
 wearied than you ; and if you knew how her head aches, 
 and how her exhausted nature calls for repose ; if you 
 had the love for her which you owe her, you would not 
 need to be told " Husbands, love your wives, and be not 
 BITTER against them." 
 
 Hear a few words more. While your wife is plying 
 her needle, let me amuse you. Now, be honest, and say 
 if the duties of your wife do not occupy more of your 
 thoughts, and are not more familiar to you than you 
 own ? Do you not oftener inquire at the bookstore for 
 a treatise which relates to her, as a woman, wife, OT 
 mother, than for one which relates to men as husbands 
 and fathers ? 
 
 The world is full of books for woman ; she is told cf
 
 *27S A WIFE'S SERMON. 
 
 responsibilities which angels might tremble to assume ; 
 anon she is taught that man is creation's lord and her 
 inferior position is to act as his " waiter," to take care 
 of his children, his house, to see to his wardrobe, and 
 BO all round the circle of her duties. Sometimes she 
 gets so jostled about she almost forgets where her last 
 resting-place was, and wishes success to the Woman's 
 Rights Convention, so that she may unmolested stand 
 side by side with proud man, whose right and might are 
 never practically questioned. 
 
 Oh, husband ! did you see the colour mount to your 
 wife's temples, the other day, when in the presence of 
 that visiter you brought home, you noticed some little 
 deficiencies at the table, instead of passing them by? 
 She felt as badly as you, because the meat was not 
 cooked just as she wished, and the castor was not pro 
 perly dusted. You should remember that dinner was 
 prepared when the babe was crying for its mother ; per 
 haps you will recollect that you looked into the kitchen, 
 and asked her " if she could not keep the child still, for 
 you could not hear yourself speak." Was not that a. 
 bitter word ? Ask her. 
 
 Listen, while I tell you a part of what she is expected 
 to do every year of her life. How many shirts do you 
 expect her to make for you ? How many handkerchiefs 
 to hem ? How many vests and pants to be cut and 
 made ? Coats and collars you probably get already made. 
 How many dresses must she manufacture for herself and 
 children? How many little pairs cf drawers and skirts 
 for the children, to fit them for the ever-varying season ? 
 HO.T many aprons are to be prepared ? And when all
 
 A WIFE'S SERMON 279 
 
 these are in readiness, with other articles which I might 
 name, what is to be done with them ? When worn, they 
 must be washed, ironed, and mended, over and over 
 again, by her industry. Did you ever think how many 
 meals she prepares in a year ? How many times the 
 table is laid, the dishes removed and washed, the knives 
 scoured, the floors swept, the lamps trimmed, the beds 
 made, the furniture dusted, and the children washed, 
 dressed, and kindly cared for ? All the time must she 
 feel this pressure of labour and anxiety, and very like 
 she is sinking slowly (her constitution giving away, 
 although unnoticed by your familiar eye), until consump 
 tion is upon her, and she is gone ; the " place that knew 
 her knows her no more." 
 
 Now, tell me, do you really think that she will have 
 to take in shirts to make, or something else, to kwp her 
 from wasting her time in reading f Think of all this, 
 and suppress that bitter word, because a button is miss 
 ing on your coat, or the string was forgotten which 
 should have been sewed to your dickey. It is little 
 things which make the bitterness as well as tho sweetness 
 of life. 
 
 Your wife is under no greater obligation to have a 
 smile of welcome on your return, than you are to bring 
 perpetual sunshine to the hearthstone ; and if she fails 
 sometimes, and you find her irritable and unpleasant, 
 forgive it, and pass it by. You know not the trials and 
 vexations she has met ; speak gently, very gently ; and 
 let no root of bitterness spring up to trouble you. DC 
 not tell her she has altered, and that she can bear no 
 thing from you, she has become so sensitive; tell her
 
 280 A WIFE'S SERMON. 
 
 not of her faded cheeks, and her hair, which is turning 
 prematurely gray. She does not like to hear you make 
 such remarks, even if she knows they are true. Ask 
 yourself rather, why it is so ? Is it the effect of a life 
 of ease and carelessness, or a life of care and labour for 
 you and your family ? 
 
 I could tell you of a poor labouring mechanic, on 
 whom the untoward gales of adversity have long beat ; 
 but when sheltered in the haven of a happy, though 
 humble home, he cares but little what rages without. 
 Like Wordsworth's peasants, seldom through the long 
 winter does the wife see the face of her husband ; or the 
 children of their father by the light of the sun, except 
 on the hours of the holy day. The table is neatly spread 
 each evening for the morrow's early breakfast. Such 
 preparations as can be made are in readiness, and while 
 the stars are yet shining, long ere the day dawneth, tha 
 husband and father prepares anew for his daily toil. Ha 
 chooses to make his own coffee, and eat his breakfast 
 alone, if thereby his loved ones can slumber a little 
 longer. He is cheered amid his labours by thoughts of 
 them, and he knows that when the mother and dear 
 children kneel at the altar of morning prayer, the ab 
 sent one will never be forgotten, and the petition will 
 ascend that " as his day, so his strength may be." 
 
 As he returns wearied to his family at night, it is not 
 to say bitter thingb, or to look Utterly. The babe reaches 
 out her arms for mm, and older ones cling around his 
 neck, and he envies not that man who is displeased be 
 cause the custard is not seasoned to his taste, or the beef 
 steak prepared precisely according to his wishes. After
 
 A WIPE'S SERMON. 281 
 
 the evening meal, and prayers, the children are told 
 some pretty story, and laid to rest by a father's hand, 
 and he murmurs not at his lot, nor sees aught for which 
 to murmur. Proud man may smile with derision at this 
 scene, but God does not. Hard is the road they travel, 
 though it was not always so. The world cares but little 
 for them ; and they covet not its treacherous smiles. 
 That husband can enjoy the pleasant converse and affec- 
 tion of his family, though there may be those that whis 
 per, " He must have a shiftless wife." 
 
 Full well he knows and appreciates the self-denial, 
 cares, and labours she is every day called to bear. Well, 
 too, does he remember when her eyes became sunken, when 
 the hue of the rose faded from her fair cheek, and when 
 her dark glossy hair turned by sickness, and not by age ; 
 and he is fully prepared to echo the language of his dear 
 children, as with partial eyes they exclaim, " Mother, 
 dear mother, how pretty you are !" 
 
 I have told you a true story of humble life, cheered 
 by affection and trust in God. If in a different station 
 you would find such joys and such dispositions, read that 
 book which our friend prizes highly, and in which he 
 found the rules that regulated his intercourse with his 
 family. 
 
 And let me say, in parting, that if the love has lan 
 guished which was once strong in your heart, oh, kindle 
 it yet again, for there are dark days in store for you, 
 when you will need all the cheering influence its bright 
 ness and warmth can yield, all the sympathy and sup 
 port which that wounded and neglected heart can bestow. 
 " Husbands, love your wives, and be not BITTER against 
 them."
 
 MY WIFE. 
 
 WWTTEN WHILE EECOTERIXa FROM A SEVERE SJCTUMK. 
 
 I HEARD her oh, how cautiously, 
 
 Open my bed-room door ; 
 I heard her step as noiselessly, 
 
 (To my couch) across the floor. 
 I felt her hands my temples press, 
 
 Her lips just touching mine: 
 And in my anguish and distress, 
 
 'Twere sinful to repine. 
 Our pilgrimage is nearly through 
 
 We've passed life's mountain brow; 
 I thought I loved her years ago 
 
 I know I love her now. 
 
 Her face was hovering over mine 
 
 Her warm tears on my cheek ; 
 Her whispered prayer of thought diving 
 
 Rose fervently but meek ; 
 Her bosom rested on my arm ; 
 
 I felt its troublous throe ; 
 I knew the cause of its alarm ; 
 
 I knew its source of wow , 
 And then the blood, my system through. 
 
 Came pressing on my brow 
 I thought I loved her years ago 
 
 I know I love her now. 
 
 Thus watched that tired and patient one, 
 
 By night as well as day, 
 In sadness and almost alone, 
 
 Till weeks had passed away;
 
 A TRUE WIFE. 283 
 
 Bereft of sleep deprived of rest 
 
 Oppressed borne down with care, 
 Till, oh ! her labours have been blessed, 
 
 For God has heard her prayer. 
 Her cheek resumes its wonted glow, 
 
 And placid is her brow 
 I thought I loved her years ago 
 
 I know I love her now. 
 
 A TRUE WIFE. 
 
 SHE is no true wife who sustains not her husband in 
 the day of calamity ; who is not, when the world's great 
 frown makes the heart chill with anguish, his guardian 
 angel, growing brighter and more beautiful as misfor 
 tunes crowd around his path. Then is the time for a 
 trial of her gentleness then is the time for testing 
 whether the sweetness of her temper beams only with a 
 transient light, or, like the steady glory of the morning 
 star, shines as brightly under the clouds. Has she 
 smiles just as charming ? Does she say, " Affliction 
 cannot touch our purity, and should not quench our 
 love ?" Does she try, by happy little inventions, to lift 
 from his sensitive spirit the burden of thought ? 
 
 There are wives no, there are beings who, when 
 dark hours come, fall to repining and upbraiding 
 thus adding to outside anxiety harrowing scenes of do 
 mestic strife as if all the blame in the world would make 
 one hair white or black, or change the decree gone forth. 
 Such know not that our darkness is Heaven's light our
 
 284 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 trials are but steps in a golden ladder, by which, if -we 
 rightly ascend, we may at last gain that eternal light, 
 and bathe for ever in its fullness and beauty. 
 
 " Is that all?" and the gentle face of the wife beamed 
 with joy. Her husband had been on the verge of dis 
 traction all his earthly possessions were gone, and he 
 feared the result of her knowledge, she had been so 
 tenderly cared for all her life ! But, says Irving's 
 beautiful story, " a friend advised him to give not sleep 
 to his eyes, nor slumber to his eyelids, until he had un 
 folded to her his hapless case." 
 
 And that was her answer, with the smile of an angel 
 "Is that all? I feared by your sadness it was worse. 
 Let these things be taken all this splendour, let it go ! 
 I care not for it I only care for my husband's love and 
 confidence. You shall forget in my affection that you 
 ever were in prosperity only still love me, and I will 
 aid you to bear these little reverses with cheerfulness." 
 
 Still love her ! a man must reverence, ay, and liken 
 her to the very angels, for such a woman is a living 
 revelation of Heaven. 
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 WE take from " Household Words" the touching con 
 clusion of a story entitled "The Three Sisters." The 
 youngest sister, Gabrielle, has been cast off by her two 
 elder sisters, Joanna and Bertha, hard, stern women, 
 because she clung to her mother, who had disgraced
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 285 
 
 them. Years go by, and one of the sisters is removed 
 to another world. The story proceeds : 
 
 It was a burial in a village churchyard, and standing 
 by an open grave there was one mourner only, a woman 
 Bertha Vaux. Alone, in sadness and silence, with 
 few tears for she was little used to weep she stood 
 and looked upon her sister's funeral ; stood and saw the 
 coffin lowered, and heard the first handful of earth fall 
 rattling on the coffin lid ; then turned away, slowly, to 
 seek her solitary house. The few spectators thought 
 her cold and heartless ; perhaps, if they could have 
 raised that black veil, they would have seen such sorrow 
 in her face as might have moved the hearts of most of 
 them. 
 
 The sun shone warmly over hill and vale that sum 
 mer's day, but Bertha Vaux shivered as she stepped 
 within the shadow of her lonely house. It was so cold 
 there ; so cold and damp and dark, as if the shadow of 
 that death that had entered it Avas still lingering around. 
 The stunted evergreens, on which, since they first grew, 
 no sunlight had ever fallen, no single ray of golden 
 light to brighten their dark, sad leaves for years, looked 
 gloomier, darker, sadder, than they had ever looked be 
 fore ; the very house, with its closed shutters all closed, 
 except one in the room where the dead had lain seemed 
 mourning for the stern mistress it had lost. A lonely 
 woman now, lonely and sad, was Bertha Vaux. 
 
 She sat in the summer evening in her silent, cheerless 
 room. It was so very still, not even a breath of wind 
 to stir the trees ; no voice of living thing to break upon 
 her solitude ; no sound even of a single footstep on the
 
 286 THE DYING CHILD 
 
 dusty rDad; but in the solitude that was around her, 
 countless thoughts seemed springing into life; things 
 long forgotten ; feelings long smothered , hopes once 
 bright bright as the opening of her life had been, that 
 had faded and been buried long ago. 
 
 She thought of the time when she and her sister, fif 
 teen years ago, had first come to the lonely house where 
 now she was ; of a few years later two or three when 
 another younger sister had joined them there ; and it 
 seemed to Bertha, looking back, as if the house had 
 sometimes then been filled with sunlight. The dark 
 room in which she sat had once been lighted up was it 
 with the light from Gabrielle's bright eyes ? In these 
 long sad fifteen years, that little time stood out so clearly, 
 BO hopefully ; it brought the tears to Bertha's eyes, 
 thinking of it in her solitude. And how had it ended ? 
 For ten years nearly, now for ten long years the 
 name of Gabrielle had never been spoken in that house. 
 The light was gone extinguished in a moment, sud 
 denly ; a darkness deeper than before had ever since 
 fallen on the lonely house. 
 
 The thought of the years that had passed since then 
 of their eventlessness and weary sorrow; and then 
 the thought of the last scene of all that scene which 
 still was like a living presence to her her sister's death. 
 
 Joanna Vaux had been cold, stern, and unforgiving 
 to the last ; meeting death unmoved ; repenting of no 
 hard thing that she had done throughout her sad, stern 
 life ; entering the valley of the shadow of death fear 
 Icssly. But that cold death -bed struck upon the heart 
 of the solitary woman who watched beside ft, and
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 287 
 
 wakened thoughts and doubts there, which would not 
 rest. She wept now as she thought of it, Badly and 
 quietly, and some murmured words burst frori her lips, 
 which sounded like a prayer not for herself only. 
 
 Then, from her sister's death-bed, she went far, far 
 back to her own childhood and a scene rose up before 
 her ; one that she had closed her eyes on many a time 
 before, thinking vainly that so she could crush it from 
 her heart; but now she did not try to force it back. 
 The dark room where she sat, the gloomy, sunless house, 
 seemed fading from her sight ; the long, long years, with 
 their weary train of shame and suffering all were for 
 gotten. She was in her old lost home again the home 
 where she was born ; she saw a sunny lawn, embowered 
 with trees, each tree familiar to her and remembered 
 well, and she herself, a happy child, was standing there ; 
 and by her side with soft arms twining round her, with 
 tender voice, and gentle, loving eyes, and bright hair 
 glittering in the sunlight there was one ! 
 
 Oh, Bertha ! hide thy face and weep. She was sc 
 lovely and so loving, so good and true, so patient and 
 BO tender, then. Oh ! how couldst thou forget it all, 
 and steel thy heart against her, and vow the cruel vow 
 never to forgive her sin ? Thy mother thy own mother, 
 Bertha, think of it. 
 
 A shadow fell across the window beside which she 
 8at, and through her blinding tears Bertha looked up, 
 and saw a woman standing there, holding by the hand 
 a little child. Her face was very pale and worn, with 
 sunken eyes and cheeks ; her dress was mean and poor. 
 She looked haggard and weary, and weak and ill; bu*
 
 283 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 Bertha knew that it was Gabrielle come back. She 
 could not speak, for such a sudden rush of joy came to 
 her softened heart that all words seemed swallowed up 
 in it ; such deep thankfulness for the forgiveness that 
 seemed given her, that her first thought was not a wel 
 come, but a prayer. 
 
 Gabrielle stood without, looking at her with her sad 
 eyes. 
 
 " We are all alone," "aid she, " and very poor ; will 
 you take us in ?" 
 
 Sobbing with pity and with joy, Bertha rose from her 
 seat and hurried to the door. Trembling, she drew the 
 wanderers in ; then falling on her sister's neck, her whole 
 heart melted, and she cried, with gushing tears, 
 
 " Gabrielle, dear sister Gabrielle, I, too, am all 
 alone !" 
 
 The tale that Gabrielle had to tell was full enough of 
 sadness. They had lived together, she and her mother, 
 for about a year, very peacefully, almost happily ; and 
 then the mother died, and Gabrielle soon after married 
 one vho had little to give her but his love. And after 
 that the years passed on with many cares and griefs 
 for they were very poor, and he not strong but with a 
 great love ever between them, which softened the pain 
 of all they had to bear. At last, after being long ill, 
 he died, and poor Gabrielle and her child were left to 
 struggle on alone. 
 
 " I think I should have died," she said, as, weeping, 
 ehe told her story to her sister, "if it had not been for 
 my boy ; and I could so well have borne to die ; but, 
 Bertha, I could not leave him to starve ! It pierced my
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 289 
 
 heart with a pang so bitter that I cannot speak of it, to 
 see his little face grow daily paler ; his little feeble form 
 become daily feebler and thinner ; to watch the sad, un- 
 childlike look fixing itself hourly deeper in his sweet 
 eyes so mournful, so uncomplaining, so full of misery. 
 The sight killed me day by day ; and then at last, in 
 my despair, I said to myself that I would come again 
 to you. I thought, sister I hoped that you would 
 take my darling home, and then I could have gone away 
 and died. But God bless you ! God bless you for the 
 greater thing that you have done, my kind sister Bertha ! 
 Yes kiss me, sister dear ; it is so sweet. I never 
 thought to feel a sister's kiss again." 
 
 Then kneeling down by Gabrielle's side, with a low 
 voice Bertha said, 
 
 "I have thought of many things, to-day. Before you 
 came, Gabrielle, my heart was very full ; for in the still 
 evening, as I sat alone, the memories of many years 
 came back to me as they have not done for very long. 
 I thought of my two sisters ; how the one had ever been 
 to good and loving and true-hearted ; the other though 
 fihe was just, or believed herself to be so so hard, and 
 stern, and harsh as, God forgive me, Gabrielle, I, too, 
 have been. I thought of this, and understood it clearly, 
 as I had never done before ; and then my thoughts went 
 back, and rested on my mother on our old home on 
 all the things that I had loved so well, long ago, and 
 thai for years had been crushed down in my heart and 
 smothered there. Oh, Gabrielle, such things rushed 
 back upon me ; such thoughts of her whom we have 
 scornod so many years ; such dreams of happy by gone
 
 290 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 days ; such passionate regrets ; such hope, awakening 
 from its long, long sleep no, sister, let me weep do 
 not wipe the tears away ; let me tell you of my penitence 
 and grief it does me good ; my heart is so full S3 full 
 that I must speak now, or it would burst !" 
 
 " Then you shall speak to me, and tell me all, dear 
 sister. Ah ! we have both suffered we will weep to 
 gether. Lie down beside me ; see, there is room here 
 for both. Yes ; lay your head upon me ; rest it upon 
 my shoulder. Give me your hand now ah ! how thin 
 it is almost as thin as mine. Poor sister Bertha ! poor, 
 kind sister !" 
 
 So gently Gabrielle soothed her, forgetting her own 
 grief and weariness in Bertha's more bitter suffering 
 and remorse. It was very beautiful to see how tenderly 
 and patiently she did it, and how her gentle words 
 calmed down the other's passionate sorrow. So different 
 from one another their grief was. Gabrielle's was a 
 slow, weary pain, which, day by day, had gradually 
 withered her, eating its way into her heart ; then rest 
 ing there, fixing itself there for ever. Bertha's was 
 like the quick, sudden piercing of a knife a violent 
 sorrow, that did its work in hours instead of years, con 
 vulsing body and soul for a little while, purifying them 
 as with a sharp fire, then passing away and leaving no 
 aching pain behind, but a new cleansed spirit. 
 
 In the long summer twilight the beautiful summer 
 twilight that never sinks into perfect night these two 
 women lay side by side together; she that was oldest in 
 suffering still comforting the other, until Bertha's tears 
 were dried, and, exhausted with the grief that was so
 
 THE DYING CHILI; 291 
 
 new to her, she lay silent in Gabrielle's arms both 
 silent, looking into the summer night, and thinking of 
 the days that were for ever past. And sleeping at their 
 feet lay Gabrielle's child, not forgotten by her watchful 
 love, though the night had deepened so that she could 
 not see him where he lay. 
 
 "We will not stay here, sister," Bertha had said. 
 " This gloomy house will always make us sad. It is so 
 dark and cold here, and Willie, more than any of us, 
 needs the sunlight to strengthen and cheer him, poor 
 boy." 
 
 "And I, too, shall be glad to leave it," Gabrielle 
 answered. 
 
 So they went. They did not leave the village ; it 
 was a pretty, quiet place, and was full of old recollec 
 tions to them more bitter than sweet, perhaps, most 
 of them but still such as it would have been pain to 
 separate themselves from entirely, as, indeed, it is al 
 ways sad to part from things and places which years, 
 either of joy or sorrow, have made us used to. So they 
 did not leave it, but chose a little cottage, a mile or so 
 from their former house a pleasant little cottage in a 
 dell, looking to the south, with honeysuckle and ivy 
 twining together over it, up to the thatched roof. A 
 cheerful little nook it was, not over bright or gay, but 
 shaded with large trees all round it, through whose 
 green branches the sunlight came, softened and mel 
 lowed, into the quiet rooms. An old garden, too, there 
 was, closed in all round with elm-trees a peaceful, 
 quiet place, where one would love to wander, or to lie 
 for hours upon the grass, looking through the greeu 
 leaves upwards to the calm blue sky.
 
 292 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 To Gabrielle, wearied with her sorrow, this place was 
 like an oasis in the desert. It was so new a thing to 
 her to find rest anywhere ; to find one little spot whero 
 she could lay her down, feeling no care for the morrow. 
 Like one exhausted with long watching, she seemed now 
 for a time to fall asleep. 
 
 The summer faded into autumn ; the autumn into 
 winter. A long, cold winter it was, the snow lying for 
 weeks together on the frozen ground ; the bitter, with 
 ering east wind moaning day and night, through the 
 great branches of the bare old elms, swaying them to 
 and fro, and strewing the snowy earth with broken 
 boughs ; a cold and bitter winter, withering not only 
 trees and shrubs, but sapping out the life from human 
 hearts. 
 
 He was a little delicate boy, that child of Gabrielle's. 
 To look at him, it seemed a wonder how he ever could 
 have lived through all their poverty and daily struggles 
 to get bread ; how that little, feeble body had not sunk 
 into its grave long ago. In the bright summer's days 
 a ray of sunlight had seemed to pierce to the little 
 frozen heart, -and, warming the chilled blood once more, 
 had sent it flowing through his veins, tinging the pale 
 cheek with rose ; but the rose faded as the summer 
 passed away, and the little marble face was pale as ever 
 when the winter snow began to fall ; the large dark 
 eyes, which had reflected the sunbeams for a few short 
 months, were heavy and dim again. And then presently 
 there came another change. A spot of crimson a 
 deep rod rose not pale and dehcate like the last, 
 glowed otteu ou each hollow cheek; u briiiianr. light
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 293 
 
 burned in the feverish, restless eye ; a hollow, painful 
 cough shook the little emaciated frame. So thin he was, 
 BO feeble, so soon wearied. Day by day the small, thin 
 hand grew thinner and more transparent; the gentle 
 voice and childish laugh lower and feebler; the sweet 
 smile sweeter, and fainter, and sadder. 
 
 And Gabrielle saw it all, and, bowing to the earth 
 in bitter mourning, prepared herself for this last great 
 sorrow. 
 
 The spring came slowly on slowly, very slowly. 
 The green leaves opened themselves, struggling in their 
 birth with the cold wind. It was very clear and bright; 
 the sun shone all day long ; but for many weeks there 
 had been no rain, and the ground was quite parched up. 
 
 "No, Willie, dear," Gabrielle said, "you mustn't go 
 out to-day. It is too cold for you yet, dear boy." 
 
 " But, indeed, it isn't cold, mother. Feel here, where 
 the sun is falling, how warm it is ; put your hand upon 
 it. Oh, mother, let me go out !" poor Willie said, im 
 ploringly. " I am so weary of the hours. I won't try 
 to run about, only let me go and lie in the sunlight !" 
 
 " Not to-day, my darling, wait another day ; perhaps 
 the warm winds will come. Willie, dear child, it would 
 make you ill, you must not go." 
 
 " You say so every day, mother," Willie said, sadly, 
 " and my head is aching so with staying in the house." 
 
 And at last, he praying so much for it, one day they 
 took him out. It was a very sunny day, with scarcely 
 a ebud in the bright, blue sky; and Bertha and Gabri 
 elle made a couch for him in a warm, sheltered corner, 
 and laid him on it. Poor child, he was so glad to feel
 
 29 I THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 himself in the open air again. It made him so happy, 
 that he laughed and talked as he had not done for 
 months before ; lying with his mother's hand in hib, 
 supported in her arms, she kneeling so lovingly beside 
 him. listening with a strange, passionate mingling of 
 joy and misery to the feeble but merry little voice that, 
 scarcely ever ceasing, talked to her. 
 
 Poor Gabrielle, it seemed to her such a fearful mock 
 ery of the happiness that she knew could never be hers 
 any more for ever ; but, forcing back her grief upon her 
 own sad heart, she laughed and talked gayly with him, 
 showing by no sign how sorrowful she was. 
 
 "Mother, mother!" he cried, suddenly clapping his 
 little, wasted hands, " I see a violet a pure white vio 
 let, in the dark leaves there. Oh, fetch it to me ! It's 
 the first spring flower. The very first violet of all ! 
 Oh, mother, dear, I love them the little, sweet-smelling 
 flowers !" 
 
 "Your eyes are quicker than mine, Willie; I shouldn't 
 have seen it, it is such a little thing. There it is, dear 
 boy. I wish there were more for you." 
 
 "Ah, they will soon come, now ! I am so glad I have 
 seen the first. Mother, do you remember how I used to 
 gather them at home, and bring them to papa when ho 
 was ill? He liked them, too just as I do now." 
 
 " I remember it well, dear," Gabrielle answered, 
 softly. 
 
 " How long ago that time seems now !" Willie said 
 then, after a moment's pause, he asked, a little sadly 
 " Mother, what makes me so different now from what I 
 used to be ? I was so strong and well once, and could
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 295 
 
 run about the whole day long ; mother, dear, when shall 
 I run about again ?" 
 
 " You are very weak, dear child, just now. We 
 mustn't talk of running about for a little time to come." 
 
 " No, not for a little time : but when do you think, 
 mother?" The little voice trembled suddenly: " I feel 
 sometimes so weak so weak, as if I never could get 
 strong again." 
 
 Hush, Gabrielle ! Press back that bitter sob into thy 
 sorrowful heart, lest the dying child hear it ! 
 
 " Do not fear, my darling, do not fear. You will be 
 quite well very soon, now." 
 
 He looked into her tearful eye, as she tried to smile 
 on him, with a strange, unchildlike look, as if he partly 
 guessed the meaning in her words, but did not answer 
 her, nor could she speak again, just then. 
 
 " Mother, sing to me," he said, " sing one of the old 
 songs I used to love. I haven't heard you sing for oh, 
 BO long !" 
 
 Pressing her hand upon her bosom, to still her heart's 
 unquiet beating, Gabrielle tried to sing one of the old 
 childish songs with which, in days long past, she had 
 been wont to nurse her child asleep. The long silent 
 voice silent here so many years awoke again, ringing 
 through the still air with all its former sweetness. Though 
 fainter than it was of old, Bertha heard it moving 
 through the house : and came to the open window to 
 stand there and listen, smiling to herself to think that 
 Gabrielle could sing again, and half weeping at some 
 other thoughts which the long-unheard voice recalled to 
 her.
 
 21)6 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 " Oh, mother, I like that !" Willie murmured, softly, 
 at* the song died away. " It's like long ago to hear you 
 ng." 
 
 They looked into one another's eyes, both filling fast 
 with tears ; then Willie, with childish sympathy, though 
 knowing little why she grieved, laid his arm around her 
 neck, trying with his feeble strength to draw her towards 
 him. She bent forward to kiss him ; then hid her face 
 upon his neck, that he might not see how bitterly she 
 wept, and he, stroking her soft hair with his little hand, 
 murmured the while some gentle words that only made 
 her tears flow faster. So they lay she growing calmer, 
 presently for a long while. 
 
 " Now, darling, you have stayed here long enough," 
 Oabrielle said, at last; "you must let me carry you into 
 the house again." 
 
 " Must I go so soon, mother ? See how bright the 
 sun is still." 
 
 " But see, too, how long and deep the shadows are 
 getting, Willie. No, my dear one, you must come in, 
 now." 
 
 " Mother, dear, I am so happy, to-day so happy, 
 and so much better than I have been for a long time, 
 and I know it is only because you let me come out here, 
 and lie in the sunlight. You will let me come again 
 every day, dear mother?" 
 
 How could she refuse the pleading voice its iast re 
 quest ? How could she look upon the little shrunken 
 figure, upon the little face, with its beseeching, gentle 
 eyes, and deny him what he asked that she might keep 
 him tc herself a few short days longer ?
 
 THE I/TING CHILD. 29? 
 
 " You shall come, my darling, if it makes you so 
 happy," she said, very softly; then she took him in her 
 arms, and bore him to the house, kissing him with a wild 
 passion that she could not hide. 
 
 And so, for two or three weeks, in the bright, sunny 
 morning, Willie was always laid on his couch, in the shel 
 tered corner, near the elm-tree ; but though he was very 
 happy, lying there, and would often talk gayly of the 
 time when he should be well again, he never got strong 
 any more. 
 
 Day by day Gabrielle watched him, knowing that the 
 end was coming very near; but, with her strong mo 
 ther's love, hiding her sorrow from him. She never told 
 him that he was dying ; but sometimes they spoke toge 
 ther of death, and often for he liked to hear it she 
 would sing sweet hymns to him, that told of the heaven 
 he was so soon going to. 
 
 For two or three weeks it went on thus, and then the 
 last day came. He had been suffering very much with 
 the terrible cough, each paroxysm of which shook the 
 wasted frame with a pain that pierced to Gabrielle's 
 heart : and all day he had had no rest. It was a day 
 in May a soft, warm day. But the couch beneath the 
 trees was empty. He was too weak even to be carried 
 there, but lay restlessly turning on his little bed, through 
 the long hours, showing, by his burning cheek, and bright 
 but heavy eye, how ill and full of pain he was. And 
 by his side, as ever, Gabrielle knelt, soothing him with 
 tender words ; bathing the little hands, and moistening 
 the lips ; bending over him, and gazing on him with all her 
 passionate love beaming in her tearful eye. But she
 
 298 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 was wonderfully calm watching, like a gentle angel, 
 over hirn. 
 
 Through the long day, and far into the night, and still 
 no rest or ease. Gabrielle never moved from beside 
 him ; she could feel no fatigue ; her sorrow seemed to 
 bear her up with a strange strength. At last, he was 
 so weak that he could not raise his head from the pillow. 
 
 He lay very still, with his mother's hand in his ; the 
 flush gradually passing away from his cheek, until it 
 became quite pale, like marble ; the weary eye half 
 closed. 
 
 " You are not suffering much, my child ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, mother, not now ! I am so much better." 
 
 So much better ! How deep the words went down 
 into her heart ! 
 
 " I am so sleepy," said the little, plaintive voice, 
 again. " If I go to sleep, wouldn't you sleep, too ? You 
 must be so tired, mother !" 
 
 " See, my darling, I will lie down here by you ; let me 
 raise your head a moment there lay it upon me. Can 
 you sleep so ?" 
 
 " Ah, yes, mother ; that is very good." 
 
 He was closing his eyes, when a strong impulse that 
 Gabrielle could not resist, made her arouse him for a 
 moment, for she knew that he was dying. 
 
 " Willie, before you sleep, have you strength to say 
 your evening prayer ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 Meekly folding the little, thin, white hands, he offered 
 up his simple thanksgiving ; then said " Our Father." 
 The little voice, towards the end, was very faint and
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 299 
 
 weak ; and as he finished, his head, which he had feebly 
 tried to bend forward, fell back more heavily on Gabri- 
 elle's bosom." 
 
 " Good-night, mother, dear. Go to sleep." 
 
 " Good-night, my darling. God bless you, Willie, my 
 child !" 
 
 And then they never spoke to one another any more. 
 One sweet look upwards, to his mother's face, and the 
 gentle eyes closed for ever. 
 
 As he fell asleep, through the parted curtains the 
 morning light stole faintly in. Another day was break 
 ing ; but before the sun arose Gabrielle's child was dead. 
 Softly in his sleep the spirit had passed away. When 
 Bertha came in, after a few hours' rest that she had 
 snatched, she found the chamber all quiet, and Gabrielle 
 still holding, folded in her arms, the lifeless form that 
 had been so very dear to her. 
 
 There was no violent grief in her. His death had 
 been so peaceful and so holy that at first she did not 
 even shed tears. Quite cairalv the knelt down by his 
 side, when they had laid him in nis white dress on the 
 bed, and kissed his pale brow and lips, looking almost 
 reproachfully on Bertha, as, standing by her side, she 
 sobbed aloud ; quite calmly, too, she let them lead her 
 from the room; and, as they bade her, she lay down 
 upon her bed, and closed her eyes, as if to sleep. And 
 then in her solitude, in the darkened room, she wept 
 quite silently, stretching out her arms, and crying for 
 her child. 
 
 For many years two gentle, quiet women lived alone, 
 in the little cottage in the dell; moving amongst the
 
 800 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 dwellers in that country village like two ministering 
 angels ; nursing the sick, comforting the sorrowful, help 
 ing the needy, soothing many a death-bed with their 
 gentle, holy words, spreading peace around them where 
 soever their footsteps went. And often, in the summer 
 evening, one of them, the youngest and most beautiful, 
 would wend her quiet way to the old churchyard ; and 
 there, in a green, sunny spot, would calmly sir and work 
 for hours, while the lime-trees waved their leaves above 
 her, and the sunlight shining through them, danced and 
 sparkled on a little grave. 
 
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