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 NEW AND ATTRACTIVE 
 
 Just Published.. 
 
 DEA.3STE, 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 By VIRGINIA F. TOWXSKND. 
 
 Illustrated. 
 
 THE CHILD'S OWN 
 
 TREASURY OF FAIRY TALES. 
 
 Containing the best and most popular Fairy Tales. 
 Beautifully Illustrated. Square IGmo. 
 
 THE MAQIC RING-, 
 
 AND OTHER ORIENTAL TALES. 
 
 Illustrated. 
 
 HOME STORY BOOK. 
 
 A Collection of unexceptionable Tales by Miss STRICKLAND and 
 
 Miss GRAHAM. Illustrated by 24 beautiful Engravings. 
 
 Square IGmo. 75 cte. 
 
 THE BOY'S BOOK OF 
 
 INDIAN BATTLES & ADVENTURES, 
 
 WITH ANECDOTES ABOUT THEM. 
 
 10 Engravings. 75 cts.
 
 A.MY 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND. 
 
 Beantifully Illustrated.. 
 
 The interesting character of these stories, and 
 the high moral tone which, without becoming 
 tedious, pervades them all, recommends this book 
 in a special manner to our Young Friends. The 
 Publisher is satisfied that on perusal it will be found 
 to compare favorably with any of the tales of Mary 
 Howitt, Miss Edge worth, Mrs. Holland, &c., &c. 
 
 THE MAGIC RING, 
 
 AND OTHER ORIENTAL FAIRY TALES. 
 
 The same simplicity of style and elegance of 
 language, which have rendered the " Arabian 
 Nights " so justly popular, will be found in the 
 above book, which the Publisher now offers, and 
 which will, he is confident, when better known, 
 take rank amongst our most Popular Juvenile 
 Literature. 
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR, 
 
 By MAEY HOWITT. 
 AND OTHER TAJIKS.
 
 ^favorilr 
 
 :\ i.V i) O'V (CUB, Ti'.A i", MB, 
 
 By Mrs. S. C. Hall, Charles Cowden Clark, and 
 James D. Haas. 
 
 "' 7 ~:M 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 games glilkr, r22 Iroabtoag
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. After the Gorman of Karl 
 
 Stober By Jfnry IT<ncitt. 7 
 
 'NfMBER ONE.' By Mrs. & C. Hall. 35 
 
 LITTLE CH ATTEEBOX By Jfra. 5. C. Hull. Co 
 
 PERSEVERANCE: OR GOD HKLPS THEM WHO HELP THEM- 
 SELVES By Chag. C. Clark. S9 
 
 SAVOYARD BOY AND HIS LITTLE SISTER. Adapted 
 from the GerDian of II. Klotko By James D. Haas. 129 
 
 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR 1T6 
 
 GIVE:.. .. IBS
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR, 
 
 AFTER THE GERMAN OF KARL STOBEH. 
 
 BT MABT HO Wil'l 1 . 
 
 PART I. 
 
 T was Saturday afternoon, and 
 Johann Engelhardt, the school- 
 master and curate of Pappen- 
 heim, sate in his dressing-gown 
 and slippers outside his garden- 
 door, before a little writing-table, 
 enjoying the luxurious indepen- 
 dence of the Saturday afternoon 
 in revising, for the hundredth time, his manu- 
 script ' Treatise on the Dual of the Greek Nouns.' 
 Barbara, his old r.ervant, was busied within the 
 kitchen, preparing cherry-cake for the Sunday's 
 dinner. 
 
 ' Barbara,' inquired the Curate, ' has Fried- 
 rich been here this afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said she ; ' what should he come for, 
 the poor boy ? Was he not in the school this 
 morning ? '
 
 8 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 4 No,' returned the Curate ; ' but make the 
 cake big enough, Barbara ; he shall dine with us 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 1 Butcher Metsger,' said Barbara, ' dines like 
 a prince on Sundays ; there are two joints, and 
 vegetables, and a pudding; but for all that, Fried- 
 rich would much rather dine here. It is a pity he 
 cannot live with us, for they never .can make a 
 butcher of him ! ' 
 
 4 The Lord's will be done,' returned the cu- 
 rate sighing ; ' he knows that which is best for 
 us all, and yet ' he did not finish his sentence, 
 but he began a calculation in his own mind, which 
 he had made at least a dozen times before, name- 
 ly, whether the income which barely sufficed for 
 two persons could be made to maintain three. 
 The calculation ended with another deep sigh, 
 by which we may conclude that the result of it 
 was not satisfactory. 
 
 4 Barbara,' again began the Curate, ' see that 
 on Monday my every-day coat is mended at the 
 elbows, and on Tuesday let it be folded neatly, 
 and put in the press ; a few days' rest now and 
 then is good for everything.' Barbara said that 
 this should be attended to, adding that she had 
 looked out his walking shoes, and that they should 
 be oiled and made ready for Wednesday. The 
 Curate said that was right, and then Barbara 
 having made two cherry-cakes instead of one, jn 
 expectation of the morrow's guest, went out with 
 them on her head to the bakehouse. The Curate
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 9 
 
 then filled his pipe, lighted it, and began to pace 
 slowly up and down the middle alley of his gar- 
 den i and while he is so doing we will give the 
 reader a little information which he ought to 
 possess for the better understanding of our story. 
 
 According to the ancient regulations of the 
 grammar-school in Pappenheim, it was required 
 that the master, four times in the year, that is to 
 say, at the end of each quarter, should drink a 
 certain quantity of a certain mineral water, on 
 which occasion he received his prescribed quar- 
 terly payment of about two pounds sterling. 
 
 At the end of every quarter therefore he drank 
 mineral water. This, of course, concerned him- 
 self, and was his own private affair : but had our 
 dear young readers heard, on the close of the 
 quarterly Saturday afternoon, when the worthy 
 schoolmaster made known, in a clear tone of voice 
 and in language easy to be understood, that, on 
 the following Monday he should drink the min- 
 eral waters, and had heard thereupon the mur- 
 mur of applause, and had seen the nodding of 
 heads and the broad grins of delight that follow- 
 ed, he would have been quite sure that the schol- 
 ars, every one of them, had in it their share of 
 pleasure also. 
 
 The truth was, that this announcement of the 
 Schoolmaster, which to unlearned ears simply 
 expressed his intention of drinking mineral 
 waters on the next Monday, was just the same 
 to the scholars as if he had gone on to say, and
 
 10 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAIl. 
 
 that, on Tuesday, he should receive presents 
 from their parents ; and on Wednesday, that he 
 should take them the scholars all a long 
 famble. In all this the scholars had a long 
 perspective of happiness ; first, there was a 
 whole holiday on Monday for play ; secondly, 
 on Tuesday, there was the home preparation of 
 presents, cakes, and dried fruits, eggs and cheeses, 
 part of which they themselves were to eat with 
 the master, to say nothing of the pickings and 
 gleanings which they had beforehand ; and 
 thirdly and lastly, there was, on Wednesday, 
 the ramble beyond the limits of their own nar- 
 row valley, and sometimes even the climbing to 
 the top of a mountain, whence they got a peep 
 into the wide world. 
 
 Thus much told, we return to the Curate, 
 whom we left smoking his pipe in the middle 
 alley of his garden. Whilst he was thus en- 
 circled, as it were, by a halo of fragrance, the 
 door in the angle of the garden-wall slowly 
 opened, and a head was thrust cautiously in, and 
 then as cautiously withdrawn again and the 
 door closed, but so softly as not to catch the ear 
 of the Curate. The head that was thrust in 
 was that of a boy of perhaps twelve years of age, 
 fine-featured, and delicately complexioned, whose 
 abundant hair, wavy rather than curled, fell up- 
 on his shoulders, and was partially covered by 
 a little black cap, which sate gracefully on the 
 crown of his head, and just touched the tip of
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 11 
 
 his right ear. Had we or the Curate been near 
 enough, that momentary glimpse would have 
 sufficed to show an expression of apprehension 
 and trouble on that young countenance. The 
 Curate walked on, and as the boy has apparent- 
 ly withdrawn himself, we will take this oppor- 
 tunity of making the reader better acquainted 
 with him. 
 
 Friedrich Seyfried, ridiculed by his compan- 
 ions for his love of books, and for his fits of 
 absence and abstraction of mind, was the son of 
 a poor but learned man, whose books, though 
 found on the shelves of the erudite, brought 
 money into nobody's pocket but the printer's. 
 He died whilst his son was yet too young to 
 remember him ; and his widow, who after his 
 death maintained herself and her son by the 
 embroidery of carpets, had now been dead also 
 a few months. Friedrich had been carefully 
 and well nurtured by his mother, and he had 
 been long the favorite scholar of the Curate, who, 
 after his mother's death, took him to remain in 
 his house until some one of his relations offered 
 to provide for him. 
 
 The relations however made no haste with 
 these offers, and when they did, they were, un- 
 fortunately, by no means successful. The first 
 who made trial of him was an apothecary, the 
 half-brother of his mother. For a few weeks, 
 all went on very well ; the apothecary was 
 charmed with his knowledge of Latin and Greek,
 
 12 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 and already began to employ him in compound- 
 ing of medicines. Unfortunately however, one 
 day as he was ordered by the cook to prepare 
 mug-wort for the roast goose, in a fit of absence 
 of mind he gave her wormwood instead. A 
 Michaelmas goose cooked with wormwood' was 
 an unheard of dish ; the goose was spoiled. 
 Friedrich, that same night, was sent back to the 
 Curate's, with a polite note from the apothecary, 
 saying that he would not have his life embitter- 
 ed by so unskilful a person. 
 
 The next attempt was with the half-brother of 
 Friedrich's father, who was a shopkeeper and 
 gingerbread-baker ; but things went on no better 
 here than at the apothecary's, for whilst the 
 poor lad was learning the compounding of gin- 
 gerbread, his mind was afloat among his books 
 and his learning, and, mistaking salt for sugar, 
 he shook a whole dishful into the mass, which 
 was intended for Basle gingerbread, and ruined 
 the whole baking. His uncle, who was a pas- 
 sionate man, gave him a box on the ear as a 
 warning to leave, and bade him tell the Curate 
 that he. would not lose his property and his 
 profits in that way for any book-worm in the 
 world. 
 
 Friedrich returned to the school-house hum- 
 bled and mortified ; and the apothecary and the 
 gingerbread-baker, who supped together thai 
 night, agreed that a ' boy whose head was aJ-
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 13 
 
 ways running a wool-gathering could not be 
 much better than an idiot.' 
 
 The Curate's was a spare table. Very little 
 sufficed for him and old Barbara, and poor 
 Friedrich had no chance of getting fat there. 
 The butcher's wife, as she saw his thin fingers 
 turning over the leaves of the hymn-book in 
 church, had compassion on him, and as her 
 husband was his godfather, she persuaded him 
 to make a trial of him. Friedrich had no taste 
 for killing cattle, but nevertheless, after his 
 former failure, he went there with the determin- 
 ation to be useful. Nothing reconciled the 
 Curate to the thought of his being a butcher, 
 but the knowledge that he would have enough 
 to eat. 
 
 The good Curate was consoling his mind 
 with this reflection at the very moment when 
 Friedrich opened the garden-door. 
 
 Friedrich was still standing outside, with his 
 hand upon the lock, and an expression of ir- 
 resolution on his countenance, when Barbara, 
 who was returning from the bakehouse, came 
 unexpectedly upon him. 
 
 ' How now, Friedrich,' cried she, ' are you 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' O, Barbara,' said he, almost crying, ' what 
 will he say ? ' 
 
 ' So then, they have sent you back again, 
 have they ? ' asked the old woman. ' Well, and
 
 14 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 what blunder have you made this time ; spoiled 
 another goose, have you ? ' 
 
 By this time they were in the kitchen, and 
 Friedrich, throwing himself into a low seat, un- 
 burdened his conscience to Barbara. ' I know 
 they are very angry,' said he, ' and I do not 
 wonder ; for only think and I cannot conceive 
 how I did it I emptied a gall into a mess of 
 sausage-meat, and it was never found out till 
 the half of Pappenheim were eating their din- 
 ners to-day ! ' 
 
 Barbara burst into a violent fit of laughter, 
 and Friedrich, who thought the affair anything 
 but amusing, sate looking very mournful, and 
 twisting a piece of paper between his fingers. 
 
 ' What have you there ? ' asked she, wiping 
 away the tears of her laughter with her apron. 
 
 'It is a note for the Curate,' said the boy ; 
 ' they made me promise to give it him, for they 
 know that I never broke my word. It is some- 
 thing very bad about me, and it will make him 
 angry I know ; but he shall see it for all that.' 
 
 Barbara took it, and read what was written : 
 ' Hum ! ' said she, when she had finished, ' it is 
 the old story over again ; he won't have his 
 life and the lives of his customers embittered by 
 any one who cannot tell a nail in a'wall from a 
 sausage-pan ; ' again the old woman laughed, 
 and then went through the porch into the gar 
 den, where, his pipe being ended, the Curate 
 had seated himself again at his writing-desk.
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 15 
 
 When Barbara returned, she looked almost 
 as grave as Friedrich himself, and bade him go 
 to the Curate in the garden. 
 
 Friedrich stole softly to the front of the little 
 writing-desk, and stood like a culprit ; the Cu- 
 rate, in whose hand was the piece of paper 
 which Barbara had given him, eyed him severe- 
 
 *7- 
 
 ' Friedrich,' said he, ' what is to be done ? I 
 
 would maintain you willingly, if I could, the 
 Lord knows ; but, as I cannot, it is high time 
 that you learned to get your own living. As to 
 studying, you must give that up ; you have not 
 one farthing for that.' 
 
 1 O, reverend sir ! ' answered the poor boy, ' I 
 have the very best will to get my own living, 
 but I cannot, I cannot ! and why, He knows best 
 who created me. I went to my godfather's with 
 the firmest determination to be mindful, and not 
 to give you any more trouble ; but neither my 
 head nor my hand is good for any trade. When 
 I was at the apothecary's, if I went to fetch 
 herbs out of the ingredient-room, then came 
 4 Beatus iUe qui procuV into my head, and I 
 brought the wrong thing; and at the ginger- 
 bread-maker's even while I was trying to do 
 right, and to avoid both the anger and the 
 laughter of them all, I was sure to mistake one 
 thing for another; and at my godfather's, if I 
 took a sausage by the end, it was sure to slif 
 out of my fingers ; if I took hold of it by both
 
 16 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 s, they all laughed at me, and asked if 1 
 thought it would run away.' 
 
 The Curate smile'd too at this simple and 
 candid confession. 
 
 That smile went to the poor boy's heart, and 
 id mournfully, and with tears in his eyes, 
 ' I know not that which the Almighty wills for 
 me, poor orphan ! It seems to me as if every- 
 thing excepting books burnt rny fingers, and yet 
 I must renounce books for ever ! My soul 
 thirsts after the fountains of knowledge ; I feel 
 the thirst as the reaper feels his in harvest-time, 
 and yet I must renounce the very means which 
 would satisfy it ! O, reverend sir, you have 
 your pleasure in books, you know what it is ; 
 you are the only person in Pappenheim who 
 can understand me ; I have displeased you, I 
 know, but, 0, cast me not off! tell me only to 
 whom I could turn myself!' 
 
 The Curate turned his face from the- boy, and 
 fixing his eyes upon the garden-bed opposite, as 
 i dying the growing cabbages, said jvith a 
 -.vhat tremulous voice : ' Friedrich, I think 
 that, hitherto, we have forgotten over our books 
 the right person, namely, the Almighty; that is 
 to say, I think that we hav, hitherto, studied 
 too much, arid prayed too little. Instead, as 
 hith' n<_ r here and there, and knocking 
 
 at the doors of friends and relatious, we should 
 have given all honor and preference to the 
 I'ather in heaven, and have knocked at his
 
 FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 17 
 
 door : ' Knock, and it shall be opened to you,' 
 he says ; and his gracious words are, ' Call on 
 me in thy need, and I will help thee, and thou 
 shalt praise me.' He alone is it who has for 
 every Samuel a temple, for every David a harp, 
 and for every son of Saphat a prophet's mantle. 
 And, my poor Friedrich, he who has created 
 this thirst in thee, will also show thee a fountain 
 of water in the desert ! But we must seek that 
 which we need from him in prayer.' 
 
 Friedrich heard the words of his kind, father- 
 ly friend. He made no reply, but went at once 
 into the little cell-like chamber which had been 
 hitherto allotted to him, in the old school-house, 
 as his sleeping-room ; and there, bolting the 
 door on himself, poured out all his griefs before 
 his Father in heaven, with many tears. 
 
 PART n. 
 
 IT was now Wednesday morning, the morning 
 of the reat quarterly ramble; and already, soon 
 after daybreak, the Latin scholars were assem- 
 bled in the court of the school-house, waiting 
 for the Curate, Friedrich, and the curate's dog, 
 who always made one of the party on such oc- 
 casions. 
 
 Long before the scholars had assembled in 
 the court, before the dog's impatient bark was 
 2
 
 18 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 heard, almost before the very day had dawned, 
 Friedrich had poured forth his heart earnestly 
 at the throne of mercy : ' Lord, I am in thy 
 hands: provide for me as thou best knowest 
 how.' 
 
 The sun shone bright and warm ; spangles of 
 dew hung and sparkled on every leaf and flow- 
 er ; fleecy mist-clouds rose upwards from the 
 valley, and reflected the light of the sun ; the 
 curate % poodle ran bounding on and barked; 
 and the scholars went on, laughing and talking. 
 A whole day of sunshine and freedom was be- 
 fore them ; for it was the established rule of 
 these rambles that the whole day, from morning 
 to night, was to be spent under the free heavens ; 
 nor were they once to enter under a roof; and 
 for this reason a certain number of the elder, or 
 Latin class, carried with them whatever was 
 needful for the day's sustenance : that which 
 they required from nature on her side was a 
 shady tree, a spring of water, dry wood, and a 
 place in which to make a fire. 
 
 The eldest scholar carried, in a sort of quiver 
 on his back, two Cologne pipes, with a bag filled 
 with fine tobacco swung from his button-hole ; 
 while the tinder-box and matches were stowed 
 away in his trowsers'-pockets. His brother was 
 laden, on his part, with a copper kettle, the 
 three-legged stand for which, tied to a string, he 
 carried in his hand, and from which, with a 
 brass ladle, he drew sounds rather loud than
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 19 
 
 harmonious. No. 3 carried a piece of beef, 
 which his mother the butcher's wife, had sent, 
 wrapped in cabbage leaves, and tied in a napkin ; 
 and here it may be remarked, that after the dog 
 had once got scent of this bag, he never after- 
 wards left his side. A fourth boy carried the 
 manchet bread and the milk cakes ; all which 
 however were put into a bag, tied by the Curate 
 with a gordian knot, in order that he might be 
 out of the way of temptation. No. 5 might be 
 supposed to be carrying eggs, so carefully did 
 he walk along with the basket which he held on 
 his arm. Eggs however he had not, but a 
 coffee service, which his grandmother had lent 
 for the day, and the care of which she had laid 
 upon his conscience. No. 6 carried a bell- 
 shaped coffee-pot, which served its bearer as an 
 instrument on which to accompany No. 2. To 
 Friedrich was nothing entrusted, excepting ' Fal- 
 kenstein's Chronicle,' because, as his friend the 
 Curate remarked, he was fit for nothing but 
 books. 
 
 Off they went ; and our friendly young reader 
 must be so good as to go with them, over hills 
 and through valleys, six miles at least, to the 
 village Fosse. 
 
 This place had its name from the canal by 
 which, as is well known, Charlemagne intended 
 to unite the two great rivers of his kingdom, the 
 Rhine and the Danube. Of this magnificent 
 attempt, this Fosse, or ditch, is all that remaina
 
 20 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 The scholars came to a stand under two pine- 
 trees by a fish-pond near the edge of the Fosse ; 
 nor was it very long before they had a good fire 
 burning, above which was placed the brass ket- 
 tle, and within it that handsome round of beef, 
 which had made the arm of the butcher's son 
 ache with carrying. 
 
 ' You,' said the Curate, well pleased, to one 
 of his scholars, ' must skim the broth ; and you,' 
 Rdded he, fixing his eye on Friedrich, ' must 
 take care that no carp leaps out of the pond into 
 the kettle.' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly,' answered poor Friedrich, who 
 was deeply thinking on Charlemagne and the 
 village Fosse ; and all his companions laughed 
 in chorus. 
 
 Meantime, a deputation of boys, who had 
 been sent to the next village, with an invitation 
 from the Curate to the school-master, returned, 
 bringing him with them, and bringing also a 
 quantity of plates and knives and forks, which 
 they had been ordered to borrow from his wife. 
 
 The dinner which was very well cooked, con- 
 sisted of two courses ; white bread-soup, and 
 boiled beef. A better dinner need not have been 
 set before a king : but, alas ! at the moment ot 
 eating, it was discovered that the mustard was 
 forgotten, and instead thereof the Curate's poma- 
 tum-pot had been brought ! 
 
 After dinner the discourse naturally turned on 
 the Fossa Carolina, or Charlemagne's Ditch ;
 
 O|r 
 
 < 
 
 The Favorite Scholar Page -20
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 21 
 
 and the village school-master told its story in 
 the following manner : 
 
 ' In the year of our Lord 793, Charlemagne, 
 being at peace with all his enemies, betook him- 
 self to Eichstadt, where Winifred, or Bonifacius, 
 the apostle of the Germans, had created a bish- 
 op's see. In those days the vast forests swarm- 
 ed with wild bulls, enormous moose-deer, and 
 bears ; and powerful hunters came from far and 
 near to hunt in the old woods. Charlemagne 
 also, who was a lover of the chase, went often 
 forth a-hunting from the little convent of St. 
 Willibald, where he had taken up his abode. 
 
 ' One day, after he had dined in the convent 
 from his favorite dish of roast venison, and had 
 enjoyed a little after-dinner nap, he went out 
 with the fat prior upon the walls with which, 
 for its better security, the convent was surround- 
 ed, in order to enjoy the fresh air and the fine 
 prospect. 
 
 ' And it was a magnificent prospect that 
 Charlemagne had from the convent walls. North, 
 south, east, and west, he saw his kingdom 
 stretching before him ; and then was it that he 
 first formed the grand idea of uniting the two 
 ends of his realm, and thus opening a safe high- 
 way for traffic. 
 
 ' The good prior strengthened the king's idea, 
 but not indeed because he cared about trade and 
 traffic, but because there stood just opposite to 
 the convent, upon a point of the hills, in the
 
 22 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 very middle of the marsh, a heathen temple. 
 To be sure, it had then no longer its priests, nor 
 was any regular worship or sacrifice performed 
 there ; yet still it kept alive many a dark and 
 fearful superstition. The prior, to whom this 
 temple was as a thorn in the eye, turned now 
 the king's attention to it, well knowing that the 
 defender of the church could, if he would, re- 
 move an idol temple, even of the greatest an- 
 tiquity. 
 
 1 With Charlemagne, the doing of a thing 
 followed its resolve, as quickly and surely as the 
 thunder follows the lightning ; therefore the 
 cutting of the great canal was commenced im- 
 mediately. The convent of St. Willibald, which 
 was as well placed for this work as for the chase, 
 was made its head-quarters, and the people for 
 twelve miles round were summoned to labor at 
 the great undertaking. 
 
 ' In the beginning all went on well. The la- 
 borers, who were serfs, or slaves of the soil, 
 came to it with the greatest readiness. Many 
 and many had never seen the great Frank-King, 
 and seized now with joy the opportunity of be- 
 holding him face to face ; others feared his heavy 
 hand and his sharp sword ; others, again, had 
 fought under his banner, and pressed to come 
 forward once more into his presence. The sea- 
 son and the weather were the most favorable in 
 the world, and the soil, which was clay and sand, 
 was very easy to work. In three weeks' time
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAB. 23 
 
 the canal had advanced to the state in which it 
 now is. 
 
 ' Charlemagne, in the joy of his work, had 
 quite forgotten the good prior's heathen temple. 
 One evening however, as he was riding home 
 to the convent, within sight of the place, a sun- 
 beam streamed from an opening in the evening 
 clouds, and lighted it up. Charlemagne thought 
 of his promise to the prior to have this abomina- 
 tion removed. He blamed himself, as for a sin, 
 that he had neglected spiritual for temporal 
 things ; and gave orders that on the next day the 
 laborers, instead of working in the Fosse, should 
 go and level to the very ground this place of 
 offence to the good monks. 
 
 ' On the evening of the next day, accordingly, 
 nothing remained in the place but overturned 
 stones; part of which are now sunk into the 
 marsh, and others have served in later years for 
 foundation and corner-stones of the village and 
 church which sprung up there. 
 
 ' The king however had lost the hearts of the 
 people by thus demolishing the old temple. 
 Most of them, although baptised, were nothing 
 but ignorant heathens, and were as much annoy- 
 ed by this sudden destruction of their temple, as 
 the people of old, who said to Joas, ' Give us 
 thy son, that he may die ; inasmuch as he has 
 broken down the altar of Baal, and has hewn 
 down the grove thereof.' In order therefore to
 
 24 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 revenge themselves, they resolved not again w 
 work at the Fosse. 
 
 * The next morning therefore a messenger 
 came to the king in St. Willibald's convent, 
 with the tidings that the overseer of the work 
 stood alone in the Fosse ; the laborers had all 
 vanished in the night, like storks in autumn. 
 The king had no army with him at that time 
 with which to drive the disobedient forth from 
 their glens, their woods, and their hiding-places, 
 and before he could arrange any mode of com- 
 pulsion he was called away to chastise the in- 
 surgent Saxons.' 
 
 Here the schoolmaster was interrupted by the 
 return of the scholars, who had been in search 
 of wood to make up the fire for the preparation 
 of coffee ; and with them, to the surprise of the 
 Curate and his friend, came two strangers, a 
 gentleman and lady, who were in deep mourn- 
 ing, and whose appearance was that of people of 
 wealth and condition. Their countenances were 
 amiable and kind, but expressive of a deep mel- 
 ancholy ; they seemed like persons who had lost 
 some beloved friend, and were upon a journey 
 which should remove them from the neighbor- 
 hood where everything reminded them of their 
 loss. 
 
 The Curate received them in the most friend- 
 ly manner, and invited them to spend an hour 
 with him and his wandering school, and to be 
 pleased to drink a cup of the coffee, which his
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 25 
 
 Latin Cooks should instantly prepare. The in- 
 vitation was thankfully accepted. 
 
 The gentlemen filled and lighted their pipes, 
 and the lady, by her own choice, busied herself 
 in assisting the boys in the preparation of the 
 coffee. Better coffee never was presented to a 
 select company of ladies. But ah ! the white 
 sugar which had been brought put them all into 
 the utmost perplexity. Friedrich, instead of 
 sugar, had given out a quantity of broken ala- 
 baster, which, a short time before, had been col- 
 lected in a quarry, and now lay in the Curate's 
 cupboard. The error was rather excusable, be- 
 cause broken alabaster resembled broken white 
 sugar. But who can tell the shame and morti- 
 fication of poor Friedrich ! The apothecary's 
 Michaelmas goose, the salted gingerbread, and 
 the embittered sausages, seemed at once to fly 
 in his face. He could have cried with humilia- 
 tion. And then, what was to be done ? Must 
 they all drink their coffee, like the Arabs in the 
 desert, without sugar, and that through his 
 fault ? He sate with downcast eyes, and said 
 not a word in his own excuse. Fortunately 
 however for him, at the very moment when he 
 heard the whispered jeering of his school-com- 
 panions around him, the kind-hearted strangers 
 set all right by declaring that they had a good 
 store of sugar-candy in their travelling-carriage, 
 a short distance off. To Friedrich they seemed 
 Jike angels from heaven.
 
 26 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 A short quarter of an hour set all right, and 
 the lady graciously declared that the coffee was 
 only the clearer for standing so long. 
 
 ' Friedrich,' said the Curate, anxious to rein- 
 state his poor favorite in the good opinion of his 
 guests, and at the same time meaning to incul- 
 cate a moral lesson to the boys, who still jeered 
 him about his stone-sugar, ' come here ; canst 
 thou not tell us something for our entertainment ? ' 
 
 Friedrich rose up, blushed, and looked round 
 the company. 
 
 ' Thou canst tell us that which the Miller's 
 George did when his enemy threw a cherry- 
 stone at him, canst thou not ? ' asked the Cu- 
 rate. 
 
 Friedrich bowed, and, turning himself towards 
 the strangers, began as follows : ' The Miller's 
 George sate one Sunday evening upon the 
 bench by the door, learning out of his prayer- 
 book. It was always very difficult for George 
 to learn ; and for that reason he learnt every 
 thing aloud, which drew upon him the ridicule 
 of his school companions. Just at that moment 
 there came up to him one of his young persecu- 
 tors, the constable's son Hans, and threw a 
 cherry-stone at his eye, which hurt him very 
 much. George however took no notice, but re- 
 mained sitting on the bench ; and only said to 
 himself, ' What pain it gives me ! If I had no 
 eye-lids to my eyes, like the carp in my father's 
 mill dam, it would have knocked my eye out ! '
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 27 
 
 He then took up the cherry-stone, examined it 
 on this side and on that, and put it in his waist- 
 coat pocket. After that he went on learning ; 
 and the lesson which he was driving into his 
 head was this : ' Aud since we daily sin greatly, 
 and deserve punishment, ought we not, on our 
 part, hearitly to forgive, and be willing to do 
 good to those that sin againt us ? ' and all the 
 time he was learning it, he was obliged to keep 
 wiping away the water which ran from his eye 
 with his shirt sleeve. 
 
 ' Eight days after this, as he was feeling in 
 his pocket, he found the cherry-stone ; and he 
 thought to himself, that that was not the best 
 way of keeping it, so he went into the garden 
 and set it like a bean, in the soil near the gar- 
 den hedge ; and, as it generally happens with 
 seed when it is sown, the kernel of the cherry- 
 stone shot forth, and sprang up, and grew a foot 
 in height every year. One day George looked 
 at it, and bent it this way and that; and 'Now,' 
 said he to himself, ' if I let it grow on just as it 
 pleases, it will be no better than the constable's 
 Hans, who, everybody says, is wilder than an 
 unbroken colt.' So he fetched the schoolmaster, 
 who understood how to manage this as well as 
 children, and asked him to look at his young 
 cherry-tree. The schoolmaster directly cut off 
 all the wild shoots, and grafted upon the stock 
 the real great-heart cherry. After this the tree 
 grew and grew, and all the nobler shoots spread
 
 28 THE FAVOEITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 themselves high and wide, till the tree was larg- 
 er and finer than any in the garden. 
 
 ' Anybody who had not seen it for twenty 
 years, would no more have known it than they 
 would have known the Miller's George himself. 
 Very handsome and richly ornamented were 
 they both, on a certain Sunday evening, as they 
 stood together ; the tree with its thousands of 
 leaves and abundant crimson fruit, and he with 
 manly beauty, and grace, and joy, in his coun- 
 tenance. Nor were either of them known again 
 by a man who crept along under the garden 
 hedge, as if he feared to show himself again in 
 that village. The Miller's George however 
 knew this prodigal son, in the torn coat and 
 worn-out shoes, to be no other than his old 
 enemy the constable's Hans ; but he behaved 
 just as if he knew him not, and called him to 
 his garden gate. ' Friend,' said he, ' you are 
 weary, and hungry, and thirsty ; come and sit 
 under my tree, and I will give you bread to eat, 
 and wine to drink, and then you shall proceed 
 on your journey.' 
 
 ' Hans knew the voice ; he saw where he was ; 
 and, with tears in his eyes tears of repentance 
 and remorse sate down under the tree, and, 
 for the first time in his life, earnestly prayed 
 God to forgive him.' 
 
 When Friedrich had ended his story, the 
 stranger gentleman commended it greatly, but 
 the lady said nothing ; tears were rapidly chas-
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 29 
 
 ing each other down her cheeks. The gentle- 
 man, who knew very well the cause of his wife's 
 tears, and that it had nothing to do with the 
 story she had just heard, inquired from the boy 
 if he could not relate something more to them. 
 Friedrich, who. on finishing his former story, 
 had withdrawn to his place among the boys, at 
 a hint from the Curate, again approached ; and 
 wishing to say something which should be ap- 
 plicable to the lady who wept, and was in 
 mourning, he bowed, and began, in a low voice, 
 as follows : 
 
 ' Once upon a time, a mother went over the 
 sea in a little boat, towards her home in Heligo- 
 land ; and her thoughts travelled far quicker 
 than her boat in the moonlight. But the little 
 daughter that lay in her lap did not let the 
 mother dream long about home, but pointed be- 
 tween the fluttering sails up to Heaven, and 
 said, ' Eh ! what large glow-worms are raining 
 down from the stars ; if they would only fall on 
 the deck, instead of into the sea, I would take 
 them with me, and lay them under the rose- 
 bushes in our garden, when we get home.' 
 
 ' But that little maiden was weak in health, 
 and never again was to see her earthly home. 
 Her mother sighed, and said to her, ' They 
 are not glow-worms that thou seest falling there : 
 and beyond the stars there lies a great and most 
 beautiful garden ; God himself has planted it, 
 and holy angels are its guardians ; and many
 
 30 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 times they come down to the earth, and fetch 
 up there the spirits of children who die, that 
 they may grow up there, and joyfully wait there 
 till their fathers and mothers join them. The 
 trees in that garden bear twelve times in the 
 year golden apples, juicy as peaches, and more 
 fragrant than strawberries ; and the trees there 
 are never yellow and leafless, as with us, but 
 always bear leaves and fruits and flowers. The 
 trees however are very tall, and the children 
 cannot reach the apples; the angels therefore 
 that fly past, come and shake the branches, and 
 the apples fall on the velvet-green grass below. 
 And sometimes, if the angels be not very careful, 
 they strike down the snowy flowers with their 
 wings ; and then it happens sometimes that the 
 evening wind blows them over the garden- wall 
 down to the earth. But then they do not re- 
 main long, but fade away like the rose-tint from 
 thy cheek, my poor child ! ' 
 
 ' The little ship in awhile ended its voyage, 
 and the mother stepped on the shore of her na- 
 tive Heligoland. Behind her they carried out 
 of the ship a little chest of ebony wood. It con- 
 tained not rubies nor pearls, nor fine linen nor 
 purple ; but something more precious than all 
 these the bones of the dead child.' 
 
 Friedrich's voice trembled as he spoke the 
 last words, for he was thinking of his own 
 mother's funeral, and, glancing round, he saw
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 31 
 
 that the Curate shook his head, and that the 
 lady was weeping more than ever. 
 
 ' I have done something wrong again ! I have 
 made another mistake ! ' thought poor Friedrich, 
 and stole back to his seat among the boys. 
 
 ' My wife,' said the stranger gentleman, draw- 
 ing the Curate aside, ' weeps for our son, our 
 only child. It is but eight days since his re- 
 mains were laid in the churchyard of St. John's, 
 in our city. This very autumn he was to have 
 entered the class which I teach as rector of the 
 Gymnasium in Niirnberg.' 
 
 At these words of the stranger, the Curate, 
 and the village schoolmaster who had approach- 
 ed them, stood in astonishment, and began to 
 emulate each other in showing their respect to 
 so celebrated and distinguished a man. He re- 
 ceived their demonstrations of regard with a 
 grateful pressure of the hand, and motioning 
 them to resume their seats, one on each side of 
 him, continued thus : 
 
 1 Yes, my Friedrich was a son I can say it 
 now as a father like which the world has but 
 few. He occasioned me none of the disagreeables 
 which the instruction of an only son often brings 
 with it. Peace and quietness were his element; 
 the library his world. Love to God, humility, 
 and willingness to be useful to his fellow-crea- 
 tures, were the marked features of his character. 
 He could already anticipate the pleasure of mak- 
 ing a figure in the learned world, for he had
 
 32 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 advanced far in knowledge.' He paused a few 
 seconds, and then continued : ' After all that I 
 have seen and heard, in this short time, of your 
 dear young scholar Friedrich there, he seems to 
 me the prototype of my lost son in size, and. 
 'voice, and in mind, which speaks in looks and 
 actions. All this reminds my wife livingly of 
 her loss.' 
 
 ' And yet, at the same time,' interrupted the 
 lady, ' this great resemblance consoles me ; and 
 I should be greatly obliged to my husband's 
 friend, if he would allow his young pupil to 
 pass a few days of the just now commenced 
 midsummer vacation with us in Niirnberg. The 
 ink in my son's writing-desk is not yet dry; his 
 pen lies as he laid it last out of his hand ; his 
 chair stands as he left it when he pushed it back 
 and rose, complaining to me of that headache 
 which ended in his being removed from us. 
 Dear youth,' said she, turning to Friedrich, 
 whom the Curate had beckoned forward, ' will 
 not you pass at least a few weeks in this little 
 chamber, that it may become again pleasant to 
 me ; that therein, once more, a being may dwell, 
 of whom I may ask, now and then, as I did from 
 my good Fritz, ' How is it with thee ? ' ' 
 
 Friedrich and the Curate both had tears in 
 their eyes, and were both of them about to an- 
 swer when one of his school companions started 
 forward and said, ' O, gracious lady, yes ! He 
 will go with you, without doubt. The apothe-
 
 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 33 
 
 cary, the gingerbread-baker, and the butcher 
 have all tried him ; but he was good for nothing; 
 he will be glad to go with you ! ' 
 
 The Curate gave the boy a box on his ear for 
 his pains, and then began to explain to the good 
 rector and his ladv the exact situation of his 
 young favorite. ' If,' concluded he, ' you have 
 compassion on this poor orphan, and will give to 
 him, even in the lowest degree, the place of your 
 deceased son, in house and heart, then will the 
 Lord have heard the prayer which I this morn- 
 ing put up on his behalf ! ' 
 
 ' May I then, wholly and for ever, take him 
 to myself ? ' asked the stranger. 
 
 The Curate assented, adding that it was the 
 Lord who had provided for him. 
 
 ' Now then, my son,' said the stranger, ad- 
 dressing Friedrich, ' follow us. All that I ask 
 from you is love to God, love to me and to your 
 second mother, and love for learning.' 
 
 Friedrich laid his hands in those of his newly 
 adopted parents, and wished to say something 
 which might express his thanks, but he could 
 only say, in a voice scarcely audible, ' Lord, I 
 am not worthy of the love and kindness which 
 thou hast shown to me, thy poor servant !' 
 
 The friendly young reader can now imagine 
 
 the rest ; can imagine how the good Niirnberg- 
 
 ers agreed to pass a few days with the friendly 
 
 Curate at Pappetiheim ; and furthermore, can 
 
 3
 
 34 THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR. 
 
 imagine how, on the fourth day, they set off, 
 Friedrich sitting between his foster-parents in 
 their large family chaise. The roads in those 
 days were not as good as they are now, and 
 travellers had to encounter marshes and sands, 
 flats and rocks, of which people now-a-days 
 know nothing ; but, for all that, the reader can 
 imagine how the rector's strong horses drew 
 them merrily onwards ; and how, on the even- 
 ing of the third day of their journey, they ar- 
 rived safely at their home in the old city of 
 Niirnberg.
 
 'NUMBER ONE. ; 
 
 BT MRS. 8. 0. HALL. 
 
 HEN Hector Howard was born, 
 there was great joy among 
 all the inmates of Howard 
 Place, his father ordered 
 an ox to be roasted whole 
 on the village green, and 
 the villagers, who were his 
 tenants and servants, made a 
 huge 'bonfire ' on the top of the hill ; the bells 
 rang merrily, and old and young danced and 
 sung by the light of the moon. 
 
 Mr. Howard was charmed that ' Number One,' 
 as he called the infant, was a boy, and at his 
 christening the festivities were renewed with still 
 more boisterous manifestations of delight. Mrs 
 Howard, a kind, gentle woman, of course loved 
 her little son, and thought that when his nurse 
 pronounced him to be a perfect beauty (hav- 
 ing father's hair, mother's eyes, and grandmoth- 
 er's mouth), she hardly did him justice. Hector 
 was certainly a very pretty baby, and, more-
 
 36 'NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 over, good tempered and cheerful ; but moth- 
 ers and -nurses, by over fondness, sometimes 
 spoil their little treasures, and a ' Number One' 
 is usually placed in a position of more than or- 
 dinary peril. 
 
 When Hector was eighteen months old, he 
 was a very fine fellow indeed, strong, and would 
 have been healthy, had not his nurse indulged 
 him by giving him sweet cakes and sugar- 
 plums- whenever he cried for them. This was 
 unfortunate both for him and his nurse, as it dis- 
 ordered his stomach and rendered him so fret- 
 ful and impatient, that he would whine by the 
 hour, and, if asleep, instead of looking rosy, 
 and remaining quiet, he would toss his arms 
 about, while his lips and hands were so hot and 
 feverish, that, when his tender parents sent for 
 the doctor, the doctor said he must have had 
 improper food ; and Nurse, very wickedly, did 
 not tell him all she had given the baby. When 
 persons do what is wrong, they are frequently 
 so cowardly as to conceal it ; whereas if they 
 were to tell all the truth, the mischief might be 
 remedied. In this case, if the doctor had known 
 that the greedy baby had devoured two heart- 
 cakes, a half -ripe pear, and a roll of pink-and- 
 yellow sugar-plums during his airing in the 
 park, he could have relieved his sufferings much 
 Sooner than he did ; and I must say, I think 
 Nurse deserved to lose, as she did lose, several 
 nights' rest in eonsequeuee.
 
 'NUMBKli ONE.' 37 
 
 When Hector grew older, from crying for 
 cakes and sugar-plums, he went on to cry for 
 everything he wished for; and, if it were not 
 immediately given him, would become violent. 
 His dear mother was in delicate health, and 
 could not endure noise or agitation of any 
 kind ; if she had been well, I am sure she lov- 
 ed ' Number One' too truly to have indulged 
 him as his nurse did. 
 
 At five years old, having neither brother nor 
 sister, he was still Number ' One,' and, unfortu- 
 nately, constantly heard the nurse saying that, 
 ' Indeed Master Hector was an only child, and 
 must not be contradicted, for his life was of 
 great consequence to the family;' and the ser- 
 vants endured his violence and rudeness, rather 
 than hazard the displeasure of the nurse, who 
 petted and spoiled the ' Young Master' in a 
 shameful way ; and as her mistress suffered so 
 much from ill health, she was out of the way of 
 seeing or hearing, except what the nurse chose 
 to tell her ; and one servant, who ventured to toll 
 Master Hector he was a very naughty boy, be- 
 cause he threw a tumbler of water in her face, 
 received warning a few days after, and was not 
 permitted to speak to her mistress. 
 
 Children, who are prevented by the care and 
 watchfulness of their parents from contracting 
 bad habits, can never be sufficiently grateful to 
 God for his goodness in having given them such 
 sensible protect u-. ~Ui li
 
 3S ' NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 deal from home. He was a magistrate and a 
 member of Parliament; and seldom say/ Hector 
 but when dressed not only in his best clothes, 
 but his best manners, generally, when brought 
 in after dinner, in a handsome velvet tunic, his 
 fair hair curling abundantly over his shoulders, 
 and then he was much admired by whatever 
 company happened to be at the Place, and as 
 he had no brothers nor sisters, nor even little 
 cousins, to divide the caresses of the ladies and 
 gentlemen who were assembled round the ta- 
 ble, he grew at length to think that no one else 
 in the world had a right to receive them, or to 
 partake of the dessert so thoughtlessly heaped 
 upon his plate. 
 
 It chanced that a lady was dining one day at 
 Howard Place, who possessed a very beautiful 
 dog ; Mrs. Howard had heard so much of the 
 dog's beauty, that she had requested her to bring 
 it with her, and the lady did so. It was re- 
 markably small, having long silken hair ; and its 
 little limbs were so slender and delicate, that it 
 would run along the dining-table, in and out, 
 amid the wine glasses, without upsetting any 
 thing or doing any injury whatever. This a- 
 mused the company a great deal, and no one 
 seemed more amused than Hector. He clapped 
 his hands with delight, and kissed the long ears 
 and tiny paws of the dog over and over again. 
 
 The little animal had run once round the ta- 
 ble in this manner, and hud got a.s fur as where
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 39 
 
 Hector sat, on its second round, when it sudden- 
 ly made a pause at his plate, looking wist- 
 fully at a piece of cake he was eating \vith an 
 eagerness that is exceedingly ill-bred as well as 
 unhealthy. I dare say the little dog had been 
 as much accustomed to consider every thing it 
 saw made for its own especial use, as the little 
 boy. At all events, putting its paw into Hector's 
 plate, it seized, and as quickly swallowed, the 
 largest piece of his favorite cake. I really am 
 ashamed to tell you how a boy could have shown 
 such selfish violence ; no one present could a- 
 void seeing that it must have been of long 
 growth, to have acquired such strength. In an 
 instant the face, which before had been so joy- 
 ous and lovely to look upon, became frightful 
 from selfish disappointment and revenge, and in- 
 stead of laughing at the little dog's trick, and 
 rejoicing that he was able to return pleasure, for 
 the pleasure the animal's dexterity and beauty 
 had afforded him, he dealt it a violent blow, 
 which flung it against a claret decanter, that 
 rolled off the table into a lady's lap, but which 
 she was kind enough to say was of little conse- 
 quence. The little dog was not only stunned 
 by the blow, but its head was severely wounded 
 in several places by the sharp edges of the de- 
 canter, and one eye was so injured, that it could 
 not be opened for several days. Mrs. Howard 
 was greatly shocked at her son's conduct ; and 
 while Hector endeavored to justify himself, by
 
 40 ' NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 exclaiming 'He eat my cake ! how dare he 
 eat my favorite cake?' his father carried him 
 forcibly out of the room, and locking him up in 
 a closet, put the key into his pocket, determin- 
 ed, when the violence of the child's temper was 
 abated, to show him how wickedly he had act- 
 ed ; and, in the mean time, to deliberate upon 
 the best means of punishing his offence, and 
 checking so selfish a disposition, which, of all 
 others, causes us to be most hated by our fellow- 
 creatures, and leaves us in the evening of life 
 without friends. When Nurse heard of her dar- 
 ling's disgrace, instead of leaving him, as she 
 ought to have done, to his father's management, 
 she went to the window of the closet, told him 
 not to cry, gave him a piece of cake, and said 
 there was great comfort for him in knowing that 
 the little dog, which had caused him all this 
 trouble, was so much hurt that it was obliged to 
 have the doctor. Now, can you imagine any 
 thing worse than her conduct, or more likely to 
 confirm a selfish and self-willed child in what 
 was wrong ? and yet, I am happy to say, that 
 the idea of the dog suffering so much, made the 
 little boy crv. When his father, in a couple of 
 hours, taking him into his dressing-room, told 
 him of the sinfulness of indulging in such vio- 
 lence and selfishness, and of its results, Hector 
 listened at first sullenly, but, b ir degrees, when 
 he understood what his father meant, and when 
 his mind, which was naturally clear, while
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 41 
 
 his disposition (when not under the influence of 
 temper) was kind, was brought to see and feel, 
 he threw his arms round his neck, and exclaim- 
 ed ' Father, father, no one ever told me this 
 before.' 
 
 These simple and natural words touched his 
 father's heart, for he felt that they were true. 
 While Hector's body had been pampered, while 
 he had been nursed in every species of self-in- 
 dulgence, his mind had been weakened by the 
 want of the wholesomest of all exercises self- 
 restraint ; and at an age when boys ought to 
 be able to practise forbearance, and enjoy the 
 luxury of sharing what they have with those 
 around them, the poor little fellow had only ta- 
 ken his first lesson in this most endearing of 
 all qualities. 
 
 ' May I kiss and make friends with the dog, 
 father ?' he said, ' and buy it a gold collar ? ' 
 
 ' My dear,' answered his father, ' the dog is of 
 so generous a nature that he will readily for- 
 give you. I am sure he would even lick the 
 hand that dealt him so bitter a blow ; but the 
 collar of gold would be a poor recompense for 
 the bruises he has received. Kindness and for- 
 bearance, Hector, are of more real value than 
 gold, as you will find when you are as old as 
 your father.' 
 
 Mr. Howard spoke seriously to his wife of 
 the growing faults in Hector's character, which 
 he attributed to the evil management of the nurse.
 
 42 ' NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 Mrs Howard, ill and weak as she continued to 
 be, summoned the woman, who pleaded her love 
 for ' the beautiful, dear young gentleman' in ex- 
 tenuation of her indulgence, and promised to do 
 her best to ' go against him,' if she could. Mr. 
 Howard saw that she was too weak-minded and 
 indulgent to understand her duty, and resolved 
 to do something at once, but was unfortunately 
 called away from home before any thing was 
 accomplished. 
 
 Hector, like all boys, was fond of horses, and 
 it is very natural and right to be fond of so fine 
 and noble an animal ; but it does not follow that, 
 because young gentlemen like horses, they are 
 also to like the society of grooms ; yet, I am 
 sorry to say, Hector was almost as fond of the 
 grooms as he was of the horses. When atten- 
 ded in his rides, the groom was sure to say how 
 glad he would be if his father kept hounds; 
 that Avhen he came to be a man he hoped he 
 would do so ; that he ought, for he was an ONLY 
 eon, he would have the finest fortune in the 
 country ; it was so lucky for him that he was 
 ' Number One,' all alone, nor. plagued like 
 young Master Lycet with seven brothers and 
 sisters, having the name of eldest so.n, and yet 
 getting so little by it ; it was a fine thing, he 
 said, to continue ' Number One,' a fine thing for 
 any young gentleman, who could then do as 
 he liked, and be his own master. But it was 
 not only nurses and grooms who said wrong
 
 1 NUMBER ONE.' 43 
 
 and foolish things in the boy's hearing ; finely 
 dressed but silly ladies, when they smoothed his 
 ringlets and kissed him, said he ' was a pretty 
 boy, and between his beauty and his fortune he 
 was sure to be a great favorite ; ' and even so- 
 ber gentlemen spoke in the child's hearing of 
 ' the careful manner in which Mr. Howard lived, 
 and which must secure his son an immense 
 fortune hereafter.' 
 
 blaster Nicholas Lycet, the young gentleman 
 of whom the groom had spoken, came to see 
 him one day. He was three or four years old- 
 er than ' Number One.' ' Master Howard,' said 
 Nick. ' you are often very lonely, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Hector, ' not rcry.' 
 
 ' Well, I should think you were. What do 
 you do when you want some one to play with 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' O ! why I play by myself, at ball, and the 
 servants pick it up, and then I throw it again.' 
 
 ' And then they pick it up again, I suppose?' 
 said Master Lycet, laughing. 
 
 ' To be sure they do,' replied Master Howard, 
 seriously. 
 
 ' But that is not what I call play,' observed 
 Nicholas ; ' I like a game of ball with my two 
 brothers, while my sisters and the little one? 
 look on, and shout, and enjoy it as much at. 
 ourselves.' 
 
 ' But does not that disturb you ?' 
 
 ' No. The very little ones sometimes run un-
 
 44 'NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 der our feet, but that only makes us all laugh 
 the more ; and sometimes we take our kites to 
 the hill, and see whose will fly highest ; and 
 we are learning cricket ; and we race our little 
 Shetland ponies sometimes, only not too long, 
 because we must not fatigue them ; and we go 
 nutting in the wood ; and on wet days we dance 
 and fence, and play small plays together.' 
 
 ' But,' said Hector, ' do not the young ones 
 want your pony to ride, and your toys and 
 things ?' 
 
 ' To be sure they do,' replied Nicholas. 
 
 ' And what do you do ? ' 
 
 ' Let them have them ; it is such a pleasant 
 thing to make them happy.' 
 
 Hector was very much puzzled to know 
 how it was, that giving his toys to others to play 
 with could make him happy ; and while he was 
 thinking it over, he took Nicholas to his play- 
 room, and showed him toys enough to set up a 
 toyshop, amongst which was the largest rock- 
 ing-horse ever made in England.' 
 
 ' I will show you how beautifully it goes,' 
 said Hector, springing on its back. 
 
 ' Capital ! ' exclaimed his companion ; ' now 
 let me try.' 
 
 '0 no ! ' replied Hector, ' you can look at me ; 
 that will do for you quite as well.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said young Lycet, full) 
 sensible of his companion's selfish rudeness ; 
 ' but at home we have all things so much in com-
 
 NUMBER ONE.' 46 
 
 mon that I did not think you would wish to 
 keep all the fun to yourself.' 
 
 Hector got down, looking sulky, and, tossing 
 his head, replied: ' Well, I dare say that may 
 be the case ; you are an eMest son, but I am 
 an only child, and shall have the finest estate in 
 the county.' 
 
 Not till your father dies,' answered Master 
 Lycet, ' and I am sure you do not wish for that.' 
 
 Hector did not wish it, and felt the tears rush 
 to his eyes at the idea. He changed the sub- 
 ject, and then took his acquaintance to the sta- 
 ble to show him his little Arabian horse, which 
 he mounted, and exhibited its paces, but never 
 offered Nicholas a ride.' 
 
 ' I have not seen any pets,' said Nick. 
 
 l- I had rabbits, and hawks, and dogs, and sil- 
 ver pheasants once,' answered Hector ; ' but 
 when I wanted the servants to attend to rne 
 they were busy with the pets. I could not 
 stand that, you know, and so gave them all a- 
 way, except the dogs ; and one tires of dogs, but 
 they are about somewhere.' 
 
 ' Then I have not seen your books,' observed 
 young Lycet ; ' where are your favorite books ?' 
 
 ' I cannot say I have any fucorite books,' 
 replied 'Number One,' blushing a little, for he 
 knew his education had been neglected ; but I 
 cannot think how any boy of spirit can have fa- 
 vorite books. I have some books, but none 
 worth looki"? at.'
 
 4'5 'NtTMBER ONE.' 
 
 1 1 wonder at your having anything not worth 
 looking at, as you are an only child,' said Nich- 
 olas, bluntly ; and then continued, ' I am sure I 
 would not change places with you, it is so sweet 
 to make one's brothers and sisters happy, and 
 see them try to make you happy, I would 
 not change places and become a ' Number One,' 
 no, not for all your beautiful things.' 
 
 It was not polite to make these observations ; 
 but young Lycet was hurt at the rudeness and 
 selfishness of his host, and was too fond at all 
 times of speaking his mind, which, if rudely 
 done, is selfihsness in another form. 
 
 When the dinner was served, Master How- 
 ard's nurse came behind his chair to help him, 
 as usual, picking out the nicest bits, and com- 
 plaining, while he was devouring every thing, 
 that her 'darling had no appetite.' The foot- 
 man carved ; and was about placing the wing of 
 a chicken upon Master Lycet's plate, when the 
 nurse said, ' Robert, Robert ! you know Master 
 Howard is so delicate that he never eats any 
 thing bu.t the liver icing ! ' 
 
 Robert, who had just entered the service, first 
 apologised, and then said, 'That was a difference 
 in wings he never could understand ; as surely 
 the liver did not grow undev one wing more than 
 another.' 
 
 Hector told him ' He was very impertinent to 
 make such an observation, and that he must 
 lonve the room.' The servant did so, mutter-
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 47 
 
 ing about not entering it again, and spoilt chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Young Lycet felt himself very uncomfort- 
 able ; and at last asked if he was not to have the 
 pleasure of seeing Master Howard's mother ? 
 
 The nurse said her lady seldom left her room ; 
 and then Nktiolas told them, that his father 
 had said he hoped Master Howard would return 
 with him to the Hall, as Mr. Howard would 
 soon be home, and then Hector and himself were 
 to be sent to school together. This was as great 
 a surprise to the nurse as to ' Number One.' 
 The former ran up to tell her mistress, and the 
 latter cried over his tart. 
 
 Mrs. Howard confirmed young Lycet's inform- 
 ation. The nurse attempted to remonstrate ; 
 the poor lady silenced her at once, and told her 
 she desired to be alone. She had invited young 
 Lycet, in accordance with a plan at last ar- 
 ranged by Mr. Howard, that his son might 
 know at least one of his future companions ; 
 and not feel leaving home as much as if he went 
 among total strangers. To spare his wife as 
 much as possible the pain of parting from her 
 child, when Mr. Howard returned he removed 
 her to Brighton ; so there was no leave-taking. 
 
 When Hector found that neither his nurse 
 his pony, nor any of his toys, beyond a cricket- 
 ball and bat, were to go with him, he became 
 quite violent ; but Mr. Howard was firm, and 
 though at the very last Hector clung to his
 
 48 * NUMBKR O.N'K.' 
 
 knees, and promised to be all he wished, to 
 school he went. 
 
 The gentleman to whom he was sent, only re- 
 ceived fourteen pupils : those boys cared very 
 little fox young- Howard, being an only child ; 
 but his selfishness and ill-temper annoyed them 
 so much, that he very soon found himself shun- 
 ned even by young Lycet, whose good humor, 
 industry, and ability, rendered him an universal 
 favorite ; the greatest favorite, however, in the 
 school, was a lad of the name of ' Rhody.' 
 Rhody was an officer's youngest son, the young- 
 est of eleven, so he neither had much pocket- 
 money to spend, nor many presents to receive : 
 still the brightness of his spirits, his entire care- 
 lessness of self, and his universal ability, which 
 he was always ready to exert for his fellow-pu- 
 pils, made him most popular with all ; and the 
 contrast between him and Hector was so great, 
 as to form a frequent subject for conversation 
 amongst the young gentlemen. 
 
 Poor Hector ! his character had become so 
 defective that it was impossible to know at 
 which end to commence amending it ; his prids 
 had grown into the rankest insolence ; his help- 
 lessness wandered him a burden, which no one 
 was willing to bear ; he was thus thrown back 
 upon his own resources, which were enfeebled 
 for want of use ; but his greediness, which a 
 liberal supply of pocket-money enabled him to 
 indulge, made him :
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 49 
 
 else; and his disdain of beef and mutton raised 
 a frequent laugh at his expense : for all that, 
 his education improved, his dislike of books 
 yielded to emulation, and his excellent master 
 (hopeless as the task seemed to every one else) 
 trusted that time, and total absence from his 
 blindly indulgent home, might at last overcome 
 much that was evil, more particularly as occa- 
 sional glimpses of better things were visible at 
 long intervals, to be sure, but even these glimp- 
 ses left something to hope from. He had been 
 nearly a year at school, when one morning his 
 master was disturbed by a violent altercation in 
 the play-ground ; he entered the arena with an 
 open letter he had been reading in his hand, 
 and there saw young Howard in a violent stale 
 of excitement ; he had no means at the moment 
 to ascertain how the quarrel began, but he heard 
 him say, ' I, who shall be, and Nick Lycet 
 knows it if he chooses to speak, the richest man 
 in the county; who never wa.? expected to carve 
 my own dinner, or feed myself, or eat ' 
 
 ' Any thing but liver-wings,' added Nicholas, 
 spitefully enough. 
 
 ' For shame ! for shame !' said Rhody, ' that's 
 not generous r Lycet, only you are vexed with 
 him now.' 
 
 4 I, who have been petted as an only child ' 
 
 ' A ' Number One," repeated two or three 
 together. 
 4
 
 )0 'NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 4 And always had my own way' persisted 
 Hector. 
 
 ' Before you came to school,' interrupted an- 
 other. 
 
 ' We would all help you, if you would help us 
 in return,' said a rosy-faced boy. 
 
 ' Yes ! ' exclaimed Rhody, ' so we would, 
 with all our hearts. You know the maxim you 
 wrote so often in your copy-book, Howard 
 ' One good turn deserves another,' and ' Give 
 and take ; ' and the fable, too, about a lion, who 
 was glad of a mouse's little teeth to nibble him 
 out of the net ; so, even if you were a lion, you 
 might be civil to the mice.' 
 
 'I vote,' quoth an embryo M. P. , ' that we ask 
 our master's permission to send Master Howard 
 to Coventry for a month, where no one is to do 
 anything for him ; mind, no one, and then he 
 would find out how helpless the grandee ' Num- 
 ber One' may become.' 
 
 Hector Howard eyed the various speakers, one 
 after the other, with a countenance swollen with 
 indignation, and was about to say something 
 very desperate, when Dr. Stanley, the master, 
 came forward. 
 
 ' I do not like this, young gentlemen,' he said ; 
 4 it is very unlike the youths of England to fall 
 upon one ; and you, Lycet, in particular, who 
 know the defects of his education, and came 
 here as his friend ; it takes a long time to erad- 
 icate errors whose growth commenced in his
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 51 
 
 nurse's arms, and you must have observed the 
 state of suffering he has lived in ' the lads 
 looked astonished ' yes, positive suffering,' he 
 resumed. ' Whoever indulges selfishness in 
 youth will be scourged by selfishness in after 
 life. The selfish man would desire to live a- 
 mongst slaves, who would pamper and indulge 
 him ; but, happily, in England, there are no 
 slaves to live amongst.' Some of the boys 
 clapped their hands, but the reproving eye of the 
 master was upon them. ' There are,' he contin- 
 ued, ' a few whom interest or a weak affection 
 may compel to endure the tyranny of selfish- 
 ness ; but such endurance could not be desired 
 by a right-minded person, and, I think and be- 
 lieve, the time will come when Hector will 
 agree with me.' 
 
 ' But, sir,' said one of the boys, ' he treats us 
 as if we were his inferiors. We are all the 
 sons of gentlemen, as well born as himself; and 
 if he wants to be indulged he should conciliate. 
 I am not to be insulted because my father has 
 only a thousand a year, while his father has ten.' 
 
 ' We never had any talk about property un- 
 til he came amongst us, sir,' exclaimed an- 
 other. 
 
 ' Well, well,' said the master, ' I will inquire 
 into the origin of this disturbance by-and-by. 
 I have received a letter from Mr. Howard this 
 morning, and he wishes to have his son home 
 for a month.'
 
 52 ' NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 Hector sprang to the doctor's side. ' O, sir ! 
 you will let me go, will you not ? ' 
 
 ' I think your own heart will tell you that you 
 do not deserve the indulgence, and yet ! but 
 come into my room.' The doctor led the way, 
 and Hector followed. 
 
 ' I know what the doctor is going to tell our 
 most royal ' Number One," said young Rhody, 
 rubbing his hands. ' I had a letter from mother 
 this morning, and she visits Mrs. Howard's 
 sister. I know what the ' only child' will hear, 
 and I was greatly tempted to tell it out before 
 you all when he insulted us, stuffing his gold 
 down our throats, as if every guinea was a 
 sponge-cake ; but I did not like to hurt him as I 
 knew what he will have to suffer. Well might 
 the doctor say, that whoever indulges selfish- 
 ness in youth will be scourged by selfishness 
 in after life.' 
 
 ' Is his poor mother dead ? ' inquired Lycet. 
 
 ' No, indeed ; but you know how much Hector 
 has been petted.' 
 
 ' To be sure we do.' 
 
 ' And how delighted he is at the prospect of 
 being always 'Number One." 
 
 ' Yes, yes, we do,' exclaimed the boys. 
 
 ' And how he rejoices at not being troubled, 
 as he calls it, with brothers and sisters.' 
 
 ' 0, to be sure, we all know that, Rhody ; have 
 you nothing else to tell us 2 '
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 53 
 
 ' Yes, I have ; he has got a new brother and 
 sister.' 
 
 ' What, both at once ! ' exclaimed several. 
 
 ' Yes : I will read you a bit of mother's let- 
 ter.' They gathered in a circle round him. 
 ' You will be astonished to hear that your school- 
 fellow, Hector Howard, so long considered the 
 only heir to his father's property, i? so no long- 
 er, his^mother having, the day before yesterday, 
 presented his father with twins.' 
 
 At this, some of the boys to whom Hector 
 had been very overbearing, gave a shout, but 
 the good feeling of others suppressed it ; and 
 all began talking immediately on the probable 
 effects of this information, and conjectured how 
 he would bear it. After a time they re-entered 
 the school-room, but Hector was not there; I 
 fear that the delicacy evinced by Rhody in not 
 proclaiming the news before Hector (who fre- 
 'quently treated him with contempt, because of 
 his comparative poverty) was hardly appreciated 
 as it deserved to be by his companions. Rhody 
 felt his narrow means more acutely than could 
 be imagined ; he turned with a careless air from 
 the confectioner's basket, when he would have 
 liked a cake as well as any other boy, and 
 kept looking straightforward, instead of into the 
 toyshop or fruiterer's, knowing that his purse 
 was indeed slender. He often longed to help 
 Hector with his lessons, but he knew that if he 
 did so his schoolmates would pay he was mean :
 
 54 'NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 and Hector, seeing Rhocly so anxious to help all 
 except himself, felt much annoyed at being ex- 
 cluded from such valuable aid ; but now mat- 
 ters, at least so the* goodnatured Rhody thought, 
 were much changed. ' Number One' was now 
 only one of three. He glided from the school- 
 room, and met the wardrobe woman on the 
 stairs, who said Master Howard would not suffer 
 her to pack his trunk. The next moment Rhody 
 was at the door of Hector's pretty bedchamber 
 he knocked, at first there was no answer, 
 again, when there was a surly' Come in,' and 
 Rhody entered. Hector was standing beside 
 his open trunk, some of his clothes lying on 
 the floor, some in the drawers. 
 
 'What do you want?' inquired youngHoward. 
 
 ' I knew you were going home,' replied Rho- 
 dy, ' and thought I would come and help you.' 
 
 ' I do not want any help,' was the sulky 
 reply. 
 
 ' but you do, though,' said the good-natured 
 lad. ' This is not the way to fold a shirt or lay 
 a jacket, come now, like a good fellow, let me 
 fold them ; it will be a pleasure.' 
 
 ' I do not want to give you, or anybody 
 pleasure, I am sure,' grumbled Hector, keeping 
 his face to the wall, for he was too proud to 
 let his tears be seen. Rhody paused in his ac- 
 tive exertions to arrange Hector's trunk," and 
 looked vexed; but he saw how his chest was
 
 IVtJMBER ONE.' 55 
 
 heaving with suppressed emotion, and resumed 
 his occupation, talking gaily all the time. 
 
 ' There's a smart waistcoat ! I remember, Hec- 
 tor, the last time you wore that waistcoat ; you 
 took pains in scripture answers, and routed us 
 all out of our places : and here are embroid- 
 ered braces ! my ! but they are gay ! and such a 
 heap of silk handkerchiefs ! and white ones 
 too ! and silk socks ! and shiny shoes ! and, 
 well ! I never saw so many white kid gloves to- 
 gether in my life ! now I think that is all. 
 Why there is the post-chaise at the door, and 
 the old servant who came to see you ; he is 
 corne for you no-.v. Good bye ; there's a good 
 fellow ! What ! you won't say good bye ? Well, 
 I'll say it. Good bye, Hector ; good bye, my 
 boy : trotting oft'! What a lucky fellow you are ! 
 Now the trunk is locked ; there's the key.' 
 
 'Give it to my servant,' growled Hector, in 
 his usual haughty tone, with his face still turn- 
 ed to the wall. 'Give it to your servant!' 
 muttered Rhody, and he clenched his hand at 
 this ungrateful return for his goodnature ; ' I've 
 a great mind,' he thought, 'to give it to himself; 
 the impertinent cub!' Almost before the idea 
 was formed, it was checked ; Hector, fairly con- 
 quered at last by such patient kindness, threw 
 his arms round Rhody's neck, and burst into a 
 flood of tears ; neither boys spoke, but Hector 
 felt he had a friend, and Rhody that he had 
 done right ; and that evening, in a sort of school
 
 56 'NUMBER O.NE.' 
 
 conclave, that was discussing the merits, or 
 rather demerits, of the proud and selfish subject 
 of my story, Rhody stood forth his champion. 
 
 ' It's all very well for us,' he said, ' who 
 have been properly brought up, watched by 
 fathers, who not being of very great consequence 
 in the state, were able to stay at home and at- 
 tend to us ; watched by mothers with tender 
 care, and yet, if the truth must be told, with 
 sufficient strength of mind and body to keep us 
 in healthful subjection ; our tempers alternately 
 teased and pleased by juvenile brothers and sis- 
 ters, whom we are forced to give way to, by the 
 double motive of love and interest ; first, you 
 know, we love them ; and, if we did not, we 
 should have no peace unless we yielded. It's 
 all very well for us to be the dear, delightful, 
 amiable fellows we are. But think how poor 
 Hector has been brought up ! you have heard 
 Lycet's stories of his home, dozens of times, and 
 my only astonishment is that he is as good as 
 he is, and I'd lay ten to but I forgot, the doc- 
 tor will not suffer us to bet only I'll I'll eat 
 my hand ! if Hector Howard is not as fine a fel- 
 low as ' 
 
 ' As yourself,' shouted some of the lads. 
 
 ' No ! no ! ' said orator Rhody, ' but as your- 
 selves.' 1 
 
 When Hector got home, his father met him 
 with a cheerful countenance ; wished him joy, 
 und took him immediately to his mother's room.
 
 NUMBER ONE.' 57 
 
 His mother kissed him as tenderly as ever, and 
 then he was told to kiss his ' lovely little broth- 
 er and sister.' 
 
 ' I declare,' said the nurse (not his nurse, 
 however), ' Miss Caroline has her brother's nose, 
 and Master Leopold his eyes.' 
 
 Hector thought them hideous both, and turn- 
 ed away his head. ' I can't kiss babies,' he said. 
 
 ' Well, my dear,' observed his father, ' you'll 
 get used to them in time ; they quite enliven 
 the house.' 
 
 ' Where is Nurse ?' inquired Hector. 
 
 ' Gone back to her native county, my dear,' 
 answered Mr. Howard ; ' I could not suffer her 
 to spoil all my children, you know; but do not 
 cry, Hector, she is provided for and happy, for, 
 much as she spoilt you, I am sure she only 
 meant to do what was right.' 
 
 Hector went to the stable to see his pony ; 
 but to his great disappointment, though the pony 
 was there, looking sleek, and fat, and happy, there 
 was no one to saddle him : one groom had been 
 sent to fetch the doctor, because little Miss 
 Caroline had sneezed very much, and they 
 feared she had taken cold, and the other was 
 helping to put the horses to the carriage, that 
 the boy-baby (who had sneezed), might have an 
 airing round the Park ; the helpers were out 
 of the way. Hector stormed as he used to do, 
 but there was no one to mind him, and his dig- 
 nity felt sorely insulted by the tittering of two
 
 58 'NUMBER ONE-' 
 
 of the maids, whom he overheard declare, that 
 ' Master Howard was as good as a play-actor.' 
 The sun was shining, and the birds were sing- 
 *ng, and the greensward looked so firm and so 
 fresh, that when his temper cooled a little, he 
 thought it barely possible that he could saddle 
 the pony himself; at first he hoped nobody 
 would see him, and he accomplished his task 
 admirably; in a few minutes he was up and 
 away, forgetful of all his annoyances, and, for 
 the first time in his life, enjoying that noble 
 feeling of independence which proceeds from 
 self-exertion. He galloped up the hill in the 
 Deer Park, and then drew up to peer through 
 the thickets beneath at the deer, and the pretty 
 does with their young fawns ; he then looked 
 into the valley beyond, where the stately stags, 
 dappled and shining in the sunbeams, were 
 enjoying their existence. An old man was seat- 
 ed half way down the other side of the hill on 
 a bundle of sticks. Hector rode down to him. 
 
 ' What are you waiting for ? ' he inquired. 
 
 ' For my brother, young master, for my bro- 
 ther, who will be here presently to carry my 
 sticks,' was the reply. 
 
 'Your brother! do you love your brother ?' 
 
 ' To be sure I do, my gay young master ; he 
 is a very good lad.' 
 
 'A lad ! old man,' exclaimed Hector. 
 
 ' Ay, young gentleman, a matter of twenty- 
 five years younger than me. Mother and father
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 59 
 
 died soon after he was born, and I nursed him 
 up, and took care of him, and now he is both son 
 and brother to my old age ; I did my duty to 
 him, and, according to the course of nature, he 
 does his duty to me now.' 
 
 ' And were you an only son before he was 
 born ?' inquired Hector eagerly. 
 
 ' Indeed was I, and thought it funny enough 
 to have a baby-brother ; but he was a pretty 
 boy, a very pretty boy and a good boy, which 
 was better.' 
 
 Hector rode more soberly home, thinking, per- 
 haps, of what he had heard. 
 
 Master Howard had now spent a week at 
 home, and was fully convinced, that though his 
 father and mother were as affectionate as ever 
 to him, his position was totally changed ; he was 
 a dear and cherished object, but he was not the 
 only one. He had made up his mind, I am 
 sorry to say, to dislike the babies; but you 
 must remember that Hector was by no means a 
 hard or bad-hearted boy, he was only a misman- 
 aged one, his faults had not only been increas- 
 ed, but frequently in a great degree, created 
 by over indulgence; and though he said, very 
 wickedly, that he hated the poor little helpless 
 thiners who engiossed all the attention of the ser- 
 vants and visiters, yet he could not hear them 
 cry without pain, and was once detected stuf- 
 fing a piece of barley-sugar into the girl-baby's 
 mouth.
 
 ()0 'NUMBER ONE.' 
 
 Still he was not so happy at home as he used 
 to be, and returned to school far more willingly 
 than his father expected. 
 
 The boys had been commanded by their 
 good master, not to revert to the past, but to re- 
 ceive Hector kindly ; and the warm shake he 
 gave Rhody's hand, made that youth declare 
 that he was 'all right!' It was a great credit 
 to those young gentlemen, that they neither 
 teazed nor taunted him, whom they quizzed 
 a little sometimes among themselves as the 
 late ' Number One ; ' and though there were 
 occasional outbreaks of temper, and particularly 
 of selfishness, it is due to Hector to record, that 
 he had begun to combat both ; and when he left 
 the good doctor for Eton, he left with a much 
 higher character than that with which he came. 
 He was still- too unyielding to have been belov- 
 ed ; but those who observed the bitter struggle 
 he frequently made to overcome past habits, 
 said he would be sure to conquer in the end. 
 
 At Eton he was frequently reminded of his 
 father's words, that ' kindness and forbearance 
 are of more real value than gold.' Rhody had 
 gone to sea as a midshipman ; Lycet was at 
 Rugby : he had therefore no friends at Eton, 
 but constantly came in contact with selfish fel- 
 lows, who entertained no kindness or forbear- 
 ance towards him. His home indulgences were 
 not increased by the addition, in a couple of 
 var-s of another girl, aiul, in another v-ar. u
 
 'NUMBER ONE.' 61 
 
 boy ; so that, instead of being ' Number One,' in 
 a short time Hector was an unit of 'Number 
 Five ; ' still he felt that his home was better 
 regulated than in the old times ; his mother's 
 health was re-established ; and his brothers and 
 sisters were not permitted the indulgences or 
 extravagances, which, however pleasant at the 
 time, caused him so much after pain. 
 
 As he grew to be a man, his father some- 
 times consulted him on matters of business ; 
 and, if he could have loved his brothers and 
 sisters, he might have been happy. His unfor- 
 tunate jealousy of the love their parents show- 
 ed them (and jealousy is one of the first fruits of 
 selfishness) always disturbed him ; and at Col- 
 lege he was frequently reminded, by the sinful 
 homage paid to wealth and rank, that if he had 
 not had four brothers and sisters, he should not 
 have been contradicted and overlooked, as he 
 sometimes either felt or fancied he was. 
 
 Time passed on, he left Oxford, and had been 
 some time abroad ; and yet returned sooner than 
 he wished, and with bitter feelings towards the 
 younger members of his family, because his 
 father said he could not, in justice to his fami- 
 ly, permit him to remain longer. On his voy- 
 age home he was seized with rheumatic fever, 
 and, while suffering its agonies, landed at Ply- 
 mouth amongst strangers ; when he began grad- 
 ually to recover, he directed his foreign servant 
 where to write. ' But they do not care for me.
 
 t>2 'NUMBF.li ONJ..* 
 
 he thought ; ' they would be glad if I were 
 dead.' This was very sinful, but he was pun- 
 ished ; for the fever returned, and the poor suf- 
 ferer knew not how long it continued ; he only 
 remembered gentle spirits as in his delirium 
 he fancied them flitting round his bed, cooling 
 with perfume his heated brow, smoothing his 
 pillows ; dropping refreshment, by slow degrees, 
 between his parched lips, and silencing every 
 sound that could disturb him ; and who were 
 they, those ministering angels in his hours of 
 need ? Who ? even Leopold and Caroline, 
 his twin brother and sister : though it was the 
 cold month of December, they entreated their 
 father to take them to their sick brother ; they 
 would be happy, they said, ' if permit ;ed to at- 
 tend him themselves.' Carry declared she would 
 be an excellent nurse, almost as good as her 
 mother, who was unable to leave Howard Place 
 in such severe weather, ' she was sure of it ; and 
 she knew she could make dear Hector love 
 her. 1 Leopold urged that he could assist his 
 sister, and that Hector would recover more 
 quickly if not left to the care of hirelings ; and 
 so they quitted their brilliant home, and watch- 
 ed and nursed their brother for many weeks, 
 patiently and tenderly, never tiring in their la- 
 bor of love, but persevering, with the gentleness 
 which is born of affection unto the end ; until, 
 supported upon either side by those whose birth 
 had first disturbed the importance of ' Number
 
 Number One Page 62
 
 'WtTKBER ONE.' 63 
 
 One,' he entered his father's house happier a 
 hundred fold than ever he had been before, 
 cured of the selfishness which, hard to rub out, 
 had been softened away by a sister's love and 
 a brother's care. It was a happy meeting, and 
 rendered more happy still by the presence of 
 his old schoolfellow Rhody, now Lieutenant 
 James Rhody of the Royal Navy of England. 
 
 When able to take exercise, he drove with 
 his now beloved family to the hill in the Deer 
 Park, and told them the first idea that a young- 
 er brother could be a real blessing to an elder 
 one was given him by the old man, seated on 
 the bundle of wood ; and that, although his un- 
 fortunate selfishness had so frequently over- 
 whelmed his good feelings, he often and often 
 thought of the poor old man's little tale. ' I am 
 so changed,' he said, ' as to wonder at my past, 
 and rejoice in my new life. If I had not such 
 a brother and sister I should, in all probability, 
 have died in a strange inn ; but certainly 1 
 should have continued violent and selfish, de- 
 serving to live unbeloved and die unlamented ; 
 a stately, cold, unsympathised with, and un- 
 sympathising ' Number One.' 1
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 BT MRS. 8. O. HALL. 
 
 
 HERE is an old maxim, which 
 I dare say my young friends 
 have heard more than once, 
 or twice : I know, when I 
 was a little girl, it was told 
 me so often, that as I grew 
 up, whenever I found my 
 tongue running too fast, I 
 used to repeat it over and over again to my- 
 self, thus : ' Young ladies should be seen before 
 they are heard.' ' Young ladies should be seen 
 before they are heard.' I am sure father, or 
 mother or some dear aunt Sarah, or perhaps 
 some of your nurses, have told you this maxim, 
 particularly if you have been considered a CHAT- 
 TERBOX. 
 
 The English are called a silent people, and 
 
 yet they frequently talk more, in my opinion, 
 
 than is good either for themselves or others. 
 
 It is the very perfection of wisdom to know 
 
 5
 
 66 LITTLE CHATTEREOX. 
 
 \vhen to speak, and when to keep silence. Some 
 of the most beautiful of the Proverbs of Solo- 
 mon treat of this : they are admirable in every 
 way. I used to commit them to memory, when 
 I was a little girl : I hope they did me good. 
 
 A dear friend of mine has a very nice child 
 a fond, good tempered, generous little creature ; 
 her name is Fanny Eltham ; you would be 
 pleased to hear her sing, and see her dance, and, 
 still more so, to observe how willingly she gives 
 up her enjoyments to make others happy. She 
 eats whatever is put upon her plate, without a 
 desire for change : she shares her cakes, her 
 toys, her fruits and flowers, joyfully with her 
 companions in short, were she not such an 
 everlasting Chatterbox, she would be the most 
 delightful young lady I know ; but she mars all 
 her good qualities by her love of talking. Fan- 
 ny will talk as long as she can about what she 
 understands ; and then she will talk about what 
 she cannot possibly understand, rather than re- 
 main silent. She has not patience to wait to 
 learn ; but will run away with the beginning 
 or end of a story, tancying she comprehended the 
 whole ; and so, without intending to circulate 
 an untruth, she arrives at a false conclusion, 
 and leads others to do the same : not only this, 
 but her active imagination causes her to add to 
 a story ; and she never pauses to consider the 
 effect her words may produce. 
 
 It is really wonderful to hear how fast Fanny
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 67 
 
 talks crowding one thing upon another heap- 
 ing up words and sentences chatter, chatter, 
 chatter ! I am sure, if hard work ever wore 
 out a little tongue, hers will be gone before she 
 is twenty. But 1 have reason to think that 
 my little Fanny will improve rapidly : I will 
 tell you why I think so by-and-bye. 
 
 Before she could pronounce words she would 
 keep on all day, saying, ' Yab, yab, yab !' and 
 instead of trying to prevent this unceasing ' yab- 
 bing,' the nurses used to laugh at it ; and her 
 eldest sister called her ' Yabby,' a name chan- 
 ged to ' Chatterbox ' before she was three years 
 old. ' Chatterbox' had also got a very rude 
 habit of asking questions, and not attending to the 
 answers : certainly, of all my little friends of six 
 or seven years old, she was the most unceasing- 
 ly talkative, and consequently, notwithstanding 
 her many amiable qualities, the most tiresome. 
 
 Six months ago I was on a visit at her mo- 
 ther's house, and I heard Fanny's feet and 
 Fanny's tongue running a race together along 
 the hall and up the stairs no pause, no stop ! 
 what she said was nearly as follows : 
 
 ' There Mary never mind my shoes as I want 
 to tell mother how badly Pompey behaved when 
 we were opposite the Duke's in the park ran at 
 a dog's tail and the dog ran* between a pony's 
 legs and then they rolled over and over a po- 
 liceman with three heads of cabbage which a 
 woman had spoke to her about carrying parcels
 
 68 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 in the park and then Harry's hat went away 
 and my hoop rolled into the Serpentine and 
 you know you told me to give your love to Mrs. 
 Johnes and the footman said when he opened 
 the door that his master had run away that 
 morning then he told me not to stand there and 
 slapt the door in my face.' The latter part of 
 this story was rapidly told in the drawing-room, 
 where I was sitting with Fanny's mother ; and the 
 latter part only attracted my friend's attention. 
 
 ' What do you mean, my love, by Mr. Johnes' 
 having ran away ?' inquired Mrs. Eltham. 
 
 ' The servant said his master had run away, 
 mother, and he would not let me come into the 
 hall, he was so rude !' answered Chatterbox, 
 rather more slowly ; and was running on with 
 some magnified account (for great and rapid talk- 
 ers never attend very strictly to what a friend 
 a Quaker friend of mine calls ' the bright or- 
 nament,' meaning truth), when her mother de- 
 sired her to stop. 
 
 ' I must inquire into this,' she said, and rose 
 to ring the bell. 'Very strange !' she repeated. 
 
 Fanny persisted that it ' was every word 
 true ;' that Mr. Johnes had run away ; and 
 that she was not permitted to enter the hall, 
 though she had a particular message for her lit- 
 tle friend Rosa. 
 
 ' Is this so ?' inquired Mrs. Eltham of the 
 servant ; ' Miss Fanny says Mr. Johnes has 
 run away.'
 
 UTTLE CHATTERBOX. 69 
 
 4 So he has, ma'am,' replied the maid. * He 
 ran away this morning from the small-pox, which 
 all the children have got, and which he is dread- 
 fully afraid of catching. The footman would 
 not let us into the house because of the infec- 
 tion.' 
 
 Mrs. Eltham looked displeased with Fanny. 
 4 How is this?' she said. 'You misrepresented 
 two facts. Any one who heard you speak would 
 imagine there must be some other cause for Mr. 
 Johnes' running away ; and that the footman 
 deserved to lose his place for treating the child 
 of his mistress's friend with rudeness : where- 
 as poor Mr. Johnes ran away' because of the 
 small-pox ; and the footman deserves great cred- 
 it for so steadily preventing the entrance you 
 would have forced ; you might not only have 
 caught the disease yourself, but brought the 
 droadful infection home to your brothers and 
 sisters.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, ma'am,' said Mary 
 Browne, who \vas not only a very high-princi- 
 pled, good girl, but an excellent servant ; 4 I beg 
 your pardon, b .t I am sure Miss Fanny did not 
 intend to misrepresent. She asked the footman 
 why Mr. Johnes went away ; but she did not 
 attend to what he said, and then became rather 
 angry because he would not let her run across 
 the hall, as usual, to Miss Ellen's room. I 
 would have explained it to her, ma'am,' added 
 the maid, who was very gentle in her manner
 
 70 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 ' but, really, Miss talked so all the way home, 
 that I could hardly get in a single word, much 
 less an explanation. Miss does not mean any 
 harm by it, ma'am, I am sure of that : she was 
 in charming spirits ; and when she is, her 
 tongue never stops.' 
 
 Fanny looked abashed ; and her mother lec- 
 tured her with great kindness upon this fresh 
 evidence of the danger of her bad habit. She 
 shed a few tears, and promised to be more care- 
 ful ; but, such was her love of chattering, that 
 in less than an hour I heard her again talking to 
 the parrot that hung in the hall ; a gay, merry 
 bird it used to be, and formerly it said a great 
 many words ; but I dare say Mary Browne un- 
 derstood the cause of its late silence. She told 
 me,just before the family returned to the country, 
 that ' Miss Fanny talked it dumb.' 
 
 Mary Browne was, as I have said, a very nice 
 servant clean, active, orderly, respectful, and 
 well-mannered ; she was what a good and faith- 
 ful servant always is, a great treasure ; and her 
 mistress brought up her children so well, that 
 they treated all the servants, but particularly 
 Mary Browne, with civility and kindness. The 
 young lady who gave her the most trouble was 
 Chatterbox ; not only from her incessant talk- 
 ing, but from the various scrapes she got herself 
 and others into by never ' thinking twice before 
 she spoke once.' 
 
 This ' Think twice before you speak once,
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 71 
 
 and you will speak twice the better for it,' was as 
 favorite a maxim of Mary Browne, as ' Young 
 ladies should be seen before they are heard ' is 
 of mine ; but often as she repeated it to little 
 Fanny, still Fanny talked, and talked not only 
 without thinking twice before she spoke once, 
 but without thinking at all. The old manor- 
 house of Eltham, where Fanny's father and 
 mother reside the greater part of the year, is 
 just at the end of the village that bears the 
 same name. A beautiful old village it is : 
 there is a river so full of trout, that on a summer 
 evening you can see them leaping out of the wa- 
 ter at the little grey thoughtless flies that go 
 pleasuring along its surface, never dreaming of 
 danger ; and though one fly sees its brother or 
 sister swallowed by a gaping fish, it never has 
 the sense to keep where the fish cannot reach 
 it. This river is crossed by two bridges ; one 
 a wide stone bridge of three arches, which leads 
 into the village and to Eltham House : the other 
 is only a little foot bridge of a couple of planks ; 
 you can see them from the wide bridge, span- 
 ning, as it were, the river where it is narrowest 
 from bank to bank, protected at each side with a 
 good stout rope. This little bridge is much 
 used by the people who live near the common 
 when they want to get quickly to that end of the 
 village where the doctor and the curate live, and 
 where the market is held on Saturdays. There 
 is an old church, whose tower is crowned by
 
 72 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 ivy ; and in that ivy dwell two old owls white 
 feilows, with huge, green, monster eyes : the 
 inside of the belfry is alive with bats, and spar- 
 rows nestle beneath the eaves of the old roof": 
 the churchyard is filled with humble graves, al- 
 ways green, and, in the summer, bright with 
 starry-eyed daisies, and fragrant with the per- 
 fume of wild violets. Even Chatterbox is silent 
 when she passes through that beautiful old 
 churchyard ; and people come to look at an old 
 yew-tree which nourishes there though it is 
 nearly three hundred years old. But Fanny 
 and her sisters like the broad common, and the 
 wood, and the nut-copse, and the green meadows 
 at the opposite side of the bridge, better than the 
 churchyard or the street of the pretty village, or 
 the trim avenues of Eltham House ; but, best 
 of all, they like Dame Burden's garden and cot- 
 tage, which are about a quarter of a mile from 
 the bridge. 
 
 Mary Browne never suffers them to go into 
 any of the cottages without their mother's leave ; 
 but Mrs. Eltham has said, ' Mary, you may al- 
 ways take the children into Dame Burden's 
 cottage :' and the very evening they arrived at 
 Eltham, they requested Mary to let them cross 
 the bridge, and walk through the copse which 
 leads to the dame's. Dame Burden's only 
 daughter, Alice, is blind : she had not been al- 
 ways so, but lost her sight when she was about 
 ten years old. Everybody loved Ali^e, she was
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 73 
 
 so cheerful under affliction ; and so industrious, 
 although blind, that she was the principal support 
 of her mother. She netted, and knitted, and 
 plaited, singing all the time like a nightingale ; 
 and when she paused, it was to say an affection- 
 ate word to her mother, or a sentence of grati- 
 tude to God for His goodness to a poor blind 
 girl. 
 
 When the young party arrived at the end of 
 the copse, they perceived Alice seated at the 
 cottage door, knitting so rapidly, that they could 
 not distinguish how her fingers moved. Be- 
 fore they entered the cottage garden, Alice rose 
 up to meet them. 
 
 ' Alice, Alice,' exclaimed Chatterbox, ' how 
 did you know we were coming ?' 
 
 Alice smiled : ' O Miss Fanny,' she answer- 
 ed, ' I heard your voice ten minutes ago, in the 
 wood.' 
 
 ' There, Chatterbox Chatterbox !' laughed 
 her little brother Harry ; ' Alice heard your voice 
 above the hooting of the owls, and the rippling 
 of the river, and the cackling of the geese, 
 and the lowing of the cows, and the braying of 
 the donkey.' 
 
 ' I wonder who is the Chatterbox now ?' 
 said Fanny ; ' my tongue never went faster 
 than that :' did it, Alice ?' 
 
 ' I think it did, Miss,' answered Alice, smiling 
 so sweetly, as she turned her bright though 
 sightless face towards the speaker I think it
 
 74 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 chd ; but, fast or slow, it is a great pleasure to 
 poor Alice to hear it again, and to hear you all : 
 this is Miss Eltham, I know,' she continued, 
 stretching her hand in the direction where the 
 eldest young lady stood. ' Dear me ! why you 
 are as tall as I am ! And there is Miss So- 
 phia : and here is Miss Fanny : how you are 
 grown, dear ; and your hair it is as long a- 
 gain as it was when you left Eltham !' 
 
 Fanny ran from beneath her gentle hand, 
 which was as soft and as white as her own mo- 
 ther's, and bounded into the cottage, calling 
 Dame Burden ! Dame Burden !' Although the 
 dame was very deaf, she heard Fanny's voice, 
 and greeted her most kindly. ' Here is Dame 
 Burden ! ' exclaimed the Chatterbox : ' here she 
 is, Sophy ! Mary, here is dear Dame Burden : 
 but she is looking ill:' and, lowering her voice, 
 so that the dame should not hear her, but at the 
 same time quite forgetting, that although Alice 
 Avas blind, she was not deaf, she added : ' I am 
 sure she will not live long : she ought to have 
 the doctor immediately. See how pale she is ; 
 and how lame !' 
 
 ' O, Miss Fanny, why will you speak so 
 thoughtlessly ?' said Mary. In a moment 
 Fanny felt she had done wrong, and saw how 
 she had alarmed poor blind Alice, but spoken 
 words cannot be recalled. 
 
 The poor blind girl, who loved her mother, 
 not only because she was her mother, but be-
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 75 
 
 cause she was the only precious thing she had 
 in the whole world to love, turned her sightless 
 eyes on the speaker, and as quickly tears gush- 
 ed from them. ' My mother ill ! pale ! lame !' 
 she sobbed : ' how can it be ? her voice is not 
 feebler than it was ! I cannot feel paleness ; 
 and when I pass my hand over her dear face, 
 it seems to me the same as ever. I can hear 
 the halt when she walks, but I do not think it 
 increases. 0, ladies Mary Browne do tell 
 me truth : is my dear mother so changed ?' 
 
 ' Alice,' said Miss Eltham, ' I am very sorry 
 that these thoughtless words, spoken by my 
 heedless sister, should cause you so much emo- 
 tion. We have been away for six months, and 
 I really think that little Chatterbox has forgot- 
 ten how your mother looked when we saw her 
 last. I do not perceive any change, except that 
 she may be a little paler ; but I only wish, 
 Alice, you could see how bright and animated 
 the good dame is looking at this moment, and 
 how anxious to find out what we are talking a- 
 bout : do not let her observe your tears. Alice ; 
 for she could never bear to see you in trouble.' 
 The poor blind girl wiped her eyes, and kis- 
 sed Mis-s Eltham's hand ; and Dame Burden 
 bustled about to get them some fruit and goat's 
 milk : while little Chatterbox, eager to repair 
 the evil she had done, crept to the side of poor 
 Alice. 
 
 ' My sister is right,' she said ; ' I dare say I
 
 76 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 did forget how she looked when we went away 
 which you must remember is six months ago 
 and I am sure I did not mean to give you pain : 
 will you forgive me ?' 
 
 ' yes, Miss, to be sure I will,' she replied : 
 ' but I am sure what you said is true. Hush !' 
 and she listened for her mother's step. ' Yes, 
 she certainly presses more heavily upon that fool 
 than she used. She is more lame, and yet I 
 did not find it out before : she should have 
 seen the doctor if I had.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Alice, you are mistaken,' said Fan- 
 ny ; ' she is as active and kind as possible.' 
 
 ' Yes,' observed the poor girl, in her soft low 
 voice, ' I well know she is kind, Miss oh, so 
 kind ! I could not tell you all her acts of love 
 and tenderness if I were to talk a whole sum- 
 mer day. She may not look so to you, Miss, 
 but to me she seems bright as an angel.' 
 
 Fanny could hardly forbear smiling at the 
 idea that the brown, shrivelled woman, dressed 
 in black stuff and a mob cap, was ' bright as an 
 angel ;' but she had the prudence not to wound 
 poor Alice a second time ; and Mary Browne 
 grieved to see the anxious expression that dis- 
 turbed the ordinary calmness of Alice's face, and 
 how she listened for every tone of her mother's 
 voice and every step she made : at last, while 
 the children were otherwise engaged, she drew 
 close to her side. ' Alice,' she said, ' do not 
 distress yourself because of Miss Fanny's words
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. It 
 
 they were spoken, as she too often speaks, fool- 
 ishly ; and I assure you there is no cause for 
 your anxiety.' 
 
 ' Mary,' she answered, ' I have often found 
 that children's words are the words of truth, and 
 I am convinced my mother is ill ; hut it cannot 
 be that she will not live long : surely God 
 would not take her from me !' 
 
 Mary reasoned with her, and endeavored to 
 assure her that Fanny had spoken merely from 
 the desire of talking ; but she found that poor 
 Alice, naturally nervous, and always dreading 
 lest any thing should happen to her mother, was 
 not to be convinced. The foolish words, spoken 
 at random, had done, what foolish words often 
 do very great mischief. A strong-minded per- 
 son would not have suffered as Alice did ; but 
 you must remember, she could not see her 
 mother, and she knew, by experience, that the 
 dame, when indisposed, always endeavored to 
 conceal it from her beloved and only child. 
 
 The young party quitted the cottage dispirited 
 and annoyed ; for they left the poor blind girl 
 endeavoring to restrain her tears. Chatterbox 
 was sorely grieved at first, and listened for some 
 time attentively to her eldest sister's advice, who 
 pointed out to her the evil of speaking at ran- 
 dom. ' I cannot tell you,' she said, ' how fre- 
 quently you hurt people's feelings by your in- 
 considerate words. Father was going to give 
 the coachman warning the other dav in conse-
 
 78 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 quence of something you misunderstood and 
 talked about : and poor Jane Conway told me, 
 that though her present employer is quite con- 
 vinced of her honesty, she never can forget 
 that she was once considered a thief, from your 
 misrepresentation.' 
 
 ' I am sure, sister,' answered Fanny, ' I nev- 
 er intended it ; and I explained all about it to 
 Jane, and to her mistress. I did not think she 
 would ever feel it again, after all I cried, and 
 she knew I did not intend it.' 
 
 ' Tears, my love, cannot wash out words ; 
 and words make wounds, more hastily than they 
 can heal them. You have been told, that all 
 those who talk a great deal, are apt to mingle 
 truth and falsehood together ; and this must be 
 especially the case with you, who cannot un- 
 derstand all you hear, or all you see.' 
 
 ' I do my best, I'm sure,' sobbed poor Fanny ; 
 ' I do my very best. Father said, the other 
 day, I was like a note of interrogation.' 
 
 ' Not quite,' observed Sophy, ' for that waits 
 for an answer.' 
 
 ' It is the old story over and over again about 
 me,' continued Fanny, pettishly ; ' and you tell 
 me the same thing over and over again.' 
 
 ' When you conquer that love of chattering, 
 my own dear Fanny,' observed her sister, ' we 
 shall find it difficult to discover a fault in one we 
 love so dearly.' 
 
 The young folk frequently paused on their
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 79 
 
 homeward \valk : the fresh air, the variety and 
 beauty of the trees, the singing of the birds, and 
 the clouds, tinged by the beams of the setting 
 sun into every variety of rose and saffron color, 
 delighted them much ; and they all agreed in 
 thinking the country far more charming than 
 the town. By degrees the blind girl and her 
 mother were forgotten by all except Mary 
 Browne. Harry kept blowing the ' puffs,' as 
 he called them, off the dandelion heads, to as- 
 certain what o'clock it was : Miss Eltham gath- 
 ered wild flowers, and told their botanical names 
 and properties to her sisters, thus rendering the 
 walk as profitable as it was pleasing. Fanny 
 had remained tolerably silent (for her) for some 
 time, until she saw a dog run in among some 
 sheep that were grazing in a field near the com- 
 mon, and after setting them all scampering, run 
 out again, barking and wagging his tail as if he 
 had performed a brave and gallant action ; and 
 she then beeran to talk about sheep and shep- 
 herds, and their dogs, exaggerating as she talk- 
 ed on, until, at last, forgetting the advice she 
 had received, she burst into her usual torrent 
 of words, some with meaning, and some with- 
 out ; now uttering one extravagance and then 
 another. 
 
 ' What is that you say, Chatter, about a rabbit 
 a yard in length, and a stone in weight T in- 
 quired little Harry, who was three years young- 
 er than Fanny.
 
 80 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 ' Indeed, Harry, Charles Jeffrey said in the 
 square, one day, that he had a rabbit that was 
 a yard long, and weighed a stone.' 
 
 ' Did he, Mary ? ' inquired Harry, who had 
 learned to distrust what his sister said ; and 
 the worst of it was she did not feel the degrada- 
 tion of being doubted. 
 
 ' I did not hear him say that, Master Harry,' 
 replied Mary. 
 
 ' There ! ' said the boy. ' What did he say ? ' 
 
 ' He said what I say.' persisted Fanny, ' a 
 rabbit a white rabbit with lop ears, pink eyes, 
 and a roman nose ; he did, indeed, but all rab- 
 bits have roman noses ; and it was a yard 
 long, and weighed a stone.' 
 
 ' No, Miss Fanny, I beg your pardon ; he said 
 it was so large that, if it had lived, he thought 
 it might have grown to be a yard long, and a 
 stone in weight,' said Mary. 
 
 ' Oh, oh,' laughed Harry. 
 
 ' Fanny, Fanny ! ' exclaimed Miss Eltham, in 
 a reproving voice. 
 
 ' Well, it is pretty much the same thing, is 
 it not ? ' replied the exaggerating little girl ; for 
 you see ' 
 
 1 Stop, my dear,' said her sister, ' I must 
 insist upon your attending to me. If I said 
 my sister Fanny is as tall as mother, and much 
 stouter, would that be true ?' 
 
 ' No, sister, certainly not,' replied the little 
 rnaid : ' and '
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 81 
 
 ' Attend a moment, do, dear Fanny ; for tWs 
 talking and exaggerating will render you not 
 only despicable but dangerous,' persisted Miss 
 Eltham: 'but if I said my sister Fanny is tall 
 and large of her age, and one of these days may 
 be as tall and as stout, if not taller and stouter 
 than mother is now, Avould not that be true ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sister ; but it is very hard of you to 
 say that I may become not only despicable but 
 dangerous; I intend no harm.' 
 
 ' Again, my dear little sister, I must entreat 
 you to listen to me. When you cannot believe 
 what a person tells you, do you not despise him ? ' 
 
 ' But, sister ' 
 
 ' Now, Fanny, I will have no shuffling ; do 
 you, or do you not, despise a person who tells 
 you an untruth ? At all events, you lose all 
 iaith, all trust in him ; you do not believe him 
 when he tells you the truth, if you have more 
 than once proved that what he said was untrue.' 
 
 ' "Well,' stammered Fanny, who saw the pur- 
 port of her sister's words, ' I believe you are 
 right.' 
 
 ' As to not intending harm, that is better 
 for yourself ; but if you do harm, those who 
 suffer, do not profit by the absence of all in- 
 tention. Language is given us to instruct, to 
 enliven, to soothe, to cheer, to divert each other, 
 and to increase the happiness of our fellow-crea- 
 tures by words of truth and afleclion; not a* 
 6
 
 82 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 power to be exerted in noise, in the cause of folly, 
 
 I do n-ot know how Miss Eltham would 
 have concluded her sentence, for it was inter- 
 rupted by a most painful proof of the mischief 
 arising from thoughtless words. 
 
 The young party had loitered on their home- 
 ward way. and did not arrive at the principal 
 bridge, I have already mentioned, until the beau- 
 tiful sunset, that decked the heavens in such 
 glowing colors, had faded, as sunsets must, into 
 the <rrey twilight, which, in this country, is the 
 prelude both to night and morning. Harry 
 wished very much to have been permitted to 
 return by the foot-bridge, and urged how much 
 shorter was the path than the road ; but Mary 
 would not suffer him to do so, as. if his foot 
 slipped on the planks, unless he held the rope 
 firmly, he might roll under the rope into the 
 river, which, though little more than a broad 
 brawling stream in some places, was there both 
 deep and dangerous. They had not advanced 
 more than a yard or two on the nood old bridge, 
 when, looking toward the foot-bruise. Miss El- 
 tham a'vl Mary Browne saw, almost at the 
 s:im? instant, Alice Burden, the blind >jirl, just 
 in the act of stepping on it, evidently feeling, 
 with outstretched arm, for the directing and pro- 
 tecting rope ; the other hand held the ribbon 
 by which her little dog guided her steps. They 
 all paused to watch her movements.
 
 Little Cc.ittsrr.
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 83 
 
 ' How very foolish of her to come this distance 
 by herself,' said Chatterbox ; ' it will be quite 
 dark before she gets back.' 
 
 ' My dear Fanny,' observed Miss Elthain, 
 ' how silly that is, dark and light you know are 
 e the same to her ; but it is certainly much too 
 late for her to be out by herself ; and she ought 
 not to venture upon that bridge, which Mary 
 Browne does not think safe, even for those who 
 can see.' 
 
 ' I never knew her mother permit her to be 
 out so late although Beau is such a sensible 
 little dog that he guides her everywhere. I 
 think, Miss Eltham,' continued Mary, ' I will 
 ask one of the servants to go to that end of the 
 village and see her home : I cannot imagine 
 why she is out by herself.' 
 
 At that moment a bird a wild duck, or a 
 water-hen rose from the sedges and long tan- 
 gled plants that grew in such luxuriant beauty 
 heneath the banks which divided the bridges, 
 and flew screaming over the river. Poor little 
 Beau forgot his mistress, and sprang forward, 
 barking at the fugitive ; he sprang rapidly and 
 thoughtlessly, and so suddenly it all occurred, 
 that be was struggling over the planks, support- 
 ed by the slight ribbon, before, even if Alice had 
 had sight, she could have drawn him back.' 
 
 ' Let him go, Alice ! let him go !' shouted 
 Miss Eltham and Mary Browne together : ' let 
 him go, or you will be over yourself !' But
 
 84 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 Alice loved the little animal, who had been her 
 guide for more than eight years she valued 
 her poor dumb friend too highly to ' let him go :' 
 she knelt at the side, and pulled the ribbon care- 
 fully. 
 
 ' She has him now !' exclaimed Harry : 'what 
 a brave girl ! ' 
 
 ' No, no he has slipped again ; poor fellow, 
 how he struggles !' said Sophy. 
 
 ' Let him go !' repeated Mary Browne, and her 
 voice was a scream. ' I knew it,' she added, 
 while the young ladies were rendered dumb by 
 the occurrence ' I knew how it would be she 
 is over herself !' In speechless agony, Miss El- 
 tham saw poor Alice rise to the surface of the wa- 
 ter after her first plunge ; Sophy and Fanny 
 hid their faces in their dress ; and Harry, an em- 
 bryo man, ran along the bridge, shouting, 
 ' Help ! help !' 
 
 When Miss Eltham looked again, the water 
 was so clear, that she saw Alice floating, or, she 
 believed, rolling along towards the very arch 
 upon which she stood. Again the poor girl rose, 
 and extended her arms. Suddenly Miss El- 
 tham's presence of mind returned : she called 
 loudly for assistance, and rushed down the bank, 
 so as to meet, as it were, the blind girl as the 
 current bore her through the arch ; for the wa- 
 ters seemed to deal gently with their prey : but 
 one stronger and more useful was there before 
 her even Mary Browne. She had waded the
 
 UTTLE CHATTERBOX. 85 
 
 stream, and, holding by the strong arm of a tree, 
 which bent most gracefully, and what was bet- 
 ter still, most usefully, into the water, she caught 
 Alice by her long floating hair ; and in less 
 than a minute the blind girl ay, and her dog 
 Beau were on the bank. It was some little 
 time before Alice was restored to consciousness, 
 and knew who breathed upon her cheek what 
 warm soft hands chafed her temples, and wrung 
 the water from her hair. The first thing that 
 seemed really to restore her was her little dog 
 placing his paws upon her shoulder, and licking 
 her face all over with his little red tongue, as if 
 requesting pardon for his rashness; she put 
 her arm round him, and kissed his wet coat. 
 
 ' And why did you go out by yourself, dear 
 Alice, at this time in the evening ?' inquired 
 Chatterbox, as the servants and some of the vil- 
 lagers were about to carry the blind girl to El- 
 tham House, that she might have dry clothes, 
 and be returned safely and comfortably to her 
 mother, if possible, before the dame had beei 
 made aware of the danger she had so providen- 
 tially escaped. ' Why did you venture out by 
 yourself, Alice ? why ? tell me.' 
 
 The poor girl turned her blind eyes towards 
 Fanny Eltham, and replied : ' Why, Miss, you 
 said my mother could not live and looked 
 pale and was more lame and ought to have 
 a doctor ; and unless it was really so, I knew n 
 child a young lady would not say it. 1
 
 86 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 could believe you ; and I knew they wanted, 
 through kindness, to deceive me. My mother 
 went to fold the kids ; I felt I should have no 
 rest until the doctor saw her ; and as night and 
 day are alike to the poor blind girl, and Beau, I 
 thought, was steady, and knew the way, I re- 
 solved to seek the doctor myself. That was 
 how I came to be out, Miss Fanny all through 
 your words.' 
 
 Poor Fanny ! this was indeed a serious lesson. 
 The various warnings which she had received 
 as to what her chattering might lead to, rang in 
 her ears : her head whirled round ; she dared 
 not look up, for she felt that every eye was fixed 
 upon her: her thoughtless words had led almost 
 to the death of a helpless innocent being, whom 
 she had loved all her life, and who had heaped 
 little gifts and acts of kindness upon her from 
 the moment she was able to climb the blind 
 girl's knee. Could it be that words mere 
 words had done this ? 
 
 ' Alice, Alice !' she exclaimed, passionate- 
 ly ; ' can you ever forgive me ?' 
 
 Bitter as was the lesson, it was not brief. 
 Anxiety for her mother, and the violent shock 
 her delicate frame had sustained, threw Alice 
 into a fever, from which she recovered slowly. 
 
 The last letter I received from Mrs. Eltham 
 contains a passage which made me say, at the 
 commencement of this little story, that I had
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX. S7 
 
 every reason to believe my little friend Fanny 
 would improve rapidly. 
 
 ' You will rejoice to hear,' writes this amiable 
 lady, ' that Alice is quite well again, sitting in 
 her old place, knitting and netting, and spin- 
 ning and plaiting, as usual : singing too ; for 
 she is convinced that her mother is not ill : but 
 will not again trust herself to Beau's guidance 
 when crossing the foot-bridge. I can never be 
 sufficiently thankful to the Almighty that her 
 life was spared : nor can we do too much for 
 Mary Browne, whose presence of mind and de- 
 .tcrmined bravery were the means-o/ her rescue. 
 
 ' My poor child has received a lesson which 
 I am convinced has had, and will continue to 
 have, the most beneficial effects on her charac- 
 ter. You may imagine what she suffered, day 
 after day, while Alice continued so very ill : 
 nothing could exceed her anxiety : she prayed 
 constantly for her recovery, and relinquished 
 all her pocket-money indeed, all her luxuries 
 to contribute to the blind girl's comforts : this 
 her naturally good disposition w6uld make her 
 do. But now that danger is over, it is delight- 
 ful to see how carefully she watches, not others, 
 but herself ; and she has requested us all. 
 whenever we see any return of her foible (I call 
 it by too mild a name), to reprove it by the 
 one word ' Alice.' I have only had occasion to 
 do so once ; and then she turned pale, and bum 
 into tears, thanking me, when she could speak
 
 83 
 
 LITTLE CHATTERBOX 
 
 I constantly observe that she presses her finger 
 on her lip, as if to keep in her words : and we 
 never, by any chance, now reproach her by cal- 
 linsr her ' LITTLE CHATTERBOX.'
 
 PERSEVERANCE.
 
 PERSEVERANCE: 
 
 OR GOD HELPS THEM WHO HELP THEMSELVES. 
 
 BT CHARLES COWDEN CLARK. 
 
 
 AME BARTON was an honest, 
 hard-working woman, who 
 lived with her husband and 
 son in a small hut under 
 Dover cliffs. Her husband 
 was a fisherman, and as in- 
 dustrious as herself; for he 
 labored night and day at his 
 trade to support his wife and child, till one 
 dreadful day he was drowned in endeavoring to 
 save the crew of a ship that was wrecked in 
 sight of the cottage. 
 
 About three months after his death, as little 
 John Barton was sitting one evening mending 
 a net for a neighbor opposite to his mother, he 
 suddenly exclaimed, ' O mother ! how tired you 
 must be of spinning! you have sat at your wheel 
 ever since four o'clock this morning, and now it
 
 90 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 is seven o'clock, yet you have hardly stirred 
 from your work.' 
 
 ' It is the only means I have of getting you a 
 bit of bread, Johnny, since your poor father left 
 us.' 
 
 'Don't cry, mother,' said little John, running 
 towards her ; ' but I do so wish that I could do 
 something myself to earn money enough to keep 
 you from sticking so close to that bur bur 
 burring wheel. I mean, something of real use 
 to you,' continued he, "as his mother looked at 
 the net which he had been mending ; ' I wish I 
 could do something better than mending the 
 meshes of old nets.' 
 
 ' You do enough for your age, dear,' said his 
 mother ; ' and we shall manage to go on quite 
 well while the summer lasts ; all I dread to think 
 of is the winter.' 
 
 ' mother ! if you should have your rheuma- 
 tism come on then, what would you do? I wish 
 I were older, to work for you.' 
 
 ' I cannot bear to think of it,' answered his 
 mother, weeping ; ' if I should have my old com- 
 plaint come back, I should not be able to work 
 any longer ; ana 1 then who re to take care of my 
 poor Johnny ? I have not a friend in the world 
 that I could send to for help, if I were ill.' 
 
 ' Don't you recollect, mother, the French 
 gentleman you have often told me about? Per- 
 haps he would help you, if he could know you 
 are so poor.'
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 91 
 
 ' But he lives in Paris, and I can't write ; so 
 how is he to know the state I am in?' answered 
 hrs mother ; ' or else I am sure he would never 
 suffer any one belonging- to the deliverer of his 
 child to die of want. Besides, I well remember 
 for many's the time I have made my dear 
 husband tell me the tale when the child fell 
 over the side of the vessel which was just ready 
 to sail, and your dear father, plunging into the 
 waves, brought him back his infant safe and 
 sound, and smiling up in his face ; the gentle- 
 man, after bending his head for a minute over 
 the dear dripping babe, to hide his streaming 
 eyes for, let a gentleman be never so manly, it 
 is more than he can do to keep from crying like 
 one of us, when he sees his own flesh and blood 
 saved from death he turned to your poor father, 
 and said, in a flattering-like, yet grand kind of 
 voice, too, ' Barton,' says he, ' you have done 
 more for me than if you had saved my own life ; 
 I can never hope to repay you for the happiness 
 
 you have given me at this moment, yet ' 
 
 Before the gentleman could finish what he was 
 going to say, your good father turned away, 
 saying, ' Lord bless your honor, don't thank me ; 
 it's no more than what you'd have done for my 
 Johnny, I'll swear, if you'd seen him drop over- 
 board, like your young thing there.' Your 
 father was proud enough then, Johnny, and he 
 told me he guessed that the gentleman was go- 
 ing to give him money, so he jumped into his
 
 92 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 boat which lay alongside, and the vessel sailed 
 away immediately, and he never heard anything 
 more of the gentleman; but though your father 
 didn't want anything at that time from anybody, 
 being able to gain his own living comfortably 
 and honestly, much less to have a reward for 
 having saved an innocent fellow-creature's life ; 
 yet I can't help wishing that he'd made a friend 
 of the gentleman, who couldn't but be grateful.' 
 
 ' How long ago was this, mother ? ' said John, 
 after thinking a little while; 
 
 ' It was eight years since, come midsummer- 
 day ; I should surely remember .it,' continued 
 Dame Barton, ' for when my good John Barton 
 came home with an honest flush on his brow, and 
 first told me the story, I looked on you, and 
 thanked God that it was not my own dear John- 
 ny who had run the chance of being drowned, 
 instead of the little stranger. You Avere then a 
 little more than two years old, for to-morrow's 
 the 3d of June, you know, your birth day, John- 
 ny ; and then you will be exactly ten years old.' 
 
 ' Do you think the gentleman has forgotten 
 what rny father did for him, mother ? ' asked 
 Johnny, after another and a longer pause. 
 
 ' I don't think he has, but I can't say, for 
 gentlefolk are apt to be forgetful. Perhaps 
 however he has never been to England since 
 then.' 
 
 Little John said no more, but went on very 
 Imsily with his work, so busily indeed that when
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 93 
 
 his mother looked at him again, she saw that he 
 had finished his job. 
 
 ' Why, how quickly you have worked, John- 
 ny,' said she ; ' you didn't think to have done 
 that net till to-rnomnv morning, did you ? ' 
 
 ' No, mother,' answered John ; ' but when I 
 am talking to you, and thinking hard, it's sur- 
 prising how the work gets on ; I'm glad I've 
 done it, though,' continued he, rising to put by 
 his mesh and twine ; ' because I shall be able 
 to take it to Bill Haul to-night, instead of to- 
 morrow, as I promised.' 
 
 ' But it's getting dark, dear, I am going to put 
 away my wheel,' said his mother. 
 
 ' O, it's not too late, mother, I shall be there 
 and back before you have put by your spinning- 
 wheel, and got the haddocks out ready for sup- 
 per ; so good bye, good bye, mother,' added he, 
 seeing that she did not prevent his going, and 
 off he ran. 
 
 ' He's a dear, good little soul, and that's the 
 truth on't,' said Dame Barton to herself, as she 
 listened to the eager footsteps of the boy, which 
 crashed among the shingles, growing fainter and 
 fainter every minute, till at last their sound 
 could no longer be distinguished from the rest- 
 less washing of the waves on the beach. ' I'm 
 sure I oughtn't to be the one to check him when 
 he's doing a goodnatured turn for a neighbor.' 
 
 It was a beautiful evening ; and as little John 
 Barton ran along the beach, he took off his hat.
 
 94 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 and unbuttoned his shirt collar that he might 
 enjoy the cool breeze, for the day had been very 
 sultry. 
 
 ' This air blows towards France,' said he, half 
 aloud, ' for I know that France lies over there 
 across the blue waters, and Paris is in France, 
 and he lives in Paris. O, how I do wish,' ex- 
 claimed he, passionately, and suddenly stopping 
 short, and straining his eyes over the wide sea, 
 ' how I do wish I could go to Paris I would 
 find him out I would see him I would tell 
 him I will, I must go,' said he, interrupting 
 himself, and again running forward. When he 
 arrived at the cottage where his friend Bill Haul 
 lived, he found a strange man there, speaking 
 with Bill's father, whom he did not at first take 
 any notice of, but kept on talking with Bill about 
 the net ; however presently he noticed that the 
 man talked in a different tone from what he 
 usually heard, and used his arms very violently 
 while he spoke, and, at last, John thought he 
 heard him say the word France, though in the 
 the same curious voice he had before noticed. 
 
 ' Isn't that man a Frenchman, Bill, that's 
 talking to your father ? ' asked John. 
 
 ' Yes,- he's wanting father to buy a cargo of 
 apples and eggs he has brought from France, 
 and he's in a hurry to strike his bargain, be- 
 cause he wants to be aboard again by four 
 o'clock to-morrow morning ; but never mind 
 him, Jack, he speaks such gibberish, thai '
 
 PERSEVERANCE. VO 
 
 ' Did you say he was going to France at four 
 to-morrow morning,, Bill ? ' interrupted little- 
 John. 
 
 ' Yes, the tide serves them to make the harbor 
 of Boulogne, I heard him say, so he wants to be 
 off do but hear what a chattering the French 
 Mounseer makes,' said Bill, who was about 
 fourteen years of age, and thought it looked 
 manly to ridicule a Frenchman. By this time 
 the bargain was concluded between the fisher- 
 man and the apple-merchant ; and as the latter 
 left the cottage, John Barton took rather a hasty 
 leave of his friend, and run after the stranger, 
 whom he overtook just as he reached the beach. 
 
 ' Sir, Mr. Frenchman,' said John, as he ap- 
 proached him, somewhat out of breath, ' Sir, I 
 want to speak to you, if you please.' 
 
 ' He h, what you say, littel boy ?' said the man 
 turning round. 
 
 ' A'n't you going to France, sir ?' said John. 
 
 1 Yes, I am, to-morrow morning ; but what 
 den, my littel shild?' 
 
 ' Why, sir, I want very much to go to France, 
 and if you'd be so good as to take me in your 
 boat ' 
 
 ' Take you in my boat ! what for should I do 
 that?' answered the Frenchman. 
 
 ' Wky, I can give you nothing for taking me, 
 to be sure,' said John ; ' I have ne-ither money 
 nor anything else of my own, to give away, but 
 1 will work as well and hard as ever I can ; I
 
 96 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 can mend nets, and I can tar boats, and 1 can 
 splice ropes, and I can ' 
 
 ' Stop, stop ! stay ! ' interrupted the French- 
 man ; ' I was not linking of what you could give 
 me, or what you could do for me ; but I was 
 tinking what should be the use if I was to take 
 you in my bateau in my boat. 
 
 'O, then you will take me, sir! O, thank you, 
 sir,' said John, eagerly, ' what use, did you say, 
 sir ? O, I want very much to go to France, to 
 find a gentleman, who I hope will be a friend to 
 my poor mother.' 
 
 ' Your moder, did you say, my littel friend 
 if you want to go to France to do good to your 
 moder, yo>u must be de bonfils de good son, so 
 you shall go wid me in my bateau.' 
 
 ' O, thank you, kind Frenchman,' said Jahn, 
 taking his hand and shaking it, and pressing it 
 to his bosom, so overjoyed that he scarcely knew 
 what he did or what he said ; ' then I will come 
 to the harbor, by four to-morrow, and you will 
 be there and take me, I shall be sure to find you.' 
 
 ' Oui, yes,' returned the Frenchman ; ' you 
 may come, but be sure you do not be too late 
 after you must be quite positinemertt a littel be- 
 fore four, because I would not lose de marais, 
 dat is to say de what you call de tide, for de 
 universe.' So saying, he walked away in the 
 direction of Dover town, leading John to piwsue 
 his way home to the hut under the cliffs. 
 
 By this time the twilight had gradually given
 
 PKRSEVERANCE- 97 
 
 way to the coming on of night ; and John Bar- 
 ton had been so earnestly engaged in talking 
 and arranging his plan of going to France, that 
 he had not perceived the increasing darkness. 
 The sea that lay calmly before him, and the 
 wide heavens that were above him, were both 
 so exactly the same deep blue color, that they 
 seemed to touch and be one vast space, except- 
 ing that the waters beneath now and then broke 
 into little white sparkles on the tops of the 
 waves, and the sky over his head was bright 
 with many stars. The cliffs around, with their 
 white fronts stretching down towards the beach, 
 looked cold and ghastly, and there was scarcely 
 a sound to be heard but the flapping wings of a 
 solitary sea-gull, and the distant cry of the sai- 
 lors, keeping time to their pulling altogether, as 
 they hauled in their cables. 
 
 Little John could not help stopping for a mo- 
 ment to look round upon a scene, which, al- 
 though seen by him every day, yet seemed now 
 to look particularly beautiful, and at the same 
 time of a kind of awful loveliness. Now that 
 he stood quite alone, and that he had time to 
 think, he felt that he had just done a very bold 
 thing in undertaking to make so long a voyage 
 of his own accord, and without having asked the 
 advice of any one, no not even the advice of his 
 own mother. And then came the thought of 
 what she would say when she found what he 
 7
 
 RS PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 had done. ' I know,' thought he, ' I am doing 
 right, for I am trying to do good to my mother, 
 and perhaps if I were to have asked her leave 
 first, she would have been afraid to let such a 
 little boy as I am go alone, and with strangers, 
 too but then no one would hurt such a little 
 fellow a-s I am ; and then she would think, that 
 I should never be able to travel in France, be- 
 cause I have no money, and I can't speak French, 
 which I have heard everybody speaks in France, 
 even the little boys and girls, and she would be 
 afraid 1 should have no bed, and be obliged to 
 lie in the fields, and then she would perhaps for- 
 bid me to go, which I should be very sorry for, 
 because I should not like to disobey her, yet all 
 the time I should know I ought to go, for though 
 there will be a great many difficulties, yet I feel 
 that if I try hard and do my best to get through 
 them and help myself, that God will be so good 
 and kind as to take care of me.' Little John, 
 as he thought of all this, looked over the blue 
 waters, and felt the tears come in his eyes, and 
 a kind of swelling sensation come over his breast, 
 and it seemed to him as if he had never prayed 
 so earnestly in all his life, though he could not 
 say a word. Just then he recollected that it 
 must be very late, and that he had stayed away 
 from home so long that his mother would be un- 
 easy ; so he ran as quickly as he could towards 
 the hut, determining that he had better not
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 99 
 
 mention his intention of going to his mother 
 at all. 
 
 ' Why, Johnny dear,' said she, as he bounced 
 into the cottage quite out of breath, ' what a 
 long time you have been away. I suppose 
 neighbor Haul kept you.' 
 
 John felt inclined to say, ' Yes, mother,' but 
 he knew it would not be quite the truth, so he 
 said, ' I staid a little while talking with Bill 
 Haul, mother, and I stayed the rest of the time 
 on the beach, but, if you please, mother, I would 
 rather you wouldn't ask me what I stayed 
 there for.' . 
 
 ' Very well, dear,' said his mother ; ' no 
 harm, I dare say.' 
 
 ' No indeed, mother,' answered John ; and 
 they sat down to their supper of dried fish, 
 and brown bread. 
 
 ' What ails you, child ? a'n't you hungry ?' 
 said his mother, observing that he cut ofF his 
 usual portion of bread and fish, but that, instead 
 of eating it at once, he took only a small piece 
 of each, and put -by the rest. 
 
 ' Thank'ee, mother, I don't wish the whole of 
 it to-night,' said John, for he thought that he 
 should want something to take with him the 
 next morning, and he did not like to deprive 
 his mother of any more than he could help, as 
 she could so ill afford to spare it. And then he 
 was still more glad that he had not told his 
 mother of his intended voyage, for, even if she
 
 100 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 had allowed him to go, she would have given 
 him everything she had in the house, and left 
 herself entirely without food. 
 
 When the time came for going to bed, and 
 little John wished his mother ' good night,' as 
 she placed her hand as usual on his head, and 
 said, ' God bless you, my comfort,' he again felt 
 the swelling emotion at his breast, and was very 
 much inclined to throw himself into her arms, 
 and tell her all he intended to do for her ; but 
 he checked himself, and saying, ' May God be 
 a friend to us, mother,' kissed her fervently and 
 tenderly, and ran hasily into his own little room, 
 where he threw himself on his straw mattrass, 
 and was soon sound asleep. 
 
 When he awoke, he was alarmed to see that 
 it was already daylight, and feared that the sun 
 must be risen. He jumped up, put on his clothes 
 as quickly as he could, put up his two remain- 
 ing checked shirts in a bundle together, with 
 two more pair of grey stockings, and tying his 
 best handkerchief (which his mother had given 
 him for a keepsake) round her. spinning-wheel, 
 as a sort of farewell remembrance, for he could 
 not write, he left the cottage, and ran as fast as 
 he could along the sea-beach, eating part of the 
 remainder of his supper as he went. It was not 
 until he had reached the harbor, that he found 
 the sun was already up, for the cliffs hindered 
 him from seeing it while he was on the beach 
 underneath them ; he was afraid it was very
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 101 
 
 late, and asked a man, who was standing with his 
 hands in his pockets, looking at a crab that lay 
 kicking on its back among some sea-weed, what 
 o'clock it was. The man carelessly answered, 
 without looking up, ' past four.' 
 
 ' O dear, I shall be too late ; what shall I do ?' 
 exclaimed little John. ' Master,' continued he, 
 turning again to the man, who was now scra- 
 ping some sand with his foot over the sprawling 
 crab, ' I say, Master, have you seen a French- 
 man about here this morning ?' 
 
 The man stared for a moment full in John's 
 face, and said, ' Lord, how should I know !' 
 and then returned again to his stupid amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 ' dear me, what shall I do but I had bet- 
 ter not stay here,' thought little John ; ' I must do 
 as well as I can, and try to find him out for 
 myself.' He went towards a few men whom he 
 saw at a short distance, who seemed to be 
 watching some fishing-boats going out. As he 
 pushed into the midst of them, he felt himself 
 touched on the shoulder, and, on looking round, 
 he saw his friend the Frenchman. 
 
 ' Ah, my Httell ami, my liltell friend,' said he, 
 ' you are very good time here, I see.' 
 
 ' O, I am glad I have found you, I was afraid 
 } should be too late, for a man told me just 
 now that it was past four o'clock.' 
 
 ' No, no such ting,' said the Frenchman ; ' it 
 i's half an hour past tree only.'
 
 102 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 ' 0, I am so glad,' replied John, ' for then 
 there will be time for me to run and leave a 
 message with Bill Haul for my mother, who, 1 
 am afraid, will be frightened when she finds I 
 have gone away.' 
 
 The Frenchman agreed, telling him to mind 
 and be back in time, and so John went to Bill 
 Haul, and told him all about his intended jour- 
 ney to France, begging him to go every day and 
 see his mother, and be kind to her for his sake, 
 while he was away. Bill Haul promised all 
 this, for he loved little John Barton for his good- 
 nature and obliging disposition ; and, when 
 John returned to the harbor, he felt much happi- 
 er than he did before, now that he knew his 
 mother would know where he was, and that she 
 would have some one to go and help her in his ab- 
 sence. At first, John Barton was very happy 
 on board the Frenchman's boat, helping him and 
 two other men, who were aboard, to work the 
 vessel ; but, when he had been there about an 
 hour and a half, he began to feel very sick at 
 the stomach, and his head ached so much, that 
 he had a great mind to ask Jaques Bontemps 
 (which was the Frenchman's name) if he might 
 go into the cabin for a little while ; but, as he 
 saw that he and the men were busy, he thought 
 he would manage as well as he could for him- 
 self ; so, seeing a large boat-cloak in a corner, 
 he threw himself upon it, and had not lain long 
 there before he felt quite recovered, which, per-
 
 1-EKSKVERANCE. 103 
 
 haps, would not have been the case if he had 
 gone below, as the warm air of a confined cabin 
 is more likely to bring on sea-sickness than to 
 relieve it. The fresh air of the deck, and his 
 being constantly at work, soon made him quite 
 well ; and when the Frenchman came to him to 
 see if he wanted any breakfast, he found that he 
 was very hungry. He produced a small bit of 
 dried fish and some crust, which was all that 
 was left of his provision, and began to eat it. 
 
 ' Ah, my poor littell ami ! What, is dat all 
 you have for your dejeune for your breakfast ? 
 Stop, stop ! Stay, let me see if I cannot give you 
 something better.' 
 
 The kind Jaques went and fetched him some 
 boiled eggs, wine, and some bread. John thank- 
 ed him, and eat it very heartily ; but he mixed 
 some water with the wine. Jaques Bontemps, 
 who was watching him said, ' Ah, ha ! it is all 
 ver well dat you put de water to de wine now, 
 but you will like it by itself when you have 
 been a littel time in France. What fpr are you 
 going to France ?' continued he, ' and for how 
 lc'.v.T time ?' 
 
 John answered that he did not know how long 
 he should be there, but he was going to try and 
 find out a gentleman who lived in Paris. 
 
 ' And what name is de gentleman ? and what 
 street in Paris does he live ?' asked Jaques. 
 
 But when little John told him he knew nei- 
 ther, and that, ho had no money, nor could he
 
 104 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 speak a word of French, the goodnatured French- 
 man lifted up his hands and eyes in astonish- 
 ment : ' My poor littel friend,' he exclaimed, 
 ' how will you do to travel all dat way if you 
 have no got money ? I would myself go wid 
 you and show you de way, but I must not leave 
 my meteir my trade ; and I have very littel 
 money to give away, but what I can give I will.' 
 So saying the good man took out a half-franc 
 piece* and fifteen sous,!" and gave them to little 
 John Barton, who had never possessed so large 
 a sum in all his life. 
 
 The vessel just then requiring the captain's 
 attention, he left the little boy, bidding him rest 
 himself, as he would have a long way to walk 
 soon. So John threw himself again upon the 
 boat-cloak, where he slept soundly some hours. 
 
 He was awakened by a loud confused noise, 
 and, starting upon his feet, he found that the 
 vessel was alongside the quay in the port of 
 Boulogne, where a great number of people were 
 assembled to witness the arrival of a steam- 
 packet from London. 
 
 All these people seemed to be talking at once, 
 and at the very top of their voices. He saw 
 some men dressed in green coats adorned with 
 silver, with canes in their hands, who seemed to 
 be ordering every one about, and now and then 
 some of them conducted the people who left the 
 
 * Small silvur coin, worth about ten cents, 
 f A 8OU3 is worth about one cent.
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 105 
 
 packet-boat to a smaJl house at a little distance, 
 surrounded with white pillars. There were 
 also some strange-looking women, with very 
 short dark blue woollen petticoats on, curious 
 little figured cotton caps on their heads, very 
 long gold ear-rings, round ba-skets strapped to 
 their backs, and heavy wooden-soled slippers on, 
 which went clicket-i-clack, clicket-i-clack, every 
 time they moved a step, and added to the noise 
 they made by screaming and bawling to each 
 other. Then he noticed a number of young 
 men and boys who held little cards in their 
 hands, which they seemed to be endeavoring to 
 force upon every one who landed, talking, like 
 all the rest, as loud as they possibly could. 
 Even some fishermen and sailors, who were as- 
 sisting Bontemps to moor his boat, all shouted 
 in the same high tone of voice as every one else. 
 John Barton could not help remarking how dif- 
 ferent they were to the English sailors at Do- 
 ver, who seemed to do double the work, though 
 they spoke not a word, perhaps, the whole time, 
 much less made such a bustle and hubbub as 
 these strange sailors did. What made all this 
 noise seem still more confusing to little John 
 was, that not one word of what he he ird around 
 did he understand. No ; nothing was spoken 
 around him but French ; he was now in 
 France ! He felt still more helpless and deso- 
 late when he had taken leave of his kind friend, 
 Jaques Bontemps, and was wandering along
 
 106 PERSEA r ERANCE. 
 
 one of the streets of Boulogne, uncertain which 
 \va\ to go ; however, he was determined to keep 
 up his spirits, and not to give way to fear and 
 anxiety till there should be real occasion for 
 them. He now began to feel extremely thirsty, 
 and therefore looked about for some place where 
 he might get a draught of water or milk, but it 
 was in vain ; there was not a single shop which 
 seemed at all likely to sell anything of the kind. 
 At last he determined to ask, as well as he 
 could, for some at the first shop he should come 
 to of any kind. It happened to be a baker's ; 
 he went in, and tried hard to make the woman 
 he found there understand what he wanted, but 
 in vain. 
 
 John, disappointed, left the shop, fearing he 
 should never be able to make any one under- 
 stand him in France ; he walked on, and at the 
 end of the street came to a square open place 
 that looked like a market. To his great joy he 
 saw on one of the stalls some fine ripe cherries 
 and strawberries, and upon producing a sous the 
 woman placed in his hand a large cabbage-leaf 
 full of fruit. As he was eating it, and thinking 
 how much better his bargain was here, than the 
 little paper pottles with, perhaps, half a dozen 
 strawberries in them, given for the same money 
 in England, he saw standing opposite to him, at 
 a small distance, a. little beggar-girl, whose eyes 
 were fixed longingly on the juicy fruit he held 
 in his hand, but directly she perceived he noticed
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 107 
 
 her, she hastily withdrew them. Her face was 
 extremely pale and thin ; her eyes, though of a 
 beautiful dark brown, looked hollow and sickly ; 
 her clothes hung in rags about her ; and her 
 little tender feet were bare ; John Barton went 
 towards her, and held his leaf of fruit before 
 her. She hesitated, and looked up in his face ; 
 he took her hand, which was hot and parched, 
 and placing it among the tempting red berries, 
 he said, ' Do eat, little dear !' 
 
 The little child, again fixing her large dark 
 eyes on his, and smiling, took some of the straw- 
 berries, and began to eat very eagerly, as if she 
 were extremely hungry- \V hen she had finish- 
 ed all the fruit that remained in the leaf, John 
 thought she still seemed to be hungry, and ask- 
 ed her if she would not like some more. The 
 child shook her head, and smiled again. ' I 
 cannot make her understand me,' thought he ; 
 ' but I will buy some bread, which will be better 
 for her, for I am sure she looks still hungry.' 
 He was accordingly going towards a shop, but 
 as soon as he attempted to move, the little girl 
 shrieked out ' Restez done, restez done /'* and 
 caught hold of his jacket lest he should escape. 
 He took hold of her hand, and, pointing to the 
 shop, he led her towards it, and gave her a little 
 loaf, which she eat as hungrily as she had be- 
 fore done the fruit. As John Barton stood 
 watching his young acquaintance enjoy his 
 
 ' O, do stay, do stay !'
 
 103 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 present, he was delighted to see the color come 
 into her cheeks, and he felt very happy to think 
 he had been able to help a poor little creature 
 who was still more helpless than himself. He 
 now began to think of continuing his journey ; 
 shook hands with the little girl, and kissed her, 
 and then made her understand that he must leave 
 her. This however he was not allowed to do, 
 for she placed herself before him, and, putting 
 her arm in his, led him on a little way, then 
 stopped and pointed quickly from him to herself 
 two or three times, and clapping her little hands 
 together, and looking up in his face, she nodded 
 and smiled, as if she had arranged that they 
 should go together. John Barton could not help 
 feelin-g pleased that this little stranger had ta'ken 
 such a fancy to him, especially as he thought 
 he should not be likely to take her from home, 
 as, from her wandering about the streets alone 
 and hungry, he did not think it probable that 
 she lived there ; he found also, that he could 
 make this little creature understand his mean- 
 ing, better than any one else he had spoken to 
 since he had been in France. Well, they were 
 just trotting off together, when suddenly John 
 recollected that he did not know which way he 
 ought to turn to go towards Paris. He turned 
 to his little companies and said ' Paris, Pari-s,' 
 two or three times ; then pointed to-himself, and 
 then all around. The child only shook her 
 head and smiled.
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 109 
 
 John Barton did not know how to make her 
 comprehend his meaning, when just at that mo- 
 ment a stage-coach came by, and stopped just 
 where the two children were standing. On it 
 were some words in French, and among them 
 was one which John made out to be Paris ; he 
 pointed to it, and when the little girl saw what 
 he meant she screamed out with joy, and ex- 
 claiming, ' A Paris ! a Paris ! O, quel bon- 
 hf.ur ! nous alloris d Paris /'* she skipped a- 
 botit like a little mad thing. 
 
 John thus found out that the word Paris was 
 written the same way in France as in England 
 but that the French people sounded it differ- 
 ently. The little girl now took his hand, and 
 led him straight up the hilly street they were 
 then in, and when they came to the top, she 
 turned round and pointed across the town. John 
 looked round and saw the wide sen, over which 
 he had so lately passed, dancing and sparkling 
 in the sunbeams, at a little distance off. The 
 day was so clear, that he could distinctly see the 
 cliffs of Engkind ; and as he looked upon them, 
 he thought of his own dear mother, and prayed 
 that he might soon return to her with good 
 news. They then entered a gate under some 
 huge walls, on the tops of which trees were 
 growing ; and after they had walked through 
 some more streets, they came out at another 
 gate like the fanner, and they found themselves 
 
 ' To Paris, to Purig ! O whut happiness ! Let us go to Paris.'
 
 110 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 on a straight road, upon which, at some distance 
 off', John again saw the stage-coach travelling 
 slowly along. They trudged on, keeping it in 
 sight for some time, but it went much faster than 
 they could possibly walk, and s-o it was not long 
 before they lost it altogether ; hut still they kept 
 walking on, John every row and then looking 
 at his little companion, to see if she seemed 
 tired. But, on the contrary, she appeared to be 
 gay and brisk, and as if she had been weK ac- 
 customed to walking ; she now and then ran 
 to the side of the road, to gather the weeds 
 which she would stick into John's hat, and then 
 smile in his face, as if trying to show how hap- 
 py she was. Once or twice she endeavored to 
 get his bundle from him, but, when he found 
 that she only wanted to carry it for him, that 
 she might save him the trouble, he would not let 
 her have it, though she continually put her hand 
 on it. However, when she found nothing could 
 make him give it up, she ran and gathered some 
 very large dock-leaves out of the hedge, and held 
 them over John's and her own head to keep the 
 heat of the sun off, all the time smiling and 
 playing several little graceful tricks, as if she 
 mocked a lady with her parasol, to the great de- 
 light of our friend John, who, as he watched 
 her sweet cheerful countenance and winning ac- 
 tions, thought he had never beheld such a pret- 
 ty creature in all his rife. Suddenly sho stop- 
 ped, and pointing to herself, she said, ' Julie,
 
 PERSEVERANCE. Ill 
 
 JUiie ;' then pointing to him, she looked up in 
 his face wifh an asking look, to which he repli- 
 ed, ' John,' for he could not but directly under- 
 stand that she meant to tell him her name and 
 inquire his. 
 
 ' Tchon ! Tchon ! Ah, que Jest drole /'* 
 exclaimed the child, laughing, and again she 
 frisked about ; then she came back to him, and 
 stroking hrs face, said, in a half-laughing, half- 
 soothing tone, ' Ah, iwn pauvre Tchon ! 't 
 
 Little John could not help laughing too, so he 
 patted her on the chee-k, saying, ' O, you dear 
 little Julie !' which made her laugh and skip 
 about ten times more ; so these two merry little 
 travellers went on and on, for ma-ny a long 
 mile, without feeling tired, so happy they were 
 with each other. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 when they began to feel both hungry and tired, 
 so John began to look about for some house 
 where they might rest and get something to eat ; 
 and as he spied a cottage at a little distance, he 
 went towards it, and, upon looking in, he saw a 
 woman standing at a table, cutting some slices 
 off an immensely large brown loaf, and giving 
 a piece to each of her children, six of whom 
 were sitting round the table, with a large bowl 
 of milk before them. Julie, who had likewise 
 peeped in, went towards the woman, and said 
 
 * Tchon ' Tchon ! O, liow droll !' 
 
 * ' All, my poor John !'
 
 11 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 sometning to her, when immediately the good 
 woman came to where John was standing, and 
 led hxm to the table, where she made him sit 
 down, anl placed a bowl of milk and two large 
 slices of bread before him and Julie, all the time 
 encouraging them to eat by her kind looks and 
 tone of voice. They were soon quite at home 
 with this good family, for though they could not 
 make out a single word that John said, yet his 
 good-natured face, and, to them, curious lan- 
 guage, soon won the children to take a fancy to 
 him ; and as for Julie, no one could look at her 
 beautiful face and winning manners, without 
 loving her directly. When they had finished 
 their pleasant meal, John took out two of his 
 sous, and offered them timidly to the woman, 
 who put back his hand, with some remarks, 
 which John could not understand, but he saw by 
 her action that she refused his money ; he than- 
 ked her very heartily several times, hop-ing, by 
 the tone of his voice, to make himself under- 
 stood ; and he took hold of her hand, and drew 
 her face towards him, and kissed her very affec- 
 tionately. The woman returned his caress-es 
 with a very gentle manner, and then went to- 
 war-ds a door at the other end of the apartment. 
 She opened it, and, pointing to a small beet which 
 stood in the next room, looked at him, and then 
 spoke some words to Julie. John shook his 
 head, in token that they had no place to sleep 
 in, and the good woman seemed to settle that
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 113 
 
 they should remain with her that night. Our 
 two little travellers, after a good game of romps 
 with the children of the cottage, on some hay 
 which was lying in a field behind the house, 
 went to bed and slept soundly till six o'clock on 
 the following morning. The good woman hav- 
 ing given them some bread and milk for break- 
 fast, our two little travellers took an affectionate 
 leave of her and proceeded on their journey. 
 We will not follow them, day by day, in all their 
 adventures : it will be sufficient to say, that 
 what with John's goodnatured face, and frank 
 active manners, together with Julie's pretty 
 voice, and sweet engaging looks when she spoke 
 to strangers, our two little wanderers were nev- 
 er in want of a supper or a bed. Once indeed 
 they met with a very cros man, who would 
 have nothing to say to them ; so that they were 
 forced to endure the pains of hunger, and lie all 
 night in the open air ; but even then they were 
 not down-hearted, for John luckily found some 
 wild strawberries, which he gathered for Julie ; 
 and when night came, he made up a nice bed for 
 her on some hay, which he piled up in the cor- 
 ner of a field, under a thick hedge, and covered 
 her up with his coarse, but warm, blue soa- 
 jacket. It was, fortunately, a fine warm night 
 in July, so that, instead of feeling sorry they 
 had no bed, John could not heip being very 
 grateful and happy, as he looked up at the deep 
 8
 
 114 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 blue sky over his head, which was sparkling 
 with thousands of bright stars. As he was si- 
 lently thanking God for his protection and for 
 being able to help himself, he suddenly heard 
 voices on the other side of the hedge. He lis- 
 tened, but could not make out a word, as the 
 voices talked in French. He rose softly from 
 his bed of hay, and crept to that of Julie, who 
 was at a little distance. He awakened her very 
 gently, and placed his fingers on his lips in token 
 that she should listen in silence. Julie, who 
 saw his signs by the star-light, after having 
 hearkened to the voices with great attention, sud- 
 denly started up, and drew John quietly, but 
 quickly from the spot. He saw that her face 
 was much agitated, and she looked pale and 
 frightened. He had distinguished in the midst 
 of the conversation he had just overheard, the 
 name of the cross man, who had refused them a 
 supper and bed that evening. He particularly 
 recollected it, because it was written over the 
 man's door, ' Lion ;' and Julie had laughed 
 when she read it, as if she had meant to say 
 that it was a good name for such a cross person. 
 Well, he now noticed that Julie was leading 
 him back to the village where Mr. Lion lived, 
 and that she at last stopped at his door. She 
 knocked loudly, and at last the man came to the 
 window, and asked, in a gruff tone, what they 
 wanted. Julie only spoke a few words in a loud 
 whisper, when he hastened down stairs, mu-tter-
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 115 
 
 ing all the way, and opened the door for them. 
 After bringing the children in, he immediately 
 called up some workmen who^slept in the house, 
 and placing them at the doors and windows, 
 with sticks in their hands, he gave them some 
 directions in a frightened tone of voice, and 
 seemed to be expecting something in great a- 
 larm. They did not wait long before they heard 
 a voice at one of the window shutters. All the 
 workmen immediately sallied out, and, after a 
 short scuffle, they came in again, bringing with 
 them two men, bound hand and foot, who no 
 sooner uttered a word, than John discovered 
 them to be the same men whose voices he had 
 heard in the hayfield. He now found that Julie 
 had overheard them plotting an attack on Mr. 
 Lion's house ; and had, in fact, returned good 
 for evil, by coming and warning him of his dan- 
 ger, although he had been so unkind as to refuse 
 them a little food and a night's lodging. The 
 man himself seemed now to be ashamed of his 
 behaviour, for he pulled out a golden coin, and 
 offered it to Julie, but she shook her head, and 
 John stepped forward and put back his hand, 
 for he would not be paid for doing a good ac- 
 tion, especially by a man whom he did not res- 
 pect, even though he felt that that piece of mo- 
 ney would be of very great use to him and Julie 
 on their journey : so he took her hand, and, 
 without wishing him good-bye, they both left the 
 house, and went to their pleasant beds in the
 
 116 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 hayfield, \vhere they both slept soundly till morn- 
 ing, when they jumped up betimes, and contin- 
 ued their journey as merrily and happily as 
 usual. 
 
 Often and often did John Barton thank God 
 for having brought him and his dear little friend 
 Julie together. Had he unkindly eaten all his 
 fruit, instead of sharing it with the poor little 
 stranger, he never could have managed his 
 journey half so well, so that he felt how true the 
 proverb was that he had heard his mother re- 
 peat ' a good deed always meets its reward.' 
 
 By being constantly together, and helping and 
 loving each other, John and Julie at last came 
 to understand each other's signs almost as well 
 as by talking ; and, by degrees, John learnt to 
 understand a few words of French, and Julie 
 of English. 
 
 At length, after about fifteen days' travelling, 
 by the help of Julie's inquiring the way in all 
 the towns they passed through, and by noticing 
 all the stage coaches that passed them on the 
 road, the two little wanderers entered the city 
 of Paris. 
 
 Here then, at last, was our hero in Paris ; at 
 which place he had, for the last fortnight, been 
 so anxious to arrive. But how was he to pro- 
 ceed in order to find out the French gentleman, 
 who, he hoped, would be a friend to his moth- 
 er ? He did not even know his name, and as 
 hfi looked at the rows and rows of houses thai
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 117 
 
 surrounded him on all sides of this immense 
 town, his heart almost failed him, when he 
 recollected that he did not even know the name* 
 of the street in which the gentleman lived. 
 
 However, he tried to keep up his spirits, for 
 he recollected that he had never found grieving 
 or crying do him any good, or help him forward 
 in anything ; so he began to think what he had 
 better first do, in order to set about looking for 
 the French gentleman. 
 
 At this moment, a rude boy, passing quickly 
 and unconcernedly, happened to knock down a 
 basket of fine peaches belonging to a fruit-wo- 
 man, whose stall was just opposite to the spot 
 where our two little friends were standing. 
 
 John immediately, with his usual active good- 
 nature, ran to assist the woman in picking up 
 her fruit, and replacing it in the basket ; and 
 she, after having bestowed a few hard words on 
 the awkward boy, turned and thanked our hero, 
 and then gave him a fiivj peach for his pains. 
 John, although he felt rather hungry, yet (as 
 he always did, when anything nice was given to 
 him) instantly gave it to Julie, because he 
 thought that she, being a little girl, and weaker 
 than himself, must want it still more than he. 
 
 The fruit-woman, who observed this action 
 of his, was very much pleased, and immediately 
 placed another peach in his hand for himself. 
 
 While the children were eating their peach- 
 es, and still sianding by the stall, a lady bought
 
 118 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 some fruit of the woman, and then wished to 
 have it sent home to her house.* 
 
 The fruit-woman, who liked John's honest 
 face, and his kindness to the little girl, desired 
 him to carry it to the lady's house ; and when 
 Julie had made him understand what he was to 
 do, he took the basket, and, accompanied by his 
 little friend (who would never leave him for an 
 instant), he followed the lady home. Upon his 
 arrival there, he delivered the basket of fruit to 
 a servant, and the lady, who was pleased with 
 the two children, gave them each a cinque-sous 
 piece (about six cents.) 
 
 John, thinking this to be the price of the 
 fruit, immediately returned with it to the fruit- 
 wornan, who was still more pleased with him, 
 from this fresh proof of his honesty and good- 
 ness. He now made his usual signs to Julie 
 that she should inquire about a sleeping place. 
 He soon saw by the smiling looks of the good 
 woman, that their petition for a night's lodging 
 was granted, and he felt very grateful that they 
 had so soon found a home in that great busy 
 city, where every one seemed to be so much oc- 
 cupied with their own thoughts and business, 
 that John had felt much more solitary and neg- 
 lected since he had come amongst them, than 
 he had ever felt whilst he was travelling along 
 through country roads and meadows, and had 
 only come now and then to a cottage, where the 
 people seemed to have more leisure and incli-
 
 V 
 Illifli 
 
 fe 
 
 ' >>' 
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 p:lji'0 1 I '..
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 119 
 
 nation to attend to him. In fact, the good fruit- 
 woman had quite taken a fancy to the two 
 strange children, from their honesty, good beha- 
 vior, and fondness for each other, and she felt 
 scarcely less pleased than they did, when they 
 were happily settled in her nice little lodgings. 
 
 In return for all the kindness to them, John 
 endeavored to make himself as useful as possi- 
 ble to her ; and he really was a great assistance 
 to his kind friend, by carrying the baskets of 
 fruit to the houses of the people who purchased 
 them at the stall, and by going all kinds of er- 
 rands for her, when out of doors, and when at 
 home, by rubbing the fruit, arranging it in the 
 baskets for the next day's sale, picking out the 
 best leaves and placing them among the fruit so 
 as to make it look more tempting, besides vari- 
 ous other little jobs in the household, which 
 made him quite a valuable helpmate. 
 
 As for little Julie, she was not able to do 
 much to assist, but her sweet merry face, happy 
 voice, and playful gaiety, made her a most char- 
 ming companion to their kind friend ; and as 
 for her young protector, John, he doted upon 
 her more and more every day, while she, on her 
 part, was so fondly attached to him that she 
 would never upon any account be prevailed upon 
 to quit him. In all his walks she accompanied 
 him ; during his work she would constantly sit 
 by him ; and either sing him some songs, of 
 which she seemed to know an immense number,
 
 120 I'EKSEVEKANCK. 
 
 or merely smile, pat his face, chatter French to 
 him, dance about, and, in short, use every mean? 
 in her power to amuse and please ; or if he 
 were sent on any message, she was sure to be 
 trotting beside him, helping him to carry the 
 basket or parcel, and trying, by all kinds of little 
 winning ways, to make the way seem short and 
 pleasant. 
 
 In the meantime, John Barton never for a 
 moment lost sight of the main object which had 
 induced him to come to Paris, so far from his 
 own dear mother, and his own home in the little 
 cottage under the cliffs. Whenever he was out, 
 in all his long ramblings through the large city, 
 he never failed to look at all the faces he met, in 
 the hope of seeing one like that which he had 
 often heard his mother describe as belonging to 
 the French gentleman, who had been so much 
 benefitted by his father. Every name that he 
 saw written up, he took pains to spell out as 
 well as he could, for he thought he had heard 
 his mother mention it, though he could not recol- 
 lect the exact sound, and he thought that, if he 
 were to see it, it might be recalled to his mind ; 
 these were very slender chances, and the poor 
 little boy began at last to despair of ever suc- 
 ceeding, when an event occurred which proved 
 that God never deserts those that are really per- 
 severing, cheerful, and hearty in their efforts to 
 help themselves. 
 
 One fine morning John was sent with a mes-
 
 PERSEVERANCE. i"2l 
 
 sage from the fruit-woman to one of her custom- 
 ers who lived in a distant part of the city, and, 
 as he was returning, he stopped for an instant 
 to look at a handsome cabriolet which stood op- 
 posite the door of a fine large house. Just at 
 that moment a piercing scream from Julie made 
 him turn his head abruptly round, and, to his 
 horror, he beheld her stretched upon the pave- 
 ment apparently dead ! whilst a gentleman was 
 leaning over her, and raising her from the ground. 
 
 John ran towards his darling little friend, and 
 lifting her gently in his arms, beheld her face 
 perfectly pale and motionless. He burst into 
 tears at this dreadful sight, and broke forth into 
 reproaches against the gentleman (who, in pass- 
 ing quick to his cabriolet, appeared to have 
 knocked the little girl down), forgetting that he 
 was speaking English, and would therefore most 
 probably be misunderstood. 
 
 However, the gentleman mildly replied in the 
 same language, though with a foreign accent, 
 ' My little friend, I am exceedingly sorry to have 
 hurt your sister ; but I cannot imagine how it 
 was she fell, for I scarcely seemed to touch her. 
 I think it must have been something else which 
 frightened her, for the poor little thing is in a 
 swoon. Baptiste,' added he, calling to a servant 
 who stood by, ' lift this little one carefully in 
 your arms, and lay her on the sofa in the par- 
 lor.' 
 
 The servant obeyed : and John, seeing they
 
 Ili2 PERSEVERANCK. 
 
 were carrying away his dear little Julie, loudly 
 protested against it. 
 
 ' My dear little friend,' said the gentleman, 
 leading John into the house, ' be patient ; we 
 are only going to try to recover your sister from 
 her fainting fit.' 
 
 John followed the gentleman into a superbly 
 furnished apartment, where he saw his beloved 
 little friend placed carefully on a soft sofa, where 
 she continued to lie for some time, perfectly 
 still and pale. As John hung over her, sobbing, 
 and endeavoring as well as he could to assist in 
 the efforts made by the gentleman and his ser- 
 vants to restore her, he at last beheld her color 
 come a little into her cheeks, and he had the 
 pleasure of feeling her breath come upon his 
 face as she sighed and turned a little round. 
 
 ' Ou est mon cker papa ? Jdi cru I' avoir 
 vu. Est ce un songe ?* said she, in a faint 
 voice. 
 
 ' Great God ! it is my child ! it is my little 
 Julie ! it is my dear daughter !' exclaimed the 
 gentleman, and rushing to the sofa, he cnught 
 the little girl in his arms and covered her with 
 kisses, while she, in her turn, flung her arms 
 round his neck and stifled him with weeping 
 and joyful caresses. 
 
 John in astonishment beheld this scene, nnd 
 wondered what could be its meaning, when 'In 
 
 * ' Where is my dear papa ? I thought f had seen him. I - il a 
 ilreuin ?'
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 123 
 
 gentleman, after indulging in a long embrace of 
 his dear little girl, at last turned to where he 
 was standing, and said : ' And how came you, 
 my little Englishman, to be with my dear 
 child ?' ' Is Julie your daughter, sir ?' asked 
 John, in amazement. 
 
 ' Yes, my long-lost child, for whom I have 
 grieved these last two years ; and who I feared 
 I should never see again ; but come, tell me 
 how you came to be with her ; come tell me the 
 whole story.' 
 
 John recollected, at this moment, that his kind 
 friend the fruit-woman would be uneasy at his 
 long stay, so he told the gentleman that he be- 
 lieved he ought to return to her to relieve her 
 anxiety ; but the gentleman would not hear of 
 his leaving him, and despatched a footman to 
 bid the fruit-woman not to feel anxious for the 
 two children, as they were perfectly safe. 
 
 By this time the poor little Julie had quite 
 recovered from the effects of her swoon (which 
 was only occasioned by the sudden shock of 
 surprise and joy in seeing her dear father after 
 so long a separation), and she could now sit up 
 on the sofa, and talk with her usual sprightli- 
 ness. With her eyes and lips glistening with 
 mingled new-fallen tears and beaming smiles, 
 and her cheek resting on her kind father's bos- 
 om, she chatted away to him with such a happy 
 tone of voice, as made her father stop every now 
 and then to kiss her for joy, and gave John a
 
 124 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 sensation of such proud gladness as he had nev- 
 er in his life felt before. ' And now, my brave 
 little fellow,' said the gentleman, turning to 
 John after his daughter had stopped speaking, 
 ' it is but fair, you, who have been so kind a 
 protector to my poor little wandering child, 
 should be told who she is, and indeed her whole 
 story, which she has been relating to me ; I see 
 you did not understand her, but you may be 
 sure that, in the course of her tale, she did not 
 forget to mention your kindness to her, my 
 little friend ; at any rate, her father will never 
 forget it.' 
 
 So saying, the gentleman shook John Barton 
 very heartily by the hand, and, after doing so 
 two or three times, he continued : ' Having, 
 lost my dear wife when my little Julie was very 
 young, I was compelled to trust the child very 
 much to the care of servants ; and one afternoon, 
 when she was about five years old, the maid who 
 had the charge of her returned home with the 
 dreadful news, that, in the course of their walk, 
 she had suddenly missed mademoiselle Julie, 
 and that she had searched everywhere in Paris 
 for her, but in vain. The agony I then suffer- 
 ed,' said the gentleman, looking affectionately 
 at his little girl, ' can only be equalled by the 
 delight I now feel in again beholding my child, 
 whom I have so long mourned as lost to me for 
 ever. Her loss was so sudden and strange, as 
 to seem almost like a dream ; no trace whatev-
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 125 
 
 er could be discovered of the cause of her re- 
 moval, and, after the strictest inquiry and search 
 were made throughout Paris, I was compelled 
 to give up my efforts for her recovery as per- 
 fectly hopeless. The cause of her extraordinary 
 disappearance is explained by the account Julie 
 has just given me. She says, ' That while she 
 was walking with the servant in the gardens of 
 the Tuilleries, she saw a very beautiful butter- 
 fly, which she begged the maid to try and catch 
 for her, but, as this latter was busily engaged in 
 talking with some acquaintance, and did not at- 
 tend to her request, she tried to run after it 
 herself, and as she was pursuing it behind one 
 of the many statues which adorn the gardens, a 
 tall woman with glaring black eyes started out, 
 caught her up in her arms, and ran off with her 
 as quickly as possible ; at the same time cover- 
 ing her mouth with her dirty brown hand so 
 tightly as almost to stifle her. in order that she 
 might not cry out for help. My poor little trirl 
 tells me, that from that day she went through 
 the most shocking hardships ; that the horrid 
 gipsey used to beat her dreadfully, if she did not 
 perform tasks which were much too hard for her 
 possibly to accomplish ; that she stripped all her 
 nice clothes off, and dressed her in filthy rap? ; 
 that she used to make her walk miles and miles 
 with her about the country, till her feet used to 
 bleed, and till she was obliged to drop down by 
 the road-side and cry for very weariness ; and
 
 126 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 that she never gave her sufficient food to eat. 
 This cruel usage was because my child would 
 never obey her in two things no threats, no 
 entreaties, could prevail upon her either to beg 
 or steal ; both of which this wicked wretch 
 wanted her to do, and had stolen her for the 
 purpose. At last my poor little Julie found an 
 opportunity of escaping from the power of this 
 horrid fiend : she ran away ; and had not wan- 
 dered far, when she met with you, my kind, 
 good little boy, to whom she is indebted for sup- 
 porting her in her misery, and, at last, for con- 
 ducting her to the arms of her sorrowing father. 
 May God Almighty bless and reward you for it, 
 and render your parents as happy as the posses- 
 sion of so good a son ought already to make 
 them, and as he deserves they should be. But 
 I have forgotten all this time to ask your name, 
 my brave boy ; twice in her life have I nearly 
 lost my darling. Her first preserver I entirely 
 lost sight of ; but you, her second deliverer, must 
 receive the reward due to one who has rendered 
 so important a service to the now happy Beliard.' 
 
 ' Beliard ! B,eliard ! that's it !' exclaimed John, 
 regardless of the gentleman's question , I knew 
 I should remember it if I once heard it. And 
 is Beliard really your name, sir ?' added he, 
 eagerly. 
 
 ' Certainly, my little friend,' answered the 
 gentleman astonished ; and what then ?' 
 
 4 And you say you nearly lost your little Julie
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 127 
 
 twice in her life? O, it must be, it must be ! 
 O, my dear, dear mother ! my dear mother !' 
 exclaimed John, nearly crying with joy, as he 
 started from his chair, and ran to the window, 
 just as if he could have really looked out to- 
 wards his own house and his dear mother. 
 
 The gentleman, amazed at this strange beha- 
 vior of the little boy, asked him what he meant 
 by his exclamations, and also reminded him that 
 he had not yet told him his name. 
 
 ' 0, sir, I am almost sure you will remember 
 it, for it \vas my poor father's as well as mine 
 John Barton.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! and are you the son of the 
 brave seaman who rescued my dear infant from 
 the waves ? Twice has my darling Julie been 
 saved from perishing' by the generous Bartons.' 
 
 You may easily imagine, that Monsieur Beil- 
 ard, upon discovering that the wife and mother 
 of the two preservers of his child was living in 
 want and misery, hastened to relieve her. On 
 the very day following, he set off for England, 
 accompanied by John and Julie (whom he 
 would not trust from his sight for an instant), 
 but not till he had first called upon the good 
 fruit-woman and handsomely rewarded her for 
 her kindness to the poor childpeii. He also 
 stopped a day or two at Boulogne, for the pur- 
 pose of recompensing the good Jaques Bontemps. 
 
 At last the impatient John had the happiness 
 of embracing his dear mother, for whom he had
 
 128 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 done so much, and of seeing her provided for 
 comfortably during the remainder of her life, by 
 the generosity of Monsieur Beliard, and all 
 this he could not help feeling was owing to his 
 exertions, his humanity, and his reliance upon 
 the goodness of God.
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY 
 
 AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 ADAPTED FROM THE GKRMAN OF H. KLETKB. 
 
 BY JAilES D. HA.A.3. 
 
 o, then, that is Paris ! ' ex- 
 claimed Seppi, in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Yes, that must be indeed 
 Paris,' said his companion 
 Marie, ' it looks so very large. 
 'Would we were but once 
 there, Seppi, for I am so 
 very hungry, and we have not a morsel more 
 bread left in the wallet.' 
 
 ' Why, yes, Marie, our bread is indeed all 
 gone ; but only think of the pretty marmot and 
 tlie hurdy-gurd*y, by which God will help us on 
 still further. Come, come ; let us be merry and 
 cheerful. Kind-hearted people will surely not 
 deny us a bit of bread, and a little nook where 
 we may sleep. And you, Marie, can dance so 
 9
 
 130 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 prettily the Savoyarde, and I will sing our song 
 to it ; and hurrah ! hurrah ! how my little ani- 
 mal here will spring ahout when it hears the 
 hurdy-gurdy ! And besides, you know, I can 
 sweep chimneys too, and earn plenty of money 
 that way.' 
 
 ' Ah, Seppi, you are always so light-hearted 
 and merry; whilst poor I I feel as if I could 
 rather grieve my heart out, and cry most bit- 
 terly ! ' 
 
 ' Well, now, that would be foolish ! Would 
 that bring us a step further ! And yonder lies 
 Paris. Don't you know that one may make 
 one's fortune in such a place as that ? Our old 
 Thomas, at home, has often enough told us 
 that ; and he knows it, for he has been in Paris 
 himself.' 
 
 Marie, who had sat down to rest herself a 
 little, now summoned together all her strength, 
 and arose, sighing beneath the weight of the 
 hurdy-gurdy, and, with a dejected look, walked 
 on by the side of her more sanguine brother. 
 When they had gone on thus for a little while, 
 Marie stopped again, and said, mournfully, and 
 almost in tears : ' Alas, Seppi, Avhat will our 
 dear mother do now, so all alone at home ! 
 This is just about the time when the bells must 
 be chiming there for evening service. Ah, how 
 very sad it is not to be able to hear the sounds 
 of those pretty bells here.' 
 
 ' Why, Marie, it is true,' rejoined the consol-
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 131 
 
 ing Seppi, ' we do not hear them ourselves, but 
 our dear mother does ; and when she thinks of 
 us, and the bells chime for prayer, she knows 
 that we are in God's hands, and that he will not 
 forsake a couple of poor children.' 
 
 Just at that moment they were interrupted by 
 the sudden tones, echoed forth throuph the even- 
 ing air, from a loud peal of bells. The children 
 simultaneously gave a loud scream of lively joy 
 at these unexpected sounds : and Seppi exclaim- 
 ed, exultingly : ' There now, Marie, you see 
 there are bells in Paris too, and they sound 
 quite differently from those in our own village. 
 Come, come ; we shall not fail to thrive there.' 
 
 And now even Marie herself had gained cour- 
 age, and so, forgetting hunger and weariness, 
 they pushed on again stoutly together. 
 
 The elated Seppi, as they stepped forward, 
 continued exclaiming, in a joyful tone, ' Yes, 
 yes, we will dance the savoyarde, and marmot 
 shall perform his tricks, and we will play the 
 hurdy-gurdy and sing, and I will sweep chim- 
 neys ay, ay ; and if we can but once send our 
 dear good mother some money perhaps actual- 
 ly a gold piece, Marie eh! only think of that!' 
 
 When our little travellers entered Paris, it had 
 already grown quite dark. But what an ocean 
 of houses what crowds of people and equi- 
 pages and what astonishing quantities of lights 
 were everywhere scattered around ! The Sa- 
 voyards strayed about for an hour or so, and
 
 132 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 during that time they were completely bewilder- 
 ed by the sight and bustle. But after the first 
 charm of novelty was satisfied, hunger and 
 weariness returned only the stronger. ' But 
 who then will give us something to eat, Seppi,' 
 asked Marie ; ' and where shall we sleep this 
 night ? ' 
 
 ' Why, there are so many, many houses,' re- 
 turned her brother, in a rather dejected tone ; 
 ' surely there will at least be a corner for us in 
 one of them ! Look, Marie, yonder is a fine 
 large mansion, where there will be no lack of 
 room ; come, let us go and beg for shelter. 
 Kind gentleman,' said he, to a man who was 
 standing at the gate with a long cane in his 
 hand, ' we are in sad distress for a night's lodg- 
 ing and a crust of bread ; pray bestow your 
 charity upon us, and we will dance the savoy- 
 arde, and, if you like, our pretty marmot shall 
 perform his leaps before you.' 
 
 ' Why, you couple of detestable beggars,' ex- 
 claimed the porter, ' do you think the palace of 
 his Excellency is to be converted into a hovel to 
 receive such trash as you ! No, no, be off; we 
 want none of your monkies nor Savoyard dances.' 
 
 Seppi waited not a moment, but seized Marie's 
 hand, and led her hastily away ; whilst the poor 
 girl burst into tears and sobbed aloud. ' Come, 
 dear Marie, cheer up,' said her brother, when 
 they had gone on a little way again ; ' you lake 
 and play now the hurdy-gurdy, and marmot
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 1-i.i 
 
 shall dance to it.' Marie wiped away her tears, 
 and they now halted and commenced their per- 
 formance ; but the people passed by without, as 
 Seppi had expected, handing them a present, or- 
 offering them a night's lodging. It got later and 
 later, and the little girl shivered with cold and 
 grief, whilst Seppi, almost losing courage, utter- 
 ed not a word. 
 
 They had now reached a small square, crossed 
 by several streets. Marie sunk down on a stone, 
 and held her hands before her eyes in bitter 
 lamentation. At this moment an elegantly- 
 dressed person seemed to observe the children, 
 and, stepping up. to Seppi, said : ' My little 
 Savoyard, you could do me a favor.' 
 
 ' Very willingly, sir ; what are your com- 
 mands?' replied Seppi, delighted. 
 
 ' Do you see that large shop yonder, which is 
 lighted up so brilliantly ?' 
 
 ' What, opposite ? O yes, I see it.' 
 
 1 Well, here you have a gold coin, go in there 
 and get it changed. In case you are questioned 
 about it, say boldly, you have found it. When 
 you come back I will make you a present.' 
 
 Seppi gladly handed his monkey to his sister, 
 took the twenty-franc piece, and ran across with- 
 it to the shop as hard as he could run. When 
 he had given it to the person in the shop to 
 change, the latter looked at it very closely, 
 sounded it on the counter, took it up again and 
 examined it; and, at length, rushing towards the
 
 134 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 little Savoyard, seized him by the collar, and 
 held him tight. ' You good-for-nothing fellow,' 
 exclaimed the tradesman, ' confess at once where 
 you got this bad money ." 
 
 The astonished lad had quite forgotten what 
 he ought to reply, and, trembling, stammered out 
 the truth. But the man was distrustful, and 
 was not at all satisfied with his statement. He 
 wished at all events to trace out the party who 
 had resorted to such an expedient for circulating 
 base coin among the public. Accordingly, he 
 still retained his hold of Seppi's collar, summon- 
 ed a couple of his people to join him, and order- 
 ed the lad to lead the way directly to where he 
 had left the stranger. Meantime the latter, 
 having found the Savoyard to remain rather 
 longer on his mission than he expected, began 
 to think all was not right, and was confirmed in 
 his fears when he perceived the approach of the 
 party, headed by the boy : he accordingly start- 
 ed off, full tare, as fast as his legs could carry 
 him. He was quickly pursued by the others, 
 who still dragged poor Seppi with them against 
 his will, but their efforts to overtake the culprit 
 were in vain, and they were forced to give up 
 the race, he having too great a start of them. 
 They then dismissed the dead-weary Savoyard, 
 saying, ' Be off, young squire ; you may now 
 run wherever you like.' 
 
 Run, indeed ! alas ! poor Seppi was only too 
 glad to be able to barely drag his wearied fe<M
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 136 
 
 after him. He crept slowly after the others, 
 and thought of his distressed sister, who, doubt- 
 less, would be waiting for him to return, in the 
 deadliest anxiety and alarm. When he at 
 length arrived at the spot where he had left her, 
 he looked everywhere about but his dear Marie 
 was gone ! ' Marie, Marie, dear Marie ! ' cried 
 Seppi, softly, but she did not reply. 'Marie, 
 Marie ! ' he repeated, but no answer. And now, 
 indeed, poor Seppi's heart was broken, and he 
 was quite in despair. He ran backwards and 
 forwards, everywhere about, calling out loudly, 
 'Marie!' but all in vain; and, leaving it to 
 chance, he hurried down the first leading street 
 to look for her. 
 
 The midnight hour had now struck, when 
 Seppi, quite exhausted and faint, sank down 
 upon the step of a house, and soon fell into a 
 deep sleep. The morning dawned, and our 
 .ittle Savoyard still slept on. Doubtless he was 
 dreaming of the mountains of his fatherland of 
 his dear parent the playfellows he had left be- 
 hind but, perhaps above all, of his beloved 
 sister, now wandering about, Heaven only knew 
 where ! 
 
 At this moment a window in the front kitchen 
 of the house, and close to where poor Seppi was 
 sleeping, was slowly opened, and a head in a 
 white nightcap popped out : it was that of the 
 pastrycook, to whom part of the house belonged. 
 
 ' Hallo ! why, now, there's a lazy rascal for
 
 136 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 you, 1 said the pastrycook, perceiving the slum- 
 berer; 'snoring there in this bright morning, and 
 not knowing perhaps how he may get a crust of 
 bread to eat at mid-day ; sleeping, idling, beg- 
 ging, and stealing. What objects there are in 
 this world to be sure. An efficient police ought 
 not to tolerate such vagabonds. And only see 
 how undisturbedly the boy sleeps here in the 
 open street ; but he is pretty sure, of course, that 
 thieves would make no' thriving business by him.' 
 
 Whilst the tongue of the confectioner express- 
 ed, in such fashion, the morning reflections of its 
 owner, the man's eye rested scrutinisingly upon 
 the boy. Seppi, it should be observed, had a 
 very agreeable and prepossessing exterior ; and 
 so the idea suggested itself to the mind of the 
 selfish, avaricious pastrycook, whose own as- 
 sistant had run away from him only the day be- 
 fore, whether he would not perhaps do well to 
 take the Savoyard lad into his service instead. 
 ' Such a creature,' thought he, ' must needs be 
 glad to earn a living, and feel grateful for all 
 and everything one may give him. Besides, he 
 has a good-looking, likely face ; and that he is 
 quick on his legs there can be no doubt.' 
 
 Therefore no sooner said than done. The 
 confectioner proceeded to open the door, and 
 forthwith greeted the slumbering Seppi with a 
 gentle kick. 'Well, my idle fellow,' said he, 
 4 do you intend to sleep it out here the whole 
 of this fine day ?'
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 137 
 
 Seppi. half awake and half asleep, jumped up 
 and answered, ' Yes, sir, I'll sweep your chimney 
 directly.' 
 
 'Do what? Sweep the chimney!' returned 
 the confectioner; ' no, no, it's not the time for 
 that yet. Come, get up and rouse yourself.' 
 
 Seppi rubbed his eyes ; but O, how grey and 
 misty did the city look by morning ! 'Yes, sir ; 
 what am I to do then ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Come with me, you shall hear that directly,' 
 answered the man, as kindly as possible. Seppi 
 followed him into the shop, and the savory 
 smell of the warm pastry attracted the famished 
 lad irresistibly. ' Listen to me, my lad,' quoth 
 the pastrycook, when they had reached the little 
 parlor: ' I am inclined to do you a great ser- 
 vice.' Seppi at this pricked up his ears, for he 
 expected nothing less than that the baker was 
 going to make him a present of a few of his 
 nice tarts for breakfast. ' You shall stay with 
 me, carry out pastry, help me serve the custom- 
 ers, and make yourself generally useful to me ; 
 in short, I will take you entirely into my service 
 and provide for you. Now, only think of that, 
 you poor, deserted fellow ! and look what I am 
 doing for you ; for I am going to give you food 
 and clothing, whilst now you are in hourly risk 
 of being starved to death ! ' 
 
 What more desirable thing could have befallen 
 our poor hungry Savoyard ? Yet, when the 
 pastrycook spoke of ' starving,' the thought of
 
 13S THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 poor Marie instantly made his affectionate heart 
 shrink within itself. He wept bitterly, and 
 faltered out amidst his sobs : ' Alas ! sir, I have 
 a sister, poor dear Marie, who came with me to 
 Paris ; I lost her yesterday evening, and O 
 heavens! she was very, very hungry, and had 
 not a morsel of bread. 1 must indeed, first of 
 all, go and try to find her.' 
 
 The brow of the confectioner gradually dark- 
 ened with frowns. ' Foolish boy,' said he, in a 
 tone of vexation ; ' what } do you pretend to 
 look for your sister in Paris ? in a city which 
 contains a whole million of inhabitants, and 
 whose width and length embraces so many 
 miles ? Why, you may search your whole life 
 long, and yet not find her again. Besides, she 
 may have fallen, in the dark, into the river, or 
 have been run over by some carriage ; nay, we 
 don't know what may have happened to her. 
 If it be the will of God that you should find her 
 again, that will come to pass without your having 
 occasion to stir a step in it. It is nothing new in 
 Paris for children to run away and lose them- 
 selves ; some do turn up again, and some do not. 
 However, you will have the best opportunity, 
 when carrying out the pastry, of meeting her. 
 But mind, you understand me \vhen I tell you, 
 that you must not presume, on this account, to 
 loiter ftn your errands about the city, but you 
 must keep straight on the road I order you to 
 follow.
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 139 
 
 Tne common-place and unfeeling arguments 
 used by the confectioner, by no means served to 
 console the affectionate Seppi ; still he saw 
 clearly, that a search made in so large, populous, 
 and, to him, completely unknown city, would 
 most likely meet with little or no success; whilst 
 he thought it not quite impossible but that, in 
 his walks through the capital, he might fall in 
 with his dear Marie. But it was the recollec- 
 tion of the dying words of his father, and which 
 that good man had bequeathed to him in his last 
 moments, which gave Seppi the best comfort: 
 ' Remember, dear boy,' said he, ' you have still 
 a Father in heaven above ; and He watches 
 and takes care of His children.' And so will 
 that same Father, thought Seppi, protect and 
 watch over poor Marie ; and thus consoled and 
 strengthened, he accepted the confectioner's offer 
 of engagement. The latter felt quite satisfied, 
 for which he had his good reasons, inasmuch as 
 he treated his people so badly giving them 
 little to eat, and plenty of work that he had 
 great difficulty in getting any for his service, or 
 in retaining them in it. But a chap like this, 
 thought he, who is used to nothing better, will 
 still think the very worst treatment good, in his 
 unhappy state. 
 
 Seppi was now duly initiated in his new 
 office, and received the article of clothing which 
 his truant predecessor had left behind, called by 
 the pastrycook 'a livery!' a title of honor still
 
 140 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 nobly bestowed upon the old patched jacket (and 
 which formerly it might have merited) as that 
 cost its master nothing. This worthy warned 
 Seppi to take good care of it, and impressed up- 
 on him most urgently never to acquire a taste 
 for pastry. This the lad promised, and only 
 begged now for a piece of bread to satisfy his 
 hunger. ' Why, I thought you had already 
 breakfasted,' said the heartless man, who seem- 
 ed to forget that he had lighted on the boy fast 
 asleep. 
 
 Seppi's service was no very easy one ; he was 
 however a nimble, attentive lad, and executed 
 everything faithfully. His master had reason 
 to be quite satisfied, and really was so, as far as, 
 generally speaking, a selfish person can be sat- 
 isfied. In his numerous walks our little Savoy- 
 ard did not neglect turning his eyes in every 
 direction, in hopes, perchance, they might light 
 upon his poor dear little sister. And when he 
 saw, at a distance, a little girl, who in height 
 and shape was like Marie, how did he run after 
 her until he overtook her ; but when, his heart 
 throbbing, he found it was not his sister, he 
 would burst into tears, and then think what his 
 poor mother would say, if ever he should come 
 home without Marie. 
 
 Such bitter delusions Seppi experienced daily ; 
 yet he did not give up hope. Marie and his 
 mother were his constant thought day and night, 
 although he slept so soundly, that the confec-
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 141 
 
 tioner felt vexed that a youngster, who had not 
 a farthing in his possession, should rest so 
 tranquilly. On this point however his master 
 was mistaken ; for Seppi, not enriched, it is true, 
 with a halfpenny, by the liberality of his em- 
 ployer, obtained, at times, from the customers 
 who visited the shop, a small piece of money, 
 by way of a present, and which he saved up 
 carefully in 'his little purse, in order, when a 
 favorable occasion might offer, to send the whole 
 to his mother. And thus his store increased 
 every day. 
 
 On the third floor dwelt an old widow lady, 
 who, from idle curiosity, was ever anxious to 
 busy herself about all that took place in the 
 house and in the neighborhood. Madame Eiv- 
 age was extremely desirous to engage Seppi in 
 her interest, and had tried to bribe him, in order 
 that she might get him to tell her all that was 
 going on at home, as well as abroad, in reference 
 to his master and his customers. This however 
 our hero always stedfastly refused to do, treat- 
 ing her offers of money with the contempt they 
 merited, and avoiding her as a dangerous mis- 
 chief-monger. 
 
 There was however another lodger, towards 
 whom Seppi, on the other hand, felt great re- 
 spect and regard : this was Monsieur Dumenil, 
 who lived a story higher than Madame Rivage; 
 and, although his appearance was needy and 
 careworn, still in his countenance there reposed
 
 142 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 that calm resolution and resignation, seeming to 
 conirol every adversity, that the heart of Seppi 
 felt greatly influenced thereby. Monsieur Du- 
 menil was always very retired in his manners, 
 and merely pronounced the 'good day' to any 
 one he met with belonging to the house. The 
 confectioner thought rather meanly of him be- 
 cause he never came into his shop and patron- 
 ised his pastry. If perchance the conversation 
 turned upon him, he would say : ' Ay, ay, that 
 lean, half-starved looking being never comes in 
 here ; and I am quite sure, as he cannot pay his 
 rent, the landlord of the house will soon eject 
 him. Why, you can see poverty and misery 
 staring him in the face when you look at him ! 
 Shame upon such a creature !' 
 
 Remarks of this kind always cut Seppi to the 
 heart, for he but too well remembered that his 
 father had been a poor man too ; and he never 
 forgot the many beautiful things the clergyman 
 had said about him at his grave. Therefore 
 our little hero, when his master was once launch- 
 ing out very severely against Monsieur Dumenil, 
 plucked up a spirit, and said : 'But, sir, I have 
 once heard our minister at home tell me, that 
 rich and poor are quite equal before God; and 1 
 remember too that there was a man in our vil- 
 lage who had a great deal of money, and yet 
 people did not like him because he had got it in 
 a bad way, as they had good reason to think.' 
 
 When he heard this, the confectioner became
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 143 
 
 quite pale with rage, for he felt how himself had 
 earned, and was still earning, his own money, 
 when he made his pies of rabbits' flesh instead 
 of hares' flesh, and did other things of the same 
 kind. ' Hold your tongue, you poor silly fool,' 
 he returned, ' what is you minister and your 
 village to me ? What do you know about rich 
 and poor ! We are here in Paris, not in your 
 wretched hamlet ; don't open your mouth until 
 you are asked.' 
 
 A rather singular, but, happily, not fatal acci- 
 dent occurred about this time to make Seppi still 
 more intimately acquainted with Monsieur Du- 
 menil. The latter was very much in the habit 
 of passing his evenings from home, a circum- 
 stance that caused Madame Rivage, whose eye 
 nothing very easily escaped, to form various 
 conjectures of an ominous, implicating nature. 
 The staircase of the house was very steep and 
 intricate ; and being very dark, it chanced that 
 Monsieur Dumenil, one evening, made a false 
 step in descending, and fell down a whole flight 
 of stairs. Just at that moment Seppi returned 
 home, and, rushing forward, tried as well as his 
 little strength would allow, to assist the good 
 man up again. But he found that the severe 
 fall had sprained, and, as he feared, even broken 
 his leg. Poor Monsieur Dumenil felt great pain, 
 and was quite unable to move. ' If,' said he 
 faintly, leaning upon the stairs, ' there were but. 
 a doctor in the neighborhood ! ' ' O, I know one,
 
 144 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 Monsieur Dumenil,' exclaimed the compassion- 
 ate Savoyard, 'I'll fetch him directly !' and he 
 at once darted off. The doctor dwelt two or 
 three streets off, and our humane messenger ran 
 as hard as he could. But, as ill-luck would 
 have it, the doctor was out, gone to the coffee- 
 house ; where, in fact, as the servant told Seppi, 
 he did not like to be disturbed. This however 
 did not prevent Seppi from going to him ; for, 
 not losing a moment, he ran as swiftly as possi- 
 ble to the place mentioned, and sure enough 
 found the healing man absorbed in the perusal 
 of a newspaper. The French are enthusiastic 
 readers of the news of ,the day, and of course 
 Monsieur Perrot was not an exception. Twice 
 and three times was our anxious messenger 
 forced to make his application before it was at- 
 tended to, when the doctor at length, throwing 
 down the paper, vouchsafed to give him a hear- 
 ing. 
 
 ' 0, pray sir, do make haste,' exclaimed Seppi ; 
 ' a gentleman has just had a sad accident, and I 
 much fear he has broken his leg. Now do, 
 good Monsieur Perrot, have the kindness to 
 come with me directly.' 
 
 ' Well, well, I will come,' said the doctor, as 
 he cast a longing look at the paper ; and taking 
 up his hat and cane, he at last withdrew with 
 the boy. The slowness of the doctor's pace 
 was finely contrasted with that of his more hu- 
 mane guide, who, every now and then, was
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 146 
 
 forced to come back in order to urge him on to 
 give relief to the suffering man. They arrived 
 at length, and found him still in the same state 
 in which Seppi had left him ; he leant on the 
 surgeon's arm, and with his and Seppi's aid he 
 was assisted up stairs. 
 
 The reception which poor Seppi met with 
 this time, when he returned, on the part of the 
 confectioner, was certainly not of the most plea- 
 sant kind. ' Why, you good-for-nothing lout,' 
 he exclaimed, ' where have you been stopping 
 so long ? Now mind, you rascal, for this you 
 shall go to bed hungry, not a morsel shall you 
 have this night ! ' 
 
 ' Why, sir, poor Monsieur Dumenil has fall- 
 en down stairs, and I have only been to fetch a 
 doctor for him,' appealed the poor boy in excuse. 
 
 This only served to enrage his savage mas- 
 ter the more. ' Now, only hear that,' he ex- 
 claimed ; ' so Monsieur Dumenil has tumbled 
 down stairs, and you pretend you have been to 
 fetch a doctor for him ! Pray, in whose service 
 are you then ? who clothes you ? who gives you 
 food ? and what does that poor, half-starved 
 wretch concern you? He may fall up and down 
 stairs too for what I care ; nay, break his neck 
 in the bargain ? ' 
 
 The fact is, that this humane confectioner 
 thought he had very good reason to express his 
 particular indignation at Seppi's absence just at 
 10
 
 146 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 this moment, inasmuch as this was the evening 
 when the club to which he belonged met togeth- 
 er ; and as he was one of its most zealous mem- 
 bers, he was sadly annoyed at being half an 
 hour beyond his time for the supper. In re- 
 turn for this however, he had his revenge upon 
 poor Seppi, for the poor boy was forced to go 
 to bed without a morsel. But, hungry as he 
 was, his feeling heart turned towards the suffer- 
 ing Monsieur Dumenil, and his anxiety lest that 
 poor man had actually broken his leg, made him 
 quite forget his own deserted state. But on the 
 following morning his fears were at an end, for 
 Monsieur Dumenil's servant came down stairs 
 to order some pies for her master. ' What ! ' 
 exclaimed the confectioner; 'do you really mean 
 to say you want some pies for Monsieur Dume- 
 nil? Why, you surely make a mistake, my 
 good woman ! ' 
 
 ' Is there anything so wonderful, pray, in the 
 order?' she asked: ' why, I am not deaf; and 
 those were the instructions he gave me and 
 mind, you are to send them up by Seppi.' 
 
 ' Well, now, only think of that ! ' grumbled the 
 pastrycook, who was not at all satisfied with his 
 new customer. ' Well, here, Seppi, take them 
 up ; but, mind, if the question be about the 
 money to-morrow, the cakes to-day understand 
 me that goes for nothing. For, once for all, I 
 give no credit; here you have the goods, but 
 here must also be the cash. Now, be off! '
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 147 
 
 It need not be said with what haste our good 
 Seppi bustled up stairs, and how little attention 
 he paid to the questions of the anxious Madame 
 Rivage, who met him on the way, as to what he 
 was carrying up to Monsieur Dumenil. He 
 paused not a moment until he reached the room, 
 where he found the patient reclining upon a 
 sofa. When, in reply to his anxious inquiries, 
 he found that Monsieur Dumenil had not broken 
 his leg, in the joy of his heart he wept tears of 
 sincere gratitude. This affectionate feeling of 
 the kind lad was not lost upon the worthy man, 
 who now, contrary to his usual habits, entered 
 upon a little conversation with the boy. He 
 asked him about his birthplace, and how long 
 he had been in Paris, &c. Seppi told him his 
 simple tale, and how he had lost his dear sister 
 Marie. ' Ah, dear sir ! ' said he, ' would we had 
 never come to this place ; and yet we were forc- 
 ed to come, for we could not, all of us together, 
 have managed well at home ; and Marie and 1 
 would have been too much for our poor mother. 
 What could we do ? We were wretched, and 
 so we followed the advice of old Thomas, who 
 said 'Children, if you love your mother, which 
 I know you do, you must go to Paris. - There 
 you will earn money, I know, for I have been 
 there myself, when I was your age ; and if you 
 are active, and early and late at work, you will 
 succeed in procuring for your dear mother an 
 easy old age ' ' So we made up our minds,
 
 148 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 Marie and I ; but our poor mother wept bitterly 
 when she heard of it, and would on no account 
 part with us ; however, at length she gave way 
 to our persuasions and consented. Our kind 
 old neighbor, Thomas, however, who had given 
 us this advice, enhanced it still more, for on the 
 evening before we left, he bought for us a hurdy- 
 gurdy and a marmot, which he very kindly pre- 
 sented to us on parting. Alas ! poor, dear Marie, 
 did I but know what had become of you, with 
 that poor little marmot and the hurdy-gurdy 
 which our good Thomas gave us ! The part- 
 ing from our dear mother I shall never forget, 
 and yet I was full of hope when on my road to 
 Paris ; but when getting there, to part so dis- 
 astrously from my poor Marie, my beloved sister ! 
 Ah, Monsieur Dumenil, it grieves me to think 
 of her. Tell me, do you think I shall ever find 
 her again ? ' 
 
 ' That, my kind boy, I cannot possibly sa.y, 
 for it depends upon the will of God ; but that 
 will, which is much, much wiser than even the 
 wisest of this world can conceive, be assured, 
 protects your dear sister and yourself. That 
 kind Father in heaven will not forsake your 
 sister, nor leave her without bread when hungry, 
 but will lead her to kind-hearted people.' 
 
 ' Yes, Monsieur Dumenil,' said the affected 
 boy, in tears, ' that shall always give me confi- 
 dence when I think, in fear, of the fate of my 
 poor Marie. Good night, sir, God bless you ! '
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. M9 
 
 Poor Seppi now crept down stairs, and went 
 quickly to bed, much consoled by what Monsieui 
 Dumenil had said. 
 
 In the morning, his master's first inquiry was 
 for the money from his new customer; he count- 
 ed it, and found it all right, not a farthing miss- 
 ing. ' And to-morrow, sir, I am to go up again,' 
 said Seppi. 
 
 ' Quite right,' said the master ; ' if this gentle- 
 man pays, I care not how much he has of my 
 pastry. Why, he appears to have got a very 
 sudden relish for it ! ' But herein the bitter 
 sweet-cake maker was wrong, if he thought that 
 his new customer felt any desire for his pastry, 
 for his only object was, by these means, to see 
 more of his little slave, the poor Savoyard ; and, 
 naturally, Seppi took good care to meet his kind 
 friend's wishes, by duly taking up, every morn- 
 ing, what was required. 
 
 Just about this lime, an occurrence took place 
 which excited, in the breast of Seppi, the liveli- 
 est hopes that he might recover his dear sister. 
 Whilst walking through the streets, he met a 
 gentleman, in all appearance the same who had 
 formerly done him the kind service of making 
 him the means of exchanging base coin. 
 
 ' Why,' said Seppi> to himself, ' that is the 
 person who was standing near Marie when I 
 left her to change his bad money ! Surely he 
 must know something about her ! ' He hastened 
 therefore after him, and, just as he had over-
 
 150 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 taken him, the man entered a house. Seppi 
 was about following him into the place, when 
 he was thrust back by the porter, none being 
 admitted but gamblers such only being the 
 visiters received there. 
 
 ' But, pray,' inquired Seppi of the man, ' what 
 is the name of the gentleman just gone in ?' 
 
 ' O, that. we don't know,' was the snappish 
 answer. 
 
 ' And yet I should very much wish to know,' 
 entreated Seppi. 
 
 ' Why, you impudent varlet ! pack yourself off 
 this moment ! ' exclaimed the man, in a passion. 
 
 With heavy heart, our poor Savoyard gave up 
 all hope of attaining his object here, and return- 
 ed home. On the following morning, he in- 
 formed Monsieur Dumenil of what had taken 
 place. The latter however was by no means 
 very sanguine about the matter, for, supposing 
 Seppi had succeeded in questioning the man 
 upon the subject, how little could he, under the 
 most favorable point of view, communicate about 
 Marie's fate ; and had he not too much reason too 
 to deny all knowledge of that evening's transac- 
 tion ? 
 
 ' 0, my poor, poor mother ! ' exclaimed the 
 boy, in lamentation ; ' how she will cry about 
 Marie ! Yes, and even if I do send her the 
 twenty francs, and she hears nothing from Marie, 
 I am quite sure the money alone will give her 
 no joy '
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 151 
 
 ' What ! ' inquired Monsieur Dumenil, rathei 
 astonished ; ' are you going to send your mother 
 twenty francs ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, I wish to do so ; and I have already 
 saved something towards it, but still it will take 
 a whole year yet before I can make up that sum ; 
 but never mind. Ah, dear ! how happy must 
 rich people be ! ' 
 
 ' Do you think so, Seppi ? But it is not as you 
 think, Seppi ; for there are very rich people, who 
 drive about in splendid carriages, who are any 
 thing but happy ; for there are too many among 
 them to whose wealth the sighs and curses of 
 the unfortunate adhere, and too many pass every 
 moment of their life in dread of death ; such 
 therefore, Seppi, we cannot fancy ever enjpy 
 happiness. True and perfect happiness, my 
 good boy, consists in not wishing otherwise than 
 as is the will of God ; because He, in His su- 
 preme wisdom, guides us over the best paths. 
 If it be His will that we should remain poor, we 
 ought to bear this poverty with resignation, and 
 not desire anything beyond , and if, on the other 
 hand, it be His desire that we should obtain 
 riches, we should, in all humility and gratitude, 
 employ them to the honor of the Heavenly Giver.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes, dear* Monsieur Dumenil, I wish to 
 be contented too ; only I could not help thinking 
 of my poor mother, and wishing I could only 
 once send her a good sum. O, that would be so 
 delightful, you know, Monsieur Dumenil !'
 
 152 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 ' If it be the will of God, Seppi, then be as- 
 sured He will give you the means of putting 
 your affectionate object into force ; for He will 
 bring you into a situation, where you may be 
 enabled to make a more profitable use of yout 
 time.' 
 
 ' At any rate,' exclaimed the lad, with pleasure, 
 1 1 know how to read and write, Monsieur Du- 
 menil ; I have learnt that already.' 
 
 Monsieur Dumenil's foot now got better every 
 day, so that at length he was enabled to walk 
 about again. Meanwhile, Madame Rivage's 
 curiosity respecting his means of living, and so 
 forth, had not as yet been satisfied, in spite of 
 the continual questions she put to Seppi. One 
 day, in order to try him once more, she sent him 
 for some pies, and then used every effort to in- 
 duce him to tell her ; but all in vain. ' Well, 
 well,' said she, in her vexation, and trying to 
 detain him still longer, ' you must run and get 
 me this franc piece changed, else I cannot pay 
 you.' 
 
 ' O, I have got some money, and can give you 
 change now, at once,' said the innocent Seppi, 
 as he drew forth his little treasure. 
 
 The old beldam opened her eyes when she 
 saw this, and exclaimed : ' Indeed ! if you are 
 so rich, then, pray what wages does your mas- 
 ter give you ?' 
 
 At this the poor boy's face turned quite red, 
 and ho answered, hesitatingly, ' Nothing, mad-
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 163 
 
 a me ; these are little presents which I have re- 
 ceived.' 
 
 ' So, so,' said Madame Rivage, when Seppi 
 had retired ; ' now I have you in my power, 
 you little obstinate urchin ! and that Monsieur 
 Dumenil too, of whom you are so fond, I'll set 
 him against the pastry, for no more shall you 
 take him !' and she kept her word. 
 
 She no sooner met her fellow lodger, who 
 was just going out, than she very graciously 
 accosted him, and said : ' My excellent Mon- 
 sieur Dumenil, I have felt very much for you ; 
 and then too you have eaten pastry every day.' 
 
 ' How,' asked Dumenil, quite astonished ; ' I 
 really don't understand you ; what has your 
 pity to do with the pastry ? ' 
 
 ' O, why ? ' said she, in an undertone, ' I will 
 tell you quickly. You know, perhaps, that 
 there are people in Paris, whose sole business 
 consists in stealing cats ; well, it is such cats as 
 our pastrycook here buys, kills, and makes his 
 pies of; and but of course I need not tell you 
 any more. But is it not horrible to think of? 
 It is true, I assure you ; I have it from the best 
 authority ; pray therefore eat no more of those 
 pies, good Monsieur Dumenil.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ! ' exclaimed Monsieur Dumenil, 
 in seeming indignation. ' Well, I'll bring the 
 man to book for this directly ; he shall certainly 
 not go unpunished.' 
 
 But Madame Rivage, in alarm, held him b:u k :
 
 154 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 ' Stop, stop,' she cried, ' you surely will not 
 betray me ? Remember, for Heaven's sake, it 
 is told you in confidence it is a secret.' 
 
 ' Why, madame,' replied Monsieur Dumenil, 
 gravely, ' you must either know it for certain, 
 in which case it is your duty to bring such dis- 
 honesty to light, that it may be punished ; or, if 
 it is merely supposition, you are acting extreme- 
 ly bad in spreading a report which must serious- 
 ly injure this man.' 
 
 ' Well, well,' rejoined Madame Rivage, morti- 
 fied, ' I see very clearly my sympathy and can- 
 dor will be ill repaid. Do as you like, sir ; tell 
 it, or tell it not ; I care little about it ; only that, 
 if you are foolish enough to repeat what I have 
 told you to the man, I shall take good care to 
 deny it ! I am sure I don't want to get myself 
 into any scrape ; for, thank Heaven ! I live in 
 peace and good will. I know what I live upon ; 
 
 whilst other folks, who eat pastry Adieu, 
 
 Monsieur Dumenil, adieu !' 
 
 Feeling rather uneasy in her mind, lest Mon- 
 sieur Dumenil should really inform the baker 
 of what she had stated, the malicious woman 
 thought she had better be beforehand with him ; 
 and therefore at once hastened to the man, and 
 insinuated that Monsieur Dumenil had express- 
 ed himself very disparagingly about his pies : 
 'In fact,' added she, ' he said, one could not at 
 all tell what was in them, the taste was so very 
 peculiar.'
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 155 
 
 ' Indeed ! Well,' exclaimed the enraged but 
 rather confused pieman, ' he had better not say 
 that in my hearing ! My pies, indeed ! which 
 are as good as any possibly can be ! ' 
 
 ' Well, well, my good man,' said Madame 
 Rivage, ' never mind what such a person says 
 about you a person, about whom nothing is 
 known as to how he exists from one day to the 
 other. . But never mind, its not over yet ; much 
 may still come to light about that man. By-the- 
 bye, I want to tell you something else ; what 
 was it ? 0, ay, your little Savoyard boy ! I 
 suppose you hold him to be a very honest lad ? ' 
 
 ' Why, yes, madame, the fellow is honest, al- 
 though now-a-days we ought to trust nobody, 
 and, least of all, a wandering Savoyard, whom 
 God has thrown upon the world to steal.' 
 
 ' Well, I am glad you are satisfied with him. 
 But only think, this very day I saw him with a 
 purse full of money in his possession ? ' 
 
 ' What ! A purse full of money ! You are 
 joking, madame.' 
 
 4 Not I indeed, for I never joke. You only 
 ask him upon his oath, and he can't deny it. I 
 say, a purse full of money.' 
 
 ' Then I am sure he has been robbing me,' 
 exclaimed the pastrycook, whose faith in Seppi's 
 honesty all at once vanished. ' So, so ; I'll 
 make him feel it ! To rob me ! I, who gave 
 him clothing and food ! ah, if you only knew, 
 madame, what I have done for that rascal ! But
 
 156 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 now I'll kick the scoundrel out I'll give him to 
 a policeman I'll ' 
 
 Just at that moment poor Seppi returned, and 
 his master, who had now worked himself up to 
 the conviction that the boy had robbed him, 
 rushed towards him, and seizing him by the 
 hair, shook him, and called out ' Give up the 
 money, you rascal, that you have stolen from 
 me!' 
 
 The poor boy was so alarmed that he trembled 
 every limb. ' Heaven is my witness, that I 
 have never robbed you !' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Come, out with that purse full of money, you 
 lying scoundrel, you have one that I know ! ' 
 
 ' There it is,' said Seppi, drawing out of his 
 pocket the little purse containing the few pieces 
 of money ; ' that is the purse, if you mean that, 
 and it is the same which madame there saw this 
 morning.' 
 
 The baker shook out its contents, and said 
 ' Now, confess at once how you robbed me of 
 this money ! ' 
 
 ' Heaven shall be my judge,' exclaimed the 
 poor boy, weeping, ' if there is a single farthing 
 of it yours ! Every one of them was given to 
 me ; but take it all if that is what you want. 
 Monsieur Dumenil knows well that 1 saved it 
 up for my mother ; and you ought to be asham- 
 ed of yourself, Madame Rivage, to state such 
 falsehoods of me.' 
 
 ' What, me ! ' said the malicious woman, who
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 157 
 
 now began to regret being a witness of this 
 
 scene ; ' I ' but she now became still more 
 
 confused, for just at that moment Monsieur Du- 
 menil entered the shop. He had just returned 
 home, and his ear caught the sound of the boy's 
 voice ; and to whom was his appearance more 
 welcome than to poor Seppi ? 
 
 ' What is the matter, Seppi ? What have you 
 done ? ' kindly asked his friend, who, when he 
 saw the purse and money, soon guessed the truth. 
 
 ' Pray mind your own business, and don't in- 
 terfere here at all,' exclaimed the confectioner ; 
 ' this boy is in my service, and I shall do with 
 him what I like. Do you understand me ? ' 
 
 ' Quite right ; I understand you, sir,' returned 
 Monsieur Dumenil, calmly ; ' but it is possible 
 you have made a mistake.' 
 
 ' Mistake ! ' cried out the ba*ker, still more 
 harshly; 'I tell you this rascal has robbed me ' 
 
 ' Ah, Monsieur Dumenil,' said the boy, ' the 
 money that I have saved up to send to my dear 
 mother ' 
 
 ' Silence, you good-for-nothing fellow. I say 
 you have robbed me ; but you shall not keep the 
 money ; you shall be turned out of my service 
 this day nay, this very minute ! ' 
 
 ' Be it so, Seppi,' said- Monsieur Dumenil ; 
 ' Your master has discharged you from his ser- 
 vice ; now take off that jacket and follow me 
 I will take you into mine.' 
 
 ' What ! would you dare to take away my
 
 158 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 errand boy?' exclaimed the baker in a threaten- 
 ing voice ; for he had by no means been in 
 earnest when he talked of turning Seppi away, 
 whilst the overjoyed boy lost not a moment, but 
 hurried off his jacket at once, and was speedily 
 ready to follow his new master. 
 
 ' You may keep the money you have taken 
 from the boy,' said Monsieur Dumenil, without 
 changing his calm, but firm tone of voice. ' You, 
 yourself, have discharged the boy, and therefore 
 you can no longer lay claim to him.' 
 
 ' Impudent fellow ! ' exclaimed the pastrycook, 
 enraged. ' Base slanderer, as you are, to accuse 
 me of making bad pies ! Tell me, what is it 
 you dared to say about my pies ? what is it 
 I make them of, eh ? Here, Madame Rivage, 
 you are my witness ; repeat what he said, for it 
 was to you he spoke.' 
 
 Madame was not a little astonished to find 
 herself so suddenly called upon as a witness. 
 ' Why yes yes ' she stuttered, ' but it is 
 hardly worth repeating besides, I just recollect 
 
 that I must go shopping ' 
 
 . ' Stop a moment, madame,' said Monsieur Du- 
 menil ; ' you appear to have been doubly busy 
 here ; for it was yourself, if you recollect, who 
 warned me against those pies, because they con- 
 tained cats' meat.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! Is that true, madame ? Did 
 you do that?' exclaimed the pieman. 
 
 ' I tell you I know nothing about it; nothing !
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 159 
 
 Therefore, don't ask me anything about it. I 
 have nothing to say I never said anything ! ' 
 cried madame, hurriedly. 
 
 ' I will not detain you any longer, madame,' 
 observed Monsieur Dumenil. ' I have only to 
 request, as I kave this morning purchased the 
 house here in which you live, that within a 
 month from this time you will remove to anoth- 
 er dwelling.' 
 
 At this announcement, the old lady, between 
 shame and surprise, could scarcely tell how she 
 felt. What ! Monsieur Dumenil have a house 
 like this! Involuntarily even the baker took off 
 his cap, for he venerated nothing so much as 
 riches. But to his no little surprise and morti- 
 fication, in return, Monsieur Dumenil said, 
 calmly, to him likewise ' I give you, sir, also 
 warning to quit this house within a month ! ' 
 and taking our happy Savoyard by the hand he 
 quitted the shop, leaving behind him two indi- 
 viduals, a prey to the most bitter feelings of rage 
 and wonder at this unexpected change of things. 
 
 ' And now, Seppi,' said his benevolent guide, 
 ' let us go and select a suit of clothes for you, 
 for henceforward I will provide you with every- 
 thing, and teach you what you stand in need of. 
 Thus you see, my good boy, God has now placed 
 you in a position to enable you to assist your 
 mother in her old age ; and I hope, Seppi, you 
 will be grateful to God, and never forget the 
 love He has shown Y'
 
 160 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 The poor Savoyard's feelings were so over- 
 come, that he could not find words to thank his 
 protector ; but his filled eyes proclaimed more 
 than language could have expressed. 
 
 The fact is, that Monsieur Dumenil had un- 
 expectedly come into the possession of consider- 
 able property but a few days before this event, 
 and he was now anxious to devote it to useful 
 purposes. Accordingly, he had at once pur- 
 chased the house he lodged in it being for sale 
 and had resolved to convert it into a manu- 
 factory, which he intended to establish, for 
 the purpose of giving employment to poor peo- 
 ple. 
 
 Seppi and his philanthropic friend had not 
 proceeded far on their way to the tailor's shop, 
 when they unexpectedly met several policemen, 
 having charge of a person dressed in the height 
 of fashion. Seppi, at sight of him, uttered a 
 loud cry of astonishment ; for in him he, once 
 again, immediately recognized the individual 
 from whom he had received the base money to 
 exchange, and whom he had left standing near 
 his Marie. Monsieur Dumenil rushed forward, 
 and, overtaking the constables, begged them to 
 stop a moment, whilst he questioned the man 
 upon the subject. This they did instantly, say- 
 ing, they had him in custody for coining false 
 money. Monsieur Dumenil then asked him if 
 he kn-ew anything about the sister of that lad, 
 whom, of course, he must recollect as the one he
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 161 
 
 had sent, on a certain evening, to get a gold 
 piece changed. 
 
 ' Not I indeed ! I took no notice of the lit- 
 tle girl,' replied the man ; and persisting in his 
 ignorance, Monsieur Dumenil was of course 
 obliged to give it up, and the party resumed 
 their progress with their prisoner. Thus poor 
 Seppi was again left in painful doubt and anxiety. 
 
 It is now, however, full time that we should 
 seek around for little Marie, and ascertain what 
 has been her fate since her separation from her 
 brother. 
 
 In vain did she continue to await the return 
 of Seppi ; and after sitting on the step in the 
 most anxious and painful expectation, she at 
 length rose, and proceeded across to the shop, 
 to inquire about him : they, however, only told 
 her, that they had left him in one of the streets 
 some distance off, and, as it was so dark, they 
 supposed he must have missed his way. Alas, 
 poor Marie ! what was she to do ? Tired, and 
 almost fainting with hunger, she could hardly 
 drag her legs along, loaded as she was with the 
 hurdy-gurdy and the marmot, sobbing her poor lit- 
 tle heart out. She walked on, as well as she could, 
 down one street and then another, but all in 
 vain, nowhere could she find Seppi. Some boys 
 happening to pass, she asked them if they had 
 perhaps seen a little Savoyard boy about : ;m<l 
 one of the young rascals replied. ' Yi-.*. he was 
 11
 
 162 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 sure he had seen him in a street a little way 
 off.' She then said : ' O, will you take care of 
 my hurdy-gurdy and the marmot, while I run 
 after him, for you see I can scarcely walk with 
 ouch a load ?' 
 
 ' O, yes,' says one, kindly, ' I will take care 
 of them till you return. But you must make 
 haste after him, for he was walking very fast.' 
 
 The unsuspecting girl lost not a moment, but, 
 giving both to the boy's care, hastened, as fast 
 as possible, in the direction given ; and, when 
 there, looked everywhere around, calling out, 
 ' Seppi ! Seppi !' but she received no answer. 
 Poor Marie, finding it in vain to wait any longer, 
 slowly returned to where she had left the boy 
 with the hurdy-gurdy and the marmot ; but, on 
 coming there, looked in vain for him. Her eyes 
 searched everywhere around, but it was useless, 
 for boy, hurdy-gurdy, and marmot, had vanish- 
 ed. And now, this last blow was too much for 
 Marie. She had lost her brother, and now she 
 had lost what was to procure her food i'n that 
 great, strange city ! Ah, what tears of sorrow 
 and lamentation the poor afflicted girl shed, when 
 she thought of her wretched forlorn state ! 
 
 It grew later and later ; and, casting her tearful 
 eyes once more around her, in despair, she caught 
 sight of a lady, who had just stopped before the 
 door of a large house, and rang the bell. She 
 was attended by a female servant, or companion, 
 who held in her arms, carefully wrapped up, like
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 163 
 
 an infant, a little lap-dog. Marie rushed to- 
 wards tho lady, and exclaimed, beseechingly : 
 4 Ah, for Heaven's sake ! dear, dear lady, pray, 
 pray take pity on me ; do take me in with you, 
 and give me a crust of bread, and a night's shel- 
 ter in any corner of your house. I am trem- 
 bling all over from fatigue and hunger. I have 
 lost my brother Seppi, and only arrived in Paris 
 this evening !' 
 
 The lady turned round, and said, ill-natured- 
 ly : ' Go about your business, do, you low crea- 
 ture ; don't disturb my sweet Bijou's sleep with 
 your noise.' 
 
 1 Ah, good lady, do not, pray do not leave me 
 to sleep in the streets all night ; do take me 
 with you, I will not, depend upon it, disturb 
 any one.' 
 
 ' Take pity upon her, madam,' said her com- 
 panion with the dog ; ' she would just suit you, 
 for you want just such a little girl as her, to 
 take care of Bijou, and wait upon and amuse him.' 
 
 Madame Berlin cast a contemptuous look at 
 Marie, saying, ' I am only afraid such a crea- 
 ture would be too coarse and rough for my ten- 
 der Bijou ! However, you may come in ; I will 
 make a trial of you. 1 
 
 The door was now opened ; the lady entered, 
 followed by her servant carrying the snoring 
 dog, and by the poor little Savoyard girl. 
 
 When they entered the drawing-room, the 
 first most important business was to get ready
 
 164 THE SAVOYARD BOT. 
 
 the soft bed of the treasured lap-dog, and careful- 
 ly to cover him over with the embroidered quilt. 
 This being done, its mistress turned her eyes 
 towards poor Marie, and exclaimed, in great 
 contempt : ' What a dusty, dirty object that is ! 
 Mind, Therese, she must not approach my Bijou 
 too closely in that pickle. Do pray take her 
 away, and give her some straw to sleep upon, 
 and don't let me see her again before she is 
 washed and made more decent. Have you no 
 other clothes, girl, but those you have on ? 
 Why, they are nothing but rags.' 
 
 Poor Marie ! what were her feelings when so 
 addressed ! But she made no reply, and follow- 
 ed Therese, who showed her into a room, in the 
 corner of which she made her a bed of straw, 
 and gave her a piece of bread ; this the poor 
 girl quickly demolished, and creeping to her 
 straw bed, she very soon fell asleep. 
 
 In the morning, after cleaning herself, and 
 arranging her dress the best way possible, she 
 appeared before her new mistress. The latter 
 was reclining upon the sofa at breakfast, whilst 
 Bijou, not yet quite awake, was at her side. 
 
 ' Well,' said she, ' you look a trifle more de- 
 cent now. Pray what do they call you ?' 
 
 The contrast between the soft and gentle tone 
 with which she addressed her dog, and the 
 harsh and brutal style with which she spoke to 
 our little Savoyard was painfully cutting, and 
 affected Marie to tears.
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 166 
 
 ' My name is Marie,' she gently replied. 
 
 ' Why, I declare you are actually crying,' said 
 Madame Berlin ; ' come, come, I won't have 
 that : do you hear ? Mind, I have taken you 
 out of the streets for the sake of my sweet little 
 Bijou, and you will understand that your duty is 
 to attend to every thing he wants, and when he is 
 asleep you must fan away the flies from tormen- 
 ting him ; and you must set his pillow aright, 
 play with him when he wishes it, and, in fact, you 
 must be entirely at his command. And for all 
 this I will give you your food, and such other 
 trifling things as a poor, common peasant girl 
 like you may want.' 
 
 At this moment a young girl, about eighteen 
 years of age, was shown in by Therese, and, 
 making a neat courtesy, said very humbly 
 ' Good morning, madame ; you will excuse my 
 intruding so early, but 1 have brought the work 
 you gave me to do.' 
 
 Madame nodded her head haughtily, and said 
 ' Well, and how have you done it ? Have 
 you brought Bijou's collar and cushion ?' 
 
 ' Yes, madame, every thing ; and I hope you 
 will be satisfied.' She then opened the parcel 
 and, oh ! what beautiful things did she pro- 
 duce ! Marie was lost in admiration, for she 
 had never seen any thing like it. 
 
 Madame Berlin appeared pleased, although, 
 from principle, she here and there found some- 
 thing to find fault with. ' Well, and have you
 
 166 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 brought the bill ?" she asked : ' you know i 
 like to pay directly, for I am not like some of 
 my rank whom you may work for.' 
 
 The young girl handed her the bill ; but the 
 moment she saw it she flew into a violent pas- 
 sion. 
 
 ' These charges are much too high !' she ex- 
 claimed ; ' I never heard of such prices ! I 
 shall certainly not employ you again, young 
 woman, nor recommend you to any more of my 
 friends, if you charge like this. No ; these 
 four francs certainly must be deducted.' 
 
 ' I hope, madame, you will not do that ; for 
 indeed I have not overcharged you one farthing ; 
 and I assure you I have worked night and" 
 day at it.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay,' returned Madame Berlin, ' you 
 always say so ; but it is not the work we pay 
 for : it is for the plays, for the dancing, and for 
 the fine dresses, to which you devote your 
 money.' 
 
 The young woman cast an expressive look 
 at her own neat but simple dress, and said 
 ' Alas, madame, there are six of us in the family, 
 and we only live by our needlework, and that 
 but very sparingly.' 
 
 1 Ay, ay, I understand all that sort of excuse ; 
 however, here is the money ; I will pay the 
 three francs, but the fourth I shall deduct, i"f you 
 wish to do any more for me.' 
 
 The maiden took the money with a sigh, and
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 167 
 
 withdrew. This scene touched Marie very 
 much ; for the young woman, at first so cheer- 
 ful, had now walked away with a troubled, 
 mournful countenance. No doubt the harsh 
 words of Madame Berlin had grieved her more 
 than the loss of the franc, and Marie could not 
 understand how a lady so rich could act so mean 
 and cruel. 
 
 But our poor little Savoyard girl herself was 
 equally forced to experience this harsh treat- 
 ment. She, poor thing, received scarcely e- 
 nough of dry bread to appease her hunger, 
 whilst the petted dog was fed upon every dain- 
 ty. Every now and then she was reprimanded 
 for not showing enough attention to the little 
 brute ; and, wearied with the bad usage she re- 
 ceived, she was glad when night came, so that 
 she might lament her sad destiny upon her bed 
 of straw. 
 
 Thus passed over some weeks, when, by some 
 accident, the dog became ill and died ; and her 
 mistress, in her lamentations for her pet, reven- 
 ged herself upon poor Marie, and turned her 
 out of doors. 
 
 It was a bitter cold night ; and, shivering 
 from its inclemency, the poor girl walked about, 
 lamenting her unhappy lot, and seeking in vain 
 for shelter. She crouched down on the step of 
 a door, and finding there, by accident, an old 
 straw mat, she wrapped herself up in it, and 
 thus awaited the approach of morning. Alas '
 
 166 THE SAVOYARD BOY". 
 
 how dreadfully did she suffer the whole of that 
 freezing night ! Morning at length appeared, 
 and at that early hour, a young girl, with a 
 basket in her hand, passed her hastily ' Ah, 
 Mademoiselle Manon ! Mademoiselle Manon !' 
 exclaimed poor Marie. The young person she 
 thus challenged^ was no other than the embroi- 
 dress whom she had seen at Madame Berlin's. 
 Attracted by her voice, the young woman turn- 
 ed round, and, on seeing the poor creature in 
 such affliction, almost dead with cold, she ran 
 towards her, and said ' Good Heavens, Marie, 
 what has brought you here in this sad state ?' 
 
 ' O ! Mademoiselle Manon !' faltered Marie ; 
 
 ' all night .' Manon stayed not a moment, 
 
 but, seizing her hand, helped her up, and sup- 
 ported her along towards her own home, where 
 they soon arrived ; and, ascending to the fifth 
 floor, Manon opened a door, and led the suffer- 
 ing girl into a small but cheerful room. An el- 
 derly matron, who was busy with some needle- 
 work, raised her head as the door was opened, 
 and exclaimed, in surprise, ' Whom are you 
 bringing there, Manon ?' 
 
 ' Only look, dear mother, look,' replied her 
 daughter, with emotion, ' at this poor little girl, 
 almost frozen to death ! I found her shivering 
 at a street door, and have brought her home for 
 shelter. She was with that Madame Berlin, 
 for whom I work, you know, and who always 
 deducts from my poor earnings.'
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 169 
 
 The good matron immediately put aside her 
 work, and soon got ready some hot tea and bread 
 and butter, which she gave to the child, who now 
 soon felt the beneficial effects of her kindness. 
 She had now revived, and feeling much stronger, 
 she related to her charitable friends all that had 
 transpired since Manon had seen her at Madame 
 Berlin's. During this time, the group was join- 
 ed by two of Manon 's little sisters, about the 
 age of Marie ; and as she went on with her 
 narrative, their sympathizing little hearts gave 
 vent to their emotions, and they exclaimed, ev- 
 ery now and then : ' Poor Marie ! to be turned 
 out by that wicked woman in such a bitter cold 
 night ! ' Nor was there, in fact, of all the listen- 
 ing circle, one eye that remained unmoistened. 
 
 When the little Savoyard had ended, Manon 
 put her arms round the neck of her good mother, 
 and, kissing her, said ' Dear mother, Provi- 
 dence has thrown this poor forsaken girl into 
 our arms for protection ought we not to do 
 what we can for her ? Besides, you know, this 
 evening will be Christmas Eve, and that gives 
 the circumstance a more sacred character.' 
 
 1 Why, dear Manon,' replied her mother, smi- 
 ling kindly, ' you know we are already six in 
 number.' 
 
 ' 0, never mind that ; I am sure you will let 
 her stay with us : she is but a child, and will 
 not require much ; and she can help us at our 
 work, and be useful in various ways.'
 
 170 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 Marie said not a word ; she timidly and anx- 
 iously cast her eyes on the ground, not ventur- 
 ing to look up, when the two younger children 
 took her by the hand, and led her to their 
 parent. 
 
 ' Then he it so ! Come, my dear, forlorn 
 child, if the Almighty's will has led you to us, 
 He will also, be assured, grant us the means of 
 supporting you,' said the good woman gen- 
 erously. 
 
 It need not be said, how delighted Manon and 
 her sisters were at this arrangement. The lat- 
 ter, especially, paid their new inmate the most 
 affectionate attention ; so that Marie was soon 
 quite at home. ' And,' said they, ' as this even- 
 ing is Christmas eve, our dear ' godfather' will 
 be here ; and won't he be astonished, as well as 
 Paul and Robert ?' 
 
 Paul and Robert were their brothers ; the 
 former still went to school, but the latter was 
 apprenticed to the worthy ' godfather,' who kept 
 a grocer's shop close by. 
 
 Monsieur Dupart, or, the ' godfather,' as he 
 was always styled in the family, was, in reali- 
 ty, a worthy, good-hearted man, and although, 
 as a national guard, he wore a very thick pair 
 of moustaches, yet this outward fierceness of 
 expression was finely contrasted with his mild 
 and playful manner towards children. 
 
 The evening at length arrived, and with it 
 the expected ' godfather.' He was in uniform,
 
 iiON-SIKOK DUPART AMi> MA.RIS
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 171 
 
 for on that day he had been on duty. The chil- 
 dren, at other times when he came, would cling 
 about him, and jump upon his lap, as he, of 
 course, always came provided with something ; 
 but this time he could not allow it, inasmuch as 
 he had all his pockets, and his very cap, loaded 
 and crammed full of presents. 
 
 ' Well, my children,' said he, ' here we are 
 once more altogether ; it's a beautiful thing to 
 be thus able to pass the Christmas eve amidst 
 bright contented faces. It is not every family 
 in Paris can do that. Come, my good children,' 
 he continued, ' I feel quite happy that we have 
 met in such good health, and for that, if for 
 nothing else, we ought to feel grateful and con- 
 tented towards the Almighty.' Just at this mo- 
 ment his eye fell upon the little stranger. 
 ' Bless me, children, why who have you got 
 there, pray ? Who is that little girl ?' 
 
 The good mother and the sisters now brieflj 
 related to him the particulars connected with 
 poor Marie's distressed situation, and how they 
 had determined to give her a home amongst 
 them. ' Well, that is good and kindly done,' 
 said the ' godfather,' as he stroked his mousta- 
 ches, which he always did when he felt pleas- 
 ed ; ' and you are an excellent girl, Manon. 
 Come here, my good Marie, look here ; I am 
 the godfather of all these children here, and now 
 I will be yours too have you any objection ?' 
 
 Joyful, grateful tears, were the only reply the
 
 172 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 happy Marie could return to this benevolent 
 man, intermixed with some bitter sobs of lamen- 
 tation at the recollection of her mother and 
 brother. 
 
 Monsieur Dupart, being told of the loss she 
 had sustained, and having made every inquiry 
 respecting his appearance, age, size, &c. assured 
 them that he would not lose a moment in ap- 
 plying to the proper authorities, to institute ev- 
 ery possible search for him. And now the mo- 
 ment arrived for the distribution of the various 
 presents ; and amongst the happy ones who re- 
 ceived them, the adopted stranger was not for- 
 gotten, for each of them had generously arran- 
 ged beforehand, with their mother, that she 
 should take something from their own portions, 
 and give it to Marie ; and which the matron, 
 with gratified feelings, had not failed to do. 
 
 The good ' godfather' then took an affection- 
 ate leave of all ; and thus was spent an evening 
 full of love and gratitude to God ! 
 
 With these good people Marie lived to see 
 very happy days. They treated her as their 
 own child and sister ; and she saw punctually 
 and carefully after whatever was given her to 
 do, profiting, at the same time, by the instruc- 
 tion she received in their business. 
 
 One day Manon came home highly delight- 
 ed, for she had just received a very large order, 
 amounting to several hundred francs, from a 
 lady of great wealth and distinction. And now
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 173 
 
 the good girl made her calculation how long the 
 job would take her to execute and complete, and 
 how long they would all live upon the profit. 
 Amidst her joy, however, she had forgotten to 
 purchase something still necessary ; and so she 
 said to Marie : ' Go, my dear Marie, run and 
 fetch me some ribbon, like these patterns ; here's 
 the money.' 
 
 Marie bustled along, looking neither right 
 nor left, when she felt herself suddenly clasped 
 by two arms. As she looked up, the simulta- 
 enous exclamation was : ' Marie !' ' Seppi !' 
 and, rushing into each other's arms again, they 
 affectionately hugged each other closely, and 
 shouted and wept for joy : and then they had 
 so much to ask of each other they had so much 
 lo tell that Marie naturally quite forgot all a- 
 bout her dear Manon's commission. The latter, 
 finding she did not return, became very anx- 
 ious, and fearing something serious had hap- 
 pened to her, she determined to seek for her, 
 and was just leaving the house, when she was 
 met by Marie, safe and sound, happy and joyful, 
 with her brother and Monsieur Dumenil. She 
 perceived at once the happy cause of the delay ; 
 for she had not the slightest doubt but that it 
 was Seppi, the lost brother. 
 
 ' Yes, mademoiselle,' said Monsieur Dumenil, 
 ' it is indeed Seppi ; and, thank God, the dear 
 and affectionate brother and sister have at length 
 been restored to each other !'
 
 174 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 
 
 They all went up stairs, and there the good 
 mother and her family expressed the most affec- 
 tionate delight at this happy event. The ' god- 
 father' was sent for, and soon came running 
 down the street in his dressing gown and slip- 
 pers, and joined cordially in the happy feelings 
 of all present. 
 
 The worthy Monsieur Dumenil was much af- 
 fected by the genuine friendship and sympathy 
 shown by all the members of this good family 
 towards Seppi and his sister ; and he said with- 
 in himself : ' I cannot increase by my money 
 the happiness enjoyed by these cheerful, indus- 
 trious people, but it shall be my study to reward 
 them for their kindness, by supplying them con- 
 stantly with profitable employment.' And thus 
 did this truly philanthropic man ever think and 
 act ; for he knew the art of assisting the needy 
 in such an ingenious way, that his aid appeared 
 more as the reward of their own merits, than as 
 an act of mere charity. 
 
 And now, in conclusion, we have only to add, 
 that Marie remained in the happy circle of those 
 who had taken her by the hand on the eve ot 
 the Christmas festival ; and Seppi stayed with 
 his benefactor, who set out himself for the Sa- 
 voyard's home, and brought the delighted mo- 
 ther of these good children to Paris. He there 
 also made the acquaintance of the worthy 
 Thomas, who could not sufficiently congratu-
 
 THE SAVOYARD BOY. 175 
 
 late himself on finding that his advice had met 
 with such a happy result. 
 
 In the course of a few years afterwards, Ma- 
 non and Marie became happy mothers of fami- 
 lies ; Seppi flourished as an opulent tradesman, 
 having adopted and followed the motto of Mon- 
 sieur Dumenil ' Want nothing but what God 
 grants !' and that good man now rests in peace 
 under the green turf, his memory cherished 
 and revered by all !
 
 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 
 
 "FRANCESCA!" 
 
 " I am here, mother." 
 
 " Come near me, my child." 
 
 A little girl, trembling with cold, came from a 
 corner in which she had been crouching on the bare 
 floor, and approached a bed at the farther side of 
 the room. - 
 
 On that bed a woman was lying ; she was not 
 old, but evidently very sick and feeble. It was 
 almost dark, but there was yet light enough to ena- 
 ble one to distinguish the two wretched human 
 beings, who dwelt in a small, lonely cottage not far 
 from St. Jervaise, a small town in the neighborhood 
 of Barcelona. 
 
 " Franceses," said the sick woman, making a 
 strong effort to raise herself in the bed, and take the 
 outstretched hand of her child, " I am dying ; I must 
 see the priest." 
 
 " But mother," answered the child, in great anxi- 
 ety, " the priest lives far away ; it would take an 
 hour to go there, and it is already night ; it has 
 stopped snowing, it is true -but, listen to the wind 
 how it blows and the rustling of the trees, and "
 
 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 177 
 
 " I>ut, Franceses, I am dying, and I cannot die in 
 peace, till I see the priest." 
 
 "The priest's house is near the church," answered 
 the frightened girl, " and I mnst pass through the 
 church-yard. Yesterday they buried the old man." 
 
 " Francesca, you are twelve years old," said the 
 unhappy woman ; " you must have some thought, 
 some love for your poor mother. Do you wish to 
 wait till morning? Ah, me! who can tell that I 
 shall live so long. Death will not wait, my daugh- 
 ter. Oh, tell me you will go !" 
 
 " If you command me, I must go," answered Fran- 
 cesca sullenly. 
 
 u I do not command you, Francesca ; I beg you 
 1 beseech you. If I had strength enough to rise, I 
 would go down on my knees before you, to beg you 
 to have pity on me. Oh, gracious heaven ! you are 
 afraid to go out in the night ; is it not so ?" 
 
 " Oh, mother ! only think of it ! I must pass 
 through the bury ing-ground. It is now night ; it 
 will be nearly twelve o'clock when I get there : 
 twelve o'clock ! when the dead leave their graves !" 
 
 " Francesca !" said the sick woman in deep men- 
 tal anguish, " I shall not live till to-morrow. I 
 know it ; and I must die without confession. Have 
 pity on me, my child. The dead rest in peace ; 
 they cannot harm you. Pity your poor mother ;
 
 178 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 
 
 you will be thankful when you think of me, after I 
 am dead." 
 
 Francesca could no longer resist; she turned 
 slowly from the bed, walked to the door, opened it 
 and went out. The poor child was thinly clad, her 
 head was bare, and she was without shoes or stock- 
 ings. The surface of the ground was covered by a 
 thick crust of snow, and the wind whistled fiercely, 
 racking her to the very bones. She glanced hope- 
 lessly and timidly around, afraid to advance, and un- 
 willing and ashamed to return. She stood still for 
 some time, trying to gain courage to proceed, till at 
 length, to her great joy, she saw a light glimmering 
 at a distance, from the window of another cottage, 
 like that which she and her mother occupied. She 
 ran hastily towards it, reached the door, and knocked 
 loudly. It was opened by a girl a little older than 
 herself. 
 
 " Are you alone, Antonia ?" Francesca asked. 
 
 " Yes, Francesca. My mother is in Barcelona, 
 and will not return till to-morrow, and my father is 
 away at his work. I was just thinking what I should 
 do, for I am afraid to be alone, and I was going to 
 bed when you knocked. What do you want ?" 
 
 " I am going to the priest's house. Do come with 
 me, Antonia! My mother says she is dying; and, 
 oh, Autouia ! I do believe she speaks the truth," and
 
 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 179 
 
 poor Francesca began to sob and weep. 
 
 " And your ntother wishes you to go for the priest 
 at this time of night, and you think that I will go 
 with you! A thousand thank.s, my good little 
 neighbor; I have never seen any ghosts, and I have 
 no wish to see them. Perhaps you forget that you 
 must pass through the burying-ground ?" 
 
 " That is what I said to my mother," Francesca 
 replied. 
 
 "And what did she answer?" 
 
 " That death will not wait." 
 
 " Bah !" exclaimed Antonia : " ' that death will 
 not wait !' That is always the cry of the sick and 
 the old. One does not die so easily, as we both 
 know. Think of the old nurse at St. Jervaise she 
 is eighty years old, and every night she says that 
 she is sure that she will not live till morning. What 
 then ! morning comes, and she is still alive it is a 
 mere fancy, and that is the case with your mother. 
 She wishes you to go for the priest ; that is always 
 the whim of the sick. I know what you shall do, 
 Francesca. Stop here with me for an hour or so ; 
 then go home and say that the priest is not at 
 home or, that you could not find your way in the 
 dark or, that you got lost or, indeed, you can 
 make any excuse."
 
 180 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 
 
 "But such an excuse will be a lie," Francesca 
 said. 
 
 " An innocent lie, that does nobody any harm. 
 Do what I tell you, Francesca ; it will save you a 
 terrible walk. I am a year older than you, and so 
 have so much more experience. Come in." 
 
 Francesca's young but not overscrupulous neigh- 
 bor added many other reasons, about which we need 
 not trouble ourselves, to persuade her to do that 
 which both well knew in their own hearts to be very 
 wrong. It is enough to say that superstitious fe;ir 
 made Francesca consent to follow her neighbor's 
 bad advice. She entered the cottage, and remained 
 there about as long as it would have taken her to go 
 to the town and back, and then returned to her own 
 dwelling. A lamp, brought by an aged neighbor, 
 was burning near her mother's bed, but without 
 looking at that mother, who could not see the tell- 
 tale blush that was on her cheek, she uttered the lie 
 agreed upon. 
 
 " Oh, merciful heaven !" exclaimed the unhappy 
 woman ; " my sins are too great. Thou hast not 
 permitted this poor child to bring one of thy holy 
 ministers to my help. I am a miserable, sinful 
 creature ; have mercy on me ! Grant me one day 
 more of suffering only one day more one night 
 one single hour for repentance and for atonement !
 
 FRANCESCA.
 
 SUl'KUSTITIOUS FEAR. 181 
 
 but no no I am dying !" The unhappy woman 
 fell back exhausted on her pillow. 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother !" exclaimed Francesca, ter- 
 rified by her mother's agony, and by the thought of 
 the lie which she had told, and which she now bit- 
 terly repented. " Mother, I have lied : I have not 
 been to the town ; you will not die yet, mother not 
 yet I am going I will fly. Oh, dear mother ! one 
 word before I go ; tell me that you are not dead !" 
 
 The sick woman turned a look of agony upon her 
 daughter : " I forgive you," she said, in weak and 
 broken tones ; " fear has made you cruel, barbarous. 
 Unhappy child ! now, I fear, it is too late." 
 
 " Oh ! you must not die till I come back ; I am 
 not afraid now 1 go." Tears stopped her words, 
 but she darted swiftly through the door. 
 
 Like almost all children of her age and condition, 
 Francesca had implicit faith in the absurd tales of 
 supernatural appearances, so common among the 
 ignorant and superstitious, although the good priest 
 had endeavored, in some measure, to guard her 
 against their influence. She was agitated by two 
 emotions : the one, that her mother might die with- 
 out confession ; the other, that she herself might 
 meet some terrible phantom on her road. The 
 former made her, at first, run with her utmost speed 
 across the country, without the slightest thought of
 
 182 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 
 
 what might await her ; but, as her strength gradually 
 failed, and she was obliged to slacken her pace, the 
 second had so much power over her that she sud- 
 denly stopped, rooted, as it were, to the spot, and 
 unable to move. Superstitious terror, my young 
 friends, is perhaps one of the most overpowering of 
 all human infirmities ; it is but too common to all 
 ages and conditions, but its withering influence is 
 most potent when the mind is ignorant and untaught: 
 knowledge and science, united to the conviction of 
 the constant supervision of our omniscient God, are 
 our best safeguards against it. The young are most 
 liable to be assailed by it, and yield most readily to 
 its tyranny. Poor Francesca felt its terrible power ; 
 she trembled in every limb, while fancy gave to nat- 
 ural objects an exaggerated and supernatural ap- 
 pearance. The long shadows which the trees threw 
 across the road seemed, to the simple country girl, 
 so many phantoms rising up to obstruct her path ; 
 the wind, in its fierce whistling, spoke to her in 
 threatening tones ; and the snow, crunched under her 
 trembling weight, whispered to her in strange and 
 sad meanings. The church-yard was immediately 
 before her, and she lost all her remaining courage as 
 she gazed upon its swelling graves and white crosses, 
 brilliant and glittering in their snowy robes. As in- 
 capable of advancing as of receding, she stood for a
 
 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 183 
 
 time motionless, with one foot upon the road and 
 the other upon the path that led across the ceme- 
 tery. 
 
 Suddenly the clock of St. Jervaise began to strike 
 the hour of twelve. Its slow and solemn tones, 
 united with the dismal wailing of the wind, increased 
 the terror of the poor child. All the tales of the 
 dead rising from their graves at that terrible hour ; 
 of ghostly forms, flitting in their white shrouds from 
 tomb to tomb, so aptly represented to her disordered 
 fancy by the snow-drifts lying around ; and of ter- 
 rific shapes luring the unwary traveller to destruc- 
 tion all recurred to her mind, and made her fancy 
 that she could see them gazing at her with stony 
 eyes, and hear them muttering in every sound. She 
 felt her limbs trembling and failing, and she sank 
 upon her knees even without the power to pray. 
 
 We know not how long she remained in that 
 state of bodily and mental torpor. The severe cold 
 at last recalled her wandering senses ; she thought of 
 her sick mother, who had perhaps that instant died 
 died without confession, and by her fault. This 
 painful idea, overpowering every fear, made her pre- 
 pare to rise; but she first uttered a heartfelt though 
 brief prayer for strength and courage to enable her 
 to pass those dreaded graves ; the silent tenants of 
 manv of which, she herself, though young, had
 
 184 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 
 
 known m life. Then, strengthened by this act of 
 devotion, she suddenly rose from her knees, passed, 
 without looking either to the right or left, rapidly 
 through the church-yard, and at last reached the 
 dwelling of the priest. 
 
 " My mother is dying," was all that Franceses 
 could say to the female servant who opened the 
 door. She was taken into the house and permitted 
 to enjoy the welcome luxury of a fire, until the 
 priest, clad in his sacred vestments, and bearing the 
 holy oil, made his appearance. He was accompa- 
 nied by his nephew, a young boy, likewise clothed 
 in gown and cap, and guided by Francesca they 
 hastened to the aid of the sick woman. 
 
 As they approached the cottage, Francesca saw a 
 white cloud rising in the eastern horizon, and ex- 
 claiming, with a trembling voice, "It is already 
 daybreak, and my mother is dead," she again burst 
 into tears, and covered her face with her apron. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that the good priest 
 could soothe her grief and induce her to proceed. 
 As they entered the house, the exclamation, " Praise 
 be to heaven !" uttered by the dying woman when 
 she saw his white robes, made the priest aware that 
 he was yet in time, and gladdened the heart of poor 
 Francesca, who, with the boy, remained in the 
 porch, while the priest approached her mother's bed.
 
 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 185 
 
 " Oh, merciful heaven ! a quarter of an hour 
 more !" said the dying woman ; and then, seeing the 
 priest near her, she added : " Death has already 
 seized upon me ; I feel it in my heart come nearer, 
 quickly listen to me, and receive my confession 
 and oh, my soul ! tell me, can I hope for pardon ? 
 Twelve years ago the Marchioness of Casa-Flor she 
 she lives in Barcelona gave me her child to 
 nurse, and went away with her husband on a long 
 journey. The children my own child and hers 
 were of the same age alike in size in complexion 
 but hers was sickly. I thought, and my husband 
 too, that it could not live. Why should the child 
 of the rich one die, and mine my poor little one 
 live live to be poor and wretched ? I changed 
 them gave mine to the lady, and kept the little 
 sick babe for my own, but a just God has punished 
 me. . My child, my strong, healthy one died, and I, 
 its own mother, could could not even kiss its pale 
 lips ! The other lived the other is is " 
 
 "The other is " repeated the priest, bending 
 eagerly down, for he well knew that the unhappy 
 woman was on the very point of death " the other 
 is?" 
 
 " Francesca pardon oh, my Sa " She expired 
 uttering these, her last words. 
 
 " Mother ! dear mother !" exclaimed poor Fran-
 
 186 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 
 
 cesca, as she rushed weeping to the bed, and threw 
 herself upon the lifeless form that lay there. She 
 had not heard the confession, but the sad and solemn 
 prayers for the dead, uttered by the priest, had 
 warned her that she had forever lost her whom she 
 had always called her mother. 
 
 " She was not your mother, my child," said the 
 priest in gentle tones; "your mother is yet living. 
 Be thankful that heaven granted you strength and 
 courage to come and seek me. A quarter of an 
 hour more and you would indeed have been an or- 
 phan." 
 
 Francesca looked at him in amazement, but un- 
 derstood not the meaning of his words; and as little 
 did she understand why, after a brief space of time, 
 he took her by the hand and led her back with him 
 to his own dwelling. The good priest delivered her 
 to the charge of his housekeeper, and, in half an 
 hour the latter made a complete and surprising 
 change in the outward appearance of our little girl. 
 She was decently and comfortably clad, and with 
 her face and hands perfectly clean, and her hair 
 neatly combed, she appeared a different being from 
 the terrified, half-frozen, and forlorn little child, who 
 had, a few hours before, passed in fear and trembling 
 through the cemetery of St. Jervaise. 
 
 The priest took her to the house of the Marchio-
 
 SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR. 187 
 
 ness of Casa-Flor, sent his name to that lady, and 
 soon after, leading Francesca by the hand, found 
 himself in her presence. Kindly and gradually he 
 prepared her afflicted heart for the glad tidings he 
 was about to give ; he spoke to her of the dead 
 child ; of the visit which he had paid to the dying 
 nurse ; of the confession which she had made, and, 
 finally, presented Francesca as her own true and 
 loving daughter. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the mingled 
 wonder, doubt, and joy which his communication 
 caused. The doubt, however, was almost moment- 
 ary, for the striking likeness of Francesca to herself 
 soon convinced the Marchioness that she was indeed 
 her own child. In heartfelt thankfulness she re- 
 ceived and acknowledged her as such. And Fran- 
 cesca ! Happy and beloved, she never forgot her 
 mid night journey through the dreaded church-yard, 
 and as she thought of the vain terrors that had 
 made her utter a premeditated lie, she sincerely la- 
 mented her fault, and as sincerely thanked Heaven 
 for the courage that had at last enabled her to per- 
 form her duty.
 
 GIVE. 
 
 SEE the rivers flowing 
 
 Downward to the sea, 
 Pouring all their treasures 
 
 Bountiful and free 
 Yet to help their giving 
 
 Hidden springs arise ; 
 Or, if need be, showers 
 
 Feed them from the skies ! 
 
 Watch the princely flowers 
 
 Their rich fragrance spread, 
 Load the air with perfumes 
 
 From their beauty shed 
 Yet their lavish spending, 
 
 Leaves them not in dearth , 
 With fresh life replenished 
 
 By their mother earth ! 
 
 Give thy heart's best treasures : 
 
 From fair nature learn ; 
 Give thy love and ask not, 
 
 Wait not a return ! 
 And the more thou spendest 
 
 From the little store, 
 With a double bounty 
 
 God will give thee more.
 
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