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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 OUR 
 
 HAP P'Y HOME; 
 
 FAMILY CIRCLE 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. SARAH GOULD. 
 
 " Home is the resort 
 
 Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where, 
 Supporting and supported, polished friends 
 And dear relations mingle into bliss." 
 
 BOSTON- 
 BRADLEY, DAYTON & CO., 
 
 20 WASHINGTON STKEET
 
 atered, according to Act of Conj?i,.. in the yoar ISfiG, by 
 
 MKU1INS AND KKAPI.KY 
 In tho Clerk 'sOffl- ofthi- District C t,rtof the District :>f Jla.ssj-hiiwt
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Our Happy Home ! One of the sweet- 
 est words in the English language, is 
 Home ; be it ever so humble, there is al- 
 ways connected with it some of the most 
 pleasant associations of life. 
 
 " There is no sweeter spot than home 
 
 Upon this bleak and barren earth ; 
 There are no purer joys below 
 
 Than sparkle round the peaceful hearth. 
 At home the wearied one may rest 
 
 Awhile from tasks of worldly strife ; 
 At home the care-worn soul may find 
 
 A shelter from the storm of life." 
 
 With what pleasure does the aged sire, 
 upon whose brow is stamped the impress 
 of seventy winters, relate the scenes of his 
 youth. Time has not erased them from 
 his memory, though he may have forgotten 
 the events that occurred yesterday; but 
 
 622754
 
 j v NOTE. 
 
 tho.se of his childhood days, are indelibly 
 fixed upon his mind, and cannot be oblit- 
 erated. He also may have travelled into 
 foreign lands roamed amid the " sunny 
 climes " of Spain, and Italy, and visited all 
 those remains of ancient grandeur of which 
 the Old World so proudly boasts ; at the 
 eame time, amid all those stupendous 
 scenes, his mind will wander back to his 
 native land, and his strongest and most 
 ardent desire will continue to be, at the 
 old mansion home, though it be crumbling 
 to the dust, by the hand of time, and all 
 that is near and dear laid low in the silent 
 grave. 
 
 " O, carry me back to my childhood's home, 
 
 Where ocean surges roar, 
 Where its billows dash on a rock-bound coast, 
 
 And mourn forever more. 
 I'm pining away in a stranger's land, 
 
 Beneath a stranger's eye ; 
 O, carry me home, O, carry me home, 
 O, carry me home to die ! " 
 
 8. G.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Flower Angels, 1 
 
 The Little Star Gazer, 8 
 
 Benevolence, .........10 
 
 New Tippet's Worth, 16 
 
 Failure and Success, 18 
 
 His First Cigar, 19 
 
 The Moss Eose, 22 
 
 Flowers of Spring, . 24 
 
 Mary, Ellen, and the Tin Box, 26 
 
 Billy Babbit to Mary, 29 
 
 Make Your Mark, 30 
 
 The Honest Boy, 31 
 
 The Quarrel, 32 
 
 The Thistle Sifter, 35 
 
 A Puzzle, 35 
 
 Borrowing, 36 
 
 The Bear and the Children, 40 
 
 The Eose, 42 
 
 Why our Dog's Teeth are White, 43 
 
 Flowers, 48 
 
 The Clever Boy, ........ 49 
 
 Only One Brick on Another, 54 
 
 /The Advent of Hope, ...,,. 56 
 
 (v)
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Child and Sire, ... .... 56 
 
 Flowers, 57 
 
 Kind Hearts Everywhere, . ..... 61 
 
 Voice of New England, ....... 62 
 
 Til be a Man, 64 
 
 To my Sister, 65 
 
 The Pledge, 66 
 
 George and His Dog, ... ... 67 
 
 The Fly with a Sore Toe, 68 
 
 Care, 71 
 
 True Love 71 
 
 The Bible, 71 
 
 I live to Learn, 72 
 
 What the Pine Trees Said, 73 
 
 Home of the Heart, ........ 76 
 
 The Bible, 78 
 
 Who made all Things ? 79 
 
 Why is the Rose most Beautiful ? 80 
 
 My Country, 81 
 
 Property ; or, Yours and Mine, 82 
 
 Morning Hymn, ... 91 
 
 The Child at the Tomb, 92 
 
 Jesus our Example, ........ 94 
 
 Angry Words, 94 
 
 Promises ... 95 
 
 Nothing is Lost, .96 
 
 Fighting in Love, 97 
 
 Good and Evil, 102 
 
 True Religion, 102 
 
 The Spring's Return, . . . . . . .103 
 
 My Home 104 
 
 Home, 105 
 
 War, .... . 106
 
 CONTENTS. VT1 
 
 The Little Garden, Ill 
 
 Thunder Storm on the Alps, 112 
 
 Cocoa, , . . . 113 
 
 The Promises, . 119 
 
 Patience, 119 
 
 Home, 120 
 
 Truth, The Watercress Man, 121 
 
 The Youngest, . 130 
 
 Speak Kindly to the Poor, 131 
 
 A Garland of Spring Flowers, 192 
 
 The Promises, 134 
 
 The Pleasures of Learning, 135 
 
 My Home, ,139 
 
 The Good we Might Do, 140 
 
 The Unsteady Youth, 141 
 
 The Spirit's Whisper, 148 
 
 Susan Gray, 150 
 
 The Indian Maiden's Farewell, 154 
 
 True Charity, 155 
 
 Temptations, . .159 
 
 Avarice Punished ... 161 
 
 My Mignonette, or Too Late, ... .162 
 
 Little Things, ... . 165 
 
 Ihe Angel Visit, 166 
 
 The Hose-Bell 172 
 
 The Angel of Humanity, . . . . . .173 
 
 Pearls and Pebbles, . . . . . . .177 
 
 Who is Happy? 178 
 
 At Home! At Home! 180 
 
 The Blind Boy, 181 
 
 Eedeeming the Time, 183 
 
 Voice of the Old Year, 187 
 
 Home, A Mother's Death 196
 
 VJiJ CONTENTS. 
 
 . 200 
 
 Losses, 
 
 Christmas Brilliants, 201 
 
 202 
 Honor Among Boys, 
 
 The First Robin, 205 
 
 The Robin's Appeal, 2( 
 
 True Love 2 7 
 
 Influence , 208 
 
 Worth of a Kiss, 209 
 
 The Philosophy of Rain, . . > . -212 
 Come Home, my Stricken Daughter, . 214 
 
 My Philosophy, 215 
 
 Absence 216 
 
 The Importance of Punctuality, 217 
 
 Angel Home, 221 
 
 My Own Heart's Home, 222 
 
 The First Lie, 224 
 
 A Gentle Man 230 
 
 Wiser than the Emperor, 235 
 
 The Test of Friendship, '242 
 
 Little Things, 243 
 
 To the Birds of Spring, 244 
 
 Happy New Year, .... 245
 
 OUR HAPPY HOME. 
 
 THE FLOWER ANGELS. 
 
 BY MISS SEDGWICK. 
 
 " MOTHER," said Emma Goodwin, who had been 
 reading Mary Howitt's pretty ballad called " Ma- 
 bel on Midsummer's Day," " do you believe there 
 ever were such people as Fairy-folk ? " 
 
 " I cannot say, Emma ; there are and have 
 been strange things in this world of ours." 
 
 " That does not answer my question, dear 
 mother. I want to know if there were ever 
 really fairies ; and if there were, why did they 
 Bay to little Mabel, 
 
 " The lady fern is all unbroke, 
 
 The strawberry flower untak'n ; 
 What shall be done for her 
 Who still from mischief can refrain ? ' M 
 1 (1)
 
 2 THE FLOWER ANUELS. 
 
 "Why, Emma, they spoke like very sensible 
 little fairies. They commended Mabel for not 
 plucking and marring flowers she had been asked 
 not to touch. 
 
 " As to the existence of these fairies, that, I be- 
 lieve, is imaginary ; but I will tell you a story of 
 our own times. 
 
 " There is a certain city that you and I know 
 so compactly built that thousands of people in 
 it have no ground to plant a shrub. 
 
 " The whole growing season passes the 
 spring time and summer ; all the wonderful pro- 
 cesses of nature go on, the sowing and reap- 
 ing, the budding and blossoming, and they 
 have no sweet scent or lovely sight of flowers. 
 
 " For these poor people, thus deprived by 
 poverty and circumstances of their participation 
 in God's beautiful creation, a public ground was 
 bought, planted with trees, shrubs, and flowers, 
 and the public were asked to respect what was 
 provided for the public to enjoy. This public 
 ground was called Christian Square. 
 
 " It happened in early summer, in June, the 
 ' month of flowers,' that Fantasy, a little girl 
 about your age, was passing at twilight on her
 
 THE FLOWER, ANGELS. 3 
 
 way norne through Christian Square. Just with- 
 in the railing on the south side there was a bed 
 of lilies of the valley. 
 
 " The lily of the valley seems, you know, to 
 have warmth of its own in its little heart, for it 
 does not need sunshine. The flowers were abun- 
 dant. Fantasy stopped to gaze on them. 
 
 " She knew well that it was forbidden to touch 
 any thing within that enclosure ; but she said, 
 
 " ' To-morrow they will fade and die. No one 
 will again see them to-night ; surely I may pick 
 one little bunch of them.' 
 
 "And she stooped to pick them, when, lo ! forth 
 from one of the flower bells came a tiny form, 
 wrapped in a robe of snowy hue. 
 
 " ' My little lady,' said a silvery voice, pluck 
 not my flowers.' 
 
 " ' And pray who are you ? ' asked Fantasy, 
 trembling more with pleasure than fear at a sight 
 so strange and beautiful. 
 
 " ' I am the lilies' angel. I hang them under 
 their green tent ; I drop the dews on their sweet 
 lips ; I shelter their modest heads in shadow ; I 
 tend them from their birth to their death. 7 
 
 " ' And why may they not as well die on my 
 bosom as here ? ' asked Fantasy.
 
 THE FLOWER AJSIGEL3. 
 
 " The gentle spirit heeded not the pertness 01 
 the little girl, but patiently replied, 
 
 " ' Because you are but one, my child, and here 
 they are set for the good of many. Here they 
 speak a word of God's kind providence to the 
 sick and old who come tottering by ; to the poor 
 from garret and cellar where no flowers live and 
 breathe ; to all who have an eye to see God in 
 the beauty he has made.' 
 
 " The lilies' angel sank down and disappeared 
 behind the flower cups, and Fantasy passed on. 
 
 " She next approached a rose, whose manifold 
 branches were clasped around a green stake. It 
 was full of roses and swelling buds. Stretching 
 out her hands, she said, 
 
 " ' I will at least have one rose ! ' when a sharp 
 voice exclaimed, 
 
 " ' Hands off, little lady, or my thorns will 
 pierce you!' 
 
 " ' And who are you ? ' asked the bold child. 
 
 ' ' Behold me 1 ' said the roses' angel ; and with- 
 out the sound of even a rustled leaf, forth from 
 the dark centre of the bush rose a form so 
 lovely that Fantasy shouted with delight. 
 
 "The brow, and neck, and arms were white
 
 THE FLOWER ANGELS. 5 
 
 as the Rose Unique, blended with the faint tint 
 of the Maiden's Blush ; the cheeks were of the 
 hue of the Damask Rose ; the lips were of the 
 richest red of the Chinese Rose ; the flowing 
 curls of the color of the Yellow Scotch Rose ; 
 and around the figure floated a cloud tinged with 
 the hue of every rose that blooms. 
 
 " ' I love thee, little maiden/ said the angel, 
 ( for thou lovest flowers, and round such the in- 
 visible flower angels are ever floating. Seek the 
 tokens of our favor elsewhere. Here the flowers 
 are fo all, not for one. If thou dost respect us, 
 touch them not.' The rose angel vanished. 
 
 " Fantasy walked slowly on, and from every 
 flower came forth its angel : the Forget-me-not's 
 wore a zone of her blue flowers ; the Sweet Pea's 
 a wreath of its lovely blossoms drooping over its 
 arch, laughing eye ; and the Carnation's bore a 
 shining shield with its rich flower in its centre. 
 
 " Each waved a hand to Fantasy as she passed, 
 and said, 
 
 " 'We are for all not for one little maiden !' 
 
 " Fantasy came to a bed of Hear-t's-ease - 
 court beauties, dressed in royal velvets ! Old hab- 
 its will prevail against the best of new lessons.
 
 G THE FLOWER ANGELS. 
 
 " Fantasy stooped to pick 'just one ; ' when, lol 
 hundreds of tiny fairies, glowing with rainbow 
 tints, rose from them, and one spoke, 
 
 " ' After all, little maiden, that you have been 
 permitted to see and hear in your twilight pas- 
 sage among us, if you pluck but "just one " of 
 the flowers we tend for all, you must forfeit 
 Hearts-ease forever.' 
 
 " ' I never will,' replied Fantasy ; ' and here/ 
 she added, clasping her little hands, ' I vow that 
 I will never touch tree or shrub, flower or blade 
 of grass provided for all, and not for one"?' 
 
 " A soft, musical murmur came forth from tree, 
 and shrub, and flower. Fantasy heard it. Such 
 harmony ! it was such as Nature always breathes 
 in the presence of those who love and serve 
 her. 
 
 " It is not often permitted to mortals to hear 
 it. Fantasy was buoyed up by it, as by praise 
 from those we love. 
 
 " As she emerged from the farther gate into 
 the paved etreet, she paused under a tulip tree. 
 It was nearly dead hardly a leaf on its stately 
 branches. The summer before, it had been full 
 of polished green leaves and magnificent flowers.
 
 THE FLOWER ANGELS. 7 
 
 " ' Why so changed ? ' thought Fantasy. She 
 heard a voice replying to her thought, 
 
 " ' Look on the noble trunk, and see it gashed, 
 and nearly girdled. Those wounds were made 
 in mean revenge by a wanton boy, who was 
 driven out of Christian Square last year for 
 plucking the flowers. I am the tree's spirit, its 
 life, and by that boy's rude hand doomed to leave 
 it forever.' 
 
 "And from the gently-stirring branches rose, 
 to Fantasy's eye. a cloud, and floated away, lost 
 in the dim atmosphere. 
 
 " ' Poor tree ! ' she said ; ' who could have had 
 the heart to kill that which God and years had 
 made so beautiful ? ' " 
 
 The girl heard her mother to the close, and 
 then, taking a long breath, she said, 
 
 " What does this mean, mother ? Is it not a 
 true story ? " 
 
 " No, my child, it is not. You may call it a 
 dream, a vision, a mesmeric sleep, any thing you 
 please, so that you learn from it to .respect and 
 keep your hands off from whatever adorns those 
 grounds provided at the expense of the public 
 for the public to enjoy."
 
 THE LITTLE STAR GAZER. 
 
 THE LITTLE STAR GAZER. 
 
 I'm looking on the stars, mother, 
 That shine up there, all bright, 
 
 So like a brilliant string of beads 
 Around the neck of Night. 
 
 I love to greet their smiles, mother, 
 That fall soft from the skies ; 
 
 They seem to gaze on me in love 
 With their sweet angel eyes. 
 
 It seems to me sometimes, mother, 
 That they are windows bright, 
 
 Through which the happy spirits look, 
 And shines heaven's holy light. 
 
 O, are they not the gates, mother, 
 Of radiant pearl and gold, 
 
 By which we enter heaven at last, 
 To rest in God's dear fold ? 
 
 They look as if they were, mother, 
 Bright golden bells that ring, 
 
 And make accordant music tones 
 Whene'er the angels sing.
 
 THE LITTLE STAR GAZER. 
 
 Yon sky a garden seems, mother, 
 
 All full of flowery beds, 
 Where sunbeams sleep, and summer's breath 
 
 Its incense ever sheds. 
 
 O, I could almost leave thee, mother, 
 
 My happy home and thee, 
 To roam amid that starry field, 
 
 And in that garden be. 
 
 I would be like a star, mother, 
 
 Far from the touch of bin, 
 And ever own a heart that glows 
 
 All full of light within. 
 
 When at night I go to sleep 
 Fourteen angels are at hand : 
 
 Two on my right their watches keep 
 Two on my left to bless me stand ; 
 
 Two hover gently o'er my head ; 
 
 Two guard the foot of my small bed ; 
 
 Two wake me with the sun's first ray 
 
 Two dress me nicely every day ; 
 
 Two guide me on the heavenly road 
 
 That leads to paradise and God.
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 [SARAH BUNTIN, with a Bundle of Clothes, WIL- 
 LIAM, with a Basket of Provisions, going to visit 
 a poor family, meet ROBERT DAWSON, a School 
 mate.] 
 
 Robert. Good morning, Sarah and William ; 
 where are you going so early this morning? 
 
 Sarah. We are going over to Mrs. Gently's to 
 carry some clothes and provisions, so that the 
 children can go to school. 
 
 Robert. Are they so poor that they cannot get 
 clothes to wear to school ? 
 
 Sarah. Yes, they are. They have neither clothes 
 nor food to make them comfortable. 
 
 Robert. Why don't they work and earn money 
 wherewith to buy them clothes and food ? 
 
 Sarah. They do, Robert ; and yet they cannot 
 earn enough, I fear, to keep them from starving ; 
 for nobody has now any work to give them. 
 
 Robert. Have they no father ?
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 11 
 
 Sarah. No, Robert, they have no father. Their 
 father was blind. He died a few weeks since, 
 after being blind many years. 
 
 Robert. How came he to be blind ? 
 
 Sarah. It is a sad story. While he was at 
 work, perfecting an important invention which 
 required great use of the eyes, things began to 
 look dark to him ; he could not see the fine lines 
 clearly ; every day it grew darker and darker till 
 all became as dark as night. Then the poor man 
 sat down with his wife and children and thought 
 over what he should do. 
 
 Robert. Well, what did he do ? 
 
 Sarah. He heard of a great doctor in Philadel- 
 phia who was famous for curing blindness ; so he 
 sold his little farm, and cows, and sheep, and took 
 the money to pay his expenses in moving his fam- 
 ily to Philadelphia and to pay the doctor. 
 
 Robert. And did the doctor help him ? 
 
 Sarah. No ; after trying the most celebrated 
 physicians, and spending all his money, he found 
 himself a beggar, and blind as ever. 
 
 Robert. How sad ! What did he then do ? 
 
 Sarah. He looked round for something to do 
 for a living. At last he found a man who em
 
 12 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 ployed him to turn a grindstone where they 
 'made cutlery. 
 
 Robert. And could he earn enough by turning 
 a grindstone to support his wife and children ? 
 
 Sarah. No ; his wife took in washing ; and 
 while he had employment they were able to earn 
 enough to live from day to day. 
 
 Robert. What did the children do ? 
 
 Sarah. They helped their mother, out of school 
 hours, except when Nancy was with her father, 
 leading him to and from his work. Every morn- 
 ing she would take him by the hand and lead him 
 all the way up Water Street into Yine Street, 
 where the manufactory was, and then run home 
 and help her mother till school. Then at night 
 she would go and lead her father home again. 
 
 Robert. Tell me more about the blind man. 
 What became of him ? 
 
 Sarah. After a while business oecame dull, and 
 they did not want him at the factory to turn 
 the grindstone ; so he and Nancy walked all over 
 the city to find work ; but nobody wanted him ; 
 the^e was nothing which he could do. So rather 
 than starve he sat down on a little stool by the 
 8ide of an old graveyard in Mulberry Street, juet
 
 1 
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 13 
 
 by where Benjamin Franklin was buried, and 
 held out his old worn-out cap for the passers by 
 to throw in their pennies. There were some who 
 would take pity on the poor blind man and give 
 him ?,ome money. This was not all. His wife, 
 by her hard work and anxiety, became sick and 
 unable to take in washing for a time. This dis- 
 heartened the poor man so that he became sick, 
 and died of a broken heart. 
 
 Robert. A sad story indeed. What became of 
 the wife and the children ? 
 
 Sarah. They became perfectly destitute, and 
 had nothing to eat, nor hardly any clothes to 
 wear. One evening, after they had been with- 
 out food all day, Nancy thought she would go 
 down to the Post Office, where she had seen 
 other children sometimes hold out their hands 
 for gentlemen to give them pennies, and hold 
 out her hand ; perhaps some one would give her 
 something, and then she could buy some bread 
 for her mother and little sister to keep them from 
 starving. 
 
 Robert. Well, what luck did she have ? 
 
 Sarah. She went and stood by the door that 
 opens into the Post Office, and tried to hold out
 
 14 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 her hand as she had seen other little beggars do, 
 At first she could hardly get it out ; she seemed 
 to feel ashamed to do it. At last a gentleman 
 who noticed her, observing that she was not one 
 of the common beggars, spoke to her kindly, and 
 asked her who she was, and where she lived, and 
 a great many other question^, which she answered 
 so honestly and frankly that he gave her some 
 money, and afterwards went home with her to see 
 her sick mother and sister. 
 
 Robert. He was a kind man. How did he find 
 them. 
 
 Sarah. He found them in the fourth story of a 
 poor old building in Water Street, where they 
 lived in a little attic room with only one bed, one 
 table, a chair, and a stool for their furniture, and 
 nothing to eat. He then gave them some money, 
 and came home to our house, where he boards, 
 and told us all he had seen. He then proposed 
 that we should make a collection of clothes and 
 provisions for the family, and send them. So 
 this morning mother and I picked up all our old 
 dresses, and made up a basket of provisions, with 
 some money from the boarders, and Billy and I 
 are going to carry them to the poor family
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 15 
 
 Robert. You are very kind, Sarah. I am very 
 sorry for them. Your story and generosity have 
 interested me in doing something for them my- 
 self. Here is a sixpence T was going to spend 
 for marbles. [Gives it to Sarah.] I will give 
 them 'that ; and I should like to go and see them 
 with you. Can I go,? 
 
 Sarah. Certainly ; with all my heart. It will 
 do you good to see those kind little girls and pa- 
 tient mother who have suffered so much hunger 
 and cold rather than beg. My mother tells me 
 " it is better to give than to receive ; " that all 
 our little actb of kindness to the poor are treas- 
 ures laid up in heaven, where neither moth nor 
 rust will corrupt, nor thieves break through and 
 steal. 
 
 Robert. I have heard that before ; but I never 
 understood it as I do now. I will try and lay up 
 some treasure there too ; so let us be going.
 
 16 A NEW TIPPET'S WORTH. 
 
 A NEW TIPPET'S WORTH. 
 
 " I do not want a new tippet this winter, nor 
 any thing new, dear mother," said a little girl, 
 when her mother began to tell about buying 
 some new winter clothes ; " do, mother, let me 
 wear my old ones." 
 
 " Not want a new tippet, when all your cous- 
 ins are to have new ones ? " said the mother ; 
 " why, I never saw a child that did not like new 
 things ! " 
 
 " I do not know as I do, exactly," said Janette. 
 
 " And why do you not ? " asked her mother ; 
 " why not ? " 
 
 " Because," said the little girl, hesitating a mo- 
 ment, " because it makes me feel real bad to be 
 dressed up so, when there are so many children 
 who have no clothes to wear, or houses to live in, 
 or bread to eat. 
 
 " mother ! if instead of buying me a new tip- 
 pet you would only let me have the money to help 
 them with, then I should be happy." 
 
 As the mother listened to all her daughter 
 eaid tears came in her eyes, for she was afraid
 
 A NEW TIPPET'S WORTH. 17 
 
 she had thought more of dressing her little girl 
 in fine clothes than of teaching her to love oth 
 ers, and of finding her the means of carrying out 
 her love. But this had been taught Janette by 
 her heavenly Parent, who is called the God of 
 love. 
 
 And what does Christian love ask of you, and 
 me, and every little child ? That we must not 
 live only to clothe, and feed, and improve, and 
 please ourselves. 
 
 0, no ; for we have a great many brothe^ and 
 sisters in the world who are destitute, and wicked, 
 and sorrowful ; and the great God gives to us, that 
 we may share with them. 
 
 And now, as winter approaches, how many 
 children feel like giving a beautiful new tippet's 
 worth to help the poor? Perhaps you are not 
 able to give as much as that ; but will you do 
 something ? As the November winds sweep round 
 your snug little chamber will you remember the 
 poor? 
 
 " And did her mother give Janette the tippet's 
 worth ? " asks some little girl, perhaps. 
 
 Yes, she did. Janette wore her old woollen 
 tippet, and " the new tippet's worth " she gave 
 2
 
 FAILURE AND SUCCESS. 
 
 away to do good to others ; and never was a 
 happier child than she; for the Scripture^says 
 " It is more blessed to give than to receive." 
 
 PBOVERBS. Let them laugh that win. 
 tf o great loss but there is some small gain. 
 Never too old to learn. 
 
 FAILURE AND SUCCESS. 
 
 It is in failure, in distress, 
 
 When, reft of all, it stands alone, 
 
 And not in what men call success, 
 The noble, valiant soul is known. 
 
 He who perfection makes his aim, 
 Shoots at a mark he may not reach ; 
 
 The world may laugh, the world may blame, 
 And what it calls discretion preach. 
 
 Think not of failure or success ; 
 
 He fails who has a low desire. 
 Up to the highest ever press ; 
 
 Still onward, upward, higher, higher I
 
 HIS PIEST CTO.AR. 19 
 
 HIS FIKST CIGAR. 
 
 Letter from Uncle Toby to Billy Bruce, about Jesse 
 Shute with his Lemon and first Cigar. 
 
 MY DEAR BILLY : Let me tell you a story about 
 Jesse Shute. I was once standing on a wharf in 
 New London, waiting for a boat to fire up, bound 
 to New York. Whilst there, my eye rested on a 
 group of small boys, gathered round a sugar boi. 
 
 The most of them were busy in taking their 
 first steps in laying aside the boy and putting on 
 the man. Some were smoking, some were chew- 
 ing, and some were doing their best to perfect 
 the smaller ones in this fine art, or gentlemanly 
 accomplishment ! It was on this occasion I saw 
 Jesse Shute trying his first cigar. 
 
 He was a thin, graceful, elegant boy, with a 
 countenance expressive of fine sensibilities and a 
 fine mind : in fact, he had that rich and delicate 
 structure upon which tobacco plays almost with 
 the fury of lightning in doing mischief. 
 
 The initiatory process went hard with young 
 Jesse. He had a lemon in one hand, and a
 
 20 HIS FIRST CIGAR. 
 
 cheroot in the other ; and he used them scien 
 tifically, I assure you. 
 
 He used them in turn. Now the little fellow 
 would swell, pout, puff, puff, puff and being 
 overcome by the precious fumes, his eyes would 
 roll in their sockets, his limbs give way, and 
 back he would fall on the box, as drunk as a 
 toper in the ditch. 
 
 But his remedy was at hand : his lemon was an 
 antidote to sickness. He greedily put it to his 
 mouth, and drew upon it with the enthusiasm of 
 a young calf 1 This neutralized the nausea. 
 
 And being made sick and well, drunk and 
 sober, some half dozen times by his cigar and 
 lemon, I came to the conclusion that he was a 
 child of peculiar promise, bent on being a genteel 
 dandy quite early, or a great smoker, as Nimrod 
 was a great hunter. 
 
 By this time, I presume, little Jesse struts and 
 shows off in full bloom ; is quite a connoisseur in 
 the cigar science ; talks about good, better, best, 
 of a hundred varieties or more. 
 
 I dare say he wags his head according to rule, 
 perfumes the streets and saloons of New London 
 with what Horace Greeley calls a profane stench ;
 
 HIS 7IRST CIGAR. 21 
 
 and though he was a mere boy then, I presume 
 were I to call him a boy now, he would say, as 
 another little fellow once said when I asked him 
 to step aside and let me pass, " Sir, don't call 
 me a boy ; I have used cigars these three years ! " 
 
 I must not fatigue you, Billy ; but, rely upon it, 
 to use tobacco is no more natural than to swal- 
 low lightning, inhale assafoetida, or live on fire. 
 Hence you must never use it. You are well 
 now ; and neither this nor any other narcotic 
 can make you better. 
 
 If chewers, smokers, or venders entice thee, do 
 not consent. Say to them as Omiah, a youth 
 from Otaheite, said to a great Englishman who 
 offered him his snuff box : " I thank you, my 
 lord, my nose is not hungry ! " 
 
 That is exactly the thing Omiah's nose was 
 not hungry ! Neither is yours nor mine in snuff- 
 ing such fragrance. And if our American lads 
 had the independence of this young pagan, so 
 many of them would not become sickly dupes to 
 this artificial appetite ; but living in harmony 
 with their real nature, in harmony with the voice 
 of God within and around, 
 
 " They would at once draw the sting of life and death, 
 And walk with Nature ; and her paths are peace."
 
 22 THE MOSS ROSE. 
 
 THE MOSS ROSE. 
 
 
 
 Have you ever imagined, when you stood be- 
 side the sweet rose and admired its beauty and 
 inhaled its fragrance, that it was talking all the 
 while ? Listen to a conversation which the pious 
 Krummacher once thought he heard as he stood 
 admiring the moss rose and the simple dress with 
 which the hand of nature, or rather the hand of 
 nature's God, has clothed it. Here it is : 
 
 " The angel who takes care of the flowers, and 
 sprinkles upon them the dew in the still night, 
 slumbered, on a spring day, in the shade of a 
 rosebush. 
 
 " And when he awoke, he said, with a smiling 
 countenance, 'Most beautiful of my children, I 
 thank thee for thy refreshing odor and cooling 
 shade. Could you now ask any favor, how will- 
 ingly would I grant it ! ' 
 
 " ' Adorn me, then, with a new charm/ said the 
 spirit of the rosebush, in a beseeching tone. 
 
 " And the angel adorned the loveliest of flow- 
 ers with simple moss. Sweetly it stood there in 
 modest attire, the moss rose, the most beau- 
 tiful of its kind."
 
 THE MOSS ROSE. 23 
 
 And the good man who wrote this adds, " Lay 
 aside the splendid ornament and the glittering 
 jewel, and listen to the instructions of maternal 
 nature." 
 
 "Whenever, therefore, you feel inclined to envy 
 those who wear costly ornaments the ring of 
 diamonds or the necklace of pearls think of 
 the moss rose, and the lesson of wisdom which it 
 teaches ; and remember that there is no fine gold 
 equal to " the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, 
 which is, in the sight of God, of great price."
 
 24 FLOWERS OE SPRING. 
 
 FLOWERS OF SPRING. 
 
 The violets are coming, 
 
 In the valley on the plain ; 
 And the bees will soon be humming, 
 
 And the streams be free again. 
 There are pretty budding faces 
 
 In the dell, so pure and sweet, 
 And a thousand tiny traces 
 
 Of their little blue-veined feet. 
 
 The violets are coming, 
 
 Their buds are scarcely seen ; 
 But heaven wears a deeper blue, 
 
 And earth a brighter green. 
 The leaves are all unclosing, 
 
 Our hearts grow full and strong, 
 For we hail them as a prelude 
 
 Vo a long bright summer song. 
 
 The violets- are coming, 
 
 There's a perfume on the air ; 
 And the breath of early blossoms 
 
 Uprising everywhere. 
 Oh, I love the summer flowers, 
 
 Each tiny, bright-lipped thing ; 
 But more than them, I dearly love 
 
 The first sweet buds of spring. 
 
 MBS. H. MAKION STEPHEN*.
 
 MAEY, ELLEN, AND THE TIN BOX. 25 
 
 MARY, ELLEN, AND THE TIN BOX. 
 
 In my visit to one of the Boston schools, a 
 child asked me, 
 
 "What does this mean, 'It is more blessed to 
 give than to receive ' ? " 
 
 " Children," I asked, " can any of you tell what 
 it means ? " 
 
 A little girl, whose name was Mary, an- 
 swered, 
 
 " I had a piece of cake the other day. 1 broke 
 it into six pieces, and gave five of them to five 
 other children who were playing with me, and 
 kept the smallest myself." 
 
 " Is not that what it means ? " asked another 
 girl, named Ellen. 
 
 " Yes, Ellen," I replied, " I think it is pretty 
 near the meaning. I know a boy named Clark. 
 He has several brothers and sisters. If Clark 
 gets an apple, an orange, grapes, plums, or any 
 thing, his brothers and sisters are always sure to 
 get the largest share, and often the whole. 
 
 " When they have 8tiy thing, Clark never teases 
 them to give any to him ; but they often plead
 
 26 MARY, ELLEN, AND THE TIN BOX. 
 
 earnestly with him to take some. When he sees 
 he cannot refuse Without hurting their feelings he 
 always takes what they offer. I once asked Clark 
 why he was not as willing to receive from his 
 brothers and sisters as he was to give to them. 
 
 " ' Because/ said the noble boy, ' I feel better 
 pleased when I give to them than I do when they 
 give to me.' 
 
 " ' Why ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' Because I am afraid they will not have 
 enough/ said he. 
 
 " ' What if they should not ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' Why/ said he, ' how could I enjoy any thing 
 when I would be thinking all the time that they 
 wanted it, and that they had deprived themselves 
 of it to give it to me ? ' 
 
 " ' True, Clark, I do not know how you could/ 
 I answered." 
 
 After I had related this story, Mary said, " I 
 think I should be more happy to give than to 
 receive." Poor girl ! she did not know her own 
 heart ; but it was soon brought to the test. 
 
 Ellen took up a painted tin box belonging to 
 Mary, and looked at it. 
 
 " That is mine," said Mary, and snatched it 
 away with some violence.
 
 MABY, ELLEN, AND THE TIN BOX. 27 
 
 Ellen gave it up very quietly, and then said, 
 " Do let me look at it, Mary. It is so pretty ! " 
 
 " I shall not," said Mary, " for it is mine ; and 
 you had no business to touch it." 
 
 " Dear Mary," said I, " do you really think it is 
 more blessed to give than to receive ? You said 
 just now you thought you should be more happy 
 to give than to receive. You do not look very 
 happy now." 
 
 Poor girl ! she was cut to the heart. She in- 
 stantly gave the box to Ellen, hung her head, 
 and began to weep. 
 
 " Children," said I to the scholars, " which do 
 you think would have made Mary more happy 
 to have allowed Ellen to look at the box as much 
 as she pleased, or to have snatched it away as she 
 did ? " 
 
 All answered, " She would have been moife 
 happy if she had allowed her to look at it." 
 
 " So I think," I replied. " You do not feel so 
 happy, Mary, as you would have done if you had 
 told Ellen kindly, when, she took up your box, 
 that she might look at it as much as she pleased." 
 
 " If we feel as we ought to feel," I remarked 
 to the children, "we shall give up our lives to
 
 28 ANECDOTE. 
 
 save the lives of others rather than take away 
 their lives to save our own." 
 
 " If they are our enemies, and are trying to kill 
 us," asked Sarah, " should we feel happier to give 
 up our lives rather than take theirs ? " 
 
 "If we really feel that it is more blessed to 
 give than to receive," I replied, " I think we 
 should suffer and die for the good even of our 
 enemies rather than make them suffer and die for 
 our good. If we practise this precept, as Jesus 
 did, it will prevent all wars, and settle all diffi- 
 culties, without any violence." Jl Kiss for a 
 Blew.
 
 BILLY BABBIT TO MARY. 29 
 
 BILLY RABBIT TO MARY. 
 
 [Billy Rabbit was a little rabbit which a boj caught in the 
 woods and gave to a little girl of the name of Mary. She 
 was very attentive to the little prisoner, gave him an abun- 
 dance of good things to eat, and tried her best to make him 
 happy ; but all in vain. After many attempts, he at last suc- 
 ceeded in making his escape, and iastantly disappeared in tht 
 woods. In the course of the day *he iolio wing letter, sealed 
 with a sharp thorn, was xer-ttYeu by nits friend Mary.] 
 
 ARTICHOKE WOODS. 
 
 You thought, my dfar Mary, you had Billy fast, 
 But I tried very hard, and escaped you at last ; 
 The chance was so tempting I thought I would 'nab it, 
 It was not very nauphty, I'm sure, in a rabbit. 
 O, let not your kind heart be angry with me, 
 But think what a joy it is to be free ; 
 To see the green woods, to feel the fresh air, 
 To skip, and to play, and to run every where. 
 The food that you gave me was pleasant and sweet, 
 But I'd rather be free, though with nothing to eat. 
 
 O, how glad they all were to see me come back ! 
 And every one wanted to give me a smack. 
 Dick knocked over Brownie, and jumped over Bun, 
 And the neighbors came in to witness the fun. 
 My father said something, but could not be heard ; 
 My mother looked at me, but spoke not a word ;
 
 30 MAKE YOUR MARK. 
 
 And while she was looking her eyes became pink, 
 And she shed a few tears, I verily think. 
 
 To him who a hole or a palace inhabits, 
 
 To all sorts of beings, to men, and to rabbits ; 
 
 Ah ! dear to us all is sweet Liberty, 
 
 Especially, Mary, to you and to me. 
 
 So I hope you'll forgive me for sending this letter 
 
 To tell you I'm safe, and feel so much better, 
 
 Cut all sorts of capers, and act very silly, 
 
 And am your devoted, affectionate 
 
 BILLY, 
 
 MAKE YOUR MARK. 
 
 In the quarries should you toil, 
 
 Make your mark ; 
 Do you delve upon the soil ? 
 
 Make your mark ; 
 In whatever path you go, 
 
 In whatever place you stand, 
 Moving swift, or moving slow, 
 With a firm and honest hand 
 Make your mark. 
 
 Life is fleeting as a shade 
 
 Make your mark ; 
 Marks of some kind must be made 
 
 Make your mark ;
 
 THE HONEST BOY. 31 
 
 Make it while the arm IB strong, 
 
 In the golden hours of youth ; 
 Never, never make it wrong ; 
 
 Make it with the stamp of truth 
 Make your mark. 
 
 THE HONEST BOY. 
 
 Once there was a little boy 
 
 With curly hair and pleasant eye 
 A boy who always told the truth, 
 
 And never, never told a lie. 
 
 And when he trotted off to school, 
 The children all about would cry, 
 
 " There goes the curly-headed boy 
 The boy that never tells a lie." 
 
 And every body loved him so, 
 Because he always told the truth, 
 
 That every day, as he grew up, 
 'Twas said, " There goes the honest joutfr 
 
 And when the people that stood near 
 Would turn to ask the reason why, 
 
 The answer would be always this : 
 " Because he never tells a lie."
 
 82 THE QUARREL. 
 
 THE QUARREL. 
 
 [The Father and his two Sons, JULIAN and ALONZO.] 
 
 Julian. Father, Alonzo struck me. 
 
 Fattier. Well, my son, what are you going to 
 do about it ? You can do all that ought to be 
 done to him. 
 
 Julian. But, father, you have often told me I 
 must love him, and never strike him, even if he 
 strikes me. 
 
 Father. Is it because you love your brother, my 
 son, that you did not strike him when he struck 
 you? 
 
 Julian. Yes, father. [Faintly.} 
 
 Father. Well, my son, I am glad you did not 
 strike him, but rather came to me with your com- 
 plaint. What do you want me to do to him ? 
 
 Julian. Why, father, I thought you would wish 
 to punish him if he struck me. 
 
 Father. Do you wish me to whip your brother ? 
 
 Julian. Why, father, you always tell us that 
 you will help us to settle our disputes if we will 
 come to you.
 
 THE QUARREL. 33 
 
 Father. So you would be glad to see him 
 whipped, would you, Julian ? [Julian hangs down 
 his kead, and makes no answer .] Alonzo, my dear, 
 come here. \_Jllonzo goes to his father.} Alonzo, 
 Julian says you struck him, and he seems to wish 
 me to whip you. 
 
 Alonzo. Julian kicked me, father, before I 
 struck him. 
 
 Father. That alters the case : Julian did not 
 tell me that he had done you any injury. 
 
 Alonzo. I should not have struck him if he had 
 not kicked me. 
 
 FatJier. Who ever saw the like of this ? Here 
 are two brothers, each trying to enlist their father 
 in a quarrel against the other. How often have 
 I said to you, children, Love each other, and 
 never fight ! and now each of you wishes me to 
 punish the other. Alonzo, do you wish me to 
 punish your brother? 
 
 Jilonzo. [Looking at Jidian.\ No, father ; [ do 
 not wish to have him punished. 
 
 Father. But Julian wishes me to whip you, 
 Alonzo 
 
 Jilonzo. No matter : I do not wish to have my 
 brother whipped. 
 
 3
 
 34 THE QUARREL. 
 
 Father. What ! not if lie wishes to have you 
 whipped ? 
 
 Jllonzo. No, father. [JJlonzo comes near, and 
 takes hold of Julian's hand.] 
 
 Father. Well, Julian, do you still wish me to 
 whip your brother? 
 
 Julian. No, father ; [In a subdued tone of voice.] 
 I do not wish iny little brother to be punished. 
 
 Father. Julian, my son, how is this ? Just now 
 you seemed to wish me to take sides with you 
 against your brother, and to help you to pun- 
 ish him. 
 
 Julian. That was when I was angry with him ; 
 I do not want you to punish him now. I would 
 rather you should whip me. 
 
 Father. The next time, then, that your brother 
 hurts you in any way, wait till your anger is all 
 gone, and till you can put your arm round him, 
 and love him, as you now do, before you come to 
 ask me to help you to punish him. Never strike 
 him yourself, nor kick him, whatever he does to 
 you, till you can fold him in your arms, and love 
 him as you do at this moment. 
 
 Julian. Why, father, then I should never strike 
 him at all, nor tell you if he struck me.
 
 THE QUARREL. 35 
 
 Father. All the better : then you would never 
 get into a quarrel. When others strike you, 
 never strike them in return ; but pray, to our 
 heavenly Father that he would enable you to " So 
 good for evil, to bless them that curse you, and 
 to pray for them which despitefully use you." 
 
 THE THISTLE SIFTER. Theophilus Thistle, the 
 successful thistle sifter, in sifting a sieve full of 
 unsifted thistles, thrust three thousand thistles 
 through the thick of his thumb ; see that thou, in 
 siftiiig a sieve full of unsifted thistles, dost not 
 thrust three thousand thistles through the thick 
 of thy thumb : success to the successful thistle 
 sifter, who doth not get the thistles in his tongue.
 
 36 BORROWING. 
 
 BORROWING. 
 
 " Borrow seldom, and return punctually. Be careful in no 
 way to injure the property you borrow." Morals of Manners. 
 
 Christine Alton, a girl thirteen years old, re- 
 ceived a note from one of her friends, saying, 
 
 "The long-expected box has come from Canton : 
 come down and drink tea with me, and, Christine, 
 as they say in the advertisements, ' you will hear 
 something to your advantage.' " 
 
 Christine was dressed, and ready to go, when 
 her mother said, 
 
 " It is beginning to rain, my child ; you must 
 take an umbrella." 
 
 Christine looked for one in the umbrella stand ; 
 there was no umbrella there. 
 
 "Where is my father's silk umbrella?" she 
 said. Mr. Hicks had borrowed it a few evenings 
 before, but had not sent it home. 
 
 " But where," asked her mother, " is the little 
 cotton one which I bought on purpose for you ? " 
 
 " 0, that I lent to Ellen Hicks, and she has not 
 returned it."
 
 BORROWING. 37 
 
 " Ask Philanda (the cook) to lend you hers." 
 
 "Mother, she says she lent it last week to 
 cousin Henry, and he has not returned it. I will 
 just run into Anne's, and borrow hers." 
 
 Anne Lincoln, her cousin, lived next door, and 
 in one moment more Christine was in Mrs. Lin- 
 coln's parlor, and asking Anne to be kind enough 
 to lend her her umbrella. 
 
 "I don't know exactly where it is," replied 
 Anne, coldly. 
 
 Anne's mother was struck with her manner, 
 and looking up from her work, she said, 
 
 " Go and find it, Anne." 
 
 Anne winked at her mother, but her mother 
 was determined not to understand her winks. 
 
 " If you are not willing to lend your umbrella, 
 say so, my child ; but don't make a pretext of not 
 knowing where it is." 
 
 " Well, then, I am not willing," said Anne. 
 
 Christine was a girl of quick feelings. She 
 said nothing, but instantly left the house. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean, Anne," said her 
 mother, " by your unwillingness ? Christine and 
 all her family are always ready to lend any thing 
 they possess."
 
 38 BORROWING. 
 
 " I know it, mother ; and to borrow any thing 
 that any body else possesses. Christine has bor- 
 rowed three books of me that she has never re- 
 turned ; and my ' Poetry for Schools ' was ruined 
 there. And last week she borrowed my rubbers, 
 and forgot where she left them." 
 
 "This is very inconvenient and disagreeable, 
 my dear Anne ; still I think if you were even now 
 to lend Christine your umbrella, and to tell her 
 frankly your reasons for having withheld it, it 
 might make her more careful in future. 
 
 "If we were more patient with the faults of 
 others, and took some little pains to mend them, 
 the world would get on better than it does." 
 
 Anne sat for a moment. The advice worked 
 well. She kissed her mother, saying, 
 
 " You speak so gently, mother, I can't help do- 
 ing what you wish." 
 
 She found her umbrella without much difficulty, 
 and felt the pleasure of doing a kindness as she 
 sprang up Mrs. Alton's steps. She found Chris- 
 tine alone in the parlor, looking very disconso- 
 late. Her new silk bonnet was untied, and lying 
 beside her, and the tears were streaming from 
 her eyes.
 
 BORROWING. 39 
 
 " Now, Christine," said Anne, " I am glad to 
 find you alone, because I want to tell you I am 
 ashamed of myself; and that we don't like to say 
 before more than one person at a time, you 
 know." 
 
 Christine, the best-humored of girls, wiped off 
 her tears and smiled. 
 
 " Here, dear Christine," continued Anne, " is 
 the umbrella for you ; and if you will be sure 
 and return it as soon as you come home, I will 
 never be so disagreeable again. 
 
 " And, dear Christine, let me tell you why I 
 was so ; and if you cure me of my fault, why, 
 perhaps I may cure you of yours ; and then we 
 shall love one another the better all our lives." 
 
 And Anne courageously, and very pleasantly, 
 detailed the causes of vexation she had had. 
 
 Christine candidly confessed her fault, and 
 from that moment began a reform which made 
 her a comfortable as well as a charming friend.
 
 40 THE BEAR AND THE CHILDREN. 
 
 THE BEAR AND THE CHILDREN. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 I will tell you a circumstance which occurred 
 a year ago in a country town in the south of 
 Germany. 
 
 The master of a dancing bear was sitting in 
 the tap room of an inn, eating his supper, whilst 
 the bear, poor harmless beast, was tied up behind 
 the wood stack in the yard. 
 
 In the room up stairs three little children were 
 playing about. Tramp ! . tramp ! was suddenly 
 heard on the stairs. Who could it be ? The 
 door flew open, and enter the bear ; the huge, 
 shaggy beast with his clanking chain ! Tired of 
 standing so long in the yard alone, Bruin had at 
 length found his way to the staircase. 
 
 At first the little children were in a terrible 
 fright at this unexpected visit, and each ran into 
 a corner to hide himself; but the bear found 
 them all out, and put his muzzle, snuffling, up to 
 them, but did not harm them in the least. 
 
 " He must be a big dog," thought the children
 
 THE BEAE AND THE CHILDEEN. 41 
 
 and they began to stroke him familiarly. The 
 bear stretched himself out at his . full length 
 upon the floor, and the youngest boy rolled over 
 him, and nestled his curly head in the shaggy, 
 black fur of the beast. 
 
 Then the eldest boy went and fetched his 
 drum, and thumped away on it with might and 
 main ; whereupon the bear stood erect upon his 
 hind "legs and began to dance. What glorious 
 fun! 
 
 Each boy shouldered his musket ; the bear 
 must of course have one too ; and he held it tight 
 and firm, like any soldier. There's a comrade for 
 you, my lads ! and away they marched one, two 
 one, two ! 
 
 The door suddenly opened, and the children's 
 mother entered. You should have seen her 
 speechless with terror, her cheeks white as a 
 sheet, and her eyes fixed with horror. But the 
 youngest boy nodded, with a look of intense de- 
 light, and cried, 
 
 " Mamma, mamma, we are only playing at sol- 
 diers ! " 
 
 At that 'moment the master of the bear made 
 his appearance.
 
 42 THE ROSE. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 * 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 There was once a poor woman who had two 
 children. The youngest had to go every day to 
 the forest to fetch wood. And once, when the 
 little girl had strayed very far, and lost her way, 
 there came a little child, who helped her to pick 
 up the wood, and drag the bundle home ; and 
 when they came near the house, the little child 
 suddenly vanished. 
 
 The maiden told her mother all that had 
 passed ; but she would not believe it. At length 
 the little girl brought home a rose, and said 
 that the beautiful child had given it her, and 
 had told her that when its leaves unfolded he 
 would come again : so the mother put the rose 
 into water. 
 
 One morning the little girl did not get up as 
 usual. The mother went to the bed ; the child 
 was dead ; but it lay there with a calm and 
 lovely smile. And that very morning the leaves 
 of the rose unfolded.
 
 WHY OUR DOG'S TEETH ARE WHITE. 43 
 
 WHY OUR DOG'S TEETH^ARE WHITE. 
 
 Mr. W. There are a great many curious things 
 about the animals which we see every day, and 
 yet do not notice particularly. What are you 
 doing with Ponto, Tom ? 
 
 Tom. Pray, father, look at Ponto, whom you 
 took with you when you went shooting yesterday. 
 Ponto is a fine pointer. I like to go with you 
 when you take him along. It is so curious to see 
 him stop short, when he comes upon a covey of 
 partridges, and point straight at them with his 
 nose ! He must be a very intelligent dog, and 
 very well trained, too, to do it so nicely as he 
 does. I love to observe all his motions. Will 
 you tell us, this morning, why his teeth are so 
 white and clean ? 
 
 Mr. W. My dear boy, this important secret lies 
 in a nutshell. Ponto sets a very high value upon 
 his teeth, and little boys and girls set none what- 
 ever upon theirs. Ponto never goes into a black- 
 smith's shop to gnaw the files ; nor did I ever 
 detect him in the act of chewing small pieces of 
 steel or iron. He thereby keeps his teeth sound 
 and good until he arrives at a good old age.
 
 44 WHY OUR DOO'S TKLTU ARE WHITE. 
 
 Amelia. But we do not eat hon, nor chew files. 
 
 Mr. W. Certainly not ; but you file off the 
 enamel, or outside, with sugar and sweetmeats, 
 and you break them with cracking nuts and plum 
 stones ; so that they decay, and are as useless as 
 if you did both. How is that, my masters and 
 mistresses ? 
 
 Kenneth. Because our teeth are not dogs' teeth. 
 
 Mr. W. They are just like dogs' teeth. We 
 have teeth to bite our food, teeth to tear it, and 
 teeth to grind it. Pray what has Ponto more ? 
 He has "all his now, and a beautiful set they are. 
 I will not say any thing about the color of yours, 
 my children, because I hope to see them, after to- 
 day, pearly white. But alas ! some of you have 
 decayed teeth, which can never be remedied. 
 
 Kenneth. 0, do tell us how Ponto managed his 
 teeth. 
 
 Mr. W. When Ponto was a baby-dog he lived 
 wholly on milk ; and when his teeth were strong 
 enough he began to pick a bone for himself. If 
 his mother had then cut his meat with a knife, 
 and fed him with a fork, his front teeth, for want 
 of something to do, would have become tender 
 and loose. The first bone he picked, one tooth
 
 WHY OUE DOG'S TEETH ARE WHITE. 45 
 
 would drop out, all the others would give way a 
 bit, the food would then get fixed between them, 
 and they would decay and ache, like children's. 
 
 Tom. I do not see how feeding him with a 
 knife and fork should loosen his teeth. 
 
 Mr. W. But I do. Just remember : both your 
 teeth and his are broad behind, and sharp and 
 narrow in front. If all your food or his is cut, 
 and put into your mouth, the broad, back teeth 
 grind it, but the front ones have nothing to do. 
 
 Tom. I should, therefore, think they would not 
 wear out so soon as the back ones. 
 
 Mr. W. My dear Tom, if I could make your 
 right or strongest arm an idle gentleman's, hav- 
 ing nothing to do but to walk about and swing a 
 cane, and your left or weakest arm a blacksmith's, 
 what should we see ? 
 
 Ella. Why, one would be white, and the other 
 black. 
 
 Mr. W. Very true, ^ r ' - Pert; but the left or 
 weaker arm would nu i umy be able to lift greater 
 weights, and strike harder blows, bitf it would be 
 larger, and harder, and stronger. Now, this is 
 just the case with the teeth. If the front teeth 
 have nothing to do, they become discolored
 
 46 WHY OUK DOG'S TEETH ARE WHITE. 
 
 and loose, and the gums grow spongy and un- 
 healthy. 
 
 Amelia. Then the reason why Ponto's teeth are 
 so white and good is because he uses all his teeth 
 front as well as back ? 
 Mr. W. Precisely so. 
 Ella. But why are they white ? 
 Mr. W. Because every mouthful of food torn off 
 is his tooth brush. If he had one tender tooth in 
 front, they would soon lose their whiteness. Feed 
 him with small pieces of meat for a month, and 
 they will be any thing but white. 
 
 Tom. 0, now I see ! We ought not to eat with 
 a knife and fork, or spoon, but gnaw the meat off 
 the bones. I cannot help laughing at the thought 
 of all our boys scrambling for a bite at a boiled 
 leg of mutton ! 
 
 Mr. W. Laughable as all this seems, it is more 
 rational than the boys or girls, or men or women, 
 who cut all their food, and keep their front teeth 
 in perfect idleness, and, shall I add ? dirtiness. 
 Amelia. I Aould think that cannibals, sitting 
 round a fire and eating one another, would have 
 white teeth. 
 
 Tom. And the Tartars or Abyssinians, who eat 
 half-cooked steaks.
 
 WHY OUR DOG'S TEETH ARE \VHITE. 47 
 
 Mr. W. I dare say they have ; but you need 
 neither be Tartars, nor cannibals, nor dogs, and 
 yet have sound and white teeth. This may be 
 done by removing every impurity from 4he teeth, 
 and scrubbing the gums well, daily, with the 
 tooth brush. Remember, that although you may 
 whiten your teeth with tooth powders, yet, unless 
 you do as Ponto does with his tooth brush, 
 brush, ay, and brush roughly, too, both tooth and 
 gum, you may have white teeth, but they cannot 
 be sound and healthy. Brea/cfast-Table Science,
 
 48 FLOWERS. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Flowers for the humble poor, 
 Flowers for the weak and lone, 
 
 Let them gently, gently fall, 
 
 Where the weeds of toil are sown. 
 
 Lifting up foul Discontent, 
 
 From the lonely tenement, 
 
 As the fainting toilers there 
 
 Catch a breath of Heaven's air. 
 
 Flowers ! lay them by the bed- 
 
 Where the restless sick are lying : 
 Let their freshness heal the air, 
 
 Wounded by the sufferer's sighing, 
 Let his eye a moment rest 
 Where its seeing may be blessed, 
 Ere they mingle their sweet breath 
 With the heavy one of Death. 
 
 Flowers for the rich and proud ! 
 
 Lay them in the costly room 
 Where art's thick luxuriant air 
 
 May from Nature catch perfume, 
 And like whispering angels start 
 Pity in the rich man's heart 
 Pity for some humble one, 
 Who of flowers and fruit hath none. 
 
 D.
 
 THE CLEVER BOY. 49 
 
 THE CLEVER BOY. 
 
 BY MRS. S. C. HALL. 
 
 " Well, but, grandmama," expostulated Edwin, 
 " every body says I am very clever : now do not 
 laugh ; every body says so, and what every body 
 says must be true." 
 
 " First," replied his grandmother, " I do not 
 think that what every body says must of necessity 
 be true ; and secondly, in what consists your 
 every body ? " 
 
 " Why, there is nurse." 
 
 " Capital authority ! an old woman who nursed 
 your mother, and, consequently, loves you dearly. 
 Go on." 
 
 " And the doctor ; he said I was a good boyj 
 the other morning, when I swallowed the pill 
 without a wry face." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " All the servants." 
 
 " Excellent servants, Edwin, for the situations 
 they are engaged to fill, but bad judges of a young 
 
 gentleman's cleverness. The rector ? ;; 
 
 4
 
 50 THE CLEVER BOY. 
 
 ' That is cruel of you, grandmamma," replied 
 our conceited little friend ; " you know he would 
 not say it, because I did not get through the com- 
 mandment, in the class, last Wednesday evening." 
 
 " Does your papa say you are clever ? " 
 
 The little fellow made no reply. 
 
 " Do your schoolfellows ? " 
 
 " They are big boys." 
 
 " Then your character for cleverness depends 
 on the old nurse, the still older doctor, and the 
 servants ! " 
 
 Edwin was again silent. 
 
 " This," observed his grandmother, " recalls to 
 my mind one of Randy the Woodcutter's fables. 
 
 " A very pretty little tree grew near a quickset 
 hedge that was cut close by the gardener, and 
 the hedge looked up to the tiny little tree with 
 great respect. It was so short itself that it fan- 
 cied the tree was very tall. There were several 
 brambles and nettles also round about, and they 
 were perpetually praising the little tree, and in- 
 creasing its vanity by their flattery. One day an 
 old rook, the oldest in the rookery, perched on 
 the little tree. 
 
 ' What do you mean/ said the tiny tree, ' bj
 
 THE CLEVER BOY. 51 
 
 / 
 
 troubling me with your familiarity ? The idea of 
 such a bird as you presuming to rest upon iny 
 branches ! ' and the little tree rustled its leaves 
 arid looked very angry. 
 
 " ' Caw, caw ! ' quoth the rook, which signi- 
 fied ' Ah, ah ! ' ' Why, better trees than you are 
 glad to give me a resting-place. I thought you 
 would be gratified by the compliment paid you by 
 alighting on your quivering bough, and by the 
 pleasure of my company : a little thing like you 
 could hardly have possessed much attraction 
 for king rook ; but, indeed, I only perched upon 
 you because you are a little taller than brambles.' 
 
 " The dwarf tree considered it as great an in- 
 sult to be called a ' little thing ' as some folks do 
 to be considered ' not clever ; ' and he said a 
 number j?f foolish words ; amongst others, that 
 1 there were birds that could not fly over him.' 
 
 " ' Ay, indeed/ answered the rook, ' wrens, that 
 never mount higher than a hedge ! ' 
 
 " The rook soon flew away, ' caw-cawing ' at the 
 folly and conceit of the little tree ; and, meeting 
 the gardener, ' Good friend,' he said, ' I have just 
 now been much struck by the conceit and absur- 
 dity of a little tree beside yonder hedge. It is
 
 52 THE CLEVER BOY. 
 
 rather a pretty little thing, and might be brought 
 to something if it were in the society of trees 
 taller and wiser than itself ; but while it has no 
 other companions than brambles and bushes, it 
 will never try to grow tall. Do, good friend, 
 take pity on this tree, and remove it into better 
 company.' And the gardener had a great respect 
 for the opinion of the old rook, and went, the 
 next day, with a spade, and removed the turf, and 
 bared the roots of the conceited tree. ' It is a 
 stunted little thing/ he said ; ' but I will place it 
 in society that will draw it up ; ' and he trans- 
 planted it into a plantation where there were 
 straight and noble trees. The little sapling felt 
 bitterly its own insignificance, and its leaves hung 
 helplessly from the boughs. There were neither 
 hedges, nor brambles, nor nettles, to flatter its 
 vanity nothing to pamper its self-love. There 
 was nothing it could look down on ; the wood- 
 bine turned to the oak for support, and the wild 
 vine clung around the ash. Thus, when the little 
 tree derived no pleasure from looking down, it be- 
 gan to look up. There was a proud, fierce sound 
 amid the leaves of the noble trees, and the 
 breezes carried the sound far and wide. The
 
 THE CLEVER BOY. 53 
 
 gardener had planted the little tree where it had 
 plenty of head room ; and a very beautiful beech 
 which grew near it said, ' Dear me, how you are 
 shooting ! ' and several of the good-natured trees 
 remarked one to the otter, that ' their little neigh- 
 bor seemed determined to grow.' This was quite 
 true. When removed from the babble of low-bred 
 flattery, and placed with those that were better and 
 higher than itself, the little tree began to under- 
 stand that false praise that is, praise for what 
 is not delved is the bitterest of all censures ; 
 and all its hope was, that it might grow like 
 other trees, to be useful according to its kind. 
 One stormy night a sheep and her lamb sheltered 
 beneath its branches. That made the tree now 
 no longer little very happy. In a few more 
 years the gardener laid his hand on its stem, 
 and said to a gentleman who was walking with 
 him, ' See what cultivation which is the educa- 
 tion of trees does ! This was a little stunted 
 thing ; but the good society of tall saplings drew 
 it up. See what it is now ! ' 
 
 " And another day, when there was a very high 
 wind, the tree saw an old, gray-headed rook 
 drifting about, and it invited him to rest ; and
 
 64 ONLY ONE BRICK ON ANOTHER. 
 
 the rook did so ; and the tree recognized the 
 roice of its friend. 'I am happy to see you, 
 grandfather rook,' it said ; ' very happy to see 
 you ; you and yours are quite welcome to rest on 
 or build your nests amongfcay branches. But for 
 you, I should have remained as I was, to be fooled 
 and flattered by brambles now ; but I have 
 learned to let acts, and not words, tell what I am.' 
 And the old rook ' caw-cawed ' again and again, 
 and signified that he knew the time would come 
 when that very tree would be remarl^d alike for 
 its vigor and its beauty. And the old rook told 
 the history of the tree as old people sometimes 
 tell histories over and over again. 
 
 " I ant sure I would be very proud if it taught 
 you, my dear, the folly of believing that you are 
 clever, because people who do not understand 
 what cleverness is, say you are so." 
 
 ONLY ONE BRICK ON ANOTHER. 
 
 Edwin was one day looking at a large building, 
 which they were putting up just opposite to his
 
 ONLY ONE BRICK ON ANOTHER. 55 
 
 house. He watched the workmen from day to 
 day, as they carried up the bricks and mortar, and 
 then placed them in their proper order. 
 
 His father said to him, " Edwin, you seem to 
 be very much taken up with the bricklayers ; 
 pray, what may you be thinking about ? Have 
 you any notion of learning the trade ? " 
 
 " No," said Edwin, smiling ; " but I was just 
 thinking what a little thing a brick is, and yet 
 that great house is built by laying one brick on 
 another." 
 
 "Very true, my boy. Never forget it. Just 
 so it is in all great works. All your learning is 
 only one little lesson added to another. If a 
 man could walk all around the world, it would 
 be by putting one foot before the other. Your 
 whole life will be made up of one little moment af- 
 ter another. Drop added to drop makes the ocean. 
 
 " Learn from this not to despise little things. 
 Learn also not to be discouraged by great labors. 
 The greatest labor becomes easy if divided into 
 parts. You could not jump over a mountain, but 
 step by step takes you to the other side. Do not 
 fear, therefore, to attempt great things. Always 
 remember that the whole of that great building 
 is only one brick upon another."
 
 56 THE ADVENT OF HOPE. 
 
 THE ADVENT OF HOPE. 
 
 Once on a time, from scenes of light 
 An angel winged his airy flight ; 
 Down to this earth in haste he came, 
 And wrote, in lines of living flame, 
 These words on every thing he met, 
 Cheer up ; be not discouraged yet." 
 
 Then back to heaven with speed he flew. 
 Attuned his golden harp anew, 
 Whilst the angelic throng came round 
 To catch the soul-inspiring sound ; 
 And heaven was filled with new delight 
 For HOPE had been to earth that night. 
 
 CHILD AND SIRE. 
 
 " Know you what intemperance is ? " 
 
 I asked a little child, 
 
 
 Who seemed fcao young to sorrow know. 
 
 So beautiful and mild. 
 It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand, 
 
 And to a churchyard near 
 It pointed, whilst from glistening eye 
 
 Came forth the silent tear.
 
 FLOWERS. 57 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 [PETER, NELLiE r <md CAROLINE.] 
 
 I 
 Peter. (Jllone) I wish Nellie and Gary were 
 
 here ; they must be stopping by the way for some- 
 thing. 
 
 Nellie and Gary. (Coming in.} Peter, Peter ! 
 look here 1 look here ! see what a lot of pretty 
 flowers we have fonnd ! (Showing Peter the 
 flowers.) Why didn't you stop and gather some ? 
 
 Peter. How pretty ! Why, here is the 
 
 (naming the flowers.) Where did you find them ? 
 I didn't see them a I came to school. You must 
 have stolen them out of Ned Johnson's garden. 
 
 Nellie. No, we didn't, Peter. We wouldn't do 
 such a thing ; I never steal. These pretty flowers 
 all grew by the road side, near uncle Stephen's 
 orchard. 
 
 Gary. Yes, Peter, and there were plenty more 
 just like them. See! how beautiful this star 
 flower looks ! 
 
 Peter. What made y^& think of gathering 
 flowers to-day ? You never took any notice of 
 them before.
 
 58 FLOWERS. 
 
 Nellie. Why, you know our teacher gave us a 
 lesson the other day on plants and flowers, taught 
 us their names, and told us, when we found any 
 flowers, to bring them to her, and she would tell 
 us what they were. 
 
 Gary. Yes, Peter ; and brother Charles is go- 
 ing to make me some little boxes, and fill them 
 with some nice mould ; and all the pretty plants 
 I can find I am going to transplant into the 
 boxes, so I can water them and see them grow. 
 
 Peter. Well, Gary, I should think it would take 
 a great many boxes to hold all the plants you 
 may find, if you get as many every day as you 
 have to-day. 
 
 Gary. Peter, I don't mean all of them ; I mean 
 only the pretty ones. 
 
 Peter. I should think you would rather set 
 them out in your father's garden, where they 
 would grow without so much care. 
 
 Nellie. O, you know, Peter, that would only do 
 for summer. Cousin Cary wants to see them 
 grow in the winter. 
 
 Cary. Yes, Nellie, you know, when the snow 
 comes, the pretty flowers in the fields and gar- 
 dens will all be covered up, and we shall not see
 
 FLOWERS. 59 
 
 them again till the warm spring sun comes and 
 melts the snow, and brings up another flower. 
 
 Nellie. Just so, Gary ; and when the ground is 
 all covered with snow, and every thing is dead 
 and cold in the fields and gardens, we shall have 
 our little garden of flowers in our mother's kitch- 
 en, which we can water and nourish every day. 
 Do you remember, Peter, that little song our 
 teacher taught us last winter about the flowers ? 
 
 Peter. No, Nellie ; what was it ? 
 
 My pretty flowers are gone away, 
 
 All covered with the snow ; 
 And I must wait till next May-day, 
 
 To see my violets grow. 
 
 I'm very sure the leaves will peep 
 
 Again above the ground, 
 Although the root lies very deep, 
 
 And not a stem is found. 
 
 I'm told, that when the grave shall close 
 
 O'er little Jane and me, 
 We, like our own sweet, fading rose, 
 
 Shall dead but seem to be.
 
 60 FLOWERS. 
 
 I know my mother tells me true ; 
 
 I'm not afraid to go 
 To God, who showers my plants with dew, 
 
 And covers them with snow. 
 
 Peter. Beautiful, beautiful ! How much this 
 song reminds me of my cousin's little grave, .where 
 Margaret used to go and water the plants which 
 her mother had set out over the grave ! 
 
 Nellie. Yes, Peter, these flowers remind us 
 also of death and the resurrection : those little 
 seeds (pointing to the seeds in the flower) are em- 
 blems of the deathless seed within us, which, if 
 watered by the dews of kindness, and cultured 
 with the heavenly Planter's care, will spring up, 
 in the resurrection morn, plants of celestial 
 beauty and unfading loveliness. May the good 
 Gardener, who has planted these seeds of immor- 
 tality in our hearts, so nourish them by his kindly 
 care, that when the long winter of death shall 
 come, they shall spring up in the immortal spring 
 of life, like Sharon's rose, to bloom in perpetual 
 ver lure. 
 
 Ji
 
 KIND HEARTS EVERYWHERE. 61 
 
 KIND HEARTS EVERYWHERE. 
 
 Why should we call the path of life 
 
 A bleak and desert spot, 
 When we ourselves but make it so ? 
 
 No, no, believe it not ; 
 For though the ills we're doom'd to feel, 
 
 Are sometimes hard to bear, 
 The world we live in teems with good 
 
 And kind hearts everywhere. 
 
 A wish to calm each other's grief, 
 
 To soothe each other's woes, 
 In every bosom finds a place 
 
 And thus all nature glows. 
 Men of all climes, abroad, at home, 
 
 His generous feelings share ;, 
 The world we live in teems with good 
 
 And kind hearts everywhere. 
 
 And should misfortune's heavy hand 
 
 On every side prevail, 
 Or sorrow's overwhelming storm 
 
 Our happy hours assail, 
 To feel is folly, wise men say, 
 
 Then why should we despair ? 
 The world we live in teems with good 
 
 And kind hearts everywhere.
 
 62 VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 BY J. G. WHITTIEB. 
 
 Up the hill-side, down the glen, 
 Rouse the sleeping citizen ; 
 Summon out the might ot men 1 
 
 Like a lion growling low, 
 Like a night storm rising slow, 
 Like the tread of unseen foe, 
 
 It is coming it is nigh ! 
 Stand your homes and altars by ; 
 On your own free thresholds die. 
 
 Clang the bells in all your spires ; 
 On the gray hills of your sires 
 Fling to heaven your signal fires. 
 
 From Wachuset, lone and bleak, 
 
 Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, 
 
 Let the flame- tongued heralds speak. 
 
 O, for God and duty stand, 
 Heart to heart, and hand to hand, 
 Round the old graves of the land.
 
 VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. 63 
 
 Whoso shrinks or falters now, 
 Whoso to the yoke would bow, 
 Brand the craven on his brow I 
 
 Freedom's soil hath only place 
 Por a free and fearless race. 
 None for traitors false and base. 
 
 Perish party, perish clan ! 
 Strike together while ye can, 
 Like the arm. of one strong man. 
 
 Like the angel's voice sublime, 
 Heard above a world of crime, 
 Crying of the end of time, 
 
 With one heart and with one mouth. 
 Let the north unto the south 
 Speak a word befitting both. 
 
 We but ask our rocky strand, 
 Freedom's true and brother band, 
 Freedom's strong and honest hand, 
 
 Valleys by the slave untrod, 
 And the Pilgrims' mountain sod, 
 Blessed of our fathers' God t
 
 64 I'LL BE A MAN. 
 
 I'LL BE A MAN. 
 
 I mean to be a man ! I'm a boy now, a little 
 boy. Look at my little arms, my little hands and 
 fingers, my little feet ! See, how small they all are ! 
 But I have been smaller than this ; so small that I 
 could take up in these little arms what was once 
 myself, and rock myself to sleep. But I am grow- 
 ing, growing to be a man. These little arms will 
 stretch themselves out, and grow, and become 
 strong. These little legs will stretch themselves 
 out, and grow, and I shall become tall. This little 
 head shall expand itself, and I shall become wise. 
 And then I shall become a man, and wear man's 
 clothes. And when I come to be a man, I'll vote, 
 you know ; but politicians, knaves, and fools shall 
 never have my vote.
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Sweet sister, tell me if my home, 
 
 My own dear home, is now 
 As when I left, long months ago, 
 
 With sadness on my brow. 
 
 O, tell me if the sun shines in' 
 
 As brightly as of yore, 
 When in onr childhood-years we built 
 
 Our play-house on the floor. 
 
 And if the sweet, pale moon, and stars, 
 
 And evening's sky are fair, 
 As when beside a parent's knee, 
 
 We lisped our infant prayer. 
 
 And tell me if the red-breast comes, 
 
 With song so glad and free, 
 To build her nest, and rear her young, 
 
 In the old Balm-Gilead tree. 
 
 And doth thy lip still wear its smile, 
 
 Thy cheek its roseate hue, 
 Thy heart still own its brightness yet, 
 
 Thine eyes their heavenly blue ? 
 
 Sweet sister, thou art dear to me, 
 More dear than words can tell ; 
 
 And should I sin, methinks 'twill be 
 In loving thee too well. 
 
 M. B. BROW*.
 
 66 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 A tippler I mil never be ; 
 
 No drop my lips shall pass ; 
 I'll sign the true teetotal pledge^ 
 
 And keep it till the last. 
 Nor will I use the poison weed, 
 
 Which now so many crave, 
 Because I mean to be a man, 
 And never be a slave. 
 
 O ye tipplers, 
 Don't you fret for me ; 
 For when I come to be a man, 
 I'm going to be free. 
 
 And many years must pass away, 
 
 And 'I must go to school, 
 That if they choose me president, 
 
 I may know how to rule. 
 With knowledge I must store my mind, 
 
 For, though I'm e'er so tall, 
 If I am rude and ignorant, 
 I shall be very small. 
 
 Men of learning, 
 Don't you fret for me ; 
 I'll study, that, when I'm a man, 
 A wise one I will be.
 
 GEORGE AND HIS DOG. 67 
 
 GEORGE AND HIS DOG. 
 
 In a lordly castle, rich and gay, 
 
 There lives a little boy ; 
 And often he goes out to play, 
 
 With his good dog Le Roy. 
 
 The garden it is very fair, 
 
 With many fine old trees ; 
 And little George can frolic there, 
 
 Whenever he may please. 
 
 This Georgy loves a caper, too, 
 
 As well as brisk Le Roy : 
 A thousand things that dog will do 
 
 To please the darling boy. 
 
 Sometimes he runs all round and round 
 To catch his own black tail ; 
 
 Then quickly scampers o'er the ground 
 For George's little pail. 
 
 And oft the faithful dog will kneel; 
 
 When master wants a ride ; 
 And very proud he seems to feel 
 
 While Georgy climbs his side.
 
 68 THE FLY WITH A SORE TOE. 
 
 THE FLY WITH A SORE TOE. 
 
 
 
 (MASTER BILLY, TOM, and MATTY.) 
 
 Master Billy. Matty, if a fly had a sore ttfe, 
 what would happen ? 
 
 Matty. Master Billy, your question is very 
 ridiculous. Who ever heard of a fly with a sore 
 toe? 
 
 Master Billy. And pray, miss, who ever heard 
 of " that tribe who threw stones into their ma- 
 chines," and many other .wonderful events. 
 
 Tom. I cannot imagine a sore toe would be of 
 any very great consequence to him. He could fly 
 and crawl up and down. 
 
 Master Billy. I rather doubt the crawling up 
 and down. He might fly up, and fly down, but 
 not crawl. 
 
 Tom. I do not see that at all. 
 
 Master Billy. Probably not ; it is wonderful 
 how very little boys and girls do see in any thing, 
 until their eyes are opened. 
 
 Tom. B'at why cannot a lame fly crawl ?
 
 THE FLY WITH A SORE TOE. 69 
 
 Master Billy. Did you ever see what boys call 
 a sucker, made of leather, softened ? It is put 
 flat upon a stone, the centre is pulled up, and the 
 sucker pulls the stone up with it. 
 
 Tom. How does it do that ? 
 - Master Billy. By taking off the pressure of the 
 air from that part of the stone under the sucker, 
 the outward pressure of the air on the sucker 
 confines it to the stone, as if it were a part of it. 
 If the edge of the leather were notched and un- 
 even, what would take place ? 
 
 Tom. It would not fit close to the stone. 
 
 Master Billy. And of course the stone would 
 not stick to the sucker. 
 
 Tom. Certainly not. 
 
 Master Billy. Well, that is the reason why a 
 fly with a sore toe cannot crawl up and down. 
 You remember, I never said he could not crawl. 
 
 Tom. But, Master Billy, what has a fly's foot to 
 do with a sucker ? 
 
 Master Bitty. Every thing. If its foot did not 
 act as this sucker, it could not walk up and down 
 the smooth panes of glass, nor with its head down- 
 wards upon the ceiling. 
 
 Tom. Then you think if it had a sore toe it
 
 70 THE FLY WITH A SORE TOE. 
 
 would not press hard enough upon the pane to 
 hold on? 
 
 Master Billy. Certainly ; and a more beautiful 
 contriyance is not to be found in bird or beast. 
 Can either of you tell me what you think is the 
 use of flies ? 
 
 Matty. To fly about the window ? 
 
 Master Billy. That is their play-ground, little 
 missy. 
 
 Tom. To eat the sugar out of the basin ? 
 
 Master Billy. That is their bull's eyes and lol- 
 lypops. 
 
 Matty. Are they to eat peaches and other 
 fruit. 
 
 Master Billy. That is very near it. 
 
 Tom. Is it not to eat up every thing that is use- 
 less to man, and would be offensive to his sight 
 or smell ? 
 
 Master Billy. I think it is. * When food be- 
 comes putrid and unfit for use, it is highly rel- 
 ished by the epicure fly. 
 
 Never form a resolution that is not a good one ; 
 and when once formed, never break it.
 
 CARE. TRUE LOVE. THE BIBLE. 71 
 
 CARE. 
 
 If every one's internal care 
 
 Were written on his brow, 
 How many would our pity share 
 
 Who raise our envy now ! 
 The fatal secret, when revealed, 
 
 Of every aching breast, 
 
 Would fully prove, that while concealed 
 
 Their lot appears the best. 
 
 TRUE LOYE. 
 
 'Tis not the face, 'tis not the form, 
 'Tis not the heart, however warm ; 
 It is not these, though-oW combined, 
 That win true love ; it is the mind. 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 Behold the Book, whose leaves display 
 Jesus, the life, the truth, the way ; 
 Read it with diligence and prayer; 
 Search it, and you shall find him there.
 
 72 I LIVE TO LEARN. 
 
 I LIVE TO LEARN. 
 
 Though many a hope that I have cherishsd 
 
 Has faded to my sight, 
 And many a joy of mine has perished 
 
 With many a dream of light. 
 
 Yet, though I've watched each joy depart, 
 
 Each hope more dimly burn ; 
 Still fondly beats this trusting heart, 
 
 I'm living but to learn. 
 
 I live to learn the truth of life, 
 
 Its toils, and pains, and fears, 
 Its hours of agony and strife, 
 
 In this dark vale of tears. 
 
 I live to learn ! and though severe 
 
 My lessons sometimes seem, 
 Then comes the thought, to stay the tear, 
 
 This life is but a dream. 
 
 Life hath its joys ! I'm often glad, 
 Though fate is sometimes stern ; 
 
 I prize the lesson I have had, 
 That I but " live to learn." 
 
 M. a
 
 WHAT THE PINE TREES SAID. 73 
 
 WHAT THE PINE TREES SAID. 
 
 It was a bitter cold morning ; the sun shone 
 brightly, but the wind blew a chilling blast over 
 the new-fallen snow. " Come, little boys," said 
 mamma, " you must go to uncle Howard's for the 
 milk." " 0, it is so cold ! " exclaimed Herbert. 
 " So very cold ! " echoed Arthur. 
 
 " Never mind the cold," answered mamma ; 
 " wrap yourselves up well, and walk fast, and you 
 will soon feel warm." 
 
 Still the little boys lingered ; the coats and 
 tippets the warm scarlet tippets their aunts had 
 knit were on, and their mittens in their hands ; 
 but still they lingered. " Run along, little boys," 
 again said mamma ; " go and hear what the pine 
 trees will say." 
 
 Arthur looked up : "I never heard them say 
 any thing : what will they say, mamma ? " 
 
 " They almost always say something to me," 
 answered mamma. " The other day, when I was 
 coming Jiome from uncle Howard's, they said, 
 ' Hurry^ome fast ; little Bessie wants to see you ; 
 so do the little boys.' And one very bright morn-
 
 74 WHAT THE PINE TREES SAID. 
 
 ing I heard them say, ' How pleasant it is ! how 
 good God is ! be cheerful, be happy ! ' " Herbert 
 and Arthur listened with interest. " Come," said 
 Arthur, " I should like to know what they will 
 Bay to us." 
 
 They hurried out ; and little Bessie watched 
 them through the gate and up the hill, as long as 
 she could see their red tippets. Soon they came 
 to the pine grove. 
 
 " I don't hear any thing," said Herbert. The 
 wind blew through the branches with a murmur- 
 ing sound. " I hear something," replied Arthur ; 
 " but it is only, ' How cold it is ! how cold it is ! 
 Run along, or you will freeze.' " 
 
 On they went ; the wind was piercing cold ; 
 their fingers ached. Arthur was ready to cry ; 
 and, indeed, when they reached their aunt's warm 
 breakfast room, the tears were beginning to start. 
 But aunt Louisa was very kind : she warmed their 
 fingers, gave them a biscuit to eat, and, better 
 than all, spoke kind, comforting words to them. 
 Then, with their pail of milk, and a cake for 
 Bessie, the little boys started for home. The 
 wind was now behind them, the sun h^kgrown 
 warmer, and their hearts were full of pleasant
 
 WHAT THE PINE TEEES SAID. 75 
 
 thoughts. They forgot the pine trees till they 
 were nearly opposite them. Then they listened, 
 and the trees seemed to say, " Happy little boys ! 
 how kind every body is ! Try to be good." 
 
 They were soon at home, and with bright faces 
 sat down to warm their feet, and recount what 
 they had seen and heard. 
 
 " And what did the pine trees say ? " asked 
 mamma. 
 
 " 0, they didn't really talk," replied Arthur ; 
 " but it seemed as if they were almost crying 
 when we went, and they were as merry as birds 
 when we came home." 
 
 " Ah, you have found out the secret," said 
 mamma. " The pine trees seem to say just what 
 is in our own hearts. They sighed and complained 
 when you were going, feeling cold and sad ; but, 
 when you came home bright and happy, the wind 
 through the branches spoke of sunshine and hap- 
 piness. Try to keep the kind, loving thoughts in 
 your hearts, little boys ; then the pine trees will 
 always echo back gratitude and love." From 
 Jlunt Mary's Portfolio.
 
 76 THE HOME OF THE HEART. 
 
 THE HOME OF THE HEART. 
 
 * 
 
 O, give me the wings of a dove, 
 And I'll fly to some bright land away, 
 
 That is ruled by the spirit of love, 
 "Where fountains of happiness play. 
 
 I'll go where the bright, sunny skies 
 Are never obscured by a cloud, 
 
 Where loveliest prospects arise, 
 And the heart ne'er by sorrow is bowed. 
 
 I'll go where the silver streams flow 
 Through valleys that ever are green, 
 
 On whose banks the fair lily doth grow, 
 And the bright rose of Sharon is seen. 
 
 I'll go where, with form that's divine, 
 And clothed with an angel's bright wing* 
 
 The spirit of beauty reclines, 
 
 And the bright bird of paradise sings. 
 
 But a voice often rises in me, 
 
 ' Can this happiness ever be mine ? 
 
 To some bright fairy land can I flee, 
 Untouched jy the finger of time ? "
 
 THE HOME OP THE HEART. 77 
 
 No, wanderer," a low voice replies, 
 " Here this happiness ne'er can be thine ; 
 
 The bliss for which the heart sighs 
 Is found in a sunnier clime." 
 
 k Go pilot me there, then," I cried, 
 " Blest messenger sent from the skies ; 
 
 There in peace and in love I'll abide, 
 Where angels' soft music shall rise." 
 
 " 'Tis beyond where the sun sinks to rest, 
 Far beyond these pale shadows of even ; 
 
 'Tis a lovely abode, the repose of the blest, 
 The home of the pure 'tis in heaven." 
 
 G. 11. AVERT.
 
 78 THE BIBLE. 
 
 THE BIBLE, 
 
 This little book I'd rather own 
 Than all the gold and gems 
 
 That e'er in monarch's coffers shone, 
 Than all their diadems. 
 
 Nay, were the seas one chrysolite, 
 
 The earth a golden ball, 
 And diamonds all the stars of night* 
 
 This book were worth them alt, 
 
 He who died on Calv'ry's tree 
 Hath made that promise blest : 
 
 Ye heavy laden, come to me, 
 And I will give you rest. 
 
 " A bruised reed I will not break, 
 
 A contrite heart despise; 
 My burden's light, and all who take 
 
 My yoke, shall win the skies ! "
 
 WHO MADE ALL THINGS ? 79 
 
 WHO MADE ALL THINGS ? 
 
 God made the earth 
 
 And said, bring forth for great and small, 
 
 The flowers and fruit 
 
 Pleasant for taste, and good for all. 
 
 God made the sea 
 
 So broad so rich in treasure hidden deeps, 
 Where living things, and precious pearl, 
 And the lost sailor sleeps. 
 
 God made the mountain 
 
 Whose blue peaks reach upward to the sky, 
 
 Snow capp'd and verdure crowned ; 
 
 They ever point to Him on high. 
 
 God spread the sky 
 In whose blue depths are set 
 Bright gems of night, the twinkling stars, 
 A spangled diadem. 
 
 God made the beast and birds 
 
 A curious, wonderous group, 
 
 In strength and beauty, rare and great, 
 
 They speak His excellence to create. 
 
 God m&Ae frail man 
 And placed him here, a finished work ; 
 But when he sinned, He drove him forth, 
 Doomed to labor, pain, and death. 
 
 C.
 
 80 "WHY is THE ROSE MOST BEAUTIFUL?" 
 
 " WHY IS THE ROSE MOST BEAUTIFUL ? " 
 
 Why is the rose most beautiful 
 
 Among the flowers that bloom, 
 Where lily, daisy, daffodil, 
 
 All mingle their perfume ? 
 
 Is it because her varied tints 
 
 Are blended into one, 
 Or jewelled with the morning dews, 
 
 She sparkles in the sun ? 
 
 The colors of the violet 
 
 Are not less pure or bright ; 
 The dew upon her azure cheek 
 
 Eesembles stars by night. 
 
 And yet more varied are the tints 
 
 The gorgeous dahlia shows 
 Still, is the rose most beautiful, 
 
 Still, loveliest is the rose. 
 
 But 'tis not from the outward charms 
 
 That captivate the eye, 
 That thus in grove and bower she reigns 
 
 In peerless majesty. 
 
 The magic that sustains her power, 
 
 Is innate, secret, sure : 
 There's many a gayer, prouder flower, 
 
 But ah, not one so pure. 
 
 AKOH.
 
 MY COUNTRY. 81 
 
 MY COUNTRY. 
 
 I love my country's pine-clad hills, 
 Her thousand bright and gushing rills, 
 
 Her sunshine and her storms ; 
 Her rough and ragged rocks, that rear 
 Their hoary heads high in the air, 
 
 In wild, fantastic forms. 
 
 I love her rivers deep and wide, 
 
 Those mighty streams that seaward glide, 
 
 To se<k the ocean's breast ; 
 Her mighty fields, her pleasant vales, 
 Her shady dells, her flowery dales, 
 
 The haunts of peaceful rest. 
 
 I love her forests dark and lone, 
 For there the wild birds' merry tone 
 
 I heard from morn till night ; 
 And there are lovelier flowers, I ween, 
 Than e'er in Eastern lands were seen, 
 
 In varied colors bright. 
 
 Her forests, and her valleys fair, 
 
 Her flowers, that scent the morning air, 
 
 Have all their charms for me ; 
 But more I love my country's name, 
 Those words that echo deathless fame, 
 
 ' The land of Liberty! " 
 6
 
 82 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 PROPERTY ; OR, YOURS AND MINE. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 [M. DE VERTEUIL, ADRIEN, his Son, and a little Girl.] 
 
 Jldrlen. See, papa, the handsome flowers! I 
 will go and gather some. 
 
 M. de V. You must not, Adrien ; I forbid you 
 to touch them. 
 
 Adr. Why, papa, I pray you, may I not have 
 some? 
 
 M. de V. Because these flowers are not yours ; 
 they belong to the gardener, who lives yonder in 
 that small cottage. 
 
 Mr. papa, only two or -three! 
 
 M. de V. Not one. Do you not remember, my 
 son, that you complained to me the other day that 
 your sister had torn up your lettuce to sow migno- 
 nette in its place ? 
 
 Jldr. Well, papa, had not I reason ? I had so 
 much trouble to make my lettuce grow. 
 
 M. de V. What had you done to make it 
 grow?
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 8S 
 
 Jidt. I cleared a little spot of ground of weeds 
 and stones, spaded up the ground, manured it, and 
 then transplanted some lettuce, which I watered 
 every morning and evening. And when my let- 
 tuce had grown, and I had hoped to present you 
 with some salad, my sister came and destroyed 
 it all, because she thought her mignonette had a 
 better smell. What do you say of this fine un- 
 dertaking ? 
 
 M. de. V. I say it was very bad of her, since it 
 was your garden, and you had taken so much 
 trouble to cultivate it. 
 
 Mr. Should she thus make me lose, to gratify 
 a little caprice, all the fruit of my labors ? 
 
 M. de V. Certainly not ; but know you not, 
 my son, that the pain your sister has given you 
 by tearing up your lettuce is nothing to compare 
 with that you would cause the gardener, were you 
 to tear up the flowers ? 
 
 JLdr. How, papa, I pray you ? 
 
 M. de V. Because he has taken still more pains 
 to adorn his garden than you have to cultivate 
 yours. 
 
 ftdr. What pains has he taken, papa ? 
 
 M . de V. I will tell you. Last autumn he
 
 84 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 cleared out all the beds ; he spread over them 
 a very rich manure, and planted a great many 
 bulbous roots, which you now see in blossom. Do 
 you not know those bulbous roots that your 
 mother has placed in the vases on the mantel ? 
 
 Mr. Indeed, papa, these flowers are exactly 
 like mamma's. 
 
 M. de V. Yes ; but they cost the gardener 
 much more trouble to make them grow. After 
 having put these bulbous roots in the ground, he 
 covered them over with manure to keep them 
 from the cold, and made straw beds to preserve 
 them from the frost. On the approach of spring 
 he uncovered these flowers by degrees, and care- 
 fully watered them when the weather was too dry. 
 How much trouble it has cost him to rear them, 
 till they have attained their present size ! Now, 
 if you would go and pluck one, and I another, 
 and all others should do the same, would not all 
 the labor of this industrious man be lost ? 
 
 Adr. Yes, papa, that is true ; but what does 
 he do with all these flowers? He cannot eat 
 them, as we would have eaten our lettuce. 
 
 M. de V. No, my sou ; but he gathers them to 
 ell in the city. By this means he procurea
 
 r 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 85 
 
 : i 
 
 money ; and you know he must have that to lodge 
 and feed himself. The more he has in his garden, 
 the more money he receives. You understand this 
 without explanation do you not? 
 
 Jidr. Yes, papa, I understand very well ; but 
 Louis, our gardener, does not complain when you 
 gather the flowers for us ; however, I have seen 
 that he takes much pains to cultivate them. Yes- 
 terday he came with his wife and all his children 
 to pull up the weeds. " Because," said he, " the 
 flowers will become larger and more beautiful." 
 
 M. de V. That is very true ; but do you wish 
 that I would show you the difference" ? 
 
 Mr. I would be much obliged to you, papa. 
 
 M. de V. If my affairs would permit me, I 
 would myself plant and cultivate the trees and 
 flowers of my garden. But I am often occupied 
 with more important affairs. So I hired the gar- 
 dener, Louis, to keep it in order. For this I 
 promised to give him one hundred crowns a year. 
 By virtue of this agreement, all the fruits and 
 flowers that grow in my garden belong to me. But 
 neither you nor I, nor any other person, has given 
 any thing to this gardener for his care. lie culti- 
 vates this garden for his own advantage, and there-
 
 86 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 fore nobody has any right to prevent it by coming 
 and gathering the flowers he has taken, so much 
 pains to cultivate. 
 
 Adr. You are right, papa ; but suppose you 
 give him money for some of his flowers ? 
 
 M. de V. Then he will willingly give them 
 to us. 
 
 Mr. Well, let us buy some, I pray you. I 
 have six cents that I can lay out. 
 
 M. de V. You cannot obtain many for six 
 cents. The season is not yet advanced ; flowers 
 are rare, and consequently bear a high price. 
 Let us, however, go to his cottage and speak 
 with him. 
 
 Mr. Let us go, papa ! Let us go I 
 
 M. de. V. (Advancing.} His door seems to be 
 fastened ; I fear he has gone out. Go, knock. 
 (Mrien runs and knocks at the door. JVo one an- 
 swers. He returns.) 
 
 M. de V. He has, without doubt, gone to sell 
 his flowers in the city. We will buy some anoth- 
 er time. 
 
 Mr. I am very sorry that I cannot carry a 
 handsome bouquet for mamma. 
 
 M. de V. Since you have that wish, I can pro- 
 
 .J
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 87 
 
 CLre other flowers which are not so rare, but are, 
 nevertheless, quite as beautiful. 
 
 Mr. Where, papa ? 
 
 M. de V. Yonder, in that heath. We shall 
 there find some wild flowers that no person has 
 sown or planted, but which grow of themselves 
 on the old stocks, or which spring from seed fallen 
 from the flowers of the last year. 
 
 Mr. 0, that is wonderful, papa. Will you 
 take me there ? 
 
 M. de V. With great pleasure, my son. (They 
 go to the heath.} 
 
 Mr. 0, look, papa, at the number of handsome 
 flowers. May I gather them ? 
 
 M. de V. Yes, my son, you may gather them, 
 without doing the least injury to any body. 
 (Mrien begins to gather the flowers.) 
 
 Mr. 0, papa, see how many I have -already 
 gathered! I can hold no more in my hand. I 
 am afraid I shall spoil them. 
 
 M. de V. Have you nothing you can put 
 them in ? 
 
 Adr. No ; I do not know how. 0, I cannot 
 think. My hat will do very well. 
 
 M. de V. Without doubt the weather is mild
 
 88 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 enough to have the head uncovered. (Jldrien puts 
 the flowers in his hat, and continues to gather.) 
 
 Jldr. papa, here are two eggs that I have 
 just found in a basket. I will take them. 
 
 M. de V. What have you done, Adrian ? You 
 should not have taken these eggs, as they do not 
 belong to you. They belong to some one ; for 
 they did not get into the basket of themselves. 
 
 Jl little, girl comes out from among the heath, 
 where she was concealed, and seeing the eggs in the 
 hand of Jldrien, she runs to his hat, which she seizes, 
 with the flowers, crying, " My little master, those 
 eggs are mine. If you do not give them to me, I 
 will keep your hat." 
 
 Jldrien quits his father, and runs after the little 
 girl. He makes a false step, falls upon the eggs, and 
 breaks them. He rises, and cries to the little girl, 
 "How, you little thief? Are you not going to 
 give me my flowers ? I have had the trouble of 
 collecting them ; they belong to me." 
 
 Girl. I also have taken the trouble to seek 
 those lapwing's eggs that you have taken from 
 me. They are mine ; you must restore them, 
 or you shall neither have your hat nor your 
 flowers.
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 89 
 
 Mr. How do you wish ine to restore your 
 eggs ? I have broken them, by accident. 
 
 Girl. Well, in that case, you must pay me what 
 they would sell for in the city. 
 
 Jldr. (To his father, who had approached in the 
 interval.) Do you hear, papa ? She wishes to 
 keep my hat and my flowers. 
 
 M. de V. What do you wish me to say, Adrian? 
 Why did you break the eggs ? She has taken 
 the trouble to find them that she might sell them ; 
 it is not just that you should make her lose the 
 fruit of her labor. Tell me, my child, how much 
 they are sold for ? 
 
 Girl. Three cents apiece, sir, is the common 
 price. 
 
 M. de V. (To Adrien.} You see, my son, you 
 have made this little girl lose six cents. You 
 must give her the money that you just now wished 
 to give the gardener for a bouquet. (To the little 
 girl.) Will you not return on this condition his 
 hat and his flowers ? 
 
 Girl. Yes, sir ; I ask nothing more. 
 
 M. de V. In that case, both of you are out 
 of trouble. 
 
 Jldr. Yes, papa ; but it will cost me six cents.
 
 90 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 M. de V. You deserve it. Why did you touch 
 that which did not belong to you? You could 
 here gather flowers, because they grow naturally, 
 no person taking the trouble to cultivate them ; 
 but you should know that eggs are not found in a 
 basket without some one putting them there. 
 This little girl has ran a long time in the heath 
 to find them ; you had no right to seize on the 
 fruit of her labor ; therefore you must pay her 
 the value of the eggs in money. This value is 
 just six cents. Unless you pay her this, the little 
 girl has a right to retain your flowers and your 
 hat till you have satisfied her. 
 
 Mr. Yes, papa, I feel the justice of your judg- 
 ment. Here, my friend, are my six cents ; they are 
 yours. 
 
 Girl. (Returning his hat and flowers.) Here, my 
 little master, here is what belongs to you. 
 
 M. de V. Now, my son, if you wish always to 
 do right, you will henceforth never touch what 
 you find without knowing whether it belongs to 
 any one or not. 
 
 Adr. Yes, paj>a ; it is a good lesson, I assure 
 you, and I shall be wiser for -the future.
 
 MORNING HYMN. 91 
 
 MORNING HYMN. 
 
 The morning bright, 
 
 With rosy light, 
 Has waked me from my sleep ; 
 
 Father, I own 
 
 Thy love alone 
 Thy little one doth keep. 
 
 All through the day, 
 
 I humbly pray, 
 Be thou my Guard and Quid* 
 
 My sins forgive, 
 
 And let me live, 
 Blest Jesus, near thy side. 
 
 O, make thy rest 
 
 Within my breast, 
 Great Spirit of all grace : 
 
 Make me like thee ; 
 
 Then shall I be 
 Prepared to see thy face.
 
 92 THE CHILD AT THE TOMB. 
 
 THE CHILD AT THE TOMB. 
 
 " A little child, 
 That lightly Iraws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb 
 What should it know of death ? " 
 
 I met one morning a little girl with a half-play- 
 ful countenance, beaming blue eyes, and sunny 
 locks, bearing in one hand a small cup of china, 
 and in the other a wreath of flowers. Feeling a 
 very natural curiosity to know what she could 
 do with these bright things in a place that seemed 
 to partake so much of sadness, I watched her 
 light motions. Reaching a retired grave covered 
 with a plain marble slab, she emptied the seed, 
 which it appeared the cup contained, in the slight 
 cavities which had been scooped out in the cor- 
 ners of the level tablet, and laid the wreath on 
 its pure surface. 
 
 " And why," I inquired, " my sweet- little girl, 
 do you put seed in those little bowls there ? " 
 
 " It is to bring the birds here/' she replied, 
 with a half- wonder ing look ; " they will light on
 
 THE CHILD AT THE TOMB. 93 
 
 this tree, when they have eaten the seed, and 
 sing." 
 
 " To whom do they sing to you, or to each 
 other ? " 
 
 " 0, no," she replied ; " to my sister ; she sleeps 
 here." 
 
 " But your sister is dead." 
 
 " 0, yes ; but if she hears the birds sing " 
 
 " Well, if she does hear the birds sing, she can- 
 not see that wreath of flowers." 
 
 " She knows I put it there. I told her, before 
 they took her away from our house, I would come 
 and see her every morning." 
 
 " You must," I continued, " have loved that 
 sister very much ; but you will never talk with 
 her any more never see her again." 
 
 " 0, yes," she replied, with a brightened look ; 
 " I shall see her in heaven." 
 
 " But she has gone to heaven already, I trust." 
 
 " No .; she stops under this tree till they bring 
 me here, and then we are going to heaven to- 
 gether." Travels in the East.
 
 94 JESUS OUR EXAMPLE. 
 
 JESUS OUR EXAMPLE 
 
 There's an example sacred, bright, 
 That ever should be in your sight ; 
 A character all holiness, 
 That you should reverence, love, and bless 
 Study this picture every day, 
 And to be like it always pray.; 
 'For Jesus came that we might be 
 Like unto him in purity. 
 
 Fresh Flowers 
 
 ANGRY WORDS. 
 
 Poison-drops of care and sorrow, 
 
 Bitter poison-drops are they 
 Weaving for the corning morrow 
 
 Sad memorials of to-day. 
 Angry words O, let them never 
 
 From the tongue unbridled slip ; 
 May the heart's best impulse ever 
 
 Check them ere they soil the lip. 
 
 E. Coos.
 
 PROMISES. 95 
 
 PROMISES. 
 
 Promist No. 1. The Lord will not forsake 
 them that seek him. He forgetteth not the prayer 
 of the humble. 
 
 Promise No. 2. Wait on the Lord; be of 
 good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart 
 
 Promise No. 3. The eyes of the Lord are upon 
 the righteous, and his ears are open unto their cry, 
 
 Promise No. 4. They that seek the Lord shall 
 not want any good thing. 
 
 5. " Light is sown for the righteous, and glad- 
 ness for tire upright in heart." 
 
 6. " The Lord executeth righteousness and judg- 
 ment for all that are oppressed." 
 
 7. " Like as a father pitieth his children, so the 
 Lord pitieth them that fear him."
 
 96 NOTHING IS LOST. 
 
 NOTHING IS LOST. 
 
 Nothing is lost ; the drop of dew 
 
 Which trembles on the leaf or flower, 
 Is but exhaled, to fall anew 
 
 In summer's thunder shower; 
 Perchance to shine within the bow 
 
 That fronts the sun at fall of day; 
 Perchance to sparkle in the flow 
 
 Of fountain far away. 
 
 Nothing is lost ; the tiniest seed 
 
 By wild birds borne, or breezes blown 
 Finds something suited to its need, 
 
 Wherein 'tis sown and grown. 
 The language of some household song, 
 
 The perfume of some cherished flower, 
 Though gone from outward sense, belong 
 
 To memory's after hour. 
 
 So with our words ; or harsh, or kind, 
 
 Uttered they are not all forgot ; 
 They leave their influence on the mind, 
 
 Pass on, but perish not ! 
 So with our deeds, for good or ill, 
 
 They have their power scarce understood ; 
 Then let us use )ur better will 
 
 To make them rife with good. 
 
 O. H.
 
 FIGHTING IN LOVE. ' 97 
 
 FIGHTING IN LOVE. 
 
 Early one bright morning, I walked on Bos 
 ton Common, with a troop of little children. 
 After a while, we all collected under the royal 
 old elm tree. That majestic elm is like the king 
 of Boston Common ; and in summer, when he is 
 arrayed in his verdant glory, the children delight 
 to gather together under his branches. 
 
 " Children," said I, abruptly, as we stood to- 
 gether in a group under the elm, " did you ever 
 hear of people fighting in love ? " 
 
 " Fighting in love 1 No," said Catharine ; "no- 
 body ever heard of such a thing." > 
 
 " I have heard of persons fighting in love ; and 
 a hard fight they had, too," said I. 
 
 " I suppose they did not shed any blood, if they 
 fought in love," said Rebecca. 
 
 " Yes, they did," said I ; " their faces, hands, 
 and jackets were covered with blood." 
 
 " Then I know they did not fight in love " said 
 Rufus. 
 
 " How do you know it ? " I asked. 
 7
 
 98 FIGHTING IN LOVE. 
 
 " Because," said the same boy, " love never 
 makes people fight." 
 
 " How do you know ? " I asked. " Did you 
 ever try to fight in love ? " 
 
 " No, I never fought at all," said he ; " but I 
 know I could not fight in love." 
 
 " Why ? " I asked. 
 
 " Because I do not feel any desire to fight with 
 those I love," said he ; "I never want to hurt 
 those I love." 
 
 " What ! not to keep them from hurting yea ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " No," said he. " But they will not wish to 
 hurt me, if I love them ; and even if they should, 
 I would let them hurt me, rather than hurt them." 
 
 " But," said I, " the persons to whom I allude 
 said that they fought in love ! " 
 
 " I do not believe a word of it, although they 
 did say so," said Catharine. " Fighting in love ! 
 only think of it ! I could not believe it, if all 
 the world should say so." 
 
 " Well," said I, " you shall hear my story ; and 
 then let us hear what you will say. 
 
 " Nathan and Frederick lived in Massachusetts.
 
 FIGHTING IN LOVE. 99 
 
 Nathan's father, one afternoon, was sitting in his 
 front room, with the windows open, looking up 
 the street, and watching for his son to come home 
 from school. Nathan soon came down the street, 
 walking slowly, wHb. his hand to his face, as if 
 nothing was the matter. He drew near, and his 
 father saw that his face, hands, and jacket were 
 covered with blood. He ran to the door, and 
 met him. 
 
 " ' What is the matter, Nathan ? ' said the 
 alarmed father. 
 
 " ' I have been fighting,' said he. 
 
 " His father took him into the house, wiped off 
 the blood, and stanched it. He then began, to 
 talk to Nathan. 
 
 " ' With whom did you fight ? ' he asked. 
 
 " ' With Frederick,' said he. 
 
 " ' What made you fight with him ? ' asked his 
 father. 
 
 " ' He struck me first,' said Nathan. 
 
 " ' Do you hate Frederick ? ' asked his father. 
 
 " ' No, father,' said he. 
 
 " ' Does Frederick hate you ? ' 
 
 " ' No, father,' said he, ' I don't think he does.' 
 
 " ' Your sad appearance looks as if the person
 
 100 FIGHTING IN LOVE. 
 
 with whom you fought hated you. Would you 
 like to have Frederick punished for striking you?' 
 
 " ' No, sir/ said Nathan. 
 
 " ' Would Frederick like to have you punished 
 for striking him ? ' 
 
 " ' No, sir/ answered Nathan. 
 
 " ' Well, my son/ said his father, ' this has been 
 a strange quarrel. You say that neither of you 
 hates the other, or wants to have him punished. 
 Do you love Frederick ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes/ said he, after a little hesitation. 
 
 " ' Does Frederick love you ? ' asked his father. 
 
 " ' Yes, sir/ faintly murmured Nathan. 
 
 " ' What on earth then did you fight for ? ' 
 asked his father, in real astonishment, not know- 
 ing what to make of this strange affair. 
 
 " Nathan hesitatingly answered, ' We fought be- 
 cause because we we loved each other ! ' 
 
 jf 
 
 " There, children ! " said I, when I had finished 
 the story, " what do you think of that ? Cannot 
 children fight in love ? " 
 
 They all laughed heartily at the idea. 
 
 "What did Nathan's father say?" asked a 
 sweet-tempered little boy, named Lucius.
 
 FIGHTING IN LOVE. 101 
 
 " It was too much for his gravity," said I. 
 " The idea of two boys, with flashing eyes and 
 angry faces, beating and striking, and giving each 
 other black eyes and bloody noses, all in love and 
 gentle affection, was more than he could think 
 of without laughing heartily." 
 
 " No wonder," said Rebecca ; " it is enough to 
 make any body laugh." 
 
 " So it seems to me," said I. " It is an insult 
 to common sense to say that children or men can 
 , fight in love. But if love cannot make you fight, 
 what can ? " 
 
 " Hatred and revenge" said Catharine. 
 
 " I believe it," said I. " Since, then, we are 
 bound to love our enemies, and since we cannot 
 fight with them if we love them, what shall we 
 do?" 
 
 " Not fight with them at all," said the children. 
 
 " What ! " said I ; " not when they attack us ? " 
 
 " No, sir," said all. 
 
 " What shall we then do to them when they 
 attack us ? " I asked. 
 
 " We shall leave them to God, as Jesus did his 
 enemies, and pray that he would forgive them," 
 answered Rebecca.
 
 102 FIGHTING IN LOVE. 
 
 " True, dear children," said I ; " thus did Jesus, 
 and thus ought we to do ; for it is very certain 
 that neither children nor men can fight in love." 
 A Kiss for a Blow. 
 
 NOTE. The reader will notice that we have frequently 
 inserted short paragraphs, laconics, mottoes, &c., with the em- 
 phatic words Italicized. These pieces are intended for reading 
 and declamatory exercises. They will require some study, and 
 can be made very useful in the school room. It is a good 
 exercise for the scholars to commit them to memory, and rise 
 and declaim them. 
 
 GOOD AND EVIL. 
 
 If good we plant not, vice will fill the place, 
 And rankest weeds the richest soil deface. 
 But the good man, whose soul is pure, 
 Unspotted and of pardon sure, 
 Looks through the darkness of the gloomy night, 
 And sees the dawning of a glorious light . 
 
 TRUE RELIGION. 
 
 True religion 
 Is always mild, propitious, and humane, 
 
 Plays not the tyrant, plants no faith in blood ; 
 But stoops to succor, polish, and redress, 
 
 And builds her grandeur on the public good.
 
 THE SPRING'S RETURN. 103 
 
 THE SPRING'S RETURN. 
 
 I come ! from the bosom of yon dropping cloud 
 I come, while music wakes all around. Winter 
 passes off. Far to the north he goes, and calls 
 along his ruffian blasts. His blasts obey, and 
 quit the howling hill, the shattered forest, and 
 the ravaged vale. My sweeter gales succeed, at 
 whose kind touch dissolving snows are lost in 
 livid torrents. Mountain, hill, and plain are now 
 with verdure crowned. No more our atmosphere, 
 is cramped with cold, but, full of life, it lifts the 
 light clouds up on high, and spreads them, thin 
 and white, o'er all surrounding heaven.
 
 104 MY HOME. 
 
 MY HOME. 
 
 My home ? 'tis where wild valleys bloont, 
 
 And endless springs adorn ; 
 There is no night, or death, or gloom, 
 
 Where this blithe heart was born. 
 
 The stars, the moon, the sky, the earth, 
 Yon sun's transcendent flame, 
 
 First drew their far immortal birth 
 Whence my free spirit came. 
 
 Then home, O, home ! my bargeman, ply 
 Thy shadowy helm and wing ; 
 
 Vain shall thy spectred terrors try 
 This steadfast heart to wring. 
 
 In rain shall earthly storms assay 
 
 Thy deathless faith to quell, 
 Or thy free heavenward step to stay, 
 
 My soul, that trusteth well ! 
 
 E'en boatman, thou, grim shadowy speck. 
 
 That mockest now at me, 
 Eternity thy bark shall wreck, 
 
 And drink thy greedy sea. 
 
 Oblivion's 'whelming flood shall drench 
 
 Creation far and near; 
 But time, nor gloom, nor death, can quench 
 
 My soul, that dwells not here !
 
 HOME. 105 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Home, is where affections bind 
 
 Gentle hearts in unison ; 
 Where the voices all are kind, 
 
 Holding sweet communion ! 
 
 Home, is where the heart can rest, 
 
 Safe from darkening sorrow ; 
 Where the friends we love the best 
 
 Brighten every morrow ! 
 
 Home, is where the friends that love 
 
 To our hearts are given ; 
 Where the blessings from above 
 
 Make it seem a Heaven ! 
 
 Home is where congenial hearts 
 
 All are kindly blended ; 
 Where no treasure e'er departs, 
 
 And no sweets are ended ! 
 
 Home is where the stars will shine 
 
 In the skies above us ; 
 Peeping brightly through the vine, 
 
 Trained by those who love us ! 
 
 Yes ! 'tis home, where smiles of cheer 
 Wreathe the brows that greet us ; 
 
 And the one of all most dear 
 Ever comes to meet us I 
 
 ALBERTA.
 
 106 WAR. 
 
 WAR. 
 
 [ Uncle James, William, John, and Lucy.] 
 
 William. Uncle James, was it really a glory for 
 our f9refathers to kill the poor Indians ? 
 
 John. And to come over on purpose to rob 
 them, and to burn their villages ? 
 
 Uncle James. Well, Willie, / do not think so ; 
 but there are hundreds of people even now who 
 call such actions " glory." 
 
 William. But if a boy in our school knew more 
 about fighting than any of the others, and then 
 would always be " knocking them about," because 
 they had not learned how to fight, we should call 
 him a coward. 
 
 John. And if he fought the others on purpose 
 to take away all that he had ? 
 m William. Then we should call him a sneak 
 not a conqueror. 
 
 John. Or, Uncle James, you know that we 
 have, each of us, a little garden. Now, if Willie, 
 because he is the strongest, were to kill Lucy and 
 me, on purpose to take our gardens away from 
 us?
 
 WAR. 107 
 
 William. 0, how can you talk so, John! 
 
 John. But I only say, if you should do so. 
 
 William. Well, I should be hanged, of course. 
 
 John. Then why do not the government hang 
 those armies who go to kill other nations on pur- 
 pose to take away their land? 
 
 William. Why, you forget. The government 
 send their soldiers, so the people of the govern- 
 ment would have to punish themselves. 
 
 Lucy. I think that nations kill each other, be- 
 cause they are heathens; only such nations as 
 have not learned about God and Jesus Christ 
 would do such things. 
 
 William. But the English and Americans are 
 not heathens, they are Christians, and have mur- 
 dered natives in America, Africa, Australia, and 
 India, on purpose to get their lands. 
 
 Uncle James. That is true, Willie ; but we must 
 not say they murdered them. People call this 
 " murder " when one man goes up to another, 
 and kills him ; but when one nation of men march 
 to another to kill them, that is called " war." 
 
 Lucy. And the men are not called " murderers" 
 they are called "warriors." 
 
 John. How curious, that the men should be
 
 108 WAR. 
 
 called by a different name, because they all happen 
 to be together by the side of each other 
 when they are killing ! Suppose a man was sixty 
 yards away from the others, and was to kill one 
 of his enemies, would he be a warrior, or a mur- 
 derer ? 
 
 William. That would depend upon which name 
 he liked best. You may call the action what 
 you please ; but I think that the thing which is 
 done I mean the killing is just the same. 
 There are not two killings and there is no dif- 
 ference in the thing itself, because it is done by 
 several people. 
 
 John. So I think ! To kill a man means " to 
 make him die ; " and unless there is any other kil- 
 ling, it is the same, whether it be done by a man 
 or a nation. 
 
 Unck James. Well, John, that is quite true ; it 
 is just what any boy's common sense will teach 
 him. Christian people are now beginning to be- 
 lieve that it is wrong to make wars, or to call 
 them " glory." 
 
 Lucy. Are they only beginning to believe, Unclo 
 James ? How strange ! 
 
 Unck James. But there are some who say that, 
 as there are always wicked people in the world
 
 WAK. 109 
 
 who will rob and steal, if you let them, we ought 
 to have soldiers to defend us. 
 
 William. But, Uncle James, could not you teach 
 these people better ? couldn't you prevent them 
 from fighting or stealing, by being kind to them ? 
 
 Uncle James. There are many people now, Wil- 
 lie, who think that we could. You know there 
 has been only one Teacher in the world whose 
 words we can be sure are quite right. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, that is Jesus Christ. 
 
 Uncle James. Jesus Christ, then, wrote a law to 
 show us how to live without fighting. It is writ- 
 ten " Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto 
 you, do ye even so unto them." But that is a very 
 hard law to keep. There is no doubt at all that 
 men would leave off fighting, if they all knew the 
 law, and had hearts good enough to keep it. 
 
 John. Then, of course, we ought to teach that 
 law to one another as fast as we can. 
 
 Lucy. And so ought all the English and Amer- 
 ican people, because it is Christ's law, and the 
 English and Americans are Christians. 
 
 Uncle James. This is one of Jesus Christ's great 
 laws, and no one can teach it until he has karned 
 it. God will teach all of you, if you ask him.
 
 110 WAR. 
 
 John. Then, I am sure, I will ask him. I be- 
 lieve it is wicked to fight ; I think there ought 
 not to be any soldiers made on purpose. I will 
 
 never be a soldier ! 
 
 
 
 William. Nor If 
 
 Lucy. Nor I, to fight with sword and spear in 
 the armies that kill ; for woman's mission is not 
 to fight with such weapons. But I will be a sol- 
 dier in that blessed army, whose banner is righte- 
 ousness and truth, and whose leader is called the 
 Captain of our Salvation. 
 
 Uncle James. Yes, Lucy, that is your mission ; 
 and it should be the mission of us all. There is 
 nothing stronger than truth. All the armies in 
 the world arrayed against it cannot overcome it. 
 Let us each, then, embalm this motto on our 
 hearts, " Truth is mighty, and will prevail." 
 
 Go to the bee ! and thence bring home 
 (Worth all the treasures of her comb) 
 
 An antidote against rash strife ; 
 She, when her angry flight she -wings, 
 But once, and at her peril, stings ; 
 
 But gathers honey all her life. 
 
 BISHOP.
 
 THE LITTLE GARDEN. HI 
 
 THE LITTLE GARDEN. 
 
 Well I know a little garden, 
 
 Circled in by ruby walls, 
 Having for its high-born tenant 
 
 Primal heir of Aidenn halls ; 
 And it waiteth for the sunshine, 
 
 Waiteth for the dew and rain, 
 rhat it may be green and fruitful, 
 
 And reward the laborer's pain, 
 
 Filling up its secret fountain 
 
 Crystal mirror of its worth 
 Till it overflows with blessings 
 
 For the supplicating earth. 
 And it waiteth all the spring time 
 
 For the good seed to be sown, 
 Hidden germ of future harvests, 
 
 For an unseen gamer grown. 
 
 Yet, without a constant watching, 
 
 And the tenant's earnest care, 
 Weeds will spring and blight his prospects, 
 
 Poisoning all the garden ah 
 Till the Eden-tinted blossoms 
 
 That might grow in beauty there, 
 Find no place to gather greenness, 
 
 And put up their incense-prayer.
 
 112 THE LITTLE GARDEN. 
 
 And the streams that go to water 
 
 Lands beyond the garden walls, 
 Grow unclean, and cease to gladden 
 
 Where their willing offering falls ; 
 Till we wait, in vain for blessings, 
 
 Wait in vain for fruits and flowers, 
 Sad to see so fair a garden 
 
 Thorn-grown in a world like ours. 
 
 Pilgrim, to the unknown hastening, 
 
 Made almost an angel here, 
 Thou hast such a little garden, 
 
 And the harvest draweth near .' 
 Give it, then, thy constant labor, 
 
 Stock thy HEART with Heaven's own flowers, 
 That it bear thee fruits of Eden 
 
 In a better world than ours. 
 
 LILLIAN. 
 
 THUNDER STORM ON THE ALPS. 
 
 Far along, 
 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
 Leaps the live thunder ! not from one lone cloud, 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
 And Jura answers through her misty shroud, 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud.
 
 COCOA. 113 
 
 COCOA. 
 
 [jJda, Willie, Lucy, Ion, and their Mother.] 
 
 Mother. Can you tell me, children, what cocoa 
 is? 
 
 Ion. I have read, mamma, that it is the seed of 
 a tree, but I don't know where it grows. 
 
 M. You know where South America is. Yoa 
 had better fetch the map, I think ; then we shall 
 see its place more clearly. If you were to go 
 there, particularly in those parts which belong to 
 the Spaniards, you would see some large cocoa 
 plantations. 
 
 Jida. Whatare " plantations," mamma ? 
 
 M. A plantation means a place where trees 
 are planted. Tell me some trees that grow in 
 plantations. 
 
 L. Coffee grows in plantations, mamma they 
 plant the coffee-trees. The sugar-canes and tea- 
 trees, too, are planted. 
 
 W. Corn is not grown in plantations, but in 
 the fields. 
 
 Ion. Apples and other fruits are grown in 
 orchards ; but the vegetables we have for dinner, 
 8
 
 114 COCOA. 
 
 most of those are grown in gardens, kitchen-gar 
 dens, by the market-gardener so that 
 
 Vegetables and flowers grow in gardens. 
 
 Most fruits grow in orchards. 
 
 Corn and oats grow in fields. 
 
 Coffee, tea, sugar, and cocoa grow -in planta- 
 tions. 
 
 M. Cocoa plantations are found not only in 
 South America, but in the "West Indies. In one 
 of the West India islands, called GRENADA, the 
 plantations are pleasantly situated amongst the 
 mountains. Thus, there is always cool shade for 
 the negroes to work in. 
 
 The trees, which are twenty feet high, about 
 four times as tall as papa, are arranged in rows, 
 forming what are called " cocoa walks." Whan 
 the young leaves come out they are of a pale red 
 color, and as they get older they become green. 
 Then you will see numbers of small flowers spring- 
 ing from the thick branches of the trees they 
 are of a light red color, mixed with yellow. 
 
 When the flowers have dropped off, they are 
 followed by small pods of an oval shape, like an 
 egg. These pods, when they have grown to their 
 full size, and are green, are very nice. They con-
 
 COCOA. 115 
 
 tain the unripe seeds, and a beautiful white pulp> 
 which is sweet and cooling to the taste. Very 
 often the poor blackamoor travellers, when they 
 feel hot and weary, stop to pick a few pods, and 
 refresh themselves by eating their pulp. So ex- 
 cellent and good is this pulp, that the great bot- 
 anist, Linnaeus, gave to the cocoa-tree a name 
 which means " food for a god." 
 
 These trees were so valuable at one time, that 
 in a West India island called Trinidad, when 
 people were so foolish and wicked as to keep 
 slaves, there was a law*, that if a slave planted 
 one thousand cocoa-trees, and could make them 
 all bear fruit, he could claim his liberty from his 
 master or his manumission, as it was called. I 
 have heard, too, that the cocoa seeds were, a long 
 time ago, used as money in America. 
 
 I can tell you another curious thing about this 
 tree, although I am not quite sure whether it is 
 correct. It is said, that in order for it to grow 
 well, it must be under the shade of the coral-tree, 
 a tree with fine bright scarlet blossoms. The 
 Spaniards, I know, call the coral-tree " the mother 
 of the cocoa." 
 
 When the pods on the cocoa-tree have turned
 
 116 COCOA. 
 
 yellow, or a brownish red color, they are ready 
 for picking. This is done twice a-year in 
 December and June. 
 
 On opening one of these pods, you would see 
 three rows of long seeds, lying parallel to each 
 other, and close together as closely as peas are 
 packed in their pods. You may remember the 
 history of coffee, and the way in which the ne- 
 groes prepare it. They have almost the same 
 plan in preparing the cocoa. The pods are dried 
 in the sun, or in hot clay, until the husks are 
 crisp, and can easily be broken off. 
 
 If the seeds, which are called " nibs," are to be 
 made into cocoa, they are ground into a powder ; 
 but, if they are to be made into chocolate, they are 
 formed into a thick paste. 
 
 L. Where is the cocoa sent to, mamma ? 
 
 M. Some is exported to England ; some to 
 France. The French make many different drinks 
 from it ; but the largest quantity is consumed in 
 Spain. The Spaniards have always been famous 
 for eating as well as drinking chocolate. I have 
 brought you, from the grocer's, two or three of 
 the seeds, or rather the cocoa nibs. Which of 
 you would like to examine one, and give me its 
 description ?
 
 COCOA. 117 
 
 L. I should, mamma, if 1 may. I notice, 1st 
 That it is of a long, oval shape. 2nd. It has a 
 rich deep brown color. 3rd. Thirdly 
 
 W. I'll give you a " thirdly " feel it! it 
 feels rather oily and greasy. 
 
 Ion. Just try and break it, Lucy, and see if it 
 is brittle. 
 
 L. It does break easily, but not -with very 
 sharp edges, like a brittle substance. 
 
 Ion. Yet it is not friable, because it does not 
 crumbk. 
 
 L. These pieces are not crumbs, certainly. 
 No, the proper, word to use is "crisp" it is 
 crisp. 
 
 W. Let me taste it, Lucy, please. Well, I 
 should call such a taste peculiar. It has not a 
 saline flavor, not a Utter flavor, not a sour flavor, 
 not a sweet flavor. Its taste is oily, rather bitter, 
 rather sweet, and it has an aromatic flavor all 
 four flavors mixed together. We had better say 
 that it has a rich taste. 
 
 Ion. And it has a smell so it is odorous. 
 Then we will say that it is of a long oval shape, 
 reddish brown color, oily, crisp, odorous, and with 
 a rich taste.
 
 118 COCOA. 
 
 M. You have done well, Ion. Now, will you 
 give us an abstract of our dialogue, so that your 
 brothers and sister will remember what we learned 
 to-day ? 
 
 Ion. Cocoa nibs are the seed of a tree growing 
 in South America and the West Indies, where the 
 sugar and coffee grow. They are of a long, oval 
 shape, reddish brown color, oily, crisp, odorous, 
 and with a rich taste. 
 
 The trees are cultivated in plantations, where 
 they form long rows called cocoa walks. 
 
 The pods which contain the seeds are nearly 
 of an oval -shape. When they are green, they 
 contain not only the unripe seeds, but a pulp which 
 is so sweet and refreshing that it is of great ser- 
 vice to travellers, and has been called " the food 
 for a god." 
 
 These seed pods, when ripe, are picked, pre- 
 pared almost in the same way as the coffee-ber- 
 ries, and exported to other countries.
 
 PATIENCE. 119 
 
 THE PROMISES. 
 
 1. Blessed is he that considereth the poor ; the 
 Lord will deliver him in time of trouble. 
 
 2. Blessed is the man unto whom the Lord 
 imputeth not iniquity, and in whose spirit there 
 is no guile. 
 
 3. The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, 
 and delivereth them out of all their troubles. 
 
 4. Blessed are the undefiled in the way, who 
 walk in the law of the Lord. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 What cannot patience do ? 
 
 A great design is seldom matched at once ; 
 
 'Tis patience heaves it on 
 
 From savage nature ; 
 
 'Tis patience that has built up human life ; 
 
 The nurse of arts ; and Rome exalts her head, 
 
 An everlasting monument to patience.
 
 120 HOME. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Scarcely in our English language 
 
 Can be found a word more sweet 
 Than the one our childhood's lispingf 
 
 Learn so early to repeat ; 
 From the humble, toiling peasant, 
 
 To the queen upon her throne, 
 Not a heart but beats responsive 
 
 To the magic spells of Home. 
 
 Birthplace of the soul's affections ! 
 
 Light is thy unchanging dower, 
 As the light is to the sunbeam, 
 
 And sweet odors to the flower ; 
 Love unseen, but ever present, 
 
 Like the free, unfettered air, 
 Unperceived by outward vision, 
 
 Yet we breath it everywhere. 
 
 Home ! all charms around thee twining, 
 
 Bind us to the sacred spot ; 
 Earliest scene of fond remembrance, 
 
 And the last to be forgot. 
 Pole-star of the wandering stranger ! 
 
 Whereso'er his footsteps roam, 
 Turns his heart, with strong attraction, 
 
 To the blessed light of Home. 
 
 P. M.
 
 TKUTH. 121 
 
 TRUTH THE WATER-CRESS MAN. 
 
 [Edwards, the Water-cress Man; Willie, Lucy, Ion, 
 and their Father.] 
 
 Edwards. Water cree-e-e-e-e-e-e-ses. Buy my 
 wat 
 
 Willie. 1 There goes good old " Graycoat," 
 droning along, with his black and white dog be- 
 hind him! He has stopped at No. 4, over the 
 way. See ! his basket is quite empty ; there is 
 nothing left but the cloth. 
 
 Ion. Yes; I often meet him as I come home 
 from school, and his basket is nearly always 
 empty. I wonder how he sells his cresses so fast. 
 
 Papa. I can tell you. He owes it all to 
 "Truth." But he shall tell you himself. You 
 know he lives in one of my cottages. I am going 
 this evening to see him, for he wants me to let 
 him a piece of the field at the bottom of his gar- 
 den, and you shall go with me. 
 
 W. Then we will go and change our shoes 
 before tea, and get our best hats. * * *
 
 122 TRUTH. 
 
 Ion. Papa, is that the old jnan's cottage ? 
 There is a pretty laburnum tree. 
 
 P. Yes. We will go in. Good evening, Ed- 
 wards. I have brought my two sons and my 
 daughter with me, that they may see your garden. 
 I want you, too, to tell them how it is you are 
 getting on so well. 
 
 E. Yes, sir, that I will. Sit down, young mas- 
 ter. What is your name, pray ? 
 
 W. I am called Willie, my sister's name ia 
 Lucy, and this boy is my brother Ion. 
 
 E. Well, Master Willie, if you had come to 
 my cottage two years ago, it was not such a place 
 as it is now ; we were very poor people. I have 
 had four sons. One of them is a soldier ; another 
 has gone to Canada. The eldest one, who lives 
 next door, is a bricklayer. He earns twenty-five 
 shillings per week, but he has seven children. 
 My youngest son, poor boy I was' working at yon- 
 der railway bridge, when one of the arches fell 
 in, and he was killed ; so none of my sons can 
 help me. 
 
 My good dame, who is sitting on that low chair, 
 (she cannot hear that we are talking about her,) 
 used to earn one shilling and sixpence a week
 
 TRUTH. 128 
 
 at making straw-plait, but_ now she cannot see 
 even with her spectacles ; and my daughter, who 
 is walking up and down the garden in such a 
 hurry, she, poor thing, is silly. So I have no oneF 
 to help me ; and, although I am sixty-seven years 
 old, I have to help myself. 
 
 O, it was hard work once ! I remember, after 
 my son died, the d^jr when we had only two pence 
 halfpenny in the house, and I went to the pawn- 
 broker and pawned my dame's wedding ring to 
 get some money to buy water-cresses. 
 
 " Go on, father ! " said my eldest son, (who came 
 in early next morning to start me.) " I'll lend you 
 this old basket : let me fasten the strap round 
 your shoulder ! There, put in the cresses, and lay 
 the white cloth over them. Good by! Now, 
 make the people buy them. Sing out, ' Water- 
 cresses ! ' louder than you can ! Let me hear 
 you begin." 
 
 So, whilst other folk we're asleep, I set off in 
 the damp air, through the churchyard past 
 the Almshouses down West Street, past the 
 market-place and the railway, until I reached the 
 bridge, at the farther end of the High Street, when 
 I came up the long hill.
 
 L24 TRUTH. 
 
 Every where I cried, " Water-cresses ! " as loud 
 as my shaky old voice would letTne. They were 
 fine cresses ; so I told every one that they were 
 very fresh, and that they were the best in the town. 
 I sold a great many, and in the evening I sold 
 those which were left. Every day I worked hard. 
 I never stopped for the rainy weather, or wind, 
 but went on, singing out lofldly, " Fine water- 
 cresses ! " " Fine young * water-cresses ! " and 
 told every body again that they were the finest in 
 the town. 
 
 Still I did not earn enough money to buy us 
 bread. I could never sell two baskets full in a 
 day, but had to sell in the afternoon what I had 
 left from the morning. So we often had potatoes 
 out of the garden, and salt, for dinner ; and tea- 
 leaves and bread for tea. I had to sell both our 
 chickens, for we had no barley to feed them with. 
 
 I sold our eight-day clock, that warming pan, 
 the bedstead, and my wheelbarrow. And, ! as 
 the autumn came on, and the evenings were dark- 
 er, it was very cold to sit here on the stones 
 with a small fire made of sticks from the com- 
 mon, and a greased rush for a candle. 
 
 Then we would go to bed at seven, to save the
 
 TRUTH. 125 
 
 rushlights and sticks, and would think, " What 
 shall we do when the winter comes on, and the 
 water-cresses are gone ? " So, when the quarter- 
 day came, I had no money to pay your father his 
 rent. 
 
 Ion. But how have you managed to make such 
 a difference in two years and a half ? 
 
 E. Ah, young master, isn't it a difference! 
 Look at my dame ; what a clean white cap she 
 has now we bought a box-iron second hand. 
 She wears her stuff frock every day. I have 
 bought back my eight-day clock from the pawn- 
 broker's, and our bedstead, and the old warming 
 pan. We have meat for dinner, four times a week. 
 There is a new piece of oil-cloth ; and 0, come 
 and see the garden. Those are my pigs I paid 
 a friend of my son's one shilling and two pence 
 for a new thatch to their sty. I gave four pence 
 for this old dog, and can afford to keep him. I 
 am going to buy some chickens, for I have thirty- 
 seven shillings in the Savings Bank ; and I have 
 asked your papa for^, bit of the field at the back, 
 for my son and I to grow turnips. 
 
 Ion. Well, but how did you get the money for 
 so many things ?
 
 12b TKUTH. 
 
 E. Only by speaking the exact truth. TRUTH 
 has bought all this for me in twc years and a half. 
 It was a very little thing which made so great a 
 difference. I left off selling the best water-cresses, 
 and only sold good ones that was all. 
 
 W. I don't understand that. 
 
 E. I will tell you. One day, your mamma 
 asked me, "Are these good water-cresses, Ed- 
 wards ? " " Yes, ma'am, the finest in the town" 
 "But, Edwards," she said, "they cannot always 
 be finer than any one else's. They are good water- 
 cresses, and if you would only say that they are 
 good, instead of saying that they are the best, 
 you would be speaking the plain truth. Then, 
 depend upon it, you would sell them sooner." 
 
 And, do you know, Master William, that one 
 word which your mamma gave me helped me to 
 become rich, and to pay your papa his rent ? I 
 thought, as I went through the street, about the 
 plain truth and about being careful not to say 
 more than the truth. So, when I remembered that 
 my water-cresses were those \diich were left from 
 the morning, I only cried out, " Water cresses," 
 and left out the word " fine." 
 
 " Are these water-cresses fresh, Edwards ? " said
 
 TRUTH. 127 
 
 the landlady at the " Golden Lion." I was just 
 going to say, " Yes, ma'am, very*' wien I stopped, 
 and said, " No, ma'am, they are good, but they were 
 picked this morning." 
 
 W. And did sne buy them ? 
 
 E. No, I lost my halfpenny then ; but I felt 
 that I had spoken the plain truth, and no more. 
 So God, who looked down from heaven upon me, 
 was pleased, and I was pleased, more than if I 
 had had the halfpenny. 
 
 W. But you don't think that God takes notice 
 of such a little thing as selling water-cresses ? 
 
 E. Ah, indeed! To be sure he does. Did 
 not God make the water-cresses ? TRUTH is just 
 the same, if you are selling any thing for a half- 
 penny or for a thousand pounds. A thousand 
 pounds is not greater than a halfpenny to 
 God. He notices water-cress men as much as 
 kings. 
 
 See how God noticed me. I was obliged that 
 evening to sell my cresses three bunches for a 
 halfpenny, to get rid of them, just because I would 
 only say they were good; and, when I said that 
 they were picked in the morning, some people 
 would not have them at all.
 
 128 TRUTH. 
 
 W. Well, but that was not the way to get on. 
 
 E. Yes it was* The Bible says, " Hold fast 
 to that which is good ; " and so I did. Some of 
 my customers, who would not buy my cresses in 
 the evening, bought some on the next morning ; 
 for when I said that they were " quite fresh," they 
 believed me. I never said that they wer,e very 
 good, or better than other people's, for that was 
 more than the truth. When the people found this 
 out, they began to trust me, and to believe all I 
 said ; and soon I had no cresses to leave till the 
 evening. Before the end of the week, I had 
 saved threepence. The next week I saved one 
 shilling and a penny. Soon people gave me other 
 things to do ; they would trust me to take a par- 
 cel, or to carry back an umbrella, or to clean the 
 windows ; and when they paid me, and asked how 
 long I had been working, I told them the exact 
 time and no more, and they always believed me. 
 50, the third week, I saved one shilling and eleven 
 pence ; and the fourth week, one shilling and 
 ninepence ; and the fifth week, three shillings. I 
 grew richer every week ; and now, you see, I sell 
 a heavy basket-full of cresses every morning and 
 evening.
 
 TRUTH. 129 
 
 Ion. Yes. I meet you every afternoon, as I 
 come from school, and your basket is often 
 empty. 
 
 E. Well, then, you see, Master Ion, what a 
 good thing plain truth is. It soon brought me 
 more riches than all the loud crying and boasting 
 I made. fc Many people think that nothing is worth 
 BO much as money. When your mamma spoke to 
 me about truth, if she had asked me which I 
 should have,j#ye sovereigns or the advice she was 
 going to give me 
 
 W. 0, you would have asked for the sovereigns, 
 of course. You would have thought that they 
 were more real. 
 
 E. I dare say I should have done so : yet 
 you see that those .words have been worth more 
 to me than the gold. The money would not have 
 bought half so many things, nor have made me so 
 happy. 
 
 L. No. The five sovereigns would not have 
 made, people trust you. 
 
 E. Ah ! and five sovereigns would not have 
 bought the love of GOD. When I feel sure that 
 God and men trust me, that feeling gives me more 
 
 joy than my old eight-day clock, or my wife's new 
 9
 
 130 TRUTH. 
 
 gown, or my chickens or pigs. TRUTH ! 0, it's 
 worth a great deal more than five pounds. 
 
 L. What do you call it, papa, when men speak 
 more than the plain truth ? 
 
 P. It is called " Exaggeration." 
 
 L. Then we will try and remember tho, lesson : 
 It is wrong to speak more than the Truth, for that 
 is EXAGGERATION. 
 
 THE YOUNGEST. 
 
 I rocked her in her cradle, 
 
 And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest ; 
 What fireside circle hath not felt the charm 
 Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er grow old. 
 The fond endearment of our earlier days 
 We keep alive in them, and when they die, 
 Our youthful joys we bury with them.
 
 SPEAK KINDLY TO THE POOR. 131 
 
 SPEAK KINDLY TO THE POOK. 
 
 Speak kindly to the poor ! 
 
 One little word, if timely said, 
 May tend to soothe a thousand cares 
 
 May dry the tear by sorrow shed. 
 Let no reproaches from thy lips 
 
 Be breathed, which thou might'st not endure; 
 Or give of that which nothing costs ! 
 
 Speak kindly to the poor. 
 
 Look gently on the poor ! 
 
 And not be hasty to depart ; 
 Beneath those homely garments throb 
 
 Full ma^p an honest heart. 
 Thy smile may shed a heaven of joy ; 
 
 A sunlight word of hope ensure ; 
 O, turn not then in scorn away ! 
 
 Look gently on the poor. 
 
 Be friendl} 7 to the poor! 
 
 To such the promise lias been given ; 
 Despised and scoffed at here on earth, 
 
 They shall inherit peace in heaven : 
 But, ah ! how sad will be thy fate ! 
 
 Thou com'st to enter at the door, 
 And find'st no banquet there prepared 
 
 For any save the poor ! 
 
 B. W.
 
 332 A -GARLAND OF SPRING FLOWERS. 
 
 The snowdrop ! the snowdrop ! 
 
 The foremost of the train ; 
 The snowdrop ! the snowdrop ! 
 
 Whose lustre bears no stain. 
 In modest beauty peerless, 
 
 It shows its little bell, 
 Through frost and snow so cheerless, 
 
 Of sunny days to tell. 
 
 The crocus ! the crocus ! 
 
 Unheeding wind or rain ; 
 The'erocus ! the crocus ! 
 
 Comes peeping up again. 
 In purple, white, or yellow, 
 
 So charming to the sight, 
 We scarce can find its fellow, 
 
 For colors pure and bright. 
 
 The daisy ! the daisy ! 
 
 Spread wide o'er hill and dale ; 
 The daisy ! the daisy ! 
 
 No season knows to fail. 
 Though bitter blasts are blowing, 
 
 Its lovely buds unfold, 
 A crown of silver showing, 
 
 And breast of yellow gold.
 
 A GARLAND OP SPRING FLOWERS. 133 
 
 The Violet ! the violet ! 
 
 From sheltered mossy bed ; 
 The violet ! the violet ! 
 
 Just lifts its purple head. 
 Beneath the hedgerow hiding, 
 
 Wheie withered leaves are cast, 
 It cares not for the chiding 
 
 Of March's angry blast. 
 
 J 
 The primrose ! the primrose ! 
 
 Beneath the ancient trees ; 
 The primrose ! the primrose ! 
 
 Seeks shelter from the breeze. 
 Or where the streamlet dances, 
 
 'Mid rocky banks and steep, 
 To catch the sun's first glances, 
 
 Its early flowerets peep. 
 
 The cowslip ! the cowslip ! 
 
 With leaves so fresh and green } 
 The cowslip ! the cowslip ! 
 
 With speckled bells is seen. 
 Its bold and hardy flowers 
 
 Shoot up among the grass ; 
 Nor fear the driving showers 
 
 That o'er the meadows pass. 
 
 A garland ! a garland ! % 
 
 Of blossoms rich and fair ;
 
 134 THE PROMISES. 
 
 A garland ! a garland ! 
 
 We'll bind for Spring to wear. 
 With butter-cups entwining, 
 
 The blue-bells shall be there, 
 With hawthorn's bloom combining, 
 
 And lilies white and fair. 
 
 Training School Song Book. 
 
 THE PROMISES. 
 
 1. The meek shall inherit the earth, and shall 
 delight themselves in the abundance of peace. 
 
 2. A little that a righteous man hath is better 
 than the riches of many wicked. 
 
 3. The Lord knoweth the days of the upright, 
 and their inheritance shall be for ever. 
 
 4. They shall not be ashamed in the evil time, 
 and in the days of famine they shall be satisfied.
 
 THE PLEASURES OF LEARNING. 135 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF LEARNING. 
 
 Ji story about a good little boy who taught his little 
 sister a great many things. 
 
 There was once a little boy, whom all liked 
 very much. He was only ten years old. He 
 could not play well at ball or hoop, yet he was 
 the first boy in the school. His mother had 
 taught him the hard lessons, and explained all 
 the hard words to him ; so that while other boys 
 were at play, or doing mischief, he was learning 
 something useful from his mother. 
 
 One day his father and mother died, and he and 
 a little sister had to go and live with an aunt, a 
 great distance from the school. So the little boy 
 thought, as he could not go to school, he would 
 read all the books he could get, and teach his 
 little sister all that he knew, and all that his good 
 mother had taught him about God and the heaven- 
 ly country where their father and mother had 
 gone. 
 
 And, 0, how delighted he was to teach his 
 Bister! How joyfully he would get up at six
 
 136 THE PLEASURES OF LEARNING. 
 
 o'clock in the morning, and would tie on her 
 little black bonnet, and white pinafore and shawl ! 
 Then he would brush her tiny shoes, until they 
 were very black, and would put on his straw hat, 
 and away they would go over the hills together. 
 
 At nine o'clock, he would teach her to read ; 
 then he taught her to write and to spell. He 
 showed her how to make figures, and work sums 
 on her slate, and her aunt taught her to sew. 
 
 One day, when they were out on the hills, said 
 Joseph to Kate, (for these were their names) " I 
 am going to teach you all that my dear mother 
 taught me from underneath this tree. Here are 
 hundreds of things yet to find out and learn. 
 
 " Look at that beautiful sky, and the long, 
 streaky clouds. We are going to find out 
 where the clouds come from, and what they are 
 made of. Then we want to find out why some 
 clouds are round, and some long, and why they 
 are of such a rosy color in the morning." " Then," 
 said little Kate, " I want to know what the wind, 
 which blows them along, is made of, and where it 
 comes from. We have been noticing, too, the 
 music which the animals make to the sun, when 
 they see him." 
 
 " Do you see," said Joseph, " that he is just
 
 THE PLEASURES OP LEARNING. 137 
 
 getting up ! Listen, only now ! There's the sing- 
 ing of the birds, the buzzing of the insects, the 
 bleating of the lambs in the valley, and the caw- 
 ing of the rooks a long way off. We mean this 
 summer to count up the different trees and plants 
 here, and, perhaps, the different earths, and rocks, 
 and stones." 
 
 " Why," said Kate, " what is there to be learned 
 from this old stump ? " 
 
 " Ah," said Joseph, " our mother taught me 
 many things from it ; we had twelve lessons : 1st. 
 We examined the roots, to see what they are 
 made for. 2d. We learned about the sap. 3d. 
 The trunk. 4th. The branches. 5th. The pith. 
 6th. The layers of wood. 7th. The bark. 8th. 
 The buds. 9th. The leaves, and what they were 
 made for. 10th. The little insects which live on 
 the leaves and under the bark. llth. How the 
 tree came here, and what it was made for. 12th. 
 We learned its name, and to what family of trees 
 it belongs. And 13th. I am going to teach att 
 this to you." 
 
 " But what is the use," said Kate, " of spending 
 BO much time in learning these things ? " 
 
 " Ah, my dear Kate," said Joseph, " we ought
 
 138 THE PLEASURES OF LEARNING. 
 
 to notice and learn every common thing around 
 us. From the plants we get food to nourish us, 
 medicine to heal us, and clothing to cover us. 
 The wheat plants gave me the straw for my hat. 
 The crocus plant grew the yellow color for the 
 ribbon. The indigo plant the dark blue for neck- 
 erchiefs. The flax plant, the linen for my shirt ; 
 and the cotton tree for your gown." 
 
 " Yes," said Kate, " and my shoestrings came 
 from a silkworm, your coat from a sheep, and 
 your shoes from a calf." 
 
 "And," resumed Joseph, "the oak trees are 
 made into ships, the hemp plant into sails, and 
 the wind blows them along. The earth gives us 
 iron for our railroads ; and water the mighty 
 steam for the engines. These are all very com- 
 mon things, and yet man has found much good by 
 thinking about them." 
 
 Thus little Joseph taught his sister every day 
 about all the things they saw, until she was a 
 great girl ; and now they both enjoy more happi- 
 ness than ever ; for they are both teaching more 
 than a hundred children how to feel that they are 
 all the works of God, and how beautifully every 
 thing is made to delight the e,ye and satisfy the 
 soul that thirsts for knowledge.
 
 MY HOME. 139 
 
 MY HOME. 
 
 My home, my own dear home ! 
 
 It is a happy place, 
 Where smiles of love are brightening 
 
 Each dear, familiar face 
 Where parents' arms enfold me, 
 
 In fond embraces pressed, 
 And daily, nightly blessings 
 
 Upon the household rest. 
 Our morning salutations, 
 
 How gladsomely they sound ! 
 And kind " good nights," at evening, 
 
 Like curtains, close us round. 
 
 The bird seeks not to wander 
 
 From its own quiet nest, 
 But deems it of all places 
 
 The dearest and the best. 
 Home is my nest, where round me 
 
 Soft sheltering wings are spread, 
 And peace, and joy, and gladness, 
 
 With shade and sunlight, shed. 
 O may I bring no shadow 
 
 Of sorrow or of care, 
 To dim the open brightness 
 
 Of happy faces there ! 
 
 J. E. L.
 
 140 THE GOOD WE MIGHT DO. 
 
 THE GOOD WE MIGHT DO. 
 
 We might all do good, 
 
 When we often do ill ; 
 There is always a way, 
 
 If we have but the will. 
 Though it be but a word 
 
 Kindly breathed or suppressed, 
 It may guard off some pain, 
 
 Or give peace to some breast. 
 
 We all might do good 
 
 In a thousand small ways ; 
 In forbearing to natter, 
 
 Yet yielding due praise ; 
 In spurning ill humor, 
 
 Eeproving wrong done, 
 And treating but kindly 
 
 Each heart we have won. 
 
 We all might do good, 
 
 Whether lowly or great, 
 For the deed is not gauged 
 
 By the purse or estate ; 
 If it be but a cup 
 
 Of cold water that's given, 
 Like " the widow's two mites," 
 
 It is something in heaven. 
 
 A. S. O
 
 THE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 141 
 
 THE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 
 
 excellent memory and a lively disposition, the 
 good effects of which were nevertheless almost 
 destroyed by an unfortunate failing he was 
 too changeable. Zephirin went one day to pay 
 a visit to one of his young friends. He found 
 him employed in copying a Roman head. Ze- 
 phirin stood by him, following every touch of the 
 pencil with anxious eyes. He was seized with a 
 desire to learn drawing. He hastened home, and 
 meeting his father on the stairs, he threw his 
 arms round his neck, and entreated him to go out 
 immediately and find a drawing master for him. 
 His father, pleaded with his ardor, consented to 
 his request. They set out immediately and en- 
 gaged one of the best teachers.
 
 142 THE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 
 
 Zephirin was very much grieved to hear that 
 the teacher would not be able to devote the whole 
 of every day to him ; indeed, he was hardly to be 
 contented with two hours a day. 
 
 " Such a useful and agreeable art," said Ze- 
 phirin. " I am surprised, that it is so much 
 neglected." 
 
 The rest of the day was spent in scribbling 
 upon bits of paper. To be sure, ftne of his 
 drawings were presentable. They consisted gen- 
 erally of crooked mouths and noses, immense 
 staring eyes, and arms and legs entirely devoid 
 of proportion. 
 
 For the first week, it all went on very well. 
 Zephirin made himself an enormous book of 
 drawing paper, and soon filled it. Seeing that 
 the garret walls had been lately whitewashed, he 
 undertook a series of the Roman emperors, con- 
 suls, and tribunes on horseback, and triumphal 
 processions. 
 
 But this did not last long. Zephirin soon be- 
 came tired of such excessive application. He 
 found that the pencil blacked his hands, and Ma 
 penknives grew dull with so much cutting. In 
 vain his master spoke of the glory and utility of
 
 TgE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 143 
 
 the art ; in vain artist after artist "was cited a9 
 example and encouragement. 
 
 One day, the teacher hoping to excite his now 
 listless pupil, brought with him a young man, just 
 from Koine, who spoke in exalted terms of the 
 splendid works of art he had lately beheld. In 
 expressing himself, he made use of several Italian 
 words, which made much more impression on 
 Zephirin than all the paintings in the world 
 could have done. 
 
 " How much better," exclaimed he, " to speak 
 a living language than to employ one's self contin- 
 ually in drawing useless heads ! " 
 
 He ran to communicate his new impressions to 
 his father, and the next day Zephirin took his 
 first Italian lesson. 
 
 For the first few days his attention was unre- 
 mitting, the difficulties of the grammar were soon 
 mastered, and Zephirin, delighted with the soft- 
 ness and beauty of the language, spoke his newly- 
 acquired phrases to every body in the house, and 
 was very much displeased to find no one could 
 understand him. He called the cook Vostra 
 Signora, and the footman Cor mio. 
 
 He soon got through the Italian translation
 
 144 THE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 
 
 of Telemachus, and searching in his father's book- 
 case for a more difficult book, " Don Quixote," in 
 Spanish, fell into his hands. 
 
 This was a new source of delight. 0, what 
 a treasure! and how necessary it was now to be- 
 come able to read it, the pride of Spanish lit- 
 erature, with its proverbs, its witty speeches, all 
 in its native richness. What were Mentor's 
 grave harangues in comparison with Sancho's 
 admirable remarks ! and Calypso, in all her pride 
 of beauty and loveliness, could she inspire half 
 the interest which very one takes in Dulcinea ? 
 Spanish was now the order of the day, and Ze- 
 phirin was for a time perfectly happy ; but before 
 Don Quixote had accomplished his second sortie 
 Zephirin had given up Spanish for English, and 
 that in its turn had been superseded by German. 
 So that at the end of a year, Zephirin could speak 
 four living languages, but all so imperfectly, and 
 with such a mixture of all in his every-day con- 
 versation, that it was almost impossible to under- 
 stand him. 
 
 Zephirin was very anxious to learn to dance 
 well ; but his impatience prevented him from 
 making any progress in the art.
 
 THE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 145 
 
 He next turned his attention to music. But* 
 on what instrument should he begin ? After a 
 great deal of indecision he selected the violin, 
 and at the end of six months took up the flute in- 
 stead, and succeeded in learning to play with 
 some skill. 
 
 His father, alarmed at his changeable disposi- 
 tion, and fearing that he would never learn any 
 one thing, consented to his desire of visiting the 
 different countries of Europe, in the hope that by 
 mixing more with his fellow-creatures he would 
 learn the folly of his own habits. 
 
 Zephirin therefore set out for England, accom- 
 panied by a tutor. Arrived in London, Zephirin 
 was in ecstasy ; he spent his whole time in run- 
 ning about the streets, admiring the churches, the 
 shops, the magnificence of the houses, &c., but 
 he became very much fatigued and very anxious 
 to visit some new place. He therefore, with great 
 joy, ordered post horses for Dover the next day. 
 
 Italy was now the great object of > his wishes 
 glorious Italy ! After suffering much from sea- 
 sickness, they arrived safely, and made their first 
 visit to Leghorn, from whence they set out for 
 Florence ; but Zephirin could think and talk of 
 10
 
 146 THE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 
 
 Nothing but Rome. Even the gallery at Florence 
 had no charms for him. Arrived at Rome, Ze- 
 phirin, at the end of three days, was perfectly sat- 
 isfied. He had seen every thing of note in Rome, 
 and even found time to pack up his clothes, and 
 was all ready to set out for Naples. At Naples, 
 Zephirin's imagination feasted on the pleasure he 
 should receive from visiting Pompeii ; but here 
 too he was disappointed. Even the fine port at 
 Naples won from him no admiration ; his restless 
 spirit never enjoyed the present ; comparisons 
 were instituted between it and the equally cele- 
 brated ports of Amsterdam, Bourdeaux, and Con- 
 stantinople, which he now longed to behold. 
 
 They now directed their course towards Ven- 
 ice. The journey, it is true, was to be long and 
 tiresome, for they were to go from one end of 
 Italy to the other, but every sacrifice was cheer- 
 fully made by Zephirin in favor of Venice, with 
 its five hundred bridges, its gondoliers, and its 
 canals. 
 
 But our readers will accuse the tutor of unrea- 
 sonable compliance with the whims of this foolish 
 boy. The truth was, that Zephirin's father, by 
 means of constant communication with his son.
 
 THE UNSTEADY YOUTH. 147 
 
 Lad discovered, to his great regret, the effect of 
 his travels upon his mind. He observed that 
 Zephirin always complained very much of the 
 place they were in, and looked forward with en- 
 thusiastic longings to the next stage of their 
 journey. He therefore resolved to recall him im- 
 mediately ; but from observing the course pursued 
 by him, he doubted not but that Zephirin would 
 soon hasten home of his own accord. He there- 
 fore desired the tutor to bear with his whims for 
 a while, in the hope that they would not be of 
 long duration. 
 
 It happened exactly as the old gentleman had 
 predicted. Zephirin, after passing rapidly through 
 Venice, Turin, Switzerland, and Holland, returned 
 to France, dissatisfied. 
 
 His father received him with affection, but at 
 the same time could not avoid observing how 
 dearly his son had paid for all the advantages he 
 had received. Acquainted with no one accom- 
 plishment or science, but possessing a confused 
 mixture of all, he beheld him just about to enter 
 the state of manhood with no qualifications for 
 business, no strivings after excellence, idle, rash, 
 vain, impetuous, and variable ; a misery to himself 
 and to all around him.
 
 148 THE SPIRIT'S WHISPER. 
 
 THE SPIRIT'S WHISPER. 
 
 Sweet mother, do not weep ! 
 The joy of sainted spirits now is mine ; 
 I roam the fields of light, with those who keep 
 Bright watch, where heaven's own golden portals shine. 
 
 I am the babe no more, 
 "Who gave its feeble wailing to thine ear ; 
 Free from the cumbering clay, I mount, I soar, 
 Upward and onward, through a boundless sphere. 
 
 O, couldst thou know how fair, 
 How full of blessedness, this better land, 
 Thou wouldst rejoice thy child in safety there 
 Had place for ever 'mid the angel band. 
 
 I may not tell thee all 
 Its light and loveliness ; its hymns of joy 
 Upon a mortal ear may never fall, 
 And tongues immortal can ? Jone employ : 
 
 But, O, 't is sweet to be 
 A sinless dweller 'mid its radiant bowers ! 
 To join its seraph-songs of harmony, 
 To breathe the incense of its fadeless flowers,
 
 THE SPIRIT'S WHISPER. 149 
 
 To d-w ell no more with pain, 
 To shed no tears, to feel no panting breath. 
 Sweet mother, do not grieve for me again, 
 I am so blessed ; I bless the hand of death. 
 
 Turn with unwavering trust 
 From the green earth-bed, where my body lies ; 
 Ihou didst but lay its covering in the dust ; 
 Thy child yet lives, will live, beyond the skies. 
 
 There we shall meet again : 
 O, yes ! sweet mother, meet to part no more ! 
 I'll welcome thee with heaven's angelic train, 
 And lead *hee to the Saviour we adore. 
 
 A mirror has been well defined 
 An emblem of a thoughtful mind ; 
 For, look upon it, when you will, 
 You find it is reflecting still. 
 
 I hate to see a boy so rude, 
 That one might think him raised 
 
 In some wild region of the wood, 
 And but half civilized.
 
 150 SUSAN GEAY. 
 
 SUSAN GRAY. 
 
 " Can I stay at home from school to day, 
 mother?" said Susan Gray. 
 
 " Why," asked her mother, as she looked up 
 from her sewing, " are you sick, my child ? " 
 
 "No," replied Susan, as she hung down her 
 head, "but I do not wish to go to-day." 
 
 The mother for a few moments was silent. 
 She had but little property, and she had been 
 making a great effort to educate her child. 
 She had practised not a little self-denial her- 
 self, and often urged upon her daughter the im- 
 portance of making all the improvements in her 
 power. Susan, however, had not always heeded 
 her advice, and cared little about her books. 
 Quick and lively, fond of the society of her young 
 companions, she very much preferred to mingle 
 with them, and laugh and talk, instead of the hard 
 study of the school room. Often before had she 
 begged her mother to permit her to remain at 
 home, and too often succeeded, for Mrs. Gray, 
 though a sensible and good woman, could not al- 
 ways resist the importunities of her child. She
 
 SUSAN GRAY. 
 
 had been much afflicted. Several of her children 
 were in the grave, and her heart was often sad as 
 she thought of their bright faces and cheerful 
 voices which she could never hear again. Her 
 heart clung still more fondly to those that sur- 
 vived, and often in her tenderness she could not 
 deny what she knew was for their injury. Susan, 
 too, was the youngest. She had often been sick, 
 and the very care she had required had only ren- 
 dered her more dear. 
 
 " You can stay at home," at last said Mrs. Gray, 
 " though I am very sorry you wish it so much, for 
 your school days, Susan, must soon end." 
 
 Susan did stay at home. Gladly she busied 
 herself in different ways. She attended to her 
 Canary bird, and listened for a while to his merry 
 singing. Then she remembered a nice story she 
 was reading, and she hurried for the book and 
 finished it. Then she was a little lonely, for 
 there seemed nothing she could think of to in- 
 terest her, and she felt a little sorry she had not 
 gone to school. But after dinner some young 
 friends called, and she was quite happy. They 
 gave her an invitation, too, to go with them in 
 the evening, where in sport and merriment the
 
 152 SUSAN GRAY. 
 
 time flew swiftly on. But at home at last, when 
 in the silence of her own chamber, she did not 
 feel quite so happy. She thought of her mother's 
 reluctant consent, and how pained she had evi- 
 dently been at her request. She felt, too, that 
 swiftly as the day had passed she had spent it 
 unprofitably. She could recall not one good 
 deed done, not one good lesson learned. She 
 thought, too, of her lost lessons at school ; how 
 unfitted they had made her to go on with her 
 class ; of the additional labor she must impose 
 upon her teachers ; of the influence her irregu- 
 larity was exerting upon the school. As these 
 thoughts came and went, she felt little satisfied 
 with herself, and regretted the manner in which 
 she had spent the day. 
 
 " I am not preparod," said Susan Gray to her 
 teacher the next morning, " I was absent yester- 
 day, and have had no time to study my lessons." 
 
 The teacher looked at her, but said nothing; for 
 many times before had he heard this from her 
 lips. His thoughts, however, were very busy. 
 He thought of her wasted talents and misim- 
 proved opportunities ; of the little time before 
 her school days would be over, and she would
 
 SUSAN GRAY. 153 
 
 sigh for them in vain ; of what an intelligent, 
 useful wjman she might be, and how little she 
 would be regarded, how little influence she would 
 exert as she would be ; of the disappointed hopes 
 of her friends, expecting much where so little 
 would be done : he thought, too, of the many he 
 had known deprived of all means of education, 
 and how much they would give for a little part 
 of these privileges so slightly regarded. These 
 thoughts and many more were in his mind, and he 
 was sick at heart as he gazed at the intelligent- 
 looking girl before him. Should he tell her his 
 thoughts ? He had before counselled her, and it 
 had done no good he could tell her nothing she 
 did not know. She would choose her own way, 
 and she must reap as she would sow. He was 
 silent for a moment, and then simply said, " I am 
 sorry ; " and she turned to her seat, glad that she 
 had escaped a reprimand, that not even the 
 reason of her absence was asked, which she felt, 
 she should so poorly be able to explain. 
 
 Sad is it that Susan Gray will not be wise. 
 
 That parent who now mourns because she is so 
 indifferent will one day pass away, though not 
 the remembrance of her affection- and efforts for
 
 154 THE [NDIAN MAIDEN'S FAREWELL. 
 
 her child; those teachers whose cares have been 
 much increased by her will be her teachers, in 
 the course of time, no longer ; whether Susan is 
 intelligent or ignorant will then make no differ- 
 ence to them ; but years hence, each unimproved 
 opportunity will come back, and bitter tears will 
 Susan Gray shed over the follies and neglect of 
 her youth. From the Casket, a paper published in 
 the Newburypott Female High School. 
 
 THE INDIAN MAIDEN'S FAREWELL. 
 
 On the soft, green moss, in the forest wild, 
 At the sunset hour, lay a dying child ; 
 The "Indian's Pride," on her death bed lay, 
 In the forest dark, at the close of day. 
 
 And through the dim aisles of the forest still, 
 Wild rang her voice as a clarion shrill : 
 " It is the ' Great Spirit ' hath laid me low; 
 He called me to come, and I must go. 
 
 " Farewell ! I must go to the spirit land, 
 
 
 I must go to dwell with that happy band :
 
 TRUE CHARITY. 155 
 
 'JTiey called mo this morn at break of day, 
 They called me to go with them away. 
 
 " Their voices I hear in the sighing breeze, 
 That sings 'mid the boughs of the old oak trees ; 
 They call me to go with them away ; 
 They call me, and 1 can no longer stay. 
 
 " Farewell to my friends, farewell to my home ; 
 
 The spirits are calling ; 1 come, 1 come." 
 
 In the forest dark, at the close of day, 
 
 Her life, with the sunbeams, hath passed away. 
 
 Ellen. 
 
 TRUE CHARITY. 
 
 BENJAMIN, JOHN, AND MOTHER. 
 
 (Enter Ben, with a loaf of bread.) 
 
 Ben. Here's the bread, mother. Now you 
 must eat as much as you want, for you see I can 
 earn money enough to buy more when we've eaten 
 up this. 
 
 John. And you'll buy me a cap, won't you, Ben ?
 
 156 TRUE CHARITY. 
 
 Ben. 0. yes, Johnny : you shall have a cap if 
 we have money enough. 
 
 Mother. (Beginning to cut the bread.) This bread 
 is hard : the knife won't go through it. 
 
 Ben. mother, it's only because you are so 
 weak, and you know you hurt your arm when our 
 house was burned. Give me the knife, mother, and 
 I guess I'll make it go through about the quick- 
 est. (Takes the knife, and with great force cuts 
 th% bread, upon which several pieces of money fall to 
 the floor.} 
 
 Mother. What are you doing, my child ? What's 
 all that? Where has all this money come from ? 
 
 Ben. From the bread, mother ; from the bread, 
 as soon as I got the knife into it. Hurrah ! what 
 a loaf of bread ! It is a loaf of money. Now, 
 says I, we've got money enough to last us all our 
 lives. (Begins to pick up the money.} 
 
 Mother. Stop, Ben, stop! This is not your 
 money, nor mine : you must not touch it. 
 
 Ben. But, mother, I bought the bread and paid 
 for it with the money I earned for cleaning the 
 knives. 
 
 Mother. I know that, my dear boy ; but the per- 
 son who sold you this loaf did not mean to give
 
 TRUE CHARITY. 151 
 
 you this money. There must be some mistake. 
 You must take it back, my boy. 
 
 Sen. (Sorrowfully.) What, all of it, mother ? 
 
 Mother. Yes, every piece : it isn't honestly ours. 
 
 Ben. 0, dear, how I wish it was 1 Well, the 
 baker must give me another real good one, and 
 I'll go and get it in about no time. (Exit Ben.) 
 
 Mother. We'd better starve than be dishonest. 
 
 John. Why did you send that money back to 
 the baker, mammy ? 
 
 Mother. Because it was not mine to keep. 
 
 John. Then haven't we any money to buy bread 
 with? 
 
 Mother. Yes, we have some money, and Ben 
 will soon be back, and bring some bread that we 
 can eat. 
 
 John. I'm glad, 'cause I'm so hungry ; I want 
 some bread to eat. Mammy, couldn't I get some 
 money, like Ben? I can clean knives too, and 
 then you wouldn't cry so. 
 
 (Enter Ben.) 
 
 Ben. Hurrah ! mother, the bread and the money 
 is all ours, every bit of it ; the baker said so ; 
 and here it is, and another nice loaf. He told me
 
 158 TRUE CHARITY. 
 
 that somebody came there this morning, and gave 
 him the money, and told him to put it into the 
 bread, and if I came to buy a loaf, to give me this 
 very one. So he gave me back the money and a 
 good loaf beside. 
 
 Mother. I don't know what to do, my boy. 
 What can this mean ? 
 
 Ben. It means, mother, that you shall have a 
 good loaf of bread and enough money to buy 
 more with : it certainly is yours, and you must 
 keep it. Who do you suppose it was, mother ? 
 
 Mother. Well, my child, I suppose you are right, 
 and I must keep the money. Who can have done 
 this? 
 
 Ben. O mother, I know now I guess I do. 
 It was the very gentleman who gave me the 
 knives to scour. 
 
 Mother. It was- somebody that was very good, 
 and you shall now eat as much as you want. 
 Perhaps we may find out who has been so kind to 
 us ; and we can love them, even if we don't. 
 
 John. (Thoughtfully.) Haven't I heard you read, 
 somewhere, mother. "It is more blessed to give 
 than to receive " ? 
 
 Mother. Yes, John, I have ; and our good friend
 
 TEMPTATIONS. 159 
 
 has found that out, and learned also to give his 
 alms in secret, and he will have his reward ; for 
 God, who hears the ravens when they cry, has 
 also heard the cry of the widow and the father- 
 less, and will grant to him who gave in secret to 
 their necessities an open reward. 
 
 TEMPTATIONS. 
 
 Often are we sorely tempted 
 
 On this sorrow-laden shore, 
 Seemingly from nought exempted 
 
 Which can cloud the spirit o'er. 
 Every day brings many trials 
 
 We must breast with manly hearte, 
 Brings afflictions, self-denials, 
 
 And a thousand cunning arts 
 Which the tempter ever uses 
 
 To ensnare us if he may, 
 If the tempted spirit chooses 
 
 To be guidad in the way 
 He would paint for weary mortals, 
 
 Paint with fascinating sin, 
 Lest they pass the heavenly portals 
 
 Where the angels enter in. 
 
 Yet wheK filled with cankering sorrow, 
 As we feel their vexing power, 
 
 il
 
 160 TEMPTATIONS. 
 
 Seeing not a bright to-morrow 
 
 Through the shadows of the hour, 
 But instead a dark foreboding 
 
 Of the gloomy hours to be, 
 Heavily the spirit loading, 
 
 Till no ray of hope we see, 
 Then it is we need assistance 
 
 From an ever-powerful arm, 
 Which can give us in resistance 
 
 "Victory and spirit calm ; 
 Which can give us joy for weeping, 
 
 Hope for melancholy thought, 
 Flowers of love for daily reaping, 
 
 And a thousand gifts unsought. 
 
 Stronger grow we through temptation 
 
 If we manfully resist, 
 And our earthly tribulation 
 
 Still is but a shadowy mist, 
 Through which, with a strong decision, 
 
 We must press our onward way 
 To the shining fields elysian, 
 
 Where is one eternal day. 
 Let us then forever banish 
 
 From us each rebellious ^bought, 
 And a thousand ills shall vanish 
 
 Which we often wish were not. 
 And through faith our hearts shall gather 
 
 Strength to gain an Eden-rest, 
 And to feel our heavenly Father 
 
 Knoweth what is for the best. Lillian.
 
 AVARICE PUNISHED. tM 
 
 AVARICE PUNISHED. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Three men travelled together ; advancing on 
 their journey they found a treasure ; they were 
 much pleased. Continuing to proceed, hunger 
 seized them, and one said, " It is necessary to have 
 something to eat ; who will go and get it ? " " I/' 
 replied the second. He departed, bought meat ; 
 but after buying it he thought if he poisoned it, 
 his companions would die, and the treasure would 
 remain to him. So he poisoned the meat. How- 
 ever, during his absence, the two others had med- 
 itated to kill him, and divide the treasure between 
 them. He came, they killed him, ate of the 
 meat that he had bought, died, and the treasure 
 belonged to no one.
 
 162 MY MIGNONETTE, OR TOO LATE. 
 
 MY MIGNONETTE, OR TOO LATE. 
 
 How delightful to return a^ter a long journey, 
 to meet again dear faces, to sit in the old seats, to 
 behold at every corner the sweet familiarities of 
 home ! We ran down the walk to take a survey 
 of the garden, and to rejoice over the growth and 
 blooming beauties of our dear summer companions, 
 the garden flowers. They seemed to have been 
 nicely cared for, and looked as fair and fresh as 
 the morning. Sweet-pea was on tiptoe. Coreopsis 
 smiled radiantly, while Heart's-ease was as charm- 
 ing as could be. We greeted them all, gladly 
 enough ; but where was my modest little favorite, 
 my choice friend, without whose fragrant presence 
 no bouquet is either beautiful or complete where 
 was Mignonette? I hurried around, longing to 
 inhale its sweet breath. I looked where it used to 
 be, and it was not there : I sought where it might 
 be, and it was not there ! Where is my Migno- 
 nette ? Nobody knew ; nobody had missed it ; 
 some surmised that it had never been planted ; 
 others suggested that it might have been wed up 
 among the weeds.
 
 MY MIGNONETTE, OR TOO LATE 163 
 
 " Oh, I must plant more," I cried sadly. " To- 
 morrow I will come again and plant." 
 
 To-morrow came, and other things came in to 
 hinder me. 
 
 " To-morrow will do," again solaced me ; then 
 another to.-morrow, and still another, and so on, till 
 
 * 
 
 full many to-morrows passed 'by, and my work was 
 not yet done ; each one bearing a little regret for 
 the past, a little promise for the future, and a se- 
 cret yearning for the meek eye and soft perfume 
 of my favorite flower. 
 
 At length a to-morrow came, long way off from 
 the first to-morrow, and I went out to sow the 
 seed. 
 
 " It is too late," admonished a friend near me. 
 
 " Too late ! Oh, no. Are there not sun and 
 rain and dew and warmth enough in summer yet ? 
 Yes, surely." 
 
 " It is too late," repeated she. 
 
 " Oh, it will soon come up, and soon bloom ; 
 why not ? " and in all haste I began my work. 
 " Too late ! look at the summer sky, and see if it 
 is too late. No, no ! " 
 
 On the third day after, behold, little tips of 
 green appear ; then a sprig, then a leaf ; fast they 
 came, as if redeeming the time. I was glad over
 
 164 MY MIGNONETTE, OR TOO LATE. 
 
 it. " Too late ! No, no ! there is the seasoiv 
 yet ; " and so it kept growing, day after day, put- 
 ting forth a multitude of leaves. Day after day I 
 carefully watched and sought buds thereon. At 
 last, when well nigh weary with watching, I des- 
 cried on the topmost sprig a cleaving together 
 among its tiniest leaves, like a first faint embryo. 
 
 " The flower is near ! " I exclaimed joyfully. I 
 looked on it at morning and evening, and at mid- 
 day : the sun shone brightly, the dews exhaled 
 freely, the rains fell gently, but it grew no more : 
 the small buds, if buds they were, opened not : its 
 leaves were green and flourishing, but it bore 
 leaves only ; it never came to maturity ; and when 
 the last autumn chill came, it drooped and died. 
 It was too late. I looked mournfully over it, and 
 it utters the rebuke, " Too late." Ah, yes, a sad 
 and solemn lesson it teaches me. There is a time, 
 when, if you plant, you shall never reap. 
 
 Too late ! Mother, have you taken the best 
 and earliest time to plant the precious seed of 
 God's word in the heart of your boy? Hasten, 
 nor trust to future to-morrows. It may be too 
 late. 
 
 Teacher, have you to-day pointed the young 
 spirit before you to the heavenly city, and urged it
 
 MY MIGNONETTE, OB TOO LATE. 165 
 
 to press on thither. Next Sabbath may be too 
 late. 
 
 Christian, danger lurks in the path of your friend ; 
 will you wait the morrow to warn him from the 
 snares of the destroyer ? It may be too late. 
 
 Man of God, are you up with an alert activity 
 bidding your flock to flee to the cross for refuge 
 from the wrath to come ? 
 
 The Sun of righteousness may shine, the dews 
 of divine grace may descend, showers of mercy 
 may plenteously fall, yet, for many a soul, it may 
 be too late, too late ! H. c K 
 
 LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 SCORN not the slightest word or deed, 
 Nor- deem it void of power; 
 
 There 'a fruit in each wind-wafted seed, 
 Waiting its natal hour. 
 
 A whispered word may touch the heart, 
 
 And call it back to life ; 
 A look of love bid sin depart, 
 
 And still unholy strife. 
 
 No act falls fruitless, none can tell 
 How vast its power may be; 
 
 Nor what results unfolded dwell 
 Within it, silently.
 
 166 THE ANGEL VISIT. 
 
 THE ANGEL VISIT. 
 
 ON the evening of one thirty-first of December 
 I had been cherishing the humiliating and solemi 
 reflections which are peculiarly suitable to the close 
 of the year, and endeavoring to bring my -mind to 
 that view of the past, best calculated to influence 
 the future. I had attempted to recall the promi- 
 nent incidents of the twelve months which had 
 elapsed ; and, in this endeavor, I was led frequent- 
 ly to regret how little my memory could retain 
 even of that most important to be remembered. I 
 could not avoid, at such a period, looking forwards 
 as well as backwards, and anticipating that fearful 
 tribunal at*which no occurrence will be forgotten ; 
 whilst my imagination penetrated into the distant 
 destinies which shall be dependent on its decisions. 
 At my usual hour I retired to rest but the train 
 of meditation I had pursued was so important arid 
 appropriate, that imagination continued it after 
 sense had slumbered. " In thoughts from the vi- 
 sions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon 
 man," I was mentally concerned in the following 
 scen'3 of interest. 
 
 I imagined myself still adding link after link to
 
 THE ANGEL VISIT. 167 
 
 the chain of reflection, the progress of which the 
 time of repose had interrupted ; and whilst thus en- 
 gaged I was aware that there remained but a few 
 moments to complete the day. I heard the clock 
 as it tolled the knell of another year, and as it 
 rung slowly the appointed number, each note was 
 followed by a sting of conscience bitterly reproach- 
 ing me for my neglect of precious time. The last 
 stroke was ringing in my ears painful as the 
 groan announcing the departure of a valuable friend 
 when, notwithstanding the meditative posture in 
 which I was sitting, I perceived that the dimness 
 of the apartment changed to brightness and on 
 lifting my eyes to discover the cause, I was terri- 
 fied at perceiving that another being was with me 
 in my seclusion. I saw one before me whose form 
 indeed was human but the bright burning glance 
 of his eye, and the splendor which beamed forth 
 from every part of his beautifully proportioned form, 
 convinced me at a glance that it was no mortal 
 being that I saw. The elevation of his brow gave 
 dignity of the highest order to his countenance 
 but the most acute observation was indicated by 
 his piercing eye, and inexorable justice was im- 
 printed on his majestic features. A glittering phy- 
 lactery encircled his head, on which was written as
 
 1 
 
 168 THE ANGEL VISIT. 
 
 in letters of fire, " The Faithful One." Under 
 one arm he bore two volumes ; in his hand he held 
 a pen. I -instantly knew the recording angel 
 the secretary of the terrible tribunal of Heaven. 
 With a trembling which convulsed my frame I 
 heard his unearthly accents. " Mortal," said he, 
 " thou wast longing to recall the events of the past 
 year thou art permitted to gaze upon the record 
 of the book of God peruse and be wise." As 
 he spoke thus he opened before me one of the vol- 
 umes which he had brought. In fearful appre- 
 hension I read in it my own name, and recognized 
 the history of my own life during the past year 
 with all its minutest particulars. Burning words 
 were those which that volume contained all the 
 actions and circumstances of my life were register- 
 ed under their respective heads in that dreadful 
 book. I was first struck by the title " Mercies 
 Received" Some were there, the remembrance of 
 which I had retained more, which were recalled 
 after having been forgotten but the far greater 
 number had never been noticed at all. Oh ! what 
 a detail of preservations and deliverances, and in- 
 vitations, and warnings, and privileges, and bestow- 
 ments ! I remember that " Sabbaths " stood out 
 in very prominent characters, as if they had been
 
 THE ANGEL VISIT. 169 
 
 among the greatest benefits. In observing the re- 
 capitulation, I could not but be struck with one cir- 
 cumstance. It was that many dispensations which 
 I had considered curses were here enumerated as 
 blessings. Many a one which had riven the heart 
 
 many a cup whose bitterness seemed to desig- 
 nate it as poison, was there verifying the language 
 of the poet 
 
 " E'en crosses from His sovereign hand, 
 Are blessings in disguise." 
 
 Another catalogue was there it was the enu- 
 meration of transgressions. My hand trembles as 
 I remember them ! What an immense variety of 
 classes ! Indifference thoughtlessness formal- 
 ity ingratitude unbelief sins against the 
 world against the Church against the Father 
 
 against the Saviour and against the Sanctifier 
 
 stood at the head of their crowded battalions, as 
 if for the purpose of driving me to despair. Not 
 one sin was forgotten there neglected Sabbaths 
 
 abused ordinances misimproved time - en- 
 couraged temptations, there they stood, with no 
 excuse, no extenuation. There was one very long 
 class I remember well " Idle words" and then 
 the passage flashed like lightning across my mind 
 " For every idle word that men shall speak,
 
 170 THE ANGEL VISIT. 
 
 they shall give account thereof in the day of judg- 
 ment." My supernatural visitant here addressed 
 me " Dost thou observe how small a proportion 
 thy sins of Omission bear to those of Commission ? " 
 As he spoke, he pointed me to instances like the 
 following "I was hungry and ye gave me no 
 
 O O t/ */ O 
 
 meat." " I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink." 
 " I was sick and ye did not visit me." I was 
 conscience-stricken. In another part of the record, 
 I read the title, " Duties performed." Alas ! how 
 small was their number ! Humble as I had been 
 accustomed to think the estimate of my good works, 
 I was greatly disappointed to perceive that many 
 performances on which I had looked back with 
 pride, were omitted, " because " my visitor inform- 
 ed me " the motive was impure." It was, how- 
 ever, with feelings of the most affecting gratifica- 
 tion I read beneath this record, small as it was, 
 " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of 
 these my brethren, ye hath done it to me." " Who- 
 soever shall give a cup of cold water only in the 
 name of a disciple, he shall in no wise lose his re- 
 ward." 
 
 Whilst I gazed on many other similar records, 
 such was the intense feeling which seemed to be 
 awakened within me, that my brain g^ow dizzy
 
 THE ANGEL VISIT. 171 
 
 my eyes became dim. I was awakened from this 
 state by the touch of my supernatural instructor, 
 who pointed me to the volume in which I had read 
 my own terrible history, now closed, and bearing a 
 seal, on which with sickening heart I read the in- 
 scription " Reserved until the day of judgment."' 
 " And now," said the angel, " my commission is 
 completed. Thou hast been permitted what was 
 never granted to man before. What thinkest thou 
 of the record ? Dost thou not justly tremble ? 
 How many a line is here, ' which dying, you would 
 wish to blot ? ' I see you already shuddering at 
 the thought of the disclosure of this volume at the 
 day of judgment, when an assembled world shall 
 listen to its contents. But if such be the record 
 of one year, what must be the guilt of your ivhole . 
 life ? Seek then, an interest in the blood of Christ, 
 justified by which, you shall indeed hear the repe- 
 tition, but not to condemnation. Pray that when 
 the other books are opened, your name may be 
 found in the book of life. And see the volume 
 prepared for the history of another year - yet its 
 page is unsullied. Time is before thee seek to 
 improve it. Privileges are before thee may they 
 prove the gate of Heaven ! Judgment is before 
 thee prepare to meet thy God." He turned to
 
 172 THE ROSE-BELL. 
 
 depart and as I seemed to hear the rustling 
 
 which announced his flight, I awoke. Was it all a 
 drean ? H - s - 
 
 THE ROSE-BELL. 
 
 ABOVE her lone and lowly tomb, 
 Like sorrow's incense o'er the dead, 
 
 Shedding its fresh and sweet perfume, 
 The rose-bell droops its pensive head, 
 For youth and beauty fled ! 
 
 When summer winds, with plaintive sigh, 
 Breathe gentle requiems round the bier, 
 
 The dew-drops 'neath the placid sky 
 Fall sadly as a lover's tear 
 For one who sleepeth there. 
 
 And when the wind with roughened swell 
 Sweeps wildly past the house of death, 
 
 The flu weret shakes each tiny bell, 
 Ami peals a soft and solemn knell 
 O'er her whi rests beneath. 
 
 A. WM. SILLOWAY, F. R, &
 
 THE ANGEL OF HUMANITY. 173 
 
 THE ANGEL OF HUMANITY. 
 
 " I WAS standing in the street of a large city. 
 It was a cold, bleak winter's day. There had 
 been rain ; and although the sun was shining bright- 
 ly, yet the long icicles hung on the eaves of the 
 houses, and the wheels hmibered loudly as they 
 passed over the ground. There was a clear, bright 
 look, and a cold, bracing feeling in the air, and a 
 keen north-west wind quickening every step. Just 
 then a little girl came running along, a poor, ill- 
 clad child ; her clothes were scant and threadbare ; 
 she had no cloak and no shawl, and her little bare 
 feet looked red and suffering. She could not have 
 been more than eight years old. She carried a 
 bundle in her hand. Poor little shivering child. 
 As she passed me her foot slipped and she fell with 
 a cry of pain ; but she held the bundle in her 
 hand, and jumping up, although she limped sadly, 
 endeavored to run as before. 
 
 " ' Stop, little girl, stop,' said a sweet face ; and 
 a beautiful woman, wrapped in a shawl and with 
 furs around her, came out of a jeweller's store 
 close by. ' Poor little child,' said she, ' are you 
 hurt ? Sit down on this step and tell me.'
 
 174 THE ANGEL OF HUMANITY. 
 
 " How I loved her, and how beautiful she look- 
 ed ! 
 
 " 0, I cannot,' said the child ; ' I cannot wait 
 I am in such a hurry. I have been to the shoe- 
 maker's, and mother must finish this work to-night 
 or she will never get any more shoes to bind.' 
 
 " ' To-night,' said the beautiful woman, * to- 
 night ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes,' said the child for the stranger's kind 
 manner had made her bold ' yes, to-night ; and 
 these satin slippers must be spangled and ' 
 
 " The beautiful woman took the bundle from the 
 child's hand and unrolled it. You do not know 
 why her face flushed and then turned pale, but I 
 looked into the bundle, and on the inside of a slip- 
 per I saw a name, a lady's, written I shall not 
 tell it. 
 
 " And where does your mother live, little girl ? " 
 
 " So the child told where, and then she told her 
 that her father was dead, and that her little baby 
 brother was sick, and that her mother bound shoes 
 that they might have bread ; but that sometimes 
 they were very cold, and that her mother often- 
 times cried because she had no money to buy milk 
 for her little sick brother. 
 
 " And the lady's eyes were full of tears, and she
 
 THE ANGEL OF HUMANITY. 175 
 
 rolled "up the bundle quickly and gave it to the lit- 
 tle girl, but she gave her nothing else no, not 
 even a sixpence, and turning away went back into 
 the store from which she had just come out. Pres- 
 ently she came back, and stepping into a handsome 
 carriage, rolled off. The little girl looked after 
 her for a moment, and then, with her feet a little 
 colder than before, ran quickly away. 
 
 " I went with the little girl, and I saw her to a 
 narrow street, and into a small, dark room ; I saw 
 her sad, faded mother, but with face so sweet, so 
 patient, hushing and soothing her sick baby. And 
 the baby slept, and the mother laid it on her lap, 
 and the bundle was unrolled, and a dim candle 
 helped her with her work ; for though it was not 
 night, yet her room was very dark. Then, after a 
 while, she kissed her little girl and bade her warm 
 her feet over the scanty fire in the grate, and then 
 gave her a little piece of bread, for she had no 
 more ; then she heard her say her evening prayer, 
 and blessed her, and told her that the angels would 
 take care of her. 
 
 " And the little child slept and dreamed, such 
 pleasant dreams, of warm stockings, and shoes ; but 
 the mother sewed on alone. And as the bright 
 spangles glittered on the satin slippers, came there
 
 176 THE ANGEL OF HUMANITY. 
 
 no repinings into the heart ? When she thought 
 of the little child's bare, cold feet, and of the scant 
 morsel of dry bread which had not satisfied her 
 hunger, came there no visions of a bright room and 
 gorgeous clothing, and a table loaded with all that 
 was good and nice, a little portion of which, spared 
 to her, could send warmth and comfort to her hum 
 ble dwelling ? " 
 
 If such thoughts as these came, and others of a 
 pleasant cottage, and one who had dearly loved 
 her, and whose strong arm had kept want and 
 trouble from her and her babes, but who could 
 never come back ; if these thoughts did come re- 
 piningly, there also came others, and the widow's 
 hands were clasped and her head bowed low in 
 deep contrition as I heard her say, 
 
 " ' Father, forgive me, for Thou doest all things 
 well I will trust Thee.' 
 
 " Just then the door opened softly, and some 
 one entered. She went to the bed, where the 
 sleeping child lay, and covered it with warm blank- 
 ets. Then there came coal, and presently a fire 
 blazed and sparkled there, such as the old grate 
 had seldom known before. Then a loaf was upon 
 the table, and fresh milk for the sick babe. Then 
 she passed gently before the mother, and drawing
 
 THE ANGEL OF HUMANITY. 177 
 
 the unfinished slipper from her hand, placed there 
 a purse, and said in a sweet, low voice, 
 
 " ' Bless thy God, who is the God of the father- 
 less and of the widow,' " and she was gone. 
 
 The mother, with hands clasped and streaming 
 eyes, blessed her God who had sent an angel to 
 comfort her. I then went to a bright room, where 
 there were music, and smiles and joy ; and I saw 
 young happy faces, and beautiful women richly 
 dressed and sparkling with jewels, but none that I 
 knew, until one passed me whose dress was of white. 
 No spangled slipper glistened on her foot, but the 
 beauty of holiness had so glorified her face, that I 
 felt as I gazed upon her that she was almost an 
 angel." 
 
 PEARLS AND PEBBLES. 
 
 BE frank and pure, and brave and true ; 
 
 True to thyself and heaven ; 
 And be thy friends the gifted few, 
 
 And be thy foes forgiven. 
 
 For lovely things have mercy shown 
 To every failing but their own ; 
 And every woe a tear may claim, 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 
 BVBOM. 
 
 12
 
 178 WHf IS HAPPY ? 
 
 WHO IS HAPPY? 
 
 To answer this question, which has often arisen 
 in my mind, I wandered forth one pleasant morn 
 in June, determined ere the shades of night should 
 come on, to find one being that was happy. As I 
 directed my steps through the busy streets of our 
 thriving village, I thought, shall I not find among 
 the many that are passing to and fro, one whose 
 every feature is stamped with the seal of true hap- 
 piness, one whose countenance speaks not of 
 care or anxiety ? 
 
 An old man I met, who seemed bent down with 
 age : time had left deep furrows in the cheeks of 
 the old man, and tears dimmed his almost sightless 
 eyes. As I passed him, a sigh escaped his lips, 
 and he muttered to himself of the days that were. 
 
 As I passed one after another, my heart sank 
 within me at the prospect of finding happiness where 
 all seemed striving for it in this world's goods. 
 
 I determined to leave this " road of folly " and 
 seek in some lonely lane, open field, or wood, for 
 happiness. 
 
 I then turned my steps toward the woods, and 
 after wandering about for some time, I espied a
 
 WHO IS HAPPY ? 179 
 
 woodman's cot, situated on a little eminence, at a 
 short distance across a pleasant field, in the clear- 
 ing of the woods. Thither I directed my course. 
 Just before I reached the cot, I saw two little 
 children (the elder a little boy of some eight or 
 nine years ; the other a bright black-eyed little 
 girl,) sporting before the door with a pet dog, which 
 they called Rover. I thought, as I saw them jump- 
 ing and skipping about, their countenances beam- 
 ing with pleasure surely, here may happiness be 
 found. But, alas ! when I asked them if they 
 were not happy in this their wild-wood home, a 
 shade of sadness quickly dispelled the glad sun- 
 shine, and they answered, while tears filled their 
 eyes, " We were happy once, but we are orphans 
 now, with no one to love or care for us but our 
 Rover ! " 
 
 After trying to comfort them for the burst of 
 grief which I had occasioned, I bade them adieu, 
 and retracing my steps, I set my face homeward, 
 with this inquiry still on my mind, Who is Happy? 
 
 A. w. a.
 
 180 AT HOME ! AT HOME ! 
 
 AT HOME ! AT HOME ! 
 
 Where burns the fireside brightest, 
 
 Cheering the social breast ? 
 Where beats the fond iieart lightest, 
 
 Its humble hope possessed? 
 Where is the hour of sadness 
 
 With meek-eyed patience borne ? 
 Worth more than those of gladness, 
 
 Which mirth's gay cheeks adorn ! 
 Pleasure is marked with fleetness 
 
 To those who ever roam, 
 While grief itself hath sweetness 
 At home sweet home ! 
 
 There blend the ties that strengthen. 
 
 Our hearts in hours of grief 
 The silver links that lengthen 
 
 Joy's visits when most brief; 
 There, eyes in all their splendor 
 
 Are vocal to the heart, 
 And glances, bright and tender, 
 
 Fresh eloquence impart ; 
 Then dost thou sigh for pleasure ? 
 
 O, do ngt widely roam, 
 But seek that hidden treasure 
 
 At home sweet home ! 
 
 Does pure religion charm thee, 
 Far more than aught below * 
 
 Wouldst thou that she should arm thee 
 Against the hour of woe 1
 
 THE BLIND BOY. 181 
 
 Her dwelling is not only 
 
 In temples built for prayer, 
 For home itself is lonely, 
 
 Unless her smiles be there; 
 Wherever we may wander, 
 
 'Tis all in vain we roam, 
 If worshipless her ahar 
 
 At home sweet home I 
 
 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 Just at an aged birch tree's foot, 
 A little boy and girl reclined ; 
 
 His hand in hers she kindly put--'. 
 And then I saw the boy was blind. 
 
 " Dear Mary," said the poor blind boy, 
 "That little bird sings very long; 
 
 Say, do you see him in his jov, 
 And is he pretty as his sony V " 
 
 " Yes, Edward, yes," replied the maid, 
 " I see the bird on yonder tree ; " 
 
 The poor boy sighed, and gently said, 
 " Sister, I wish that I could see. 
 
 " The flowers you say are very fair, 
 And bright green leaves are on the trees, 
 
 And pretty birds are singing there 
 How beautiful for one who sees !
 
 182 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 " Yet I the fragrant flower can smell, 
 And I can feel the green leaf's shade ; 
 
 And I can hear the notes that swell 
 
 From those dear birds that God has made, 
 
 " So, sister, God to me is kind, 
 Though sight, alas ! He has not given : 
 
 But tell me, are there any blind, 
 
 Among the children up in heaven ? " 
 
 " No, dearest Edward ; there all see ; 
 
 But wherefore ask a thing so odd ? " 
 a O Mary, He's so good to me, 
 
 I thought I'd like to look at God." 
 
 EPISCOPAL RECORDER,
 
 " REDEEMING THE TIME." 183 
 
 " REDEEMING THE TIME." 
 
 It is the end of one, the beginning of another 
 year ; the sealing up of the past, the opening of the 
 future ; an era in probation ; a crisis, it may be, in 
 life, of death, for eternity. How fit the season, 
 for beginning anew the great work of " REDEEMING 
 
 THE TIME." 
 
 In devout thankfulness. Another year our lives 
 have been spared, and we surrounded with God's 
 mercies. Life, health, food, ra.ment, society, 
 friends, the joyous flowers, and ripening harvests 
 all these God has given. He has blessed us 
 publicly, in our country, and personally, in our 
 families ; and continued to us Sabbaths and means 
 of grace, and the offers of salvation through his 
 Son. " Every good and perfect gift cometh down 
 from Him." " Bless" then, " the Lord, our 
 souls, and forget not all his benefits." 
 
 As a time of serious reckoning. Anticipating 
 the final day, let us search and try our ways, and 
 prepare for the account of our stewardship. An- 
 other year has fled. How have we spent it ? It 
 has given us time; have we redeemed it? Sab- 
 baths ; have we improved them ? Divine truth ;
 
 184 " REDEEMING THE TIME." 
 
 have we made it a savor of life ? Mercies ; have 
 they led to repentance ? Afflictions ; have they 
 been sanctified ? Seasons for prayer ; have they 
 found us at the throne of grace ? Opportunities ; 
 have we made the most of them? A continued 
 probation; have we spent it in working out our 
 salvation, in blessing man, and glorifying God ? 
 
 As a time of de&p humiliation. Side by side 
 with the mercies of the past, rise up also its sins; 
 sins of thought, feeling, motive, conduct, omission, 
 commission, enough to humble us in the very dust 
 before God. Let us not close our eyes to these 
 sins ; but, like Pharaoh's chief butler, Confess, " I 
 do remember my faults this day ; " and like the 
 penitent Peter, as " we think thereon," let us 
 " weep." Looking away from the failing of others ; 
 let us ponder our own. And let the burden of our 
 grief be, that " against God we have sinned : " the 
 burden of our prayer, that he would " be merciful 
 to us ! " 
 
 As a time of solemn resolutions. As God is 
 turning over a new leaf in the book of judgment, 
 how proper that we do the same in our plans of 
 life. How becoming are new resolutions for a new 
 year solemn purposes for so solemn a season. 
 With Elisha, then, let us resolve, " If we have
 
 "REDEEMING THE TIME." '185 
 
 done iniquity, we will do so no more." Let us 
 aim, in the future, to be wiser, happier, holier, 
 more humble, obedient, watchful, and prayerful, 
 than in the past ; more carefully to avoid evil hab- 
 its and form good ones, to seek for higher attain- 
 ments and for greater progress in the divine life. 
 Knowing the uncertainty of all future time, let us 
 resolve, 
 
 " To seize the present moment, as it flies, 
 And stamp the marks of wisdom on its wings ; 
 To let it not elude our grasp ; but, like 
 The good old patriarch of God's holy word, 
 Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless us ! " 
 
 Let us " live with our might while we do live," 
 and " continually do whatever is most for the glory 
 of God, and our own good, profit, and pleasure, 
 whether, now, or never so many myriads of ages 
 hence." 
 
 As a time for salutary fear. " This year thou 
 shalt die," may be written of us. Let us live as 
 if it were ; for " the time is short," and " we know 
 not what a day may bring forth." Let us then 
 fear, lest we fall into temptation or a snare, or be 
 found idle, and unprepared when our Lord shall 
 come ; lest a promise being left us of entering into 
 his rest, any one of us should ever seem to come
 
 186 " REDEEMING THE TIME." 
 
 short of it. Do all that we can to stand, and then 
 fear lest we fall, and by the grace of God we are 
 safe. 
 
 As a time of earnest prayer. Without this, all 
 else is in vain in vain our thankfulness, self-ex- 
 amination, humility, -purposes, and fears, if unat- 
 tended with God's blessing. To him, then, let us 
 send up the heart-felt petition, " So teach us to 
 number our days, that we apply our hearts unto 
 wisdom." Standing between the unchanging past 
 and the unknown future, let our language be, 
 
 " Thanks, for mercies past, receive ; 
 
 Pardon of our sins renew ; 
 Teach us henceforth how to live, 
 With eternity in view ! " 
 
 Let us not so much pray to live long, as well ; 
 not so much for the increase of our days, as of our 
 graces ; for the extension of our time, as of our 
 usefulness ; that we may live for the good of men, 
 and the glory of God. Such be our prayer, and 
 effort too, and we shall " redeem the time " to 
 wise purposes, holy aims, and blessed ends. And 
 whether another year finds us in time or eternity, 
 it will be well with us forever. Our time will have 
 been so redeemed that our eternity will be for ever 
 blessed. T. E,
 
 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 187 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Methinks the departing year hath a voice for 
 you also, little children, as well as others. As he 
 pauses to bid farewell to earth and its inhabitants, 
 I see him gaze with a sad but kind earnestness 
 upon those rosy cheeked groups hastening to school; 
 those happy young daughters prattling by the side 
 of their mother ; those restless boys by their father's 
 knee, with minds thirsting for knowledge and limbs 
 eager for action. I see the Old Year turn his eye 
 alike upon the studious circles seated on benches 
 and the mirth-loving multitudes by way-side or fire- 
 side, in fields and in gardens, and he speaks to 
 each as if he called him by name. Like some 
 venerable preacher about to go into a far country 
 never to return, he gathers the little ones of the 
 flock around him, and bids them remember his 
 parting words. Hark ! like the sigh of the even- 
 ing wind, like the murmur of the distant stream, I 
 hear his solemn voice. The warm hearts and the 
 light hearts of childhood beat quicker and grow 
 thoughtful as he proceeds with his earnest ques- 
 tions. 
 
 " Children " says the departing year, " do you
 
 188 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEafl. 
 
 know that there is a God, who &jade the heavens 
 and the earth, and all things ; <*nd that tie is not 
 only the greatest, but the wisest, the most lovely, 
 and the host of all beings ? Do you know that he 
 is everywhere present, that he sees not only your 
 actions, but hears every whispered word, and knows 
 your secret thoughts ? 
 
 " You are now living, full of hope and joy, and 
 surrounded with blessings. A short time ago you 
 were not. It was God who culled you into being, 
 and who graciously styles himself your Father. 
 He made you to love and .serve him, and has com- 
 manded you to remember him in the days of your 
 youth. Have you listened when he spoke ? Have 
 you come when he called ? Have you sought to 
 become acquainted with him and to obtain his fa- 
 vor ? Have you daily praised him for all his won- 
 derful works, and rendered him hearty thanks for 
 all his good gifts ? What have you done for the 
 good of others ? Who has been made better by 
 your exertions ? 
 
 " Do you know that God is holy, and looks with 
 displeasure upon sin ? And are you not sinful ? 
 Do you not every day think and do many things 
 amiss, and provoke the great God to be angry with 
 you? And are you willing to endure his anger
 
 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 189 
 
 for ever? Will you not come now and entreat 
 him, for the sake of Christ his Son, who died for 
 man, to pardon your offences ? Sweet it is to be 
 at peace with God. Blessed is the man that re- 
 pents of his evil ways, that forsakes his sin, and 
 that, through faith in Christ, obtains mercy. 
 
 ' Joy to the world, the Lord is come ! ' 
 
 Through Christ the fountain of forgiveness, peace 
 and eternal happiness, is kept unsealed, and for 
 ever full and flowing, and little children, with even 
 more tenderness than others, are invited to come 
 and drink, and live for ever. 
 
 " I -am now," continued the slow sad voice of 
 the Old Year, " about to leave you. I have carried 
 you one year farther along the path of life, one 
 year nearer the end of your great journey. I 
 have kept a faithful record of your lives from da/ 
 to day and from hour to hour, in characters more 
 durable than those that the steel cuts into brass or 
 marble, and it is laid up in heaven to be produced 
 when you stand before the judgment-seat. 
 
 " You cannot live always. The time will come 
 when you must die. Your bodies will be laid in 
 the grave to moulder into dust, while your spirits 
 will be called to appear before the throne on high,
 
 190 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 where you will see the books opened and hear /om 
 final sentence pronounced by the Son of God, the 
 great Judge of all. Is that Judge your friend ? 
 Will he throw his everlasting arms around you as 
 a shield in that awful moment, if you reject his 
 grace when it is freely offered ? 
 
 " See to it, then, my readers, that the next 
 year shall bear a better report to heaven, concern- 
 ing you, than the past. Go and sit at the feet of 
 Him who was meek and lowly in heart, until you 
 imbibe the same heavenly temper. Go and hearken 
 to the still small voice of the Holy Spirit whisper- 
 ing in your hearts, and bidding you give the dew 
 of your youth to God. Go -and yield to your 
 parents and teachers, love and honor, submission 
 and cheerful obedience. Go and forsake sin 
 worship God hallow the Sabbath study the 
 Scriptures visit the poor and the sick and 
 with all your might labor to bring men from the 
 broad road to ruin into the safe and narrow way of 
 eternal life. Even a child may save a soul." 
 
 The voice ceased, and the Old Year was no 
 more. Like the rushing of the surge' over the 
 sands that breaks and then dies slowly away, was 
 the sound of his wings as he spread them for flight 
 and then dropped into the silent bosjm of the past.
 
 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 191 
 
 The little ones to "whom he had spoken, went on 
 - their various ways with downcast eyes and slow 
 steps, and methought I heard each one resolving 
 in his heart r- This year I will live the life of a 
 true Christian. 
 
 There is a Grecian allegory from which we may 
 derive an instructive lesson for January, or that 
 point of time when the Old Year is dying and the 
 New Year begins its course, bright and joyful, full 
 of life and hope. And here we may remark that 
 it is well to know something respecting the false 
 religions of ancient nations, that we may see how 
 far they were from true wisdom, and how great was 
 the necessity of a divine revelation to lead men 
 to the knowledge of the truth. 
 
 Janus was the fabulous deity, from whom the 
 month of January, the period when we enter upon 
 a New Year, derives its name. He is always re- 
 " presented with two faces looking in opposite direc- 
 tions, one backward as if retracing the events of 
 the past year, the other forward in thoughtful anti- 
 cipation of the future. What an interesting sym- 
 bol ! How full of instruction and beauty ! This 
 is indeed but a pagan image, and Christianity among
 
 192 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 its numerous blessings has freed us from the bond- 
 age of believing in the wild fables and strange 
 gods of the heathen. Who is it that can alone 
 contemplate the past with minute accuracy and 
 the future without shadow of error ? Who can 
 look backward through a past eternity and forward 
 through everlasting ages ? Not? " the gods many 
 and lords many " of the heathen, but He only who, 
 before time was, could say / am, and who will 
 ever exist without change. 
 
 Yet there is an excellent moral woven into this 
 fable of Janus, and if the month of January, as 
 often as it returns, would forcibly impress it upon 
 our minds, it might come with rich blessings to us. 
 It counsels us to pause in our career : to live over 
 the past year in deep reflection, and with thought- 
 ful solicitude gather up the rich seeds of truth and 
 wisdom that have been dropped, in order to sow 
 them and obtain a harvest for the coming year. 
 The recollections of the past, the fond review of 
 joys and sorrows, labors and dangers that are now 
 no more, is indeed of use to us, only as it serves to 
 influence our future conduct and guide us through 
 the untried paths upon which we are entering. 
 The past is the school of experience out of which 
 we ought to be wiser and better each revolving
 
 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 193 
 
 year. The power of retrospection was given ua 
 that we might glean, from the backward view, warn- 
 ings and admonitions to prevent us from falling 
 again into past errors, and counsels to direct us in 
 the pursuit of future good. The torches that were 
 left burning along the wayside of the year that has 
 been, ought to cast some gleams of light upon the 
 darkness and uncertainty of the year that is to be. 
 The poet speaks wisely when he tells us 
 
 " To make each year a critic on the last." 
 
 Would not every one's character be improved by 
 such a course ? Is it wise to glide along through 
 life in a careless, rash or random manner, without 
 reflection or forethought, the victims of chance and 
 circumstance ? No : let us take the hint suggest- 
 ed by January, and begin the year with a fixed 
 determination to improve upon the past, to be 
 guided, not by contingencies, not by the example 
 of others, but by a resolute purpose to act well our 
 part, to seek truth and do that which is right. 
 
 The fable of Janus with its beautiful and in- 
 structive moral would lead thus far ; but if we turn 
 to higher authority we shall find that the divine 
 word attaches still greater importance to a review 
 of the past. 
 
 13
 
 194 THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Three times a year were the Jews commanded 
 to hold solemn festivals in commemoration of former 
 events. At the first they were to retrace all the 
 circumstances connected with their deliverance 
 from Egypt. At the second the glorious and aw- 
 ful display of the mercy and power of God that 
 accompanied the giving of the law. The third was 
 devoted to a review of the history of their long 
 abode in the desert. There is always some degree 
 of sadness in the memory of the past, but these 
 celebrations were of a joyful more than a melan- 
 choly character ; and why ? Because they were 
 not only to look backward, but forward, to rely 
 with happy faith on the divine promise, and to re- 
 joice hi the prospect of that day of universal joy, 
 when the appointed ONE should appear, in whom 
 all the nations of the earth were to be blessed. 
 
 Moses, the great leader of the Jews, finding his 
 end near at hand, assembled the people for the ex- 
 press purpose of reviewing with them the history 
 of the past, this being the best preparation for their 
 future course. From this armory they Avere to be 
 furnished with shields and spears for future con 
 flict. The whole book of Deuteronomy is a divine- 
 ly wrought monument, showing the value of retro- 
 spection ; but yet connected with this summary of
 
 'THE VOICE OF THE OLD YEAK. 195 
 
 the past are bright anticipations of the future, and 
 frequent glimpses of those blessings which accord- 
 ing to the covenant of Jehovah they would here- 
 after inherit. 
 
 Thus we see that both reason and the word of 
 God call upon us at set times to look backward 
 and forward with peculiar earnestness, and profit- 
 ing by the experience of the past to begin our 
 course anew. What era more proper for this than 
 the beginning of a new year ? What guide, what 
 chart for the way so safe, so sure as the oracles of 
 God? 
 
 Experience is said to be the mother of wisdom, 
 but it is only when she leads us to this fountain of 
 true wisdom that she can lay claim to that exalted 
 character. " The fear of the Lord is the begin- 
 ning of wisdom." " Wisdom is the principal thing." 
 " She shall give to thine head an ornament of grace 
 a crown of glory shall she deliver to thee." 
 
 i\ M. c.
 
 196 HOME A MOTHER'S DEATH. 
 
 HOME A MOTHER'S DEATH. 
 
 I see thee yet again, my home ! thou'rt there amidst thy vines, 
 And >clear upon thy gleaming root the light of summer shines. 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Home ! What a magic power dwells in that 
 little word ! Breathe it in the ear of decrepit old 
 age, and in a moment the dim curtain of time rises 
 the bright, unfading, sunny scenes of happy, 
 innocent childhood are spread out before the men- 
 tal vision in all their witching loveliness and per- 
 fection ! The sluggish-moving current of life quick- 
 ens its motion, and the whole being seems reno- 
 vated with the spring-time of existence. Again is 
 he in that dear childhood's home surrounded 
 with the playmates of youth, and blest with the 
 genial warmth of parental love and tenderness. 
 Loving eyes are beaming on his path, and faithful 
 hearts, in which there is no deception lurking, are 
 giving words of counsel and advice. The same 
 sweet music, which charmed his boyhood's hours, 
 is floating around him, filling his innocent heart 
 with love and gratitude to the Great Creator. 
 There flows the murmuring streamlet, close beside 
 his father's door where, beneath the wide-spread-
 
 HOME A MOTHER'S DEATH. 197 
 
 ing branches of his favorite shade-tree, so many 
 blissful, carelese hours were spent. The shouts of 
 joy, which rang out on the breezes of heaven, vi- 
 brate on the ear the very stones, and trees, and 
 paths are all unchanged. Yes, and even there, in 
 that old poplar at the front door, sits the dear old 
 Robin pouring out her cheering notes of " cheer 
 up cheer up" in rich cadence on the listen- 
 ing ear ! 0, home ! home ! childhood's home 
 thou art hallowed by the deathless love of a dear, 
 departed, angel-Mother! Oh, how precious is her 
 every word and look, treasured in the store-house 
 of memory ! With what deep, unwearied love did 
 she watch over and guard her dependent house- 
 hold in sickness and in health in joy and sorrow 
 unmindful of self, ready ever to sacrifice case 
 and enjoyment to contribute to the comfort and 
 happiness of all around her. But she has gone 
 gone, (but, blessed be God, not lost,) with a vast 
 debt of love and gratitude uncancelled ! 
 
 0, that her beatified spirit could hover o'er this 
 restless head, and whisper "forgiveness" for all 
 my past ingratitude. Art thou not, freed spirit, 
 ever near to bless and guard thy wandering, er- 
 ring child? To strengthen her resolves to nerve 
 her spirit to meet, unshrinkingly, the ills of life
 
 198 HOME A MOTHER'S DEATH. 
 
 and the terrors of death ! Joyful thought thou 
 shalt be ever my comforter as I tread the rough 
 paths of life ! Departed one, I'll yet hope to meet 
 thee where there will be no more separation ! 0, 
 blissful hope, and will that mother recognize and 
 love us there ? Shall we be permitted to pronounce 
 that name, so full of sweet music to the affection- 
 ate heart Mother? Oh! "Tell us, thou bird 
 of solemn strain ! Can those who have loved for- 
 get ? We call and they answer not again. Do 
 they love do they love us yet ? We call them 
 far through the night, and they speak not from 
 cave or hill. We know, thou bird ! that their land 
 is bright. But say, do they LOVE there still?" 
 
 Yes it must be so ! Love is of God. It 
 must, then, be immortal ! A Mother's Love will 
 survive the chilling blasts of death the wreck of 
 worlds ! It is an emanation from the great foun- 
 tain of infinite fulness a part of Deity ! It is 
 that principle, which, in God's own appointed time, 
 shall renovate and save a fallen, sinful world. It 
 is that principle which is to. do its work, silently 
 but perfectly, in the minds of mankind, until all 
 become truly and spiritually holy. 
 
 Christ shall sit as a refiner, until he beholds his 
 own blessed image reflected in every soul which
 
 HOME A MOTHER'S DEATH. 199 
 
 God has spoken into being. " He shall see of the 
 travail of his soul and be satisfied ! " His own 
 soft hand shall wipe the tears 
 
 " From every weeping eye, 
 And pains, and groans, and griefs, and fears, 
 And death itself shall die ! " 
 
 Dear Mother 
 
 " 'T is there we'll meet, at Jesus' feet, 
 When we meet to part no more ! " 
 
 There to spend an eternity in praising and adoring 
 our Father and our God ! 
 
 This world is beautiful, 'tis true 
 
 But there's a brighter world than this 
 Beyond that dome of wavy blue, 
 
 A home of everlasting bliss ; 
 That spirit land, whose canopy 
 
 Is never sullied with a cloud ; 
 Where, clad in spotless drapery, 
 
 Saints are in adoration bow'd ; 
 A myriad band of vestals raise 
 Their voices in Jehovah's praise. 
 
 u. 8. 0.
 
 200 LOSSES. 
 
 LOSSES. 
 
 Upon the white sea-sand 
 
 There sat a pilgrim -band, 
 Tilling the losses that their lives had known, 
 
 While evening waned away 
 
 From breezy cliff and bay, 
 And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 
 
 One spake, with quivering lip, 
 
 Of a fair freighted ship, 
 With all his household to the deep gone down ; 
 
 But one had a wilder woe 
 
 For a fair face long ago 
 Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 
 
 There were who mourned their youth 
 
 With a most loving truth, 
 For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; ' 
 
 And one ttpon the West 
 
 Turned an eye that would not rest 
 For far-off hills whereon its joy had been. 
 
 Some talked of vanished gold, 
 
 Some of proud honors told, 
 Some spake of friends that were their trust no more ; 
 
 And one of a green grave 
 
 Beside a foreign wave 
 That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 
 
 But when their tales were done, 
 There spake among them one,
 
 CHRISTMAS BRILLIANTS. 201 
 
 A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free 
 
 " Sad losses have ye met, 
 
 But mine is heavier yet, 
 For a believing heart hath gone from me." 
 
 " Alas ! " these pilgrims said, 
 
 " For the living and the dead, 
 For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 
 
 For the wrecks of land and sea ! 
 
 But, however it came to thee, 
 Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviestjoss." 
 
 LONDON ATHENAEUM. 
 
 CHRISTMAS BRILLIANTS. 
 
 The night is cold, the Year is old. 
 
 The pulse of time is beating slowly ; 
 But Christmas cheer, to-night is near, 
 
 And Christmas thoughts are high and holy j 
 We weep no U'ars for dying years ; 
 
 Be theirs of life the common story ; 
 But give to truth, eternal youth, 
 
 And crown its natal day with glory. 
 
 The hearth is warm, though fierce with storm 
 
 The bitter wind without be blowing ; 
 For Christmas time's the tropic clime 
 
 Of hearts with cheerful homage glowing; 
 The winter grieves o'er withered leaves, 
 
 And leafless branches sigh and quiver; 
 But green shall be our CHRISTMAS TREE, 
 
 And beautiful, in faith, forever.
 
 202 HONOR AMONG BOYS. 
 
 HONOR AMONG BOYS. 
 
 If, as it is said, there is " honor among thieves," 
 why should this noble quality be lacking in so many 
 little boys ? 
 
 " Boys will be boys," said one in reply to a re- 
 mark of mine on this subject. This I know, and 
 do not desire-to see " old heads upon young should- 
 ers." What I want is to beg boys to be govern- 
 ed by honor, and honesty, in their dealings with 
 one another. 
 
 " Why don't you lend your skates and sled to 
 the other boys when you are not using them ? " I 
 have asked, and been answered, " Because boys 
 think nothing of breaking one another's things, and 
 sometimes consider it smart, and then laugh at you 
 for being so green as to lend them." 
 
 " But don't they pay the damages ? " 
 
 Now was my turn to be laughed at for the ab- 
 surdity of my question. " Pay damages ! never ! " 
 This grated harshly upon a mother's ears, and I'll 
 tell you, why. Because in the first place I know 
 how much a boy thinks of his first sled, first skates, 
 and first pocket-knife. Many rich men who live 
 in free-stone palaces in New- York will confess that
 
 HONOR AMONG BOYS. 203 
 
 they never had a greater prize than their first sled, 
 with its bright paint and well-ironed runners, and 
 that the possession of skates gave them many sleep- 
 less hours of delight. Now when boys know so 
 well how much they prize their own things, is it 
 not very much like stealing, to carelessly injure 
 another boy's property and make no effort to re- 
 pair the loss ? 
 
 " But how can a boy pay, when he has got no 
 money ? " I hear one of my readers say, perhaps 
 impatiently. 
 
 He can go home and tell his father what he has 
 done, and beg him to give him the means of re- 
 pairing his loss. If his father sees fit to refuse his 
 request, he can save his pennies till he has enough 
 of money of his own ; or he can select from among 
 his playthings something worth enough to pay for 
 the harm he has done, even if he has to give away 
 a very precious toy. If he is too poor for this and 
 has a little Yankee contrivance, perhaps he can 
 mend the injured article and make it as good as 
 new. If this cannot be done, he can go to his 
 playmate, and say he is very sorry for the acci- 
 dent, and that he is not able to repay the damages, 
 and then show his sorrow by improving the first 
 chance to do his injured friend a favor. He will
 
 204 HONOR AMONG BOYS. 
 
 not have to wait long for an opportunity to show 
 kindness which is better than money. 
 
 This is as much a young boy's duty as it will be 
 when he is a few years older, and accidentally in- 
 jures a borrowed horse and carriage, to repay the 
 owner for his loss. A boy who will break another's 
 knife, lose his ball, drop his new book in the mud, 
 or break his sled, and then laugh at his playmate's 
 distress, or even refuse to pay him in some way 
 for his loss, will be very likely to make a forger, 
 defaulter, burglar, or perhaps something worse. 
 
 A mean unfeeling boy is a sad, hopeless sight. 
 Like a crooked, dwarfed young tree, nothing grand 
 or noble can be made of it. Age will only make 
 it more ugly and despised. 
 
 It is too much the fashion among boys to scorn 
 gentle, loving manners, or leave their sisters to learn 
 such ways, while they try to be what they call men. 
 A boy who wishes to be a true man, " the noblest 
 work of God," must begin while he is young to be 
 honest and honorable, and "do as he would be 
 done by," for he will be the same person when he 
 grows up that he is now, only stronger, larger, in 
 mind and body, and better able to do good or evil. 
 Let us by all means have " honor among boys." 
 
 M. E. W.
 
 THE FIRST ROBIN. 205 
 
 THE FIRST ROBIN. 
 
 I heard you, little robin, 
 The first song I have heard, 
 
 Since winter came upon us here, - 
 From any little bird. 
 
 I heard you, little robin, 
 
 It was a pleasant sound, 
 I watched your little russet coat, 
 
 In all the garden round. 
 
 You hopped all down the alleys, 
 
 Then perching on a tree, 
 You poured forth from your little throat 
 
 A burst of melody. 
 
 You chirped about and twittered, 
 
 And then you flew away ; 
 But you will come again, robin, 
 
 When comes a pleasant day. 
 
 Who kept you all the winter, 
 When snow was everywhere, 
 
 And shielded your poor little form 
 From the chill frosty air ? 
 
 Who fed you in the dim, dark woods, 
 And sheltered yon from harm ? 
 
 Who taught you to come forth, robin, 
 Soon as the days were warm ?
 
 206 THE ROBIN'S APPEAL. 
 
 Who taught you such a cheerful song? 
 
 Tell me, dear robin, do ; 
 Next time you come to visit me, 
 
 I'll listen unto you. 
 
 C. E. R. P. 
 
 THE ROBIN'S APPEAL. 
 
 O kill me not ! 
 
 Thou thoughtless boy, 
 While singing here 
 
 In all my joy ; 
 'Tis wicked thus 
 
 To harm me now, 
 Still let me hop 
 
 From bough to bough. 
 
 kill me not ! 
 
 Life's dear to me 
 As 'tis to you, 
 
 So wild and free, 
 Now poised in air, 
 
 Then sailing low, 
 How full of glee 
 
 We only know. 
 
 O kill us not ! 
 
 In yonder tree 
 My mate and I 
 
 Have nurslings three;
 
 TRUE LOVE. t 207 
 
 You would not, sure, 
 
 That these should die 
 For want of food, 
 
 Up there so high ! 
 
 O let us live ! 
 
 And day by day 
 We'll utter thanks 
 
 In our own way ; 
 We'll surely come 
 
 Quite near your door, 
 And sweetest songs 
 
 Sing o'er and o'er. 
 
 J. M. H, 
 
 TKUE LOVE. 
 
 The butterfly gazed on the beautiful flower, 
 
 And fanned it with her wing ; 
 The rain came down in a gentle shower, 
 
 And watered the pretty thing. 
 
 The lady-bird flew from her downy home, 
 
 To nestle on its breast ; 
 The dew from heaven came glistening down, 
 
 To find therein her rest. 
 
 The humming-bee sped from her waxen cell, 
 
 To increase her honeyed store ; 
 And from the flower she loved so well, 
 
 Drew sweetness more and more.
 
 208 INFLUENCE. 
 
 % 
 
 When the sun went down, the meadow-fly 
 
 With her little lamp came near 
 To light the flower modestly, 
 
 To shield her from all fear. 
 
 O ye, who boast of sterling love ! 
 
 O, ye, who fain would win it ! 
 Go, seek the flower in the grave, 
 
 And read the lesson in it. 
 
 MARY WOODBIWB. 
 
 INFLUENCE. 
 
 Drop follows drop and swells 
 With rain the sweeping river} 
 
 Word follows word, and tells 
 A truth that lives forever. 
 
 Flake follows flake, like spirits 
 Whose wings the winds dissever; 
 
 Thought follows thought, and lights 
 The realm of mind forever. 
 
 Beam follows beam, to cheer 
 The cloud the bolt would shiver j 
 
 Throb follows throb, and fear 
 Gives place to joy forever. 
 
 The drop, the flake, the beam, 
 
 Teach us a lesson ever ; 
 The word, the thought, the dream, 
 
 Impress the soul forever.
 
 WORTH OF A KISS. 209 
 
 WORTH OF A KISS. 
 
 In the University of Upsalo, in Sweden, lived a 
 young student a lovely youth with a great 
 love for studies, but without means for pursuing 
 them. He was poor, and without connections. 
 Still, he studied, living in great poverty, but keep- 
 ing a cheerful heart and trying not to look at the 
 future, which looked so grimly at him. His good 
 humor and good qualities made him beloved by his 
 young comrades. Once he was standing with some 
 of them in the great square of Upsalo, passing away 
 an hour of leisure, when the attention of the young 
 man became arrested by a very young and elegant 
 lady, who at .the side of an elderly one, walked 
 slowly over the place. It was the daughter of the 
 Governor of Upland, living in the city, and the 
 lady with her was the Governess. She was gene- 
 rally known for her goodness and gentleness of 
 character, and was looked upon with great admira- 
 tion by the students. As the young men now 
 14 "
 
 210 WORTH OF A KISS. 
 
 stood gazing at her, as she passed on like a grace- 
 ful vision, one of them exclaimed : 
 
 " Well, it would be worth something to have a 
 kiss from such a mouth ! " 
 
 The poor student, the hero of our story, who 
 was looking intently on that .pure and angelic face, 
 exclaimed as if by inspiration, " Well, I think I 
 could have it." 
 
 " What ? " cried his companions in a chorus, 
 are .you crazy ? Do you know her ? " etc. 
 
 " Not at all," he answered, " but I think she 
 would kiss me now, if I asked her. 
 
 " What, in this place, before all our eyes." 
 
 " In this place, before your eyes." 
 
 "Freely?" 
 
 " Freely." 
 
 " Well, -if she will give you a kiss in that man- 
 ner, I will give you a thousand dollars," exclaimed 
 one of the party. 
 
 " And I ! and I ! " cried three or four others, 
 for it so happened that several rich young men 
 were in the group, and bets ran high on so improb- 
 able an event; and the challenge was made and 
 received in less time than we take to relate it. 
 
 Our hero (my authority tells not whether he 
 was handsome or plain. I have my reasons for
 
 WORTH OF A KISS. 211 
 
 believing that he was rather plain, but singularly 
 good looking at the same time) our hero imme- 
 diately walked off to meet the young lady, and 
 said : " (min froleen) my fortune is in your hand." 
 She looked at him in astonishment, but arrested 
 her steps. He proceeded to state his name and 
 condition, his aspiration, and related simply and 
 truly what had just passed between him and his 
 companions. The young lady listened attentively, 
 and when he ceased to speak, she said, blushing, 
 but with great sweetness : 
 
 " If by so little a thing so much good can be 
 effected, it would be foolish in me to refuse your 
 request," and she kissed the man, publicly, in the 
 open square. 
 
 Next day the student was sent for by the Gov- 
 ernor. He wanted to see the man who had dared 
 to ask a kiss of his daughter in that way, and whom 
 she had consented to kiss, so. He received him 
 with a severe and scrutinizing brow, but after an 
 hour's conversation was so pleased with him, that 
 he offered him to dine at his table during his studies 
 in Upsalo. 
 
 Our young friend now pursued his studies in a 
 manner which soon mado- him regarded as the most 
 promising scholar in the University. Three years
 
 212 WORTH OP A KISS. 
 
 were now passed after the day of the first kiss, 
 when the young man was allowed to give a second 
 one to the daughter of the Governor, as to his in- 
 tended bride. 
 
 He became, later, one of the greatest scholars 
 in Sweden, as much respected for his learning as 
 for his character. His works will endure forever 
 among the works of science ; and from this happy 
 union sprang a family well known in Sweden at the 
 present day, and whose wealth of fortune and high 
 position in society are regarded as small things, 
 compared with its wealth of goodness and love. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF RAIN. 
 
 
 
 To understand the philosophy of this beautiful 
 and often sublime phenomenon, so often witnessed 
 since the creation of the world, and so essential to 
 the very existence of plants and animals, a few 
 facts derived from observation and a long train of 
 experiments, must be remembered : 
 
 1. Were the atmosphere everywhere at all times 
 of a uniform temperature, we should never have 
 rain, or hail, or snow. The water absorbed by it
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF RAIN. 213 
 
 in evaporation from sea and earth's surface, would 
 descend in an imperceptible vapor, or cease to be 
 absorbed by the air when it was once fully satura- 
 ted. 
 
 2. The absorbing power of the atmosphere, and 
 consequently its capacity to retain humidity is pro- 
 portionately greater in warm than cold air. 
 
 3. The air near the surface of the earth is 
 warmer than it is in the region of the clouds. The 
 higher we ascend from the earth the colder do we 
 find the atmosphere. Hence the perpetual snow 
 on very high mountains in the hottest climate. 
 
 Now, when, from continued evaporation, the air 
 is highly saturated with vapor, though it be invisi- 
 ble and the sky cloudless, if its temperature is sud- 
 denly reduced by cold currents descending from 
 above, or rushing from a higher to a lower lati- 
 tude, or by the motion of saturated air to a cooler 
 latitude, its capacity to retain moisture is diminish- 
 ed, clouds are formed, and the result is rain. Air 
 condenses as it cools, and like a sponge filled with 
 water and compressed, pours out the water which 
 its diminished capacity cannot hold. How singular, 
 yet how simple, the philosophy of rain ? What but 
 Omniscience could have devised such an admirable 
 arrangement for watering the earth ?
 
 214 COME HOME, MY STRICKEN DAUGHTER. 
 
 Come home, my stricken daughter ! 
 
 A sire in kindness said 
 Now thy beloved husband 
 
 Is numbered with the dead. 
 
 Come home and we will cheer thy heart 
 
 With fond affection's rays ; 
 Come, fill the place that was to thee 
 
 So dear in other days. 
 
 Here are the scenes thou lov'dst so well 
 Here passed bright childhood's hours, 
 
 The purling brook, the woody glen, 
 Where blooms the same sweet flowers. 
 
 Here are the friends that kindly watched 
 
 Thy infancy and youth : 
 Who sought to fill thy tender mind 
 
 With virtue, love, and truth. 
 
 I know thy heart will not repine, 
 
 Though earthly joys are fled ; 
 And each glad thought and hope of thine 
 
 \Lies buried with the dead. 
 
 Then come, my lonely widowed on,e ? 
 
 Thy father welcomes thee : 
 And while his heart with life shall beat, 
 
 His home thy home shall be. 
 
 ANNA A. ANDERSON.
 
 MY PHILOSOPHY. 215 
 
 MY PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Kind words can never die, 
 
 Cherished and blest ; 
 God knows how deep they lie 
 
 Stored in the breast. 
 Like childhood's simple rhymes 
 Said o'er a thousand times, 
 Aye, in all years and climes, 
 
 Distant and near, 
 Kind words can never die, 
 Saith my philsophy ; 
 Deep in the soul they lie, 
 
 God knows how dear. 
 
 Childhood can never die 
 
 Wrecks of the past 
 Float on the memory 
 
 E'en to the last. 
 Many a happy thing, 
 Many a daisied spring, 
 Flow, on Time's ceaseless wing, 
 
 Far, far away ; 
 Childhood can never die, 
 Saith my philosophy ; 
 Wrecks of our infancy 
 
 Live on for aye.
 
 216 ABSENCE. 
 
 ABSENCE 
 
 The hopes to which I fondest cling, 
 Are those which from remembrance spring, 
 That I once more may see that face, 
 Where mem'ry loves the charms to trace, 
 That I adore. 
 
 The flow'ry paths of life to me, 
 Are dull and cheerless without thee ; 
 And if I chance to cull a flower, 
 My lonely heart hath not the power 
 To love it long. 
 
 My happiest hours are spent alone, 
 Since from my bosom thou hast gone 
 'Tis then I dwell upon the past, 
 Which was too heavenly to last, 
 Too bright for earth. 
 
 The twilight hour is dear to me, 
 'Tis a sweet emblem, love, of thee ; 
 The calm and quiet sky above, 
 Then looks the image of thy love, 
 That knew no change. 
 
 In all things beautiful I see 
 Some sweet resemblance, love, to thee ; 
 The brilliant sun thy mind portrays, 
 In shedding forth his cheering rays, 
 To light and guide.
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OP PUNCTUALITY. 217 
 
 Thou wert my sun to guide by day, 
 Each step I trod o'er life's dark way, 
 How lonely, then, would be my lot, 
 If tliou by me could'st be forgot, 
 Or lightly loved ! 
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OF PUNCTUALITY. 
 
 " BEHIND TIME." A railroad train was rush- 
 ing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was 
 just ahead, beyond which was a station at which 
 the cars usually passed each other. The conductor 
 was late, so late that the period during which the 
 down-train was to wait had nearly elapsed ; but he 
 hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a 
 locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an 
 instant there was a collision. A 'shriek, a shock, 
 and fifty souls were in eternity ; and all because an 
 engineer had been behind time. 
 
 A great battle was being fought. Column after 
 column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours 
 on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The 
 summer sun was sinking to the West; reinforce- 
 ments for the obstinate defenders were already in 
 sight ; it was necessary to carry the position with
 
 218 THE IMPORTANCE OF PUNCTUALITY. 
 
 one final charge or everything would be lost. A 
 powerful corps had been summoned from across the 
 country, and if it came up in season all yet would 
 be right. The great conqueror, confident in its 
 arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column, 
 and led them down the hill. The whole world 
 knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear ; the 
 imperial guard was beaten back ; Waterloo was 
 lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena be- 
 cause one of his marshals was behind time. 
 
 A leading firm in commercial circles had long 
 struggled against bankruptcy. As it had enor- 
 mous assets in California, it expected remittances 
 by a certain day, and, if the sums promised arrived, 
 its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would 
 be preserved. But week after week elapsed with- 
 out bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day 
 on which the firm had bills maturing to enormous 
 amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at day- 
 break ; but it was found on inquiry that she brought 
 no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival 
 brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but 
 it was too late ; they were ruined, because their 
 agent, in remitting, had been behind time. 
 
 A condemned man was being led out for execu- 
 tion. He had taken human life, but under circum-
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OF PUNCTUALITY. 219 
 
 stances of the greatest provocation, and public sym- 
 pathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had 
 signed petitions for a reprieve, a favorable answer 
 had been expected the night before, and, though it 
 had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it 
 would yet arrive in season. Thus the morning 
 passed without the appearance of the messenger. 
 The last moment was up. The prisoner took his 
 place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his 
 eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung 
 revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a 
 horseman came into sight, galloping down hill, hia 
 steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in 
 his right hand, which he waved partially to the 
 crowd. He was the express rider with the re- 
 prieve. But he had come too late. A compara- 
 tively innocent man had died an ignominious death 
 because a watch had been five minutes too slow, 
 making its bearer arrive behind time. 
 
 It is continually so in life. The best laid plans, 
 the most important affairs, the fortunes of individ- 
 uals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life it- 
 self are daily sacrificed because somebody is " be- 
 hind time." There are men who always fail in 
 whatever they undertake simply because they are 
 " behind time." There are others who put off re-
 
 220 THE IMPORTANCE OF PUNCTUALITY. 
 
 formation year by year till death seizes them, and 
 they perish unrepentant, because forever " behind 
 time." The allies have lost nearly a year at Se- 
 bastopol because they delayed a superfluous day 
 after the battle of Alma, and came up too late for 
 a coup de main just twenty-four hours " behind 
 time." Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. 
 It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a 
 fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one 
 virtue that should be cultivated more than another 
 by him who would succeed in life it is punctuality ; 
 if there is one error that should be avoided it is 
 being behind time.
 
 ANGEL HOME. 
 
 ANGEL HOME. 
 
 Last night, mamma, I had a dream, 
 
 So happy while I slept, 
 That when at early morn I woke 
 
 And found it false, I wept. 
 
 Methought my sister played with me 
 
 Beside a fountain clear, 
 Where birds were singing in the trees, 
 
 And flowers were blooming near. 
 
 A robe of shining white she wore, 
 
 And in her eye a smile, 
 As pure and sweet as angels wear, 
 
 Was beaming all the while. 
 
 We wove of fragrant jasmine buds, 
 
 A garland for her hair, 
 And gazing in the fount she smiled, 
 
 To see herself so fair. 
 
 When down her cheeks bright tear-drops fell, 
 
 Like dew on lilies white, 
 Alas ! " she sighed, " how soon the flowers 
 
 Must wither in our sight. 
 
 But, brother dear, I know a land, 
 
 It is my angel home, 
 Where beauty never fades away ; 
 
 My brother, will you come ?"
 
 222 ANGEL HOME. 
 
 She twined her soft arms round my neck, 
 
 And whispered, sweet and low, 
 " Come, brother, where the angels sing ; 
 Say, Eddie, will you go ? " 
 
 u O sister, let me first go home, 
 
 And kiss our mother dear, 
 
 And tell her not to weep for me, 
 
 She'll be so lonely here ! " 
 
 I hastened home to say good bye, 
 
 And you awoke me then ! 
 Say, mother, will the night come soon, 
 
 That I may dream again ? 
 
 , Night came again, and Eddie slept, 
 
 But ere the morning's beam 
 He culled the deathless flowers that bloom 
 Beside the living stream. 
 
 MY OWN HEART'S HOME. 
 
 My own heart's home ! 
 Like a wearied dove I come to thee, 
 When the wild waste had no home for me, 
 When the winds were fierce, and with tearful e 
 I could but look upward and ask to die, 
 
 Yearn wildly to die !
 
 MY OWN HEART'S HOME. 223 
 
 My own heart's home ! 
 I rest in the calm of thy holy shade, 
 Hearing the world-strife, but am not afraid ; 
 I smile when the turmoil grows hottest with strife, 
 For thou art my shelter, what fear I in life ? 
 
 In the turmoil of life ? 
 
 My own heart's home ! 
 Where the purest of angels are ever near, 
 Where eden-like music is mine to hear. 
 For Hope, Faith and love twine their arms about me, 
 And bathe my glad spirit in whispers of thee, 
 
 Sweet whispers of thee ! 
 
 My own heart's home ! 
 
 That casteth a shelter so strong 'round the weak, 
 How vain are the praises my soul-love would speak, 
 How faint are the whispers that answer to thine, 
 How cold is their meaning when told in my rhyme, 
 
 For thee in my rhyme ! 
 
 Still fold me in love 
 
 Close to thy heart, for my own would break, 
 And never again to gladness awake, 
 Should the home of my heart turn cold with scorn, 
 And I wander forth to battle the storm, 
 
 The world's tempest storm. 
 
 My own heart's home ! 
 ,Angels around it and faith within, 
 It seemeth too good for me to rest in ; 
 Yet since thou hast called me its rest to share, 
 O ! let me forever, forever be there, 
 
 Forever be there ' JENNY MARSH,
 
 224 THE FIRST LIB. 
 
 THE FIRST LIE. 
 
 I remember it as yesterday. The roses flush 
 by my side as if newly opened ; they hang from 
 rude trellises trained over the low kitchen. How 
 delicious the woodbine smells ! I scent it through 
 the open gates of my childhood's memory. And 
 that dear wee garden that my mother loved and 
 tended ; and the old, wooden pump, with its neck- 
 laces of green moss! A little winding path led 
 to that pump, and by it, out into the orchard. I 
 think that when a little girl my mind must have 
 been poetically inclined, for I have stood many a 
 time with swelling heart and clasped hands, gazing 
 at the trees all a-blossom and likening them to 
 so many things ; to drops of snow, to bits of fleecy 
 clouds, to lambswool, white and soft to every- 
 thing tender, pure and beautiful. 
 
 One day in early spring, my father brought home 
 some choice young fruit trees, and the hands set 
 them in a rich black earth, so straight and so neat- 
 ly, that they were a pleasure to gaze at. I was 
 then a little thing, not yet four years old, and I 
 remember his replying to all questions with that 
 straightforward simplicity that he always used to 
 wards children, and indeed towards everybody.
 
 TilE FIRST LIE. 225 
 
 He told me that in a year or two, there might 
 be some beautiful red apples on those pretty trees, 
 and asked me if I could wait with patience till 
 then and if I had faith to believe that of which 
 there was no sign. I had a vague idea then that 
 the apples lay hidden in the trunk somewhere, and 
 somebody had once told me that angels came down 
 and put the fruit on, after the blossoms had gone 
 but it was not hard to believe my father, for he 
 always told the truth. Two springs passed, and at 
 last there came a few blossoms on the little trees ; 
 beauties they were, tinged with little pink edges, 
 streaked Avith faint veins ; and some of them I could 
 see plainly by standing on tiptoe, for the trees were 
 very short. 
 
 That year my Aunt Mary died, and I was sent 
 for, to pass a few months with her lonely little girl. 
 
 It made me sad to see her looking so sorrowful, 
 and dressed in that sombre black ; but she was not 
 very sorrowful more than a week or two, and by 
 degrees we came to have fine romps ; and after the 
 fun was exhausted, we sat in the housekeeper's 
 room and listened to her garrulous tongue, as it 
 ratiled off pleasant stories and mirth-provoking 
 anecdotes. 
 
 At last the fall months came, and in October I 
 15
 
 226 THE FIRST LIE. 
 
 was to return. Pleasant as my stay had been, I 
 was wild with delight at the thought that I should 
 soon meet my gentle mother, and my dear, dear 
 father How I flew through the old house, after I 
 had kissed everybody, and almost every thing 
 even to the sober old cat, who gave an ungracious 
 protest, and jumped angrily over my head ! The 
 flowers had faded, but the autumn glories were in 
 all their vivid coloring and beauty of apparel. The 
 pump still bore its wreaths of moss, and its iron 
 handle, standing almost upright, received a hearty 
 shake at my hands. I passed into the old orchard. 
 It was filled with fruit, and on one of the trans- 
 planted trees hung one only one great rosy ap- 
 ple, so tempting ! so luscious-looking, that from the 
 first I felt a desire to possess it, and before I had 
 given myself time to resist the evil, the apple was 
 in my hand. ! how strangely I felt for a mo- 
 ment ! I turned to go into the house and give it to 
 my father, trusting that he would ask no ques- 
 tions ; or if he did, my frankness might be my me- 
 diator ; but the melting lusciousnexfi that seemed to 
 permeate even the glossy rind, mcHed my resolu- 
 tion, and I hurried breathlessly to a large tree at 
 the end of the orchard, and, as guilt always strives 
 to do, hid myself. Not a mouthful lid I enjoy ; it
 
 THE FIRST LIE. 227 
 
 was sweet, delicious, but in my wicked haste I 
 choked it down, and had eaten to the core, when I 
 heard my father's voice. A clap of thunder had 
 not sounded more terrible than those mild tones, 
 just then : I threw down the remnant of the apple, 
 wiped my hands, and with cheeks that seemed 
 bursting, went forward to my father. He looked 
 at me keenly, and we passed into the house to 
 meet a little friend who had called to see me after 
 my long absence. 
 
 I was so filled with the great misery of my sin, 
 that I could hardly force myself to seem pleased 
 with the visit ; and all that long afternoon my heart 
 ached. 
 
 " I am sorry, mother," said my father, " but 
 the apple you wanted so much is gone." 
 
 I cowered as I stood watching my mother pre- 
 paring sweetmeats for my little friend and myself. 
 My mother paused with a look of anxiety, as she 
 said, " Who do you suppose has taken it ? It was 
 there this morning." 
 
 " I am afraid some of the children." 
 
 " I didn't touch it," cried I, before he had 
 finished. 
 
 " No one has accused you, Marcia," said my 
 father, after interchanging glances with my mother
 
 228 THE FIRST LIE. 
 
 " why are you ready to deny before the que&- 
 tion is asked ? " 
 
 I said nothing. In a little while my father took 
 me into his work-room, to show me a little toy he 
 had been making for me. My cheek still burned, 
 and I kept choking back the tears ; I was suffering 
 the first agony of a lie unconfessed. 
 
 Suddenly my father took my hand, and drawing 
 me towards him, held up the very apple-core I had 
 thrown away. 
 
 " I never touched it ; I never saw it ; I didn't 
 throw it there ! " I cried in incoherent sentences ; 
 then shrieking in my agony, I began to sob and 
 cry piteously. 
 
 "My daughter, you took the apple," said 
 my father, in his calm, sweet voice and oh ! as 
 I looked at him I saw tears in his eyes, and hia 
 lips, those mild lips, trembled. That was terrible ! 
 I could have borne his anger I longed for him 
 to scold me, and call me a wicked, lying girl 
 anything but that look that look that pitied me 
 so. I stopped crying, but I thought in the silence 
 that followed, my heart would burst ; my eyes were 
 bent to the floor, and it seemed as if I could scarce- 
 ly breathe. I felt his fingers under my chin, press- 
 ing it to make me look up. I heard his voice,
 
 THE FIRST LIE. 229 
 
 now a little stonier, saying, " Lift your eyes up, 
 my child " and I did lift them, heavily, to his 
 sorrowful face. Then he talked with me about my 
 dreadful sin till my. very soul was melted within 
 me; till at last I cried out " Oh! forgive me, 
 forgive me I took the apple ; I told a lie I 
 am very wicked I shall never dare to pray 
 again ! " 
 
 " I am old now," said the sweet-faced lady who 
 told this story, " I am old now, but the prayer 
 that my father offered to heaven, that agonizing 
 petition, mingled with the sobs of strong feeling, I 
 seem to hear it as if it were a thing of yesterday. 
 Days, weeks passed before I felt innocent again. 
 Alas ! I have always, and shall carry to the judg- 
 ment with me, the memory of that first lie. For 
 months my cheeks tinged at my father's glance, 
 and my heart felt faint when I thought of my sin. 
 But never since then never once have I been 
 tempted to falsehood. " The sting of remorse left a 
 wound, thank God, that bleeds afresh at the thought 
 of wrong. Oh ! I often think, if children who are 
 thoughtlessly left to work out their own life-prob 
 lems could have the benefit of a supervision like 
 that of my gentle, praying father's to watch for 
 evil, and apply the remedy, what a world full of
 
 230 A GENTLE MAN. 
 
 angels this would be ! Oh! parents what solemn, 
 awful responsibilities fall to your lot, only eternity 
 will reveal. Watch for the first sin and espe- 
 cially let your tears, your prayers, bear witness to 
 your horrors of that awful sin, when your resolute 
 but erring boy your blue-eyed girl, stand weep- 
 ing before you, burdened with the guilt of their 
 "first lie." M. J. 
 
 A GENTLE MAN. 
 
 A man need not be a tyrant to show himself 
 strong ; and yet such strange vagaries do some 
 men possess that they fight down the tenderness 
 that is inherent in their natures for fear they may 
 be called weak. " Tied to mother's apron-string " 
 is the first laughing sneer of the school-boy if he 
 finds in his playmate a disposition to love his home. 
 " Before I'd be governed by a girl ; " is the next 
 taunting fling, as the headstrong child is curbed 
 by an elder sister ; and if there are not the firmest 
 hands and the holiest hearts, and the finest judg- 
 ments around that child's hearthstone, he will grow 
 up with a contempt for every feminine trait, and
 
 A GENTLE MAN. 231 
 
 in proving himself a man will display only brute 
 strength, and stoical insensibility. Many such have 
 married ; how they won their wives it is impossible 
 to imagine ; how they could smile, or show any 
 little attention that required delicate management 
 we cannot even dream ; but they do sometimes, 
 nay, often, find hearts to break, and ruthlessly they 
 break them. 
 
 " I can't bear to fuss over woman," said one of 
 these bears, when he was queried why in some 
 trifling thing he did not assist his wife. Did ho 
 think it manly, refined, brave, thus to deport him- 
 self towards one who had thrown her life, her hap- 
 piness, her all into his keeping ? ! if he knew 
 with what disgust all true men and women would 
 henceforth look upon him, could his speech be 
 branded upon his forehead, he would have shrunk 
 in the shadow of his own baseness, nor ever opened 
 his lips again. 
 
 It is compatible to join with the nobility of man- 
 hood the quiet grace, the gentle, low voice, and 
 the winning tenderness of woman. Thrice beauti- 
 ful is it to see the man step down from the pedes- 
 tal whereon he has spoken " words that burn " 
 where his thoughts have been clothed in the daz- 
 zling garments of heaven-born genius where mul-
 
 232 A GENTLE MAN. 
 
 titudes have sat, delighted worshippers, thrice beau- 
 tiful it is to see him change the lofty gesture, the 
 oratorical manner, to the quiet, soft accents of ten- 
 derness as he speaks to his wife, to his little child. 
 Thrice beautiful to see him careful of their health, 
 their interest, their comfort. Aye, if man would 
 be truly, devotedly loved, and all but worshipped 
 by woman, let him be womanly. It would detract 
 nothing from his mental stature ; it would exalt him 
 among the heroes of earth ; it would kindle for him 
 an undying interest in the heart to which he has 
 given life. And if he should die, his tomb would 
 be a Mecca. Beautiful flowers would bloom there 
 but not as fresh, as undying, as radiant in color- 
 ing, as sweet in fragrance as those that would blos- 
 som continually in the memory of the living tem- 
 ples in which his unfading image shall never know 
 decay. 
 
 How many various ideas we have of a gentle- 
 man ! Every person aims to become a gentleman, 
 and there is no one but would regard it as an in- 
 sult to be told he was not. Every one, therefore, 
 is a gentleman in his own way. Some think dress 
 is the only requisite ; some wealth, regardless of 
 dress, mind or manners. Wealth is doubtless the 
 great sine qua non of gentility in our day. A
 
 A GENTLE MAN. 233 
 
 perfect boor is transformed into a gentleman by its 
 magic power ; his power admits him at once into 
 the most refined (?) circles, and amongst the high- 
 est classes. He appears with bold assurance where 
 genius and true merit dare not come. But after 
 all, is he the real gentleman ? 
 
 The poor scholar who racks his brain to earn his 
 bread the artist, whose struggling genius earns 
 him a bare subsistence the teacher, whose miser- 
 able pittance but just buys bread enough to satiate 
 the clamorous appetites of half a dozen children, 
 cannot, of course, be gentlemen ! They are the 
 servants of the wealthy, and an insurmountable 
 barrier keeps them away from the real gentlemen, 
 and walls them up in their own little circle, their 
 proper sphere ! 
 
 We don't all think so, however thanks to 
 American common sense ! There are some gentle- 
 men in the world that money never made, and a 
 few that wealth never exalted to such a dizzy height 
 as to render them completely oblivious of the fact 
 that they were yet frail human creatures, and lived 
 in common brotherhood with the rest of mankind. 
 
 Gentility is not in wealth ; it is not in dress, nor 
 genius, nor any other attribute of man, unless it go 
 hand in hand with a cheerful disposition, an ami-
 
 234 A GENTLE MAN. 
 
 able temper and a philanthropic will. There are 
 real bona fide gentlemen in all classes of society, 
 and he is the greatest gentleman who mingles with 
 all, and remains untarnished. Real gentility is 
 moral freedom; it respects no particular persons, 
 as a class beyond their merits ; it does not exclude 
 one man because he is poor ; but embracing all who 
 ire worthy, it regards tfrem as kindred souls who 
 should ever dwell harmoniously together. This 
 constitutes a gentleman.
 
 WISER THAN THE EMPEROR. 235 
 
 WISER THAN THE EMPEROR. 
 
 There was once a poor man, who dwelt in a hut, 
 and gained his livelihood by begging alms. He 
 had an only daughter, whom heaven had gifted 
 with extraordinary wisdom, and who, little by little, 
 taught her father to speak so wisely, that one day, 
 when he had gone to ask alms of the Emperor, the 
 latter was astonished at the wisdom with which he 
 spoke, and demanded from whom he had acquired 
 it. " From my daughter, noble Emperor ! " an- 
 swered the poor man ; and the Emperor being very 
 wise himself, and proud of his wisdom, resolved to 
 put that of the poor man's daughter to trial ; so he 
 gave the poor man thirty eggs, and said : 
 
 " Take these to thy daughter, and bid her get 
 them hatched into thirty pullets. If she refuses to 
 obey, evil will befall her." 
 
 The poor man burst into tears, for he saw that 
 the eggs had all been boiled. But when he had 
 reached home, and had told his daughter all that 
 had passed, she bade him be cheerful and retire to 
 rest, telling him that ho need fear no danger. She 
 then took a pot of water, put a handful of beans
 
 236 WISER THAN THE EMPEROR. 
 
 into it, and placed it over the fire ; and on the 
 morrow, when her father had risen, she gave him 
 the boiled beans, and told him to take his spade 
 and dig a trench in a certain field, by which the 
 Emperor would pass as he went out hunting, ad- 
 ding, u And as the Emperor passes by, take the 
 beans and sow them in the trench, and cry aloud 
 ' God be gracious, and grant that my boiled 
 beans may spring up quickly ! ' and if the Emperor 
 asks how it is possible for boiled beans to grow, re- 
 ply that it is as easy as it is for a pullet to be hatch- 
 ed from a boiled egg." 
 
 " The poor man did as his daughter had in- 
 structed him. He took his spade and dug a trench 
 in a field by the side of the highway, and when he 
 saw the Emperor coming, he began to sow his 
 beans in the trench, and cry aloud : 
 
 " God be gracious and grant that my boiled 
 beans may spring up quickly ! " 
 
 When the Emperor heard these words, he stop- 
 ped, and asked how it was possible for boiled beans 
 to grow. Whereupon the poor man answered : 
 
 " Gracious Emperor, it is as easy as for a pullet 
 to be hatched from a boiled egg." 
 
 The Emperor divined whom it was that had ar- 
 ranged this stratagem ; and in order still more to
 
 I 
 
 WISER THAN THE EMPEROR. 237 
 
 try the maiden's wisdom, he gave the poor man a 
 small pack of hemp, and said : 
 
 " Take this to thy daughter, and bid .her make 
 me from it as many sails and ropes as are neces- 
 sary for a ship. If she refuses to obey, her head 
 shall pay the forfeit." 
 
 The poor man was sorely troubled at these words ; 
 and, having received the pack of hemp, returned 
 to his daughter, weeping all the way. But when 
 he had told her all that had passed, she again 
 comforted him, and bade him be cheerful, and re- 
 tire to rest, and fear no danger ; and, on the mor- 
 row, when he had risen, she gave him a little piece 
 of wood, and said : 
 
 " Take this to the Emperor ; and say that if he 
 will cut me out of it a spinning-wheel, a loom, and 
 a shuttle, then will I do that which he has com- 
 manded." 
 
 The poor man did the second time as his daugh- 
 ter had instructed him ; and when he had deliver- 
 ed her message, the Emperor was more than ever 
 astonished at her wisdom. To put it to a new 
 trial, he took a drinking glass, and said to the poor 
 man : 
 
 " Take this to thy daughter, and bid her empty 
 the sea with it, and make its bed dry enough to
 
 238 WISER THAN THE EMPEROR. 
 
 grow corn. If she refuse to obey, both her head 
 and thine own shall pay the forfeit." 
 
 At this the poor man was more terrified than 
 ever. But when he had returned home, and told 
 his daughter what the Emperor had commanded, 
 the maiden comforted him the third time and bade 
 him be cheerful, and retire to rest and fear no 
 danger. And on the morrow when he had arisen, 
 she gave him a pound of tow, and said to him : 
 
 " Take this to the Emperor, and say that if he 
 will stop with it the mouths and the springs of all 
 the rivers in the world, then will I do that which 
 he has commanded." 
 
 Again the poor man did according to his daugh- 
 ter's counsel ; and when he had delivered her mes- 
 sage, the Emperor acknowledged that she was wiser 
 than he was himself, and commanded that she should 
 at once be brought before him. When she had 
 <;ome into his presence and had saluted him, he 
 said to her : 
 
 " My daughter, tell me what can be heard the 
 farthest ? " and she answered, " Gracious Emperor, 
 thunder and a lie." 
 
 The Emperor then took his beard into his hand 
 and demanded of his counsellors how much it was 
 worth. When they had placed upon it a value,
 
 WISER THAN THE EMPEROR. 239 
 
 some a greater and some a less, the maiden said : 
 " Most Gracious Emperor, none of thy counsellors 
 have answered well. The beard of the Emperor is 
 worth three showers of rain in a dry summer." 
 
 These words delighted the Emperor, who de- 
 clared that the maiden had answered better than 
 all his counsellors. He then asked her if she wquld 
 become his wife, saying that he would receive only 
 one answer. The maiden prostrated herself before 
 him, and replied : 
 
 " Gracious Emperor, it is thine to command, and 
 mine to obey what thou commandest. Let me ask 
 of thee but one thing, namely, that thou shalt give 
 me a writing, written with thine own hand, that 
 if ever it should be thy pleasure to send me away, 
 I may carry from thy castle whatever single thing 
 I may love best." 
 
 The Emperor gave her the writing that she asked, 
 and then had her placed upon the throne beside 
 him. 
 
 For many summers the Empress was beloved of 
 her husband ; but it came to pass in time that he 
 ceased to cherish her. He then said to her one 
 day : " I do not wish thee any longer to be my 
 wife. Leave my castle and go wherever thou wilt." 
 
 She answered, " Illustrious Emperor, I will obey
 
 240 WISER THAN THE EMPEROR. 
 
 thee. Grant me only that I may stay until to-mor- 
 row." The Emperor granted what she asked, and 
 in the evening she poured some of the juice of a 
 certain herb into a cup of wine, and presented it 
 to him, and said : " Drink, illustrious Emperor, 
 and be happy! To-morrow I go away, and to- 
 morrow I shall be more joyful than I was even on 
 my marriage morn.*' 
 
 The Emperor drank, and soon his eyelids be- 
 came heavy, and he fell asleep ; and while he slept, 
 the Empress had him lifted into a carriage which 
 was in readiness, and therein conveyed to a distant 
 grotto, which she long before had prepared in anti- 
 cipation of such an emergency. When the Em- 
 peror awoke, and found himself in the grotto, he 
 angrily demanded how he had come thither. " I 
 have had you brought here," replied the Empress. 
 And he then asked very angrily, wherefore she 
 had done this, adding : " Did I not say that thou 
 shouldst no longer be my wife ? " The Empress 
 took out of her bosom the writing which the Em- 
 peror had given her before her marriage, and an- 
 swered : 
 
 " It is true, illustrious Emperor ; but this writing 
 which was given with thine own hand accorded me 
 the right to bring away with me, when I quitted
 
 WISER THAN THE EMPEKOK. 241 
 
 the castle, whatsoever I might love the best ; I ex- 
 ercised my right, and brought thee, most gracious 
 Emperor." 
 
 When the Emperor heard these words, he vowed 
 never to part from so faithful and wise a wife. So 
 he embraced her, and returned with her to the 
 castle ; and they two sat thereafter side by side 
 upon the throne for many summers ; and when the 
 last summer was past, Death reaped them both to- 
 gether like a double ear of corn. 
 
 There are two hearts whose movements thrill 
 
 In unison so closely sweet, 
 That, pulse to pulse, responsive still 
 
 They both must heave or cease to beat. 
 
 There are two souls whose equal flow 
 
 In gentle streams so calmly run, 
 That when they part they part ! ah, no ! 
 
 They cannot part their souls are one ! 
 
 BARTOW 
 
 16
 
 242 THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Brightest shine the stars above 
 
 When the night is darkest round us ; 
 
 Those the friends we dearest love 
 Who were near when sorrow bound us. 
 
 When no clouds o'ercast our sky, 
 
 When no evil doth attend us, 
 Then will many gather nigh, 
 
 Ever ready to befriend us. 
 
 But when darkness shades our path, 
 When misfortune hath its hour, 
 
 When we lie beneath its wrath, 
 Some will leave us to its power. 
 
 Often have we seen at night, 
 
 When the clouds have gathered o'er tu, 
 One lone star send forth its light, 
 
 Marking out the path before us. 
 
 Like that star, some friendly eye 
 Will beam on us in our sorrow ; 
 
 And, though clouded be our sky, 
 
 We know there'll be a better morrow. 
 
 We know that all will not depart, 
 
 That some will gather round to cheer us; 
 
 Know we, in our inmost heart, 
 
 Tried and faithful friends are near us. 
 
 i
 
 LITTLE THINGS. 243 
 
 Brother, those who do not go, 
 
 May he deemed friends forever; 
 Love them, trust them, let them know 
 
 Nothing can our friendship sever. 
 
 LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 Little drops of water, 
 Little grains of sand, 
 
 Make the mighty ocean 
 And the beauteous land. 
 
 And the little moments, 
 Humble though they be, 
 
 Make the mighty ages 
 Of eternity. 
 
 So our little errors 
 Lead the soul away 
 
 From the paths of virtue, 
 Oft in sin to stray. 
 
 Little deeds of kindness, 
 Little words of love, 
 
 Make our earth an Eden, 
 Like the heaven above. 
 
 Little seeds of mercy, 
 Sown by youthful hand% 
 
 Grow to bless the nations 
 Far in heathen lands.
 
 244 TO THE BIRDS OP SPRING. 
 
 TO THE BIRDS OF SPRING. 
 
 Spring has come, 
 
 We'll welcome home 
 The birds among the flowers ; 
 
 Here to-day, 
 
 Till forced away, 
 By winter's chilling bowers 
 
 Teach your young 
 
 The warbling song, 
 Among the vales and mountains ; 
 
 With delight, 
 
 Live day and night, 
 As rolls the murmuring fountains. 
 
 Pass your time, 
 
 From clime to clime, 
 Till life's weary journey is o'er ; 
 
 When I'm gone 
 
 Whence none return, 
 Then o'er my grave gently soar. 
 
 Tributes fairy, 
 
 And gently sing, 
 When the morning sun is shining; 
 
 Remember well 
 
 Thy notes do swell 
 Where beauty is reclining.
 
 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 245 
 
 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 The old year has passed away. The record of 
 its acts and events has been closed and sealed, and 
 a new volume of the great book of life has been 
 opened. Its fair white pages are now awaiting the 
 record of another year. It is a time for reflection 
 for repentance, even, and for new resolutions. 
 There are few, we presume, except those who are 
 giddily and thoughtlessly hurrying down the stream 
 of life, who do not commence the new year with 
 a fixed determination to perform some new or neg- 
 lected duty to reform some bad habit to em- 
 brace more faithfully the opportunities everywhere 
 afforded for self-improvement, and to strive to be 
 wiser and better than during the past year. There 
 is a certain thoughtful solemnity about New Year's 
 Day which is incident to no other day of the year. 
 It has been commemorated as well in heathen as in 
 Christian countries, almost from time immemorial, 
 as a day of retrospection and good resolutions as 
 a day for putting off the old man and putting on 
 the new. On this day the Romans laid aside all 
 old grudges and ill-humor, and took care not to 
 speak one ominous or untoward word. The me-
 
 246 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 chanics began some work of their trade ; the men 
 of letters did the same as to books, poems, etc. ; 
 and the consuls, though chosen before, took the 
 chair and entered upon their office on New Year's 
 day. The Jews considered this day as the day on 
 which God holds judgment, and also as the anni- 
 versary of the day on which Adam was created. 
 
 Looking back from this standpoint of time upon 
 the year which has just closed, we cannot but rec- 
 ognize the fact that it has Hbeen to us as a nation, 
 one of great prosperity. While other nations have 
 been involved in wars, or suffered from short crops 
 and commercial revulsions, we have been at peace 
 with all the world. The labors of the husbandman 
 have prospered commerce and the arts have flour- 
 ished and even the gloomy clouds which at the 
 commencement oi the year hovered over the polit- 
 ical horizon, have grown less dense. We have been 
 favored as a nation, and can set down the year in 
 the calendar of our national progress as a white 
 year. 
 
 To how many of us as individuals has the year 
 which has just closed been a year of prosperity and 
 happiness ? The record of many is undoubtedly 
 bright with scenes of joy and prosperity :
 
 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 247 
 
 " But earthly hope, how bright soe'er, 
 
 Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, 
 As false and fleeting as 'tis fair." 
 
 The record of others is dark with unhappiness 
 with destitution with bereavement with misery 
 unutterable. Happiness may predominate in the 
 case of most of us, but as the ivy twines around the 
 oak, so do misery and misfortune encompass the 
 happiness of man. Let those to whom the year 
 has been a white year, be doubly thankful to a 
 kind Providence ; for many of their fellows who 
 entered upon the old year with as high hopes, and 
 with prospects as bright and joyous, would gladly 
 drink of a Lethean stream to bring oblivion for the 
 deeds and events of the year which has closed. 
 
 The sweetest of American poets, whose words of 
 cheer and hope have carried comfort to many a 
 troubled heart, in his " Psalm of Life," has advised 
 us to 
 
 " Let the dead past bury its dead." 
 
 The advice is good, though we may well hed 
 the further monition to 
 
 " Trust no future, howe'er pleasant," 
 
 but 
 
 " Act act in the living present, 
 Heart within and God o'erhead."
 
 248 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 The present is ours, but who can count upon 
 the future ? Another New Year's day, and many 
 of us will have passed from this limited stage of ex- 
 istence. What an incentive is there in this reflec- 
 tion, which must force itself upon the mind at this 
 season, to right views of duty, and to the proper 
 fulfilment of the obligations which we owe to our- 
 selves, to our friends, to the community, and, above 
 all, to the great Ruler of the universe. While we 
 are planning and forming new resolutions for the 
 future, may we all keep in mind the fact that the 
 present is all that is really ours to improve. The 
 pendulum of the clock, as it swings backward and 
 forward, is constantly ticking out the minutes of our 
 future, and as the bard of Avon has said : 
 
 " What's past and what's to come, is strewed with husks, 
 The formless ruin of oblivion." 
 
 That the new year will be a happy one to our 
 readers is our heartfelt wish. May prosperity at- 
 tend their undertakings, and abundance bless their 
 boards. When the record of the year is closed, 
 may it have many delightful pages. May it be 
 fragrant with good actions, and be gilded by the 
 memory 'of many happy hours. 
 
 THE END. 

 
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