








    Transcriber's Note:
    Chapter headings in the table of Contents and in the main body
    of the book appear as they do in the original. Phrases printed
    in italics in the original version are indicated in this
    electronic version by _ (underscore). A list of amendments are
    given at the end of the book.




THE

LOOKING-GLASS

FOR

THE MIND;

OR

INTELLECTUAL MIRROR;

BEING AN ELEGANT COLLECTION

OF

The most delightful Little Stories

AND INTERESTING TALES:

CHIEFLY TRANSLATED FROM THAT MUCH ADMIRED WORK

L'AMI DES ENFANS.

WITH SEVENTY-FOUR CUTS,

DESIGNED AND ENGRAVED ON WOOD, BY

I. BEWICK

THE SIXTEENTH EDITION.

LONDON:

    PRINTED FOR JOHN HARRIS, G. WHITTAKER, HARVEY
    AND CO., LONGMAN AND CO., J. AND C. RIVINGTON,
    T. CADELL, H. S. KIRBY, BALDWIN AND CO., HAMILTON
    AND CO., J. SOUTER, SIMPKIN AND CO., AND J. NUNN.

1825

    Printed by S. and R. Bentley,
    Dorset Street, Fleet Street, London.




PREFACE.


The following pages may be considered rather as a Collection of the
BEAUTIES of M. BERQUIN, than as a literally abridged translation of that
work, several original thoughts and observations being occasionally
introduced into different parts of them.

The stories here collected are of a most interesting kind, since virtue
is constantly represented as the fountain of happiness, and vice as the
source of every evil. Nothing extravagant or romantic will be found in
these tales: neither enchanted castles, nor supernatural agents, but
such scenes are exhibited as come within the reach of the observations
of young people in common life; the whole being made familiar by an
innocent turn of thought and expression, and applied to describe their
amusements, their pursuits, and their necessities.

As a useful and instructive _Pocket Looking-Glass_, we recommend it for
the instruction of every youth, whether miss or master; it is a _mirror_
that will not flatter them, nor lead them into error; it displays the
follies and improper pursuits of youthful breasts, points out the
dangerous paths they sometimes tread, and clears the way to the _Temple
of Honour and Fame_.




CONTENTS.

    Little Adolphus                                              1
    Anabella's Journey to Market                                 8
    The Absurdity of young People's Wishes exposed              16
    Louisa's Tenderness to the little Birds in Winter           21
    The Story of Bertrand, a poor Labourer, and his
      little Family                                             31
    Nancy and her Canary-bird, poor Cherry                      38
    The Birds, the Thorn-bushes, and the Sheep                  48
    Poor Crazy Samuel, and the mischievous Boys                 54
    Bella and Marian                                            60
    Little Jack                                                 75
    Leonora and Adolphus                                        91
    Flora and her little Lamb                                   97
    The fruitful Vine                                          102
    Sir John Denham and his worthy Tenant                      107
    Alfred and Dorinda                                         118
    Rosina; or, the froward Girl reformed                      122
    Little Anthony                                             128
    History of Jonathan the Gardener                           132
    The Sparrow's Nest                                         138
    William and Thomas; or, the Contrast between
      Industry and Indolence                                   145
    Mischief its own Punishment                                150
    Antony and Augustus; or, Rational Education preferable
      to Riches                                                158
    The destructive Consequences of Dissipation & Luxury       167
    William and Amelia                                         175
    The Rival Dogs                                             187
    Cleopatra; or, the Reformed little Tyrant                  193
    The Passionate Boy                                         197
    Caroline; or, a Lesson to cure Vanity                      201
    Arthur and Adrian; or, Two Heads better than One           213
    Madam D'Allone and her Four Pupils                         217
    The Bird's Egg                                             224
    The Covetous Boy                                           234
    Dissipation the certain Road to Ruin                       242
    Calumny and Scandal great Enemies to Society               247
    Clarissa; Or, the Grateful Orphan                          252
    Returning Good for Evil, the noblest Revenge               257
    Grey Hairs made Happy                                      263




THE

LOOKING GLASS.




LITTLE ADOLPHUS.


[Illustration]

In one of the villages in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, lived
little Adolphus, who had the misfortune to lose his mother before he had
reached his eighth year. Notwithstanding his early age, this loss made a
strong impression on his mind, and evidently affected the natural gaiety
of his disposition. His aunt, the good Mrs. Clarkson, soon took him home
to her house, in order to remove him from the scene of his affliction,
and to prevent his grief adding to the inconsolable sorrows of his
father.

After the usual time, they left off their mourning; but though little
Adolphus affected cheerfulness, yet his tender heart still felt for the
loss of his mother. His father, whom he sometimes visited, could not
avoid observing how little Adolphus endeavoured to conceal his grief;
and this consideration made him feel the more for the loss of a wife,
who had given birth to so promising a child. This made such an
impression on his mind, that every one foresaw it would bring on his
final dissolution.

Poor Adolphus had not been to see his dear father for some time; for,
whenever he proposed it to his aunt, she constantly found some excuse to
put it off. The reason was, that Mr. Clarkson being so ill, she feared
that seeing him in that condition would increase the grief of Adolphus
too much, and lay on his heart a load too heavy for him to support. In
short, the loss of his wife, and his uneasiness for his son, put an end
to Mr. Clarkson's life on the day before he reached the fiftieth year of
his age.

The next morning, little Adolphus thus addressed his aunt: "This is my
dear father's birth-day, I will go and see him, and wish him joy." She
endeavoured to persuade him from it; but, when she found that all her
endeavours were in vain, she consented, and then burst into a flood of
tears. The little youth was alarmed, and almost afraid to ask any
questions. At last, "I fear," said he, "my dear papa is either ill or
dead. Tell me, my dear aunt, for I must and will know: I will sleep no
more till I see my dear father, who so tenderly loves me."

Mrs. Clarkson was unable to speak; but when Adolphus saw his aunt take
out his mourning clothes, he was too well satisfied of what had
happened. "My dear papa is dead!" cried he; "O my papa! my mamma! both
dead! What will become of poor Adolphus!" and then fainted, when Mrs.
Clarkson found it difficult to bring him to his senses.

As soon as he was a little come to himself, "Do not afflict yourself, my
dear child," said his aunt, "your parents are both living in heaven, and
will intercede with God to take care of you while on earth. While he
yesterday was dying, his last prayer was for you, and his prayer will
be heard."

"What! did my dear father die yesterday, while I was thinking of the
pleasure I should this day have on seeing him? Oh! let me go and see
him, since I cannot now disturb him, or make him unhappy on my account.
Pray, my dear aunt, let me go."

Mrs. Clarkson could not resist his importunities, and, engaged to go
along with him, provided he would promise to keep himself composed. "You
see my sorrow," said she, "and how much I am grieved for the loss of a
brother, who was good, charitable, and humane, and from whose bounty I
received the greater part of the means of my livelihood. Though I am now
left poor and helpless, yet I trust in Providence, and you shall see me
cry no more. Let me entreat you, my dear child, to do the same." Poor
Adolphus promised he would do as she would wish him; when Mrs. Clarkson
took him by the hand, and led him to the melancholy scene.

As soon as they were come to the house, Adolphus slipped from his aunt,
and rushed into the room where his father lay in his coffin, surrounded
by his weeping neighbours: he threw himself on the breathless body of
his dear papa. After lying some little time in that state, without being
able to speak, he at last raised his little head, and cried out, "See
how your poor Adolphus cries for having lost you. When mamma died, you
comforted me, though you wept yourself; but now, to whom am I to look
for comfort? O my dear papa, my good papa!"

By this time his aunt got into the room, and, with the assistance of the
neighbours, forced him from the coffin, and carried him to a friend's
house, in order to keep him there till his father should be buried; for
his aunt dreaded the thoughts of letting him follow the funeral.

The solemn scene was now preparing, and the bell began to toll, which
Adolphus heard, and every stroke of it pierced his little innocent
heart. The woman to whose care he had been left, having stept into
another room, he took that opportunity to regain his liberty, got out of
doors, and ran towards the churchyard. On his arrival there, he found
the funeral service finished, and the grave filling up, when on a
sudden, a cry was heard, "Let me be buried with my dear papa." He then
jumped into the grave.

Such a scene must naturally affect every one who saw it. They pulled him
out of the grave, and carried him home pale and speechless. For several
days he refused almost every kind of sustenance, being at intervals
subject to fainting fits. After some time, however, the consolations and
advice of his good aunt appeared to have some weight with him, and the
tempest in his little heart began to abate.

The affectionate conduct of Adolphus was the conversation for miles
round their habitation, and at last reached the ears of a wealthy
merchant, who had formerly been a little acquainted with the deceased
Mr. Clarkson. He accordingly went to see the good Adolphus, and feeling
for his distresses, took him home with him, and treated him as his son.

Adolphus soon gained the highest opinion of the merchant, and as he grew
up, grew more and more in his favour. At the age of twenty, he conducted
himself with so much ability and integrity, that the merchant took him
into partnership, and married him to his only daughter.

Adolphus had always too great a soul to be ungenerous: for even during
his younger days he denied himself every kind of extravagance, in order
to support his aunt; and when he came into possession of a wife and
fortune, he placed her in a comfortable station for the remainder of her
life. As for himself, he every year, on his father's birth-day, passed
it in a retired room alone, sometimes indulging a tear, and sometimes
lifting up his heart to heaven, from whence he had received so much.

My little readers, if you have the happiness still to have parents
living, be thankful to God, and be sensible of the blessing you enjoy.
Be cautious how you do any thing to offend them; and should you offend
them undesignedly, rest neither night nor day till you have obtained
their forgiveness. Reflect on, and enjoy the happiness that you are not,
like poor little Adolphus, bereft of your fathers and mothers, and left
in the hands, though of a good, yet poor aunt.

[Illustration]




ANABELLA'S JOURNEY TO MARKET.


[Illustration]

Nothing can be more natural and pleasing than to see young children fond
of their parents. The birds of the air, and even the wild inhabitants of
the forest, love and are beloved by their young progeny.

Little Anabella was six years old, very fond of her mamma, and delighted
in following her every where. Her mother, being one day obliged to go to
market, wished to leave her little daughter at home, thinking it would
be too fatiguing for Anabella, and troublesome to herself; but the
child's entreaties to go were so earnest and pressing, that her mother
could not withstand them, and at last consented to her request.

The cloak and bonnet were soon on, and the little maid set off with her
mamma, in high spirits. Such was the badness of the paths in some
places, that it was impossible for them to walk hand-in-hand, so that
Anabella was sometimes obliged to trudge on by herself behind her mamma;
but these were such kind of hardships as her little spirit was above
complaining of.

The town now appeared in sight, and the nearer they approached it, the
more the paths were thronged with people. Anabella was often separated
from her mamma; but this did not at present much disturb her, as by
skipping over a rut, or slipping between the people as they passed, she
soon got up again to her mother. However, the nearer they approached the
market, the crowd of course increased, which kept her eyes in full
employment, to spy which way her mother went; but a little chaise drawn
by six dogs having attracted her attention, she stopped to look at them,
and by that means lost sight of her mother, which soon became the cause
of much uneasiness to her.

Here, my little readers, let me pause for a moment, to give you this
necessary advice. When you walk abroad with your parents or servants,
never look much about you, unless you have hold of their hand, or some
part of their apparel. And I hope it will not be deemed impertinent to
give similar advice to parents and servants, to take care that children
do not wander from them, since, from such neglect, many fatal accidents
have happened. But to proceed.--

Little Anabella had not gazed on this object of novelty for more than a
minute, before she recollected her mamma, and turned about to look for
her; but no mamma was there, and now the afflictions of her heart began.
She called aloud, "Mamma, mamma;" but no mamma answered. She then
crawled up a bank, which afforded her a view all around; but no mamma
was to be seen. She now burst into a flood of tears, and sat herself
down at the foot of the bank, by which people were passing and repassing
in great numbers.

Almost every body that passed said something or other to her, but none
offered to help her to find her mother. "What is the matter with you, my
little dear," said one, "that you cry so sadly?" "I have lost my
mamma;" said Anabella, as well as the grief of her heart would permit
her to speak. Another told her never to mind it, she would find her
again by and by. Some said, "Do not cry so, child, there is nobody that
will run away with you." Some pitied her, and others laughed at her; but
not one offered to give her any assistance.

Such, my little pupils, is the conduct of most people. When any
misfortune brings you into trouble, you will find enough ready to pity
you, but few who will give you any material assistance. They will tell
you what you then know yourselves, that you should not have done so and
so; they will be sorry for you, and then take their leave of you.

Little Anabella, however, was soon relieved from her present terrible
anxieties. A poor old woman, with eggs and butter in a basket, happened
to be that day going to the same market, whither Anabella's mother was
gone before her.

Seeing Anabella in so much distress, still crying as if her little heart
would break, she went up to her, and asked her what was the cause of
those tears that fell from her little cheeks: She told her she had lost
her mamma. "And to what place, my dear," cried the old woman, "was your
mamma going when you lost her?" "She was going to the market," replied
Anabella. "Well, my sweet girl," continued the old woman, "I am going to
the market too, and, if you will go along with me, I make no doubt but
we shall find your mother there. However, I will take care of you till
you do find her." She then took Anabella by the hand, and led her along
the road.

The good old woman put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a piece of
nice plum-cake, which she gave to Anabella, who thankfully accepted of
it; but her little heart was too full to permit her to think of eating
at that time. She therefore put it into her pocket, saying that she
would eat it by and by, when she had found her mamma, which she hoped
would be soon.

As they walked along, the good old woman endeavoured to amuse Anabella
by telling her pretty stories, and enquiring of her what books she read.
"I very well know," said the old woman, "that you young children are too
apt to be fond of histories of haunted houses, of witches, ghosts, and
apparitions, which tend only to fill you with idle fears and
apprehensions, and make you afraid even of your own shadows." But when
Anabella told her that her books were all bought at the corner of St.
Paul's Church-yard, she seemed perfectly satisfied.

They had hardly entered the market, when the little rambling eyes of
Anabella caught sight of her mamma. She shrieked with joy, and, like an
arrow out of a bow, darted from the old woman, and flew to her parent,
who clasped her pretty dear in her arms, and, after tenderly embracing
her, "How came you," said she, "my sweet angel, to wander from me? I
have been so frightened as to be hardly able to contain myself."

Anabella threw her arms round the neck of her mamma, and fixing her lips
to her cheeks, kept kissing her, till a torrent of tears gave ease to
her heart. As soon as she was able to speak, "My dear mamma," said she,
"I stopped to look at a pretty little chaise drawn by six dogs, and in
the mean time I lost you. I looked for you, and called for you, but I
could neither see nor hear you. I sat down crying by the side of a bank;
some as they passed pitied me, and others joked me; but none attempted
to take care of me, till this good old woman led me by the hand, and
brought me here."

Anabella's mother was very thankful to the good old woman for her
tenderness and humanity to her daughter; and not only bought of her what
eggs and butter she had left, but even made her a small present besides,
which she a long time declined accepting of, saying she had done no more
than what every good Christian ought to do.

Anabella kissed the good old woman over and over again, and all her way
home talked of nothing but her kindness. Nor did she afterwards forget
it, as she would frequently go and pay her a visit, when she always took
with her some tea and sugar, and a loaf of bread. Anabella's mother
constantly bought all the eggs and butter the good old woman had to
spare, and paid her a better price for them than she could have got at
market, saving her, at the same time, the trouble of going thither.

Thus you see, my young friends, what are the consequences of good nature
and humanity. You must accustom yourselves early, not only to feel for
the misfortunes of others, but to do every thing that lies in your power
to assist them. Whatever may be your condition in life at present, and
however improbable it may be, that you may ever want, yet there are
strange vicissitudes in this world, in which nothing can be said to be
really certain and permanent. Should any of my readers, like Anabella,
lose themselves, would they not be happy to meet with so good an old
woman as she did? Though your stations in life may place you above
receiving any pecuniary reward for a generous action, yet the pleasing
sensations of a good heart, on relieving a distressed fellow-creature,
are inexpressible.

[Illustration]




THE ABSURDITY OF YOUNG PEOPLE'S

WISHES EXPOSED.


[Illustration]

The present moment of enjoyment is all young people think of. So long as
master Tommy partook of the pleasure of sliding on the ice, and making
snow up in various shapes, he wished it always to be winter, totally
regardless of either spring, summer, or autumn. His father hearing him
one day make that wish, desired him to write it down in the first leaf
of his pocket-book; which Tommy accordingly did, though his hand
shivered with cold.

The winter glided away imperceptibly, and the spring followed in due
time. Tommy now walked in the garden with his father, and with
admiration beheld the rising beauty of the various spring flowers. Their
perfume afforded him the highest delight, and their brilliant appearance
attracted all his attention. "Oh!" said master Tommy, "that it were
always spring!" His father desired him to write that wish also in his
pocket-book.

The trees, which lately were only budding, were now grown into full
leaf, the sure sign that spring was departing, and summer hastening on
apace. Tommy one day, accompanied by his parents, and two or three of
his select acquaintance, went on a visit to a neighbouring village.
Their walk was delightful, afforded them a prospect sometimes of corn,
yet green, waving smoothly, like a sea unruffled with the breeze, and
sometimes of meadows enamelled with a profusion of various flowers. The
innocent lambs skipped and danced about, and the colts and fillies
pranced around their dams. But what was still more pleasing, this season
produced for Tommy and his companions a delicious feast of cherries,
strawberries, and a variety of other fruits. So pleasant a day afforded
them the summit of delight, and their little hearts danced in their
bosoms with joy.

"Do you not think, Tommy," said his father to him, "that summer has its
delights as well as winter and spring?" Tommy replied, he wished it
might be summer all the year; when his father desired him to enter that
wish in his pocket-book also.

The autumn at length arrived, and all the family went into the country
to view the harvest. It happened to be one of those days that are free
from clouds, and yet a gentle westerly wind kept the air cool and
refreshing. The gardens and orchards were loaded with fruits, and the
fine plums, pears, and apples, which hung on the trees almost to the
ground, furnished the little visitors with no small amusement and
delight. There were also plenty of grapes, apricots, and peaches, which
were the sweeter, as they had the pleasure of gathering them. "This
season of rich abundance, Tommy," said his father to him, "will soon
pass away, and stern and cold winter will succeed it." Tommy again
wished that the present happy season would always continue, and that the
winter would not be too hasty in its approaches, but leave him in
possession of autumn.

Tommy's father desired him to write this in his book also, and, ordering
him to read what he had written, soon convinced him how contradictory
his wishes had been. In the winter, he wished it to be always winter; in
the spring, he wished for a continuance of that season; in the summer,
he wished it never to depart; and when autumn came, it afforded him too
many delicious fruits to permit him to have a single wish for the
approach of winter.

"My dear Tommy," said his father to him, "I am not displeased with you
for enjoying the present moment, and thinking it the best that can
happen to you; but you see how necessary it is that our wishes should
not always be complied with. God knows how to govern this world much
better than any human being can pretend to. Had you last winter been
indulged in your wish, we should have had neither spring, summer, nor
autumn; the earth would have been perpetually covered with snow. The
beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, would either have been
starved or frozen to death; and even the pleasures of sliding, or
making images of snow, would have soon become tiresome to you. It is a
happiness that we have it not in our power to regulate the course of
nature: the wise and unerring designs of Providence, in favour of
mankind, would then, most probably, be perverted to their own inevitable
ruin."

[Illustration]




LOUISA'S TENDERNESS TO THE

LITTLE BIRDS IN WINTER.


[Illustration]

However long the winter may appear, the spring will naturally succeed
it. A gentle breeze began to warm the air, the snow gradually vanished,
the fields put on their enamelled livery, the flowers shot forth their
buds, and the birds began to send forth their harmony from every bough.

Little Louisa and her father left the city, to partake of the pleasures
of the country.--Scarcely had the blackbird and the thrush begun their
early whistle to welcome Louisa, than the weather changed all on a
sudden; the north wind roared horribly in the grove, and the snow fell
in such abundance, that every thing appeared in a silver-white mantle.

Though the little maid went to bed shivering with cold, and much
disappointed in her expectations, yet she thanked God for having given
her so comfortable a shelter from the inclemency of the elements.

Such a quantity of snow had fallen during the night, that the roads were
almost impassable in the morning, which was a matter of great affliction
to poor Louisa; but she observed, that the birds were as dull as herself
upon the occasion. Every tree and hedge being so covered with snow, that
the poor birds could get nothing to eat; not so much as a grain of corn
or worm to be found.

The feathered inhabitants now forsook the woods and groves, and fled
into the neighbourhood of inhabited towns and villages, to seek that
relief from man, which nature alone would not then afford them.
Incredibly numerous were the flight of sparrows, robins, and other
birds, that were seen in the streets and courtyards, where their little
beaks and claws were employed in turning over whatever they thought
could afford them a single grain.

A large company of these feathered refugees alighted in the yard
belonging to the house in which little Louisa and her father then were.
The distress of the poor birds seemed to afflict the tender-hearted maid
very much, which her father perceived as soon as she entered his
chamber. "What is it makes you look so pensive now," said her father,
"since it is but a few minutes ago when you were so remarkably
cheerful?"--"O my dear papa!" said Louisa, "all those sweet birds, that
sung so charmingly but a day or two ago, are now come into the yard
starving with hunger. Do, pray, let me give them a little corn!"

Her papa very readily granted her so reasonable a request, and away she
ran, accompanied by her governess, to the barn on the other side of the
yard, which had that morning been cleanly swept. Here she got a handful
or two of corn, which she immediately scattered in different parts of
the yard. The poor little birds fluttered around her, and soon picked
up what the bounty of her generous hand had bestowed on them.

It is impossible to describe the pleasure and satisfaction expressed in
the countenance of Louisa, on seeing herself the cause of giving so much
joy to those little animals. As soon as the birds had picked up all the
grains, they flew to the house-top, and seemed to look down on Louisa as
if they would say, "Cannot you give us a little more?" She understood
their meaning, and away she flew again to the barn, and down they all
came to partake of her new bounty; while Louisa called to her papa and
mamma to come and enjoy with her the pleasing sight.

In the mean time, a little boy came into the yard, whose heart was not
of so tender a nature as Louisa's. He held in his hand a cage full of
birds, but carried it so carelessly, that it was evident he cared very
little for his poor prisoners. Louisa, who could not bear to see the
pretty little creatures used so roughly, asked the boy what he was going
to do with those birds. The boy replied, that he would sell them if he
could; but, if he could not, his cat should have a dainty meal of them,
and they would not be the first she had munched alive.

"O fie," said Louisa, "give them to your cat! What, suffer such innocent
things as those to be killed by the merciless talons of a cat?"--"Even
so," said the boy, and giving the cage a careless swing, that tumbled
the poor birds one over another, off he was setting, when Louisa called
him back, and asked him what he would have for his birds. "I will sell
them," said he, "three for a penny, and there are eighteen of them."
Louisa struck the bargain, and ran to beg the money of her papa, who not
only cheerfully gave her the money, but allowed her an empty room for
the reception of her little captives.

The boy, having thus found so good a market for his birds, told all his
companions of it; so that, in a few hours, Louisa's yard was so filled
with little bird-merchants, that you would have supposed it to be a
bird-market. However, the pretty maiden purchased all they brought, and
had them turned into the same room, with those of her former purchase.

When night came, Louisa went to bed with more pleasure than she had
felt for a long time. "What a pleasing reflection it is," said she to
herself, "to be thus capable of preserving the lives of so many innocent
birds, and save them from famine and merciless cats!--When summer comes,
and I go into the woods and groves, these pretty birds will fly round
me, and sing their sweetest notes, in gratitude for my kind attention to
them."--These thoughts at last lulled her to sleep, but they accompanied
her even in her dreams; for she fancied herself in one of the most
delightful groves she had ever seen, where all the little birds were
busied, either in feeding their young, or in singing, and in hopping
from bough to bough.

The first thing Louisa did, after she had got up in the morning, was to
go and feed her little family in the room, and also those that came into
the yard. Though the seed to feed them cost her nothing, yet she
recollected that the many purchases she had lately made of birds must
have almost exhausted her purse; "and if the frost should continue,"
said she to herself, "what will become of those poor birds that I shall
not be able to purchase! Those naughty boys will either give them to
their cats, or suffer them to die with hunger."

While she was giving way to these sorrowful reflections, her hand was
moving gently into her pocket, in order to bring out her exhausted
purse; but, judge what must be her surprise and astonishment, when,
instead of pulling out an empty purse, she found it brimful of money!
She ran immediately to her papa, to tell him of this strange
circumstance, when he snatched her up in his arms, tenderly embraced
her, and shed tears of joy on her blooming cheeks.

"My dear child," said her papa to her, "you cannot conceive how happy
you now make me! Let these little birds continue to be the objects of
your relief, and, be assured, your purse shall never be reduced to
emptiness." This pleasing news gladdened the little heart of Louisa, and
she ran immediately to fill her apron with seed, and then hastened to
feed her feathered guests. The birds came fluttering round her, and
seemed conscious of her bounty and generosity.

After feeding these happy prisoners, she went down into the yard, and
there distributed a plentiful meal to the starving wanderers without.
What an important trust had she now taken on herself!--nothing less
than the support of a hundred dependants within doors, and a still
greater number without! No wonder that her dolls and other playthings
should be now totally forgotten.

As Louisa was putting her hand into the seed-bag, to take out of it the
afternoon food for her birds, she found a paper, on which were written
these words: "The inhabitants of the air fly towards thee, O Lord! and
thou givest them their food; thou openest thy hand, and fillest all
things living with plenteousness."

As she saw her papa behind her, she turned round and said, "I am
therefore now imitating God."--"Yes, my sweet Louisa," said her father,
"in every good action we imitate our Maker. When you shall be grown to
maturity, you will then assist the necessitous part of the human race,
as you now do the birds; and the more good you do, the nearer you will
approach the perfections of God."

Louisa continued her attention to feed her hungry birds for more than a
week, when the snow began to melt, and the fields by degrees recovered
their former verdure. The birds who had lately been afraid to quit the
warm shelter of the houses, now returned to the woods and groves. The
birds in our little Louisa's aviary were confined, and therefore could
not get away; but they showed their inclination to depart, by flying
against the windows, and pecking the glass with their bills. These
birds, perhaps, were industrious, and wished not to be troublesome to
Louisa, since they could not procure their own living.

Louisa, not being able to comprehend what could make them so uneasy,
asked her papa if he could tell the cause of it "I know not, my dear,"
said her papa; "but it is possible these little birds may have left some
companions in the fields, which they now wish to see."--"You are very
right, papa," replied Louisa, "and they shall have their liberty
immediately." She accordingly opened the window, and all the birds flew
out of it.

These little feathered animals had no sooner obtained their liberty,
than some were seen hopping on the ground, others darting into the air,
or sporting in the trees, from twig to twig, and some flying about the
windows, chirping, as though out of gratitude to their benefactor.

Louisa hardly ever went into the fields, but she fancied that some of
her little family seemed to welcome her approach, either by hopping
before her, or entertaining her with their melodious notes, which
afforded her a source of inexhaustible pleasure.

[Illustration]




THE STORY OF BERTRAND, A POOR

LABOURER, AND HIS LITTLE FAMILY.


[Illustration]

Think yourselves happy, my little readers, since none of you perhaps
know what it is to endure hunger day after day, without being able to
enjoy one plentiful meal. Confident I am, that the following relation
will not fail to make an impression on your tender years.

Bertrand was a poor labourer, who had six young children, whom he
maintained with the utmost difficulty. To add to his distresses, an
unfavourable season much increased the price of bread. This honest
labourer worked day and night to procure subsistence for his family, and
though their food was composed of the coarsest kind, yet even of that
he could not procure a sufficiency.

Finding himself reduced to extremity, he one day called his little
family together, and with tears in his eyes, and a heart overflowing
with grief, "My sweet children," said he to them, "bread is now so
extravagantly dear, that I find all my efforts to support you
ineffectual. My whole day's labour is barely sufficient to purchase this
piece of bread which you see in my hand; it must therefore be divided
among you, and you must be contented with the little my labour can
procure you. Though it will not afford each of you a plentiful meal, yet
it will be sufficient to keep you from perishing with hunger." Sorrow
and tears interrupted his words, and he could say no more, but lifted up
his hands and eyes to heaven.

His children wept in silence, and, young as they were, their little
hearts seemed to feel more for their father than for themselves.
Bertrand then divided the small portion of bread into seven equal
shares, one of which he kept for himself, and gave to the rest each
their lot. But one of them, named Harry, refused his share, telling his
father he could not eat, pretending to be sick. "What is the matter with
you, my dear child?" said his father, taking him up in his arms. "I am
very sick," replied Harry, "very sick indeed, and should be glad to go
to sleep." Bertrand then carried him to bed, and gave him a tender kiss,
wishing him a good night.

The next morning the honest labourer, overwhelmed with sorrow, went to a
neighbouring physician, and begged of him, as a charity, to come and see
his poor boy. Though the physician was sure of never being paid for his
visit, yet such were his humanity and feelings, that he instantly went
to the labourer's house.

On his arrival there, he found no particular symptoms of illness, though
the boy was evidently in a very low and languishing state. The doctor
told him he would send him a cordial draught; but Harry begged he would
forbear sending him any thing, as he could do him no good. The doctor
was a little angry at this behaviour, and insisted on knowing what his
disorder was, threatening him, if he did not tell him immediately, he
would go and acquaint his father with his obstinacy.

Poor Harry begged the doctor would say nothing about it to his father,
which still more increased the doctor's wish to get at the bottom of
this mystery. At last poor Harry, finding the doctor resolute, desired
his brothers and sisters might leave the room, and he would acquaint him
with every particular.

As soon as the physician had sent the children out of the room, "Alas!
Sir," said little Harry, "in this season of scarcity, my poor dear
father cannot earn bread enough to feed us. What little quantity he can
get, he divides equally among us, reserving to himself the smallest
part. To see my dear brothers and sisters suffer hunger is more than I
can bear; and, as I am the eldest, and stronger than they, I have
therefore not eaten any myself, but have divided my share among them. It
is on this account that I pretended to be sick and unable to eat; I
beseech you, however, to keep this a secret from my father."

The physician, wiping away a tear which started involuntarily from his
eye, asked poor Harry if he were not then hungry. He acknowledged indeed
that he was hungry; but said that did not give him so much affliction as
to see the distresses of his family. "But my good lad," said the doctor,
"if you do not take some nourishment, you will die."--"I am indifferent
about that," replied Harry, "since my father will have then one mouth
less to feed, and I shall go to heaven, where I will pray to God to
assist my dear father, and my little sisters and brothers."

What heart but must melt with pity and admiration at the relation of
such facts? The generous physician, taking up Harry in his arms, and
clasping him to his bosom, "No, my dear little boy," said he, "thou
shalt not die. God and I will take care of thy little family; and return
thanks to God for having sent me hither. I must leave you for the
present, but I will soon return."

The good physician hastened home, and ordered one of his servants to
load himself with refreshments of every kind. He then hastened to the
relief of poor Harry and his starving brothers and sisters. He made them
all sit down at the table, and eat till they were perfectly satisfied.
What could be a more pleasing scene, than that which the good physician
then beheld, six pretty little innocent creatures smiling over the
bounty of their generous and humane friend?

The doctor, on his departure, desired Harry to be under no uneasiness,
as he should take care to secure them a supply of whatever might be
wanting. He faithfully performed his promise, and they had daily cause
of rejoicing at his bounty and benevolence. The doctor's generosity was
imitated by every good person, to whom he related the affecting scene.
From some they received provisions, from some money, and from others
clothes and linen. So that, in a short time, this little family, which
was but lately in want of every thing, became possessed of plenty.

Bertrand's landlord, who was a gentleman of considerable fortune, was so
struck with the tender generosity of little Harry that he sent for his
father, and paying him many compliments on his happiness of having such
a son, he offered to take Harry under his own inspection, and bring him
up in his own house. This matter being agreed on, Bertrand's landlord
settled an annuity on him, promising, at the same time, to provide for
his other children as they grew up. Bertrand, transported with joy,
returned to his house, and falling on his knees, offered up his most
grateful thanks to that good God, who had graciously condescended to
bestow on him such a son!

Hence you may learn, my young readers, how much you have it in your
power to prove a blessing to your parents, and a comfort to yourselves.
It is not necessary, that, in order to do so, you should be reduced to
the same necessity that poor Harry was: for, however exalted your
station may be, you will always find opportunities enough to give proofs
of your duty to your parents, your affection for your brothers and
sisters, and your humanity and benevolence to the poor and needy. Happy
indeed are those poor children, who have found a friend and protector
when they were needful and helpless; but much happier those who, without
ever feeling the griping hand of penury and want themselves, have
received the inexpressible delight that never fails to arise from the
pleasing reflection of having raised honest poverty to happiness and
plenty.

[Illustration]




NANCY AND HER CANARY BIRD,

POOR CHERRY.


[Illustration]

As Nancy was one day looking out of her window, a man happened to come
by, crying, "Canary-birds; come, buy my Canary-birds." The man had a
large cage upon his head, in which the birds hopped about from perch to
perch, and made Nancy quite in love with them. "Will you buy a pretty
bird or two, Miss?" said the man. "I have no objection," replied the
little maid, "provided my papa will give me leave. If you will stop a
little while, I will soon let you know." So away ran Nancy down stairs
to her papa, while the birdman put down his cage at the door.

Nancy ran into her papa's chamber quite out of breath, crying, "O dear
papa, only come here! here is a man in the street that has a large cage
on his head, with, I dare say, a hundred Canary-birds in it."--"Well,
and what of all that?" replied her papa; "why does that seem to rejoice
you so much?" Nancy answering, that she should be happy to buy one of
them; her papa reminded her, that the bird must be fed, and should it be
neglected, even only for a day, it would certainly die.

Nancy promised that she would never eat her own breakfast till she had
given her bird his; but her papa reminded her that she was a giddy girl,
and that he feared she had promised too much. However, there was no
getting over her coaxings and wheedlings, so that her papa was at last
obliged to consent that she should buy one.

He then took Nancy by the hand, and led her to the door, where the man
was waiting with his birds. He chose the prettiest Canary-bird in it:
it was a male, of a fine lively yellow colour, with a little black tuft
upon his head. Nancy was now quite cheerful and happy, and pulling out
her purse, gave it to her father to pay for the bird. But what was to be
done with the bird without a cage, and Nancy had not money enough?
However, upon her promising that she would take great care to feed her
bird, her papa bought her a fine new cage, of which he made her a
present.

As soon as Nancy had given her Canary-bird possession of his new palace,
she ran about the house, calling her mamma, her brothers and sisters,
and all the servants, to come and see her pretty Canary-bird, to which
she gave the name of Poor Cherry. When any of her little friends came to
see her, the first thing she told them was, that she had one of the
prettiest Canary-birds in the world. "He is as yellow as gold," said
she, "and he has a little black crest, like the plumes of my mamma's
hat. Come, you must go and see him! His name is Cherry."

Cherry was as happy as any bird need wish to be, under the care of
Nancy. Her first business every morning was to feed Cherry: and whenever
there was any cake at table, Cherry was sure to come in for a share of
it. There were always some bits of sugar in store for him, and his cage
was constantly decorated with the most lively herbage.

Her pretty bird was not ungrateful, but did all in his power to make
Nancy sensible how much he was obliged to her. He soon learned to
distinguish her, and the moment he heard her step into the room, he
would flutter his wings, and keep up an incessant chirping. It is no
wonder, therefore, if Cherry and Nancy became very fond of each other.

At the expiration of a week he began to open his little throat, and sung
the most delightful songs. He would sometimes raise his notes to so
great a height, that you would almost think he must kill himself with
such vast exertions. Then, after stopping a little, he would begin
again, with a tone so sweet and powerful, that he was heard in every
part of the house.

Nancy would often sit for whole hours by his cage, listening to his
melody. Sometimes so attentively would she gaze at him, that she would
insensibly let her work fall out of her hands; and after he had
entertained her with his melodious notes, she would regale him with a
tune on her bird organ, which he would endeavour to imitate.

In length of time, however, these pleasures began to grow familiar to
his friend Nancy. Her papa, one day, presented her with a book of
prints, with which she was so much delighted, that Cherry began to lose
at least one half of her attention. As usual, he would chirp the moment
he saw her, let her be at what distance she would; but Nancy began to
take no notice of him, and almost a week had passed, without his
receiving either a bit of biscuit, or a fresh supply of chick-weed. He
repeated the sweetest and most harmonious notes that Nancy had taught
him, but to no purpose.

It now appeared too clearly, that new objects began to attract Nancy's
attention. Her birth-day arrived, and her godfather gave her a large
jointed doll, which she named Columbine: and this said Columbine proved
a sad rival to Cherry; for, from morning to night, the dressing and
undressing of Miss Columbine engrossed the whole of her time. What with
this and her carrying her doll up and down stairs, and into every room
in the house, it was happy for poor Cherry if he got fed by the
evening, and sometimes it happened that he went a whole day without
feeding.

One day, however, when Nancy's papa was at table, accidentally casting
his eyes upon the cage, he saw poor Cherry lying upon his breast, and
panting, as it were, for life. The poor bird's feathers appeared all
rough, and it seemed contracted into a mere lump. Nancy's papa went up
close to it; but it was unable even to chirp, and the poor little
creature had hardly strength enough to breathe. He called to him his
little Nancy, and asked her what was the matter with her bird. Nancy
blushed, saying, in a low voice, "Why, papa, I--somehow, I forgot;" and
ran to fetch the seed-box.

Her papa, in the mean time, took down the cage, and found that poor
Cherry had not a single seed left, nor a drop of water. "Alas! poor
bird," said he, "you have got into careless hands. Had I foreseen this,
I would never have bought you." All the company joined in pity for the
poor bird; and Nancy ran away into her chamber to ease her heart in
tears. However, her papa, with some difficulty, brought pretty Cherry to
himself again.

Her father, the next day, ordered Cherry to be made a present of to a
young gentleman in the neighbourhood, who, he said, would take much
better care of it than his little thoughtless daughter; but poor Nancy
could not bear the idea of parting with her bird, and most faithfully
promised never more to neglect him.

Her papa, at last, gave way to her entreaties; and permitted her to keep
little Cherry, but not without a severe reprimand, and a strict
injunction to be more careful for the future. "This poor little
creature," said her papa, "is confined in a prison, and is therefore
totally unable to provide for its own wants. Whenever you want any
thing, you know how to get it; but this little bird can neither help
himself, nor make his wants known to others. If ever you let him want
seed or water again, look to it."

Nancy burst out into a flood of tears, took her papa by the hand, and
kissed it; but her heart was so full, that she could not utter a
syllable. Cherry and Nancy were now again good friends, and he for some
time wanted for nothing.

About a month afterwards, her father and mother were obliged to go a
little way into the country on some particular business; but, before
they set out, he gave Nancy strict charge to take care of poor Cherry.
No sooner were her parents gone, than she ran to the cage, and gave
Cherry plenty of seed and water.

Little Nancy now finding herself alone and at liberty, sent for some of
her companions to come and spend the day with her. The former part of
the day they passed in the garden, and the latter in playing at
blindman's buff and four corners. She went to bed very much fatigued;
but, as soon as she awoke in the morning, she began to think of new
pleasures.

She went abroad that day, while poor Cherry was obliged to stay at home
and fast. The second and third day passed in the same playful manner as
before; but no poor Cherry was thought of. On the fourth day, her father
and mother came home, and, as soon as they had kissed her, her father
enquired after poor Cherry. "He is very well," said Nancy, a little
confused, and then ran to fetch him some seed and water. Alas! poor
little Cherry was no more; he was lying upon his back, with his wings
spread, and his beak open. Nancy screamed out, and wrung her hands,
when all the family ran to her, and were witnesses of the melancholy
scene.

"Alas! poor bird," said her papa, "what a melancholy end thou hast come
to! If I had twisted thy head off the day I went into the country, it
would have caused you but a moment's pain; but now you have endured all
the pangs of hunger and thirst, and expired in extreme agony. However,
poor Cherry! you are happy in being out of the hands of so merciless a
guardian."

Nancy was so shocked and distressed on the occasion, that she would have
given all her little treasure, and even all her playthings, to have
brought Cherry to life; but it was now too late. Her papa had the bird
stuffed, and hung up to the ceiling, in memory of Nancy's carelessness.
She dared not even to lift her eyes up to look at it, for, whenever she
did, it was sure to make her cry. At last she prevailed on her papa to
have it removed, but not till after many earnest entreaties and repeated
acknowledgments of the fault she had been guilty of. Whenever Nancy was
guilty of inattention, or giddiness, the bird was hung up again in its
place, and every one would say in her hearing, "Alas, poor Cherry! what
a cruel death you suffered!"

Thus you see, my little friends, what are the sad consequences of
inattention, giddiness, and too great a fondness for pleasure, which
always make us forgetful of what we ought carefully to attend to.

[Illustration]




THE BIRDS, THE THORN-BUSHES,

AND THE SHEEP.


[Illustration]

Mr. Stanhope and his son Gregory were one evening, in the month of May,
sitting at the foot of a delightful hill, and surveying the beautiful
works of nature that surrounded them. The declining sun, now sinking
into the west, seemed to clothe every thing with a purple robe. The
cheerful song of a shepherd called off their attention from their
meditations on those delightful prospects. This shepherd was driving
home his flocks from the adjacent fields.

Thorn-bushes grew on each side of the road, and every sheep that
approached the thorns was sure to be robbed of some part of its wool,
which a good deal displeased little Gregory. "Only see, papa," said he,
"how the sheep are deprived of their wool by those bushes! You have
often told me, that God makes nothing in vain; but these briars seem
only made for mischief; people should therefore join to destroy them
root and branch. Were the poor sheep to come often this way, they would
be robbed of all their clothing. But that shall not be the case, for I
will rise with the sun to-morrow morning, and with my little bill-hook
and snip-snap, I will level all these briars with the ground. You may
come with me, papa, if you please, and bring with you an axe. Before
breakfast, we shall be able to destroy them all."

Mr. Stanhope replied, "We must not go about this business in too great a
hurry, but take a little time to consider of it; perhaps, there may not
be so much cause for being angry with these bushes, as you at present
seem to imagine. Have you not seen the shepherds about Lammas, with
great shears in their hands, take from the trembling sheep all their
wool, not being contented with a few locks only."

Gregory allowed that was true; but they did it in order to make clothes,
whereas the hedges robbed the sheep without having the least occasion
for their wool, and evidently for no useful purpose. "If it be usual,"
said he, "for sheep to lose their clothing at a certain time of the
year, then it is much better to take it for our own advantage, than to
suffer the hedges to pull it off for no end whatever."

Mr. Stanhope allowed the arguments of little Gregory to be just; for
Nature has given to every beast a clothing, and we are obliged from them
to borrow our own, otherwise we should be forced to go naked, and
exposed to the inclemency of the elements.

"Very well, papa," said Gregory, "though we want clothing, yet these
bushes want none: they rob us of what we have need, and therefore down
they shall all come with to-morrow morning's rising sun. And I dare say,
papa, you will come along with me, and assist me."

Mr. Stanhope could not but consent; and little Gregory thought himself
nothing less than Alexander, merely from the expectation of destroying
at once this formidable band of robbers. He could hardly sleep, being
so much taken up with the idea of his victories, to which the next
morning's sun was to be witness.

The cheerful lark had hardly begun to proclaim the approach of morning,
when Gregory got up, and ran to awaken his papa. Mr. Stanhope, though he
was very indifferent concerning the fate of the thorn-bushes, yet he was
not displeased with having the opportunity of showing to his little
Gregory the beauties of the rising sun. They both dressed themselves
immediately, took the necessary instruments, and set out on this
important expedition. Young Gregory marched forwards with such hasty
steps, that Mr. Stanhope was obliged to exert himself, to avoid being
left behind.

When they came near the bushes, they observed a multitude of little
birds flying in and out of them, and fluttering their wings from branch
to branch. On seeing this, Mr. Stanhope stopped his son, and desired him
to suspend his vengeance a little time, that they might not disturb
those innocent birds. With this view, they retired to the foot of the
hill where they had sat the preceding evening, and from thence examined
more particularly what had occasioned this apparent bustle among the
birds. From hence they plainly saw, that they were employed in carrying
away those bits of wool in their beaks, which the bushes had torn from
the sheep the evening before. There came a multitude of different sorts
of birds, who loaded themselves with the plunder.

Gregory was quite astonished at this sight, and asked his papa what
could be the meaning of it. "You by this plainly see," replied Mr.
Stanhope, "that Providence provides for creatures of every class, and
furnishes them with all things necessary for their convenience and
preservation. Here, you see, the poor birds find what is necessary for
their habitations, wherein they are to nurse and rear their young, and
with this they make a comfortable bed for themselves and their little
progeny. The innocent thorn-bush, against which you yesterday so loudly
exclaimed, is of infinite service to the inhabitants of the air; it
takes from those that are rich only what they can very well spare, in
order to satisfy the wants of the poor. Have you now any wish to cut
those bushes down, which you will perhaps no longer consider as
robbers?"

Gregory shook his head, and said he would not cut the bushes down for
the world. Mr. Stanhope applauded his son for so saying; and, after
enjoying the sweets of the morning, they retired home to breakfast,
leaving the bushes to flourish in peace, since they made so generous a
use of their conquests.

My young friends will hence be convinced of the impropriety of
cherishing too hastily prejudices against any persons or things, since,
however forbidding or useless they may at first sight appear, a more
familiar acquaintance with them may discover those accomplishments or
perfections which prejudice at first obscured from their observation.

[Illustration]




POOR CRAZY SAMUEL, AND THE MISCHIEVOUS

BOYS.


[Illustration]

In the city of Bristol lived a crazy person, whose name was Samuel.
Whenever he went out he always put four or five wigs on his head at
once, and as many muffs upon each of his arms. Though he had
unfortunately lost his senses, yet he was not mischievous, unless wicked
boys played tricks with him, and put him in a passion.

Whenever he appeared in the streets, all the idle boys would surround
him, crying, "Samuel! Samuel! how do you sell your wigs and your muffs?"
Some idle boys were of such mischievous dispositions as to throw dirt
and stones at him. Though the unfortunate man generally bore all this
treatment very quietly, yet he would sometimes turn about in his own
defence, and throw among the rabble that followed him any thing that
came in his way.

A contest of this nature happened one day near the house of Mr. Denton,
who, hearing a noise in the street, went to the window, and, with much
regret, saw his son Joseph concerned in the fray. Displeased at the
sight, he shut down the sash, and went into another room.

When they were at dinner, Mr. Denton asked his son who the man was, with
whom he and other boys in the street seemed to be so pleasingly engaged.
Joseph said it was the crazy man, whom they called Samuel. On his father
asking him what had occasioned that misfortune, he replied, that it was
said to be in consequence of the loss of a law-suit, which deprived him
of a large estate.

"Had this man been known to you," said Mr. Denton, "at the time when he
was cheated of his estate; and had he told you that he had just lost a
large inheritance, which he had long peaceably enjoyed; that all his
property was expended in supporting the cause, and that he had now
neither country nor town-house, in short, nothing upon earth left; would
you then have laughed at this poor man?"

Joseph, with some confusion, replied he certainly should not be guilty
of so wicked an action as to laugh at the misfortunes of any man; but
should rather endeavour to comfort him.

"This man," said Mr. Denton, "is more to be pitied now than he was then,
since to the loss of his fortune is added that of his senses also; and
yet you have this day been throwing stones at this poor man, and
otherwise insulting him, who never gave you any cause." Joseph seemed
very sorry for what he had done, asked his papa's pardon, and promised
not only never to do the like again, but to prevent others, as much as
lay in his power, committing the same crime.

His father told him, that as to his forgiveness, he freely had it, but
that there was another besides him, whose forgiveness was more
necessary. Little Joseph thought that his father meant poor Samuel; but
Mr. Denton explained the matter to him. "Had Samuel retained his
senses," said he, "it would be certainly just that you should ask his
pardon; but as his disordered mind will not permit him to receive any
apologies, it would be idle to attempt to make any. It is not Samuel,
but God, whom you have offended. You have not shown compassion to poor
Samuel, but, by your unmerited insults, have added to his misfortunes.
Can you think that God will be pleased with such conduct?"

Joseph now plainly perceived whom he had offended, and therefore
promised that night to ask pardon of God in his prayers. He kept his
word, and not only forbore troubling Samuel for several weeks
afterwards, but endeavoured to dissuade all his companions from doing
the like.

The resolutions of young people, however, are not always to be depended
on. So it happened with little Joseph, who, forgetting the promises he
had made, one day happened to mix with the rabble of boys who were
following and hooting, and playing many naughty tricks with the
unfortunate Samuel.

The more he mixed among them, the more he forgot himself, and at last
became as bad as the worst of them. Samuel's patience, however, being at
length tired out by the rude behaviour of the wicked boys that pursued
him, he suddenly turned about, and picking up a large stone, threw it at
little Joseph with such violence, that it grazed his cheek, and almost
cut off part of his ear.

Poor Joseph, on feeling the smart occasioned by the blow, and finding
the blood trickling down his cheek at a great rate, ran home roaring
most terribly. Mr. Denton, however, showed him no pity, telling him it
was the just judgment of God for his wickedness.

Joseph attempted to justify himself by saying, that he was not the only
one who was guilty, and therefore ought not to be the only one that was
punished. His father replied, that, as he knew better than the other
boys, his crime was the greater. It is indeed but justice that a child,
who knows the commands of God and his parents, should be doubly
punished, whenever he so far forgets his duty as to run headlong into
wickedness.

Remember this, my young readers; and instead of adding to the
afflictions of others, do whatever you can to alleviate them, and God
will then undoubtedly have compassion on you, whenever your wants and
distresses shall require his assistance.

[Illustration]




BELLA AND MARIAN.


[Illustration]

The sun was just peeping above the eastern edge of the horizon, to
enliven with his golden rays one of the most beautiful mornings of the
spring, when Bella went down into the garden to taste with more
pleasure, as she rambled through those enchanting walks, the delicacies
of a rich cake, of which she intended to make her first meal.

Her heart swelled with delight, on surveying the beauties of the rising
sun, in listening to the enlivening notes of the lark, and on breathing
the pleasing fragrance which the surrounding shrubs afforded.

Bella was so charmed with this complication of delights, that her sweet
eyes were bedewed with a moisture, which rested on her eyelids without
dropping in tears. Her heart felt a gentle sensation, and her mind was
possessed with emotions of benevolence and tenderness.

The sound of steps in the walk, however, all on a sudden interrupted
these happy feelings, and a little girl came tripping towards the same
walk, eating a piece of coarse brown bread with the keenest appetite. As
she was also rambling about the garden for amusement, her eyes wandered
here and there unfixed; so that she came up close to Bella unexpectedly.

As soon as the little girl saw it was Miss Bella, she stopped short,
seemed confused, and, turning about, ran away as fast as she could; but
Bella called to her, and asked her why she ran away. This made the
little girl run the faster, and Bella endeavoured to pursue her; but,
not being so much used to exercise, she was soon left behind. Luckily,
as it happened, the little stranger had turned up a path leading into
that in which Bella was. Here they suddenly met, and Bella caught her by
the arm, saying, "Come, I have you fast now; you are my prisoner, and
cannot get away from me."

The poor girl was now more frightened than ever, and struggled hard for
her liberty; but, after some time, the sweet accents of Bella, and her
assurance that she meant only to be her friend, having rather allayed
her fears, she became a little more tractable, and quietly followed her
into one of the summer-houses.

Miss Bella, having made the stranger sit down by her, asked her if she
had a father living, and what was his profession. The girl told her,
that, thank God, her father was living, and that he did any thing for an
honest livelihood. She said he was then at work in the garden, and had
brought her with him that morning.

Bella then observing that the young stranger had got a piece of brown
bread in her hand, desired she would let her taste it; but she said it
so scratched her throat on swallowing a bit of it, that she could eat no
more; and asked the little girl, why her father did not get better bread
for her. "Because," replied the stranger, "he does not get so much money
as your papa; and, besides that, there are four more of us, and we all
eat heartily. Sometimes one wants a frock, another a jacket, and all he
can get is barely sufficient for us, without laying out hardly any thing
upon himself, though he never misses a day's work while he has it to
do."

Upon Bella's asking her if she ever ate any plum-cake, she said she did
not even know what it was; but she had no sooner put a bit into her
mouth, which Miss Bella gave her, than she said, she had never in her
life tasted any thing so nice. She then asked her what was her name,
when the girl, rising, and making her a low curtsey, said it was Marian.

"Well then, my good Marian," said Bella, "stop here a moment; I will go
and ask my governess for something for you, and will come back directly:
but be sure you do not go away." Marian replied, that she was now noways
afraid of her, and that she should certainly wait her coming back.

Bella ran directly to her governess, and begged she would give her some
currant jelly for a little girl, who had nothing but dry bread for
breakfast. The governess, being highly pleased with the good-nature of
her amiable pupil, gave her some in a cup, and a small roll also. Bella
instantly ran away with it, and coming to Marian, said she hoped she had
not made her wait, but begged her to put down her brown bread till
another time, and eat what she had brought her.

Marian, after tasting the jelly, and smacking her lips, said it was very
nice indeed; and asked Bella if she ate such every day. Miss replied,
that she ate those things frequently, and if she would come now and
then, she would always give her some.

They now became very familiar together, and Miss Bella asked Marian a
number of questions, such as, whether she never was sick, seeing her now
look so hearty, and in what manner she employed her time.

Marian replied, she did not know what it was to be sick; and, as to her
employments, in winter she went to get straw for the cow, and dry sticks
to make the pot boil; in summer she went to weed the corn; and, in
harvest-time, to glean and pull hops. In short, they were never at a
loss for work; and she said her mother would make a sad noise, if any of
her little ones should take it into their heads to be lazy.

Miss Bella, observing that her little visitor went barefooted, which
much surprised her, was induced to ask the reason of it; when Marian
replied, that it would be too expensive for their father to think of
finding shoes and stockings for them all, and therefore none of them had
any; but they found no inconvenience from it, since time had so hardened
the bottoms of their feet, as to make shoes unnecessary.

The time having slipped away in this kind of chit-chat, Marian told Miss
Bella that she must be going, in order to gather some greens for her
cow, who would want her breakfast by eight o'clock. This little girl did
not eat up all her roll and jelly, but saved some part of it to carry
home to her youngest sister, who, she said, she was sure would be very
fond of it. Bella was vastly pleased to find Marian was so tender of her
sister, and desired she would not fail to come again at the same hour
the next morning. So, after a mutual good b'ye, they separated for the
present.

Miss Bella had now, for the first time, tasted the pleasure of doing
good. She walked a little longer in the garden, enjoying the pleasing
reflection how happy she had made Marian, how grateful that little girl
had showed herself, and how pleased her sister would be to taste currant
jelly, which she had never seen before.

Miss Bella was enjoying the idea of the pleasure she should receive from
her future bounties to her new acquaintance, when she recollected that
she had some ribands and a necklace, which her mamma had given her a
little time before, but of which she now began to grow tired. Besides
these, she had some other old things to give her, which, though of no
use to herself, would make Marian quite fine.

The next morning Marian came into the garden again, and Miss Bella was
ready to receive her, with a tolerable good portion of gingerbread.
Indeed, this interview was continued every morning; and Miss Bella
always carried some dainties along with her. When her pocket failed
her, she would beg her mamma to supply her with something out of the
pantry, which was always cheerfully complied with.

One day, however, it happened that Bella received an answer which gave
her some uneasiness. She had been begging her mamma to advance her
something on her weekly allowance, in order to buy shoes and stockings
for Marian; to which her mamma gave her a flat denial, telling her, that
she wished she would be a little more sparing to her favourite, for
which she would give her a reason at dinner-time. Bella was a little
surprised at this answer, and every hour appeared an age till
dinner-time arrived.

At length they sat down to table, and dinner was half over before her
mamma said a word about Marian; but a dish of shrimps being then served
up, gave her mamma an opportunity of beginning the conversation. "I
think, Bella," said the lady, "this is your favourite dish." Bella
replied it was, and could not help observing, how happy she supposed
poor Marian would be to taste them, who she imagined had never so much
as seen any. With her mamma's leave, she begged two of the smallest, to
give to that little girl.

Mrs. Adams, for such was her mamma's name, seemed unwilling to grant her
request, urging, that she was afraid she would do her favourite more
mischief than good. "At present," said her mamma, "she eats her dry
brown bread with an appetite, and walks barefooted on the gravel without
complaining. Should you continue to feed her with dainties, and accustom
her to wear shoes and stockings, what would she do, should she by any
means lose your favour, and with it all those indulgences? She will then
lament that she had ever experienced your bounty."

Miss Bella hastily replied, that she meant to be a friend to her all her
life, and only wished that her mamma, in order to enable her to do so,
would add a little to her weekly allowance, and she would manage it with
all the frugality possible.

Mrs. Adams then asked her daughter, if she did not know of any other
children in distress; to which Bella replied, that she knew several
besides, and particularly two in a neighbouring village, who had neither
father nor mother, and who, without doubt, stood much in need of
assistance. Her mamma then reminded her, that it was somewhat
uncharitable to feed Marian with sweetmeats and dainties, while other
poor children were starving with hunger. To this Bella replied, that she
hoped she should have something to spare for them likewise: but, at all
events, she loved Marian best.

However, her mamma advised her to give her sweet things seldomer, and
instead thereof something that would be of more use to her, such as an
apron or a gown. Miss Bella immediately proposed to give her one of her
frocks; but her mamma soon made her sensible of the impropriety of
dressing up a village girl, without shoes or stockings, in a muslin
slip. "Were I in your place," said her mamma, "I would be sparing in my
amusements for some time, and when I had saved a little money, I would
lay it out in buying whatever was most necessary for her. The stuffs
that poor children wear are not very expensive." Bella followed mamma's
advice. Marian was not, indeed, so punctual in her morning visits; but
Bella made her presents that were far more useful than sweetmeats.

Miss Bella, besides frequently giving Marian an apron, a petticoat, or
such like, paid a certain sum every month to the schoolmaster of the
village, to improve her in reading. Marian was so sensible of these
kindnesses, that she grew every day more tenderly fond of her kind
benefactress. She frequently paid her a visit, and was never so happy as
when she could do any little matters to oblige her.

Marian came one day to the garden gate to wait for Bella's coming down
to her; but she did not come, and she was obliged to go back again
without seeing her. She returned two days successively, but no Bella
appeared, which was a great affliction to her little heart, and she
began to fear she had inadvertently offended her. "I have, perhaps,"
said she to herself, "done something to vex her: I am sure, if I knew I
had, I would ask her a thousand pardons, for I cannot live without
loving her."

While she was thus reflecting, one of Mrs. Adams's maids came out of the
house; when poor Marian stopped her, and asked her where Miss Bella was.
"Miss Bella!" replied the woman, "she is ill of the small-pox; so ill,
indeed, that there are no hopes of her recovery!" Poor Marian was all
distraction, and, without considering what she did, flew up stairs and
burst into Mrs. Adams's room, imploring, on her knees, that she might be
permitted to see her dear Miss Bella.

Mrs. Adams would have stopped Marian; but the door being half open, she
flew to her bedside like an arrow out of a bow. Poor Bella was in a
violent fever, alone, and very low spirited; for all her little
companions had forsaken her. Marian, drowned in tears, seized hold of
Bella's hand, squeezed it in hers, and kissed it. "Ah! my dear Miss,"
said she "is it in this condition I find you! but you must not die; what
would then become of me? I will watch over you, and serve you: shall I,
my dear Miss Bella?"

Miss Bella, squeezing Marian's hand, signified to her, that staying with
her would do her a great favour. And the little maid, with Mrs. Adams's
consent, became Bella's nurse, which she performed the part of to
admiration. She had a small bed made up for her, close beside her little
sick friend, whom she never left for a moment. If the slightest sigh
escaped Bella, Marian was up in an instant to know what she wanted, and
gave her, with her own hands, all her medicines.

This grateful girl did every thing she could to amuse her friend. She
ransacked Mrs. Adams's library for books that had pictures in them,
which she would show to Bella; and during the time that her eyes were
darkened by her disorder, which was for near a week, Marian exerted
herself to the utmost to divert her. When Bella grew impatient at the
want of sight, Marian told her stories of what happened in the village;
and as she had made a good use of her schoolmaster's instructions, she
read whatever she thought would be amusing and diverting to her.

Thus Marian was not only her nurse, but philosopher also; for she would
sometimes say to her, "God Almighty will have pity upon you, as you have
had pity on me. Will you let me sing a pretty song to divert you?" Bella
had only to make a sign, and the little maid would sing her every song
she had learnt from the village nymphs and swains, endeavouring by this
means to soften the affliction of her generous friend.

At length she began to open her eyes, her lowness of spirits left her,
the pock dried up, and her appetite returned. Her face was still covered
with red spots; but Marian looked at her with more pleasure than ever,
from the consideration of the danger she had been in of losing her;
while the grateful Bella, on the other hand, regarded her with equal
tenderness. "In what manner," she would sometimes say, "can I think of
requiting you, to my own satisfaction, for the tender care you have
taken of me?"

Miss Bella, as soon as she found herself perfectly recovered, asked her
mamma in what manner she could recompense her faithful and tender nurse;
but Mrs. Adams, whose joy on the recovery of her daughter was
inexpressible, desired Bella to leave that matter to her, as she
likewise was equally in her debt.

Mrs. Adams gave private orders to have a complete suit of clothes made
for Marian; and Bella desired that she might have the pleasure of
dressing her the first time she was permitted to go into the garden. The
day arrived, and it was indeed a day of rejoicing throughout the whole
family: for Bella was beloved by all the servants, as well as by all her
acquaintance.

This was a joyful day to Miss Bella, who had the double satisfaction of
seeing her health restored, and of beholding her little friend dressed
out in her new clothes! It is much easier to conceive than to express
the emotions of these two tender hearts, when they again found
themselves in the garden, on the very spot where their acquaintance
first commenced. They tenderly embraced each other, and vowed an
inseparable friendship.

It is evidently clear, from the story of Bella and Marian, how
advantageous it is to be generous and humane. Had not Bella, by her
kindness, attached Marian to her interest, she might have sunk under the
severe indisposition, from which the kind attentions and the unremitting
assiduities of Marian were perhaps the chief means of restoring her.

[Illustration]




LITTLE JACK.


[Illustration]

One day, as Mr. Glover was returning home after taking a ride over his
estates, and passing by the wall of a burying-ground belonging to a
small village, he heard the sound of groans and lamentations. As he had
a heart that was ever open to the distresses of others, he alighted from
his horse to see from whence the voice proceeded, and got over the
inclosure.

On his entering the place, he perceived a grave fresh filled up, upon
which, at full length, lay a child about five years old, who was crying
sadly. Mr. Glover went up to him, and tenderly asked him what he did
there. "I am calling my mother," said he; "they laid her here yesterday,
and she does not get up!"

Mr. Glover then told him, that his poor mother was dead, and would get
up no more. "I know," replied the poor child, "that they tell me she is
dead, but I do not believe it. She was perfectly well when she left me
the other day with old Susan our neighbour; she told me she would soon
come back, but she has not kept her word. My father has gone away too,
and also my little brother; and the other boys of the village will not
play with me, but say very naughty things about my father and mother,
which vexes me more than all. O mammy, get up, get up!"

Mr. Glover's eyes were filled with tears; he asked him where his father
and brother were gone to. He replied, that he did not know where his
father was; and as to his little brother, he was the day before taken to
another town, by a person dressed in black just like their parson. Mr.
Glover then asked him where he lived. "With our neighbour Susan," said
he. "I am to be there till my mother comes back, as she promised me. I
love my other mammy Susan very well; but I love my mammy that lies here
a great deal better. O mother! mother! why do you lie so long? when will
you get up?"

"My poor child," said Mr. Glover, "it is in vain to call her, for she
will awake no more!"--"Then," said the poor little boy, "I will lie down
here, and sleep by her. Ah! I saw her when they put her into a great
chest to carry her away. Oh, how white she was! and how cold! I will lie
down here and sleep by her!"

The tears now started from the eyes of Mr. Glover, for he could no
longer conceal them, but stooping down, took the child up in his arms,
and tenderly kissed him, asking him what was his name. "When I am a good
boy, they call me Jackey; and when I behave amiss, they say, you Jack."
Mr. Glover, though in tears, could not help smiling at the innocence and
simplicity of this answer, and begged Jackey to conduct him to the house
of the good Susan.

The child very readily consented, and, running before him as fast as his
legs would carry him, conducted Mr. Glover to Susan's door. Susan was
not a little surprised, on seeing Jack conduct a gentleman into her
cottage, and then running to her, hid his little head in her lap,
crying, "This is she! this is my other mammy!" Mr. Glover, however, did
not keep her long in suspense, but related to her what he had just seen,
and begged Susan to give him the history of the parents of this little
boy.--Susan desired the gentleman to be seated, and then related to him
the following particulars:

"The father of this poor child is a shoemaker, and his house is next to
mine. His wife, though a handsome, was not a healthy woman; but she was
a careful and good housewife. It is about seven years since they were
married, always lived together on the best terms, and undoubtedly would
have been perfectly happy, had their affairs been a little better.

"John had nothing beyond what his trade produced him; and Margaret, his
wife, being left an orphan, had only a little money which she had
scraped together in the service of a worthy neighbouring curate. With
this they bought the most necessary articles of household furniture, and
a small stock of leather to begin business with. However, by dint of
labour and good management, they for some years contrived to live a
little comfortably.

"As children increased, so did their difficulties, and misfortunes
seldom come alone. Poor Margaret, who had daily worked in the fields
during hay-time, to bring home a little money to her husband at night,
fell ill, and continued so all the harvest and winter. John's customers
left him one after another, fearing that work could not go on properly
in a sick house.

"Though Margaret at last grew better, yet her husband's work continued
to decline, and he was obliged to borrow money to pay the apothecary;
while poor Margaret continued so weakly that nobody thought it worth
their while to employ her. The rent of their house and the interest of
the money they had borrowed were heavy loads upon them; and they were
frequently obliged to endure hunger themselves, in order to give a
morsel of bread to their poor children.

"To add to their misfortune, the hardhearted landlord threatened to put
poor John in jail, if he did not pay the two quarters' rent that were
due; and though he is the richest man in the place, it was with the
greatest difficulty that they could obtain a month's delay. He declared
if they did not at the end of that time pay the whole, he would sell
their furniture, and put John in prison. Their house was now a picture
of melancholy and patient distress. How often have I lamented my
inability to assist the distresses of this honest couple!

"I went myself to their landlord, and begged of him, for God's sake, to
have some compassion on these unfortunate people, and even offered to
pawn to him all I was possessed of in the world; but he treated me with
contempt, and told me I was as bad as they were. I was obliged, however,
being only a poor widow, to bear the insult with patience, and contented
myself by easing my heart with a flood of tears.

"I advised poor Margaret to make her distresses known to the worthy
clergyman, with whom she had so long lived with an unblemished
character, and to beg of him to advance them a little money. Margaret
replied, that she supposed her husband would not like that proposal,
fearing that their friend might suspect their necessities proceeded
from mismanagement.

"It is but a few days ago since she brought me her two children, and
begged me to take care of them till the evening. Her intention was to go
to a village at a little distance, and endeavour to get some hemp from
the weaver to spin, with a view to get something towards the debt. As
she could not persuade herself to wait upon the clergyman, her husband
had undertaken it, and had accordingly set off on that business. As
Margaret was going, she clasped her two children to her breast and
kissed them, little thinking it was to be the last time she should ever
see them.

"Soon after she was gone, I heard some noise in her house, but supposed
it might be only the flapping of the door. However, the evening came on,
and my neighbour did not come to fetch her children as usual. I
therefore determined to go to her house, and see if she was come home. I
found the door open and went in; but how shall I express my horror and
astonishment, when I found poor Margaret lying dead at the foot of the
stairs!

"After trying in vain to recover her, I fetched the surgeon, who shook
his head, and said all was over. The coroner's inquest brought in their
verdict accidental death; but, as her husband was missing, ill-natured
people raised suspicious reports. Her death, however, was easily to be
accounted for; she had returned to her house, to go up to the loft for a
bag to hold her hemp, and as her eyes were still dimmed with tears, she
had missed her step in coming down, and fallen from the top of the
stairs, with her head foremost, on the ground. The bag that lay by her
side showed this to have been the case.

"I made an offer to the parish officers to keep the two children myself,
not doubting, but that the goodness of God, even a poor widow as I was,
would enable me to support them. The worthy curate came yesterday to see
the unfortunate Margaret, and great indeed was his affliction when I
related to him what I have been now telling you. I then told him, that
John was gone to him; but I was much surprised, when he declared he had
seen nothing of him. The two children came up to him; and little Jack
asked him, if he could not awake his mother, who had been a long time
asleep. This brought tears into the eyes of the good curate, who
proposed to take the two children home to his own house and bring them
up under his care; but as I could not consent to part with both these
innocents, it was at last agreed, that he should take the younger and
leave me the elder.

"He asked little Jack if he should not like to go with him. 'What, where
my mother is?' said Jack, 'oh! yes, with all my heart!' 'No, my little
man,' replied the curate, 'I do not mean there, but to my handsome house
and garden.'--'No, no,' answered Jack, 'I will stay here with Susan, and
every day go to where my mother is; for I would rather go there than to
your handsome garden.'

"This worthy curate did not choose to vex the child more, who went and
hid himself behind my bed-curtains. He told me he would send his man for
the younger, who would be more trouble to me than the elder child, and
before he went, left me some money towards the support of this.

"This, Sir, is the whole of this unfortunate business. What makes me
exceedingly uneasy at present is, that John does not return, and that
it is reported in the parish, that he has connected himself with a gang
of smugglers, and that his wife put an end to her life through grief.
These stories have obtained such credit in the village, that even the
children have got it; and whenever poor Jack attempts to mix with them,
they drive him away as though he were infectious. Hence the poor little
fellow is quite dull, and now never goes out but to pay a sad visit to
his mother's grave."

Mr. Glover, who had silently listened to this melancholy tale, was
deeply affected by it. Little Jack was now got close up to Susan; he
looked at her with fondness, and often called her his mother. Mr. Glover
at length broke silence, and told Susan she was a worthy woman, and that
God would not fail to reward her for her generosity towards this
unfortunate family.

"Ah!" said Susan, "I am happy in what I have done, and I wish I could
have done more; but my only possession consists in my cottage, a little
garden, in which I have a few greens, and what I can earn by the labour
of my hands. Yet for these eight years that I have been a widow, God
has not suffered me to want, and I trust he never will."

Mr. Glover reminded her, that keeping this little boy must be very
inconvenient to her, and that she would find it difficult to supply him
with clothes. She answered, "I leave the care of that to Him who clothes
the fields with grass and the trees with leaves. He has given me fingers
to sew and spin, and they shall work to clothe my poor little orphan. I
will never part with him."

Mr. Glover was astonished at this good woman's resolution. "I must not
suffer you alone," said he, "to have all the honour of befriending this
poor orphan, since God has bestowed on me those blessings of affluence
which you do not enjoy. Permit me to take care of the education of this
sweet boy; and, since I find that you cannot live separate, I will take
you both home with me, and provide for you. Sell your cottage and
garden, and make my house your own, where you may spend the remainder of
your life amidst peace and plenty."

Susan gave Mr. Glover a most affectionate look, but begged he would
excuse her accepting his offer, as she was fond of the spot on which she
was born, and had lived in so long. Besides, she added, she could not
suit herself to the bustle of a great house, and should soon grow sick,
were she to live upon dainties in idleness. "If you will please,"
continued Susan, "now and then to send him a small matter to pay for his
schooling, and to supply him with tools when he shall take to business,
God will not fail to reward you for your bounty. As I have no child, he
shall be as one to me, and whatever I possess shall be his at my death."

Mr. Glover, finding she did not choose to quit her habitation, told her,
he should every month send her what would be sufficient for her support,
and that he would sometimes come and see them himself. Susan lifted up
her hands to heaven, and bid Jackey go and ask the gentleman's blessing,
which he did. He then threw down his purse on the table, bid them a
farewell, and mounting his horse, took the road that led to the parish
in which the worthy curate lived.

On Mr. Glover's arrival there, he found the worthy curate reading a
letter, on which he had shed some tears. He explained the cause of his
visit to this worthy divine, and asked him, if he knew what was become
of the father of the two little unfortunate children. The curate
replied, that it was not a quarter of an hour since he received a letter
from him to his wife. "It was," said the curate, "inclosed in one to me,
and contains a small draft for the use of his wife; he requests me to
deliver it to her, and to console her for his absence. As she is dead, I
have opened the letter, and here it is; be so kind as to read it." Mr.
Glover took the letter, the particulars of which were as follow:

He hoped his wife would not give herself any uneasiness on account of
his absence. As he was going to the clergyman's house, he began to think
that it could be of no use to go thus a begging, and, if he should
borrow money, he was not sure he should be able to pay it, which he
thought would be as bad as thieving. At this instant a thought struck
into his head, that he was young and hearty, stout and able-bodied, and
therefore could see no harm if he entered on board a man of war for a
few years, where he might stand a chance of getting a fortune for his
wife and children, at least get enough to pay all his debts. While he
was thinking of this matter, a press-gang came up, and asked him if he
would enter, telling him that they would give him five pounds bounty.
The thought of receiving five pounds fixed his determination at once,
and he accordingly entered, received the money, and sent every farthing
of it to his wife, with his love and blessing, and hoping they would all
join in their prayers to God for him. He hoped the war would soon be
over, and that he should then return with inexpressible joy to his dear
wife.

Mr. Glover's eyes swimmed with tears all the time he was reading the
letter. When he had finished it, "This man," said he, "may indeed be
justly called a good husband, a tender father, and an honest man. There
is an expressive pleasure in being a friend to such characters as these.
I will pay John's debts, and enable him to set up his trade again. Let
his money be kept for the children, to be divided between them, as soon
as they shall be at an age to know how to make use of it, and I will add
something to this sacred deposit."

So greatly was the worthy curate affected, that he could make no reply;
and Mr. Glover perfectly understanding the cause of his silence,
squeezed him by the hand, and took his leave; but he completely
accomplished all his designs in favour of John, who at length returned,
and enjoyed an easiness of circumstances beyond any thing he had before
experienced.

Nothing now disturbed John's felicity, but the sorrowful reflection of
having lost his dear Margaret; she had experienced part of his
misfortunes, but had not lived to share in his felicity; and John's only
consolation is perpetually to talk about her to Susan, whom he looks
upon as a sister to him, and as a mother to his children. Little Jack
frequently visits his mother's grave; and has made so good a use of Mr.
Glover's generosity, in improving himself, that this excellent gentleman
intends placing him in a very desirable situation. John's younger son
has likewise a share in his favours; and whenever Mr. Glover's mind is
oppressed, a visit to this spot, where such an affecting scene passed,
and where he has been enabled to do so much good, never fails to raise
his spirits.

My readers will from hence learn, that God always assists those who put
their trust in him. It is on Him we must rely on every occasion, and he
will not desert us, provided we ourselves also try to surmount
difficulties by patience and industry.

[Illustration]




LEONORA AND ADOLPHUS.


[Illustration]

A young widow lady, whose name was Lenox, had two children, Leonora and
Adolphus, both equally deserving the affections of a parent, which,
however, were unequally shared. Adolphus was the favourite, which
Leonora very early began to discover, and consequently felt no small
share of uneasiness on the occasion: but she was prudent enough to
conceal her sorrow.

Leonora, though not remarkably handsome, had a mind that made ample
amends for the want of beauty; but her brother was a little Cupid, on
whom Mrs. Lenox lavished all her kisses and caresses. It is no wonder
that the servants, to gain the favour of their mistress, were very
attentive to humour him in all his whimsies. Leonora, on the other hand,
was consequently slighted by every one in the house; and, so far from
wishing to study her humour, they scarcely treated her with common
civility.

Finding herself frequently alone and neglected, and taken little notice
of by any one, she would privately shed a torrent of tears; but she
always took care, that not the least mark of discontent should escape
her in the presence of any one. Her constant attention to the observance
of her duty, her mildness, and endeavours to convince her mother that
her mind was superior to her face, had no effect; for beauty alone
attracts the attention of those who examine no further than external
appearances.

Mrs. Lenox, who was continually chiding Leonora, and expecting from her
perfections far beyond the reach of those more advanced in years, at
last fell sick. Adolphus seemed very sorry for his mother's illness; but
Leonora, with the softest looks and most languishing countenance,
fancied she perceived in her mother an abatement of her accustomed
rigour towards her, and far surpassed her brother in her attention to
her parent. She endeavoured to supply her slightest wants, exerted all
her penetration to discover them, that she might even spare her the pain
of asking for any thing. So long as her mother's illness had the least
appearance of danger, she never quitted her pillow, and neither threats
nor commands could prevail on her to take the least repose.

Mrs. Lenox, however, at length recovered, which afforded inexpressible
pleasure to the amiable Leonora; but she soon experienced a renewal of
her misfortunes, as her mother began to treat her with her usual
severity and indifference.

As Mrs. Lenox was one day talking to her children on the pain she had
suffered during her illness, and was praising them for the anxiety they
had shown on her account, she desired them to ask of her whatever they
thought would be the most pleasing to them, and they should certainly be
indulged in it, provided their demands were not unreasonable.

First addressing herself to Adolphus, she desired to know what he would
choose: and his desire was to have a cane and a watch, which his mother
promised he should have the next morning. "And pray, Leonora," said Mrs.
Lenox, "what is your wish?"--"Me, mamma, me?" answered she, trembling,
"if you do but love me, I have nothing else to wish for!"--"This is not
an answer;" replied the mother, "you shall have your recompense
likewise, miss, therefore speak your wish instantly."

However accustomed Leonora might have been to this severe tone, yet she
felt it on this occasion more sensibly than ever she had before. She
threw herself at her mother's feet, looked up to her with eyes swimming
in tears, and instantly hiding her face with both her hands, lisped out
these words: "Only give me two kisses, such as you give my brother."

What heart could fail to relent at these words? Mrs. Lenox felt all the
tender sentiments of a parent arise in her heart, and, taking her up in
her arms, she clasped her to her breast, and loaded her with kisses. The
sweet Leonora, who now, for the first time, received her mother's
caresses, gave way to the effusion of her joy and love; she kissed her
cheeks, her eyes, her breasts, and her hands; and Adolphus, who loved
his sister, mixed his embraces with hers. Thus all had a share in this
scene of unexpected happiness.

The affection which Mrs. Lenox had so long withheld from Leonora, she
now repaid with interest, and her daughter returned it with the most
dutiful attention. Adolphus, so far from being jealous at this change of
his mother's affection for his sister, showed every mark of pleasure on
the occasion, and he afterwards reaped a reward of so generous a
conduct; for his natural disposition having been, in some measure,
injured by the too great indulgence of his mother, he gave way in his
early days to those little indiscretions, which would have lost him the
heart of his parent, had not his sister stepped in between them. It was
to the advice of this amiable girl that Adolphus at last owed his entire
reformation of manners. They all three then experienced, that true
happiness cannot exist in a family, unless the most perfect union
between brothers and sisters, and the most lively and equal affection
between parents and children, are constantly and strictly adhered to.

[Illustration]




FLORA AND HER LITTLE LAMB


[Illustration]

A poor countryman's little daughter, whose name was Flora, was one
morning sitting by the side of the road, holding on her lap a pan of
milk for her breakfast, into which she was breaking some bits of coarse
black bread.

While Flora was thus busily employed at her breakfast, a farmer was
passing the road with his cart, in which were about twenty lambs, and
these he was going to carry to the market for sale. These pretty little
lambs were tied together like so many criminals, and lay with their legs
fastened with cords, and their heads hanging down. Their plaintive
bleatings pierced the heart of poor Flora, but they had no manner of
effect on the hardhearted farmer.

As soon as he came opposite the place where little Flora was sitting, he
threw down to her a lamb, which he was carrying across his shoulder,
saying, "There, my girl, is a poor sorry creature that has just died,
and made me some shillings poorer than I was. You may take it if you
will, and do what you like with it."

Flora put down her milk and her bread, and taking up the lamb, viewed it
with looks of tenderness and compassion. "But why should I pity you?"
said she to the lamb. "Either this day or to-morrow they would have run
a great knife through your throat, whereas now you have nothing to
fear."

While she was thus speaking, the warmth of her arms somewhat revived
the lamb, who, opening its eyes a little, made a slight motion, and
cried baa, in a very low tone, as if it were calling for its mother. It
would be impossible to express little Flora's joy on this occasion. She
covered the lamb in her apron, and over that put her stuff petticoat;
she then bent her breast down towards her lap, in order to increase the
warmth, and blew into its mouth and nostrils with all the force she
could. By degrees the poor animal began to stir, and every motion it
made conveyed joy to her little heart.

This success encouraged her to proceed; she crumbled some of her bread
into her pan, and, taking it up in her fingers, she with no small
difficulty forced it between its teeth, which were very firmly closed
together. The lamb, whose only disorder was hunger and fatigue, began to
feel the effects of this nourishment. It first began to stretch out its
limbs, then shake its head, to wag its tail, and at last to prick up its
ears. In a little time, it was able to stand upon its legs, and then
went of itself to Flora's breakfast pan, who was highly delighted to see
it take such pleasing liberties; for she cared not a farthing about
losing her own breakfast, since it saved the life of the little lamb. In
short, in a little time, it recovered its usual strength, and began to
skip and play about its kind deliverer.

It may naturally be supposed, that Flora was greatly pleased at this
unexpected success. She took it up in her arms, and ran with it to the
cottage to shew it her mother. Her Baba, for so Flora called it, became
the first object of her cares, and it constantly shared with her in the
little allowance of bread and milk, which she received for her meals.
Indeed, so fond was she of it, that she would not have exchanged it for
a whole flock. Nor was Baba insensible of the fondness of her little
mistress, since she would follow her wherever she went, would come and
eat out of her hand, skip, and frisk round her, and would bleat most
piteously whenever Flora was obliged to leave her at home.

Baba, however, repaid the services of her little mistress in a more
substantial manner than that of merely dancing about her, for she
brought forth young lambs: those lambs grew up, and brought forth
others; so that, within the space of a few years, Flora had a very
capital stock, that furnished the whole family with food and raiment.
Such, my little readers, are the rewards which Providence bestows on
acts of goodness, tenderness, and humanity.

[Illustration]




THE FRUITFUL VINE


[Illustration]

It was in the beginning of the spring, when Mr. Jackson went to his
country-house, and took with him his little son Junius, in order to
treat him with a walk in the garden. The primroses and violets were then
displaying all their beauties, and many trees had begun to show what
livery they were soon to wear.

After walking some time about the garden, they happened to go into the
summer-house, at the foot of which grew the stump of a vine, which
twisted wildly, and extended its naked branches in a rude and irregular
manner. As soon as little Junius saw this tree, he exclaimed sadly
against the ugly appearance it made, and began to exert all his strength
to pull it up, but he found his efforts in vain, it being too well
rooted to yield to his weak arm. He begged his papa to call the gardener
to grub it up, and make firewood of it; but Mr. Jackson desired his son
to let the tree alone, telling him that he would in a few months give
him his reasons for not complying with his request.

This did not satisfy Junius, who desired his father to look at those
lively crocusses and snow-drops, saying, he could not see why that
barren stump should be kept, which did not produce a single green leaf.
He thought it spoiled and disfigured the garden, and therefore begged
his father would permit him to fetch the gardener to pluck it up.

Mr. Jackson, who could not think of granting him his request, told him,
that it must stand as it then was, at least for some time to come.
Little Junius still persisted in his entreaties, urging how disgraceful
it was to the garden; but his father diverted his attention from the
vine, by turning the conversation.

It so happened, that Mr. Jackson's affairs called him to a different
part of the country, from whence he did not return till the middle of
autumn. He no sooner came home, than he paid a visit to his
country-house, taking little Junius with him. As the day happened to be
exceedingly warm, they retired to enjoy the benefit of the shade, and
entered the arbour, in which the vine stump had before so much offended
his son Junius.

"Ah! papa," said the young gentleman, "how charming and delightful is
this green shade! I am much obliged to you for having that dry and ugly
stump plucked up, which I found so much fault with when we were here
last, and for putting in its place this beautiful plant; I suppose you
did it in order to give me an agreeable surprise. How delightful and
tempting the fruit looks! What fine grapes! some purple, and others
almost black: I see no tree in the garden that looks in so blooming a
state. All have lost their fruit; but this fine one seems in the highest
perfection. See how it is loaded! See those wide-spreading leaves that
hide the clusters. If the fruit be as good as it appears beautiful, it
must be delicious."

Little Junius was in raptures when he tasted one of the grapes, which
his father gave him, and still more when he informed him, that from such
fruit was made that delicious liquor which he sometimes tasted after
dinner. The little fellow was quite astonished on hearing his father
talk thus; but he was far more surprised, when Mr. Jackson told him,
that all those fine leaves, and delicious fruit grew from that very
crooked and misshapen stump, with which he had been so angry in the
spring. His father then asked him, if he should now order the gardener
to pluck it up, and make firewood of it. Junius was much confused; but,
after a short silence, told his papa, that he would rather see every
other tree in the garden cut down than that, so beautiful were its
leaves, and so delicious its fruit.

As Mr. Jackson was a man of good sense, he thus moralized on this
occasion. "You see then, my dear," said he, "how imprudently I should
have acted, had I followed your advice, and cut down this tree. Daily
experience convinces us, that the same thing happens frequently in the
commerce of this world, which has in this instance misled you. When we
see a child badly clothed, and of an unpleasing external appearance, we
are too apt to despise him, and grow conceited on comparing ourselves
with him; and sometimes even go so far as cruelly to address him in
haughty and insulting language. But beware, my dear boy, how you run
into errors by forming a too hasty judgment. It is possible that in a
person so little favoured by nature may dwell an exalted soul, which may
one day astonish the world with the greatness of its virtues, or
enlighten it with knowledge. The most rugged stem may produce the most
delicious fruit, while a straight and stately plant may be worthless and
barren."

[Illustration]




SIR JOHN DENHAM AND HIS WORTHY

TENANT.


[Illustration]

One morning, Sir John Denham having shut himself up in his study, on
some particular business, his servant came to inform him, that one of
his tenants, Farmer Harris, desired to speak with him. Sir John told him
to show the farmer into the drawing-room, and to beg him to stay one
moment, until he had finished writing a letter.

Sir John had three children, Robert, Arthur, and Sophia, who were in the
drawing-room when the farmer was introduced. As soon as he entered, he
saluted them very respectfully, though not with the grace of a
dancing-master, nor were his compliments very elegantly turned. The two
sons looked at each other with a smile of contempt and disrespect.
Indeed, they behaved in such a manner, that the poor farmer blushed, and
was quite out of countenance.

Robert was so shamefully impertinent as to walk round him, holding his
nose, and asking his brother, if he did not perceive something of the
smell of a dung heap. Then he lighted some paper at the fire, and
carried it round the room, in order to disperse, as he said, the
unpleasant smell. Arthur all the while stood laughing most heartily.

Sophia, however, acted in a very different manner; for, instead of
imitating the rudeness of her brothers, she checked them for their
behaviour, made apologies for them to the farmer, and approaching him
with the most complaisant looks, offered him some wine to refresh him,
made him sit down, and took from him his hat and stick to put by.

In a little time, Sir John came out of his study, and approaching the
farmer in a friendly manner, took him by the hand, inquired after the
health of his family, and asked him what had brought him to town. The
farmer replied, that he was come to pay him half a year's rent, and that
he hoped he would not be displeased at his not coming sooner, the roads
having been so bad that he could not till then carry his corn to market.

Sir John told him he was not displeased at his not coming sooner,
because he knew him to be an honest man, who had no occasion to be put
in mind of his debts. The farmer then put down the money, and drew out
of his great coat pocket a jar of candied fruits. "I have brought
something here," said he, "for the young folks. Won't you be so kind,
Sir John, as to let them come out one of these days, and take a mouthful
of the country air with us? I'd try, as well as I could, to entertain
and amuse them. I have two good stout nags, and would come for them
myself, and take them down in my four-wheeled chaise, which will carry
them very safely, I'll warrant it."

Sir John said, that he would certainly take an opportunity to pay him a
visit, and invited him to stay to dinner; but the farmer excused
himself, saying, he had a good deal of business to do in town, and
wished to get home before night. Sir John filled his pocket with cakes
for his children, thanked him for the present he had made to his, and
then took leave of him.

No sooner was the farmer gone, than Sophia, in the presence of her
brothers, acquainted her papa of the very rude reception they had given
the honest farmer. Sir John was exceedingly displeased at their conduct,
and much applauded Sophia for her different behaviour.

Sir John, being seated at breakfast with his children, opened the
farmer's jar of fruit, and he and his daughter ate some of them, which
they thought were very nice; but Robert and Arthur were neither of them
invited to a single taste. Their longing eyes were fixed upon them; but
their father, instead of taking any notice of them, continued conversing
with Sophia, whom he advised never to despise a person merely for the
plainness of his dress; "for," said he, "were we to behave politely to
those only who are finely clothed, we should appear to direct our
attention more to the dress than to the wearer. The most worthy people
are frequently found under the plainest dress, and of this we have an
example in Farmer Harris. It is this man who helps to clothe you, and
also to procure you a proper education, for the money that he and my
other tenants bring me, enables me to do these things."

Breakfast being finished, the remainder of the fruit was ordered to be
locked up; but Robert and his brother, whose longing eyes followed the
jar, clearly saw they were to have none of them. In this they were
confirmed by their father, who told them not to expect to taste any of
those fruits, either on that or any future day.

Robert endeavoured to excuse himself by saying, that it was not his
fault if the farmer did not smell well; and he thought there was no harm
in telling him of it. If people will go among dung, they must expect to
smell of it. "And yet," said Sir John, "if this man were not to manure
his land with dung, his crops would fail him, he would be unable to pay
me his rent; and you yourself would perhaps be obliged to follow a dung
cart." The two boys saw displeasure in their papa's countenance, and
therefore did not presume to say any thing more.

Early on a morning, shortly after, the good farmer came to Sir John
Denham's door, and sent up his compliments, kindly inviting him to make
a little excursion to his farm. Sir John could not resist the friendly
invitation, as a refusal might perhaps have made the honest farmer
uneasy. Robert and Arthur begged very hard to go along with them,
promising to behave more civilly in future; and Sophia begging for them
likewise, Sir John at last consented. They then mounted the four-wheeled
chaise with joyful countenances, and, as the farmer had a pair of good
horses, they were there in a short time.

On their arrival, Mrs. Harris, the farmer's wife, came to the door to
receive them, helped the young gentlefolks out of the chaise, and kissed
them. All their little family, dressed in their best clothes, came out
to compliment their visitors. Sir John would have stopped a moment to
talk with the little ones, and caress them; but Mrs. Harris pressed him
to go in, lest the coffee should grow cold, it being already poured
out; it was placed on a table, covered with a napkin as white as snow.

Indeed, the coffee-pot was not silver, nor the cups china, yet every
thing was in the neatest order. Robert and Arthur, however, looked slily
at each other, and would have burst out into a laugh, had not their
father been present. Mrs. Harris, who was a sensible woman, guessed by
their looks what they thought, and therefore made an apology for the
humble style in which her table was set out, which she owned could not
be equal to what they met with at their own homes; but hoped they would
not be dissatisfied with her homely fare. The cakes she produced were
excellent, for she spared no pains in making them.

As soon as breakfast was over, the farmer asked Sir John to look at his
orchard and grounds; and Mrs. Harris took all the pains she could to
make the walk pleasing to the children. She showed them all her flocks,
which covered the fields, and gave them the prettiest lambs to play
with. She then conducted them to her pigeon-house, where every thing was
clean and wholesome. There were some so young that they were unable to
fly; some of the mothers sitting on their eggs, and others employed in
feeding their young. From the pigeon-house, they proceeded to the
bee-hive: but Mrs. Harris took care that they should not go too near
them, for fear of being stung.

Most of these sights being new to the children, they seemed highly
pleased with them, and were even going to take a second survey of them,
when the farmer's youngest son came to inform them that dinner was
ready. They ate off pewter, and drank out of Delft ware; but Robert and
Arthur, finding themselves so well pleased with their morning-walk,
dared not to indulge themselves in ill-natured observations. Mrs.
Harris, indeed, had spared neither pains nor attention to produce every
thing in the best manner she was able.

Sir John, after dinner, perceiving two fiddles hang up against the wall,
asked who played on those instruments. The farmer answered, he and his
son; and, without saying a word more, he made a sign to his son Luke to
take down the fiddles. They by turns played some old tunes, with which
Sir John seemed highly pleased. As they were going to hang up the
instruments, Sir John desired his two sons to play some of their best
tunes, putting the fiddles into their hands: but they knew not even how
to hold the bow, and their confusion occasioned a general laugh.

Sir John, now thinking it high time to return home, desired the farmer
to order the carriage. Farmer Harris strongly pressed Sir John to stay
all night, but the farmer was at last obliged to submit to Sir John's
excuses.

On his return home, he asked his son Robert how he had liked his
entertainment; and what he should have thought of the farmer, if he had
taken no pains to entertain them. He replied, that he liked his
entertainment; but had he not taken pains to accommodate them, he should
have thought him an unmannerly clown. "Ah, Robert! Robert!" said Sir
John, "this honest man came to our house, and, instead of offering him
any refreshment, you made game of him. Which, then, is the best bred,
you or the farmer?"

Robert blushed, and seemed at a loss what answer to make; but at length
replied, that it was his duty to receive them well, as he got his living
off their lands. "That is true," answered Sir John, "but it may be
easily seen who draws the greatest profit from my lands, the farmer or
I. He indeed feeds his horses with hay which he gets off my meadows, but
his horses in return plough the fields, which otherwise would be overrun
with weeds. He also feeds his cows and his sheep with the hay; but their
dung is useful in giving fertility to the ground. His wife and children
are fed with the harvest corn; but they in return devote the summer to
weeding the crops; and afterwards, some in reaping them, and some in
threshing. All these labours end in my advantage. The rest of the hay
and corn he takes to market to sell, and with the produce thereof he
pays his rent. From this, it is evident, who derives the greatest profit
from my lands."

Here a long pause ensued; but, at last, Robert confessed that he saw his
error. "Remember, then, all your life," said Sir John "what has now been
offered to your eyes and ears. This farmer, so homely dressed, whose
manners you have considered as so rustic, this man is better bred than
you; and, though he knows nothing of Latin, he knows much more than you,
and things of much greater use. You see, therefore, how unjust it is to
despise any one for the plainness of his dress, and the rusticity of his
manners. You may understand a little Latin, but you know not how to
plough, sow grain, or reap the harvest, nor even to prune a tree. Sit
down with being convinced that you have despised your superior."

[Illustration]




ALFRED AND DORINDA.


[Illustration]

Mr. Venables, one fine summer day, having promised his two children,
Alfred and Dorinda, to treat them with a walk in a fine garden a little
way out of town, went up into his dressing-room to prepare himself,
leaving the two children in the parlour.

Alfred was so delighted with the thoughts of the pleasure he should
receive from his walk, that he jumped about the room, without thinking
of any evil consequence that could happen; but unluckily the skirt of
his coat brushed against a very valuable flower, which his father was
rearing with great pains, and which he had unfortunately just removed
from before the window, in order to screen it from the scorching heat of
the sun.

"O brother, brother!" said Dorinda, taking up the flower which was
broken off from the stalk, "what have you done!" The sweet girl was
holding the flower in her hand, when her father, having dressed himself,
came into the parlour. "Bless me! Dorinda," said Mr. Venables, in an
angry tone, "how could you be so thoughtless as to pluck a flower, which
you have seen me take so much care to rear, in order to have taken seed
from it?" Poor Dorinda was in such a fright, that she could only beg her
papa not to be angry. Mr. Venables, growing more calm, replied he was
not angry, but reminded her, that as they were going to a garden where
there was a variety of flowers, she might have waited till they got
there to indulge her fancy. He therefore hoped she would not take it
amiss if he left her at home.

This was a terrible situation for Dorinda, who held her head down, and
said, nothing. Little Alfred, however, was of too generous a temper to
keep silence any longer. He went up to his papa, with his eyes swimming
in tears, and told him, that it was not his sister but himself, who had
accidentally beaten off the head of the flower with the flap of his
coat. He therefore desired, that his sister might go abroad, and he stay
at home.

Mr. Venables was so delighted with the generosity of his children, that
he instantly forgave the accident, and tenderly kissed them both, being
happy to see them have such an affection for each other. He told them,
that he loved them equally alike, and that they should both go with him.
Alfred and Dorinda kissed each other, and leaped about for joy.

They all three then walked to the garden, where they saw plants of the
most valuable kinds. Mr. Venables observed with pleasure how Dorinda
pressed her clothes on each side, and Alfred kept the skirts of his coat
under his arms, for fear of doing any damage in their walk among the
flowers.

The flower Mr. Venables had lost would have given him some pain had it
happened from any other circumstance; but the pleasure he received from
seeing such mutual affection and regard subsist between his two
children, amply repaid him for the loss of his flower. I cannot omit
the opportunity that here presents itself, of reminding my young
friends, not only how necessary, but how amiable and praiseworthy it is,
for brothers and sisters to live together in harmony. It is not only
their most important interest to do so, but what should be a still
stronger argument with them, such are the commands of Him who made them.

[Illustration]




ROSINA; OR, THE FROWARD GIRL

REFORMED.


[Illustration]

I would recommend to all my little readers who have had the misfortune
to contract a vicious habit, very attentively to peruse the following
historical fragment, in which, if they will but properly reflect, they
will see that amendment is no very difficult thing, when once they form
a sincere resolution to accomplish it.

Rosina was the joy of her parents until the seventh year of her age, at
which period the glowing light of reason begins to unfold itself, and
make us sensible of our infantine faults; but this period of life had a
different effect on Rosina, who had then contracted an unhappy
disposition, which cannot better be described, than by the practices of
those snarling curs that grumble incessantly, and seem always ready to
run and bite at those that approach them.

If a person touched any of her playthings, though it were by mistake,
she would be out of temper for hours, and murmur about the house as
though she had been robbed. If any one attempted to correct her, though
in the most gentle manner, she would fly into a rage, equalled only by
the fury of contending elements, and the uproar of the angry billows of
the ocean.

Her father and mother saw this unaccountable change, with inexpressible
sorrow; for neither they, nor any in the house, could now bear with her.
Indeed, she would sometimes seem sensible of her errors, and would often
shed tears in private, on seeing herself thus become the object of
contempt to every one, not excepting her parents; but an ill habit had
got the better of her temper, and she consequently every day grew worse
and worse.

One evening, which happened to be new year's eve, she saw her mother
going towards her room with a basket under her cloak. Rosina followed
her mother, who ordered her to go back to the parlour immediately. As
Rosina went thither, she threw about all the stools and chairs that
stood in her way.

About half an hour after, her mamma sent for her; and great indeed was
her surprise on seeing the room lighted up with a number of candles and
the table covered with the most elegant toys.

Her mother called her to her, and desired her to read, in a bit of paper
which she gave her, for whom those toys were intended, on which she read
the following words, written in large letters; "For an amiable little
girl, in return for her good behaviour." Rosina looked down, and could
not say a word. On her mother's asking her for whom those toys were
intended, she replied, with tears in her eyes, that they could not be
intended for her.

Her parent then showed her another paper, desiring her to see if that
did not concern her. Rosina took it, and read as follows: "For a froward
little girl, who is sensible of her faults, and in beginning a new year
will take pains to amend them." Rosina, instantly throwing herself into
her mother's arms, and crying bitterly, said, "O! that is I, that is I."
The tears also fell from her parent's eyes, partly for sorrow, on
account of her daughter's faults, and partly through joy in the
promising hope of her amendment.

"Come, Rosina," said she to her, after a short pause, "and take what was
intended for you; and may God, who has heard your resolution, give you
ability to fulfil it." Rosina, however, insisted on it, that it belonged
to the person described in the first paper, and therefore desired her
mamma to keep those things for her till she answered that description.
This answer gave her mother a deal of pleasure, and she immediately put
all the toys into a drawer, giving the key of it to Rosina, and telling
her to open the drawer whenever she should think it proper so to do.

Several weeks passed without the least complaint against Rosina, who had
performed wonders on herself. She then went to her mamma, threw her arms
round her neck, and asked her if she thought she had then any right to
open the drawer. "Yes, my dear," said her mother, clasping her tenderly
in her arms, "you may now open the drawer with great propriety. But pray
tell me how you have so well managed to get the better of your temper?"
Rosina said it had cost her a deal of trouble; but every morning and
evening, and indeed almost every hour in the day, she prayed to God to
assist her.

Her mother shed tears of delight on this occasion; and Rosina became not
only mistress of the toys, but of the affections of all her friends and
acquaintances. Her mother related this happy change in the temper of her
daughter in the presence of a little miss, who gave way to the same
unhappy disposition; when the little girl was so struck with the
relation of it, that she immediately determined to set about the work of
reformation, in order to become as amiable as Rosina. Her attempt was
not made in vain; and Rosina had the satisfaction to find, that, in
being useful to herself, she had contributed to make others happy. My
youthful readers, if any of you labour under bad habits, set about a
reformation immediately, lest you become hardened by time, and thus
totally destroy your present and future happiness.

[Illustration]




LITTLE ANTHONY.


[Illustration]

On one of those fine mornings, which the month of June frequently
affords us, little Anthony was busily employed in preparing to set out
with his father on a party of pleasure, which, for several days before,
had engrossed all his attention. Though, in general, he found it very
difficult to rise early, yet this morning he got up soon, without being
called, so much was his mind fixed on the intended jaunt.

It often happens, with young people in particular, that, all on a
sudden, they lose the object they flattered themselves they were almost
in possession of. So it fared with little Anthony; for, just as they
were ready to set out, the sky darkened all at once, the clouds grew
thick, and a tempestuous wind bent down the trees, and raised a cloud of
dust.

Little Anthony was running down the garden every minute to see how the
sky looked, and then jumped up-stairs to examine the barometer; but
neither the sky nor the barometer seemed to forbode any thing in his
favour. Notwithstanding all this, he gave his father the most flattering
hopes that it would still be a fair day, and that these unfavourable
appearances would soon disperse. He doubted not but that it would be one
of the finest days in the world; and he therefore thought, that the
sooner they set out the better, as it would be a pity to lose a moment
of their time.

His father, however, did not choose to be too hasty in giving credit to
his son's predictions, and thought it more advisable to wait a little.
While Anthony and his father were reasoning on this matter, the clouds
burst, and down came a very heavy shower of rain. Poor Anthony was now
doubly disappointed, and vented his grief in tears, refusing to listen
to the voice of consolation.

The rain continued, without intermission, till three o'clock in the
afternoon, when the clouds began to disperse, the sun resumed its
splendour, the element its clearness, and all nature breathed the odours
of the spring. As the weather brightened, so did the countenance of
little Anthony, and by degrees he recovered his good humour.

His father now thought it necessary to indulge him with a little walk,
and off they set. The calmness of the air, the music of the feathered
songsters, the lively and enchanting verdure of the fields, and the
sweet perfumes that breathed all around them, completely quieted and
composed the troubled heart of the disappointed Anthony.

"Do not you observe," said his father to him, "how agreeable the change
is of every thing before you? You cannot have yet forgotten how dull
every thing appeared to you yesterday; the ground was parched up for
want of rain; the flowers had lost their colour, and hung their heads in
languor; and, in short, all nature seemed to be in a state of inaction.
What can be the reason, that nature has so suddenly put on such a
different aspect?"--"That is easily accounted for, Sir," said Anthony,
"it undoubtedly is occasioned by the rain that has fallen to-day."

Anthony had no sooner pronounced these words, than he saw his father's
motive for asking him the question. He now plainly perceived the
impropriety of his late conduct, in being so unhappy about what was
evidently so universally serviceable. He blushed, but his father took no
notice of it, judging that his own sense would sufficiently teach him
another time, without reluctance, to sacrifice selfish pleasure to the
general good of the community at large.

[Illustration]




THE HISTORY OF JONATHAN, THE

GARDENER.


[Illustration]

In the city of Lincoln lived an honest and industrious gardener, whose
name was Jonathan, and who was in general considered as the most skilful
in his profession of any in that county. His fruits were much larger
than any of his neighbours, and were generally supposed to have a more
exquisite flavour.

It was the pride of all the neighbouring gentlemen to have Jonathan's
fruits to form their desserts, so that he was under no necessity of
sending the produce of his garden to market, as he was always sure of
meeting with a sale for them at home. His prudence and assiduity
increased as his good fortune enlarged, and, instead of riches making
him idle, he attended more closely to cultivation.

Such a character and situation could not fail of procuring him a
suitable matrimonial mate, and he accordingly married a young woman in
the neighbourhood, whose name was Bella, and who was both prudent and
handsome. The first year of their marriage was as comfortable as they
could wish for; for Bella assisted her husband in his business, and
every thing prospered with them.

This happiness, however, was not to last long; for near his house lived
another gardener, whose name was Guzzle, and who spent his time, from
morning to night, in an alehouse. The merry and thoughtless humour of
Guzzle, by degrees, began to be pleasing to Jonathan, who soon fell into
the same ruinous error. At first, he only went now and then to drink
with him, and talk to him about gardening; but he very soon began to
drop the subject of plants, and delight only in the praises of malt.

Bella saw this change in her husband with the utmost grief and
consternation. As yet, not having sufficient experience to attend the
wall-fruit herself, she was frequently obliged to fetch him home to his
work, when she generally found him in a state of intoxication. It would
often have been better had he kept out of the garden than gone into it;
for his head was generally so muddled with beer, when he went to work on
his trees, that his pruning-knife committed the greatest depredations,
cutting away those branches which ought to have been left, and leaving
those that were useless.

Hence it was not to be wondered at, that the garden fell off in the
quality and quantity of its fruit, and the more Jonathan perceived the
decay, the more he gave himself up to drinking. As his garden gradually
failed in procuring him the means of getting strong liquor, he first
parted with his furniture, and then with his linen and clothes.

Bella, in the mean time, did what little she could to keep things
together; but all to no purpose. One day, when she was gone to market
with some roots she had reared herself, he went and sold his working
utensils, and immediately went and spent all with Guzzle. Judge what
must be the situation of poor Bella on her return! It was indeed a
heart-breaking consideration, to be thus reduced to poverty by the folly
of her husband; but yet she loved him, and equally felt for him as for
herself, but still more for an infant, as yet but six months old, and
which received its nourishment from her breast.

In the evening Jonathan came home drunk, and, swearing at his wife,
asked her for something to eat. Bella handed him a knife, and put before
him a large basket covered with her apron; Jonathan, in a pet, pulled
away the apron; but his astonishment was inexpressible, when he beheld
nothing in the basket but his own child fast asleep. "Eat that," said
Bella, "for I have nothing else to give you. It is your own child, and
if you do not devour it, famine and misery will in a short time."

Jonathan seemed almost petrified into a stone at these words, and for
some time remained speechless, with his eyes fixed on his little
sleeping son. At last recovering himself, quite sobered, his heart eased
itself in tears and lamentations. He rose and embraced his wife, asked
her pardon, and promised to amend; and what was still better, he was
faithful to his promise.

Though his wife's father had for some time refused to see him, yet, on
being made acquainted with his promises of reformation, he advanced
money sufficient to enable him to restore his garden to its former
state, Jonathan did not deceive him; for his garden put on another
appearance, and cut a more splendid figure than ever. After this,
neither his prudence nor activity forsook him, but he became at once,
and continued so even to old age, the honest man, the indulgent husband,
and the tender father. He would sometimes tell this tale of his follies
to his son, as a lesson to him, how dangerous it is to get connected
with bad company, and how easily human nature is led astray by the
poison of example. The son, who thus acquired knowledge at the father's
former expense, became a wise and prudent man, and conceived such an
aversion to idleness and drinking, that he continued all his life as
sober as he was laborious. Thus was an innocent infant the cause of
reformation in a deluded father.

[Illustration]




THE SPARROW'S NEST.


[Illustration]

Billy Jessamy, having one day espied a sparrow's nest under the eves of
the house, ran directly to inform his sisters of the important
discovery, and they immediately fell into a consultation concerning the
manner in which they should take it. It was at last agreed, that they
should wait till the young ones were fledged, that Billy should then get
a ladder up against the wall, and that his sisters should hold it fast
below, while he mounted after the prize.

As soon as they thought these poor little creatures were properly
fledged, preparations were made for the execution of their intended
plan. The old birds flew backwards and forwards about the nest, and
expressed, as well as they were able, the sorrow and affliction they
felt on being robbed of their young. Billy and his two sisters, however,
paid no regard to their piteous moans; for they took the nest, with
three young ones in it.

As they had now got the innocent prisoners in their possession, the next
thing to be considered was, what they should do with them. The younger
sister, being of a mild and tender-hearted disposition, proposed putting
them into a cage, promising to look after them herself, and to see that
they wanted for nothing. She reminded her brother and sister how pretty
it would be to see and hear those birds when grown up.

Billy, however, was of a very different opinion; for he insisted on it,
that it would be better to pluck off their feathers, and then set them
down in the middle of the room, as it would be very funny to see how
they would hop about without feathers. The elder sister was of the same
way of thinking as the younger; but Billy was determined to have the
matter entirely his own way.

The two little ladies, finding they were not likely to have things as
they wished, gave up the point without much hesitation; for Billy had
already begun to strip the poor helpless birds. As fast as he plucked
them, he put them down on the floor, and it was not long before the
little birds were stripped of all their tender feathers. The poor things
cried _Weet!_ _Weet!_ and complained in the most piteous accents; they
shook their little wings, and shuddered with cold.

Billy, however, who had not the least kind of feeling for their
sufferings, carried his persecutions still further, pushing them with
his toe, to make them go on when they stopped, and laughing most
heartily whenever they staggered or tumbled down through weakness.
Though his two sisters at first setting off had pleaded against this
cruel kind of sport, yet, seeing their brother so merry on the occasion,
they forgot their former dictates of humanity, and joined in the cruel
sport with him. Such, as we saw in the preceding tale, is the influence
of bad example!

In the midst of this cruel kind of enjoyment, at a distance they saw
their tutor approaching. This put them into some flurry, and each
pocketed a bird. They would have avoided their tutor, but he called to
them, and asked their reason for wishing to shun him. They approached
him very slowly, with their eyes cast downwards, which convinced him
that something amiss was going forwards.

On their answering, that they were only playing, their tutor observed to
them, that they very well knew he never denied them innocent amusement,
but, on the contrary, was always glad to see them cheerful and happy. He
took notice that each held one of their hands in their pocket, upon
which he insisted on their pulling them out, and letting him see what it
was they endeavoured to conceal.

They were obliged to comply, much against their will, when each
produced a poor bird, that had been stripped of its feathers. The tutor
was filled with pity and indignation, and gave each of them a look, that
was more dreadful than any words he could have spoken. After some
silence, Billy attempted to justify himself by saying, that it was a
droll sight to see sparrows hopping about without feathers, and he could
see no harm in it.

"Can you then," said the tutor to Billy, "take pleasure in seeing
innocent creatures suffer, and hear their cries without pity?" Billy
said he did not see how they could suffer from having a few feathers
pulled off. The tutor, to convince him of his error, pulled a few hairs
from his head, when he roared out loudly, that he hurt him. "What would
your pain be then," said the tutor, "were I thus to pluck all the hair
off your head? You are sensible of the pain you now feel, but you were
insensible of the torment to which you put those innocent creatures,
that never offended you. But that you, ladies, should join in such an
act of cruelty, very much surprises me!"

The ladies stood motionless, and then, without being able to say a word,
sat down, with their eyes swimming in tears; which their tutor
observing, he said no more to them. But Billy still persisted in his
opinion, that he did the birds no harm; on the contrary, he said, they
showed their pleasure by clapping their wings and chirping.

"They clapped their wings," said the tutor, "from the pain you put them
to; and what you call chirping, were cries and lamentations. Could those
birds have expressed themselves in your speech, you would have heard
them cry, 'Ah, father and mother! save us, for we have fallen into the
hands of cruel children, who have robbed us of all our feathers! We are
cold and in pain. Come, warm us and cure us, or we shall soon die!'"

The little ladies could no longer refrain from tears, and accused Billy
of leading them into this act of cruelty. Billy was himself become
sensible of his faults, and had already felt the smart of having a few
hairs plucked from his head; but the reproaches of his own heart were
now visible on his countenance. It appeared to the tutor, that there was
no need of carrying the punishment any further; for the error Billy had
committed did not arise from a natural love of cruelty, but merely from
want of thought and reflection. From this moment Billy, instead of
punishing and tormenting dumb creatures, always felt for their
distresses, and did what he could to relieve them.

[Illustration]




WILLIAM AND THOMAS;

_Or, the Contrast between Industry and Indolence._


[Illustration]

In a village, at no small distance from the metropolis, lived a wealthy
husbandman, who had two sons, William and Thomas, of whom the former was
exactly a year older than the latter.

On the day that the second son was born, the husbandman set in his
orchard two young apple-trees of an equal size, on which he bestowed the
same care in cultivating, and they throve so much alike, that it was a
difficult matter to say which claimed the preference.

As soon as the children were capable of using garden implements, their
father took them, on a fine day, early in the spring, to see the two
plants he had reared for them, and called after their names. William and
Thomas having admired the beauty of these trees, now filled with
blossoms, their father told them that he made them a present of them in
good condition, and that they would continue to thrive or decay, in
proportion to the labour or neglect they received.

Thomas, though the younger son, turned all his attention to the
improvement of his tree, by clearing it of insects as soon as he
discovered them, and propping up the stem, that it might grow perfectly
upright. He dug all round it, to loosen the earth, that the root might
receive nourishment from the warmth of the sun and the moisture of the
dews. No mother could nurse a child more tenderly in its infancy, than
Thomas did his tree.

His brother William, however, pursued a very different conduct; for he
loitered away all his time in the most idle and mischievous manner, one
of his principal amusements being to throw stones at people as they
passed. He kept company with all the idle boys in the neighbourhood,
with whom he was continually fighting, and was seldom without either a
black eye or a broken shin. His poor tree was neglected, and never
thought of, till one day in the autumn, when, by chance, seeing his
brother's tree loaded with the finest apples, and almost ready to break
down with the weight, he ran to his own tree, not doubting but he should
find it in the same pleasing condition.

Great indeed was his disappointment and surprise, when, instead of
finding the tree loaded with excellent fruit, he beheld nothing but a
few withered leaves, and branches covered with moss. He instantly went
to his father, and complained of his partiality in giving him a tree
that was worthless and barren, while his brother's produced the most
luxuriant fruit. He therefore thought that his brother should at least
give him one half of his apples.

His father told him, that it was by no means reasonable, that the
industrious should give up part of their labour to feed the idle. "If
your tree," said he, "has produced you nothing, it is but a just reward
of your indolence, since you see what the industry of your brother has
gained him. Your tree was equally full of blossoms, and grew in the
same soil; but you paid no attention to the culture of it. Your brother
suffered no visible insect to remain on his tree; but you neglected that
caution, and left them even to eat up the very buds. As I cannot bear to
see even plants perish through neglect, I must now take this tree from
you, and give it to your brother, whose care and attention may possibly
restore it to its former vigour. The fruit it shall produce must be his
property, and you must no longer consider yourself as having any right
therein. However, you may go to my nursery, and there choose any other
which you may like better, and try what you can do with it; but, if you
neglect to take proper care of it, I shall also take that from you, and
give it to your brother, as a reward for his superior industry and
attention."

This had the desired effect on William, who clearly perceived the
justice and propriety of his father's reasoning, and instantly got into
the nursery, to choose the most thriving apple-tree he could there meet
with. His brother Thomas assisted him in the culture of his tree,
advising him in what manner to proceed; and William made the best use of
his time, and the instructions he received from his brother. He left off
all his mischievous tricks, forsook the company of idle boys, and
applied himself cheerfully to work; and in autumn received the reward of
his labour, his tree being then loaded with fruit.

From this happy change in his conduct, he derived the advantage, not
only of enriching himself with a plentiful crop of fruit, but also of
getting rid of bad and pernicious habits. His father was so perfectly
satisfied with his reformation, that the following season he gave him
and his brother the produce of a small orchard, which they shared
equally between them.

[Illustration]




MISCHIEF ITS OWN PUNISHMENT,

EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF

WILLIAM AND HARRY.


[Illustration]

Mr. Stevenson and his little son Richard, as they were one fine day
walking in the fields together, passed by the side of a garden, in which
they saw a beautiful pear-tree loaded with fruit. Richard cast a longing
eye at it, and complained to his papa that he was very dry. On Mr.
Stevenson's saying that he was dry also, but they must bear it with
patience till they got home, Richard pointed to the pear-tree, and
begged his papa would let him go and get one; for, as the hedge was not
very thick, he said he could easily get through, without being seen by
any one.

Richard's father reminded him, that the garden and fruit were private
property, and to take any thing from thence, without permission, was
nothing less than being guilty of a robbery. He allowed that there might
be a possibility of getting into the garden without being seen by the
owner of it; but such a wicked action could not be concealed from Him
who sees every action of our lives, and who penetrates even to the very
secrets of our hearts; and that is God.

His son shook his head, and said, he was sensible of his error, and
would no more think of committing what might be called a robbery. He
recollected that parson Jackson had told him the same thing before, but
he had then forgotten it.

At this instant a man started up from behind the hedge, which had before
concealed him from their sight. This was an old man, the owner of the
garden, who had heard every thing that had passed between Mr. Stevenson
and his son. "Be thankful to God, my child," said the old man, "that
your father prevented you from getting into my garden with a view to
deprive me of that which does not belong to you. You little thought,
that at the foot of each tree is placed a trap to catch thieves, which
you could not have escaped, and which might have lamed you for the rest
of your life. I am, however, happy to find that you so readily listen to
the first admonition of your father, and show such a fear of offending
God. As you have behaved in so just and sensible a manner, you shall
now, without any danger or trouble, partake of the fruit of my garden."
He then went to the finest pear-tree, gave it a shake, and brought down
near a hatful of fruit, which he immediately gave to Richard.

This civil old man could not be prevailed on to accept of any thing in
return, though Mr. Stevenson pulled out his purse for that purpose. "I
am sufficiently satisfied, Sir," said he, "in thus obliging your son,
and were I to accept of any thing, that satisfaction would be lost." Mr.
Stevenson thanked him very kindly, and having shaken hands over the
hedge, they parted; Richard at the same time taking leave of the old man
in a polite manner.

Little Richard, having finished several of the pears, began to find
himself at leisure to talk to his papa. "This is a very good old man,"
said he; "but would God have punished me, had I taken these pears
without his leave?" "He certainly would," replied Mr. Stevenson; "for he
never fails to reward good actions, and chastise those who commit evil.
The good old man fully explained to you this matter, in telling you of
the traps laid for thieves, into which you must have inevitably fallen,
had you entered his garden in a clandestine manner. God orders every
thing that passes upon earth, and directs events so as to reward good
people for virtuous actions, and to punish the wicked for their crimes.
In order to make this more clear to you, I will relate to you an affair
which happened when I was a boy, and which I shall never forget."
Richard seemed very attentive to his father; and having said he should
be very glad to hear his story, Mr. Stevenson thus proceeded:--

"When I lived with my father, and was much about your age, we had two
neighbours, between whose houses ours was situated, and their names were
Davis and Johnson. Mr. Davis had a son named William, and Mr. Johnson
one also of the name of Harry. Our gardens were at that time separated
only by quickset hedges, so that it was easy to see into each others
grounds.

"It was too often the practice with William, when he found himself alone
in his father's garden, to take pleasure in throwing stones over the
hedges, without paying the least regard to the mischief they might do.
Mr. Davis had frequently caught him at this dangerous sport, and never
failed severely to reprimand him for it, threatening him with severe
punishment, if he did not desist.

"This child, unhappily, either knew not, or would not take the trouble
to reflect, that we are not to do amiss, even when we are alone, for
reasons I have already mentioned to you. His father being one day gone
out, and therefore thinking that nobody could see him, or bring him to
punishment, he filled his pockets with stones, and then began to fling
them about at random.

"Mr. Johnson happened to be in his garden at the same time, and his son
Harry with him. This boy was of much the same disposition as William,
thinking there was no crime in committing any mischief, provided he were
not discovered. His father had a gun charged, which he brought into the
garden, in order to shoot the sparrows that made sad havoc among his
cherries, and was sitting in a summer-house to watch them.

"At this instant a servant came to acquaint him that a strange gentleman
desired to speak with him, and was waiting in the parlour. He therefore
put down the gun in the summer-house, and strictly ordered Harry by no
means to touch it; but he was no sooner gone, than this naughty son said
to himself, that he could see no harm in playing a little with the gun;
and therefore took it on his shoulder, and endeavoured to act the part
of a soldier.

"The muzzle of the gun happened to be pointed towards Mr. Davis's
garden; and, just as he was in the midst of his military exercises, a
stone thrown by William hit him directly in one of his eyes. The fright
and pain together made Harry drop the gun, which went off, and in a
moment both gardens resounded with the most dismal shrieks and
lamentations. Harry had received a blow in the eye with a stone, and the
whole charge had entered William's leg; the sad consequences of which
were, the one lost his eye, and the other a leg."

Richard could not help pitying poor William and Harry for their terrible
misfortune; and Mr. Stevenson was not angry with his son for his
tenderness. "It is true," said he "they were much to be pitied, and
their parents still more, for having such vicious and disobedient
children. Yet it is probable, if God had not early punished these boys,
they would have continued their mischievous practices as often as they
should find themselves alone; but by this misfortune they learned to
know that God publicly punishes all wickedness done in secret. This had
the desired effect, as both ever after left off all kinds of mischief,
and became prudent and sedate. Certain it is, that an all-wise Creator
never chastises us but with a view to add to our happiness."

Richard was very much struck with this story, and said, he hoped he
should never lose either a leg or an eye by such imprudent conduct. This
interesting conversation was interrupted by their arrival at their own
house; when Richard hastened to find his brothers and sisters, to tell
them the adventures of his walk, and the history of William and Harry.

[Illustration]




ANTONY AND AUGUSTUS; OR A RATIONAL

EDUCATION PREFERABLE

TO RICHES.


[Illustration]

A very early friendship commenced between Antony and Augustus, who were
nearly of an age; and, as they were neighbours, they were almost
inseparable companions. The father of Antony, whose name was Lenox,
possessed a very lucrative employment under government, and was besides
possessed of a considerable fortune; but Mr. Littleton, the father of
Augustus, was not in such affluent circumstances; though he lived
contentedly, and turned all his thoughts to the welfare and happiness of
his son, in giving him a well-grounded education, which he thought might
prove of more advantage to him than riches, or, at least, might amply
supply the place of them.

As soon as Augustus was nine years of age, he was accustomed to bodily
exercise, and his mind inured to study, which at once contributed to
improve his health, strength, and understanding. Being thus used to
exercise and motion, he was healthy and robust; and being contented and
happy in the affection of his parents, he enjoyed a tranquil
cheerfulness, which much influenced those who enjoyed his company.

Antony was one of his happy companions, who was always at a loss for
amusement when Augustus was absent; and in that case, in order to fill
up his time, he was continually eating without being hungry, drinking
without being dry, and slumbering without being sleepy. This naturally
brought on a weak habit of body, and frequent headaches.

Both parents ardently wished to see their children healthy and happy;
but Mr. Lenox unfortunately pursued that object in a wrong channel, by
bringing up his son, even from his cradle, in the most excessive
delicacy. He was not suffered to lift himself a chair, whenever he had a
mind to change his seat, but a servant was called for that purpose. He
was dressed and undressed by other people, and even the cutting of his
own victuals seemed a pain to him.

While Augustus, in a thin linen jacket, assisted his father to cultivate
a small garden for their amusement, Antony, in a rich velvet coat, was
lolling in a coach, and paying morning visits with his mamma. If he went
abroad to enjoy the air, and got out of the carriage but for a minute,
his great coat was put on, and a handkerchief tied round his neck, to
prevent his catching cold. Thus accustomed to be humoured to excess, he
wished for every thing he saw, or could think of; but his wish was no
sooner obtained, than he became tired of it, and was constantly unhappy
in the pursuit of new objects.

As the servants had strict orders to obey him with implicit submission,
he became so whimsical and imperious, that he was hated and despised by
every one in the house, excepting his parents. Augustus was his only
companion who loved him, and it was upon that account he patiently put
up with his humours. He was so perfectly master of his temper, that he
would, at times, make him as good-humoured as himself.

Mr. Lenox would sometimes ask Augustus how he contrived to be always so
merry; to which he one day answered, that his father had told him, that
no person could be perfectly happy, unless they mixed some kind of
employment with their pleasures. "I have frequently observed," continued
Augustus, "that the most tedious and dull days I experience are those in
which I do no kind of work. It is properly blending exercise with
amusement that keeps me in such good health and spirits. I fear neither
the winds nor the rain, neither the heat of summer nor the cold of
winter, and I have frequently dug up a whole plat in my garden before
Antony has quitted his pillow in the morning."

Mr. Lenox felt the propriety of such conduct, and a sigh unavoidably
escaped him. He then went to consult Mr. Littleton in what manner he
should act, in order to make Antony as hearty and robust as Augustus.
Mr. Littleton informed him in what manner he treated his son. "The
powers of the body and mind," said he, "should be equally kept in
exercise, unless we mean them to be unserviceable, as money buried in
the ground would be to its owner. Nothing can be more injurious to the
health and happiness of children, than using them to excess of delicacy,
and, under the idea of pleasing them, to indulge them in their whimsical
and obstinate humours. The person who has been accustomed from his
childhood to have his humours flattered, will be exposed to many
vexatious disappointments. He will sigh after those things, the want or
possession of which will equally make him miserable. I have, however,
every reason to believe, that Augustus will never be that man."

Mr. Lenox saw the truth of these arguments, and determined to adopt the
same plan for the treatment of his son. But it was now too late, for
Antony was fourteen years of age, and his mind and body so much
enervated, that he could not bear the least fatiguing exertions. His
mother, who was as weak as himself, begged of her husband not to tease
their darling, and he was at last obliged to give way to her
importunities, when Antony again sunk into his former destructive
effeminacy. The strength of his body declined, in proportion as his mind
was degraded by ignorance.

As soon as Antony had entered his seventeenth year, his parents sent him
to the university, intending to bring him up to the study of the law;
and Augustus being intended for the same profession, he accompanied him
thither. Augustus, in his different studies and pursuits, had never had
any other instructor than his father; while Antony had as many masters
as there are different sciences, from whom he learned only a superficial
education, by retaining little more than the terms used in the different
branches he had studied. Augustus, on the contrary, was like a garden,
whose airy situation admits the rays of the sun to every part of it, and
in which every seed, by a proper cultivation, advances rapidly to
perfection. Already well instructed, he still thirsted after further
knowledge, and his diligence and good behaviour afforded a pattern for
imitation to all his companions. The mildness of his temper, and his
vivacity and sprightly humour, made his company at all times desirable;
he was universally beloved, and every one was his friend.

Antony was at first happy of being in the same room with Augustus; but
his pride was soon hurt on seeing the preference that was given by every
one to his friend, and he could not think of any longer submitting to so
mortifying a distinction. He therefore found some frivolous excuse, and
forsook the company of Augustus.

Antony, having now nobody to advise or check him, gave loose to his
vitiated taste, and wandered from pleasure to pleasure in search of
happiness. It will be to little purpose to say, how often he blushed at
his own conduct; but, being hardened by a repetition of his follies, he
gradually fell into the grossest irregularities. To be short, he at last
returned home with the seeds of a mortal distemper in his bosom, and,
after languishing a few months, expired in the greatest agonies.

Some time after, Augustus returned home to his parents, possessed of an
equal stock of learning and prudence; his departure from the university
being regretted both by his teachers and companions. It may easily be
supposed, that his family received him with transports of joy. You know
not, my little readers, how pleasing are those tender parental feelings,
which arise from the prospect of seeing their children beloved and
respected! His parents thought themselves the happiest people, and tears
of joy filled their eyes when they beheld him.

Augustus had not been long at home, before a considerable employment in
his profession was conferred on him, with the unanimous approbation of
all who were acquainted with his character. This enabled him to gratify
his generous desire of promoting the felicity of his friends, and a
sense of their happiness added to his own. He was the comfort of his
parents in the evening of their lives, and with interest repaid their
attention and care of him in his childhood. An amiable wife, equally
endued with sense, virtue, and beauty, who bore him children like
himself, completed his happiness.

In the characters of Antony and Augustus, we see the fatal consequences
of giving way to folly and vice, and what a happy effect the contrary
conduct has. Antony fell a victim to the misguided indulgence of his
parents, while Augustus lived to be happy by the prudent management he
received in his infancy.

[Illustration]




THE DESTRUCTIVE CONSEQUENCES

OF DISSIPATION AND LUXURY.


[Illustration]

On a fine evening, in the midst of summer, Mr. Drake and his son Albert
took a walk in some of the most agreeable environs of the city. The sky
was clear, the air cool; and the purling streams, and gentle zyphyrs
rustling in the trees, lulled the mind into an agreeable gloom. Albert,
enchanted with the natural beauties that surrounded him, could not help
exclaiming, "What a lovely evening!" He pressed his father's hand, and,
looking up to him, said, "You know not, papa, what thoughts rise in my
heart!" He was silent for a moment, and then looked towards heaven, his
eyes moistened with tears. "I thank God," said he, "for the happy
moments he now permits me to enjoy! Had I my wish, every one should
taste the beauties of this evening as I do. Were I the king of a large
country, I would make my subjects perfectly happy."

Mr. Drake embraced his son, and told him, that the benevolent wish he
had just uttered came from a heart as generous as it was humane. "But
would not your thoughts change with your fortune? Are you certain, that
in an exalted station you should preserve the sentiments which now
animate you in that middling state, in which it has pleased Heaven to
place you?"

Albert was a little surprised that his father should ask such a
question, for he had no idea that riches could bring with them cruelty
and wickedness.

Mr. Drake told him, that indeed was not always the case. "The world has
produced fortunate persons," said he, "who have remembered their past
distresses, and have always retained the most charitable ideas for the
unfortunate; but we too often see, what is a disgrace to the human
heart, that a change of fortune alters the most tender and sympathetic
affections. While we ourselves labour under misfortunes, we look upon it
as a duty incumbent on every man to assist us. Should the hand of God
relieve us, we then think that all his intentions in the preservation of
the world are answered, and too often cease to remember those
unfortunate wretches, who remain in the gulf from which we have been
rescued. You may see an instance of this in the man who frequently comes
to beg charity of me, whom I relieve with reluctance, and cannot but
censure myself for so doing."

Albert told his father that he had frequently observed how coolly he put
money into his hands, without speaking to him in that tender language,
which he generally used to other poor people. He therefore begged his
father would tell him what could be his reason for it.

"I will tell you, my dear," said Mr. Drake, "what has been his conduct,
and then leave you to judge how far I do right. Mr. Mason was a
linen-draper in Cheapside; and though the profits of his business were
but moderate, yet a poor person never asked his charity in vain. This he
viewed as his most pleasing extravagance, and he considered himself
happy in the enjoyment of it, though he could not pursue this indulgence
to the extent of his wishes. Business one day called him on 'Change, he
heard a number of capital merchants talking together of vast cargoes,
and the immense profits to be expected from them. 'Ah!' said he to
himself, 'how happy these people are! Were I as rich, Heaven knows, I
should not make money my idol, for the poor should plentifully partake
of my abundance.'

"This man went home with a bosom full of ambitious thoughts; but his
circumstances were too narrow to embrace his vast projects, as it
required no small share of prudence, in the management of his affairs,
to make every thing meet the end of the year. 'Ah!' cried he, 'I shall
never get forward, nor rise above the middling condition, in which I at
present linger.'

"In the midst of these gloomy thoughts, a paper inviting adventurers to
purchase shares in the lottery was put into his hand. He seemed as if
inspired by Fortune, and caught the idea immediately. Without
considering the inconvenience to which his covetousness might reduce
him, he hastened to the lottery-office, and there laid out four guineas.
From this moment he waited with impatience for the drawing, nor could he
find repose even at night on his pillow. He sometimes repented of having
so foolishly hazarded what he could not well bear the loss of, and at
other times he fancied he saw riches pouring in upon him from all
quarters. At last the drawing began, and, in the midst of his hopes and
fears, Fortune favoured him with a prize of five thousand pounds.

"Having received the money, he thought of nothing else for several days;
but when his imagination had cooled a little, he began to think what use
he should make of it. He therefore increased his stock, extended his
business, and, by care and assiduity in trade, soon doubled his capital.
In less than ten years he became one of the most considerable men in the
city, and hitherto he had punctually kept his promise, in being the
friend and patron of the poor; for the sight of an unfortunate person
always put him in mind of his former condition, and pleaded powerfully
in behalf of the distressed.

"As he now frequented gay company, he by degrees began to contract a
habit of luxury and dissipation: he purchased a splendid country-house,
with elegant gardens, and his life became a scene of uninterrupted
pleasures and amusements. All this extravagance, however, soon convinced
him, that he was considerably reducing his fortune; and his trade, which
he had given up, to be the more at leisure for the enjoyment of his
pleasures, no longer enabled him to repair it. Besides, having been so
long accustomed to put no restraint on his vanity and pride, he could
not submit to the meanness of lessening his expenses. 'I shall always
have enough for myself,' thought he, 'and let others take care of
themselves.'

"As his fortune decreased, so did his feelings for the distressed; and
his heart grew callous to the cries of misery, as with indifference we
hear the roaring tempest when sheltered from its fury. Friends, whom he
had till then supported, came as usual to implore his bounty, but he
received them roughly, and forbid them his house. 'Am I,' said he, 'to
squander my fortune upon you? Do as I have done, and get one for
yourselves.'

"His poor unhappy mother from whom he had taken half the pension he used
to allow her, came to beg a corner in any part of his house, where she
might finish her few remaining days; but he was so cruel as to refuse
her request, and with the utmost indifference saw her perish for want.
The measure of his crimes, however, was now nearly filled. His wealth
was soon exhausted in debaucheries and other excesses, and he had
neither the inclination nor ability to return to trade. Misery soon
overtook him, and brought him to that state in which you now see him. He
begs his bread from door to door, an object of contempt and detestation
to all honest people, and a just example of the indignation of the
Almighty."

Albert told his father, that if fortune made men so wicked and
miserable, he wished to remain as he was, above pity, and secure from
contempt.

"Think often, my dear child," said his father to him, "of this story,
and learn from this example, that no true happiness can be enjoyed,
unless we feel for the misfortunes of others. It is the rich man's duty
to relieve the distresses of the poor; and in this more solid pleasure
is found, than can be expected from the enervating excesses of luxury
and pomp."

The sun was now sinking beneath the horizon, and his parting beams
reflected a lovely glow upon the clouds, which seemed to form a purple
curtain round his bed. The air, freshened by the approach of evening,
breathed an agreeable calm; and the feathered inhabitants of the grove
sung their farewell song. The wind rustling among the trees, added a
gentle murmur to the concert, and every thing seemed to inspire joy and
happiness, while Albert and his father returned to their house with
thoughtful and pensive steps.

[Illustration]




WILLIAM AND AMELIA.


[Illustration]

In a pleasant village, at some distance from the metropolis, lived Lord
and Lady Russel, who had brought up an orphan, named William, from his
infancy; and had a stranger to the family seen in what a tender manner
he was treated, he would have supposed him to be their son. This amiable
couple had only one child living, a daughter, named Amelia, who was
nearly of the same age with William, and the lady was pleased to see
that the two children had something beyond a common attachment for each
other.

William and Amelia were one fine summer morning sauntering in the
orchard with their little friend Charlotte, whose parents lived in the
neighbourhood. Of the little misses, Amelia was the youngest, and not
quite eight years of age. They were walking arm and arm, and humming
over a pretty song, then fashionable in the village collection of
Ballads. At the same time William was walking before them, at some
little distance, amusing himself with a shepherd's pipe.

While Amelia and Charlotte were thus rambling about, they cast their
eyes on some beautiful apples that hung on a fine tree, from which all
the fruit had been supposed to be gathered; but the branches had hidden
some from view, and in course had escaped the notice of the gatherers.
The beautiful vermilion with which these apples were tinged, and which
the leaves could not entirely hide, seemingly invited the hand to come
and take them. William instantly climbed the tree they were admiring,
and threw down as many apples as he could reach, while the ladies below
held their aprons to catch them as they fell.

Chance directed it, that two or three, which were considered as the
finest, fell into the apron of Charlotte, who was much pleased with this
accidental distribution, as she might with reason have been, had a
premeditated preference been the cause of it; for William was in reality
the politest and prettiest little fellow in the village.

Charlotte, with joy and triumph in her eyes, thus addressed herself to
Amelia: "Only see how fine and large my apples are, while yours are
nothing to compare to them!" Amelia was very much displeased with these
words; she hung down her head, and putting on a serious countenance,
remained silent during the remainder of the walk. William, by a hundred
assiduities, endeavoured to recover Amelia's cheerfulness, again to
spread a smile on her clouded countenance, and make her renew her usual
pleasing prattle.

As soon as they arrived near home, Charlotte took her leave. Little
William then addressed his sister, for by that tender name he always
called her, and asked her why she seemed so angry with him. "Certainly,"
said he, "you cannot be angry at Charlotte having her share of the
apples. You very well know that I always loved you best, and therefore
endeavoured to throw into your apron those apples, which, by chance,
fell into Charlotte's. You must be sensible, that I could not afterwards
take them from her. Besides, I thought you of too generous a disposition
to take notice of such trifles. Be assured, the first opportunity that
shall offer, I will give you a convincing proof that I had no design to
vex you, whatever you may at present think of my intentions."

"Very pretty, indeed, Mr. William!" replied Amelia, with a look of
uneasiness and disdain. "Pray who told you that I was vexed? Suppose
Miss Charlotte's apples had been ten times finer than mine, would that
be any consideration to me? You very well know, Sir, that I am no
glutton; neither should I have taken any notice of the preference you
showed her, had it not been for that saucy little creature's looks. I
never wish to see her more: and, as for you, fall down on your knees
this instant, or I never will forgive you while I live."

Little William could not think of submitting to such an indignity, as
that would be confessing a fault, of which he was not guilty, and
therefore now stood more upright than before. "I am no story-teller,
Miss Amelia," said he, "and therefore it is very wrong in you not to
believe what I so positively affirm; for I certainly had no design to
vex you."

"Very wrong in me, Sir!" replied Amelia. "This is pretty indeed! But you
need not thus affront me, because Miss Charlotte is your favourite!" So
saying, and bestowing a contemptuous curtsy on him, she left him with an
affected air of scorn and contempt.

Dinner being now ready, they sat down at table, but pouted at each other
all the time it lasted. Amelia would not once drink, in order to avoid
saying, "Your good health, William;" and William, on his part, was so
vexed at her treatment of him, that he was determined not to give up the
point. Amelia, however, could not help sometimes stealing a glance at
William, and, from a corner of her eye, watch all his motions. As it
happened, one of these sly glances met the eye of William, who was
equally attentive to watch all the emotions of Amelia, without wishing
to be observed. Their eyes thus meeting, she instantly turned hers away
to another object; and as William attributed this to contempt, which in
reality it was not, he affected much indifference, and continued eating
with the most apparent composure.

As soon as the cloth was removed, and the wine and fruit put on the
table, poor Amelia, being sadly out of temper at the indifference she
experienced from William, made a disrespectful answer to a question put
to her by her mamma, and, for a second offence of the same nature, was
ordered to retire from table. She obeyed, and bursting into a flood of
tears, instantly withdrew, without caring whither she went. However, it
so happened that the garden door was open; she therefore flew down the
walk, and went into the arbour, in order there, in secret, to vent her
grief. Here she cried most lamentably; and soon repented of her
quarrelling with William, who constantly, whenever she happened to get
into disgrace with her mamma, would not only weep with her, but
endeavour to bring about a reconciliation, which he never failed to
accomplish.

Though William continued at table, he could not help feeling for the
disgrace of Amelia. He had fixed his eye on two peaches, and
endeavoured to contrive means of getting them into his pocket, in order
to convey them to Amelia, whom he knew he should find somewhere in the
garden, and he could easily make an excuse to go thither; yet he was
fearful of having his intentions discovered. He pushed back his chair,
then brought it forwards several times, and was continually looking
down, as if for something on the carpet. "Pretty little Cæsar! sweet
Pompey!" cried he, speaking to two dogs then in the room. At this time
he held a peach in his hand, which he meant to slip into his pocket as
soon as he could discover the eyes of my lord and lady attracted by any
other object. "Only see, papa and mamma," continued he, "how prettily
they are playing!"

His lordship replied, that they would not eat one another, he would
answer for it; and having just looked at them, put himself into his
former position. Thus poor William, who thought he was sure of then
pocketing the peach, was sadly disappointed, and obliged to replace it
on the table.

These motions, however, were observed by Lady Russel, who conjectured
what were his intentions. She therefore for some time enjoyed the poor
fellow's embarrassments, and made his lordship acquainted with it by
looks and dumb motions.

William, who had no idea that his scheme was suspected, being fearful of
trying the same stratagem twice, instantly thought of another expedient.
He took a peach, and placed it in the hollow of his hands both put
together, after which he conducted it to his mouth, and made believe as
though he was really eating it. Then, while with his left hand he found
means to clap his peach into a cavity he had previously hollowed in the
napkin on his knees, he put his right hand out to reach the other, which
he disposed of in the same manner.

In a few minutes my lord and lady forgot to watch the motions of
William, and entered into conversation on various subjects. He therefore
thought this a proper opportunity to get away, rose up from table with
both peaches in the napkin, and began to imitate the mewing of a cat,
which a young shepherd's boy had lately taught him. His view in this was
to engage the attention of Cæsar and Pompey, in which he succeeded, as
they both got up, and jumped about the room.

Lady Russel was a little angry with him for making such a noise, and
told him, if he wanted to make such a mewing as that, the garden was the
most proper place. William pretended to be very much confused at this
reproof, though the consequence of it was the very thing he wanted. He
then instantly ran up to Cæsar, "See, mamma," said William, "he wants to
bite Pompey!" and as he turned, he dexterously slipped the napkin into
his pocket, and pretended to run after Cæsar, to punish him. The dog ran
towards the door Amelia had left open when she went into the garden, and
away went William in pursuit of her.

Lady Russel called William back, and asked him where he was going. "My
dear mamma," said he, "if you please, I will take a turn in the garden,
and I hope you will not refuse me that favour." As lady Russel did not
immediately answer him, he lowered his voice and spoke in a more
suppliant manner. At last, having obtained her permission, away he ran
with so much haste, that his foot slipped, and down he fell; but,
luckily, neither he nor the peaches were hurt.

After searching round the garden for his sister, he at last found her
in the arbour, sitting in an attitude of sorrow. She was exceedingly
unhappy to think she had grieved the three best friends she had, her
worthy parents and her dear William. "My sweetest Amelia," said the
little fellow, falling on his knees at the same time, "let us be
friends. I would freely ask forgiveness for my fault, had I really
intended to displease you. If you will ask my pardon, I will ask yours
also. My pretty Amelia, let us be friends. Here are two nice peaches,
which I could not think of eating while you were not present to partake
of them."

"Ah, my dearest Billy," said Amelia, squeezing his hand while she spoke,
and weeping on his shoulder, "what a sweet good-tempered little fellow
you are! Certainly," continued she, sobbing while she spoke, "those that
are friends to us in our misfortunes are truly valuable. It was very
wrong in me to be so vexed, as I was this morning, about the loss of a
few apples. It was the insulting look that Miss Charlotte gave me that
was the cause of it; but I will think of her no more. Will you forgive
me?" added she, wiping off the tears she had let fall on William's
hand. "I confess that I sometimes love to plague you; but keep your
peaches, for I cannot think of eating them."

"As to plaguing me, sister," answered William, "you may do that as often
as you like; but, I assure you, nobody shall do so but yourself: as to
the peaches, I most certainly will not eat them. I have already told you
so, and my word is like the law of the Medes and Persians, which
altereth not."

"For the very same reason," said Amelia, "I shall not eat them," and
immediately threw them both over the garden wall; for, besides her
having said she would not eat them, she could not bear the thought of
receiving a bribe to reconcile a quarrel. Amelia's next consideration
was, how to make it up with her mamma; and she said she should be happy
indeed, if she would but permit her to appear before her, and ask her
pardon.

The generous little William no sooner heard these words, than he
promised to settle that business, and away he instantly ran; but before
he had taken many steps, he stopped short, and, turning round, said, "I
will tell mamma, that it was I who made you anger her, by having vexed
you in the morning."

Little William succeeded beyond his expectations, and all parties were
soon reconciled to each other. A friendship so affectionate and generous
is highly worthy of the imitation of all my juvenile readers.

[Illustration]




THE RIVAL DOGS.


[Illustration]

A gentleman, whose name was Howard, had brought up two pretty dogs from
puppies. The one he called Castor and the other Pollux, hoping they
would live in such friendship together as did the two illustrious
heroes, after whom they were named. Though they both came from the same
mother, and, at the same time, had been fed together, and equally
treated, yet it was soon seen that there was a great difference in their
tempers and dispositions.

Castor was of a meek and tractable nature; but Pollux was fierce and
quarrelsome. When any person took notice of the generous Castor, he
would wag his tail, and jump about for joy, nor was he ever jealous on
seeing more notice taken of his brother than of himself. The surly
Pollux, on the contrary, whenever Mr. Howard had him on his lap, would
growl and grumble at Castor if he attempted to come near him, or if any
one took notice of him.

When any of Mr. Howard's friends happened to come on a visit to his
house, and bring their dogs along with them, the good-natured Castor
would immediately mix among them, and, in his way, endeavoured to amuse
them. As he was by nature extremely pliant and engaging, they were all
peace and harmony whenever it fell to his lot to entertain them. They
would jump and play about the house, as boys do in school when they are
left to themselves.

The surly Pollux acted a very different part. He would sneak into a
corner, and bark all day at the strangers. If any one of them happened
to pass too near him, he would then be sure to snarl and grin, and would
often start up, and bite their ears or tails. If his master happened to
take any notice of either of the strange dogs on account of their
good-nature or handsomeness, Pollux would howl as loud as if thieves
were actually breaking into the house.

This odious disposition of Pollux did not escape the notice of Mr.
Howard, who gradually began to neglect him; while Castor, on the
contrary, was every day increasing in his master's favour.

As Mr. Howard was one day sitting at table, it suddenly entered his mind
to make a more particular trial of the temper of these two dogs than he
had hitherto done. Both happened to be attending at table, but Pollux
was nearest his master; for the good-natured Castor, in order to avoid
strife and contention, always let him choose his place.

Mr. Howard threw a nice piece of meat to Pollux, which he devoured with
much greediness. Castor showed no signs of uneasiness at this, but
patiently waited till his master should think it was his turn. Soon
afterwards, Mr. Howard threw Castor a bone, with hardly any meat on it:
but he took it without showing the least mark of discontent. The surly
Pollux, however, no sooner saw his brother engaged on a meatless bone,
though he had feasted on his own delicious morsel, than he fell upon
him, and took it from him. The good-natured Castor made no opposition,
but gave up the bone without a murmur.

My readers must not from hence imagine that Castor was a coward, or was
in the least afraid of the strength of his brother; for he had lately
given sufficient proof of his courage and resolution, in a battle he had
been drawn into by Pollux, whose intolerable moroseness had brought on
him the vengeance of a neighbouring dog. Pollux, after engaging his
antagonist only a few minutes, though he had provoked the dog to try his
strength, ran away like a coward; but Castor, in order to cover the
retreat of his brother, and without any one to take his part, fought him
like a hero, and at last forced him to run away likewise.

Mr. Howard was well acquainted with this circumstance; and, as he had
before established his credit in point of courage, so was his master now
fully convinced of his good temper, and the surly and cowardly
disposition of his brother. "My good fellow," said Mr. Howard to
Castor, "it is but just that you should, at least, fare as well as your
brother, who does not deserve as much as you." So saying, he cut off a
large piece of nice meat and gave it to Castor.

Pollux, seeing so nice a morsel given to his brother, accompanied with
such cutting words from his master, began to growl and snarl. "Since you
have shown so much complaisance and generosity to your brother,"
continued Mr. Howard, still speaking to Castor, "who in return treats
you with ill manners, jealousy, and envy, you shall in future be my own
dog, and be at liberty to range about the house at your pleasure: but
your brother shall be confined in the yard. Here," cried he, "bring a
chain for Pollux, and order the carpenter to make him a little house!"
The order was instantly obeyed, and Pollux was led to his kennel, while
his brother rambled about at liberty.

Had Pollux received so singular a mark of favour, he would undoubtedly
have supported it with insolence; but Castor was of a different
disposition, and appeared very unhappy at his brother's disgrace.
Whenever any nice bit was given to Castor, he would run away with it to
Pollux, wag his tail for joy, and invite him to partake of it. In short,
the visited him every night in his house, and did every thing he could
to amuse him under his sufferings.

Notwithstanding all these marks of tenderness, Pollux always received
his brother in the most surly manner, howling as though he were come to
devour him, and treating him with every mark of disrespect. At length,
rage and disappointment inflamed his blood, he pined away by degrees,
and at last died a miserable spectacle.

The moral of this history is so obvious, that there hardly appears a
necessity to tell my young readers, that such a disposition as Pollux's
must render its possessor an object of contempt and abhorrence, while
that of Castor will ever be beloved and respected.

[Illustration]




CLEOPATRA; OR THE REFORMED

LITTLE TYRANT.


[Illustration]

A pert little hussey, whose name was Cleopatra, was continually teasing
and commanding her poor brother. "So, you will not do what I bid you,
Mr. Obstinacy?" she would often say to him: "Come, come, Sir, obey, or
it shall be worse for you."

If Cleopatra's word might be taken for it, her brother did every thing
wrong; but, on the contrary, whatever she thought of doing was the
masterpiece of reason and sound sense. If he proposed any kind of
diversion, she was sure to consider it as dull and insipid; but it
often happened, that she would herself the next day recommend the same
thing, and, having forgotten what she had said of it before, consider it
as the most lively and entertaining.

Her brother was obliged to submit to her unaccountable whims and
fancies, or else endure the most disagreeable lectures a little female
tongue could utter. If ever he presumed to be so hardy as to reason with
her on her strange conduct, instant destruction to his playthings were
the inevitable consequence of it.

Her parents saw with regret this strange and tyrannical disposition of
their daughter, and in vain did every thing they could think of to break
her of it. Her mother, in particular, continually enforced on her mind,
that such children never procured the esteem of others; and that a girl,
who set up her own opinion against that of every one else, would soon
become intolerable and insupportable to all her acquaintance. This
prudent advice, however, made no impression on her stubborn heart; and
her brother, wearied out by her caprice and tyranny, began to have very
little affection for her. It one day happened that a gentleman of a free
and open temper, dined at their house. He could not help observing with
what a haughty air she treated her poor brother, and, indeed, every
other person in the room. At first, the rules of politeness kept him
from saying any thing; but at last, tired out with her impertinence, he
began addressing his discourse to her mamma in the following manner:

"I was lately in France, and, as I was fond of being present at the
soldiers' exercises, I used to go as often as I could, to see their
manoeuvres on the parade, nearly in the same manner as they do here at
St. James's. Among the soldiers there were many I observed with
whiskers, which gave them a very fierce and soldier-like look. Now, had
I a child like your Cleopatra, I would instantly give her a soldier's
uniform, and put her on a pair of whiskers, when she might, with rather
more propriety than at present, act the part of a commander."

Cleopatra heard this, and stood covered with confusion; she could not
help blushing, and was unable to conceal her tears. However, this
reproach perfectly reformed her, and she became sensible how unbecoming
was a tyrannizing temper. It has been observed, that to be sensible of
our errors is half the work of reformation. So it happened with
Cleopatra, who with the assistance of her mother's prudent counsels,
became an amiable girl.

Her reformation was a credit to her; and it is much to be wished that
all young ladies, who take no pains to conquer their passions, would at
last imitate Cleopatra, and wish to avoid being told, that a soldier's
dress and a pair of whiskers would better become them than nice cambric
frocks and silk slips. Had Cleopatra attended to the advice of her
parents, and not have imagined that greatness consists in impertinence,
she would have been happy much sooner than she was.

[Illustration]




THE PASSIONATE BOY.


[Illustration]

Young Frederick had naturally a noble soul, elevated thoughts, and
generous notions. His turn of mind was lively, his imagination strong
and quick, and his temper cheerful and pleasing. Indeed, the elegance of
his person, and his behaviour and accomplishments, gained him the
respect of every one; but, notwithstanding all these amiable qualities,
he had one unhappy defect, which was that of giving way too readily to
the most violent emotions of passion.

It would frequently happen that, while he was amusing himself in the
circle of his playmates, the most trifling contradiction would ruffle
his temper, and fill him with the highest degree of rage and fury,
little short of a state of madness.

As he happened to be one day walking about his chamber, and meditating
on the necessary preparations for a treat his father had permitted him
to give his sister, his dear friend and favourite, Marcus, came to him,
to advise with him on that business. Frederick, being lost in thought,
saw not his friend, who therefore having spoken to him in vain, drew
nearer to him, and began to pull him by the sleeve. Frederick, angry,
and out of patience with these interruptions, suddenly turned round, and
gave Marcus such a push, that he sent him reeling across the room, and
he at last fell against the wainscot.

Marcus lay motionless on the floor, without the least appearance of
life; for, in his fall, he had struck his head against something which
had given him a deep and terrible wound, from which issued a great
quantity of blood. How shall we describe the situation of poor
Frederick, who loved his friend tenderly, and for whom he would, on
occasion, have sacrificed his life?

Frederick fell down beside him, crying out most lamentably, "He is dead!
he is dead! I have killed my dear friend Marcus!" So great were his
fright and consternation, that he had no idea of calling for assistance,
but lay by his side, uttering the most dismal groans. Happily, however,
his father heard him, and, instantly running in, took up Marcus in his
arms. He called for some sugar to stop the bleeding of the wound, and
having applied some salts to his nose, and some water to his temples,
they brought him a little to himself.

Frederick was transported with joy when he perceived symptoms of life in
his friend; but the fear of relapse kept him in the greatest anxiety.
They immediately sent for a surgeon, who, as soon as he arrived,
searched the wound. He found it was not in the temple, but so very close
to it, that the tenth part of an inch nearer would probably have made
the wound dangerous indeed, if not mortal.

Marcus, being carried home, soon became delirious, and Frederick could
not be persuaded to leave him. He sat down by the side of his poor
friend, wholly absorbed in silence. Marcus, while he remained in that
delirious state, frequently pronounced the name of Frederick. "My dear
Frederick," he would sometimes say, "what could I have done to deserve
being treated in this manner? Yet, I am sure, you cannot be less unhappy
than myself, when you reflect you wounded me without a cause. However, I
would not wish your generous nature should be grieved. Let us forgive
each other; I for vexing you, and you for wounding me."

In this manner did Marcus talk, without being sensible that Frederick
was near him, though he held him by the hand at the same time. Every
word, thus pronounced, in which there could be neither flattery nor
deceit, went to the heart of the afflicted Frederick, and rendered his
grief almost insupportable.

In ten days time, however, it pleased God to abate the fever, and he was
enabled to get up, to the great joy of his parents; but how can we
express the feelings of Frederick on this happy occasion! That task must
be left for those who may have unfortunately been in a similar
situation; his joy now was undoubtedly as great as his sorrow had been.

Marcus at last got perfectly well, and Frederick, in consequence,
recovered his former cheerfulness and good humour. He now stood in need
of no other lesson, than the sorrowful event that had lately taken
place, to break himself of that violence of temper, to which he had been
so long a slave. In a little time, no appearance of the wound remained,
excepting a small scar near his temple, which Frederick could never look
at without some emotion, even after they were both grown up to manhood.
Indeed, it ever afterwards was considered as a seal of that friendship,
which they never lost sight of.

[Illustration]




CAROLINE; OR, A LESSON TO CURE

VANITY.


[Illustration]

A plain white frock had hitherto been the only dress of Caroline; silver
buckles in her red morocco shoes; and her ebon hair, which had never
felt the torturing iron, flowed upon her shoulders in graceful ringlets,
now and then disturbed by the gentle winds.

Being one day in company with some little girls, who, though no older
than herself, were dressed in all the empty parade of fashion, the glare
and glitter of those fine clothes raised in her heart a desire she had
never before felt.

As soon as she got home, "My dear mamma," said she, "I have this
afternoon seen Miss Flippant and her two sisters, whom you very well
know. The eldest is not older than myself, and yet they were all dressed
in the most elegant manner. Their parents must certainly have great
pleasure in seeing them so finely dressed; and, as they are not richer
than you, do, my dear mamma, let me have a fine silk slip, embroidered
shoes like theirs, and let my hair be dressed by Mr. Frizzle, who is
said to be a very capital man in his profession!"

Her mother replied, that she would have no objection to gratify her
wishes, provided it would add to her happiness; but she was rather
fearful it might have a contrary effect. As Miss Caroline could not give
in to this mode of thinking, she requested her mamma to explain her
reasons for what she had said.

"Because," said her mother, "you will be in continual fear of spotting
your silk slip, and even rumpling it whenever you wear it. A dress like
that of Miss Flippant will require the utmost care and attention to
preserve it from accidents; for a single spot will spoil its beauty, and
you very well know there is no washing of silks. However extensive my
fortune may be, I assure you, it is not sufficient to purchase you silk
gowns as often as you would wish to have them."

Miss Charlotte considered these arguments as very trifling, and promised
to give her mamma no uneasiness as to her carelessness in wearing her
fine clothes. Though her mamma consented to let her be dressed in the
manner she requested, yet she desired her to remember the hints she had
given her of the vexations to which her vanity would expose her.

Miss Caroline, on whom this good advice had no effect, lost not a moment
in destroying all the pleasure and enjoyment of her infancy. Her hair,
which before hung down in careless ringlets, was now twisted up in
paper, and squeezed between a burning pair of tongs; that fine jet,
which had hitherto so happily set off the whiteness of her forehead, was
lost under a clod of powder and pomatum.

In a few days the mantua-maker arrived with a fine slip of pea-green
taffety, with fine pink trimmings, and a pair of shoes, elegantly worked
to answer the slip. The sight of them gave infinite pleasure to
Caroline; but it was easily to be perceived, when she had them on, that
her limbs were under great restraint, and her motions had lost their
accustomed ease and freedom. That innocence and candour, which used to
adorn her lovely countenance, began to be lost amidst the profusion of
flowers, silks, gauzes, and ribands.

The novelty, however, of her appearance quite enchanted her. Her eyes,
with uncommon eagerness, wandered over every part of her dress, and were
seldom removed, unless to take a general survey of the whole in a pier
glass. She prevailed on her mamma to let her send cards of invitation to
all her acquaintances, in order to enjoy the inexpressible pleasure of
being gazed at. As soon as they were met, she would walk backwards and
forwards before them, like a peacock, and seemed to consider herself as
the empress of the world, and they as her vassals.

All this triumph and consequence, however, met with many mortifying
circumstances. The children who lived near her were one day permitted to
ramble about the fields, when Caroline accompanied them, and led the
way. What first attracted their attention was a beautiful meadow,
enamelled with a variety of charming flowers; and butterflies, whose
wings were of various colours, hovered over its surface. The little
ladies amused themselves with hunting these butterflies, which they
dexterously caught without hurting them; and, as soon as they had
examined their beauties, let them fly again. Of the flowers that sprung
beneath their feet they made nosegays, formed in the prettiest taste.

Though pride would not at first permit Miss Caroline to partake of these
mean amusements, yet she at last wanted to share in the diversion; but
they told her that the ground might be damp, which would infallibly
stain her shoes, and hurt her silk slip. They had discovered her
intention in thus bringing them together, which was only to show her
fine clothes, and they were therefore resolved to mortify her vanity.

Miss Caroline was of course under the necessity of being solitary and
inactive, while her companions sported on the grass, without fear of
incommoding themselves. The pleasure she had lately taken in viewing her
fine slip and shoes was, at this moment, but a poor compensation for
the mirth and merriment she thereby lost.

On one side of the meadow grew a fine grove of trees, which resounded
with the various notes of innumerable birds, and which seemed to invite
every one that passed that way to retire thither, and partake of the
indulgences of the shade. The little maidens entered this grove, jumping
and sporting, without fearing any injury to their clothes. Miss Caroline
would have followed them, but they advised her not, telling her, that
the bushes would certainly tear her fine trimmings. She plainly saw that
her friends, who were joyously sporting among the trees, were making
themselves merry at her expense, and therefore grew peevish and
ill-humoured.

The youngest of her visitors, however, had some sort of compassion on
her. She had just discovered a corner, where a quantity of fine wild
strawberries grew, when she called to Miss Caroline, and invited her to
eat part of them. This she readily attempted; but no sooner had she
entered the grove, than she was obliged to call out for help. Hereupon
the children all gathered to the spot, and found poor Caroline fastened
by the gauze of her hat to a branch of white-thorn, from which she could
not disengage herself. They immediately took out the pins that fastened
her hat; but, to add to her misfortunes, as her hair, which had been
frizzed with so much labour, was also entangled with the branch of
white-thorn, it cost her almost a whole lock before she could be set at
liberty. Thus, in an instant, was all the boasted superstructure of her
head-dress put into a state of confusion.

After what had passed, it cannot be difficult to suppose in what manner
her playmates viewed this accident. Instead of consolation, of which
Caroline stood in much need, they could not refrain laughing at the odd
figure she made, and did actually torment her with a hundred witty
jokes. After having put her a little into order, they quitted her in
search of new amusements, and were soon seen at the top of a
neighbouring hill.

Miss Caroline found it very difficult to reach this hill; for her fine
shoes, that were made very tight, in order to set off her feet the
better, greatly retarded her speed. Nor was this the only
inconvenience; for her stays were drawn so close, that she could not
properly breathe. She would very willingly have gone home to change her
dress, in order to be more at ease; but she well knew that her friends
would not give up their amusements to please her caprice.

Her playmates having reached the summit of the hill, enjoyed the
beautiful prospect that surrounded them on all sides. On one hand were
seen verdant meadows; on the other the riches of the harvest, with
meandering streams that intersected the fields, and country seats and
cottages scattered here and there. So grand a prospect could not fail of
delighting them, and they danced about with joy; while poor Caroline
found herself obliged to remain below, overwhelmed with sorrow, not
being able to get up the hill.

In such a situation, she had leisure enough to make the most sorrowful
reflections. "To what purpose," said she to herself, "am I dressed in
these fine clothes? Of what a deal of pleasure do they debar me; and do
not all my present sufferings arise merely from the possession of them?"
She was giving up her mind to these distressing thoughts, when she
suddenly saw her friends come running down the hill, and all crying out
together as they passed her. "Run, run, Caroline! there is a terrible
storm behind the hill, and it is coming towards us: if you do not make
haste, your fine silk slip will be nicely soused!"

The fear of having her slip spoiled, recalled her strength; she forgot
her weariness, pinched feet, and tight-laced waist, and made all the
haste she could to get under cover. In spite of all her efforts,
however, she could not run so fast as her companions, who were not
incommoded by their dresses. Every moment produced some obstacle to her
speed; at one time by her hoop and flounces, in the narrow paths she had
to pass through; at another, by her train, of which the furzes
frequently took hold; and at others by Mons. Pomatum and Powder's fine
scaffold work about her head, on which the wind beat down the branches
of such trees as she was obliged, in her progress home, to pass under.

At last, down came the storm with great fury, and hail and rain, mixed,
fell in torrents. All her companions were safe at home before it began;
and none were exposed to its rage but poor Caroline, who, indeed, got
home at last, but in a most disastrous condition. She had left one of
her fine shoes behind her in a large muddy hole, which in her
precipitate flight, she had hurried over without observing; and, to fill
up the measure of her misfortunes, just as she had got over the meadow,
a sudden gust of wind made free with her hat, and blew it into a pond of
stagnated and filthy water.

So completely soaked was every thing she had on, and the heat and rain
had so glued her linen to her, that it was with some difficulty they got
her undressed; as to her silk slip, it indeed afforded a miserable
spectacle of fallen pride and vanity.

Her mother, seeing her in tears, jocosely said to her, "My dear, shall I
have another slip made up for you against to-morrow?"--"Oh no, mamma,"
answered Caroline, kissing her, "I am perfectly convinced, from
experience, that fine clothes cannot add to the happiness of the wearer.
Let me again have my nice white frock, and no more powder and pomatum
till I am at least ten years older; for I am ashamed of my folly and
vanity."

Caroline soon appeared in her former dress, and with it she recovered
her usual ease and freedom, looking more modest and pleasing than she
ever did in her gaudy finery. Her mamma did not regret the loss she had
sustained in the wreck of the slip, fine shoes, and hat, since it
produced the means of bringing her daughter back to reason and prudence.

[Illustration]




ARTHUR AND ADRIAN; OR TWO HEADS

BETTER THAN ONE.


[Illustration]

Adrian had frequently heard his father say, that children had but little
knowledge with respect to what was the most proper for them; and, that
the greatest proof they could give of their wisdom, consisted in
following the advice of people who had more age and experience. This was
a kind of doctrine Adrian did not understand, or at least would not, and
therefore it is no wonder he forgot it.

This wise and good father had allotted him and his brother Arthur a
convenient piece of ground, in order that each might be possessed of a
little garden, and display his knowledge and industry in the cultivation
of it. They had also leave to sow whatever seed they should think
proper, and to transplant any tree they liked out of their father's
garden into their own.

Arthur remembered those words of his father which his brother Adrian had
forgotten, and therefore went to consult their gardener, Rufus. "Pray
tell me," said he, "what is now in season to sow in my garden, and in
what manner I am to set about my business." The gardener hereupon gave
him several roots and seeds, such as were properest for the season.
Arthur instantly ran and put them in the ground; and Rufus very kindly
not only assisted him in the work, but made him acquainted with many
things necessary to be known.

Adrian, on the other hand, shrugged up his shoulders at his brother's
industry, thinking he was taking much more pains than was necessary.
Rufus, not observing this contemptuous treatment, offered him likewise
his assistance and instruction; but he refused it in a manner that
sufficiently betrayed his vanity and ignorance. He then went into his
father's garden, and took from thence a quantity of flowers, which he
immediately transplanted into his own. The gardener took no notice of
him, but left him to do as he liked.

When Adrian visited his garden the following morning, all the flowers he
had planted hung down their heads, like so many mourners at a funeral,
and, as he plainly saw, were in a dying state. He replaced them with
others from his father's garden; but, on visiting them the next morning,
he found them perishing like the former.

This was a matter of great vexation to Adrian, who consequently became
soon disgusted with this kind of business. He had no idea of taking so
much pains for the possession of a few flowers, and therefore gave it up
as an unprofitable game. Hence his piece of ground soon became a
wilderness of weeds and thistles.

As he was looking into his brother's garden, about the beginning of
summer, he saw something of a red colour hanging near the ground, which,
on examination, he found to be strawberries of a delicious flavour.
"Ah!" said he, "I should have planted strawberries in my garden."

Sometime afterwards, walking again in his brother's garden, he saw
little berries of a milk-white colour, which hung down in clusters from
the branches of a bush. Upon examination, he found they were currants,
which even the sight of was a feast. "Ah!" said he, "I should have
planted currants in my garden."

The gardener then observed to him, that it was his own fault that his
garden was not as productive as his brother's. "Never, for the future,"
said Rufus, "despise the instruction and assistance of any one, since
you will find by experience, that _two heads are better than one_."

[Illustration]




MADAM D'ALLONE AND HER FOUR

PUPILS.


[Illustration]

Madam D'Allone was the governess of four young ladies, Emilia, Harriot,
Lucy, and Sophia, whom she loved with the tenderness of a mother. Her
principal wish was, that her pupils might be virtuous and happy, and
that they might enjoy all the comforts of life with tranquillity. They
each experienced an equal share of her indulgence, and each received the
same treatment, either as to pardon for errors, or rewards, or
punishments.

Her endeavours were crowned with the happiest success, and her four
little girls became the sweetest children upon earth. They told each
other of their faults, and as readily forgave offences; they shared in
each other's joys, nor were they ever happy when separated.

An unforeseen event, however, disturbed this happy tranquillity, just at
the very moment they began to taste its charms, which served to convince
them how necessary it was to be guided by their prudent governess.

Madam D'Allone was obliged to leave her pupils for a little time, a
family affair having made it necessary for her to visit France. She left
them with much reluctance, even sacrificed her interest, in some
measure, to the desire of speedily settling her affairs, and, in the
course of a month, returned in safety to her little flock, who received
her with the warmest expressions of joy; but the alteration she
perceived in her children very much surprised and alarmed her.

She saw it frequently happen, that if one asked the slightest favour of
another, it was ill-naturedly refused, and from thence arose tumults and
quarrels. That gaiety and cheerfulness, which had used to accompany all
their sports and pastimes, were now changed to a gloomy perverseness;
and instead of those tender expressions of love and friendship, which
had constantly dwelt in all their conversations, nothing was now heard
but perpetual jarrings and wranglings. If one proposed a walk in the
garden, another would give some reason why she wished to remain in her
chamber; and, in short, their only study seemed to be to thwart each
other.

It happened one day that, not contented with showing each other how much
they delighted in perverseness, they mutually distressed themselves with
reciprocal reproaches.

Madam D'Allone beheld this scene with the greatest uneasiness, and could
not help shedding tears on the occasion. She did not then think it
prudent to say any thing to them, but retired to her chamber, in order
there to think of the properest means of restoring peace and harmony
among her unhappy pupils.

While she was turning these afflicting thoughts in her mind, all the
four young ladies entered her apartment with a peevish and uneasy look,
each complaining of the ill-temper of the rest. There was not one but
what charged the other three with being the cause of it, and all
together begged their governess would, if possible, restore to them that
happiness they once possessed.

Their governess put on a very serious countenance, and said, "I have
observed, my pupils, that you endeavour to thwart each other, and
thereby destroy your pleasures. In order, therefore, that no such thing
may happen again, let each take up her corner in this room, if she
choose it, and divert herself in what manner she pleases, provided she
does not interfere with either of her sisters. You may immediately have
recourse to this mode of recreation, as you have leave to play till
night; but remember that neither of you stir from the corner in which I
shall place you."

The little maidens, who were no way displeased with this proposal,
hastened to their different quarters, and began to amuse themselves each
in her own way. Sophia commenced a conversation with her doll, or rather
told her many pretty little stories; but her doll had not the gift of
speech, and consequently was no companion. She could not expect any
entertainment from her sisters, as they were playing, each asunder, in
their respective corners.

Lucy took her battledore and shuttlecock, but there was none to admire
her dexterity; besides, she was not allowed to strike it across the
room, as that would have been an invasion on one of her sister's
territories. She could not expect that either of them would quit their
amusements to oblige her.

Harriot was very fond of her old game of hunt the slipper; but what was
she to do with the slipper by herself; she could only shove it from hand
to hand. It was in vain to hope for such service from her sisters, as
each was amusing herself in her assigned corner.

Emilia, who was a very skilful pretty housewife, was thinking how she
might give her friends an entertainment, and of course sent out for many
things to market; but there was at present nobody near, with whom she
might consult on the occasion, for her sisters were amusing themselves
each in her corner.

Every attempt they made to find some new amusement failed, and all
supposed that a compromise would be most agreeable; but, as matters were
carried so far, who was first to propose it? This each would have
considered as a humiliating circumstance; they therefore kept their
distance, and disdainfully continued in their solitude. The day at last
closing, they returned to Madam D'Allone, and begged her to think of
some other amusement for them, than the ineffectual one they had tried.

"I am sorry, my children," said their governess, "to see you all so
discontented. I know but of one way to make you happy, with which you
yourselves were formerly acquainted, but which, it seems, you have
forgotten. Yet, if you wish once more to put it into practice, I can
easily bring it to your recollections." They all answered together, as
though with one voice, that they heartily wished to recollect it, and
stood attentive while their governess was looking at them, in eager
expectation to hear what she had to say.

"What you have lost, or at least forgotten," replied Madam D'Allone, "is
that mutual love and friendship which you once had for each other, and
which every sister ought cheerfully to cherish. O! my dearest little
friends, how have you contrived to forget this, and thereby make me and
yourselves miserable?"

Having uttered these few words, which were interrupted by sighs, she
stopped short, while tears of tenderness stole down her cheeks. The
young ladies appeared much disconcerted, and struck dumb with sorrow and
confusion. Their governess held out her arms, and they all at once
instantly rushed towards her. They sincerely promised that they would
tenderly love each other for the future, and perfectly agree as they
formerly had done.

From this time, no idle peevishness troubled their harmonious
intercourse: and, instead of bickerings and discontents among them,
nothing was seen but mutual condescension, which delighted all who had
the opportunity of being in their company. May this serve as a useful
lesson to my youthful readers, how easy it is for them to promote or
disturb their own happiness.

[Illustration]




THE BIRD'S EGG.


[Illustration]

Master Gregory was fond of walking in a wood, which stood at a short
distance from his father's house. The wood being young, the trees were
consequently small, and placed very near to each other, with two or
three paths between them. As he was one day walking up and down, in
order to rest himself a little, he placed his back against a tree, whose
stem was quite slender, and therefore all its branches shook as soon as
it was touched. This rustling happened to frighten a little bird, who
sprang from a neighbouring bush, and flew into another part of the
wood.

Gregory was vexed to think he had disturbed the bird, and fixed his eyes
upon the bush, in hopes of seeing it return. While he was thus
attentively on the watch, he imagined he saw among the twisted branches
something like a tuft of hay. As his curiosity was raised to know what
it was, he went up close to the hedge, and found this tuft of hay was
hollow, like a bowl. On putting aside the branches, he saw something
like little balls within it, which were spotted, and of an oval shape.
They lay close to each other, on something very soft. "Bless me," said
Gregory, "this must be certainly what I have heard some people call a
bird's nest, and the balls must be eggs. They are indeed less than our
eggs, but then our hens are larger than these birds."

He had some thoughts, at first, of taking away the whole nest; but, upon
second consideration, he contented himself with taking only one of the
eggs, with which he instantly ran home. In the midst of his haste, he
met his sister. "See this little egg," said he to her, "I have just now
found it in a nest, in which were five others."

She desired to have it in her hand, examined it attentively, and then
returned it to her brother. At last, they began rolling it up and down
a table, just as they would a ball. One pushed it one way, and the other
a different way, till at last they pushed it off the table, when it fell
on the floor and broke. This set them a crying, and each mutually
accused the other of being the cause of this sad disaster.

Their mamma, happening to hear them cry, came to inquire into the cause
of it, when both began at once telling their sorrows; and, having heard
their different stories, she took them affectionately by the hand, and
led them to a tree, whose stately boughs afforded a pleasant shade to a
verdant bank, on which they all sat down together.

"My dear children," said their mamma, "make yourselves easy. You have
broken the egg between you, and that, to be sure, is a misfortune; but
it is of too trifling a nature to suffer it to make you unhappy. After
all, Gregory, there is some room of complaint against you, as it was an
act of injustice to rob the poor bird of its egg. You must have seen how
the hen places her eggs in a nest, on which she sits to warm and animate
them. In about three weeks, from the eggs proceed chickens, which pierce
the shell, and in a few days come and feed out of your hand. This egg,
which you have just now broken, had you left it in the nest, would have
become a sort of chick. The bird you saw fly out of the bush was
probably the mother, who will, very likely, return again to see what
mischief you have done her, and perhaps she will forsake it altogether,
which they frequently do when disturbed.

"Though the loss is only a single egg, yet that perhaps will inform them
that their habitation is discovered, when they have every thing to be
afraid of from our violence. They guess, that when their little ones
shall be hatched, those that robbed them of an egg, will return and
seize upon their infant family. If this nest you have been robbing, for
I cannot call it anything less than a robbery, should be on that account
forsaken, I think you will be very sorry for it."

Gregory replied that it would indeed give him much uneasiness, and
seemed very sorry that he had meddled with the egg. "But," said he to
his mamma, "I had not the least thought of what you have been telling
me, nor did I suppose there could be any harm in bringing it to my
sister, for it was principally on that account that I took it."

His mamma replied, that she readily believed him; for she told him she
was sensible that he had too good a heart to wish to do mischief, merely
for the sake of tormenting others. Gregory was, indeed, a very good boy,
and was as remarkable for his duty to his parents, his tender attachment
to his sister, and his universal benevolence to every one.

The little girl observed to her mamma, that the nest which her brother
had shown her did not in any degree resemble the swallow's nests that
were seen about the corners of the windows of some houses. "My dear,"
replied her mamma, "every nest is not alike, any more than every bird,
some being great, and others little; some are never seen to perch on
trees, while others are hardly ever out of them; some are bulky and
inactive, others slim, and full of cunning and industry; the plumage of
some are beautiful beyond description, with an amazing variety of
colours, and others have a plain and homely appearance; some subsist on
fruits, some feed upon insects, and many live by making a prey of and of
devouring the smaller birds."

Here her little daughter exclaimed, "Oh, what wicked creatures! I am
sure I should think it no crime to destroy the nest of such unnatural
birds."--"Very true," replied her mamma, and there are many more of your
way of thinking; and therefore these great birds, who live upon the
smaller class, build their nests in places where they cannot be easily
disturbed, such as in woods, in crevices of rocks, and in other places
most unfrequented by men, or at heights beyond our reach.

"Since, therefore, my dear children, these birds are greatly different
from each other, as well in size as in the mode of living, and in the
variety of their plumage, it will naturally follow that their nests must
also differ. The lark never perches on a tree, and sings only when
mounting in the air, and builds her nest on the ground. The swallow
builds about the roofs of houses, under what we call the eaves, and
sometimes in the corners of windows. The owl, which flies abroad only in
the night, seeks out deserted habitations, or some hollow trees, wherein
to deposit her eggs; and the eagles, who soar above the clouds till
absolutely out of sight, bring forth their young in the cliffs of craggy
rocks. Those birds, which so prettily sport round our houses, and hop
from branch to branch, make their nests in the trees and hedges. Those
who sport on the water, and find their living therein, build their
nests among the rushes that grow on the banks.

"We will, one fine day, take a walk into the little valley that
terminates our large meadow, and you will there see a number of these
pretty creatures busy in selecting the materials of which they compose
their nests. You will observe one employed in carrying off a wheaten
straw, another with wool or feathers in its beak, another with a dried
leaf, and perhaps with a little moss. You may frequently notice the
swallow, on the borders of a limpid stream, moistening in the water a
little bit of earth which he holds in his beak, and with this he builds
his habitation; and, though the outside of its nest is formed of hard
and durable materials, the inside is lined with the softest and warmest.
There are even some birds, who pull off their own feathers to make up a
comfortable bed, wherein to secure their young from every inclemency of
the elements.

"Their nests are made large or small, in proportion to the number of
eggs they are to contain. Some birds hang up their nests by a kind of
thread, which they have the skill to form of flax, of different sorts of
weeds, and of the webs of spiders. Others place it in the middle of a
soft and gluey substance, to which they carefully stick many feathers.
All birds seek retired and solitary places, and use every endeavour to
make their nests strong and solid, to secure them from the attacks of
enemies of various species.

"It is in this kind of habitation they lay their eggs, where the mother,
and at times the father, sits upon them, puts every thing within them
into motion, and at last produce little creatures, who break through
their shell, and come forth.

"I doubt not but you have often seen a fly in winter, which appeared to
have no life in it: yet, upon taking it into your hand, the warmth
proceeding from it has brought it to life. It is nearly the same thing
with birds, the perseverance of whose parents, in brooding upon their
eggs, converts them into living creatures.

"While the mother is sitting, the cock is her constant attendant, and
amuses her with his music. When the young birds are hatched, the old
ones endeavour to release them from the confinement of the egg. At this
period their diligence is redoubled, they do everything to nourish and
defend them, and are constantly employed in that interesting pursuit.
No distance deters them from seeking their food, of which they make an
equal distribution, every one receiving in his turn what they have been
able to procure. So long as they continue young and helpless, they
contrive to procure such food as is adapted to their delicacy; but as
soon as they are grown stronger by age, they provide for them food of a
more solid nature.

"The pelican, which is a very large bird, is obliged to go a great
distance for food for its young, and therefore nature has provided it
with a sort of bag, which she fills with such food as she knows is most
agreeable to the palate of her young ones. She warms what she procures,
and by such means makes it fitter for their tender stomachs.

"While they are thus acting the parental part, they seem to be forgetful
of themselves, and attentive only to their little family. On the
approach of either rain or tempests, they hasten to their nest, and
cover it as well as they can with expanded wings, thereby keeping out
the wind and water from hurting their infant brood. All their nights are
employed in nourishing and keeping them warm. The most timorous among
the feathered race, who will fly away on the least noise that approaches
them, and tremble at the most trifling apprehensions of danger, become
strangers to fear as soon as they have a young family to take care of,
and are inspired with courage and intrepidity. We see an instance of
this in the common hen, who, though in general a coward, no sooner
becomes a parent, than she gives proofs of courage, and boldly stands
forth in defence of her young. She will face the largest dog, and will
not run even from a man, who shall attempt to rob her of her young.

"In nearly a similar manner, the little birds endeavour to protect their
infant family. When an enemy approaches, they will flutter round the
nest, will seem to call out for assistance, will attack the invader, and
pursue him. The mother will frequently prefer confining herself with
them, to the pleasure of rambling through the woods, and will not quit
her little progeny."

Here their mamma ended, and her two children promised they never would
any more disturb those pretty feathered animals. They promised only to
look at their nests, without being so cruel as to do them any harm. They
said they would be satisfied with gazing on them, while employed in the
delightful task of attending on their young, and comforting and
caressing their unprotected offspring.

"My dear children," said their mamma, "this is the conduct you ought to
pursue. Keep your resolutions, and I shall love you the more tenderly
for it. Do no injury to any creature, for He who made you made them
also. Take no delight in giving pain to the most insignificant part of
the creation; but endeavour on all occasions to contribute to their
happiness."

[Illustration]




THE COVETOUS BOY.


[Illustration]

Young Samuel was the only son of a capital merchant, and was tenderly
beloved by his father. He had by no means a bad heart, his countenance
was pleasing, and his friends would all have been very fond of him, had
he not shown, in every part of his conduct, a covetous propensity, that
eclipsed all his accomplishments.

His covetous disposition made him wish for every thing he saw others
possessed of, and, even carried him to so great a length, that he would
not share among his playmates any thing that he had, or even let them
see it.

It was with little Samuel, as it generally is with every body else, that
he lost more than he gained by his avarice. If any body gave him any
sweetmeats, he would get into some private corner of the house and there
swallow them, for fear any of his acquaintance should want part of them.
His father, in order to cure him of this greedy disposition, used, while
he was feasting in private, to give a double portion to his companions.
He perceived this, and therefore left off hiding himself; but he no
sooner fixed his eyes on any nicety, than he appeared ready to devour it
at once; and pursued the hand of those that held it, as a vulture does
its prey.

From what has been already said, his father may be supposed to be much
hurt at this conduct; and, in order to save himself as much vexation as
possible, he ceased to give him any more niceties, or even have them
within his house, so that they might not, at any rate, be within the
reach of his voracious son.

If Samuel had a pleasing toy of any kind, he would never show it, but
conceal himself in the enjoyment of it, without ever being happy. If he
had any sort of fruit, he would not share it with his playmates, but
devour it in private, even refusing any to those he happened to love
most. Consequently, none of his playmates would ever give him a part of
what they had, and seemed always desirous of shunning his company. When
he chanced to be engaged in a quarrel with any one, none appeared ready
to take his part, not even when they knew him in the right; and, when he
was in the wrong, every one joined against him.

It one day happened, that a little boy observed him with an apple in his
hand, and gave him by surprise a knock on the elbow, which made him let
the apple fall. However, he picked it up hastily, and, in order to
revenge himself on the boy, set off to catch him; but, in running, fell
into a hog-pond, and had like to have been suffocated in the soil. He
exerted all his power to get out, but to no effect: he endeavoured, but
without succeeding, to prevail on his playmates to take hold of his hand
and help him out.

Instead of assisting him, they laughed at his distress, and joyously
danced about the pond, from which he could not relieve himself. They
told him to ask the assistance of those to whom he had done the least
kindness; but among all his playmates, there was not one whose help he
could demand on that score. At last one of the boys, who took pity on
him, came forward and gave him his hand, when he safely got out.

Samuel shook off the mud as well as he could, and then to show his
gratitude to the little boy who had assisted him, he bit off about a
quarter of the apple which caused this disaster, and which he never let
go, and desired him to accept of it. But the boy, disgusted with so
pitiful a gift, took the morsel, and then flung it in his face; and this
served as a signal for all the boys to scout him. They pursued Samuel
quite home, hooting him all the way he went.

This was the first time he had ever been hooted, and, as he did not want
for feeling, it threw him into a depth of thought. He kept out of his
father's presence, and confined himself to his room for some days. There
he reasoned with himself on the cause that could produce such treatment
from his playfellows. "For what reason," said he to himself, "could my
little neighbour, who even lent me his hand to get out of the pond,
throw the apple in my face, and set the boys to hoot me? Why has he so
many good friends, while I have not a single one?"

On comparing the good boy's behaviour with his own, he soon discovered
the reason. To become sensible of our errors is half the work of
reformation. He recollected, that he had observed his friend was always
ready to help every one; that whenever he had any fruit, confectionary,
or the like, he seemed to feel more pleasure in sharing it with his
companions, than in eating it himself, and had no kind of amusement in
which he did not wish every one to bear a part. On this short review of
circumstances, he plainly perceived wherein lay the difference between
himself and this little good boy. He at last resolved to imitate him;
and the next day, filling his pockets with fruit, he ran up to every boy
he met and gave him a part of it; but he could not, on a sudden, give up
_self_, having left a little in his pocket to eat at home in private.

Though it is evident that he had not yet completely conquered his
avarice, yet he was not a little pleased with the advances he had made,
since his companions were now, on their part, more generous to him; they
showed themselves much more satisfied with his company, and admitted him
a partner in all their little pastimes; they divided with him whatever
they happened to have, and he always went home pleased and satisfied.

Soon after, he made a still greater progress in conquering his selfish
disposition; for he pulled out of his pocket every thing he had, and
divided it into as many shares as there were mouths to eat it, without
reserving any more than an equal part for himself. Indeed, it was the
general opinion of the boys, that his own share was the least. This day
he was much more satisfied than before, and went home gay and cheerful.

By pursuing this conduct, he soon acquired a generous habit, and became
liberal even to those who had nothing to give in return. He consequently
acquired the love and esteem of his companions, who no sooner saw him
than they ran to meet him with joyful countenances, and made his
pleasure their own. Thus, instead of being miserable and wretched
through avarice, he became completely happy in the practice of
generosity.

His father was, undoubtedly, highly pleased with this change, and,
tenderly embracing him, promised to refuse him nothing in future that
might add to his pleasure and delight. Samuel hereby learned in what
true happiness consists.

[Illustration]




DISSIPATION THE CERTAIN ROAD TO

RUIN.


[Illustration]

A young man, whose name was Humphries, was a dull companion, but an
excellent workman. Nothing ran in his head so much as the wish to become
a master, but he had not money to gratify that wish. A merchant,
however, who was well acquainted with his industry, lent him a hundred
pounds, in order that he might open a shop in a proper style.

It will from hence naturally follow, that Humphries thought himself one
of the happiest men in the world. He supposed his warehouse already
filled with goods, he reckoned how many customers would crowd to buy
them, and what would be his profits thereon.

In the midst of these extravagant flights of fancy, he perceived an
alehouse. "Come," said he, on entering it, "I will indulge myself with
spending one sixpence of this money." He hesitated, however, some few
moments, about calling for punch, which was his favourite liquor, as his
conscience loudly told him that his time for enjoyment ought to be at
some distance, and not till he had paid his friend the money he had
borrowed; that it would not be honest in him at present to expend a
farthing of that money but in absolute necessaries. With these right
ideas, he was nearly leaving the alehouse; but, bethinking himself, on
the other hand, that, if he spent a sixpence of his money, he should
still have a hundred pounds all but that sixpence, that such a sum was
fully sufficient to set him up in trade, and that a single half-hour's
industry would amply make amends for such a trifling pleasure as he
wished then to enjoy; he called for his punch, and the first glass
banished all his former qualms, little thinking that such a conduct
would, by insensible degrees, open a way to his ruin. The next day he
recollected the pleasures of the former glass, and found it easy to
reconcile his conscience to the spending of another sixpence. He knew he
should still have a hundred pounds left, all but one shilling.

The love of liquor had at last completely conquered him, and every
succeeding day he constantly returned to his favourite alehouse, and
gradually increased his quantity, till he spent two shillings and
sixpence at each sitting. Here he seemed to make a stand; and every time
he went he consoled himself, with saying, that he was spending only
half-a-crown, and that he need not fear but he should have enough to
carry on his trade.

By this delusive way of reasoning, he silenced the prudent whispers of
conscience, which would sometimes, in spite even of liquor, break in
upon him, and remind him, that the proper use of money consisted in
prudently applying every part of it to advantageous purposes.

Thus you see how the human mind is led into destructive extravagances by
insensible degrees. Industry had no longer any charms to allure him,
being blindly persuaded, that the money he had borrowed would prove an
inexhaustible source for all its extravagance. He was at last convinced,
and his conviction suddenly fell on him like a clap of thunder that he
could not recover the effects of his preceding dissipation, and that his
generous benefactor would have little inclination to lend another
hundred pounds to a man who had so shamefully abused his kindness in the
first instance.

Entirely overcome with shame and confusion, his recourse to hard
drinking, merely to quiet his conscience and reflections, served only to
bring on his ruin the sooner. At last the fatal moment arrived, when,
quite disgusted at the thoughts of industry, and becoming an object of
horror even to himself, life became insupportable, and nothing presented
themselves to him but scenes of poverty, desolation, and remorse.

Overtaken by despair, he fled from his country, and joined a gang of
smugglers, whose ravages were dreaded through every town and village on
the coast. Heaven, however, did not permit these iniquities to have a
long reign, for a disgraceful death soon put a period to the existence
of this unhappy wretch.

Alas! had he listened to the first dictates of reason, and been wrought
upon by the reproaches of his conscience, he might have been easy and
happy in his situation, and have comfortably enjoyed the repose of a
reputable old age, instead of coming to that deplorable end, which is
the certain reward of vice and folly.

[Illustration]




CALUMNY AND SCANDAL GREAT

ENEMIES TO SOCIETY.


[Illustration]

Though Maria was of a tolerably good temper, yet she had contracted a
most mischievous vice, and that was calumny. Whenever she fancied she
saw any thing amiss in others, though they were her most intimate
friends, she seemed to take pleasure in publishing it to the world.

The inexperience of her age frequently led her to ascribe indifferent
actions to improper motives; and a single word, or volatility of
disposition, was sufficient to raise in her breast the worst suspicions,
with which, as soon as she had formed them, she would run into company,
and there publish them as indubitable facts.

As she was never at a loss for embellishments for her own fancy, in
order to make her tales appear the more plausible, it may easily be
supposed what mischief such a conduct was capable of producing. In a
little time, all the families in the neighbourhood were set together by
the ears, and the seeds of discord soon after sprung up amongst
individuals; husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, masters and
servants, commenced perpetual variance between each other. All on a
sudden, mutual confidence seemed to be lost in every place where Maria
visited.

Matters at last were carried so far, that every one shut their doors
against her, as they would have done against any one tainted with the
plague; but neither hatred nor humiliation could reform a vice which
custom and prejudice had so deeply rivetted in her heart. This glorious
work of reformation was reserved for Angelica, her cousin, who was the
only one left that would keep her company, and who lived in hopes that
she should in the end be able to convince her of her ruinous conduct.

Maria went one day to see her cousin, and entertained her as usual with
a long recital of scandal against their common friends, though she well
knew that such tales were disagreeable to Angelica. "And now, my dear,"
said Maria, having stopped for want of breath, "your turn is come to
tell me something. You see such a variety of company, that you surely
must be acquainted with a number of anecdotes."

"My dear Maria," answered Angelica, "whenever I visit my friends, it is
for the sake of enjoying their company; and I am too sensible of my own
interest to forfeit their esteem by exposing their defects. Indeed, I am
sensible of so many errors in myself, and find it so difficult to
correct them, that I have no leisure to contemplate the imperfections of
others. Having every reason to wish for their candour and indulgence, I
readily grant them mine; and my attention is constantly turned to
discover what is commendable in them, in order that I may make such
perfections my own. Before we presume to censure others, we ought to be
certain that we have no faults ourselves. I cannot, therefore, but
congratulate you on that faultless state, which I am so unhappy as to
want. Continue, my dear Maria, this employment of a charitable censor,
who would lead the world to virtue by exposing the deformity of vice,
and you cannot fail of meeting your deserts."

Maria well knew how much she was the public object of aversion and
disgust, and therefore could not help feeling the irony of Angelica.
From that day she began very seriously to reflect on the danger of her
indiscretion; and, trembling at the recollection of those mischiefs she
had caused, determined to prevent their progress.

She found it difficult to throw off the custom she had long indulged of
viewing things on the worst side of the question. At last, however, she
became so perfectly reformed, that she studied only the pleasing parts
of characters, and was never heard to speak ill of any one.

Maria became more and more convinced of the pernicious consequences that
arise from exposing the faults of others, and began to feel the pleasing
satisfaction of universal charity. My dear children, shun the vice of
scandal, and, still more, being the authors of it, as you would plague,
pestilence, and famine.

[Illustration]




CLARISSA; OR, THE GRATEFUL

ORPHAN.


[Illustration]

The amiable Dorinda, soon after the misfortune of losing her husband,
was so unhappy as to have a law-suit determined to her disadvantage, and
thereby lost great part of her possessions, which were taken from her
with the most unrelenting hand. This reduced her to the necessity of
selling all her furniture, and the greater part of her jewels. The
produce of these she placed in the hands of a banker, and retired to a
village, where she could live much cheaper than in the metropolis, and
with tolerable decency.

She had not passed more than two months in this retreat, when
information was brought her, that her banker had failed in trade, and
consequently all her money was lost. Judge what must be the horrors of
her situation! Sickness and grief had so debilitated her constitution,
that she was unable to do any kind of work, whereby to procure a
subsistence; and, after having passed her youth in ease and pleasure,
she had no resources left in the evening of her life, but that of a
workhouse, or common beggary.

Not one of her acquaintance would see her, nor condescend to take the
least interest in her sufferings. Being brought by her husband from a
foreign country, she had no friends to cry to for assistance, except a
distant relation, whom she had brought with her to England, and who, by
her husband's credit, gained great riches; but this man's avarice was
greater than his wealth, and there was little charity to be expected
from a man who denied himself the common necessaries of life.

Afflicted virtue, however, always finds resource in the bounteous hands
of Providence, and she found the means of subsistence where she little
expected it. In the former days of her prosperity, she had adopted a
female orphan, whose name was Clarissa, who now became her guardian and
protector. Clarissa had a grateful heart; she wept for the misfortunes
of her friend, but she rejoiced at the thoughts of having an opportunity
to show her gratitude.

When Dorinda mentioned her design of seeking refuge in a parish
workhouse, "No," said Clarissa, "you shall never leave me. From your
tenderness I formerly received the indulgences of a beloved child; and,
if in your prosperity I thought myself happy in the idea of being so
nearly related to you by adoption, I still think it more so now I see
you in adversity. Thank heaven and your adoption for my comfortable
situation! your maternal conduct was amply displayed in teaching me all
the necessary female arts; and I am happy in the reflection, that I can
make use of my knowledge for your sake. With health and courage, I fear
not being able to procure for us both at least a comfortable living."

This generous offer exceedingly affected the unhappy widow, who embraced
Clarissa, and with joy accepted of her proposal. This amiable girl, in
her turn, became the mother, by adoption, of her former benefactress.
Not contented with feeding her with the produce of an unremitted labour,
she consoled her in affliction, attended her in sickness, and
endeavoured, by the tenderest methods, to soften the iron hand of
fortune.

For two years did the constancy and ardour of Clarissa continue with
unwearied attention, and her only happiness seemed to consist in
promoting that of her friend. At the end of that period, when death
relieved the unhappy Dorinda from the cares and troubles of this life,
she sincerely lamented her death, and bewailed it as a grievous
misfortune.

A short time after died also the relation of Dorinda, of whom we have
lately spoken, and who had shown himself so shamefully insensible to
every claim of gratitude and kindred. As he could not carry his riches
with him, he supposed it would be making some atonement for his
ungenerous conduct, by leaving the injured Dorinda every thing he
possessed. Alas! it came too late, for she was no more.

The amiable Dorinda had not, before her death, the consolation of
knowing that such a change happened in her fortune, as in that case she
might have easily turned it to the advantage of the generous Clarissa.
This large fortune, therefore, for want of an heir, fell to the king;
but Providence so directed it, that the generous conduct of the orphan
to her benefactress reached the ears of the prince. "Ah! then," said he,
"she merits this inheritance! I renounce my right in her favour, and
shall be happy in being her father and friend."

This generous act of the king was applauded by the whole nation; and
Clarissa, having thus received so glorious a reward for her gratitude,
employed it in the maintenance of orphans, such as she herself had been.
It was the summit of her delight to inspire them with sentiments similar
to those she herself possessed.

[Illustration]




RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL THE

NOBLEST REVENGE.


[Illustration]

"I will be revenged of him, that I will, and make him heartily repent
it," said little Philip to himself with a countenance quite red with
anger. His mind was so engaged, that, as he walked along, he did not see
his dear friend Stephen, who happened at that instant to meet him, and
consequently heard what he had said.

"Who is that," said Stephen, "that you intend to be revenged on?"
Philip, as though awakened from a dream, stopped short, and, looking at
his friend, soon resumed the smile that was natural to his countenance.
"Ah!" said he, "come with me, my friend, and you shall see whom I will
be revenged on. I believe you remember my supple jack, a very pretty
little cane, which my father gave me. You see it is now all in pieces.
It was farmer Robinson's son, who lives in yonder thatched cottage, that
reduced it to this worthless state."

Stephen very coolly asked him what induced the farmer's son to break it.
"I was walking very peaceably along," replied Philip, "and was playing
with my cane, by twisting it round my body. By some accident or other
one of the two ends got out of my hand when I was opposite the gate just
by the wooden bridge, and where the little miscreant had put down a
pitcher full of water, which he was carrying home from the well. It so
happened that my cane, in springing, overset the pitcher, but did not
break it. He came up close to me, and began to call me names; when I
assured him I did not intend any harm,--what I had done was by accident,
and I was very sorry for it. Without paying any regard to what I said,
he instantly seized my supple jack, and twisted it here as you see; but
I will make him heartily repent it."

"To be sure," said Stephen, "he is a very wicked boy, and he is already
very properly punished for it, since nobody likes him, nor will do any
thing for him. He finds it very difficult to get any companion to play
with him, and, if he attempts to intrude himself into their company,
they will all instantly leave him. To consider this properly, I think,
should be sufficient revenge for you."

"All this is true," replied Philip, "but he has broken my cane. It was a
present from my papa, and a very pretty cane you know it was. My father
will perhaps ask me what has become of it; and, as he will suppose I
have carelessly lost his present, he will probably be angry with me; of
which this little saucy fellow will be the cause. I offered to fill his
pitcher again, having knocked it down by accident--I will be revenged."

"My dear friend," said Stephen, "I think you will act better in not
minding him, as your contempt will be the best punishment you can
inflict upon him. He is not upon a level with you, and you may be
assured that he will always be able to do more mischief to you than you
would choose to do him. And now I think of it, I will tell you what
happened to him not long since.

"Very unluckily for him, he chanced to see a bee hovering about a
flower, which he caught, and was going to pull off its wings, out of
sport, when the animal found means to sting him, and then flew in safety
to the hive. The pain put him into a most furious passion, and, like
you, he vowed to take a severe revenge. He accordingly procured a little
hazel-stick, and thrust it through the hole into the bee-hive, twisting
it about therein. By this means he killed several of the little animals;
but, in an instant, all the swarm issued out, and, falling upon him,
stung him in a thousand different places. You will naturally suppose
that he uttered the most piercing cries, and rolled upon the ground in
the excess of his agony. His father ran to him, but could not, without
the greatest difficulty, put the bees to flight, after having stung him
so severely that he was confined several days to his bed.

"Thus you see, he was not very successful in his pursuit of revenge. I
would advise you, therefore, to pass over his insult, and leave others
to punish him, without your taking any part of it. Besides, he is a
wicked boy, and much stronger than you are; so that your ability to
obtain revenge may be doubtful."

"I must own," replied Philip, "that your advice seems very good. So come
along with me, and I will go and tell my father the whole matter, and I
think he will not be angry with me. It is not the cane that I value on
any other consideration than that it was my father's present, and I
would wish to convince him that I take care of every thing he gives me."
He and his friend then went together, and Philip told his father what
had happened, who thanked Stephen for the good advice he had given his
son, and gave Philip another cane, exactly like the first.

A few days afterwards, Philip saw this ill-natured boy let fall, as he
was carrying home, a very heavy log of wood, which he could not get up
again. Philip ran to him, and replaced it on his shoulder.

Young Robinson was quite ashamed at the thought of having received this
kind of assistance from a youth he had treated so badly, and heartily
repented of his behaviour. Philip went home quite satisfied, to think
he had assisted one he did not love, and from pure motives of tenderness
and humanity. "This," said he, "is the noblest vengeance I could take,
in returning good for evil."

[Illustration]




GREY HAIRS MADE HAPPY.


[Illustration]

Opposite to the house where Charlotte's parents lived, was a little
opening, ornamented with a grass-plot, and overshaded by a venerable
tree, commanding an extensive view before it. On this delightful spot
Charlotte used frequently to sit in her little chair, while employed in
knitting stockings for her mamma.

As she was one day thus employed, she saw a poor old man advancing very
slowly towards her. His hair was as white as silver, and his back bent
with age; he supported himself by a stick, and seemed to walk with
great difficulty. "Poor man," said Charlotte, looking at him most
tenderly, "he seems to be very much in pain, and perhaps is very poor,
which are two dreadful evils!"

She also saw a number of boys, who were following close behind this poor
old man. They passed jokes upon his thread-bare coat, which had very
long skirts, and short sleeves, contrary to the fashion of those days.
His hat, which was quite rusty, did not escape their notice; his cheeks
were hollow, and his body thin. These wicked boys no sooner saw him,
than they all burst out a laughing. A stone lay in his way, which he did
not perceive, and over it he stumbled, and had like to have fallen. This
afforded them sport, and they laughed loudly; but it gave great pain to
the poor old man, who uttered a deep sigh.

"I once was as young as you are," said he to the boys, "but I did not
laugh at the infirmities of age as you do. The day will come in which
you will be old yourselves, and every day is bringing you forward to
that period. You will then be sensible of the impropriety of your
present conduct." Having thus spoken, he endeavoured to hobble on again,
and made a second stumble, when, in struggling to save himself from
falling, he dropped his cane, and down he fell. On this, the wicked boys
renewed their laugh, and highly enjoyed his misfortune.

Charlotte, who had seen every thing that had passed, could not help
pitying the old man's situation, and, therefore, putting down her
stockings on the chair, ran towards him, picked up the cane, and gave it
to him, and then taking hold of his other arm, as if she had been as
strong as a woman, advised him to lean upon her, and not mind any thing
the boys might say to him.

The poor old man, looking at her very earnestly, "Sweet child," said he,
"how good you are! This kindness makes me in a moment forget all the
ill-behaviour of those naughty boys. May you ever be happy!"--They then
walked on together; but the boys being probably made ashamed of their
conduct by the behaviour of Charlotte, followed the old man no farther.

While the boys were turning about, one of them fell down also, and all
the rest began laughing, as they had before done at the old man. He was
very angry with them on that account, and, as soon as he got up, ran
after his companions, pelting them with stones. He instantly became
convinced how unjust it was to laugh at the distress of another, and
formed a resolution, for the future, never to laugh at any person's
pain. He followed the old man he had been laughing at, though at some
distance, wishing for an opportunity to do him some favour, by way of
atonement for what he had done.

The good old man, in the mean time, by the kind assistance of Charlotte,
proceeded with slow, but sure steps. She asked him to stop and rest
himself a little, and told him that her house was that before him. "Pray
stay," said she, "and sit a little under that large tree. My parents
indeed are not at home, and therefore you will not be so well treated,
yet it will be a little rest to you."

The old man accepted Charlotte's offer. She brought him out a chair, and
then fetched some bread and cheese, and good small beer, which was all
the pretty maid could get at. He thanked her very kindly, and then
entered into conversation with her.

"I find, my dear," said he, "you have parents, I doubt not but you love
them, and they love you. They must be very happy, and may they always
continue to be so!"

"And pray, good old man," said Charlotte, "I suppose you have got
children."--"I had a son," replied he, "who lived in London, loved me
tenderly, and frequently came to see me; but, alas! he is now dead, and
I am left disconsolate. His widow, indeed, is rich; but she assumes the
character of a lady, and thinks it beneath her to inquire whether I be
dead or living, as she does not wish it to be known that her husband's
father is a peasant."

Charlotte was much affected, and could hardly believe that such cruel
people existed. "Ah! certain I am," said she, "that my dear mother would
not behave so cruelly." He then rose and thanked Charlotte with a
blessing; but she was determined not to leave him, till she had
accompanied him a little way farther.

As they walked on, they saw the little boy who had been following them;
for he ran on some way before, and was then sitting on the grass. When
they looked upon him, he cast his eyes downwards, got up after they had
passed, and followed them again. Charlotte observed him, but said
nothing.

She asked the old man if he lived alone; "No, little lady," answered he,
"I have a cottage on the other side of that mead, seated in the middle
of a little garden, with an orchard and a small field. An old neighbour,
whose cottage fell down through age, lives with me, and cultivates my
ground. He is an honest man, and I am perfectly easy in his society; but
the loss of my son still bears hard upon me, nor have I the happiness to
see any of his children, who must by this time have forgotten me."

These complaints touched the heart of Charlotte, who told him, that she
and her mother would come and see him. The sensibility and kindness of
this little girl served only to aggravate his grief, by bringing to his
mind the loss he had sustained in his son. Tears came in his eyes, when
he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe them; and, instead of again
putting it into his pocket, in the agitation of his mind, it slipped
aside, and fell unnoticed by him or Charlotte.

The little boy, who followed them, saw the handkerchief fall, ran to
pick it up, and gave it the old man, saying, "Here, good old man, you
dropped your handkerchief, and here it is."--"Thank you, heartily, my
little friend," said the old man. "Here is a good natured lad, who does
not ridicule old age, nor laugh at the afflictions that attend it. You
will certainly become an honest man. Come both of you to my habitation,
and I will give you some milk." They had no sooner reached the old man's
cottage, than he brought out some milk, and the best bread he had,
which, though coarse, was good. They all sat down upon the grass, and
made a comfortable repast. However, Charlotte began to be afraid her
parents might come home, and be uneasy at her absence; and the little
boy was sorry to go, but was sadly afraid, should he stay, of being
scolded by his mother.

"This mother of yours," said the old man, "must be very cross to scold
you."--"She is not always so," replied the boy; "but though she loves
me, she makes me fear her."--"And your father?"--"Oh, I scarcely knew
him, he having been dead these four years."--"Dead these four years!"
interrupted the old man, and fixing his eyes attentively on the boy. "Is
it possible that I have some recollection of your features? Can it be
little Francis?"--"Yes, yes, Francis is my name."

For a few moments the old man stood motionless, and, with an altered
voice, his eyes swimming with tears, cried out, "My dear Francis, you do
not recollect your grandfather! Embrace me! you have got the very
features of my son! My dearest child, you were not thinking of me! My
son affectionately loved me, and his son will love me also. My old age
will not be so miserable as I expected, and the evening of my life will
not pass without some joy. I shall depart in peace!--But I forget that
by detaining you, I may expose you to your mother's anger. Go, my dear
child, for I do not wish that my joy should cost you tears. Go, love
your mother, and obey her commands, even though you should not come and
see me. Come and see me if you can; but do not disobey or tell a story
on any account."

He then turned to Charlotte, and said, though he then did not wish her
to stay, for fear of offending her parents, yet he hoped she would come
again. He then dismissed them, giving them a hearty blessing, and the
two children walked away hand in hand. Charlotte got home safe before
her parents, who were not long after her, when she told them every
thing that had passed, which furnished an agreeable conversation for the
evening.

The next day they all went to see the good old man, and afterwards
frequently repeated their visits. Francis also came to see his
grandfather, who was rejoiced to hear him speak, and to receive his
affectionate caresses. Francis, on his side, was equally rejoiced,
excepting when he did not meet with Charlotte, for then he went home
sorrowful and sad.

The nearer Francis arrived to manhood, the more his affections for
Charlotte increased; and accordingly, when he was old enough to marry,
he would think of no other woman, though she was not rich. The old man
lived to see them married and happy, and then finally closed his eyes
in peace.

[Illustration]




    +--------------------------------------------------------------+
    | Transcriber's Note:                                          |
    |                                                              |
    | In the Contents, page 113 for the chapter titled "Alfred and |
    | Dorinda" has been changed to 118.                            |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 20, double closing quotation mark has been added to the |
    | end of the chapter--ruin."                                   |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 25, closing quotation mark has been removed--munched    |
    | alive.                                                       |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 134, "about gardening. but" has been changed to "about  |
    | gardening; but"                                              |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 159 punctuation after "contentedly" has been            |
    | interpreted as a comma                                       |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 215 "Ah!"' said he" has been changed to "Ah!" said he"  |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 223 "down her cheeks The" has been changed to "down her |
    | cheeks. The"                                                 |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 246 "treason, and been" has been changed to "reason,    |
    | and been"                                                    |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 266 "entored into conversation" has been changed to     |
    | "entered into conversation"                                  |
    |                                                              |
    | Page 269 "and hear it is" has been changed to "and here it   |
    | is"                                                          |
    +--------------------------------------------------------------+





