Front Cover
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The Chirstmas Books
 The Charitable Boy
 Edmund and His Dog
 The Kittens
 The Way to Do Good
 The Mocking-Bird
 The Good Son
 All for the Best
 How to be Happy
 The Sea-Shore
 Grandpapa's Hay-field
 Baptist and His Dog
 The Hen's egg
 William, Henry, and the Gate
 Dialogue Between a Child and a...
 Mary Wilson
 See, the Stars Are Coming
 A Dialogue
 The Covetous Boy
 The Sick Room
 Return Good for Evil
 The Mother's Hope
 The Pet Calf
 The Bird's Nest
 Back Cover

Group Title: The youth's diadem : a gift book for all seasons
Title: The youth's diadem
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00001933/00001
 Material Information
Title: The youth's diadem a gift book for all seasons
Physical Description: 148 p., 8 leaves of plates : ill. ; 19 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Arnold, Clara ( comp )
B. Bradley & Co ( Binder )
Phillips, Sampson & Company ( Publisher )
Publisher: Phillips, Sampson and Company
Place of Publication: Boston
Publication Date: c1852
Subject: Gift books -- 1852   ( rbgenr )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1852   ( rbbin )
Bradley -- Binders' tickets (Binding) -- 1852   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1852
Genre: Gift books   ( rbgenr )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
Binders' tickets (Binding)   ( rbbin )
non-fiction   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Statement of Responsibility: prepared especially for young people by Clara Arnold.
General Note: Added title page, engraved.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00001933
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002221289
oclc - 02555753
notis - ALG1510
 Related Items
Other version: Alternate version (PALMM)
PALMM Version

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Page ii
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Half Title
        Page v
        Page vi
    Title Page
        Page vii
        Page viii
        Page ix
        Page x
    Table of Contents
        Page xi
        Page xii
    The Chirstmas Books
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
    The Charitable Boy
        Page 21
        Page 22
    Edmund and His Dog
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 32
    The Kittens
        Page 31
    The Way to Do Good
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
    The Mocking-Bird
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
    The Good Son
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
    All for the Best
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
    How to be Happy
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 56
        Page 57
    The Sea-Shore
        Page 58
        Page 61
    Grandpapa's Hay-field
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
    Baptist and His Dog
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 84a
    The Hen's egg
        Page 85
    William, Henry, and the Gate
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
    Dialogue Between a Child and a Bird
        Page 90
        Page 91
    Mary Wilson
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
    See, the Stars Are Coming
        Page 99
    A Dialogue
        Page 100
        Page 101
    The Covetous Boy
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 110a
    The Sick Room
        Page 111
        Page 125
    Return Good for Evil
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
    The Mother's Hope
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125a
    The Pet Calf
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
    The Bird's Nest
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
    Back Cover
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
Full Text









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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
aI the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts.



IN the preparation of the little book now at hand,
the proprietors have employed such editorial and
artistic labor as will make it a useful and agreeable
companion for youth, and, they trust, well worthy
its attractive title.
Should it make a heart happier, or a face more
smiling, its publication will not have been in vain;
and that it may instruct, while it amuses, is the
ardent wish of



















MAnY WILSON, .... ......


S. 13

S. 21

S. 23

. 31

S. 32

. 40

S.. 43

S. 48

S. 52

. 58

S. 59

. 79
. 79

. 85

S. 86


. 92
.... 92

. 99

0 0 0

0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0 6

0 0 0 0 0

0 0 0 0


THn CovmETus Boy, .
FRISK, . .

. . 100
. . 102
. 111
. . 112
.. 119
. . 125
. . 126
. . 142





WHAT a beautiful present of books we
have, Adolphe! the prettiest we have ever
received on a Christmas eve," said little
Dora Pratt, as, on the morning of Christ-
mas day, the son and three daughters of
Mr. Pratt assembled in their father's study,
to examine at leisure the rich Christmas
gifts of the previous evening. The toys
and sugar-plums were soon disposed of.
A few of the latter were eaten, and the
rest, with the toys, were laid away on a
table. Such things gratify but for a short .


time. The books were reserved to the
last, as the most precious and most deserv-
ing of attention. It was a pleasant sight,
this group of rosy-cheeked children, en-
joying, with quiet delight, the rich literary
and artistical treat with which their excel-
lent'and liberal father had thought proper
to signalize the joyous occasion of the
Christmas holidays.
There were annuals with rich engrav-
ings, embellished copies of popular poets,
and illustrated books of voyages and trav-
els. Adolphe was seated in the old-fash-
ioned Gothic chair,-one of the many thou-
Ands that are said to have come over to
Plymouth in the Mayflower, -and the girls
were on stools or the carpet itself, exam-
ining with great attention the beautiful
engravings in those large and richly-bound
* volumes.



"I am glad," said Adolphe, in reply to
Dora's remark, that father has given us
books, nothing but books. They last for-
ever, while sugar-plums, and toys, and or-
naments, such as our aunts and cousins
have sent us, soon get used up or lost."
"Our other friends," said Annie, the
grave, thoughtful one of the sisters, want
to give us pleasure just for the holidays, to
make us exclaim with delight when the
parcel is opened on Christmas eve. But
father looks forward. He is always think-
ing of our happiness and usefulness in life."
Yes," said Adolphe, his object is to
give us pleasure and improvement at th#
same time,-to mingle the utile with the
dulce." *
"How learned some people are, who
know a little Latin!" said Dora, laughing.
"You Pow what I mean, very well, my

V" .



little doll," said Adolphe, kindly, "and
you would give up your toys and all your
other playthings, rather than have me ig-
norant of Latin."
That I would, Adolphe you are my
only brother, and I do hope and trust you
will be a great man, one of these years,"
replied Dora.
Say, rather, a good and useful man,"
said Annie.
That is what I mean," said Dora;
"the most useful men, of course, are
At this moment the study door opened,
and their father entered.
What is it you are discussing so ear-
nestly ? he inquired.
"We were arguing," said Adolphe, "that
useful men are the real great men."
"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Prtt; "but



what is useful? Let us understand your
ideas of utility."
("I take it that Fulton, and Franklin,
and Morse, are to be considered useful,"
said Adolphe,-(" more useful than all the
warriors in the world."
Not quite so fast, Adolphe," said Mr.
Pratt; Washington was a warrior, and I
suppose it cannot be doubted that he was
more useful than either of them, since the
founder of a republic performs a higher use
than the inventor of a steamboat, or a tele-
graph, or a lightning-rod."
"Well," said Adolphe, "warriors are
useful, too, sometimes. But I like better
good ministers, statesmen, teachers, and
inventors of useful machines, discoverers,
like Columbus and Vasco de Gama, and
all those who are peaceful as well as use-



"I understand your views," said Mr.
Pratt, "but I must remark that all the
classes of useful men which you have men-
tioned are useful on a great scale, and
thus become distinguished men. Now, all
persons cannot reasonably hope to figure
in this way; and it seems to me that it will
be more to the purpose for you children to
learn some way in which you may be sure
of becoming useful, even although you can-
not do so in any way which will render
you famous and distinguished. How do
you propose to make it out ?"
Well," said little Dora, "I suppose we
girls must learn to sew very well, and help
mamma in her housekeeping."
That is something," said Mr. Pratt,
"but not all."
"We must earn some money, and buy
cloth, and make it up for the poor," said



1" And I must get learning, go to college,
study a profession, and be a very good
doctor, or lawyer, or minister," said
"Very good," said Mr. Pratt; "but
there are higher uses than any of those,
because they relate to a higher state of
being. In these higher uses you may
make a beginning on this blessed Christ-
mas day; and that most appropriately,
because the day will remind you of the ex-
ample of our Lord, who teaches these uses
in his blessed word. They consist in the
constant observance of his law of love.
SHe commands us to love the Lord, and
also to love our neighbor as ourselves. By
little acts of kindness, disinterestedness
and self-sacrifice, among yourselves, my
children, you can begin to acquire the
habit of always consulting and seeking this



higher kind of usefulness. By living in
obedience to the Golden Rule, you not only
promote the happiness of each other and
of your little circle of friends and acquaint-
ance, but, without any ostentation of good-
ness, your example will quietly but surely
recommend to all who observe you the
religion which you profess. Nothing in
the world is more useful than unpretend-
ing goodness and benevolence; for that-
points out the way to that better world,
where all are happy in obeying the law of
Mr. Pratt paused. The children looked
reverently upon their good parent's face,
which radiated forth the noble sentiments
he uttered. Little Annie was the first to
break the silence which followed.
Let us begin to-day; and this will in-
deed be a HAPPY CHRISTMAS !"




COME, sister, it is time to rise, -
This is the day for Christmas pies;
Come, do get up and make haste down,
And go with me to see Dame Brown.

I have a secret, too, to tell,
If you '11 get up, my darling Bell,
About those geese which long ago
My father gave to me, you know.

Though then they were so very small,
Home in my hat I brought them all,
Yet now, my girl, they are so fat
You could not squeeze one in a hat.

You know you teased me long to tell,
When they were grown and fattened well,
What I designed with them to do;
And till this day you never knew.


But now, if you will come with me,
Dear sister, you shall quickly see;
For one I mean to carry down,
With my minced pie, to poor Dame Brown.

The poor old soul, at least, my dear,
Shall have one feast in all the year;
And to blind Samuel, who is poor,
Another goose shall go, be sure.

The third I'll give to poor Dick Fry,
And you for him may add your pie;
Though sick, poor heart! 't will do him good
To give his hungry children food.

To give them pies will be, no doubt,
Delightful, though we go without;
For we, you know, have always food,
For every day things nice and good.

So, Isabella, let 's away;
We'll have the happiest Christmas day
We ever yet have known, I 'm sure;
For we shall feed the hungry poor.



THERE was once a little boy named Ed-
mund. He was generally mindful and
good-natured; but he had one fault, of
which his parents found it difficult to cure
him,-he was too fond of delay. If he was
sent upon a short errand, he would often
stop by the road, and pass an hour in see-
ing the men mow down the grass. Or he
would lean over the railing of the bridge
that crossed the river, and gaze upon the
water as it flowed swiftly underneath.
Sometimes, he would crook a pin, and, ty-
ing to it piece of twine, throw it into the
stream, to try his luck at angling. I sus-
pect that he was never a very successful
fisherman; although, occasionally, he used


to boast of having had a "glorious nib-
Edmund was also very apt to be tardy
at school. He would come running in,
after all the other boys were seated, and
would wonder that it was so late. It was
in vain that his master reprimanded him,
and that his parents advised him; his habit
of delay still clung to him.
Among his other indulgences, Edmund
had a dog, which was called, after one of
its ancestors, Ponto. This dog was a good
deal like his owner, of whom he was. very
fond. He would follow Edmund in his
saunter to school, and lay upon the door-
steps until the boys were disti Ponto
would then wag his tail, and l pon his
young nraster, as if to let him low how
glad he was to see him again. But Ponto,
I am sorry to say, was a very mischievous



dog. He would hunt among the bushes,
and when he found a little bird's nest with
some pretty eggs in it, he would seize it in
his mouth, and bound away, to lay it at the
feet of Edmund. Ponto would also take a
wicked pleasure in frightening the cat, and
in exciting the anger of the old hen, with
her brood of chickens.
One Saturday afternoon, Edmund asked
leave to go and visit his cousin, who lived
about a mile distant His mother told him
that he might go, if he would come back
before five o'clock. Edmund promised that
he would not stay beyond that time, and
whistling for Ponto, heleft the house. He
had not walked far before he saw seme
large boys playing at. foot-ball. Climbing
a fence, he sat down to observe the game.
Ponto stretched himself upon the ground,
and sought amusement in catching the flies




which buzzed around his head. Suddenly,
a great noise was heard in the road; and,
turning round, Edmund saw a horse run-
ning away with a chaise, in which a little
girl sat, pale with terror. Several men
were running after the horse; and the boys
immediately left their play, and joined in
the chase. Ponto rose up, barked and
leaped forward, as if to encourage Edmund
to follow him. Edmund did not hesitate
long, but jumped from the fence, and fol-
lowed the other boys.
The horse ran nearly two miles before
he was caught. The little girl was saved,
although she'was much frightened. Ed-
mund felt very tired when he came up to
the spot where the chaise was stopped.
The little girl was carried home to her
father and mother; the horse was led
back to the stable; the men went to their



work, and the boys returned to their
play. Edmund and Ponto remained alone.
It was now late in the afternoon. The
sun was becoming less and less bright.
Edmund sat down*by the side of a brook to
rest himself. He felt quite tired; but
thought that he should be able to get home
in good season. He concluded not to go
to his cousin's house that afternoon. See-
eing a piece of wood by his side, he threw
it into the brook. Ponto jumped into the
water, took the stick in his mouth, and
brought it to Edmund. They played in
this way till sunset, and then Edmund
started up, and took the path towards his
The night was approaching fast. The
crickets were chirping loudly from all sides,
and everything seemed jo be settling into
repose. Edmund tried to whistle, and



Ponto barked. The trees grew thicker as
they advanced, and at last Edmund could
not see a single light streaming through
the leaves. He was nQt a timid child, and
he hastened forward with a light heart.
But soon he perceived that he had missed
his way. He was very, very tired, and sat
down on a large rock to repose himself.
He thought of his situation, and sighed.
Ponto leaped up, placed his fore-feet ,
Edmund's shoulders, and wagged his tail.
Edmund sighed again. Ponto barked, and
ran away.
Edmund stood up on the rock, and tried
to call back the dog. But Ponto had for-
saken him in his trouble, and he was now
all alone. He could no longer keep from
crying. His eyes were blinded with tears.
The night grew darker and darker, and
the grass was wet with dew.



After he had sat nearly an hour upon
the rock, Edmund heard a loud rustling in
the bushes. He was startled at the sound,
but his fears were quieted when he heard
the well-known barl of Ponto. The next
moment the faithful creature was at his
feet. There was then a sound of voices,
and Edmund heard his name shouted by
some one at a distance. Ponto again left
him, but soon returned. Two men rushed
through the bushes. One of them was
Edmund's father, and the other, John, the
Edmund returned in safety to his home.
His mother had suffered the greatest anx-
iety on his account; and the family had
been long in search of him. He learned a
useful lesson from his adventure. From
that moment, he overcome his idle and
dilatory habits.
** .,..,1 ..



My young readers! begin early to shun
delay, for it is dangerous. Go straight
forward in everything that you undertake,
and never'" linger by the road."


I i


rZ -\w


/, 1




HERE are the kits and their mother,
One, two, three, four, five!
I can scarce tell one from another,-
See how the darlings thrive!
This little brown one is Clover,
And that little black one is Sue,
And as for the other three, cousin,
I leave their names to you.

Well, I will call the gray one Rose,
And the one with white spots, Nab,
And the kit with the shining eyes, coz,
We may as well call Tab.
There is the mother-puss, beside,
Pray what shall we call her 7
I think as she's so good-natured,
We '1 call the old pussy, Purr.


"MAMMA, there is a poor boy in the
lane, who has no shoes on his feet; may I
give him an old pair of mine ? "
"I do not know, Charles; we must first
learn how it is that he has no shoes. What
did he say to you ?"
O, he said he had no shoes; and if I
had an old pair that I did not want, he
should be glad of them."
"Well, my dear, I do not think you
should give him your shoes, for I am not
sure that it would be a good thing for
him; it might make him idle, and like to
beg rather than to work, which would be a..
bad thing, you know; so, you see, by giving
him shoes, you would, perhaps, be doing


him harm, instead of good; but I will tell
you what you shall do: our man, John,
wants a boy to help him in the garden; so,
if this boy likes to work, John may try
him, and he can then soon earn enough to
buy a pair of shoes."
But how can he work in the garden
without shoes ?" said Charles; "he will hurt
his feet."
I do not think it will hurt his feet a bit
more to work in the garden than to walk
in the road, Charles; and if we can teach
this boy to work for what he wants, instead
of begging for it, we shall do him much
more good than if we were to give him ten
pairs of shoes, and a coat and hat into
the bargain."
"Then may I go and speak to JohlS
about it ?" said Charles.
"You are not sure the boy will like to
work, Charles."



O, he will be sure to like it, mamma,
when I tell him that he will get money to
buy shoes, and all he wants besides."
So away ran Charles, and spoke to the
boy, who said he was quite willing to work
in the garden; and then Charles went to
John, and told him all about it. John was
a kind man, and was very fond of Charles,
and was glad to do anything to please
him; so he soon set the boy to work, and
told him that if he was a good lad he might
come there to work for two or three
months, and that he would be paid half a
crown a week, and have his dinner besides.
Dan-that was the name of the boy-
had no father or mother, for they were both
dead; and he lived with an old man who
was his father's uncle. But this old man
did not take much care of him, or try to
teach him what was right, or how to earn



his bread; but let him run about with bare
feet and ragged clothes, so that, although
he was not a bad boy, he got into idle
habits, and would beg for bread and meat, or
for old clothes or money, and now and then
he would get a penny for holding a horse,
or running on some errand,-but that was
not often. He had been so used to this
idle way of life, that he soon got tired of
work, and thought it was more pleasant to
swing on a gate, or lie down under a hedge
and go to sleep; but he did not tlh -
foolish boy.! of how he was to live when h"
grew up to be a man.
The first day and the next day he did
very well; but the third day he began to
get careless, and told John he thought it
very hard to have to come at six o'clock in
the morning and work till six at night;
he was sure, he said, that no boy in tlh



world would like it; and he did not think
he should come there many more days.
Now, it was a happy thing for Dan that
John was such a good man as he was; for
some men would have sent him away, and
have had no more to do with him: but
John said to himself, This boy has been
badly brought up; he has had no one to
put him in the right way; and if he goes
back to his old mode of life, he will never
do any good. I will save him, if I can; for
it would be a pity that he should go to
ruin for want of a little good advice." Then
he talked a great deal to him, and told him
what a sad thing it would be if he grew up
to be a beggar all his life, which would
surely be the case if he did not learn to
like work. "You do not know the com-
fort," said he, "of being able to get an
honest living; but when you do, I am sure



you will not wish to live an idle life. If
you do not learn to work now, while you
are young, what is to become of you by
and by, do you think ? How do you ex-
pect to get food to eat, clothes to wear, or
a bed to lie upon? Come, my lad, take
heart, and work with a good will, and who
knows but, in time, you will become a rich
John spoke so kindly that the boy
thought he would try a little longer; so he
went on to the end of that week, and was
paid half a crown. He had never had so
much money in his life, nor had he ever felt
so proud and happy as when he went into
a shop, with the half-crown he had earned
with his own hands, to buy a pair of shoes.
" I see it is a good thing to work," said he;
" if I go on, I shall soon get enough to buy
a coat and a hat to go to church in."



And so he did, and he waited at the
church-door till Charles and his mamma
came out, that he might bow to them; and
Charles was so glad to see him look so
nice that he asked his mamma to let him
stop and tell him so.
Well, when the winter came, and there
was no more work to do in the garden,
John spoke to a friend of his, a blacksmith
in the village, about Dan; and the black-
smith said he might come to his shop, and
he would see what he could do with him.
So he went there, and made himself so
useful, that the blacksmith was glad to keep
him in his employ; and he was there a
great many years, and learned the trade,
and was one of the best workrhen for miles
At last, his master died; and then he took
the shop and set up for himself, and got on



so well that he was able to take a good
house to live in; and then he married the
daughter of his old friend John, who was a
little girl when he first went to work in the
garden. Charles also was grown up, and
married too, and often used to go and have
a chat with the blacksmith, and send his
horses there to be shod; and he would
sometimes say to himself, "It was much
better to find him work than to give him
my old shoes."




In a bushy, blooming tree,
Embosomed with the foliage and flower;
And there he sat and sang,
Till all around him rang
With sounds from out the merry mimic's bower.

The little satirist
Piped, chattered, shrikd and hissed;
He then would moan and whistle, quack and caw;
Then carol, drawl, and croak,
As if he 'd p a joke
On every winged thing he heard or saw.

Together lV would catch
A gay and plaintive snatch,
And mingle notes of half the feathered throng;
For well the mocker knew
Of everything that flew
To imitate the manner and the song.


The other birds drew near,
And paused a while to hear
How well he gave their voices !and their airs;
And some became amused,
While some, disturbed, refused
To own the sounds that others said were theirs.

The sensitive were shocked,
To find their honors mocked
By one so pert and voluble as he;
They knew not if 't was done
In earnest or in fun,
And fluttered off in silence from the tree.

The silliest grew vain,
To think a song strain
Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse.
Was worthy to be heard
Repeated by the bird,
For of his wit they coull not feel the force.

The charitable said,
Poor fellow! if his head
Is turned, or cracked, and has no talent left,



But feels the want of powers,
And plumes itself from ours,
Why, we shall not be losers by the theft."

The haughty said, He thus,
It seems, would mimic us,
And steal our songs to pass them for his own;
But if he only quotes
In honor of our notes,
We then were quite as honored, let alone!"

The wisest said, If foe
Or friend, we still may know.
By him, wherein our greatest falling lies;
So let us not be moved,
Since first to be improved
By everything becomes the truly wise."



THERE was once a rich man, who had
an only son; and he loved that son with all
hip heart, but he did not show his love by
letting him do anything he chose, but he
taught him to do what was right, so that he
grew up to be a wise and good young man.
He was not proud, nor did he think himself
better than others, because he lived in a
finer house, and had more servants to wait
upon him; he was not idle, for his father
had taught him not to be so; and he did
not spend his money in waste, for he had
also been taught that they who waste are
almost sure to come to want.
At last, there came a time when the rich
man lost all his wealth, and he had to give


up his fine house, to send away his servants,
and to live in a very poor and humble way.
I need not tell you how this came to pass,
but such things often happen, so no one
thought it strange; and though the people
were sorry, at first, when the father and son
went away from the place where they hdad
lived so long, yet they soon forgot them.
But what did the good son do, when this
trouble came upon them? Did he sit
down and grieve at his hard fate ? or did
he leave his father in his trouble, and go to
seek his own fortune in the world? No-
he said,, My dear father, do not let us be
cast down, for there are many in the world
who are worse off than we are. I am
young and strong, and will try to get some
employ, and have no doubt I can earn
enough for us both. You shall not want,
while I have health."



"But, my son," said the father, "you,
who have not been used to work, and know
no trade,--what can you do ?"
Those who have the will are sure to
find out the way," said the young man.
We had many friends when we were rich,
and it will be hard if some of them will not
let me work for them now we are poor; so
make yourself quite easy, for we shall still
do well."
You may think how happy that father
must have been to hear his son speak thus;
and how he would pray to God to bless
and reward him; nor did he pray in vain,
as we shall find, in the end.
Not far from the place where they had
come to live, there was a paper-mill, which
was always at work; for a great deal of
paper was made-there, and a great number
of men and women and children worked in
that mill.



Now, the young man's father had once
been very kind to the master of the mill,
and had lent him money to go on with his
trade at a time when he had none, and
must have given up his mill if he had not
met with some good friend to help him;
but after that he had done well, and now
he lived in plenty. So the young man
went to him and said, My father has lost
all that he had, and we are now poor; can
you employ me in your mill?"
Then the master of the mill said to him-
self, This is the son of the rich man who
was once so kind to me ; so I ought to help
him, if I can; and I dare say he can be of
use to me, for I am old now, and want
some one that I can trust to look after my
people, and keep account of what is done
in the mill." So, when this thought had
come into his head, he told the young man



he could give him plenty to do, and would
pay him well; and after he had become
acquainted with the business he had to man-
age, he ruade him the chief person, next to
himself, in the mill, and he soon grew very
fond of him, and treated him like a son, and
at last he took him in for a partner.
The good son thus, in a few years, be-
came rich once more; and he shared all
with his father, for he said, While you
nad wealth, my father, you gave me all
that I had need of; so now it is but just and
right that I should do the same for you."



"I SHALL have a nice ride on my new
pony, to-day," said Harry. "Do you
know, Sam, my aunt has sent me a pony?
Is It not kind of her?"
Yes, sir, it is very kind," said Sam;
"but I do not think you will have a ride to-
day, for it looks as if there would be a
no, there will be no storm to-day-
it does not look a bit like it; see there-
the sun shines-I'm sure there will be no
storm." Sam shook his head, and pointed
to the black clouds that were coming thick
and fast; but Harry still thought it would
be fine, so he 'had the pony got ready,
and it was brought to the gate. He was


just going out to mount, when there was a
loud clap of thunder, and down came the
rain as hard as it could pour. Then the
pony had to be led back to the stable, and
Harry went into the house with tears in his
eyes, and began to cry bitterly.
Why, Harry," said his papa, "what is
the matter, my man ? "
"( 0, papa, see how it rains, and I was
going out on my new pony!"
Is that all? I did not think you were
such a goose. Will tears stop the rain, do
you think ? If they would, I would cry, too,
for it will spoil the wet paint on the sum-
mer-house. Well, shall I also cry, and try
if the rain will cease ? "
This made Harry smile, but he still
thought it a great pity he could not go out
for his ride. But it was a good thing for
him that he did not go, as you shall soon



hear. The storm was not yet over, when
Sam ran in at the gate, almost out of
breath, and came up to the window where
Harry and his papa were standing. 0,
master Harry," said he; "I am so glad
you did not go! What a good thing the
rain came on just then,-for you might
have been killed."
What do you mean, Sam?" said Har-
ry's father. "I What is the matter ? "
Why, sir, the black bull got loose from
farmer Hill's field, about half an hour ago,
and has killed a horse, and tossed a man
over the hedge, and they say he is dead
too, but I think he is only a great deal hurt;
and if master Harry had gone out, he
would just have been in the lane at the
time, and must have met the bull; but they
have caught him now, so there is no fear."
Harry's papa put on his hat, and went


out to see what could be done for the poor
man who had been tossed; and found that
he had been taken home, and would have
to keep his bed for some days, as the fright
had made him very ill, although he was not
much hurt.
Well, Harry," said his father, when he
came back; "I hope you now see how
wrong it was to cry about the rain. It is
very well, my dear boy, that we cannot
always have things as we could wish; I
mean, such things as are not in our power
to rule and govern. Many things that we
do not like, at the time, turn out to be the
best for us, in the end; so that, the next
time you meet with a disappointment, I
would have you say to yourself, It is all
for the best."



"WHAT are you thinking of, Harriet ?"
said Mrs. Oswell to her daughter, who had
let her work fall from her hand, in deep
I am wondering, mamma, how it is
that I have been so much happier to-
day than I was yesterday. I know I am
always happy when I am good; and yester-
day I said my lessons very well, and I
think I did everything else you desired me;
but I was not so very happy last night as I
am to-night."
"Indeed, Harriet! And cannot you dis-
cover the reason of this difference ?"
SNo, mamma."
Suppose, then, I try to assist you.


Tell me how fou amused yourself yester-
When I had finished my lessons, you
know, you sent me into the garden, and I
stayed there a long time, weeding my
strawberry bed. I soon felt very tired;
but I did not much mind that, for I was
thinking all the time how nice it would be
to eat the strawberries, when they were
ripe. When I came in, Marion gave me a
large book, full of pictures, to look at, that
I might not disturb her while she was writ-
ing to brother Edmund; and in the even-
ing I played with my doll and with little
Emily; but she was not well, and was
rather cross, so I was soon tired, and went
to bed."
And what have you done to-day, since
school-time? "
to-day I have been so busy! Per-



haps Marion can tell you *hat I did be-
fore dinner, for here she comes, and I
think from her looks she must have found
it out."
At this moment, a tall, blooming girl of
fifteen entered the room, and affectionately
kissing her sister, exclaimed -
"Yes, dear Harriet, I have found out
how very kind you have been. You know,
mamma, I could not go to look at my gar-
den yesterday; in the morning I was so
busy unpacking, and my letter to Edmund
occupied all the afternoon. This morning,
while I was so busy with you, I often
thought of my flower-bed, and knew it
must be quite covered with weeds, as I had
been at school so long, and not able to take
care of it. To-night I ran to it, determined
to have one look, and found it so beautiful-
ly neat not a single weed to be seen! I



asked John if he had done it for me?
' No, he had been too busy; but he thought
he had seen Miss Harriet there, in the
morning.' So, thank you, dear Harriet; I
shall not soon forget your kindness."
I am very glad you are so much pleased,
Marion; but you cannot think how happy I
was when I was doing it -much happier
than when I was weeding my own strawber-
ries yesterday. But you desired me to tell
you, mamma, what I have been doing be-
sides. When I went into the nursery to
wash my hands, I found poor Emily crying
terribly; her beautiful doll was lying by her
on the floor, broken to pieces. You know,
mamma, I am getting too old to play with
dolls; so I gave her mine, and have been
busy all the afternoon 'dressing it for her.
I wish you had seen her when she kissed
me, and promised that she would not let






this fall; -she seemed to think it much
prettier than her old one. Since tea, you
know, I have been hemming this cravat for
papa. 0, dear! I have been talking so
fast, that I had almost forgotten my work,
and I shall hardly get it finished to-night."
So saying, her little fingers set to work
even faster than before.
"I think I can tell you now, Harriet,
why you feel so much happier to-night than
you did last night."
0 why, mamma ?"
"Just think, for a moment, my dear little
girl, for whom was your leisure time spent
yesterday ? "
"I only amused myself."
And have you done anything for your-
self to-day ?"
No, mamma; nothing."
c Then, now, my love, you can under-



stand what you so much wished to know-
the more useful day has been the happier
one. Always remember this, my dear
Harriet you can never be unhappy while
you do everything that is in your power for
others, without the hope of recompense.
Kindness brings its own reward. Emily
will, I dare say, continue to like the. doll
you have given her, even better than her
own. And see how happy Marion looks,
because she has so affectionate a little
girl for her sister! Here is papa, too,
come just in time to see how busy Harriet
has been for him. And now, good-night,
my dear girl. May every day be spent as
pleasantly as the last has been."
Good-night, mamma! How I wish I
could always be useful!"



THE waves are stirring the sea-pearls,
The sea-breeze murmurs low,
And sways on our brow the careless curls,-
It cannot be time to go!
Here let us stay a moment more,
Till the sun sinks from our sight,
And be guided home,
Through the bright sea-foam,
By the fair moon's tender light.

Our spaniel is watching the sea-birds' flight,
As they come so near in crowds,
As they hover close to my cheek, love,
With their snow-white wings, like shrouds;
List to the sea-shell's dirge-like sigh,
Watch the light boat,
On the wave afloat,
Till the light fades from the sky.





^ -^


WHEN the trees were green, and the
hedges full of wild roses, and birds singing,
and butterflies fluttering over the sweet
clover-fields, in the pleasant month of June,
Willie and Alice Grey received an invita-
tion to go to their grandpapa's on the last
day of hay-making, when the hay is carted
and stacked. Their grandpapa had a
garden, a field, and a cow, and a sw i..g,
the field; and at all times to go to see kim
and their aunts was a great pleasure, but
at hay-making time it was more than ever
delightful; so they set out with their mother,
and their favorite dog, Ranger, in joyous
It was a bright sunny morning, and very


warm, and the road was very dusty, so
that, happy as they were, they could not
help feeling tired before half the walk was
over; and when they came in sight of
farmer Dale's, they wished "this was
grandpapa's," and sat down by the gate,
thinking it would be very nice if they might
go by the fields, instead of the dusty road.
At this moment, they heard the sound of
wheels, and horses' feet, coming tramp,
tramp, behind the hedge; and, looking
through the gate, they saw farmer Dale's
horse and wagon, with Charley the carter
walking by the side.
"Ah, Charley!" cried little Willie,
" where are you going ?"
To Squire Wakefield's," answered he,
"to cart his hay."
Then we shall see you again presently,
for we are going to grandpapa's too," said



Wo! Smiler," said Charley, and the
horse stopped.
Charley began to open the gate, then
touched his hat, and asked Mrs. Grey if she
would please to walk in and go through
the fields. She was very much obliged to
him, and the children were delighted to get
on the grass. They ran along by the side
of the cart, looking at the great horse as
he went on so strongly, and as if he did
not feel the weight of the cart in the least.
"What is all that wood for, that you
have in the wagon ? asked Alice.
That is to lay under the hay-stack.
The hay is laid on wood, not on the damp
ground, you see, miss. If it was not for
the wood, you and Master Willie might
have got into the cart and had a ride; but
you might get hurt some way, if it shook



Thank you, Charley; I should have
liked it very much," said she.
Wo! Smiler," said Charley again, and
again Smiler stopped.
You could both ride on Smiler's back,
if you're not afraid," said Charley.
"May we, mother ?" cried Alice. "I
should like it very much, only it looks so
high up."
Suppose we should tumble off," said
little Willie, rather doubtfully.
Their mother was a little afraid at first,
too; but Charley assured her he would take
great care of the young gentleman and
lady; and presently Willie felt quite cour-
ageous, and was lifted up and seated very
firmly, and took fast hold of the collar.
Then Charley lifted up Alice, and she put
her arm round Willie's waist. Then Ran-
ger began to bark and leap up, as if he
wanted to have a ride too.



"Stay by us, mother," cried Willie.
SWhat a height we are from the ground!"
"0 yes, stay by us," said Alice, who
could not help feeling a little frightened
I will stay by you," said their mother;
"sit firm, and you are in no danger."
Now hold fast," cried Charley. "Gee
wot! Smiler!" and away went Smiler,
tramp, tramp, again. Very soon they got
used to the motion, and laughed and
chatted, and enjoyed it very much. Ranger
went on, jumping 'and barking all the
way; but Smiler did not mind: he never
stopped. It was all their mother could do
to keep up with them.
Open the gate. Look where we are,"
cried Willie, when they stopped ot their
grandpapa's field, and smelt the sweet new
hay. The gate was thrown open, and in



they went in triumph, and were soon sur-
rounded by a whole troop of merry people,
with hay-forks and rakes in their hands,
and lifted down and kissed and welcomed
by all.
There. were Aunt Lucy, and Aunt
Emily, and Uncle John; and there were
their little cousins, Mary and Janey, with
their elder brother Robert; and their friends
Herbert and Meggy, with their father
and mother. And there were Thomas,
the gardener, and two hay-makers, whose
names were Joe and Roger; and Emma,
the cook, and Harriet, the housemaid.
All were in the field, hard at work, spread-
ing the large hay-cocks into long ridges
ready to cart.
Willie and Alice were first taken to the
summer-house, in one corner of the field,
to have some cake and milk; and then a



little rake was given to each, and they
went hard to work raking the hay like the
The wagon was standing behind the
summer-house, by the place where the
stack was to be made, and Thomas was
busy unloading it, and laying the wood in
a proper form, ready to lay the hay on.
This was soon done, and he got into the
wagon himself, fork in hand.
Who will have a ride down the field ?"
he cried.
"I will,-I will,-let me,-take me
up !" cried many voices, and in two minutes
every child there was seated in the wagon,
and away went Smiler with them down the
field, and Charley led him to the end of one
of the long ridges of hay.
Now out they must all come, as fast as
they got in. Uncle John held out his



hands, and jumped them down one after
another, on to the ridge of hay, and ended by
burying them under it. But Thomas called
out that it was not time to play yet; so
they all scrambled up as well as they could
for laughing. Joe and Roger, Uncle John
and Robert, forked up the hay and threw
it into the wagon, and Thomas, standing
up in it, packed it all even; all the rest
raked after them, collecting what was scat-
tered, and Charley led Smiler on and on,
as they cleared. Soon there was a good
heaped load.
Who will have a ride on the top of the
hay ? cries Thomas.
All the children were ready. So now
Uncle John must lift them up; and, as
Thomas received them, and seated them on
the dry loose hay, they sunk in it very com-
fortably, and their faces peeped out like



the young birds in a nest. When Smiler
moved on, they set up a shout, and grand-
papa himself came out to see what was
"Here we are! Ah, grandpapa, come
up too!" cried Alice and Willie; but he
laughed, and said, "that would never do
for him."
Now they had to be handed down again,
sliding and jumping as well as they could;
for the wagon was led to the right place,
and the hay was to be forked out and laid
in order on the wood. Joe and Roger
built the stack; Thomas, Robert, and
Uncle John, threw the hay out of the
wagon; the rest had time to rest or play;
only a few had to rake what was scattered
by the wind or dropped, and Thomas soon
sent them all to shake the rest of the cocks
into ridges.



Now came a new visitor into the field,
it was Daisy, the cow. All the time the
grass was growing, she had. been kept in
the cow-house; but now Aunt Lucy had de-
termined she should come and enjoy the
pleasant air and grass once more. Daisy
was a pretty Guernsey cow, with short
horns, a small head, short legs, and was
prettily spotted white and light brown. She
was very gentle and tame, but she was
young and playful; so when she found her-
self once more in her field, she set off,
levelled her horns at a large hay-cock,
knocked it down, and ran round by the
hedge with a great bunch of hay on her
head. Everybody laughed, and grandpapa
declared it was exactly as if she had said
to the hay-cock, So it was for you I was
kept shut up all this time! down with




"You ought to have jumped over it,
Daisy!" cried Uncle John.
Uncle John must jump over a hay-
cock!" cried Alice.
Yes, yes, Uncle John! Do jump over
a hay-cock," exclaimed several voices.
"To be sure I will," he said; so he laid
down his fork, took off his straw hat, chose
out one of the tallest hay-cocks, went back
several paces, took a run, then a jump;
but, high as he jumped, it was not high
enough. His foot came thump against the
top of the hay-cock, knocked it off, and he
tumbled down on the other side, where he
was buried under the rest of it, by the chil-
dren, the next minute.
There is no saying when he would
have got out; but the sight of the empty
wagon, going down the field, made them
all eager for a ride, and Uncle John must


crawl out and help them in; and then every
one was hard at work again.
By and by it was dinner-time. A cold
dinner was ready for every one, and it was
surprising what appetites they had; but
the children could not sit long,-they must
be off to the field again; and as the men
were not ready to go on yet, they began to
play. They pelted each other with hay.
Little Willie was seized as he was running
along with a load on his head to throw at
some one, laid on a hay-cock, and quite
hid under a heap; then out he got, and
Alice was smothered; then all the others.
Would anybody like a swing ?" cried
Robert, who had just come out.
Everybody liked swinging,-so to the
swing all went. It was hung to one of the
arms of a large elm-tree. Alice was put
in first, and Robert swung her so high that



she touched the green leaves and branches
with her feet, and she enjoyed it very
much; but she soon called out to him to
stop, that some one else might come in.
Herbert was such a bold swinger that he
liked to stand up on the board, and Janey
stood up with him; they held tight, and
went up as high as Alice had done. Then
little Willie and Mary were put in side by
side, and swung together; and then Meggy
had her turn; and while she was scudding
through the air, first touching the high
branches with her head, then with the tips
of her toes, Thomas called all to work
Smiler had been taken out of the shafts
and allowed to feed where he liked; but
now he must be fastened in again; and
as Charley had gone a message, Joe un-
dertook to do it, and was a long time over



it, for he did not understand how to fasten
the buckles; however, it was done at last,
and .ho led the wagon while the others load-
ed, and then the children were mounted on
the top as before. They had got to the
lower part of the field, and Smiler had to
drag them up a steep bank. As he was
straining up, and had nearly reached the
top, one of the buckles, not properly fast-
ened by Joe, gave way. Up went the
shafts, down went the back of the wagon,
and out fell all the hay, and all the children
with it, on the grass. Smiler walked off
quietly, and began to eat grass very con-
tentedly; grandpapa, uncle, aunts, papas,
and mammas rushed to the spot in alarm.
Nothing was to be seen of children;
nothing but a great heap of hay; but the
hay began to shake, and out came a head,
then a foot, then a hand, then several



heads, feet, and hands: then some were
able to laugh, others to cry, and others
to answer the anxious question, "Are you
No one was hurt. Alice's bonnet was
beat flat over her eyes, but her mother soon
straightened it; Meggy's frock wds torn,
but Aunt Emily brought out a needle and
thread and mended it; Herbert lost a top
out of his pocket, and Willie could not find
his cap till the hay was nearly all flung
into the wagon again; but when they had
shaken themselves well, and had got the
hay out of their mouths and hair as well as
they could, it was declared that no harm
was done. It happened, however, that
though Charley now fastened the harness
right and tight, no one asked to get up on
the next load or two; they preferred rather
to run by the side.



The sun began to go round towards the
west, and the trees to cast a longer shadow,
and the field was nearly cleared; but now
tea was ready, under a spreading beech.
Such a great tea-pot, such an immense jug
of milk, such platefuls of cake and bread
and batter, such piled heaps of straw-
berries and cherries, were there for them,
as they had never seen before; and much
they enjoyed everything.
"' What are those bright ribbons for,
Aunt Lucy ?" cried somebody. And all,
leaving the remains of the feast, found the
grass covered with bits of ribbon of every
"Where are your rakes?" said she.
Choose your colors. All of you must
have a streamer on your rakes when the
last load goes to be stacked."
Now there was a great bustle. One



would have green, another blue, another
pink, another white. Then the forks were
dressed; and then, for fathers and mothers,
who had not been at work, long sticks were
cut, and ribbons tied on them. Smiler
must be dressed now. He had bunches of
green leaves at each ear; and, as ribbon
failed, long strips of bright-colored calico
were torn up and tied about his mane, tail,
and harness. Ranger was caught, and
had a fine collar of blue and red, with
a large bow, put on; and Herbert's little
dog Ponto was made splendid, by tying
bright strips to his long white hair, all over
The carting was going on, and rakers
were soon called for. The field was
cleared; the wagon was about half full, and
it was the last load.
All must mount now, rakes and forks in



hand. Not only children, grandpapa
was in; now father, now mother, now Aunt
Lucy, now Aunt Emily, and Uncle John,
and Emma, and Harriet. All were in.
Charley walked at the head, a long red
streamer on his whip. Joe and Roger
waited on the stack, streamers on their
"Now hold up your rakes and forks,
and shout *for the last load!" cries
Thomas. He 'was obeyed; there was a
famous shout.
They stopped at the stack. "Master
must please to get up on the stack, and
Joe and Roger must come down."
Grandpapa mounted on the stack; all
the rest stood up in the wagon.
( Three cheers for Squire Wakefield!
whose hay we have got in this day," cries



There were three capital cheers, and
then Mr. Wakefield, thanking them, told
them supper would be ready in half an
hour, and invited them all to partake.
It was a lovely evening, and the long
supper tAble was laid in the garden, on
the lawn. The children helped to lay
the tables, and were ready and delighted
to wait on the company at supper. There
was abundance of everything, and the
tables looked beautiful when the high vases
of flowers and heaped dishes of fruit were
placed among the substantial dishes.
The hay was stacked, Smiler put up in
the stable, and Thomas and his two assist-
ants, with Charley, had come into the gar-
den; and now the guests began to arrive,-
Thomas' wife and three children, Emma's
Brother and sister, Harriet's father and sis-
ter, Charley's old mother, Joe's wife, Rog-



her's mother and sister. There were seats
for everybody. Mr. Wakefield and Aunt
Lucy took the two ends of the table, and
the children waited on all. Everything
was so well arranged that they found it
quite easy; and when they had no more to
do, they formed rings on the grass, and
danced to their own voices.
Then songs were sung, and the children
sometimes joined in chorus; and pleasant
stories were told, and they stopped their
dance to listen. The sun had gone down
in a golden sky, and the moon was up,
when the happy party separated. The
children stayed all night; every sofa and
bed was full, and the moon that lighted
the other guests to their several homes
peeped in at the windows of Mr. Wake-
field's cottage on many little eyelids fast
closed in sleep, after a very merry day.



BAPTIST had a favorite dog, that used to
follow him everywhere, and was one of the
most faithful and sagacious creatures ever
met with. He usually accompanied us to
S- and though the town is large, and
was often crowded, we never felt any fear
of losing poor Sweetheart. At last, how-
ever, we lost him. His fidelity was not in
fault, but we had every reason tb believe
he had been stolen.
The streets were unusually crowded on
one of our walks to S- and we did not
miss the dog till after our return home. It
was then too late to recover him; but I
heard that he had been seen dragged along
by some beggars, with a muzzle on his


mouth, and his poor tail between his legs.
Of course, I gave him up for lost. Two or
three years passed away, yet Sweetheart
was not forgotten by either of my children.
I often heard conversations between them,
at which I could not resist smiling; for, in
the simplicity of their hearts, they always
spoke of the great probability of recover-
ing poor Sweetheart, and of bringing the
thieves to justice.
During a visit that we paid to my brother
and the Eresby family in London, Baptist
and I were walking in one of the streets
near Soho, when our path was stopped for
a while by one of those crowds often col-
lected in the streets when anything is to be
seen or heard. I was pushing my way for-
ward, but as I found Baptist was in no such
hurry, I also stopped. A man was turning
the handle of an organ, and puffing and



blowing, with a rapidly moving chin, at
the pan-pipes that were stuck just below
within his waist-coat; and in the midst
of a circle that had been cleared by
the mob, were two dogs dancing. One
was attired as a lady, in a petticoat of
scarlet cloth, ornamented with tarnished
spangles, and a cap and a feather; the
other as a soldier, with a cocked hat, and
a very short-waisted jacket of blue cloth,
faced with red, and a pair of pantaloons,
through the back of which his tail turned
up. While the organ was playing the
dance continued; but when it stopped, the
dog in the soldier's dress took what seemed
to be the crown of an old beaver hat, cut
into a sort of shallow dish, from the organ-
man, and holding it in his mouth, went
round the crowd to beg. A few half-pence
were thrown into it. The dog came up to



Baptist, who had managed to get among
the foremost within the circle. He also
put some half-pence into the hat, and, as he
did so, said, Poor fellow! poor fellow!
The first sound of his voice had a magical
effect on the dog; the hat and its contents
dropped at once, and, with a short, joyful
bark, the poor little disguised dog leaped
upon him and licked his hand, and seemed
unable to express with sufficient liveliness
the joy it felt.
"Father," cried the boy, in a loud voice,
"it is my dog, my own lost faithful
Sweetheart, and he knows me; 't is my dog,
that was stolen by the beggars at S--."
The organ-man came forward to seize
the dog, but Sweetheart--for it was in-
deed the very lost Sweetheart snarled
and growled, and even snapped at the man.
"He is my own dog!" said Baptist, stoop-



ing down and caressing poor Sweetheart,
-(- indeed he is, and no one shall take him
away from me. Judge between us," said
the boy, with an energy that surprised me,
turning and appealing to the mob, but hold-
ing Sweetheart fast under his arm, all the
while. The bystanders seemed almost as
much interested as we were in all that
passedand many of them came between
the angry man (who seemed still deter-
mined to seize the dog) and Baptist. In-
deed, the fellow had slung his organ
behind him, and was coming forward with
a small whip that he produced from his
pocket, the sight of which seemed to dash
at once all the spirit of poor Sweetheart.
After much expostulation, and some threats,
and at last on the offer of a piece of gold,
the man seemed to think that his best plan
was to give up the dog, and the whip was



pocketed again, while Baptist released his
old favorite from his military attire.
Once, several years after, Sweetheart
was missed by his young master at Oxford;
and, on turning the corner of the street to
seek him (which he did instantly), he found
the dog on his hind legs, turning round and
round, and making a sort of slow pirouette
before an old man, who was very slowly
grinding an organ.

0 0





UP in the hay-loft,
The other day,
We found a hen's egg,
Among the hay.
We took it home,
In my straw hat,
And the old hen
Was mad at that.

I hear her cackling, -
Let us go
And look for another;
Won't you, Joe ?
Ah! here is one,
Among the straw, -
That is the second,
Hip! hip! hurrah!


PASSING along the street, I saw, at a
little distance before me, two boys, broth-
ers, come out of a house, and run towards a
gate leading from the door-yard into the
street. Henry, the youngest, came to the
gate first. In pure fun and frolic, he shut
the gate, and placed himself against it in
such a way as to prevent his brother from
opening it and going out. William seized
the gate, and pulled to open it, and Henry
held on to prevent him. They pulled and
struggled, the one to open it, the other to
keep it shut. At first it seemed all in fun;
they laughed and frolicked about it. Soon,
however, they began to get excited and
angry, each striving for the mastery, and


using provoking and' unkind language.
Finally, the eldest pulled the gate open,
and, in doing so, hurt his brother. But
Henry was evidently a great deal more
angry than hurt. le was angry because
William had proved the stronger, and more
angry still to hear him boast of his victory.
Henry flew at his brother, in great wrath,
and declared he would kill him. Both be-
came very angry. All brotherly love was
gone. But William, being the eldest and
strongest, soon hurled his brother down on
his back, in the mud, held down both his
arms, and pounced on his breast with his
knees enough to beat the breath out of his
body. They both looked as if they would
have killed eachlother, if they could. As I
came up, William got off from his brother;
but Henry was so bruised and stunned, that
he could not get up without help, nor stand
when he was up..


This hateful quarrel between two broth-
ers began in mere fun and frolic. But
it would never have happened, if these
boys had learned how wicked it is, and how
displeasing in the sight of God, for his
children to quarrel with and injure one
another. I suppose they thought it
brave to fight, as many other foolish chil-
dren do. If William thought Henry was
holding the gate on purpose to plague him,
he ought to have waited pleasantly till
Henry was willing to open it, and not have
tried to force it open, at the risk of hurt-
ins his brother. Henry would not have
held 'it long, and then they could have
gone out and had a pleasant play together.
Or, if Henry had opened the gate as soon
as he saw that William was becoming
cross and angry, there would have been
no quarrel, and both the boys would have


felt kind and happy. Brothers should
never do anything in a frolic merely to try
each other's temper, lest it should lead to a


LITTLE bird! little bird! come to me!
I have a green cage ready for thee;
Many bright flowers I'11 bring to you,
And fresh ripe cherries, all wet with dew.

Thanks, little maiden, for all thy care,
But I dearly love the clear, cool air;
And my snug little nest in the old oak-tree
Is better than golden cage for me.

Little bird! little bird! where wilt thou go,
When the fields are all buried in snow ?
The ice will cover the old oak-tree -
Little bird! little bird! stay with me.

Nay, little maiden; away I'11 fly
To greener fields and a warmer sky;


When spring returns, with pattering rain,
My merry song you will hear again.

Little bird! little bird! who'll guide thee
Over the hills, and over the sea ?
Foolish one, come in the house to stay,
For I am sure you will lose your way.

Ah, no, little maiden! God guides me
Over the hills and over the sea.
I will be free as the morning air,
Chasing the sunlight everywhere I


MARY WILSON was so pretty, and pos-
sessed such a sweet temper, that she was
greatly beloved by all who knew her.
Some children, who know that they are
handsome, become vain, proud, and ill-
tempered; but it was not so with Mary.
Mary's parents lived only a little way
from the city, in a neat little cottage, the
walls of which were covered with beautiful
flowers. You could hardly imagine a
more beautiful spot.
Our little Mary was now nine years old.
Her father had taught her to read every
fine evening, sitting at the cottage door;
and so attentive was she to her lessons,
that she was soon able to read in any book
with ease.


When she attended school, she was so
good a scholar, that her teacher appointed
her a monitor to her class, many of whom
were older than herself. Mary was so
kind, and affectionate, and good-tempered,
that the whole school loved her. Neither
was she wilful or selfish, like many little
girls that I have seen; bdt she would always
yield her will to that of others, if she found
she had beenwin the wrong; for I do not
wish to have the reader suppose that she
was perfect. Far from it. But she did
not indulge herself in bad feelings, or
thoughts, or desires, as some young folks
are apt to do.
When Mary could be spared from her
other employment, she would visit the
poor sick people in the neighborhood, and
do everything in her power to render them
comfortable. At church, no one was more



attentive than little Mary, She seemed to
take pleasure in the exercises, and to think
much of her Creator, not only at church,
but at home. Her warm young heart often
seemed to go out to Him in prayer, and in
singing hymns and psalms, for she was
a sweet singer,--and she also loved to
read her Bible. When she was at play
with her little companions, she was always
cheerful and happy, and fady to oblige
and do them good.
One fine morning she wentiAt, with her
father, in a sail-boat, and several others with
them. For some time all was pleasant, and
they enjoyed the excursion. But, all of a
sudden, the clear sky became overcast with
clouds, the wind began to rise, and the
smooth water began to be rough and agi-
tated. Soon it blew a gale, and at last upset
the boat. Poor Mary was thrown into the


water with the rest, and might have been
drowned, had not her father, who was a
good swimmer, rescued her. They all
escaped, but some of them very. narrowly.
Mary was taken into another boat, but the
fright and the chill, together, threw her into
a violent fever. The doctor was called,
and did all he could, but she daily grew
worse. It was delightful to see how pa-
tiently Mary bore her sufferings. The
little children, all around, came to see her,
-for almo#.verybody loved her,-and she
talked with them as much as her friends
thought she was able to.
But it was painful to see how fast her
rosy cheek grew wan and pale, and her
body became emaciated. It now became
evident that she was not likely to recover.
Indeed, Mary thought so herself. She
now talked much to her friends and corn-




panions about dying, and about heaven,
and angels, and the Saviour. She said she
expected to go to heaven, and to be very
happy there.
One day, when her mother and three of
her little companions were standing around
her bed-side, some of them weeping, -
"0, my dear, dear mother," said she,
"don't weep for me. I am indeed going
to leave you; but I am going to a place
where I shall be far happier than ever I
was here. I had a drearst now. I
thought I was wandering in a beautiful
walk, when I fancied, all at once, for I
know it could be only a fancy, mother, -
that an angel, with golden wings, came and
took me by the hand, and kissed me, and
said, 'Rose, you are coming to live with
me forever.' Then I seemed to hear the
sound of harps, and other delightful music.



And, oh, mother, I do think I shall soon be
with the angels, and with my dear Sav-
"My dear child," said her mother, "I
hope God will allow you to live with us a
little longer." 0 no, dear mother," was
the reply; "I shall go very soon to that
delightful world you have so often told me
about, where the sun always shines, and
the flowers never fade.- 0, -dear moth-
er--kiss me--I aI going now!" She
then closedbr eyes, and in a few minutes
afterward her spirit fled--none knew
whither -but it was gone! The body
was indeed there; but it was not Mary
Wilson. Perhaps Mary herself was al-
ready with the angels, as she hoped to be.
Those of my young friends who read this
story of Rose must not mourn for her, as
they would for a bad child,- one who never


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