By ihe Avor qf
"CHIOWxtrD WITHOUT CUICUWOID," "MBIBL ITOUIr," "PAPA'
STORIES," "BARLY BIUDB," "NAMIMA' OWN STORT BOOK,
DARTON & CO., HOLBORN HILL.
WILLIAM ITaTIMNs, PSINTs, 8, BBLL TADP,
ANDROCLES AND THE LION 1
THE MOUSE THAT WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD 12
THE LADY-BIRD 19
THE FATHER AND HIS SON. 20
LITTLE SALLY AND HER BROTHER 29
THE USE OF A NEEDLE 31
BUILDING A HOUSE 37
THE OTHER NAME FOR REAL POLITENESS . 41
THE WIDOW'S SON 47
THE TWO ARTISTS 52
THE GOOD BOY AND GIRL 58
THE VALUE OF TRUTH 63
THE HAPPY RABBIT 74
TRUE ORNAMENTS 79
THE LITTLE GARDEN 84
THE POOR ORGAN BOY 90
THE SNOW 95
THE CATERPILLAR THAT WOULD BE A BUTTER-
THE JUDGE, AND WHY HE LOOKS GRAVE 110
THE STRAY PIGEON . 11
ANDROCLES AND THE LION.
I READ once a story that I think will
please you. It was called Androcles
and the Lion. In those days, when
rich people were served by slaves,
whom they could sell or torture as
they pleased, there was a man named
Androcles, who had the misfortune
to be in the service of a hard and
cruel master. And his slavery was
at last so bitter to him, that he re-
solved to run away. But he had no
friends, and no other home than that
ANDROCLES AND THE LION.
where he lived in bondage. So he
could flee nowhere for escape but to
the lonely woods. There, hidden
amongst pathless wilds, he thought
he should be safe from pursuit; and
as to the dangers from hunger, or
savage beasts that were likely to at-
tack him there, he dreaded them less
than the iron rod under which he
had been so long groaning. Or per-
haps even he did not think of them
at all, but only of the liberty after
which his heart panted. So, one dark
night, he stole away when all the
household was asleep, and before
ANDROMI.S AND TU3 LION.
the dawn of day was already far off
amongst the wilds of a thick forest,
which no human foot had ever trod
He was well used to hard fare, so
the nuts and berries he could find
were all-sufficient for his hunger.
But after walking deeper and deeper
into the forest he began to feel tired,
and looking round for some place
where he might sleep with safety, he
saw very near him a large and rocky
cave. This was just the very thing
for poor Androcles, and going a little
way into it he lay down upon a heap
ANDROCLIS AND T1U LION.
of dry leaves some idle wind had
blown there, and was soon fast asleep
How long he slept he could not
tell, but he was at last awakened by
a loud moaning, and, starting up, what
was his horror to see at the entrance
of the cave a monstrous lion. This
cave was his den, as poor Androcles
little thought when he took posses.
sion of it. Fear almost stopped his
breath at first, and he stood trem-
bling, expecting every moment that
the lion would spring upon him. But4
strange to say, the great creature
showed no desire to do so, but only
ArNDROOtaU AND TRt LION6
inoaned'and held up one of itsibrem
paws, which it did not seem able to
put to the ground.
Androcles by degrees took heart,
and observed that this paw was very
much swelled, and certainly in great
pain. Whether he found courage
to walk to the lion, or whether the
lion limped towards him, I do not re*
member; but I know, that at last he
thought he would try to help the
poor suffering beast, and taking hold
of the enormous paw, he saw that a
very large thorn was sticking in the
ball of the foot. This it was which
6 ANDIOCLU, AND TMi LION.
made the lion in such pain; and
some instinct seemed to assure him
that Androcles would help him in
his trouble, and he sat patiently wait-
ing to see what he would do.
Now Androcles was very kind-
hearted, and had not been made hard
or unfeeling by his own sorrows. So
he forgot all his fears in trying to
comfort the poor wounded lion, and
taking hold of the thorn he very
carefully drew it from his foot. No
sooner did the lion feel the cause of
his suffering taken away than he
was filled with joy, and began to
ANM Ct Mo AND 1Il ttON.
jump about, as you may have seen a
dog do when it is pleased. Poor An-
drooles thought that now he should
certainly be eaten up; but, to his
great surprise, the lion came and
fawned upon him, and tried in every
way to show his gratitude for the
favour he had received.
However Androcles felt so little at
ease that he took the first opportu-
nity of escaping from the den, and
going further to find another shelter.
But the lion was soon at his side
again, and was so gentle and playful
and loving -that at last Androclee
ANDROCIZ AND TH ULON.
made up his mind to trust his grate
ful companion, and they went back
together to the den. There for many
weeks they lived in the greatest har-
mony and happiness, "and poor An-
drocles found in the society of the
wild beast a pleasure he had never
tasted in the presence of his fellow-
men. Every day the lion went out
to forage for food, and Androcles
always shared his prey, which he
cooked by means of a fire kindled
with flints and dry wood.
But at last the lion was wounded
by the hunters, while out in search
ANDQOC&ba AND 9I LIOrW.
of food, and returning to his den
was tracked thither by the blood he
shed. There one of the hunters
seeing Androcles knew him at once,
as the slave that had been missed.
For he was a valuable slave and
had been sorely wanted by his
master ever since his flight, and
everything had been done to find out
where he was hidden, but in vain
till now. So poor Androcles was car-
ried back to the city he had left, and
there being tried before a judge, he
was found guilty, and condemned
to be thrown to a wild beast; for to
ANDMOCLt AND TEI LION.
run away was the greatest crime a
slave could commit, and no punish'
ment was thought too bad for it.
Well, he was put into prison un-
til the day fixed for his death, and
then brought into the place where
such cruel scenes used t be acted.
And a lion, that had been kept with-
out food for many days on purpose
that he might be savagely hungry,
was let loose upon him.
Hundreds and hundreds of people
were gathered round the spot in or-
der to see the dreadful sight; but
what was their wonder when the fu-
ANDIOOLU AND TB8 LION.
rious lion, who had sprung eagerly
forth on seeing a man ready for him
to devour, fell tamely down before
Androcles, and licked his feet with
every sign of gentleness and love.
For it was indeed his own forest
friend who had been brought to eat
him up; but who, hungry though he
was, would not harm the man who
had been so kind to him.
The strange story spread far and
wide, and soon reached the ears of
the governor, who ordered the man
and the lion (who followed him like
a dog) to be brought before him.
THE MOUSB THAT WANTED
And when he had heard Androeles's
tale, and seen the wonderful grati&
tude of the lion, he gave command
that Androcles should be set at liber-
ty, since the sentence passed upon
him, of being exposed to a wild beast,
had been complied with, and that
the lion should be presented to him
for his own.
THE MOUSE THAT WANTED TO
SEE THE WORLD.
THERE was once a little mouse who
lived in a hole under an old oak-
tree. Her nest was the prettiest
TO SR TUBE WORLD,
and the softest that could be thougiA
of. But the little mouse grew tired
of the old oak-tree, and wanted to
see the world. So one day, when
the pretty blue-bells were ringing
merrily all around her tree, and the
morning sun shone brightly in the
cloudless sky, away she went for
change of air and scene, as she said
to herself. Ah, silly little mouse 1
There is not a mossy nest under
every tree in the wide world, and the
summer sun does not always shine.
On she went and very much tired
she got, and after all she felt rather
THE MOUSE TRAT WANTED '
disappointed; for there was nothing
but trees, and blue-bells, and clear
skies, and she wanted change. And
change came too soon. The sun be.
gan to set, and the skies grew dark
and gloomy, and at last the light-
ning and thunder and rain came on
all around her. And there were no
more blue-bells or green trees, for
she was out upon a bare common.
0, then, how earnestly the little
mouse lamented her folly, and how
bitterly she sighed after her mossy
hole in the old oak-tree.
She tried to run back, but her
TO U. TH1 WQOLD,
title fee gt ot.ologged with mud, for
tke rain poured heavily. And all
aight long she wandered about, seek-
ing in vain for shelter. And early
in the morning she was seen by a
shepherd-boy who had come out be-
imes to work, and he carried her
home and shut her up in a dismal
box with only four little bars to peep
through at the light of day; and dry
brown bread and bad apples were
all she got to eat, instead of the fresh
nuts she used to find in the wood.
0, how she sighed for her little
distant home. And at last, when
THE MOUSE THAT WANTED
she had learned to think that after
all she had been very ungrateful
the pleasures she had left, an
had made up her mind, bad as her
lot was, to try and be content with
it, the little shepherd-boy's sister
begged him so hard to let her set
the little mouse free, that having al-
ready grown tired of it he gave her
leave to do as she liked. And being
a very kind little girl, she thought
the pleasant green wood hard by
must be a charming place for a little
mouse. So she asked her mother's
leave, and, one lovely morning, she
TO 5sg THE WORLD.
set out with the dismal cage in her
hAnd; and away she went far into
the green wood, till she came to one
of the sweetest spots all shut in with
thick trees, and where the blue-bells
made a bright carpet on the ground,
and there she opened the cage-door
and let loose the trembling little
Afraid and bewildered, it ran
eagerly to the first shelter it could
find from the watchful eyes of its
kind little friend; but who shall tell
its joy when it found itself once
more in its own bed of moss. Yes,
18 MOUSE THAT WANTED TO SEE THE WORLD.
in the very same under the old oak-
tree. Its little heart beat with a
joy so great that it was almost like
pain; and when the little girl was
gone, and it peeped out once more
and saw all the dear well-known
scene that had once been so tire-
some, it felt that there was no such
lovely place in all the world. And,
with a grateful heart, it once more
took up its abode in the mossy nest,
and never again went out of sight
of the old oak-tree, lest it should
lose for ever a home the value of
which it had now fully learned,
FLY away, pretty lady-bird; I will
not hurt you. Crawl up my finger.
New you are at the top. Lift
up your pretty spotted wing-cases.
Spread out your tiny wings. There
you go. I do not think your house
is on fire, as the old song says; nor
your little ones in danger of being
burnt. So sit in peace on the rose-
bush. I have heard you eat the
little insects that are often found
there. I wonder whether it is true.
THE FATHER AND HIS SON.
THERE was once a father who loved
his son very much; so much that
he spent all his time in trying to
make him happy, and to provide for
his comfort after he himself was
dead. He had a daughter too; but
he did not love her so much as he
did his son, who was called after his
own name and was brought up to
his own business, and was besides
his first-born child.
But the son was not grateful, as he
should have been, for his father's
love. He took it all as a matter of
THE FATHER AND HIS SON.
course, that being the eldest he
should be loved best. And he trifled
with his father's love; for he saw it
was so great that he thought, let
him do what he might, it would
never fail.him. And, when quite a
child, he would disobey his father
without fear; and, if he saw him
really vexed, he would with sweet
words and deceitful kisses try to
make all up. And as he grew older
he became still more wilful, and not
having been checked in his youth
he had not the will or the courage to
deny himself in anything; but what
THE FATHER AND HIS SON.
he liked that he did, without ever
thinking whether or not it would be
pleasing to his father. And finding
the business in which his father was
engaged required regular hours and
strict application, he very soon made
up his mind not to follow it, although
he knew how much his father's heart
was set upon his doing so; but said
he must take up with some profes-
sion which would leave him more
time for enjoying himself. This was
a great grief to the old man, but he
could not bear to refuse his favourite
anything: so he spent a large sum
THE FATHER AND HIS SON.
of money to make his son what he
wanted to be, and hoped that now
he would have so much time to him-
self that he might reckon on seeing
a great deal of him.
But it was not with his kind old
father that the ungrateful son wanted
to find his amusement and happiness.
He joined himself as a companion
to idle worthless young men, in whose
society he grew worse and worse,
and at last such sad accounts of him
came day by day to his poor father,
that it quite broke his heart, and he
took to a sick bed. There for weeks
THE FATHER AND HI8 SON.
he lay, growing weaker and weaker,
and the sorrow in his heart pressed
more and more heavily; for his son
came not near him to inquire whether
he was dead or alive.
But the daughter, who had always
been dutiful and loving, and whose
gentle affection had at last won her
father's devoted love, was his patient
and tender nurse. Day by day
she watched over his bed of pain,
and when at last she saw that his
last hours drew near, she resolved to
send for her wicked brother; hoping
that the sight of his poor dying
THE FATHER AND HIS iON.
father might have power to win him
from his evil ways. And when the
young man heard his father was
really dying, 0 then there came such
a bitter pang into his very soul. All
his life-long ingratitude and sin came
back before him, and rushing from
the midst of his companions, with a
firm resolve never again to trust him-
self in their presence, he hurried to
his father's house.
The poor old man's face lighted
up with a gleam of joy when he saw
his darling son. But on his counte-
nance was nothing but the deepest
THE FATHER AND HIS SON.
shame and remorse, and covering it
with his hands he besought his
father's forgiveness. Unwilling even
to the last to blame his favourite,
that father had none but words of
tender and affectionate kindness for
him who had brought him to his
death-bed long before his time. And
he died begging a blessing on his
But conscience was not dead within
the young man, and torn with re-
morse for all his past misconduct, he
opened his heart to his affectionate
sister, and found the sweetest com-
THE FATHER AND HIS SON.
fort in her prudent advice. Instead
of wasting his time in bewailing the
past which could not be recalled, she
urged him to do all he could to re-
pair it in the present. And so he
did. He gave up the profession he
had chosen for himself, and entered
on that of his father. He forsook
the worthless companions who had
beguiled him from his home, and
sought in the society of his amiable
sister to unlearn the false maxims he
had adopted. And in every way he la-
boured to recall the words and teach-
ing of his father in earlier days, and
THE FATHER AND HI8 SON.
the remembrance of that father was
like a good angel warning him from
sin whenever he was tempted, again
to go astray. And when he was
married, and had children of his own,
he would often relate to them how
dreadfully he had suffered for dis-
obedience and wilfulness, and warn
them to listen with grateful hearts
to the voices of their parents in the
time of youth and health, that they
might not buy experience at the
price of a father's or a mother's
LITTLE SALLY AND HER BROTHER.
LITTLE Sally has a ball. And it is a
very pretty ball. Striped with red,
'and yellow, and blue. But little
Sally cries because her ball is not so
large as her brother Harry's. Sally
is only three years old, so she does
not know any better.
Harry is seven, and he is a good
boy. He does not say, No, Sally;
you have a ball of your own. You
must not have mine. You will spoil
it. But this is what Harry says,
Here, Sally, take my ball. Don't
LITTLE SALLY AND HER BROTHER.
cry. Let me have yours. It will
do very well for me. See how high
And when Sally sees that Harry
plays so nicely with her little ball,
she is quite happy to have it herself
again. And she does not ask Harry
any more to give up his. If Harry
had been cross they would both have
been sad, but now through his good-
nature they are both happy little
See how easy it is to be good to
USE OF A NEEDLE.
FANNY JAMES did not love needle-
work. She thought it tiresome, and
it made her finger sore. She liked
playing on the piano or dancing
better. And certainly this is a more
pleasant way of spending one's time
than sewing. But still every girl
ought to know how to work; and I
do not see why boys should not
learn too, at least so far as to be
able to hem a handkerchief or mend
a stocking, for they are very often
sadly in want of such knowledge
THE USE OF A NBEDLE.
after they are grown up. However,
everybody does not think as I do
on this subject, and it is not to our
present purpose to say any more
about it. All are agreed that girls
should learn. But Fanny always
said, Mamma, there is no occasion.
Bridget the nurse does all my mend-
ing for me, and you do not know
how I dislike work.
Her mamma was in poor health,
and did not see after anything very
much herself, so Fanny was left to
do as she liked, and she grew up
without so much as knowing how to
THE USB OF A NBIDLB.
make a button-hole. Now, when
she was about eighteen, her papa
and mamma both died rather sud-
denly, and in settling all their affairs
it was found that there was nothing
left for Fanny to live upon; so she
was obliged to do what she could to
earn her own bread: and a kind lady,
who had known her father and mo-
ther, offered to take her as a com,
panion, to help her in different ways
in the house, as she was rather lame.
Fanny felt very grateful for this;
and, when her first bitter grief for *
the loss of her best and dearest
TNL 133 ON A rrIDLI.
friends had a little passed away, she
began to feel very happy with Mrs.
Stone. But, so soon as she was well
enough to be employed, she found
to her great- dismay that needle.
work was almost the chief thing that
would be required of her after the
morning hours. For Mrs. Stone
worked a great deal for the poor
and made clothes for them, and she
wanted Fanny to sit and help her
for the greater part of the day.
Then it was that poor Fanny found
the folly of her former conduct.
She was now in such circum.
T35 VUS OF A NUMMI
stances that she did not object to
work, as she did when a child; but
would gladly have done whatever
was required of her. But she did
not know how, and being ashamed
to tell Mrs. Stone of her childish
folly, many and sad were the mis-
takes she made. One day a pair of
sheets were found sewn together like
a great pillow-case, and though, as
Mrs. Stone said, laughing good-hu.
mouredly, Such a plan might save
the trouble of tucking up the bed;
yet, as it was not the usual way of
doing such things, Fanny really
w 2 171
THR US8 OF A NBRDLB.
must undo her work. She made
such sad blunders, that at last Mrs.
Stone was obliged to part with her;
for she wanted some one who could
help her in her deeds of charity, and
not hinder them by wasting time
and materials. Truly sorry was
Fanny to go, and much trouble she
had in finding any one willing to
take so useless a person. At last
she got a situation as nurse to an
old lady, who was very ill and very.
fretful, and who wanted waiting
upon every moment of the day.
This was very hard work for poor
BUILDING A HOUSB.
Fanny, but she tried to take it as a
wholesome punishment for her folly;
yet often she could not help saying
to herself, Oh, if I had but taken
pains to learn to work whilst I was
at school, I might still have been
with that dear Mrs. Stone.
BUILDING A HOUSE.
I AM going to make a house in the
garden. Will you come and help
me ? Papa has lent me his spade to
dig the foundations with, and he
says we may have some wood out of
the wood-house. Some of those niae
BUILMNO A TOUSS.
branches that were cut off yesterday
in the dark walk. And I am going
to make just such a house as Robin-
son Crusoe had. The one he used
to call his bower. It was all made
of boughs twisted together. Will
not this be a good place for it?
No; I think you will find the
ground rather too hard for digging
But if we make it in the soft earth
it will be so damp. Let us ask
James to dig us a hole.
O, no; the best part of the work
will be digging the hole.
BUILDING. A HOUSE.
Then what do you think of this
place, just where the old cucumber
frame used to stand you can easily
dig it deeper if you like.
0, yes; that will be the very
thing. And the wall behind will do
for the back of the house.
Now let us set to work. I will go
and get some wood whilst you dig,
since you are so fond of digging.
Do you want long or short boughs,
slight or strong ?
Well, I fancy we shall want some
of all sorts. We shall want some
strong poles to set in all round 1
40 BUILDING A HOUSE&
walls, and these must be a good deal
taller, than we are, else we shall
knock our heads against the roof.
And then there must be some slight
ones to weave in amongst these
poles to keep out the rain and wind.
You will not be able to carry so
many. Call me when you have got
them together, and I will come and
You cannot hear me call if I am
in the wood-house.
Then blow papa's railway whistle,
it hangs up against the wall, and
:, Jhea I shall be sure to hear you.
NAMIUB OtR REAL POwlumSUU. 41
Now 1 f6ist begin t& iag or I shah
never have done. ]t, first, I must
take off my jacket, fr the men al-
ways do that; and, Dash, you shall
. sit and mind it for me, as Rover does
for James sometimes. Thel we
shall divide our work fairly.
THE OTHER NAME FOR REAL
POLITENESS is a very necessary and
valuable accomplishment, or rather
I should say quality, and no one
should think it beneath him to be ,
polite. But when I speak of iW
42 THB OTB011 NAMb KM RIAL,.
being valuable, I mean, al true
politeness, and not those artificial
manners which are taught and learnt
as mere matters of outward show;
just like those tricks which one can
teach to a dog or a monkey, and
which are very amusing in them
but worse than laughable in a ra-
Now I will tell you a story, which
will show what I mean by real po-
Sliteness. And I think we shall find
4hat it is after all less an accomplish-
niensthan a quality of the mind or
heart. For an accomplishment is
I3s Prja NAME roR 1IAL POITINOUI 48
something that we learn, something
we acquire; but true politeness
springs from the very heart.
Little Sydney was a boy of about
eight years old. He went to school,
and learnt dancing and drilling,and
I know not what besides, in order to
teach him manners, or to make him
polite. And no boy could make a
better bow than Sydney; and as to
taking the wall of a lady, dear, dear,
he would have run under the Very
horses' heads in the street, rather
than think of such a thing.
One day, he was going to school
44 ~IHE OTHER NAME FOR REAL POLITENLW .
on a dancing afternoon, and he was
dressed all in his best, and looking
very smart indeed, when he met a
poor beggar woman. She was old
and almost blind, and her clothes
were ragged and dirty. Sydney was
not yet perhaps old enough to have
learned, as he ought, to love the
poor for whom Jesus when on earth
cared so greatly; but he surely should
have shown some of his politeness
to this poor old woman, at least so
far as to give her the wall. For
though it was not her right, accord-
ing to the rules of artificial polite-
THE OTHER NAMB FOR REAL POLITINIES. 45
ness, yet it is always our duty to
give way to those older or more af.
flicted than ourselves. But Sydney's
politeness was all outward show, and
.pushing rudely past the old woman,
he almost threw her down in his
eagerness to thrust her from the
wall, against which she was groping
her way along. A few steps more,
and he met Mary Lacey, a nice little
girl whom everybody loved, and be-
fore whom Sydney was always very
anxious to show off his good man-
ners. Oh, then, how hastily he called
them all forth, and with hat off, and
48 WEl OTNI NAMI rMR UNAL PaLTNZS.L
foot forward in the very newest style,
he took hold of the little lady's hand.
As Mary was returning from the
errand on which she was bound
when she met Sydney, she also came
upon the poor old beggar woman,
who was waiting to be able to cross
the road. Do let me help you, said
Mary: we can get over nicely now,
and if you will put your hand on my
shoulder I will lead you the right
This was real politeness: it came
from the heart, and was not put on
for the purpose of display. Mary
TME WiMW S 1M.
could not ourtsey so gracefully as
Sydney could bow, but I thiak'she
was more really, polite. iSe. had
that true politeness of which the
.Scripture name is Charity, or Love.
THE WIDOW'S SON.
Do not break the pretty flower, dear
little Willy. It only opened its
bright leaves this morning. You
are like that lovely flower to your
dear mamma. She has only you to
comfort her now, for your papa is
gone to Heaven.
That picture of the widow, and her
TX3 WIDOW'U SON.
dear little son and the faithful dog,
reminds me of a beautiful tale I once
read. It was of a boy who was the
only joy of his widowed mother. He
was a noble boy. Young and hand-
some, and full of life and strength.
Courageous and daring, but gentle
and loving to her whose whole heart
was fixed upon him. Perhaps too
much fixed, and therefore in mercy,
and not in wrath, that heavy sorrow
came upon her.
One lovely day, in summer, the boy
went out from his mother's presence,
and with his hawk upon his wrist
Ta2 WDow's smo. 40
and his hound in a leash or string,
he sought the rocky oisa around
his homq where he was wont day by
day to wander in safety. Buta river
called the Wharfe ran swiftly by,
and far above it there was a riven or
split rock, part on one side and part
on the other, with a deep, deep chasm
between. But, though so deep, the
chasm was not broad, and the Boy
of Egremond, for so he was called,
could spring lightly across without
a thought of fear. Nay, so con-
stantly did he cross this fearful
bridge, that even his fond mother
THE WIDOW'S SON.
did not dream of danger when he
was away from her. But on this
day as he was joyously springing
on his favourite path, singing in the
gladness of his heart, and had taken
the accustomed leap from one rocky
side, the dog he led hung back; and,
checked in his spring, he never
reached the other ledge, but sunk
down into the rapid waters of the
Wharfe through the awful chasm.
A herdsman, who was keeping his
flocks at some little distance by the
river side, saw the tartan dress of
the unhappy boy as he was carried
THR WIDOW'S 60o,
by, and saved his body from the
wave, but he was dead; and. the
poor man went to break the tidings
to his unhappy mother. "Endless
weeping," she at first declared, would
be her portion; but with time came
better thoughts, and she devoted the
love of her bereaved heart, and the
wealth her son would have inherited,
to the service of her God. Him
who cannot change or know a sha-
dow of turning, and who guards our
treasures for us, if we will intrust
them to His keeping, where rust and
moth cannot corrupt, nor thieves
break in and steal. The valid
whelathis took place is in the West
Bfding of Yorkshire, and the words
of the poor mother, when she first
guessed her loss, were for years and
years after repeated almost as a pro-
verb in Wharfedale.
THE TWO ARTISTS.
Two little boys were once amusing
themselves by drawing on their
slates, after morning school was over.
They were both very fond of draw-
ing, and had lessons from a drawing-
master twice a week.
TnX W A~.u I.
Robert, said Charley, when I am
a man I mean to go to Italy; tbm
I shall find such fine models
amongst the works of old masters,
arid the churches, and temples, and
other buildings. And papa says-the
sky is so blhie and bright there, that
everything looks as well aain as it
does in this smoky London; and I
mean to go to Greece too. O, how
I shall enjoy myself when I am a
man, and can go about and draw all
day long. Won't you t
I hope I shall enjoy myself, said
Robert; but I do not think I shall
TNI TWO ARTIIII.
go abroad. For, since papa's death,
mamma has never liked to let me
stay long out of her sight. And, if I
went abroad, I should be away from
her for a long while.
No; but think of all you would
have to show her when you came
home. How happy that would make
I think, said Robert, I shall find
plenty of beautiful things to draw*
here in England. Mamma says
there are scenes as lovely here as
heart can desire, and she has pro-
mised to take me about with her to
THE TWO ARTISTS. 5
see my native country when I have
These little boys grew up. Char-
ley went abroad, as he said he would.
And before he went he very earnest-
ly begged Robert to go with him.
But Robert said, I cannot leave my
mother. She is not strong. I
should like to go abroad very mdch,
and above all with you, dear Charley.
But I must not and cannot leave
her. So Charley went, and Robert
stayed with his dear mamma. She
grew weaker and weaker, and they
journeyed about from one lovely
THE TWO ARTISTS.
English scene to another, and in
each spot Robert made his portfolio
rich with sketches. And Charley
profited well by the advantages he
enjoyed. He studied hard at Rome,
and made himself a first-rate artist.
One day, when he had visited Greece
and returned to Rome, he was busy
over the details of some splendid
ruins he had been copying, when he
heard a well-known voice behind
him, and turning round he was in
the arms of his dear friend Robert.
When the first moment of delight
was over, Charley saw that his friend
THU TWO ARTISTS.
was in deep black. He did not like
to ask him the reason in their first
joyous meeting; but when, late in
the day, they were sitting looking
over each other's drawings and en-
joying the progress each had made,
Charley said, Let me see your last;
you have seen mine. Robert put it
silently into his friend's hand. It
was his mother's grave. 0, Charley,
said he at last, bursting into tears,
how thankful I feel now that I never
THE GOOD BOY AND GIRL.
POLLY and Tom are very much
pleased. They have just had a new
Bible given to them each, for their
own, as a prize for good conduct at
school. They go to school on Sun-
days; but they are not able to go
every day in the week, for their pa-
rents are sadly poor, and their
little boy and girl have to work for
Tom is a plough-boy, and all day
long, from six in the morning till six
at night, he is walking up and down
THE GOOD BOY AND GIRL.
the field with the horses in the
plough. And Polly has to nurse a
baby for Mrs. Jones the shopkeeper,
and she is there all day too. So, al-
though there is a very nice school
for poor boys and girls, where they
would have nothing to pay for learn-
ing to read, Polly and Tom are never
able to attend it. But on Sundays
there is another school called a Sun-
day school. And this is for poor
children who are not able to learn
in the week. And kind people teach
in this school, and take so much
pains with the poor children that
THE GOOD BOY AND OIRL.
very often they get on quite as fast
as those who learn every day. For,
knowing they can only go once a
week, they feel they have no time to
lose, and they do not play about
over their books like some children
I have seen. If there is any spare
time after work of an evening, Polly
and Tom do their best to spend it in
looking over their lessons for Sunday.
They think now they shall have
happy Sundays, for they have Bibles
of tBeir own; and they will read the
wonderful history of the Creation,
when God in six days made all this
TBU GOOD BOT AND GIRL.
beautiful worl- And of the garden
of Eden, so pure and happy till sin,
the serpent, entered in. They will
read too of faithful Abraham, who
gave up his only son that he might
do the will of God. Of Joseph and
his brethren: Moses and the plagues
of Egypt: David and the giant Go-
liath whom he slew with a small
stone and sling, because he was arm-
ed with confidence in God, which
is better than buckler or shield: t
little Samuel, to whom God cala in i
the night: of Ruth amidst the coan:
Elijah, to whom the ravens brought
THE GOOD BOY AND GIRL.
bread and meat in tle morning, and
bread and meat in the evening. Of
these, and all the other beautiful
stories in the Old Testament, they
long to read for themselves. And
then the life of Jesus in the New;
and all the holy words He spoke to
men whilst sojourning amongst them
here on earth: the parables, the
sower, the ten talents, and the pro-
digal son. 0, they will never ex-
haust the treasures of this blessed
boA. They take their Bibles home,
and cover them carefully with
brown paper to keep them from
THE VALUE OF TKUTH.
harm, and lap them on the high
shelf till Sunday comes; that blessed
day of rest, when they may forget
their labours and look forward to
the rest of Heaven.
THE VALUE OF TRUTH.
WHO broke this window, children?
said a poor woman, as she ran has.
tily out of her cottage on hearing a
pane of glass smash.
There were a great many boys
and girls playing in the road close by,
and when they saw the woman come
out they all began loudly to declare
THi VALUE OP TRUTH.
that they had none if them done it.
We none of us did it: it was not
any of us. You must have thrown
something against it yourself in the
All, except one little boy, who
looked very pale and frightened; but
he went towards the angry woman,
and said, I did it. I am very sorry,
it was broken by a stick which
sprung suddenly out of my hand.
0, you did it, did you, said the
woman; and pray can you pay for itl
No, said the little boy; I have no
THB VALUB OF TRUTH.
Of course you have not, answered
the woman, angrily; and so I shall
just give you this, to make you re-
member to be more careful another
time. And, seizing the poor child,
she struck him several hard blo*.A
He did not cry, however; and, when
she had gone back into her cottage,
the other children gathered round
How could you be so silly, Ar-
thur ? We all said we did not do it;
and, if you had not gone and told
her yourself, she would never have
known any thing about it.
THI YALUB OP ThU1,H.
But I did do it, said Arthur.
Yes; but it was not you any more
than James, for he was pulling your
hand, and that was what made the
stick fly out of it.
Well, there was no need to tell of
James, answered Arthur; it was my
Well, cried James, I am very
glad I did not tell of myself, to get
beaten as you did. Are not you
very sorry now that you told .
No; for, if I had said I did not do
it, I should have told a lie. And if
I had been silent while all of -you
THB VALUB OF TRUTH.
were saying it wvas none Of us, that
would have been almost if not quie
The other children laughed at
Arthur; and they went further away
from the cottage and began to play
You will see by this story that
Arthur loved the truth, and feared a
lie. He knew that God hates liars;
and he was never half so much
afraid of any punishment that might
come upon him for speaking the
truth, as he was of incurring the an-
gerof God by telling a lie. He was
o 2 206
THE VALUE OF TRUTH.
well taught; and he knew, that
though by saying he had done some-
thing or other for which he was sure
Jo be punished, he might get even a
painful beating, yet that the pain of
those blows would soon pass away;
whilst if he escaped them by telling
a lie, it would be written in God's
book of remembrance and stand there
against him. Besides, even without
bringing this awful thought into his
mind, he thought it was cowardly to
tell a lie, and even that, in the end,
those who always spoke the truth
got on better in this world; and the
THE VALUE OF TRUTH.
course of his after-life made him feel
this till more strongly.
At school he was known and
thoroughly trusted by his master,
who, if there was any doubt about
any thing that happened amongst the
boys, always called Arthur up to tell
him exactly the facts of the case; for
then, he said, he should know just
what was the matter and who was to
blame. And when he left school,
and was placed in a counting-house,
he was so truthful and exact that
the greatest dependence was placed
upon him, and he rapidly rose in
THE -VAI4E OF TRUTH.
is employer's confidence. One day
there were some mistakes in one of
thl books which threw all the ac-
counts into disorder. The principal
was very much displeased, and began
inquiring to see if he could find out
how the original mistake had hap-
pened, and by whom it was made.
Arthur set to work diligently to help
him, and at last found that he had
made a blunder in some calculation,
which had afterwards been copied
by another clerk, and so had gone
on through the different books with-
out being discovered. Now it would
T74 8AWN 01 TIjjVjI.
have been easy no~gh to let the
blame rest on the young man who
had copied it; for the original paper
was in Arthur's own possession, and
he could have concealed it. But,
without allowing such a thought to
cross his mind, he ran directly and
went nobly to his employer, and con,
fessed his error with much regret
The gentleman looked up with a
cleared brow at Arthur, and said, All
the trouble this has caused me is no.
thing now I have the satisfaction of
finding such an honourable man in
my employment. My confidence in
TEn VALUE OF TRUTN.
you will be indeed increased instead
of lessened by this event.
Arthur bowed, and his heart was
full; but what he had done was little
in his own eyes; for he had, when
young, acquired so strictly the habit
of always telling the truth that it
never, now he was a man, occurred
to him to do otherwise. And this,
dear children, is one great advantage
of always being careful to speak the
exact truth; the habit will become so
natural to you, that you will soon
never think of doing any thing else.
Arthur continued for many years
THE VALUE OF TIUTH.
in the same house, and at last was
made a partner by his grateful
master. And, when he was raised
to this dignity, he tried to use all his
influence over the clerks they em-
ployed to induce them to be as care-
ful as himself; for, he would often
say, You will not have half so much
trouble if you tell me the truth at
once: for I shall be sure to inquire
very closely into the matter if I
think you deceive me, and you will
have to make up ever so many tales
to bear out what you now say. It
is unworthy of a man, or even a
Tax HmPT RADBVI.
ohlttd4tid most sinful before Gdd to
hide the truth by a lie.
THE HAPPY RABBIT.
JOHN and Kitty have a pretty white
rabbit. It has long drooping ears,
and bright sparkling eyes. John
himself helped to make its house at
the side of the stable; and he took
oare that it should have plenty of
room to run about in. For rabbits
are wild active creatures, and love
liberty dearly. If you have ever
seen them as I have often, frisking
about on a sunny down, now darting
T~II HA Pf BASIT.
over the short turf and then pop
ping into their holes-you will-know
at once how hard it must be for a
rabbit to be shut up in a small den,
where he has but just room enough
to turn round, and where the .only
peep of daylight he gets is through
two or three little bars.
John and Kitty know well what
rabbits love, and though their pretty
pet was never at liberty, for he was
not a wild rabbit, yet they try all
they can to give him those enjoy-
ments which are natural to him. So
the hutch is made very roomy and
THE HAPPY RABBIT.
large. And two or three times a
day, in fine weather, he is taken out
of his house and allowed to run about
a paved yard, to stretch his legs and
take the air. And he is well fed
with wild parsley and bran, and let-
tuce leaves, and all sorts of things
that rabbits love. And he well re-
pays this care by growing very fat
and strong, and by loving his little
master and mistress with all his
bunny heart. When he hears their
steps in the yard, he runs directly
to the nice large barred window
John made for him that he might
THE HAPPY RABBIT.
get plenty of light, and puts his
white nose out as far as he can to
welcome them. Once they took him
out of his house, and carried him
into a field close by, that he might
nibble some fresh clover that was
blowing there. But, once in the
open country, bunny's natural. in-
stinct came upon him, and he set
off, racing across the field, so fast
that John and Kitty were in de-
spair, and feared they had lost him
entirely. But running as fast as
they could in the direction he had
taken, they overtook him at last,
THi RAPPr HABBIT.
digging with all his might in the soft
earth under a hedge. He had al,
ready burrowed quite a hole, by
scraping the earth up with his fore
paws and throwing it out beyond
his hind legs. He was so busily at
work, making himself a home I sup-
pose, that he did not notice John
and Kitty, who pounced, delighted,
upon their little runaway, and car-
ried him home. And he never was
allowed to have a scamper in the
field again, so much had he fright.
ened his little friends.
WHY are you so gaily dressed,
Ellen T Are you going to a party t
Yes, Jane; I am going to a dance
at Aunt Lucy's. And I think my
dress will be quite the prettiest in
the room. Don't you think it will?
I cannot tell indeed, Ellen. If
you are the best girl in the room, I
think it will be, but not unless.
But, Jane, what difference can
that make to my dress ? My beha-
viour will not alter my frock.
But it will influence other people
in their opinion of it. Now I think
it is time for you to go ; and be sure
you tell me, when you return, whe-
ther you were looked at more than
any one else; for by that you may
judge whether your dress was so
Well, Ellen, and now you are
home again; tired enough, I can
guess by your looks. But, before
you go up-stairs, come and tell me
what was thought of your frock at
O, Jane, I don't know. I want to
get my frock off, and I do not care
if I never see it again.
Why, dear Ellen I thought you
liked it so much before you went
Yes, and so I did then; but two
or three girls, who sat next to me in
the room, made some remarks about
dress, and then I asked them if they
did not think mine the prettiest in
the room. And then they laughed at
me, and told what I had said to a
great many more of the children;
and yet, indeed, it was by far the
Well, but my dear Ellen, it was
not wise to make such a remark to
them. Of course they must have
thought you vain and silly. But
tell me who was noticed the most in
the room. Was it you?
No, Jane; unless it was to be
laughed at. Kate Jardins was made
more of than any one else, because
she is so good-tempered and merry.
And when we grew tired of dancing
she proposed ever so many charm-
ing games, and sang two or three
songs, and amused us very much.
Does she sing well, Ellen ?
Not particularly; but I heard
several people say it was so pleasant
to hear her sing directly she was
asked, and try to do her very best
And how was she dressed, Ellen
0, not well at all; you know her
mamma is not rich, and Kate had
on the very same frock she wore at
the last party we went to.
Ah, dearest Ellen; you see, after
all, the best ornaments are those of
the heart and mind. If we have
these, it matters little how our bo-
dies are dressed; but even the gay-
r 2 219
TUN LIfTL3 GAIDZM.
est garments will fail to attract ad-
miration, unless their wearer is
THE LITTLE GARDEN.
AMY has a garden of her own. Her
mamma gave her a nice piece of
ground. And her kind brother
Rupert dug it all up for her, and
showed her how to plant slips and
cuttings, and to sow the seeds. And
she has now the gayest little patch
in the whole large garden before her
There is a border of white pinks
THE LITTLE GARDEN.
and lavender all round. One small
bed of white and red roses. Some
geraniums and verbena in a little
wire basket, round which climbs
the bright yellow canariensis. And
numbers of annuals and bulbous
roots, which bloom in due season and
make the place always bright.
And at the back, by the wall, are
some tall hollyhocks and dahlias,
under which the sweetest straw.
berries blossom and ripen. And
these Amy gathers, with a glad
heart and eager hand, for her papa
and mamma, and dear brother who
THE LITTLE GARDEN.
has helped her so kindly. Not one
weed is to be seen, the little gar-
dener is so careful.
But, though she loves her garden
so much, she does not neglect any
other duty to attend to it. But,
since she has had it, she gets up an
hour earlier every morning; and
that is the sweetest time of all for
working out of doors. All is so
fresh and lovely. All is so peaceful
and still. Except the joyful song
of the little birds that welcome in
the new day.
When I see Amy at work in her
THE LITTLE GARDEN.
little garden, I remember one that I
had when a child, and. the memory
of the happy hours I spent upon it
comes back very freshly to my mind.
It was not quite so pretty as
Amy's, but I loved it full as well as
she does hers, and it was to me a
very paradise of charms. No flow-
ers in the large garden grew half so
fast, or bloomed so beautifully as
mine, to my eyes. No day was too
rough or stormy to give a fair ex-
cuse for staying quite away from it.
There were sure then to be some
tall flowers, that the rain had beaten