Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Title Page
 George and Cecilia
 The four sisters
 The tatler
 The greedy boy
 Charlotte and the cottager
 The silk slip
 The great garden
 The spirit of contradiction
 Caesar and Pompey
 The young sparrows
 The scar
 The two apple-trees
 The pleasure of doing good
 Back Cover

Title: Tales of a grandmother
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00055087/00001
 Material Information
Title: Tales of a grandmother
Physical Description: 192 p., 1 leaf of plates : ill. ; 13 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Allman, Thomas, 1792-1870 ( Publisher )
Norman, George ( Printer )
Publisher: Thomas Allman
Place of Publication: London (42 Holborn Hill)
Manufacturer: G. Norman
Publication Date: [1854?]
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1854   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1854
Genre: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
General Note: Date from inscription.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00055087
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002447290
notis - AMF2544
oclc - 56903582

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Cover 1
        Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Title Page
        Page 1
        Page 2
    George and Cecilia
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
    The four sisters
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
    The tatler
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
    The greedy boy
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
    Charlotte and the cottager
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
    The silk slip
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
    The great garden
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
    The spirit of contradiction
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
    Caesar and Pompey
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
    The young sparrows
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
    The scar
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
    The two apple-trees
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
    The pleasure of doing good
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
    Back Cover
        Cover 1
        Cover 2
Full Text


The Baldwin Libiirr
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LITTLE George, an orphan, had
been brought up from his infancy
by Lady Eustace, who, together
withLordEustace,were retired from
London, and resided in a small
country town. From the tenderness
with which they treated him, a
stranger in the family would have
imagined him to be really their son.
This worthy couple had but one
child left them, and that a daugh-
ter, named Cecilia, who was nearly

of an age with George ; and Lady
Eustace had the satisfaction to be-
hold-mutual fondness subsist be-
tween the children.
One delightful morning,towards
the end of August, George and
Cecilia, with their little friend Lu-
cinda,whose parentslived that sum-
mer in the neighbourhood,were out
walking in the orchard. The two
little girls, of whom the youngest
(namely Cecilia) was not yet quite
ten years old, walked side by side;
they hummed over a delightful
roundelay, then in the mouth of
every songster in the village, while
little George preceded them at
leisure, piping on an English flute.

Many delightful gambols they
amused themselves with in the or-
chard! But at last, our Cecilia and
Lucinda both cast a longing look
upon the fruit trees round about
them. In particular, an apple-tree
attracted their attention. Most of
the apples had been gathered seve-
ral days before ; but still, a few had
been overlooked, and the deep ver-
milion that tinged them, and which
the leaves could not entirely hide,
invited, as it were, to gather them.
George climbed the tree which they
were admiring, and threw down as
manyapplesashishand could reach,
while the children held their aprons
open to receive them. Chance so

ordered it, that two or three of what
were thought the finest fell into Lu-
cinda's lap, who piqued herself up-
on this accidental distribution,
since George was the prettiest and
politest little fellow in the place.
Lucinda, with ajoy and triumph
in her eyes, that looked like insult,
addressed herself to Cecilia: Do
but see how fine and large my ap-
ples are,while yours are hardly half
so handsome Cecilia, at these
words, hung down her head, and
kept silence during the remainder
of their walk. It was in vain that
George tried,by hundred pranks,
to spread a smile again upon her
clouded countenance, and to make

those lips pronounce a syllable,
whose conversation had till then
been so agreeable.
Not long after this,Lucinda took
leave of her young companions,and
went home. Before they entered
the house, George asked his sister,
as he always called her, why she
seemed so angry with him ? Cer-
tainly you cannot be offended,"
said he, that Lucinda had her
share of the apples? You know
very well I have always loved you
most, and would have thrown you
the finest apples ; but I know not
how it chanced that they fell into
Lucinda's apron. Could I take
them from her ? Ask yourself that
iucstion. And besides, I thought

you far more generous than to take
offence at such a trifle! You shall
see, the first occasion that pre-
sents itself of shewing you my af-
fection, it was not my design to
vex you."
And who told you that I was
vexed,George?'saidCecilia." Sup-
pose Miss Lucinda's apples had
been even ten times finer than what
I had, is that any thing to me? I
am no glutton, and you know that
very well. Neither should I in the
least have minded it, but for the
saucy little creature's looks. I will
not endure them, that I will not;
and as for you, fall down upon
your knees this instant, or I will
never forgive you."

"O I cannot do that by any
means," said George, bending half
his body backwards as he spoke;
" for by doing so I should confess a
fault with which you have no right
to charge me. I am no story-teller,
and must say, it is very wrong in
you, Cecilia, if you will not believe
that I did not mean to vex you."
"Very wrong in me!" replied
the other. Very wrong in me !
What do you mean ? But I see
why you affront me thus ; it is be-
cause Miss Lucinda is your fa-
vourite." And so saying, she went
into the house in a pet.
As dinner was now ready, they
sat down, but pouted at each other,

all the time it lasted. George, on
his part, was so grieved at her in-
justice, that he thought proper to
preserve his dignity. And yet, the
little lady would steal a glance
slilyeverynow and then at George,
and from a corner of her eye watch
all his motions. As it happened,
one of these sly glances met with
one of George's, who was no less
slily studying Cecilia. Being thus
surprised, she turned immediately
towards another object, and as
George took this to proceed from
disdain, though in reality it did
not, he affected great indifference,
and went on eating, just as if he
did not care for her.
When the cloth was removed,and


the wine and fruit brought in, un-
luckily poor Cecilia, mortified as
she was at George's whole beha-
viour, replied a little disrespectfully
to her mamma, (who had, besides,
been obliged to ask her the question
twice over) and she was therefore
ordered instantly from the table;
she obeyed, and bursting out into a
flood of tears, withdrew, as if she
knew not whither she was going.
As the door was open that con-
ducted to the garden, she passed out
that way, and went to hide her
sorrow in an arbour at the bottom
of it, where she and George had
been readingin themorning. There
she burst out again into a flood of
tears ; she repented of the quarrel


that she had picked with George,
who always used to alleviate her
distress when in sorrow.
George, remaining at the table,
could not think of Cecilia in dis-
grace, and not feel greatly for her
situation. They had hardly let him
take two peaches, before he set
about contriving means to convey
them into his pocket for poor Ce-
cilia, whom he designed afterwards
to visit in the garden, upon some
pretence or other, and yet he
greatly apprehended that his inten-
tionwould be discovered.He pushed
back his chair, and afterwards
brought it forward, more than
twenty times, and was continually
looking down for something on the


carpet. Then all of a sudden, he
cried, Look at pretty Laura !-
look at Rover !" seeming to take
notice of two dogs in the apart-
ment; and at the same time he had
got a peach ready to slip into his
pocket, if he could but fix my lord
and lady's observation upon some-
thing at a distance from him.
"See, papa, mamma, how prettily
they are playing! Do but turn
about; they will make you die iith
laughing." "Oh!" replied my lord,
" they will not eat one another, that
I will answer for;" and having just
glanced at them, put himself so
soon into hisfirstposition that poor
George, who thought himself that
m moment sureof pocketing thepeach,


was disconcerted, and obliged to
put it down again upon the table.
LadyEustace had observed him,
andconjecturedhisintention; there-
fore having for a while enjoyed the
little boy's embarrassment, she
madehislordship privyto theaffair,
as well as she was able; and, in
dumb show, bade him turn his
head on one side; which he did
accordingly, but could not hide a
smile, that, notwithstanding all his
gravity, escaped him.
However, George, who thought
himself as yet quite undiscovered,
but was fearful lestthis device again
repeated mightbetrayhim,instantly
resorted to another stratagem. He


took one peach, and placing it in
the hollow of his hands, put both
together, after which he lifted it to
his mouth, and made as if he had
really been eating, by an imitation
of the noise and motionwhich people
make when they are eating any-
thing. Then, while with his left
hand he luckily found means to clap
his peach into a cavity that he had
hollowed beforehand in the napkin
on his knees, he put his right hand
out to take the other, which he
served in the same manner.
Some few minutes had now pass-
ed,and,as it happened, my lordand
lady had quite forgot little George,
andwere conversing with each other


in their usual manner; so that
George, supposing this a proper
opportunity to get away, rose up
from table, with both peaches in the
napkin, and began to imitate the
mewing of a cat, which a young
shepherdboy had lately taught him;
and his view in this was to engage
the attention both of Laura and Ro-
ver,which he did,and put them into
motion. Lady Eustace, somewhat
angry at these mewings,interrupted
him. "What now!" said she; and
added, Well, but, George, if our
discourse displeases you, I fancy
you may go and mew a little in the
garden." George put on a feigned


was another thing that he wanted.
He ran up therefore to Laura, say-
ing-, See, mamma, she wants to
bite poorRover;" and in turning, he
dexterously whipped the napkin all
at once intohis pocket,and pretend-
ed to run after Laura, with an intent
to punish her. Laura scampered
towards the door,whichCecilia had
left open and George after her.
George George !" said Lady
Eustace; where are you going?"
George stopped short. My dear
mamma," said he, I will take a
walk, if you please, in the garden.
Pray, my dear mamma, do let me,
I am sure you will give me leave."
Her ladyship, at length, gave him


leave; and George was so elated,
that not minding how he ran, his
foot slipped, and he fell down. By
great good luck, the peaches were
not damaged in the fall. He got up
again instantly, and ran to seek his
sister in every nook and corner of
the garden.
George was got by this time to
the arbour, but poor Cecilia was not
there. At length, he discovered her
in a shady walk, near the terrace.
She had a book in her hand, which
George had given her on her last
birth-day. Her eyes were much
swollen; indeed, she was exceed-
ingly unhappy. She had grieved
the three best friends that she had :

her worthy parents, and her own
dear George.
My sweetest Cecilia !" said
George, and fell down on his knees
before her. Let us be friends : I
would freely ask forgiveness for
my fault,if I had really intended to
displease you. Yet if you will ask
my pardon, I will ask yours also.
Will you? Come, forgive, Cecilia;
let us be friends again. Here, see!
are two nice peaches : I could not
think of tasting them, as you were
not to have your share."
"Ah my dear George !" said
Cecilia, taking his hand while she
spoke,and weepingonhis shoulder,
whata good, sweet-tempered little'


fellow I have always found you
Certainly," continued she, and sob-
bed while she spoke, certainly a
friend in one's misfortunes is a real
friend indeed. But I will not take
your peaches. It would have been
pitiful behaviour in me, had I been
vexed this morning for the loss of
half a dozen apples. You do not
think that I was, George, do you?
No, it was the insulting look with
which that pertM issLucinda looked
at me ; but I will not think about
her now. Will you forgive me?"
added she; and with her handker-
chief wiped off the tears that she
had let fall on George's hand. I
know, I sometimes love to plague


you ; but keep your peaches now,
I will not eat them."
"Well, then, sister," answered
George, "whenever the fancy comes
into your head, even plague me just
as long as you think proper. Yet I
will never let another do so. But as
to these peaches, I cannot eat them.
I have told you so already, and was
never guilty of a story."
No, nor I," said Cecilia, and at
that moment they flung them both
away into the orchard. "I cannot
endure the thoughts of havingmade
a quarrel up for interested reasons.
But as we are now friends again,
how happy it would make me, if I


could but get mamma's permission
to appear, and ask her pardon!"
Oh! I will get it for you,"
answered George; I will inform
mamma, that it was I who made
you anger her, by having vexed you
in the morning." He had hardly
said the words, when he was got a
good way towards the house.
George told his mamma all, and
soon obtained her consentforCecilia
to come into the parlour. He quickly
ran into the garden,and brought in
his sister; she came with downcast
eyes, and her parents seeing she
was sorry for her fault, readily for-
gave her. Being herself forgiven,
she soon forgot Lucinda's sneering


look; and before evening they had
seen each other, and all were as
happy as before.


EMILY, Victoria', Julia, and Sophia,
had a governess who loved them
with the fondness of a mother. This
governess was namedMademoiselle
Beaufoy. Her greatest wish was,
that her pupils should be virtuous,
in order to be happy; and that
affection for each other should in-
crease the pleasures of their child-
hood. A kind indulgence, and

impartial justice towards them,
were the constant rules of her con-
duct, whether she had anything to
pardon, to reward, or punish in
them. The four little girls were
the happiest in the neighbourhood.
They told each other of their faults,
forgave each other, shared together
in each other's joys, and could not
live without each other.
Unfortunatelyfor their happiness,
Mademoiselle Beaufoy was forced
to leave her pupils for a time, as the
death of a dear relative obliged
her to visit France. She left them
with reluctance, made a sacrifice of
some advantages in order quickly
io settle her affairs, and scarcely


two months had expired when she
returned in safety to her little flock.
They all received her with the
greatest signs of joy: but, alas! she
was not long in perceiving the un-
happy alteration which had taken
place in her pupils. If either asked
the slightest favour of the other, it
was ill-naturedly refused: hence
followed discontent and quarrels.
The light-hearted gaiety which had
marked their little pleasures, was
now changed to peevishness and
melancholy ; and instead of their
former expressions of love and kind-
ness, nothing now was heard among
them but incessant bickerings. Did
either wish to take an hour's diver-


sion in the garden, her sisters were
sure to wish to stay in doors In
short, if any thing met the wishes
of one, it was sure to displease the
One day, in particular, they not
onlyrefused to join inplay,but each
reproached the other with causing
their unhappiness. Mademoiselle
Beaufoy witnessed this scene, and
was so affected by it as even to
shed tears. She could not speak
to them at the time, but withdrew
to her chamber, that she might
think upon the best means of mak-
ing her pupils sensibleof their folly,
and of restoring to them those
pleasures they had once enjoyed.


She was in deep thought, her arm
resting on the dressing table, when
these four young ladies entered her
apartment, with a peevish and un-
easy look, complaining that they
could be no longer happy in each
other's company. Each again charg-
ed the other with causing it; and
all together earnestly desired their
kind governess to restore them, if
possible, to their lost happiness.
Mademoiselle Beaufoy received
them in a very serious manner, and
said, "I observe, my children, you
hinder each other in your plea-
sures; therefore, it will be better
that each take up her cornerin this
very room, and divert herself in


any way that she likes, but so as
not to interfere with either of her
sisters. You may have recourse to
this new mode of recreation at
once, as you have leave to play till
tea-time; only, as I said just now,
each must play in her own corner,
without speaking to tlhe other."
The little girls were charmed
with this proposal,took their places
directly, and began to play.
Sophia talked to her doll, and
told her manylittle stories; but her
doll could not reply, and had no
stories in her turn to tell. It was
in vain to look for any entertain-
ment from her sisters : they were
each playing in their corners.


Julia took her battledore arnd
shuttlecock,yet none applauded her
dexterity; besides,shewould gladly
have struck it across the room, but
in that case there was nobody to
send it back. It was in vain to
hope such service from her sisters:
they were playing in their corners.
Emily wished to pass the time
at a game of which she was very
fond, hunt the slipper ; but, alas i
there was none to pass the slipper
from hand to hand. It was in
vain to ask her sisters: they were
playing in their corners.
And Victoria, who was very skil-
ful in housekeeping, thought how
she might give her friends an enter-

tainment, and of course wanted to
send out for many things to market.
But who was to receive her orders?
She must not ask her sisters : they
were playing in their corners.
It was just the same with every
other game. Each supposed that it
would be compromising matters to
approach the other, and therefore
they continued in their corners.
At length, tea-time came. They
returned again to Mademoiselle
Beaufoy, who was seated in the
garden,andEmilyandJulia begged
her to shew them a better sort of
amusement than that which she
had recommended them: the other
two now joined them.
"I can only thiik of one, my

children," answered she, which
you used to know before I went to
France, but which it seems you
have now forgotten. Yet, if you
wish once more to practise it,I can
easily tell you what it is."
Oh I we do wish to recollect it
with all our hearts," replied they;
" and we shall be much obliged by
your telling us."
It is," answered Mademoiselle
Beaufoy, that sisterly affection,
that mutual friendship, which you
owe to one another. As each part
of the human body is dependent on
the other for support, so do we de-
pend on each other for happiness.
My dear children, your strange ill-


tempers have given me great pain;
and I do hope you are now con-
vinced of your folly, and that you
will for the future strive to make
each other happy."
She stopped short, while tears of
tenderness ran down her cheeks.
The little girls were struck dumb
with sorrow and confusion in her
presence. She saw they were
penitent. She held out her arms;
they rushed at once affectionately
towards her, and sincerelypromised
that they would love each other
again, and agree as they had done
before she left them.
From that day, they betrayed no
signsof peevishness; and instead of


bickerings and discontent amongst
them, nothing now was known but
that fondness and forbearance to-
wards each other, which delighted
all who had the opportunity of be-
ing with them.



AURELIA, though a good tempered
child, had one very great fault, and
that was speaking ill of every one
she knew. She never looked for
their good qualities; but told what-
ever she perceived 1 ,1, .i, though
they were her dearest friends. As
is generally the case with such tat-
lers, she frequently added circum-
stances drawn fromher i imagination,
with a view of making them appear
more likely.
Her mamma visited a great many
families, and as Aurelia generally
went with her, it is easy to conceive


what mnischiefs such conduct prod u-
ced. It was not long before wives
and husbands, brothers and sisters,
masters and servants, were at vari-
ance with each other, though the
wicked tales this girl told. At last
her acquaintances began to see that
there was no truth in her statements,
and they determined to shut their
doors against so dangerous a person.
But neither thewarnings of her pa-
rents, nor the rebukes she suffered
from others, could correct this de-
testable vice, which was strength-
ened by constant indulgence.
Her cousin, Dorinda, was the
only person now that would receive
her visits, and return them; as she

lived in hopes of being able to show
her the enormity of her behaviour,
and preserve her from the conse-
quences of her folly. Aurelia went
one day to see her cousin, and em-
ployed her time in telling spiteful
tales of all their friends; although,
at the same time, she knew with
what uneasiness her cousin heard
them. And now dear Dorinda,"
said she,stopping for want of breath,
" your turn is cometo tellmesome-
thing. You see such a deal of com-
pany that you must have a number
of little anecdotes to tell: people
have so many oddities."
My dear Aurelia," answered
Dorinda, when [visit my friends,

I wish to taste the pleasure of their
company; and amnotsuch an idiot,
as to lose it by remarking their de-
fects. Besides, I find so many
imperfections in myself, that I have
not time to think of those in others;
andneedingalltheir indulgence for
my own faults, I am wise enough to
grantthem mine. I rather choose to
remember the virtues they possess,
and, when I get home, think how I
may acquire them. We should be
in a faultless state ourselves, before
we presume to censure the faults of
others. However, cousin, I suppose
you think yourself that perfect per-
son, as you so freely criticise the
actions of your friends. Many of

them having closed their doors
against you must prove that they
think themselves unworthy to re-
ceive so spotless a person under
their roof."
Aurelia could not fail of being
conscious that her friends shunned
and neglected her; and therefore
she felt the severity of her cousin's
sarcastic remarks. She soon after
took leave and went home. Her
parents observed her for some days
silent and reserved, and once or
twicethey found her in tears. In
fact, her cousin's reproofs had made
a deep impression on her; she se-
riously reflected on the wickedness
of her past conduct, and trembled

at the recollection of the mischiefs
she had caused. At the end of a
week, she asked leave to go and
see Dorinda, which her parents
readily granted, as they knew she
would do all she could to cure their
child of her vicious habit.
She found her at home. Aurelia
candidly confessed her fault ; and,
at the same, time, asked her con-
sin's advice. Dorinda was pleased
with her confidence, and gave her
the best advice she could. After
spendingahappy day, she returned
home, determined to overcome her
evil habit of looking only at the
follies of her friends, instead of
their good quali!ics. It was diffi-

cult to throw off a custom which
she had long indulged ; but what
can withstand a steady resolution?
In theend, she gradually reformed,
and applied her penetration to dis-
cover the virtues of her friends.
Instead of looking at thewrong side
of every thing, she was now the first
to set equivocal or doubtful actions
in such points of view, that others
might excuse them.
In short, when the case would
not admit of indulgence, she would
pity the offending person; and im-
pute her fault to want of thought,
or ignorance of the mischief that
she might occasion.
However, it was very longbefore


she could regain the hearts of her
former friends. She was, by this
time, at an age when most young
women think of being settled, but
could see no prospect of a husband.
People had avoided her with so
much care for years, that now she
seemed as much forgotten, as if she
had been living in a convent.
No wonder, then,that she should
suppose herself condemned to pass
her days in solitude ; but fortune
determined otherwise. A gentle-
man who came upon a visit to her
father, havingheard her generously
undertake to shield the reputation
of an absent person, whom some
one in the company accused, was so

delighted with a goodness like his
own, as to conclude that she was
exactly the person to make him
happy. He solicited her hand, and
made her mistress both of his heart
and his fortune.
Aurelia was every day more con-
vinced of theevilof talking of other
people's faults; and feeling the sa-
tisfaction which self-esteem and the
respect of worthy people always
bestow, she endeavoured to pre-
serve her children from the ruin
that she had nearly suffered.


A LARGE merchant had an only
son, named James, whom he loved
very tenderly. He was far from
being a wicked child; and his
friendswould all have beenveryfond
of him, but that he showed in every
action a covetous and greedy dispo-
sition, which gave his kind parent,
in particular, great uneasiness. It
even got so far the better of him,
that he would snatch at every thing
his playmates might have ; but re-
fused to share, or even show them,
what he had himself. His father,
who possessed a very amiable cha-

racter, wished greatly to reform him
of this fault, but never had been
As is always the case,little James
lost a great deal more by his greedi-
ness than he ever gained by it. If
anybody gave him sweatmeats, he
would get away and swallow them
like a churl, in some dark corner
of the house, forfearanyoneshould
ask a part. His father had noticed
this, and generally gave his compa-
nions twice as much whilst he was
hid : he perceived it, and no longer
hid himself; still, he never offered
to share any with them.
Mr. Johnson, as we have said
before, was very much afflicted on

perceiving this. Had little James
awindmill, boat, orotherplaything,
hewould never show it; he conceal-
ed himself in the enjoyment of it,
and was, of course, unhappy. Or if
he had any fruit, he would never
share it with his playmates, but de-
vour it alone; therefore his play-
mates would not share any thing
with him.
One day, a little boy observed
him with an apple in his hand, and
knowing his greedy disposition, he
gave him a knock upon the elbow,
so that he was obliged to let the apple
go. He picked it up; and, to avenge
himself upon the boy that had con-
trived to play him such a trick, set

off to catch him ; in running, he fell
into a ditch, and was almost suffoca-
ted in the mud. He did his utmost
to getout, butcould not: he wanted
his playmates to holdout their hands
and help him; but they only laugh-
ed at his distress, and said, Let
the boy now hold out a hand to
whom you havebeen generous! Ask
assistance of those whom you have
obliged !" At length, one more
compassionate than the rest came
forward, and got him out in safety.
He shook off the mud that covered
him; and then,to show his gratitude,
offered the boy a quarter of the ap-
ple which had caused this sad disas-
ter. The little boy was disgusted

with the gift, and flung the morsel
in his face. This was, as it were, a
signal for the rest to scout him: they
pursued ourlittleJames quite home,
hallooing after hiin all the way.
He was not void of feeling, and
had never yet been hooted: he was
therefore thrown into a thinking
humour, and confined himself tothe
house for above ten days. There he
asked himself, what cause his play-
mates had to hate him. Headdress-
ed himself as follows: For what
reason has mylittle neighbour, that
held out his hand to me when I was
in the mire, such a number of good
friends? Why is he loved so much,
while none of theboys will seek my

company, or do any thing for me ?"
Bycomparing the good boy's beha-
viourwithhisownhe discovered the
reason. He recollected that the little
boy was happy to give anyone plea-
sure; that wheneverhe had any fruit
or cake, he felt more joy in sharing
itwithhis companions, than in eat-
ing it himself, and had no amuse-
ment which he did not wish all his
little acquaintances to share. He
saw plainly how much he differed
from this little boy in disposition,
and he resolved at last to imitate
him. His father was very much
pleased to observe the change : he
gave him a quantity of fruit; and
he next day, little James went out


with both his pockets full, and ran
to every boy that he knew, and
gave him some.
Although his liberality was not
perfect, he was satisfied with the ef-
fect of it, since his companions were
now more generous to him; they
showed themselves very merryin his
company; they took him as a part-
ner in their little pastimes ; they
divided with him what they had, and
he went home quite pleased.
Upon the morrow he was still
better pleased. When he met his
little friends, he pulled out of his
pockets every thing that he had,
dividing it among them, and reser-
ving orily a small portion for himself.

By degrees he became habituated
to be generous, and willingly gave
to all he saw in want. Of course,
he grew beloved: when his com-
panions saw him, instead of avoid-
ing him as formerly, they ran up to
meet him, and were glad to give
him pleasure. In short, he was now
quite happy.
Such a change gave his father
real satisfaction; and everyday little
James wasmore convinced that the
way to be happy is, by a kind and
generous disposition, to secure the
affection of those about us.



BEFORE the house in which Char-
lotte's parents lived, stood a droop-
ing willow, under which was a
grass-plat. On this grass-plat their
little daughter, Charlotte, would
often place her chair of an evening,
while engaged with her work, for
she was seldom to be seen idle.
One evening, at the beginning of
September, while busy with astock-
ing she was knitting for her mamma,
she observed an old man seated on

the bank on the opposite side of the
lane, and which faced their house.
His hair was very long and white,
and he seemed bowed down with
age. Though Charlotte was sitting
on the grass-plat, it was a chilly
evening, and the old man shivered
with cold. "Poor man!" said Char-
lotte, looking at him, "he seems in
pain, and, perhaps, he is poor."
Further on, she saw a number of
boys, who came after the old man.
They quickly reached him. They
were rude unfeeling boys ; as soon
as they remarked his threadbare
coat, long white hair, and hollow
cheeks,instead of pitying his infirm-
ities, they all burst out laughing.

I once was young as you are,"
said he to the boys, seeing the sport
they made of him, "and did not
laugh at the infirmities of such as I
am now. You will in time be old
yourselves; and will then be sensi-
ble of the inj justice of your ridicule."
MissCharlotteheard theoldman
speak, and was touched with pity
forhim; seeing the boys round him,
she put her stocking down and ran
towards him. Sheputhis stick into
his hand, and taking hold of his
other arm, as if she had been very
strong, exhorted him to lean upon
her, and not notice any thing that
the boys might say. The old man
thanked her for her kindness; and

the boys, afraid of being punished
by Charlotte's parents, slunk away;
perhaps, too, they were ashamed of
their conduct.
Some little while after, one of the
boys fell down himself, and all the
rest burst out laughing, as they had
done at the old man; he was very
angry, and, when up again, ran after
his companions, pelting them with
stones. At the same time, he felt
how unjust it was to laugh at
another's distress, and could not
but bethink him of the manner in
which he had joined in treating the
old man; he now followed at a
distance, hoping to have an oppor-
tunity of making some atonement
for his fault.

In the mean time, the good old
man, assisted by Charlotte, had
seated himself on the grass-plat be-
fore the house. Her parents were
neither of them at home; but
Charlotte had brought him out a
chair; and, to hearten up his
spirits, gave him a mug of good
beer, and some bread and cheese.
Herguest could not refrain from
again thanking her. "Yourparests
are still alive?" said he. "They
love you, and you lovethem. They
are therefore happy: may they be
always so!" And you, good old
man," said Charlotte, have you
no children ?" 1 had one son,"
said he, "who settled in London

he loved me affectionately, and
often came to see me; but he is
now dead. His widow, having suf-
ficient to live upon, has retired to
some part of this county; but takes
the lady on her, and imagines it
not worth her while to inquire if I
am dead or living, as she wishes to
forget that her husband's father is
a peasant. I should hardly know
my grandchildren."
The gentle Charlotte was affec-
ted, and said, Can any one be so
cruel! My mother, I am sure, would
not act so wickedly." On this she
spoke of other things, that she
might not grieve him. He was
greatly refreshed by the good home-

brewed beer, and now arose to de-
part; but Charlotte insisted on
seeing him to his cottage, which
was not quite half-a-mile from her
On the way, they saw the little
boy who had followed them before;
he had run a great way on, and was
now sitting on the grass. He cast
hiseyes down when they lookedup-
on him; and after they had passed,
he rose up and followed them again.
The little girl asked the old man, if
he lived alone ? "No, little lady,"
answered he, I have a neat cot-
tage at the top of this lane. As I
am too old to cultivate the bit of
ground belonging to it, I told a poor
old neighbour, whose cottage was

burned down last winter, that if he
would come and live with me, he
should take care of my garden. He
agreed : he is extremely kind and
honest, and I am happy in his soci-
ety. And yet, in spite of all his care,
I cannot help thinking of my poor
son. I no longer see his children,
who have utterly forgot me; I shall
die without seeing them again. If
their father had lived it would not
have been so!"
Hetook his handkerchief towipe
his eyes, and instead of putting it
again into his pocket, let it drop
upon the ground, without either of
them perceiving it. The penitent
boy,who was followingthem,picked

it up and ran togiveit him. "Stop,
good old man," said he, you drop-
ped your handkerchief just now,
and here it is."
Thank you, thank you, my lit-
tle friend," answered the old man,
"God'sprovidence be praised for all
things! Here is an honest lad, who
does not ridicule old age, and laugh
at my poverty. Oh! no; you do not
scorn an old man. I see it in your
eyes. You are not of the number of
those wicked little boys who were
teasing me this evening, although
you must have passed them in the
lane." Charlotterecollected having
seen the little boy among them, and
remarked his laughing just as they


did, but she would not say so; for
although she did not approve the
boy's behaviour, yet she saw he was
sorry for his fault, and her good-na-
ture would not suffer her to give
him further pain, by telling what
she knew.
The little culprit, held down his
head, and seemed confused. At last
he said, "Pardon me, I was one of
those naughty boys, and insulted
you as they did; but am now very
sorry for it. When I mix with chil-
dren of my own age, I am more
mischievous than when alone. Had
I been by myself, I should not have
laughed at you; but on the contra-
ry, my first desire would have been

to help you. I should be very happy
to do anything now, in order to
make amends for my wickedness."
"You have already done so, my
little friend," said he : "and, as a
reward for your candour and good-
nature, you shall come with this
young lady to my cottage. I have a
little milk, which akind neighbour
brought me this morning, and we
will drink it together." Charlotte
would have wished to decline it,
but (lid not from a fear of grieving
him. They reached his habitation:
he brought out some milk, two por-
ringers, and part of a loaf of very
good bread. What pleasure you
give me !" said the good old man;

" truly I am very happy. I have
found two good little friends ; God
will bless you,my children,for your
kindness to an infirm old man.
This has been a pleasant evening
for me."
Charlotte and the little boythank-
ed the old cottager, and began to
think of going. Charlotte feared her
parents might come home, and be
uneasy at her absence; and the little
boy, that his mother would scold
him, should he stay longer, as he
had a long way to go.
"Where does your mother live ?"
said the old man. Have you a
father alive ?"
"Welivenearly three miles from

here," said the boy. "My father has
been dead these six years: I was
very little when he died, and can
scarcely remember him."
"Dead these six years!" inter-
rupted the old man, hastily : can
it be the same,and yet he looks like
him! Whatisyourname?"-" Fran-
cis Thornton !" said the boy, won-
dering why the old man seemed so
The old cottager stood for some
moments motionless, and then, with
his eyes full of tears, extended his
arms to Francis, It is indeed my
son's child !" said he ; and, my
dear boy, I am your grandfather !"
Francis tenderly caressed him,


and neither could speak for some
You are the living picture of
your father," said the good man.
" He affectionately loved, and you
will love me too. I shall not be
so wretched as I feared in my old
age ; nor will the evening of my
life be passed without some joy.
But I forget that your mother will
be waiting for you. Give my best
respects to her, and say, if she will
honour an old man's cottage, I shall
be glad to see her. Good bye, my
dear boy; come and see me soften
as your mother w.ll give you per-
Turning then to Charlotte, he


said: "And for you, dear little
lady, I am afraid your parents will
be uneasy by your staying so long.
I am greatly obliged to you, and
shall for ever bless you. Come at
times and see me: and ask your
mamma to come with you. Fare-
well, and accept an old man's bles-
sing." Little Charlotte got home
safe. Her parents were not yet
returned; but came home soon after
her. She told them where she had
been, and what she had done. It
was the subject of their evening's
On the morrow, they all went to see
the good old man; and afterwards
frequently repeated their kind visits'


Francis's mother had somewhat re-
pented of her unkindness towards
her husband's father; and though
she did not come herself to his cot-
tage, often permitted her son to see
his grandfather. Francis grew up a
good and dutiful youth; he and the
kind-hearted Charlotte were the
om'fort of the old man's remaining
years. It is a happy sight to see
children assist the aged; and those
who do so, never fail of being re-


LITTLE Matilda had worn nothing
but a plain white frock till she was
nine years old. Neat morocco shoes,
with black ribands, set off her small
feet; and her hair hung in large
curls upon her shoulders.
She had been one day in the
company of several little girls, who,
thoughnot older than herself, were
dressed already like young ladies;
and the richness of their clothes
awakened in her heart the first vain
Dear mamma," said she, re-
turning from the house where she

had met with these fine ladies, I
have seen this afternoon the three
Miss Flowerdales. The eldest of
them must be younger than myself.
O dear mamma, how sweetly they
were dressed Their parents must
have a deal of pleasure in seeing
them so fine! I dare say they are
not so rich as you; so give me, if
you please, a fine silk slip, with
such embroidered shoes as they had
on ; I shall look so nice in them !"
Mother. My dear Matilda, I am
afraid you will find yourself not
quite so happy in such fine clothes,
as you have been hitherto, in such
plain things as you generally wear.
IMatilda. Andwhy so, mamma?


Mo. Because you will be afraid
of spotting, and even of rumpling
what you wear. A dress so elegant
as that of the Miss Flowerdales will
require the greatest care and atten-
tion. If it gets one spot, the beauty
will be lost, as it cannot be washed;
and however rich you may suppose
me, I shall not be rich enough to
let you have a new silk slip when-
ever you want one.
M. Oh! if that be all, mamma,
do not make yourself uneasy, I
will be very careful of it; and I
should so like a silk frock !
Mo. Would you? Well, then, I
must give you such a dress; but
still, remember that I have warned


you of the uneasiness your vanity
may cause you.
Two days after, Matilda had a
handsome slip brought home, of
pea-green taffety with fine pink
trimmings, and a pair of straw-
worked shoes to match them. The
taste that appeared in her clothes,
their vivid colour and elegance of
make, charmed the eye; but when
she had them on, it wasevidentthat
her limbs were under great con-
straint; her motions had no longer
theiraccustomed easeand freedom;
and her infant countenance amidst
so vast a quantity of flowers, silk,
gauze, and ribands, lost entirely
every trace of its usual simplicity.


She was, notwithstanding, quite
enchantedwith her new clothes. Hei
eyes wandered over her whole little
person, and werenever taken off for
nearly an hour, except to look at
herself in the glass. Shehadwrought
on her mamma to send out cards of
invitation to her little friends, that
when they came to visit her, she
might enjoy their surprise and ad-
miration. When they had all met
together, she walked to and fro be-
fore them like a peacock: and from
her behaviour, one would have im-
agined that she supposed herself an
empress, and considered those about
her as subjects. But, alas! this tri-
umph was but of a very short dura-

tion, and a multitude of mortifying
circumstances followed it, as is al-
ways the case when little folks in-
dulge a love of finery.
The children were permitted to
go out walking into the fields, near
that part of the country where she
lived. Matilda led the way, and
they reached, in ten or fifteen mi-
nutes, some delightful meadows.
One large field, which joined a
gentleman's park, first of all attract-
ed their attention. It was every
where covered with a vast variety of
:charming flowers; and butterflies,
whose wings were of a thousand
mingled colours, hovered in each
quarter of it. Some of these gay

little ladies tried to catch these fine
butterflies; others employed them-
selves in making nosegays of the
flowers that sprung up in the mea-
dow, and which they gathered for
that purpose.
Matilda, who from pride had first
of all disdained these meanamuse-
ments, wanted very soon to share
the entertainment that they afford-
ed; but the ground, they told her,
might be damp, in which case she
would stain her shoes, and damage
her fine frock; for they had now
discovered that her intention in
thus bringing them together, was
to vex them with a sight of her new
clothes, and they resolved to mor-
tify her in their turn.

Her little companions had soon
all deserted her ; so she laid aside
her fine bonnet, and sitting down
under theshade of some trees, amus-
ed herself with her pencil, for she
was now tired of looking at her
smart clothes!
Her young friends were at a
thousand gambols; and poor Ma-
tildawouldgladlyhavejoined them,
but she was told that running would
tear all her finery to pieces. She
observed her friends divert them-
selves at Blind man's buff,' and
pursue each other across the neigh-
bouring park. The more she heard
them shout with joy, the more she
was peevish and ill-humoured.

But the youngest of her visitors
had somesort of compassion on her.
She had just found out a corner
where there grew a quantity of fine
wild strawberries, and therefore
.beckoned to her to come and eat
part of them. Matilda would wil-
lingly have done so, but had
scarcely stooped down to gather
some, when her hat and riband
were caught by a branch of white-
thorn, from which she could not by
any means disengage herself. They
made haste to loose the strings;
but, to add to her affliction, her hair,
which had been curled with so much
labour, was likewise entangled with
the branch of whitethorn, and it

cost her almost a whole lock before
she could be set at liberty.
It is not difficult to guess how
little this misfortune touched her
playmates, when they found, as we
have said already, why she had in-
vited them. Instead of consolation,
which she needed, and perhaps ex-
pected, they could hardly keep from
laughing at her comicalappearance,
and did actually jeer her with a
hundred wicked witticisms. After
having comforted her a little, they
ran off in search of fresh amuse-
ment, towards a hill that they saw
at some distance from them.
Matilda, however, could not,
without very great difficulty, reach

this hill. Her straight shoes, which
had been made so to set off her
little feet the better, were a great
obstruction to her speed; nor was
this all the mischief, for her stays
were drawn so close that she could
not easily fetch breath. She would
have now been happy to go home
and change her dress, in order to
be at ease; but then she knew that
her little friends would laugh at
her for her folly.
They had got by this time to the
summitof the hill, and were enjoy-
ing the fine view on every side.
They saw on one hand verdant
meadows; on the other, yellow
corn-fields ; before them rivulets
meandering through the country;

and by way of termination to the
landscape, a large river, on whose
banks were many pleasant country-
houses. So magnificent a prospect
charmed them. They even danced
about with joy; while Matilda was
obliged to stay at the bottom of the
hill, for she was absolutely out of
breath, and could not possibly get
She had time and opportunity
enough, in such situation, to make
many sad reflections. To what
purpose," said she to herself, are
these fine clothes! How much
pleasure do they prevent me from
enjoying! and what pain do I
suffer from the jeers of my play-
mates !"

She was giving up her mind to
these useful thoughts, when sud-
denly she heard her friends come
running down the hill, and all cry
out together, as they passed her,
"Run, run, Matilda, there is a
dreadful storm behind the hill; it is
coming towards us ; if you do not
make haste, your slip will soon be
wet quite through !"
Matilda felt her strengthreturn-
ing, at the fear of such a great mis-
fortune as herplaymates threatened,
forstill her fine frock was uppermost
in her thoughts. She forgot her
< ariness, her pinched feet, and her
tight lacing, and made tolerable
haste to reach some place of shelter.

But in spite of all her efforts she
could not run so fast as her compa-
nions, for her shoes sadly hurt her
feet. Then, too, every moment she
was stopped, at one time by her
flounces, which were frequently
caught fast by the furze; and at
others by the fine ribands about her
bonnet, on which the wind bent
down the branches of those trees
under which she was forced to pass
in her way homeward. The storm
which had been long threatening,
now burst forth in all its fury; and
there fell a heavy shower of hail
and rain, after all but Matilda had
regained their home.
Inthe end, however, Matilda got


home likewise, but wet through and
through. She had, besides, left one
of her fine shoes behind her in a
heap of dung, which, as she hurried
homeward, she had scrambled over
without seeing; and to increase the
list of her disasters, she had not
quite cleared the meadow, when a
gust of wind blew off her bonnet
into the middle of a dirty pool of
They had all the trouble that one
can possibly imagine to undress her;
for the rain had quite drenched her
garments; so that her whole dress
was spoiled, and absolutely good
for nothing.
"Shall I have another slip made


up for you against to-morrow?"
said her mother drily, seeing her
in tears.
Oh no, dear mamma," said
Matilda, kissing her, I am con-
vinced fine clothes can never make
the wearer of them happy. Let me
take up with my nice white frock
again, and have no more fine things
till I am eight or ten years older
than at present; and forgive my
Matilda was now cured of her
love of finery, and, in her usual
dress, she came again into the full
possession of her liberty, and seem-
ed as modest and as happy as she
had ever been. Neither did her


dear mamma regret the loss of this
fine silk slip, since it proved the
means of reinstating her beloved
daughter in happiness, which her
vanity and folly would have taken
from her, had it not been for this
useful lesson.


MR. SAGE had received no very
great inheritance from his parents,
but was possessed of the happy se-
cret of contentment; and notwith-
standing he was frequently obliged
to go without many conveniences
and comforts which others could
command, never did one envious
thought enter his mind. He had
never suffered more than one se-
vere affliction; and that was the
loss of an affectionate and virtuous
wife. A charming little boy, named
Polydore, was the only child re-
maining to console him; and the
education of this dear child was the


single object of his study and at-
Satisfied with his condition, this
good father wished particularly to
inculcateon his son those principles
to which he owed his own happiness
and peace of mind. Yes, often would
he think to himself, "If I can but
accustom him to live contented with
his humble fortune, and pointoutto
him the folly of putting any value
upon what he must not hope to ob-
tain, I shall contribute more to make
his after life happy, than by leaving
him a heap of gold and silver."
Always occupied on this impor-
tant lesson, he thought fit one even-
ing to take his son to Vauxhall


Gardens, for the first time. Imme-
diately on entering, Polydore was
struck with admiration and delight.
A balloon was just ascending, and
many persons were assembled to
witness it. The perfume of the flow-
ers,the beauty of the paintings, the
well-ordered disposition of the
walks,the crowd of people, elegant-
ly dressed, the incessant motion of
the multitude, the hum of their dis-
course, the noise of the cascade, all
joined to attract his contemplation;
and his eye considered at one view
ten thousand objects. His father
seeing him dazzled with so much
splendour, conducted him to that
part of the gardens which was more


retired from public observation,that
his senses, which were too much oc-
cupied by such a crowd of images,
might be in some degree at rest.
He now proposed indulging him
with some refreshment. Polydore
gladly accepted his father's offer ;
and soon after they had the follow-
ing conversation:-
Polydore. How extremely happy
everyone hereseems to be! I should
like papa, if we had such a garden.
Did you notice what a number of
fine carriages were at the door?
And all those gentlefolks that pass
us, how well dressed they are! I
should be glad to know why we
must live so sparingly, when others


in the world indulge themselves
with everything that they fancy. I
begin, papa, to see how poor you
are. But why, then, are so many
around us rich ? They are not bet-
ter people sure than you, papa?
Mr. Sage. You speak like child.
"You begin to see how poor I am!"
Now I can tell you I am quite rich.
P. And where, then, are your
Mr. S. I have a garden bigger
by far than this. When we go into
the country next week you shall
see it.
On the day after their arrival at
their neat cottage, not far from Lon-
don. Mr. Sage took his son, and led


him up a hill, from whence the eye
commanded an extensive prospect.
On the right was seen a spacious
forest, whose extremities seemed
lost in the horizon. On the left
appeared a beauteous mixture of
fine gardens,verdant meadows,and
vast fields quite covered with the
promise of a plenteous harvest.
Beneath them lay a beautiful val-
ley, with a river running through
the whole extent. -There were
fishermen in one part, busy with
their nets ; and husbandmen who,
in another, were employed in ga-
thering fruits and herbs ; and
sportsmen with their hounds pur-
suing the poor hare; and shepherds
watching by theirflocks, or reposing


near them in the shade; and reapers
carting their last sheaves, and
singing as they proceeded home-
ward. This lovely view delighted
Mr. Sage and his son, who for a
time kept silence, till the child said,
" Papa, when shall we reach your
garden ?"
Mr.S. Weareatitnow, my child.
P. But this is not a garden, it is
a fine hill.
Mr. S. Look round as far as you
can see; for this, I tell you, is my
garden. Yonder forest, and these
fields, are all my property.
P. Your property, papa ? You
are joking.
Mr. S. No, indeed, I am not. I
will convince you in an instant that


I dispose of every thing all around
us as the owner of it only can do.
P. It will delight me to be sure
of that.
Mr. S. If you had all this coun-
try, what would you do with it ?
P. What the owners of estates
generally do. Inthefirst place, then,
1 would cut down a deal of timber,
and make fire-wood of it, to be used
this winter. In the next place, I
would go hunting to catch pension;
and sometimes I would fish. I
would breed sheep and oxen; and
in harvest, gather in the corn that
covers this fine country.
Mr. S. Very good, Polydore; and
I am glad to find our notions are so


like each other's. Well, whatever
you would do, then, I already do;
and I will convince you of it.
P. How, papa ?
Mr. S. I say, then, in the first
place, I have men who cut down
for me in this forest all the wood
that I want.
P. And yet I never heard you
order them to cut down any for
you !
Mr. S. And why not ? Because
they have theforethought to prevent
me. Well, then, I have the wood
brought to me from the forest to
burn; for here, you know, we cannot
get coals to burn as in London.
P. You have, indeed, the wood


brought to you from this forest;
but must pay for what you have.
Mr. S. If I were what you call
the real owner of this forest, should
I not be forced, as I am at present,
to pay for what I might have
brought me from it ?
P. No, indeed,papa. It would be
cut down for you, and sent in with-
out a penny cost on your part.
Mr. S. You are wrong. On the
contrary, it would cost a great deal
more ; for if I possessed the forest,
I must keep at least a woodman to
cut down the trees for firewood.
P. Well, it may be so, papa; but
can you go hunting ?
Mr. S. And why should I hunt,
Polydore ? Could we two, then,


eat a buck or doe ourselves en-
tirely ?
P. We should have a charming
appetite to do so.
Mr. S. Well, then, as I cannot
go hunting, I send my huntsmen in
my place; and very probably, the
venison that you have seen hung up
in Holborn, where, as you remem-
ber, you went with me lately to buy
some, was hunted in this forest. I
can,therefore,withouthunting veni-
son, have as much as I think proper.
P. For your money.
Mr. S. Well, and is it not a
charming thing for me that I can
come at venison on those terms? for
I have no wages to pay to those
who hunt it for-me ; or, provided


they should shoot it, I have neither
to supply them with gun, nor ball,
nor powder. I am glad to say,
those various kinds of dogs that our
squire maintains, eat up nothing
that belongs to me.
P. Arethose cows, too, andsheep,
thatgrazeinyonder meadow,yours?
Mr. S. Yes, truly. Have you not
fresh butter everyday? I getitfrom
those cows.
P. But, papa, if all these flocks,
and all those little rivers too, are
yours, why have we not at dinner
every day all sorts of meat and fish,
as other rich folks, I am told, have?
Mr. S. Do they eat up every thing
that their servants set before them ?


P. No; but they may choose
whatever they like.
Mr. S. And as for me, I make
my choice before my victuals come
to table. Every thing that I want,
I have. Superfluous things, it is
true, I do not possess; but what
benefit would they procure me if I
had them ? I should want, in that
case, a superfluous stomach also.
P. And have you, then, a deal of
money, as they have, to satisfy a
thousand wishes ?
Mr. S. Much more money; or,
at least, what is better, I have no
wishes that I cannot satisfy.
P. But does not God love the rich
a great deal more than you, since

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