• TABLE OF CONTENTS
HIDE
 Front Cover
 Frontispiece
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Brave Bobby
 The long sum
 The two rabbits
 Thomas and his dog
 Truth and falsehood
 The Turk and the Indian
 The obedient kid
 Minnie's account of her travel...
 Peter and his pony
 Harry the shrimper
 Back Cover
 Spine














Title: Brave Bobby, Peter and his pony, etc.
CITATION THUMBNAILS PAGE TURNER PAGE IMAGE ZOOMABLE
Full Citation
STANDARD VIEW MARC VIEW
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00078576/00001
 Material Information
Title: Brave Bobby, Peter and his pony, etc.
Physical Description: 139, 1 p., 1 leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Frederick Warne and Co ( Publisher )
Publisher: Frederick Warne and Co.
Place of Publication: London ;
New York
Publication Date: 1890
 Subjects
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1890   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1890   ( rbprov )
Bldn -- 1890
Genre: Children's stories
Prize books (Provenance)   ( rbprov )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
United States -- New York -- New York
 Notes
Statement of Responsibility: with coloured frontispiece.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00078576
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002222600
notis - ALG2846
oclc - 180702288

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Frontispiece
        Frontispiece
    Title Page
        Title Page
    Table of Contents
        Table of Contents
    Brave Bobby
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
    The long sum
        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
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
    The two rabbits
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
    Thomas and his dog
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
    Truth and falsehood
        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
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
    The Turk and the Indian
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
    The obedient kid
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
    Minnie's account of her travels
        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
    Peter and his pony
        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
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
    Harry the shrimper
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
    Spine
        Spine
Full Text




BRAVE BOBBY,


PETER AND HIS PONY,


ETC.


WITH COLOURED


FRONTISPIEOE


LONDON AND NEW YORK:
FREDERICK WARNE AND
1890.


CO.


















CONTENTS.






P~e
BRBAE BOBBY 1

THE LONG SUM 9

THE TWO RABBITS 28

THOMAS AND HIS DOG 40

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD 51

THE TURK AND THE INDIAN 70

THE OBEDIENT KID 81

MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS 85

PETER AND HIS PONY 99

HTARRY THE SHRIMPER 128




















BRAVE BOBBY.



THE American ship Washington was bound fot
China, 'filled with passengers, and a valuable cargo.
Among the passengers on board this ship were an
officer of the army and his wife, with their only
child (a little boy of five years of age) and a large
Newfoundland dog, called Bobby."
Bobby was a great favourite with all the people in
the ship, because he was so brave, so good tempered,
so funny and playful. Sailors, as well as passengers,
all liked brave Bobby. He would romp on the deck
with anybody that chose. Sometimes, when the
wind was calm, and the ship going slow, he would
jump overboard, and dash through the sea after





BRAVE BOBBY.


a biscuit, or any thing else, that might be throvn in
for him.
But his most constant playmate was the little
boy, the son of his master. This boy was a merry
little fellow, and as fond of Bobby as Bobby was
fond of him. They used to take a fine noise in their
droll games of play, rolling over and over each other
like a couple of young porpoises. And though the
little boy was sometimes rather rough in his frolicks
with Bobby, and hit him on the head and back, yet
Bobby was always gentle as a lamb to him.
The voyage had been very safe and pleasant until
within three days' sail of the Cape of Good Hope.
Evening was coming on, and the sun was setting in
dark clouds; so that the dusk had commenced un-
usually early. The night-watch of the ship had
been set, and the wind had risen, so that the ship was
sailing very fast. The boy and the dog were romping
together, tugging each other, and tumbling about,
when all of a sudden the ship gave a heavy roll,
and the child fell overboard, splash into the deep
sea!
It had by-this time become so dark that objects
could not be distinguished many yards distant. A
general cry of A man overboard I a man over-
board!" was mnde by the men on deck who saw
the boy fall. Two or three men ran, heaving down
lines, and a stray coop that was lying near the





BP'AVE BOBBY.


capstan, while the officer of the watch sang out to
stop the ship. "Bring the ship to, bring the ship
to," cried he, or the boy is lost!"
This order was scarcely given, when Bobby, now
for the first time missing the child, gave aloud bark,
and seeming to guess what had happened, cleared the
taffrail like a shot; and the captain and the boy's
parents, with the other passengers, who had come on
deck to learn the cause of the outcry and bustle, saw
the dog swimming away like a mad creature in the
direction of the stern.
It was too dark to see him distinctly; but he was
perceived to dive, and then dimly appear again above
water, and snatch at something. It was, however,
too dusky for anybody on deck to be quite sure
what it was that he really saw. The dog was now
out of sight, and nothing was visible but the surface
of the water. The mother covered her eyes with her
hand, not daring to look out, fearful lest she should
see the corpse of her darling child borne upon the
waves; while the father, equally unhappy, jumped
into the jolly-boat, which the men in all haste had
been getting ready, that he might spare no effort to
recover his beloved son.
It was many minutes before the jolly-boat could be
lowered and manned, for the Washington, being a
merchantman, had not many hands to spare. But
when the boat was manned and lowered, the men
as






BRAVE BOBBY.


rowed with all their might in the direction they had
seen the dog take at first. The darkness, however,
had so much increased, that the sailors could hardly
see, and began to give the child up for lost.
The father, in great misery, sat at the head of the
boat, trying to see through the surrounding gloom,
and listening anxiously to every sound. "I hear a
splash, I hear a splash on the larboard quarter," cried
he, starting up; "pull on, be quick: it must be my
child,"
The helmsmanturned the tiller, the men pulled with
redoubled force, and in a moment Bobby, with the
child in his mouth, was alongside. Poor creatures I
they were nearly spent when they were hauled into
the boat. The father took the child in his arms,
and the faithful Bobby sank down to the bottom of
the boat, panting and almost lifeless.
The men then rowed back to the ship. Great,
indeed, was the mother's joy when she saw her child,
that she thought was gone for ever, in the arms of his
father, and good Bobby with him also. They all got
safe on board the ship again; and the father thanking
the sailors for helping him to recover his son, went
down to the cabin with the mother, child, and dog.
Every remedy was used that the doctor of the ship
advised to make the half-drowned boy quite well
again.
Bobby, after he had shaken the water from his





BRAVE BOBBY.


thick shaggy coat, could not be persuaded to move
from the child's side. There he stood licking one of
his, little hands till the child became so much better
as to be able to stroke and hug him as usual. Brave
Bobby seemed as happy as anybody, when both the
father and mother hugged and praised him too. And
when the boy could speak again, they made a happy
little party in the cabin, where but a few minutes
before, all had been so sad.
After this circumstance of saving the child's life in
so brave a manner, there was not a man on board
that ship but loved the dog as a father might love
his child, and well did Bobby deserve it.
At the Cape of Good Hope some of the passengers
were to be landed, and, among others, the master of
Bobby, with his wife and child. The dog, of course,
was to be landed also. All those who remained in
the ship were very sorry to part with good Bobby.
The boats were prepared for the passengers and
their luggage. All those who were to leave had got
into the boats ; the little boy was in his mother's lap,
and Bobby, whom the sailors were holding, to pat
and take a kind leave of, was just going to leap into
the boat after his master, when the officer stood up
and told the sailors to hold him tight by the collar
until the boats should have rowed some way towards
the shore. You will see what a strong swimmer
Bobby is," said he; let us start before him, and he


g






BRAVE BOBBY.


will soon overtake us. When I hold up my handker-
chief let him go."
"Aye! aye!" cried the sailors, and two of them
held Bobby tight by the collar. Poor fellow! he
thought he was to be left behind, and he did not like
it. He tugged, and hauled, and yelled, and barked,
to get to his friends, but it was of no use. The boats
put off without him.
When the boats were within a few strokes of the
shore, the officer raised the signal, and some of the
sailors called out. "yeo-ho, halloa." The men on
board the ship who held Bobby, loosed their hold, and
dash went the fine creature, barking and splashing
at a great rate, and swimming nobly and happily
through the water after the boats. His quick swim
was quite beautiful and wonderful.
All the people in the boats, as well as those on
board the ship, were eyeing Bobby with delight; and
he had just reached midway between the ship and
the boats, when the creature set up a loud shrill howl,
and threw himself half out of the water. Everybody
thought he had got the cramp; but, oh, no! the flash
of white that glanced like lightning close against him
the next minute, told the truth; and A shark! a
shark !" sounded from boats to ship, and from ship
to boats, in one loud cry. All stood trembling, with
their eyes fixed upon the unfortunate dog. The
boats stayed still for an instant, the men resting






BRAVE BOBBY. 7
'upon their oars, as if panic-struck. Bat again, th
another instant, one of the boats was to be seen
putting back, the men rowing with all their might.
Poor Bobby! he kept swimming away, right and
left, now diving, now doubling, as if he. knew his
danger; while every now and then he gave a short
fierce howl, and showed his grinders, never giving
the shark time to turn on its back, which it must do
before it can give the deadly bite.
The poor dog swam and dodged with a skill and
a speed, and maintained the unequal contest in a
manner that surprised everybody; but it was evident
that his strength was nearly exhausted, when the
boat, which had put back, came sufficiently near for
him to hear himself called, and encouraged to hold
out a little longer. In this boat were his master, and
the little boy whose life the poor dog had so nobly
saved three days before. They could now plainly
perceive the black fins and back of the shark, as he
rose every minute to the surface of the water, pur-
suing and trying to gripe the dog. The poor dog
swam with all his might towards the boat that was
coming to save him.
Just as he nearly reached the boat, and could see
arid hear his master calling out, Here, BobI here,"
the shark turned on its back, opened its horrid
jaws-"Poor Bobby, dear Bobby shrieked the
little boy; and a lad, who stood at the head of the






BRAVE BOBBY.


boat, hoping to save the dog, threw a handspike
that he held at the ravenous monster. But the lad
was in such a flurry, from terror and anxiety, that
he.missed the shark, and the spike fell into the water.
At this failure the child screamed aloud with
agony of fright and sorrow, Oh! save poor Bobby I
save my dear, dear Bobby!" and everybody thought
poor Bobby was gone; when the father of the child,
who, ever since the boat had come within gun-shot
of the shark, had been watching for the proper op-
portunity to save the faithful dog, fired. The gun
was levelled with so true an aim, that he shot the
shark through the head, and splintered those horrid
jaws that were opened ready to devour poor Bobby.'
The shark sank, the sea became tinged with blood,
and the officer, throwing down the gun, stretched
out his arms, and pulled the dog, exhausted with
fatigue and terror, into the boat, before the shark,
who was not quite dead, could again rise to the sur-
face of the water. The child threw his little arms
round the poor dog's neck; the sailors in the ship,
who were all intently on the watch, and the men
in the boats, set up one loud shout of joy. "Hurral
hurra! joy, joy! Bobby is safe, the shark is killed,
hurra I hurra "













THE LONG SUM.

KHENnY, have you done your sum? We arQ going
to my uncle's this afternoon, and papa says you may
come too, if you are ready," said Ellen one day to
her brother.
But I have not done my sum yet," said Henry,
in a doleful tone.
"I am sorry for that," said Ellen; then I am
afraid we shall go without you."
"Oh, must you? can't you wait a few minutes?
I shall have done in a few minutes," said Henry,
beginning to divide as fast as he could.
Ellen said she could wait a very few minutes; but
she presently perceived, that instead of continuing to
divide, Henry was drawing a horse at the bottom of
his slate.
Had not you better go on ?" said Ellen, gently;
"papa and mamma are almost ready, and you know
I must not keep them waiting."
"I know that, I shall be ready directly," said
Henry, writing down two or three figures, and then
returning to his drawing. But do just look at this,






to THE LONG SUM.
Ellen; is it not exactly like old Thompson's funny
little rat of a pony?"
"Yes; it is something like; but indeed you had
better go on with your sum; mamma will be down-
stairs before you have finished."
Oh, no; I shall be in time; three hundred and
seventy-five in two thousand will go but do
look again at my pony; it is much more like -now
that I have touched up the left eye. Has it not just
that comical look in the left eye? Poor old fellow!
Thompson told papa that his eye was hurt last
summer by --"
Ellen interrupted the history of old Tliompson's
pony.
"Do go on, Henry; I heard mamma's door shun,
I think.
"Yes, yes; I have almost done now; let me see:
how many times did I say?"
"Ellen, where are you?" were the words which
just then they heard their father call from the hall;
and shortly afterwards their mother put her head
into the room, and said,
"We are waiting for you, my dear."
"Henry, I am very sorry, but I must go now,"
said Ellen, preparing to leave the room.
One moment, only one moment, now it will
prove; no, it won't; I have forgotten the cipher; how
stupid I Oh, Ellen I wait a minute"






THE LONG SUM.


a What are you about, my dear? Did you not
hear me call you?" said her father, coming into the
room.
"It is not Ellen's fault, papa," said Henry; "she
was waiting for me."
"'And why did you keep her waiting ? Go down-
stairs, Ellen;" and Ellen was obliged to obey.
"How is it that you are so long over that sum,
Henry? Let me look at it," added his father, taking
the slate from Henry's unwilling hand. What is
all this at the bottom ?"
Only old Thompson's pony, father, that I was
trying to draw."
Try by all means, but not when you ought to
be doing something else. Your sum is wrong; you
had better rub out the pony's portrait, and attend to
your figures .now; if you can contrive to finish it
in ten minutes you may overtake us."
His father left the room, and Henry was slowly
preparing to efface his beloved portrait, when the
noise oT a horse's feet drew him to the window. It
was seldom very difficult to withdraw Henry's
attention from his employment, especially when that
employment happened to be arithmetic; and when
he discovered that the noise was produced by the
very pony he had just been sketching, the tempta-
tion proved too strong.
"I must just touch that eye again, now that I can





THE LONG SUM


look at the old fellow himself, and make him poke
his head a little more, and then it will do famously,"
thought Henry.
By the time the eye was finished, and the head
poked, exactly like the original, the ten minutes
were gone; and then Henry thought that as there
was no longer any hope of overtaking the walking
party, he might as well try to transfer his sketch
from the slate to paper. The second copy was not
so good as the first; he rubbed, and sketched, and
rubbed again; it would not "come like." He grew
tired of drawing; then he took up a book and read
a little; then he tried to balance the book on his
fore finger; and then he returned to his pony
again. He had just made up his mind to efface the
whole, and begin anew, when the clock struck seven.
The laugh of his merry little sister Anna was heard
through the open window.
Oh! they are all coming back; they must be
just at the end of the lane, by the sound of their
voices."
"And this sum won't be right," said Henry to
himself, as he snatched up his slate pencil.
In his haste, he sometimes forgot what he was to
carry, and sometimes carried when there was nothing
over, and omitted ciphers where he ought to have
put them. The sum was in a hopeless state of con-
fusion; the slate was so greasy with repeated rubbing






THE LONG SUM.


out, that he could not distinguish one figure from
another. While he was considering whether a figure
was a seven, or a one, or the long tail of a nine in the
upper row, Henry's father and mother, and his two
sisters, came in from walking.
Henry felt tired, and cross, and stupid, and his
sisters looked cheerful and fresh. Ellen began to
lament that her brother had not seen the sun set
in his glory from the top of the hill; and little
Anna, who came tottering into the room half hidden
behind a branch of dog-roses almost as big as her-
self, had her story of the "nice ride up the hill
on papa's shoulder," and her sorrow that poor Henry
had not been there to enjoy all that she had en-
joyed.
Well, Henry, is this three hours' work brought
to an end at last?" asked his father.
Oh, papa! not three hours; Henry has not been
three hours about his sum!" said Ellen.
"I believe I have said rather less than more than
the truth. Is not that the same sum you had to
do yesterday morning, Henry?"
Yes, father," replied Henry, in a low voice, for
he was ashamed of his idleness.
You began to do it at ten; and you were doing
that, or at least you were doing nothing else, till a
quarter past eleven; this morning you were sitting
with the slate in your hand, very nearly three






THE LONG SUM.


quarters of an hour; and this evening we left you
at half past five with this terrible sum, and now
it is past seven, and it is not yet done.-How long
is that altogether? "
"Oh, papa, you need not reckon; I know that
I have wasted a great deal too much time; but the
thing is, I have not been really doing the sum all
those hours."
"I know that, my dear boy; if you had been
steadily employed one-third of the time, you might
have been running races with Anna' on the common
this evening; however, if you liked better to stay at
home
"You are laughing at me, papa; you know very
well I would rather have been with you."
"Then why were you not with us ?"
Without directly replying, Henry said, "I am
sure it was not my fault."
And I am sure it was not mine," said his father.
SBut, papa, you did say I must do my sum first.
I should never have stopped at home for a sum;
for I cannot see that it signifies whether I do this
sum to-night or to-morrow morning."
"It does not signify for this sum, or any other
sum; so far you are right. But it does signify
to correct yourself of one of the very worst habits
that either child or man can have,--that of wasting
your time,"





THE LONG SUM.


"tI know it is very foolish; I wish I could cure
myself of it, but I do not think I can," said Henry,
sighing.
Did you ever try?"
"Oh, yes; I believe so;-I have very often
thought I would try."
That is a very different thing. Nothing is easier
than to make good resolutions; the difficulty is in
keeping them."
I would make them and keep them too, if I knew
how," said Henry.
"If you had resolved to go out to-morrow to the
common and fly your kite, how would you contrive
to keep your resolution ?"
I suppose I should take my kite when the time
came, and go out."
Then why cannot you take your slate or your
book in the same manner when the time comes? "
Henry paused a little, and then said he did not
know, unless it was that he liked to fly kites, and did
not like to do sums.
That is, Henry, you choose to play, but you do
not choose to work."
Oh, no, father; it is not quite so bad as that. I
do choose to work sometimes; but you will allow,
father, it is not so easy to do things that are disagree-
able, as things that are agreeable."
SNot so easy, certainly; but they may be done if





THE LONG SUM.


we have a mind. Ellen did not like going into the
shower-bath every morning last winter; but she was
told it was necessary, and then she resolved to
conquer her dislike to pulling the string that was
to bring down the water on her head, and she
did so."
I should not like it at all in the winter," said
Henry, "though it may be very good fun in
summer."
"I do not like getting up by candle-light in the
winter, but I find that if I do not, I am never in
town in proper time, and therefore I do get up by
candle-light."
"I You, papa oh, to be sure, you can do disagree-
able things if they are necessary; but you are a
man."
You will be a man if you live."
Yes ; to be sure, I shall; but it will be a good
many years before I am one."
"Then you think it' will be time enough, when
you are a man, to set about acquiring the firmness
and resolution that are necessary to a man ? "
No, Henry said; he did not think that exactly;
but still he thought there was no hurry; there would
be time enough. Henry had taken up a piece of
string, which, while he was speaking, he kept twist-
ing round and round his wrist. His father suddenly
caught hold of the ends of the string, drew Henrys





THE LONG SUM.


hand behind his back, and tied it fast to the button of
his jacket.
Oh, papa! why do you tie up Henry's hand?"
said Ellen. We are going soon to have tea, and
how is he to hold his cup ?"
I will untie his hand when he wants to use it,"
said her father.
But," exclaimed Henry, "it will be so numbed
by that time, I shall not be able to use it."
Wait a little, and then see how it will be."
Henry waited, and then said: I assure you,
father, it is just as I said; my hand is getting so
numbed (asleep, I used to call it,) that I can
scarcely feel I have a hand."
I am not surprised at that," replied his father,
releasing Henry's hand; "and I assure you, my dear
boy, that your hand could not be more thoroughly
.numbed and useless to you when it was tied behind
your back, than your power of controlling yourself
to any useful purpose will be, if you do not cultivate
this power by early use."
"I am not sure that I understand you, papa," said
Henry.
I will try to explain my meaning more clearly:
how is it, do you think, that your hands and feet are
cf more use to you now, than they were while you
were an infant? "
"That is very easily found out: I am stronger






THE LONG SUM.


now; I have learnt to use my legs when I want to
go anywhere, and my hands when I want to do any-
thing."
"Exactly so; you have learnt to use them, and
they have become stronger by use; but supposing
you had never been allowed to use them till now, do
you think they would be of as much service to you
as they are ? "
No; I am sure they would not; for I have heard
of people who had been shut up in prisons, where
there was no room to walk about, till they lost the
use of their limbs; and the other day I read of a
poor man who had been kept in prison without
having any one to talk to, and when he was let out,
he had forgotten how to speak."*
There is no great danger of your losing the use
of your hands, or your feet, or your tongue, for they
are all in pretty constant exercise; but if you do
not learn while you are a child, to conquer your
dislike to do certain things that it may be necessary
and right to do, though not perfectly agreeable,
there is great danger that when you are a man, you
will no longer be able to control your dislike, grown
strong by indulgence."
"Then, father, I will learn while I am a child,"
said Henry: "I will try to do what is right, if I
dislike it ever so much. I do not like arithmetic at
? Major White i wo who conUfed many years in the Bastie.






THE LONG SUM.


'all, but you shall see I will do my sums to-morrow
the yery first thing after breakfast."
Henry was quite sincere in his wish to reform,
and began his task resolutely. He was, therefore,
somewhat surprised and a good deal disappointed to
find it so much more difficult than he had expected.
He had turned his back to the window that he
might not see old Thompson's pony and the green
cart, which were generally before the door at this
time of the moi.. g, but still his progress was slow.
Though he could not see, he could listen, and he did
listen to everything that Thompson said to the cook,
and the cook said to Thompson, till the cart drove
away; and Henry discovered that while he listened,
he had stripped the feathers off a bundle of pens
that lay on a table near him, and torn up and
strewed about a half-written letter which his sister
had unwarily left within his reach. When his
mother came into the room, Henry asked her how it
was, that when he really wished to cure himself of
loitering over his lessons, he could not do it. His
mother asked him how long it had taken him to do
his sum this morning. Henry did not know pre-
cisely; much longer than it ought, nearly an hour
he believed.
Yesterday you took three hours; that is some
amendment, is it not ?"
"Yes, some; but why can I not cure myself all at
32






THE LONG SUM.


once: and why can't I make my head obey me when
I want to think of a thing, as I can make my hands
obey when I want to do anything?" His mother
smiled, and said that he had asked a very difficult
question, one of which he was not old enough to
understand the explanation thoroughly; but that he
might learn from that circumstance the force of
habit, and how necessary it was not to acquire bad
habits, since it was so difficult to get rid of them.
There is a saying, or proverb, that "habit is a
second nature."
I know that saying very well," said Henry; "I
remember it particularly, because I wrote it a long
time ago in my copy-book, and I had to write it three
times before it was fit to show you; I had spurted i,
all over with ink, because I used to have a way of
flipping my pen with my thumb, at the end of every
line, and I did so sometimes when the pen was full of
ink."
"And when you found how much trouble that
habit gave you, you left it off, I dare say."
"Yes, I did at last; it was so disagreeable to
write the same words over and over again; and in
time I suppose I shall get rid of all such tricks, but
I am afraid it will be long before I do so. You
don't know, mamma, what a trick I have of playing
with everything that comes in my way, when I
ought to be minding my business,"






THE LONG SUM.


"Put everything out of your reach, then, before
you begin," said his mother.
"So I will. I am going now to copy a letter
for papa; and before I begin, I will put Robinson
Crusoe in the book-case, or else, without thinking of
it, I shall read a bit here and a bit there, till I do
not know what I am about."
The next day, and for many succeeding days,
Henry was able to give a very respectable account
of himself. He began at ten, and by twelve he had
done all that was required of him. He then found
that he had time to bring his mother's plants out of
,the green-house for her, and to dig and arrange
Anna's little garden, as he had engaged to do nearly
three weeks before, and had not done, because, though
seldom busy, he had never been at leisure; so that
among the many evils of loitering, he had to reckon
the shame of a broken promise. By doing every-
thing at the right time, more may be accomplished
than would readily be believed by that large class of
persons, little and big, who are fond of saying, I had
not time."
I had not time," had been a favourite expression
of Henry's, so long as he did nothing. It was remark-
able that as soon as he learned to employ himself
steadily, he left off complaining of the want of
time.
Some weeks after, the commencement of Henry's


*





THE LONG SUM


reformation, his newly acquired self-command was
put to a severe trial
An old friend of his father's came to live close
to them. This friend had two sons, who had just
come home for the holidays. As these boys went
to a public school, and were three or four years
older than Henry, he was inclined to look up
to them with great respect; and they were very
willing to accept of his homage; and sufficiently
inclined to think it a prodigious condescension on
their part to make a companion of a boy so much
younger than themselves, and who had never yet
been to any school. Perhaps they pardoned these
grave offences in consideration of his obliging dis-
position, of which Walter and Richard Field felt the
full value, from the total want of such a disposition
in themselves. Although these boys prided them-
selves upon having learned many things, they had
never learned to govern their own tempers. If
Walter wished to go one way, Richard generally
insisted on going the other; and if Richard desired
to do one thing, Walter would find some excellent
reason for doing directly the contrary. While at
home, their chief object wag to amuse themselves,
and their notion of amusement consisted in doing
whatever came into their heads, without the smallest
regard for the feelings or convenience of other
people. Henry's education had taught him to respect





THE LONG SUM.


both; and when his awe of his new friend~' superior
manliness and knowledge of the world had a little
worn off, he sometimes ventured to object to their
breaking through the hedge that separated their
garden from h'is sister Ellen's, and he begged them
not to trample on her neat borders, or to strike off
the heads of her tulips with their switches. Walter
and Richard both assured Henry that they should
not have the smallest objection to his destroying
everything in their sister's garden in return; on the
contrary, they thought it would be good fun to
see how cross Lizzy would be about it.
Henry, however, did not see the fun of making
Lizzy cross, and would not give up the point of pre-
serving Ellen's flowers. These inconsiderate friends
took his remonstrance exceedingly ill, and did not
come to see him for some days.
One morning when Henry was busy, he heard a
whistle at the window; he looked out and saw
Walter Field with a whip in his hand. Come out
directly," said he; "I have something to say to
you; my father has lent me his pony chaise, and
I'll drive you over to Thorley. I met your father
by the gate, and he says you may go if you like."
Did he ? I should like to go very much, if you
will only wait a few minutes."
"No; 1 can't wait a minute; you can do your
trumpery exercise at any time.'





THE LONG SUM


"But I promised to do it always at this time,
because --"
Oh, you need not tell me why; Dick told me
the whole story-how you were a naughty boy, and
did not do your task, and how you promised to
behave better in future. It gave us a famous laugh,
I can tell you."
Laugh!" repeated Henry, colouring highly; I
do not see anything to laugh at."
I do, though, and so did Dick; we both agreed
that you would be a good fellow enough if you were
not such a prig."
What do you mean by a prig ?" said Henry,
who, without exactly knowing what a prig was,
felt a sudden sense of shame when he found it
was something at which Walter and his brother
laughed.
"Come, along," said Walter, quickly perceiving
the impression he had made; and he pulled him
towards the gate.
Henry resisted. ( I cannot go, if you will not
wait; I must keep my word."
"You must keep your word!", said Walter,
. mimicking Henry's hesitating tone: "then I must
go without you; but come, now, you will not be
so ill-natured, when I came on purpose for you."
He forgot to say that Henry had not been thought
of, till he and his brother had quarrelled as to who





THE LONG SUM. 25
should drive. Richard would not go, unless he were
allowed to drive half way; and Walter said that
he did not choose to, be pitched over the pony's
head in the first ditch they came to, and that he
should never have asked Richard to go at all, if
his father had not refused to let him go alone.
Thereupon Richard refused to go merely to accom-
modate his brother, and then Walter found it
convenient to forget his resentment at Henry's
impertinence in the affair of Ellen's garden.
Henry felt sorely perplexed. He liked driving in
a pony chaise, and he thought it was very good-
natured in Walter to ask him to go; on the other
hand, he had begun to feel the value of steadiness
in his pursuits, and he knew that his father and
mother were much pleased with his adherence to
his voluntary engagement. The wish to deserve
their approbation triumphed over every other
feeling.
"I am very much obliged to you, Walter, for
coming for me, but I had rather not go to-day,
unless you will oblige me by waiting a little
while."
"I would not wait a quarter of a minute to oblige
anybody," said Walter, sullenly; "come with me
directly, or let it alone, just as you please; only
mind, if you don't go to-day, I will never ask you
again, that you may depend upon."





26 THE LONG SUM.

"I am sorry for that," said Henry, but I cannot
help it; I must keep my word."
"Do as you like, Mr. Henry; keep your word
then, and see if I do not keep mine." Walter
pushed Henry roughly from him as he spoke, and
banged the gate after him in high displeasure.
When Henry returned to the house, Ellen was
standing at the hall door. She looked a little
anxious, but her countenance cleared up when she
saw her brother.
Make haste with what you are about," said she;
*' papa wants. ou when you have done."
Henry found his father standing in a little room
adjoining his study, which had been lately cleared
out; some new shelves had been put up, on which
Ellen was arranging some books.
"What a nice little snug place,' cried Henry;
" how I should like it for my own."
"Should you?" said his father; "I am glad of
that, for I mean to give it you."
"To me! for my own are you serious, papa?"
"Quite so; your mother and I.have been much
pleased with you lately; with your desire to improve,
and with the self-command you have shown on more
than one occasion. We wish to give you some
pleasure in return; but your best reward will be,
not in the possession of this little room, though I
hope the room will be both useful and agreeable to





THE LONG SUM. 4
you, but in the possession of the power over yourself
to do what you think right, whether it be pleasant
or unpleasant-a power which is worth more than
any pleasure I could give you."






,'=T\ .-'I="" r' A"~i


THE TWO RABBITS.

CnIlLES GOODWIN was a little boy five years old.
He could read by himself, could write, and was able
to do a little ciphering.
But besides all this, what is of much more import-
ance, he was a truthful, obedient, and affectionate
child. He minded what was said to him, and was
kind to'his little brother, never forgetting to save
him a piece of cake or biscuit when any was given
to himself. He took pleasure, also, in playing with
his brother, and in helping him. He did not push
him about and snatch the horse, or cart, or hoop,
or bricks, from him. Oh, no! he would have been
ashamed to be selfish and unkind to such a. tender
little creature, who could not speak, and was so
helpless. So Charles's little brother loved him, and
he loved his little brother; and they:were exceed-
ingly happy together.
Charles had a young friend nearly two years
older than himself, whose name was George Smith.
Charles was delighted when he could obtain leave
to go and see George, for George had a number of
playthings, and a cricket-bat and ball; and the'


/IN





THE TWO RABBITS. 29
two boys played at cricket sometimes, in the large
yard which was close to Mr. Smith's house.
One day Mrs. Goodwin, the mother of Charles,
told him that she had just heard that George Smith
had some young rabbits, and she asked Charles if he
would like to go and see them.
Charles jumped for joy, and said, Oh, yes I
indeed I should. It would be a great treat to me
to see some rabbits."
"Very well, my dear," said his mother; "then
after dinner you shall go with me to see them."
Charles thanked his mother, took great pains with
his lesson, and was in a hurry for dinner-time to
come. While he was waiting for his dinner he did
not tease his mother and interrupt her. He took
his little bricks and built a barn and a stable with
them; and by the time he had put all. the bricks
back into the box, his dinner was ready.
But while he was eating his dinner a misfortune
happened that neither Charles nor his mother could
prevent. The sky became black with heavy clouds,
and a thunder-storm came on. The rain poured
down in torrents, accompanied with bright flashes
of lightning and loud claps of thunder.
Poor Charles felt sadly disappointed, but he did
not cry and fret. He was too wise to be cross and
ill-tempered. He could not, however, help looking
at his mother and asking her what was to be donac





30 THE TWO RABBITS.
He longed so much to go. Mamma," said he, 'f
do not mind the rain and the thunder and lightning.
We shall not be hurt, shall we, while we just run in
to Mr. Smith's?"
SHis mother smiled, and said, We cannot go to-
day, my dear boy; but to-morrow, if it is fine, I will
take you."
Charles thanked his mother for this promise, and
amused himself as usual during the remainder of
the day; and was very happy although it rained,
and although he could not see the pretty little
rabbits.
The next morning the rain had ceased, and the
sun was shining with great brightness. Charles
rose as merry as a lark. "To-day I shall see the
rabbit*," cried he, skipping about.
When it was time to go, Charles put on his
hat, and went with his mother to Mr. Smith's
house. His friend George was very glad to see
him, and took him at once to look at the rabbits
in their hutch. There was the mother with six
young ones; all such pretty, clean animals. Three
of them had skins entirely white; two had black
spots on their backs; and one of them had a pair
of beautiful brown ears with all the rest of its body
as white as snow.
This rabbit took Charles's fancy more than any
f the others, He could not leave off stroking it;





THE TWO RABBITS.


and George said that he would give him that one,
with one of the others, if his mother would let him
have them.
I will ask my mother," said Charles; and away
le ran directly to his mother, to know whether
George might give him two of his rabbits.
"Oh, no !" said she; "I cannot let you have
them, because they will always be in the garden.
George has a large yard to keep his rabbits in, but'
we have not. We have only a small yard, and
unless the gate were always kept shut, the rabbits
would get into the garden and spoil and destroy
everything in it."
Indeed, mamma," replied Charles, "I will take
great care that the garden-gate shall always be
shut. The rabbits shall not get into the garden.
Will you be so kind as to trust me, and to let me
have them ?"
"I always wish to give you as much pleasure as
I can," answered his mother; "and I should like
very much to give you the treat for which you
seem so anxious. But do you think you can keep
your promise of shutting the garden-gate?"
I will try to do so, mamma," said Charles, very
earnestly;. I will always try to keep it shut."
Well, then," said his mother, "I will trust you,
and let your friend George give you two of his
rabbits, But remember, if I find them in the





THE TWO RABBITS.


garden, I shall be obliged to send them back to
George directly."
"I will be very careful," said Charles, and off he
ran to tell his friend George the good news.
Mamma says she will trust me, and let me have
the rabbits," cried he; I am so happy."
"And so am I," said George. In about four-
teen days, they will be old enough to leave
their mother, and then you must come and fetch
them."
Charles once more thanked his kind friend, and
it was settled that he was to come again in fourteen
days, and take away the two rabbits.
He then bade George good-bye, and went home
with his mother. As soon as Charles reached home,
he took some nails and a hammer, and began to try
to make a hutch out of an old tea-chest that his
father had given him.
He was so busy with his work, and the knocking
in of the nails made such a noise, that he did not
hear his father ring at the gate, so that his father had
come in, and had been some time looking on at the
work, before Charles perceived him.
My little carpenter," said his father, what are
you doing?"
"Oh, papa!" said Charles, "I am so glad you
have come home, because I want you to help me.".
What are you making ?" asked his father.





THE TWO RABBITS.


A hutch for the rabbits that George has promised
to give me," said Charles.
Rabbits!" said his father. "Are you to have
rabbits? George is very kind to you. But where
shall you keep them?"
"In the yard, and in this hutch that I am making.
I have promised mamma to do my best to prevent
their going into the garden," replied Charles.
"I hope you will succeed," said his father. But
now lend me the hammer for a short time, and I
will pull out these long nails for you."
With his father's assistance, Charles soon finished
the hutch. He counted every day as it went. Thir-
teen days had passed away. One more day only,
and then he would have his rabbits in the comfortable
hutch which he had made for them.
On the morning of the fourteenth day, as he was
getting ready to go and fetch his rabbits, a ring was
heard at the gate bell, and a letter was brought to
Mr. Goodwin.
Mr. Goodwin opened it and read it. It was from
Mr. Smith, and this was the letter:-

" DEAR SIR,
I Ax sorry to tell you that my little boy George
has the measles, and although I am sorry to deprive
Charles of the pleasure of coming to see his friend
and playfellow, and fetching the rabits, still I cannot





THE TWO RABBITS.


suffer him to run the risk of catching this illness.
George sends his love to Charles, and hopes soon
to be well enough to have a game at skittles
with him.
"Yours truly,
THoMs SMITH."

Mr. Goodwin read this letter to Charles, and said:
"You cannot go and fetch the rabbits till George is
well."
What did Charles do when he heard the contents
of this letter? Did he make a great roaring? No.
Did he stamp? No. Was he peevish and unkind
to his brother? No. Was he discontented and
pining all day ? No. He felt so sorry, that the
tears came into his eyes; but his father took hold
of his hand and kissed his cheek, and said: We
must bear with courage what we cannot help. When
George gets well, I hope there will be nothing to
prevent your long looked-for treat."
Then Charles behaved like a brave boy, and bore
his disappointment with patience, and went out to
work in his little garden. But he thought very often
of George and the rabbits, and when he looked at
the empty hutch, he could not help wishing that
his friend was able to see him, and to give him those
pretty animals.
Two days after this, as Charles was -I:ting in the





THE TWO RABBITS.


garden reading, he heard the parlour window open,
and he saw his mother standing at it beckoning to
him. He put down his book without delay, and ran
to see what his mother wanted him for.
"Come in to me, and you shall see," said she,
smiling. So Charles scraped his shoes and ran into
the house. A large parcel, covered with his mother's
apron, stood on the table.
"What can be there?" cried Charles. "Oh! may
I look?"
"Listen," said his mother; "do you hear any
noise? "
"Yes; I hear something moving: pray let me look,"
said Charles.
His mother gave him leave; and he mounted on
the stool, pulled away the apron, and saw two beau-
tiful rabbits, one quite white with brown ears, and
the other white, with black spots.
"Are these rabbits mine? Has George sent them
to me? cried Charles.
"Yes," said his mother. "Your kind friend has
sent them to you. Put them into the hutch, and be
careful to shut the garden gate."
Charles gently stroked the ears of the rabbits,
called his little brother, and then carried them to
the hutch. Together the boys fed them with a
fresh cabbage leaf and some bran, and then put
Bome clean straw into the hutch for their bed.
32





THE TWO RABBITS.


After all this was done, Charles was very particular
to shut the garden gate.
He fed these rabbits twice a day; once before his
breakfast, and once before his supper: and they grew
very fat, and knew Charles so well that they would
eat out of his hand.
For a long time, Charles always remembered to
shut the garden gate, and he taught his little brother
to be careful to shut it also.
In one part of the garden Mrs. Goodwin had some
-nice broccoli growing, and some of it was ready to be
cut for eating. So one morning, Mrs. Goodwin took a
knife and went to cut some of the broccoli for dinner.
Alas I when she came to the broccoli bed, what was
her surprise and vexation to find nearly all the broc-
coli eaten or destroyed. She looked about to see
what could have caused this destruction, and pre-
sently she saw peeping out from under one of the
plants of broccoli a white rabbit with light brown
ears! and then another rabbit, black and white, scam-
pered across the gravel path as fast as she could go.
They were Charles's two rabbits!
Mrs. Goodwin looked towards the garden gate. It
was wide open. Charles, that morning, had forgotten
to shut it. Mrs. Goodwin was much grieved when she
saw this. She was sorry to lose her broccoli, but still
more sorry to find that her boy, of whom she was so
fond, 'ha4 failed in keeping his resolution. Reluctant,






THE TWO RABBITS.


however, as she was to give him pain, she felt that she
must, for his own good, send away the rabbits for a
time.
"Charles! eome here," she cried. Charles was
playing at skittles with his little brother, but he
left off at once when he heard his mother calling
hinm, and he ran to her.
"Yes, dear mother, I am coming. What do you
want me for ?" said he.
"Come and see," said his mother, "what your
carelessness has occasioned. Your rabbits have
destroyed this broccoli. I am sorry for you, my
dear, but your rabbits must be sent away." And
she pointed to the garden gate.
Dear mother," said Charles, I am very sorry.
I will be more careful another time."
"Nay, my dear," answered his mother, "you know
I told you that if I found the rabbits in the garden, I
must send them back to George. So now catch
them and take them to Mr. Smith's house."
What did Charles do, when he heard his mother
say this? Did he behave with patience and obey her
at once? Yes, he did. Poor little fellow! he felt
sorry for having left the gate open; and with tears
in his eyes, he caught his dear rabbits, kissed them,
wrapped them up in his pinafore, and saying "Good-
bye, pretty rabbits! I am very sorry to lose you," he
carried them to Mr. Smith's.


37






38 THE TWO RAPBITS.
George was quite astonished when he saw Charles
bringing back the rabbits. "Are you tired of them
already ?" said he.
Oh, no," said Charles; "but I have been careless
and foolish, and have neglected to shut the garden
gate, though I promised to try always to remember
to shut it, and so mamma has told me to bring the
rabbits back again. Here they are, pretty little
fellows be kind to them, George."
Charles felt almost ready to cry when George took
the rabbits.
"I am exceedingly sorry," said George, "that
you have lost your rabbits, but I will take care of
them and feed them."
Charles then went home and behaved very well;
and his father and mother were pleased with him
because he bore his loss with so much patience and
good humour.
The loss of his rabbits was a lesson to Charles-to
be more careful, and he tried to become so more and
more every day. He never left his spade or his
wheelbarrow out, but put them carefully into the
shed when he had finished working in the garden;
and in the house he tried to remember to put his
books, and his slate, and all his playthings into their
proper places.
His father and mother, when they saw him grow-
ing so careful, called him to them, and told him, that






. THE TWO RABBITS.


as he had tried to cure himself of his faults, and was
altogether such a good child, they would trust him
once more, and let him have his rabbits again.
Happy Charles! how he jumped and sang, and how
he kissed his father and mother.
May I go and fetch them now?" said he,
eagerly.
Yes," said his father; put on your hat and give
this note to Mr. Smith.
"Where is my hat?" cried Charles. "Oh! I am in
such a bustle!" His hat was soon found, and off he
scampered to Mr. Smith's house. He rang the bell,
and George opened the gate. I have come for my
rabbits again," cried Charles, quite out of breath with
the haste he had made. Give this note to your
father, and give me the rabbits in my pinafore."
George ran to his father with the note. When
Mr. Smith had read it, he wished Charles joy on
having his rabbits again. He shook hands with him,
and praised him for curing himself of his faults.
George went back with Charles, and helped him to
carry the rabbits, and to put them into their little
hutch again, and then stayed the rest of the day
with Charles, playing at all kinds of games very
merrily.
Charles did not again forget to shut the gate of the
garden, and his mother did not again find the rabbits
there.












THOMAS AND HIS DOG.

TmERE was a little boy named Thomas, who endea-
voured always to behave well, and who was careful
to mind what was said to him. He liked to be
thought well of by his father and his other friends.
It gave him great pleasure when he heard his father
say," I can trust Thomas: he always does as he is
bid, and he always speaks the truth."
During the summer, Thomas and his father were
in the habit of taking a walk together before break-
fast; and the boy liked the walk very much, for
the air was fresh and sweet, the dew sparkled
brightly on the grass and flowers, the birds sang
gaily, and his father explained everything that
appeared new or strange to him.
One morning, when Thomas tapped at his father's
bed-room door to know if he was ready to go out, he
found that his father had a bad head-ache, and
would not be able to walk before breakfast. But,
Thomas," said his father, there is no reason why
you should be deprived of your walk; you are a
steady boy, and I will trust you to go by yourself."
Papa," said Thomas, I should like to go very






THOMAS AND HIS DOG.


much, and I will take care to do nothing that I
should not do if we were walking together."
So having his father's permission to 'take a walk
by himself, Thomas ran down to the kitchen for a
piece of bread, which he put into his pocket, intend-
ing to eat it in case he should be hungry before he
got home. He then set off.
He soon came to some pleasant fields, full of
daisies and buttercups, and he saw the bees flying
and humming about the flowers. He heard the
cuckoo sing, and wished very much to discover
whereabouts that singular bird was; but although he
looked carefully at the trees and hedges, he could
not find out the cuckoo's hiding-place.
At the end of the second field there was a stile.
This he climbed over, and he was glad to see that he
should soon come to another, for he liked to climb
over stiles.
The next field he came into was a corn-field. The
blades of corn were very young, and Thomas was
careful to walk only upon the path.
After the corn-field, the path led through a turnip
field, and at the end of the turnip field was a high
gate with five bars, and no stile. So Thomas was
obliged to climb over the gate. He did this very
carefully, for fear he should miss his footing and
fall. He soon jumped down on the. other side, and
found himself in a pleasant, green, shady lane.






THOMAS AND HIS DOG.


Some large trunks of trees were lying upon the
ground to dry, before they were used as timber, and
Thomas sat down upon one of them. A little way
on he saw a pond with four ducks swimming about
in it. Here he stood a few minutes looking at the
ducks, and he broke off four small pieces of bread,
which he threw to them. He was much amused
to see how greedily the ducks gobbled up the bread.
He then walked down the lane, and hearing the
sound of wheels rattling along, he knew he must be
near the high road.
Just as he came to the corner of the lane by the high
road, he saw a poor dog lying on the ground nearly
dead. It appeared to be very ill, and lay quite stilL
It was so thin that all the bones of its body were
marked upon the skin, and its eyes were almost closed.
Poor creature!" cried Thomas, what is the
matter with you 9"
As Thomas said this, the poor half-starved dog
opened his eyes, lifted up his head a little from the
ground, and looked at him in a very piteous manner.
Thomas felt quite sorry for the dog. Can he want
food?" said he to himself: and he pulled out his
piece of bread, which he had never thought of eat- -
ing during his pleasant ramble.
When the dog saw the bread, he moved his tail as
if trying to wag it, and he strove to get up, but was
so weak that he could not.






THOMAS AND HIS DOG.


"Poor fellow I" said Thomas, are you hungry?
then you shall have some of my bread." And so
saying, he broke off a small piece and held it close to
the dog's mouth. The dog snapped it up, and Tho-
mas broke off another bit and gave it to him. The
dog ate it eagerly, and looked very anxiously at the
kind boy for more.
When he had had three or four bits more, he
made an effort to stand, but he was still so weak
that he could not. As soon as he got up, he fell
down on his side again; but he could-wag his tail a
little, and at that Thomas was pleased, thinking it a
sign that the dog was getting better.
He sat down on the grass by the dog, and broke
him off some more bread. The dog ate readily all
that his young friend gave him. But Thomas was
wise, and fed him with a sparing hand, for he knew
it was dangerous to eat heartily after long fasting.
In a few minutes the dog once more tried to raise
himself on his legs, and was able to do so.
Thomas was now quite delighted.- He remem-
bered the pond that he had left a little way off in
the lane, and he thought the dog would like some
.water. But how was he to get the dog to the pond?
The dog could not walk, for he was still too weak.
"I will carry him-to the pond," thought the kind
little boy, if he will let me;" and- he took up the
dog in his arms.





THOMAS AND HIS DOG.


Thomas found the dog was almost too heavy for
him to carry, although he was so thin and ill. But
he succeeded in carrying him to the pond, and
placed the poor weak beast so that he might drink
some of the water easily.
The dog lapped up a little water; then looked in
the boy's face, wagged his tail, and tried to show
how much he thanked him for his kindness.
Thomas gave him some more bread when he had
done drinking, and soon had the pleasure to see that
the dog could walk, although but slowly and with
difficulty. It was now time for Thomas to think of
returning home; so he patted his lean friend gently
on the head, and, wishing him good-bye, began to
walk homeward.
Thomas had not walked far along the high road,
when he was surprised to find the little dog following
him as fast as his weak legs would let him. Poor
creature!" said Thomas, is this the way in which
you try to thank me for the breakfast you have
had?"-and so saying, he stroked the dog, who
wagged his tail and rubbed his head against him.
"But I cannot stop to play with you now," said
Thomas, "for my father expects me to be at home;-
so good-bye, little dog, good-bye!" and once more
Thomas walked on. But the dog would not leave
him, but continued to follow him until he arrived
at the gate of his father's house.





THOMAS AND HIS DOG.


His father was walking in the garden when
Thomas arrived, and, as soon as he saw him, came
to open the gate. He let Thomas in, but took no
notice of the dog, who, on being shut out, sat at the
gate whining most piteously.
"Dear father," said Thomas, "will not you let
that little dog come in?"
"No," said his father; "I do not want the dog.
How came he there? Why should we let him in ?"
Thomas told his father all that had happened, and
how the dog would follow him home; and he said,
" The poor creature is so grateful to me that he does
not like to leave me."
You have certainly behaved very kindly to this
little dog," said his father; but what are we to do
with him? How are we to feed him? I am not
rich, and have no money to'throw away on dogs."
"If you will be so kind as to let me keep this
dog," said Thomas, "I will buy the, meat and biscuit
that he will want out of my own money."
"But we have no kennel for him to be in at
night," said his father, and I cannot allow him to
be in the house."
Dear father," said Thomas, I can make him a
kennel. He will not want one while the summer
lasts, but can sleep in the open air. In the mean-
time, I can make a kennel, and have it ready by the
time winter comes. Will youngive me leave?"





THOMAS AND HIS DOG.


Thomas's father, who always wished to indulge
his son in everything reasonable, complied with his
request. Happy Thomas! how eagerly he ran and
opened the gate! The dog frisked in as well as he
was able, licked Thomas's hands, and lay down at
his feet. But he did not lie there long; he was
quite restless with joy, rubbed his head on his young
master's shoes, and tried to show his gratitude in
every possible way that a dog could. Thomas
seemed fully to share in the dog's happiness, and,
after caressing him a little, he put him in the yard,
and, giving him a bone, he went to get his own
breakfast.
All breakfast time Thomas talked about the dog
and the kennel that he intended to make for him.
When he had finished his lessons, he put on his hat,
called his dog, and went to the cottage of a car-
penter who lived near, to ask him some questions
about the kennel.
Thomas had been very kind to this carpenter, and
had often lent a few playthings to his children, and
also some of his books, so that the carpenter was
always glad to oblige him; and when Thomas began
to ask him about the dog's kennel, he did not send
him away, but told him in what way to set to work
to make one. And, Master Thomas," said he, I
will come, if you like, and show you how to do it,
when I have finished iy day's work."





THOMAS AND HIS DOG.


Thomas thanked the carpenter very much for his
kindness, and went home quite happy.
In the evening the carpenter came according to
his promise, and brought some pieces of wood with
him.
Here, Thomas," said he, you have been very
kind to my children, and I am happy to be able to
do you a little kindness in return; and, therefore, I
have brought these pieces of wood as a present to
you: they will serve for part of the kennel."
Thomas repeated his thanks to the carpenter, and
they began to work at the kennel together. The
carpenter told him to saw the pieces of wood with
which to make the sides all of the same length, and,
for this purpose, to measure with the foot-rule; so
Thomas took the foot-rule, which he saw was divided
into twelve parts, called inches, and measured care-
fully the length that he required.
When the piece of wood was sawed completely
through, Thomas found that he had in his hand a
piece measuring twenty-six inches, which was the
exact length that he wanted.
The carpenter now wished Thomas good-bye, first
telling him to go on measuring and sawing as he
had done, till he had as many pieces of wood as he
would require for the sides of his kennel, and pro-
mised to come and help him again, wlfen he should
have the wood prepared for use. Thomas continued





48 THOMAS AND HIS DOG.
steadily at his work after the carpenter had gone, his
little dog sitting close to him.
When it began to get dark, Thomas put the rule
and saw carefully by, and gave Rover-for that was
the name by which he called the dog-his supper,
but felt sorry that he could not provide him with a
comfortable bed for the night. If it should rain,"
said he to himself, my poor dog will get wet.
What can I cover him with ?"
So he began to look about, and at last remembered
that his mother had an old barrel that had held
cranberries in the winter, but which was now empty.
As soon as he thought of this barrel, he ran into
the house, the dog with him, and asked his mother if
she would lend him the barrel to make a bed in for
his dog, until he had finished the kennel.
His mother willingly gave him the barrel, and.
Thomas took it into the yard, laid it on one side,
and put a little clean straw in it. Rover seemed to
guess what his kind master was doing for him.
He went and curled himself round in the straw
when it was ready, and Thomas had the pleasure
of seeing him comfortably housed for the night.
He worked every -day at the kennel, the carpenter
helping him now and then, and showing him how
to nail the different parts together, and to plane the
pieces of wood, so that they might be quite smooth,
and that no splinters might be left in them.





THOMAS AND HIS DOG. 49
About the middle of the summer the kennel was
completed; and Thomas asked his father to look at
it. His father went to the shed, and was much
pleased to see how neatly the work had been
finished. "But, Thomas," said he, "this wood will
soon become rotten in the open air."
What shall I do to hinder its becoming
rotten? Other people's kennels do not rot," said
Thomas.
"Because they paint them; and you must either
paint or tar yours," replied his father. How shall
you manage to do that?"
"I will buy some paint at the painter's," said the
boy; and then I can paint it myself."
So Thomas went to the painter, and told him that
he wanted some paint and what for. "But what
colour will you have?" said the painter.
Oh! never mind," replied Thomas, "any colour
will do."
"I don't think you mean exactly what you say,"
said the painter, laughing. Should you like your
kennel to be painted a bright yellow?"
Indeed I should not," thought Thomas, and,
- after a little hesitation, as if unable to fix upon a
colour, he asked the painter what colour he would
advise him to have.
The painter told him that kennels were usually
painted dark green, or slate colour.





So THOMAS AND HIS DOG.
"Well, then," said Thomas, "I will have slate
colour."
The painter immediately mixed as much paint as
the kennel required, and lent Thomas a brush to
put on the paint with.
Thomas paid for the paint, returned home, and
painted his kennel; and when the paint was dry,
and the smell had gone off, he put his dog into it.
It was not necessary for his mother to ask for her
cranberry barrel, for Thomas was careful to return
it to her as soon as he had done with it; as he was
also to take the brush back to the painter. His little
dog grew up to be a fine animal, and was much
attached to his master.

} "















TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.







" DEAR FANNT, stay one minute! What shall I do?
Don't tell papa, pray don't! cried James;-" he told
me never to take the ink-bottle out of the stand; and
I have upset it all over this book of prints!"
What James said was too true. He had taken,
without leave, a valuable book of prints to look at,
and his elbow had unluckily overturned the ink-
bottle. He had been using this ink-bottle, and had
neglected to replace it in the stand. His sister
Fanny, who was going out to spend the day, looked
frightened when she saw the fiischief that had been
done.
James began to cry; and Fanny ran to fetch a
basin of clean water and a sponge.





$2 TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.
When she returned-" Pray, pray, Fanny, do not
tell papa," said James.
I don't want to tell him," said Fanny; "you had
better tell him yourself."
Oh, no, no I I cannot! He will be so angry with
me; and he will not let me have the treat of seeing
the horses at Astley's."
Nonsense!" said Fanny; if you tell him how
it happened-that it was quite an accident, and show
him at once the mischief you have done-I am sure
he will not be so angry as you think."
James had not courage to follow his sister's advice.
He knew that he had disobeyed his father's orders in
taking the ink-bottle out of the stand, and he also
knew that he had been strictly forbidden to touch the
book which he had spoiled, except when his father
was at home in the evening.
He watched his sister while she kindly tried to
sponge the ink out; but the soft paper of the print
had soaked it up so quickly, that all her endeavours
were of no use. The print was quite spoiled. It
is of no use," said Fanny, we shall only injure the
other prints, James. You must let this leaf dry, and
tell papa what has' happened when he comes home.
I cannot wait any longer-good-bye. Be wise, and
tell the truth."
Fanny went, and James looked at the spoiled print
till his eyes ached. He wavered; he grew more and





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


more afraid every minute; and, at last, seeing that
the print had dried, he shut up the book, and re-
placed it carefully on the shelf. He resolved to tell
the truth if he was asked, but to say nothing about
the accident till he was asked; and thus prepared
himself to tell a lie.
James's father returned at his usual hour. The
evening appeared to pass pleasantly. Fanny, seeing
her brother so cheerful, supposed he had told his
father of the accident, and therefore said nothing
about it herself. James, before he went to bed, asked
his father's permission for them to go and see the
feats of horsemanship at Astley's theatre. Edmund
and John Selwyn are going, and I dare say that Mrs.
Selwyn will take us too, if we ask her," said he.
You must inquire, first, whether Mrs. Selwyn
will take charge of you," replied his father-" busi-
ness will prevent my going."
Oh, I know she will," said James, for Edmund
told me so."
Very well," said his father, let -me know on
what night Mrs. Selwyn intends to go; and then, if
you have deserved it, you shall have the treat."
Pleased as James felt when his' father said this, he
had also a feeling of shame that he did not boldly
tell what had happened. But the fear of losing the
promised treat, and of suffering the punishment which
his disobedience might be considered to deserve- made






TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


him silent. The safe, straightforward, and manly
course was open to him, but he did not pursue it.
Instead of at once acknowledging his fault, and so
getting it off his mind, he resolved to strive to the
utmost to prevent his bad conduct from being dis-
covered till he had enjoyed the much longed-for
treat. Foolish boy! how much unhappiness was he
preparing for himself!
Have you told papa?" was the first question
that Fanny asked her brother, when she saw him
next morning.
Yes, yes," said James, hastily, and colouring with
the shame he felt at the lie which he uttered.
"And papa has forgiven you? I told you so-
how kind he is.' I must thank him too," said Fanny,
" for now I feel quite comfortable!"
No, no," said James, you need not do that, be-
cause-because-I-I-have not quite told him all."
Then let me go and tell him, and let us take the
book and show what has been done," said Fanny.
No, no-not now, dear Fanny: if you do such
an unkind thing I shall lose the sight of the wonder-
ful horses," and James held her fast.
Fanny hesitated. Will you promise me if I do
not go that you will? for I cannot bear that papa
should be cheated: and it is cheating him to let him
think that we have deserved a treat when we have
not,"





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


I shall not promise you," said James; you have
no business to interfere. If you are afraid for your-
self, go and tell, selfish telltale as you are."
"Oh, fie-fie!" said Fanny, I am no telltale,
and I am not selfish. I do not wish to have any
pleasure if you do not share it also. But why will
you not be honest, so that we may enjoy ourselves
together ?"
James was stubborn in his folly. Go and tell,"
he repeated, and so hinder me from having a treat
that I wish for more than anything else in the whole
world-unkind Fanny!"
Fanny was vexed to hear James say this, and with
sorrow she consented to be silent until she was asked.
Thus far she yielded; but, if asked, she was resolved
to tell the truth. But she felt unhappy, and, when
her father praised her and called her his trustworthy
daughter, and spoke of the good example she gave
to her younger brothers and sisters, and signified his
intention of giving, on her account, the desired treat
to them all, she could not thank him, for it appeared
to her as if she had agreed to be a party to a deceit.
She went out of the room as quickly as possible, and
cried very much. James was obstinate; and her
reluctance to expose him prevented her telling her
father that they did not deserve the treat.
After lamenting for some time, she resolved that
she would not, at all events, herself partake of the






TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


intended pleasure. She returned to the room in
which her father was sitting, where she found James
full of spirits, laughing and joking, and talking of
the fun that he was to have on the approaching
Wednesday. Fanny, with as much courage as she
could muster, and with a firm voice, asked her father
whether he should be displeased with her if she did
not join the party.
"Certainly not, my dear," said her father. "I
wish you to please yourself. But why should you
not go? Hey, Fanny my dear, in tears!" continued
he in surprise. "I expected to have had smiles,
and not tears, when I proposed a party of pleasure
to you."
I am not ungrateful, dear father," said Fanny,
" but-but I should not enjoy your intended kind-
ness, and what is worse, I cannot tell you the
reason."
When Fanny began to speak, James, quite fright-
ened, ran out of the room. He stood trembling at
the outside of the door, biting his nails, and annoyed
at what he called his sister's folly, because she was
too honest to allow herself the enjoyment of a plea-
sure which she thought she did not deserve.
The selfish coward was quite safe. Fanny kept
his secret, although she denied herself, because of
it, the pleasure of going with Mrs. Selwyn to the
theatre.






TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


Her father was much surprised, but his confidence
in his daughter was so great that he forbore to ques-
tion her, and assured her she was quite at liberty to
go or not, as she pleased.
Fanny felt herself happier for the decision to
which she had come; and once more she sought
James, and endeavoured to induce him to own the
mischief he had done. But James was as obstinate
as ever, and refused. He thought he might escape
altogether; for his father was so occupied that ho
had very little time to spend with his family, and
very seldom looked into the injured book.
Fanny assisted to dress her younger brother and
sister. Why will you not come with us ?" asked
little Emma, over and over again. But Fanny said
she could not tell her. She saw them all depart,
glad that she had had courage to do what she
thought right. James had once or twice felt sorry
that his bad conduct should have deprived his sister
of a pleasure so much wished for. But the love of
his own gratification conquered every better feeling,
and he departed, telling Fanny that she was very
silly for not joining the party.
Fanny passed the evening alone, and had been
asleep some time before the happy little party re-
'turned home.
The next morning she was quite astonished at the
wonderful things that were related to her, and when





58 TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.
her brother Robert asked her if she should not like
to have seen all these beautiful things too, Fanny
said, Yes, indeed, I should."
Her father overheard this conversation, but he did
not interfere. He was pleased with the self-com-
mand which could make a.little girl of twelve years
of age deny herself a pleasure because she thought
she did not deserve it, although he was ignorant
what the fault was.
The children were so delighted with what they
had seen, that when they were all assembled around
their father on the following evening, they began to
describe to him how wonderfully the horses obeyed
the orders of their riders; and after talking about
them for some time, Emma said, One part of the
scene, papa, was just like that picture you showed us
of the knight forcing his horse to plunge through a
torrent of rushing water."
I never saw that picture," said Robert and
George. Do let us see the picture, papa."
"The picture, or rather the print, which your
sister speaks of; is in my choice book, but I will show
it you; remember only that you must keep your
hands from touching the book."
The children promised to be careful, and James,
among the others, drew near to see the print. When
James saw his father bringing the very book which
he had injured, he began to be afraid that his dis-





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


obedience and deceit would be discovered. His
sister Fanny had just left the room.
The book was placed on the table. -His father
took his seat to show the print, and opened the book
at once at the blotted print. The surprise and vexa-
tion of his father were great. "Who has done this?"
"Oh, what a pity!" "I did not do it!"' "I never
saw the book before!" were the exclamations from
the different parties.
- Their father looked attentively at the faces of all
the children. James felt himself colour,-but, as he
met his father's inquiring eye, he said, It was not
I that did it;" and then, when he had told the lie,
his heart began to beat so violently that he could
hardly stand.
All the other children earnestly denied having
meddled with the book.
If neither you, James; nor you, Emma; nor
you, Robert; nor you, George, have done this mis-
chief, who has? Surely it cannot be Fanny ?" And
as their father said this, he remembered her distress
about the party of the evening before.
I remember," said Emma, that my sponge had
some ink in it a few days ago, and Fanny told me
that she had been using it."
Sorry as I am for the injury done to this valu-
able book," said her father, "I would rather have
had every print in it spoiled, than that any one of






TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


m. children should attempt to deceive me. Call
Fanny; tell her I want to speak to her instantly."
At this moment Fanny came into the room.
" Come here, my child," said her father; and she
came up to the table. When she saw the book, she
coloured, and first looked hastily at James, and after-
wards at her father.
I did not blot that print, father," said she: "I
assure you I did not."
Fanny saw by the fixed. look of her father's eye
that he half suspected her. But although this dis-
tressed, it did not frighten her. She repeated, in a
low tone, but firmly, what she had said.
How came there to be ink in your sister's sponge
a few days ago ?" asked her father.
I took the sponge to try to get the ink out of
the print," replied Fanny; but the ink was not
spilled by me."
Their father then turned to the other children,
and said, Before I ask Fanny who spilled the ink,
I will once more give the guilty'one among you the
opportunity of owning the truth. Who spilled the
ink on this print ?"
The younger children again exclaimed that they
did not. But James, when his father looked at him,
as if waiting for him to speak, could not answer.
" James," said he at length, "why do you not
answer ?"






TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD. 6t
Speak,. James !" cried Fanny.
Ashamed and frightened, James stammered, "Dear
father, forgive me this once, and I will never do'so
again."
Go up to your bed-room," said his father, gravely;
"I am too much grieved to speak to you to-night."
James went. Bitterly did he now regret that he
had not followed his sister's good advice.
After he had gone, Fanny explained to her father
how the accident had happened, excusing James as
much "as she could, and then entreated her father to
forgive him.
"Fanny," said her father, "I should be glad to
give you pleasure, but what you ask would be no
real kindness to James, but the reverse. For if he
escaped the natural consequences of his falsehood,
and was treated with as much confidence as before,
there would be a danger of his bad habit being con-
firmed; and if he should become an habitual liar,
he would be unhappy himself, and make us all un-
happy. In the hope, however, that this may be
sufficient, I shall only require that he shall confine
himself to his room the whole of to-morrow. This
.confinement will give him time to reflect upon his
past bad conduct, and to form good resolutions for
the future."
Weeks passed on. The father of this happy family
had the pleasure of believing that the younger chil.





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


dren were growing up as truth-telling and trust-
worthy as their sister Fanny. The fault of James
had been forgotten, and he had been in part restored
to his father's confidence.
One evening the whole party were sitting together.
They were reading, by turns, Robinson Crusoe's
Adventures," and had just come to that part where
Robinson was startled at hearing his name called,
when a letter was brought in.
Fanny took the letter from the servant's hand,
and gave it to her father, who, after reading it, shut
" Robinson Crusoe," and handed the letter across the
table to James. Read that letter, James," said
he, and tell me whether I shall be harsh if I hence-
forward refuse my confidence to you."
James turned pale, and then became red as soon
as he saw by the handwriting that the letter was
from his schoolmaster. Trembling, he read it, and
hung down his head with shame.
The letter complained that James, during the last
week, had not reached school until ten o'clock, and
sometimes not till half-past ten; whereas formerly
he had always been punctual to nine o'clock, the
hour at which the school began. The excuse which
James had given, that he had been kept at home to
assist in dusting the books, placing them regularly
on the shelves, and writing a catalogue of them, was
not considered satisfactory; and the schoolmaster





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


begged, as a favour, that James might in future
resume his former regularity.
The reason why James had not been at school in
Proper time was not, as stated by himself, that his
father had detained him at home, but that he had
loitered away an hour, unknown to his father, with
John Selwyn.
Severely did he feel the disgrace of having lost
his father's confidence. He was no longer trusted in
anything. Every day somebody went with him to
school, and was sent to bring him home, to the great
inconvenience of the remainder of the family. If he
spoke he was not believed; and he often had to feel
that he was suspected, even when he told the truth.
Whenever he was ordered to do anything, he had the
mortification of seeing that somebody followed him
to ascertain whether, he had really done what was
ordered; and, besides, whatever went wrong in the
house, he seldom escaped suspicion.
After some months, James became accustomed to
the sight of somebody walking by his side to and
from school, and almost ceased to think of the cause.
But every now and then something else happened
to remind him that the loss of his character de-
prived him of many enjoyments. It is impossible
to give an account of all that he suffered. Faults
which he had not committed were often laid to his
charge, and on many occasions his good conduct





64 TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.
did not obtain for him the praise and credit which
it deserved.
One day he returned home from school with more
joy than he had shown since the discovery of his
falsehood. He said that he had an invitation to
spend the next day at the house of one of his school-
fellows, named Selby, and that there was to be some
fine fun.
We are to have a game at cricket, and we are
to have two tents with flags, and plenty of fruit and
cake. In the evening we are to let off sky-rockets
and catherine-wheels, and all sorts of fireworks.
Dear Fanny, do ask papa to let me go."
Yes,". replied his good-natured sister, "I will
ask papa; but I am afraid he will say 'No.'"
Why?" asked James.
Because you know he does not believe what you
say," answered Fanny.
That is very hard," said James, for I am sure,
Fanny, I have not told an untruth a long, long
time."
I am very sorry that you should have told one
at all," said Fanny; but papa says that when a
person unfortunately gets a character for telling lies,
he will not be believed even when he tells the truth."
Do you think, Fanny, he will not believe that
I am invited? Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I
do? I am invited, indeed, for I am Tom Selby's





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


greatest friend. Oh !"-and he began to cry at the
thought,-" if papa should disappoint me, I shall
break my heart." -
Poor James !" said little Emma; what a pity
that you should have told a lie I Papa always
believes me."
"Don't fret beforehand, James," said Fanny.
Be patient, and if papa will not trust you, and let
you go, bear the disappointment as well as you can."
But when will papa believe me again ?" said
James, whose tears were running plentifully down
his cheeks.
W" When you have earned a character for truth-
telling, and, therefore, deserve to be trusted," said
Fanny.
To lose such a pleasure !"-and James, in spite
of the kind entreaties of his sisters, who were truly
sorry to see him so unhappy, and who pitied him in
his present suffering for his former folly, sat down in
a corner of the room, and cried bitterly.
His father was detained by business this evening,
until nearly nine o'clock; and he came home much
fatigued. James had been watching for his return
with a heavy heart; and as soon as his father had
finished taking his tea, he mustered up courage, and
went to him.
"Papa," he began, "to-morrow is Tom Selby's
birth-day, and his father and mother have givPn
A





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


him leave to invite as many of his school-fellows as
he pleases. He has asked me. May I go?"
"Where is the letter that invites you ?" asked his
father.
"I have none. Tom asked me at school without
a letter," said James.
I am sorry for that," said his father, as I can-
not take your word that you are invited, and it is
too late, and I am too much tired to go and learn if
you really have been asked. You cannot, therefore,
join the party."
Dear father," said Fanny, "I do not think that
James has told an untruth about anything for a long
time. When he broke the window, he came and
told me directly, although nobody could have found
out that he had done it, and --"
Fanny, I am happy to hear what you say; but
it will not do for me, by an ill-judged kindness, to
hinder his learning, while he is young, how neces-
sary it is for his happiness that his word should be
believed. Although he must lose the pleasure which
he wishes to enjoy, I still hope that he is now telling
me the truth. It will be some consolation to him
in his present affliction, that if he has not regained,
he is at all events regaining the confidence which
he lost by his own misconduct."
Father," said James, "I am indeed telling you
the truth."






TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


"But I am not yet prepared to rely on your.word,
although I hope shortly to be able to do so again,"
said his father. I am sorry for you, James, very
sorry, and sincerely do I hope that you will profit
by.this painful lesson."
James once more cried bitterly. He felt that his
father was justified in not trusting him, and he felt
the severe consequences of being without a good
character. His tears fell now more for being sus-
pected to be a person who would cheat another if he
could, than for losing the pleasure of the next day.
"What can I do to get my father to trust me
again?" said he to his sister Fanny, as he went to
his room. I cannot bear to be thought a liar and
a cheat. Dear Fanny, will you keep an account
of all I do in writing, and give it to papa every
night, that he may see I am trying to deserve his
confidence ?"
Fanny willingly agreed to do so. She assisted
her brother in all his plans to endeavour to prove
to her father that he really deserved to be trusted
again.
One morning James had the delight to hear his
father say, "Fanny, you may let James go to school
by himself to-day. Your daily account has done
him so much credit, that I will try to restore to
him my confidence; and I hope, on his side, he
will show himself worthy of it."






TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD


Proud of this favour, James did not fail of being
in good time for school. No idle friend could tempt
him to spend a few minutes on the way. He steadily
resisted every attempt of the kind, and daily went
straight from his father's house to the school, without
stopping for anything.
His father, when he saw that James was thus
careful to deserve his confidence, trusted him, little
by little, in other things. James knew that all his
actions were strictly watched, and he felt, therefore,
that the confidence placed in him was what he really
earned by his good conduct.
Among other things, James was trusted with
letters to put into the post; the post-office being
at a short distance from his school. One morning
when James arrived at the post-office and put his
hand into his pocket for the letter with which he had
been charged, to his great dismay he could not find
it. He feared he must either have left it at home
or dropped it on the road. So he ran back as fast
as he could to his father's house; but neither on
the road nor at the house could he find the letter.
He then thought it best to go, as usual, to school.
lie arrived there, it is true, rather too late; but
so early had he latterly been, that the clock, even
after this double walk, did not show more than five
minutes past nine.
In the afternoon, when his father returned, James.





TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.


although very uncomfortable at his own carelessness,
went at once to him and told him of the loss of the
letter.
"Shake hands with me, my brave boy," said his
father, for now I feel that I need not fear to trust
you. I am vexed at the loss of the letter, but I
have still time to write another and send it by to-
night's post. Had you concealed your accident from
me, I should have been very much distressed, for
the letter contained information which is of the
greatest importance to one of my most valuable
friends; and, if the intelligence were long delayed,
the loss to him and his family might be very serious.
From this day, my dear boy, I restore to you my
fullest confidence, never again, I trust, to have the
pain of withdrawing it."
The happiness of James, and also of his sister
Fanny, was now complete. And it will be a pleasure
to those who read this story, to know that James
continued to be a boy of truth, and to be loved and
trusted by all his friends and acquaintance.












THE TURK AND THE INDIAN.

How sorry I am that you must leave this beautiful
fire, papa, for a long snowy walk," said Arthur
Campbell, to his father, one winter's evening.
Yes, it would be pleasanter to remain at home,
Arthur," said Mr. Campbell; but I promised to
call on your uncle to-night, and I like to keep my
word."
Do not have the candles brought in, mamma,
until papa is gone," said Arthur's ,elder brother,
Godfrey; we cannot settle to anything just now,
and I like chatting round the fire."
"I have still twenty minutes to spare," said Mr.
Campbell; should you like to play at the game of
the travellers?"
"Yes, I should," said Godfrey.
And so should I," said Arthur, "if you will tell
me how to play. What are we to do ?"
"Some of us must be travellers visiting foreign
countries," said Godfrey. Suppose you be ai
Englishman, Arthur, and papa a Turk."
No mamma must be a Turk," said Arthur,
"because she has a turban on, and she is lying on





THE TURK AND THE INDIAN. it

a sofa. Turks wear turbans, and are very fond of
sofas. Mamma, will you be a Turk ?"
Yes, if you like," replied Mrs. Campbell; you
must fancy me smoking with a very long pipe called
a hookah. Papa's walking-stick will serve for a
hookah."
Oh, yes, that will do nicely," said Arthur; and
mind, mamma, you puff well, as a real Turk would."
Papa, what will you be ?" said Godfrey.
"I will be an Indian rajah or king," answered
his father; I am very desirous to learn the habits
and customs of other nations, and, therefore, if any
foreigner visits my dominions, I shall be sure to ask
him all kinds of questions."
But, papa," said Godfrey, I know so little
about other countries, that I am afraid I can only
be an Englishman."
Well, the rajah will be happy to see an English-
man at his Indian palace."
"I shall be an Englishman too," said Arthur;
"we will travel together, Godfrey."
When all was arranged, Arthur left his seat at
his father's feet, and, placing himself on a stool near
his mother, began the game by saying to Mrs.
Campbell:-
How do you do, Mr. Turk ? I have come all
the way from England to see your country; I hope
you are quite well."





72 THE TURK AND THE INDIAN.
"Quite well, sir. You have heard, no doubt, of
the many wonderful things we have in our country,
and are glad of an opportunity to see them for your-
self. England, by all accounts, is a poor miserable
little island;" and the Turk, as he spoke, gave a
long puff.
Our country, Mr. Turk," exclaimed Arthur, is
not a miserable place; it is a very fine country, with
plenty of useful, as well as .wonderful things in it.
If you had visited England, sir, you would not make
such a mistake."
Indeed! why you have not sofas surely, like
this that I lounge upon so comfortably. Look at
my room, filled with the softest cushions and sofas.
Who would live in a country without sofas and
cushions ?"
We do not use cushions on the floor, because
we do not care about them," said Arthur, eagerly;
"but we have plenty of sofas, and stools, and chairs."
"Chairs! what are they ?"
You must know very well what chairs are,
Mr. Turk; everybody knows what a chair is;" and
Arthur laughed aloud.
"You must describe a chair, Arthur," said Mr.
Campbell. Turks do not make use of chairs, nor
are they used among several other nations."
"Oh, I will describe it to him readily enough,"
said Arthur. A chair, Mr. Turk, is a seat made





THE TURK AND THE INDIAN.


of mahogany or any other wood, and covered with
some kind of stuff to make it soft."
"Ah! I understand you; chairs are raised seats,
'like that bench fixed in the wall."
Oh I no, not in the least; they stand upon four
legs, and we carry them from one place to another.
The seat is not always covered with soft stuff, for
sometimes it is made with cane, or even with wood
alone."
"Now I know what you mean," replied the Turk;
"but it is called a stool."
How can you make such mistakes, Mr. Turk ? A
stool is quite a different thing. A chair is a seat with
four legs, and a back to lean against. Now you must
understand. What makes you look puzzled still ?"
"Because I cannot see the difference between
your English chairs and our Turkish sofas. A seat
with four legs to it and a back-why, that is just
like our sofa."
Oh, one thing I forgot," said Arthur; a chair
is made to sit upon, not to lie down upon, and
there is only room for one person."
Ah! now I see plainly the difference," said the
Turk; but how cramped you must feel with your
legs hanging all the time."
"Not at all," said Arthur; we do not think
about it."
"Very strange," said the Turk, "that people





74 THE TURK AND THE INDIAN.
should feel so differently in different countries;" and
he gave another long puff.
Arthur, come with me," said Godfrey, "to visit
the Indian rajah. I dare say he will not be so dull
at understanding our English customs. That Turk
thinks his own country the finest in the world, and
he is so busy with his smoking, that I do not think
he cares about anything else.- Good morning to
your rajahship," said he, addressing his father; we
are two Englishmen, who have left our own country,
to learn all that we can of yours."
You are welcome to India," said the rajah; "my
dominions are so far from the coast, that I know
little of your countrymen who are settled on the
shores of this extensive continent. I shall, therefore,
be glad to learn many particulars from you concern-
ing your country. Pray, is it true, that you have no
plantains nor bananas in England ? that neither pine-
apples nor sugar-canes grow there ? and that you
cannot even cultivate rice, the most valuable food
that a nation can possess ? I fear the traveller who
informed me of these things must have attempted
to impose upon my ignorance, for I cannot imagine
any country to be so wretched."
Our country is not wretched, sir," said Arthur,
" though the traveller told you the truth. England
is a very fine country. If we have not rice, we have
plenty of good wheat, and we can buy as much rice





THE TURK AND THE INDIAN. 75
as we like from this country as well as from other
places. Then, we have pears and apples, nectarines
and peaches, and a hundred other fruits."
But the Hindo, who had travelled in England
did not tell me these things," replied the Rajah.
He described England to be a chilly, dreary place,
particularly during one season of the year, when he
assured me all the trees were bare of leaves, looking
like so many melancholy skeletons. Can this be
true ?"
Yes, sir," replied Godfrey; "but we do not mind
that. Spring soon returns, and the trees become
green again, and look so fresh and bright that you
would quite like to see them."
"Besides, Mr. Rajah," said Arthur, quickly, "we
can slide and skate on the ice in the winter, which
you can never do in your hot country."
What do you mean by ice, my young friend ?"
said the Rajah.
Why, when the water at the top of the ponds
or rivers becomes solid, like stone, so as to bear
us walking or sliding, we call it ice," replied
Arthur.
"Gentlemen," said the Rajah, "I do not receive
you at my court to hear you tell stories, or make
game of me. You cannot possibly think me so
foolish as to believe that water can become hard,
like stone."





76 THE TURK AND THE INDIAN.
Indeed, sir," said Godfrey, "my friend tells you
the truth. Water becomes so hard, both in England
and some other countries, in the cold winter months,
that carts and coaches can be drawn over it with-
out cracking the ice. When the weather becomes
warmer, the ice melts, and again becomes water."
"And, besides, we have snow-balls in England,"
said Arthur, exultingly. Ah! Mr. Rajah, you can
never play at snow-balls."
Pray what is snow ? inquired the Rajah.
"Frozen water," replied Godfrey, that comes
down from the clouds in showers, in cold weather."
And what does this extraordinary shower re-
semble ?" said the Rajah. Have I seen anything
like it? I do not wish to think you are trying to
deceive me, but your accounts are very strange
indeed."
A shower of snow," said Godfrey, "looks some-
thing like hundreds of small pieces of white paper
flying about, or a great number of white feathers."
Or like small pieces of salt," said Arthur.
"Snow is more like salt than feathers, because it
sparkles. Every flake of snow is very much like a
pinch of common salt. You know what salt is,
Mr. Rajah?"
"Yes; but does snow taste like salt?"
Oh, dear not at all; it has no taste, and melts
into water almost as soon as you touch it."





THE TURK AND THE INDIAN. 77
"I wish, Mr. Godfrey, you would explain to me
this wonderful circumstance of water turning solid,"
exclaimed the Rajah. The more I think of it, the
more surprising it appears to me."
I do not think that I can explain it very well,
sir," replied Godfrey; but I know when water
turns into steam, it is the same water very much
spread out by a great deal of heat which is mixed
with it; and ice is also water, only that it has no
longer the heat which is always mixed with it when
it is a liquid. But though I can only tell you, Mr.
Rajah, that heat turns water into vapour, and cold
turns it into ice, yet I am happy to inform you that,
in travelling to your country, as we came through
Calcutta, we saw that ice could be made even in this
warm country."
I am glad, sir," said the Rajah, "that you can
refer me to a place so much nearer than England;
and the next time I send to Calcutta, I will order
some of my wise men to accompany my messengers,
and bring me a full account of this wonderful hard
water."
Oh! you need not send wise men, Mr. Rajah I"
said Godfrey; for the making of ice is so easy
that common labourers do it, and I can tell you all
about it. In the large open plains near Calcutta,
the natives dig holes in the ground about thirty feet
square and two feet deep."





78 THE TURK AND THE INDIAN.
Excuse me, sir," said the Rajah, "I do not know
how long feet are."
Why, Mr. Rajah," said Arthur, a foot is about
one-third as long as you can step; so thirty feet is
about ten of your steps; and if you were to stand
in a hole two feet deep, the top of the hole would
reach a little above your knee."
These holes," continued Godfrey, ten paces
long, and as many broad, and rather more than knee-
deep, are half-filled with dried stalks of Indian corn
or sugar-cane. Rows of small unglazed earthen
vessels, about one inch and a half (I beg pardon,
sir), about as deep as two fingers are broad, are
placed on this bed of corn stalks. Water, which has
been boiled and suffered to cool, is poured into these
vessels, which are so porous that some of the water
soaks through them, and, by evaporating from the
outside, carries off the heat with great rapidity.
This work is done in the dusk of the evening, in
December, January, and February; and when the
weather is clear, part of the water which remains in
the vessels is usually frozen. The ice is collected
before sunrise, and thrown into a deep pit, lined with
straw and coarse blanketting; it is then covered with
straw, and sheltered with a thatched roof."
Thank you, Mr. Godfrey," said the Rajah; "I
will endeavour to teach some of my labourers to
make ice; but pray what use can I make of this ice "





THE TURK AND THE INDALN. 79
You will be able," said Godfrey, to cool the
water you drink, which will be very agreeable when
you are thirsty; and by mixing some of your beau-
tiful fruits with some cream in a thin vessel, and
then putting this vessel into a little tub of ice, you
can make what we call in England -ice-creams.
Some of our doctors have applied ice to violent
burns or scalds; and when people have had brain
fevers-but I do not know much about that-ice
has been applied to their heads with great advantage."
It does not often happen that the rivers in
England are frozen over, sir," said Arthur, though
small ponds are generally frozen over every winter.
In some other countries, such as Holland and
Sweden, the people travel on frozen canals and
rivers as we would on dry land."
"Pray, sir," said the Rajah, again addressing God-
frey, have you any cocoa-nuts in your country ? "
"No, Mr. Rajah," answered Godfrey, "but we
have walnuts, chesnuts, and hazel-nuts, which are
most delicious.".
"And do your nuts yield oil like ours, that you
may burn in your lamps ?"
"Oh, no," said Arthur, "our nuts are so good that
we eat them all; we get oil for our lamps from the
whales in the South Seas."
"But we now," said Godfrey, "also use tne
cocoa-nut oil, which is sent from this country to





So THE TURK AND THE INDIAN.
England, and some of our people have lately found
out a way of separating the fluid from the solid part."
"The solid part of cocoa-nut oil, Mr. Godfrey 1"
exclaimed the Rajah. "That sounds almost as
curious to me as solid water. Cocoa-nut oil is
always fluid in my country." "And it is always
solid in England," said Godfrey; "not hard, but just
stiff enough to retain its form.'!
"I should like to hear more of your country, gen-
tlemen," said the Rajah, but an engagement pre-
vents me from any further conversation, and another
day I shall be happy to see you at my court."
"Oh, papa, you are going," exclaimed Arthur, as
his father rose from his seat, and I am so sorry! I
wished to ask you about palanquins and elephants."
"We must talk about them another time, Arthur,"
said Mr. Campbell; "I have stayed longer chatting
than I intended. Help me to put on my coat, boys:
this pelting snow will soon put all thoughts of India
out of my head, I fancy."
Will you play at this game another night, papa?"
said Arthur, as he and Godfrey followed Mr. Camp-
bell to the hall-door. Yes, with pleasure."
Oh, thank you," said they both at once; and
mind, papa, to come home as soon as you can," con-
tinued they, shouting with all their might, as they
closed the door behind him.




























THE OBEDIENT KID.


IN a stable lived a Goat that had a pretty little kid,
of which she was very fond. This kid was too
young to go about with her mother; and the mother
was half afraid to leave her by herself. But the
goat was obliged to go out to get food.
One day she said to her little kid, "My dear, I
am going to fetch a cabbage and a lettuce for your
dinner. Mind you do not go out while I am away.
6





82 THE OBEDIENT KID.
Lock the door of our stable, and do not open it to
any orne who knocks, without first looking out of' the
window to see who it is that wants to come in. Pray
mind what I say to you, and do as I bid you."
"Yes, dear mother," said the kid, "do not be
afraid, I will do as you bid me. I will look out of
the window before I open the door."
"Good-bye, my darling," said the old goat, "re-
member what I have said."
Good-bye, dear mother," said the kid, I will
do as you bid me."
So off the old goat went; but she waited outside
the door -while the little kid shut it, and she looked
back very often, to see that it was kept shut.
A wolf who lived near saw the goat pass by. He
had often wished to eat up that nice tender young
kid, and this day having had no breakfast, he was
very hungry. "Ah I ah said he, "now the old
mother is out, I will go and eat that silly young kid.,
She will be sure to leave the door open." Away he
ran to the stable where the goat lived. He went
to the door with a bounce, thinking to push it open.
Ie did not expect to find the door fastened; but he
was mistaken, and he could not get in.
"Although you have fastened the door, Miss Kid,"
growled he to himself, "I will eat you-I will knock,
and you will be sure to come and open the door.
And then--"






THE OBEDIENT KID. 8j
He was so pleased with the thoughts of eating the
little kid, that he licked his lips; and lifting up his
paw, gave a loud knock at the door.
Who is there outside ?:' asked the little-kid from
within.
"I, my dear," said the wolf, trying to speak like
the goat; "I, your mother, open the door quickly, I
am in a hurry."
Oh, no! you cannot be my mother," said the'
kid.
"Open the door this minute, or I shall be very
angry with you," said the wolf.
"If you are my mother," said the little kid,
"you will wait while I look out of the window, for
my mother told me to do so before I opened the
door."
"Open the door directly," called out the wolf.
But the wise little kid went up to the window and
looked out.
"Oh! you 'bad wolf," said she, "to try to cheat me;
but you will not eat me to-day; so you may go
away, ha ha! ha! '' and the kid laughed. "I take
care to mind what my dear mother says to. me,
ha!,ha! ha! master wolf, you may go away, hat
ha! ha! ha!"
The wolf gnashed his teeth and growled. He
looked very fierce at the little kid, but he could not
reach her. The kid went from the window, but the





THE OBEDIENT KID.


wolf still heard her ha! ha! ha! as she laughed at
him safe inside the stable.
The wolf went away, and soon afterwards the
goat came back. She knocked at the door. The
little kid asked, "Who is there?"
It is I, your mother, darling," said the goat.
"You speak like my mother, but I will be sure,"
said the kid, "before I open the door. If you are
my mother really, you will not mind waiting while I
look out of the window."
So again the kid looked out of the window, and
when she saw it was her own mother, she ran quickly
and opened the door.
"Dear mother," said she, "such a large cruel wolf
'has been here; but I did as you bade me: I looked
out of the window before I opened the door."
Dear kid," said the goat, and she licked her with
her tongue; "good kid, wise little kid. If you had
not obeyed me, that cruel, greedy wolf would have
eaten' you up, and you would never have seen your
mother again. Good child, to do as I bade you."
And then the goat gave the kid the fine lettuce
and cabbage she had brought home with her.











MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER
TRAVELS

ALMOST all little boys and girls who live near the vil
lage of Highgate must know some pretty white houses
facing the fields, between Highgate and Hampstead-
those beautiful fields, with their large ponds to sail
boats in, and, in summer, with the merry haymaking,
the dog-roses, the red campion and crow's-foot, and
a hundred other delights for everybody.
At the time of my story, there were very few
flowers left in the fields; even the blackberries were
all gone, for October was nearly half over, and little
bov- and girls now liked to draw round the fire in
the chill evenings, and read about travellers and
their adventures.
If you and I had been able to peep into the draw-
ing-room of one of the white houses before mentioned,
on a cold, wet evening, we should have seen two
little girls, of about ten years oi age, running every
now and then to stir the blazing fire, and then squeez-
ing their little faces against the window-panes, and
straining their eyes in the direction of the garden
gate. A very kind-looking young lady was busy
also in running to the window, arranging the tea-





86 MI~NIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS.

table, and giving directions to the housemaid. A
great black dog was lying before the fire; the only
one present who seemed to see no reason for disturb-
ing himself, and who winked lazily, with his head
on his outstretched paws.
One of the little girls ran up to him, and, putting
her arms round his neck, said-
"Darling old Rover,. shan't you be glad to see
your master and mistress and Minnie again ?"
At this Rover pricked up his ears, rose up, shook
himself, and gave a short bark.
"Dear old doggie !" cried the little girl. "Just
look, Miss Morison; Rover knows quite well when I
speak of papa and mamma!"
Here the other little girl came from the window
and said, rather despondingly, Miss Morison, I
don't believe they'll come to-night."
Patience! patience! Helen and Edith," answered
the young lady, who was the children's governess,
and whom they dearly loved. Remember how far
your papa and mamma have to travel. A hundred
little things may happen between here and Birming-
ham to make them late."
The children watched a little longer, and then a
loud "Here they are! here they are !" burst forth,
and in an instant Helen and Edith rushed down-
stairs, followed by Rover, and would have run out
to the garden gate, in spite of the pouring rain, if





MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF IER TRAVELS. 87

Miss Morison had not caught hold of them. Rover,
however, was to be stopped by no one; he was at the
gate in an instant, leaping up, barking, wagging his
tail, and giving his hearty welcome to the travellers.
Helen and Edith were delighted to hear Minnie's
voice, exclaiming,-" Oh look, mamma there's
Rover! Rover! Rover! dear old Rover!" Then the
coach-door opened, and out stepped Mrs. Hale, Mr.
Hale, and Minnie; and in a minute the three little
sisters were hugging each other, their parents, Miss
Morison, and Rover. Then Helen and Edith led
Mrs. Hale and Minnie upstairs to the warm, cheerful
drawing-room, and seated them on the sofa, exclaiming
all the while -" Oh we thought you'd never come !
We looked out for you such a time! Do tell us all
about Wales! We are so glad you've come home at
last! You have been away two whole months! It
was such a long time! But we have been very
happy with dear Miss Morison; and, do you know,
I have got a new canary ? And, oh! have you seen
the white kitten? And did you hear about Aunt
Mary asking us to tea ?"
As- neither Mrs. Hale nor Minnie could possibly
answer all these questions at once, they merely
hugged Helen and Edith again, and allowed them
to take off their cloaks.
When will papa have finished paying the coach-
man?" cried Edith; and she ran down to bring Mr.





88 MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS.

Hale upstairs. Helen went upstairs to the nursery
with Minnie, to take off her hat, but would not let
her tell anything of her travels, as she said she and
Edith had promised each other not to hear anything
till Minnie could tell them both together after tea.
When the little girls returned to the drawing-
room, they found their papa and mamma and Edith
seated at the tea-table, upon which the urn was
hissing merrily, and Miss Morison making tea.
Helen and Edith could hardly eat their bread and
butter for starting up every minute to carry round
the cups, and to hand everything to their papa and
mamma at once.
At length tea was over; and when the tray had been
removed, and while Mr. and Mrs. Hale were engaged
in conversation with Miss Morison, Helen and Edith
sat down upon the sofa, with Minnie between them,
and said-" Now, Minnie, do tell us all about every-
thing. Begin when you left us at Euston Station."
"Oh! when I left you, I was very happy in think-
ing of all I was going to see with darling papa and
mamma; but then I could not bear leaving you, and
you.were so kind in liking me to go, and staying at
home yourselves. So I am afraid I looked a little
unhappy; and mamma asked me what I was think-
ing about; and when I told her, she said that you
and Edith had been very kind and unselfish in sym-
pathizing with me so much, and in cheerfully staying





MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS. 89
at home yourselves, because papa and she could not
take more than one; and mamma said, that next time
one of you should travel with them."
Oh! how very kind of dear mamma," cried
Helen and Edith; and Minnie continued-
"So then I was quite happy, and began to think
of all the things I should see and do, and what sort
of a place Chester would be, for we were going there
first.
We changed carriages at Crewe, and at last we
came to Chester. Oh it is such a curious place-I
never saw anything like it before. There are beau-
tiful old houses, something like Crosby Hall in
Bishopsgate Street. Don't you remember, that day
we went to see St. Paul's, papa making us look
out of the coach window at that curious old
house?"
Oh, yes I I remember it quite well," cried Edith.
" And you told us in your first letter that you slept
at Chester. Where did you sleep ?"
Oh we stayed for one night in a nice funny old
inn, called' The Blossoms.' There were so many
long passages, I thought I should lose my way when-
ever I went from my little room to our parlour. I
got up early the next morning, and papa and I walked
all round the top of the great wall, which is built all
round the town, and which is quite wide enough for
two persons to walk on, holding hands. There is a





go MINNIE'S ACCOUNT? OF HER TRAVELS.
railing round the top. Papa says the wall was built
a long time ago to keep out enemies; and there are
towers in the wall, so that men could shoot down
upon those who wanted to take the town. I am very
glad Chester has no enemies to fight now. There is
such a lovely view from the wall, of the river Dee and
the fields and hills round, with the Welsh mountains
a long way off.
"We left Chester that morning, and went in the
train to Llandudno. We stayed there, as you know,
a long while. Oh! we were so very happy there!
It is such a beautiful place!
"The day after we arrived was very wet and
windy, and I was longing all the morning to go
down to the beach. At about twelve o'clock, the
rain left off, and papa went out for a little walk.
Presently he came back, and told me to put on
my goloshes and come quickly, for a vessel had,
been wrecked on the rocks that very morning!
Mamma was too tired to go, but I got ready as
quickly as I could, and ran with papa to a part
of the Great Orme's Head, which is a high rocky
mountain, with the sea nearly all round it. And
there we saw the poor little ship lying on one side
against the rocks that she had been dashed upon.
The sailors had escaped in a little boat belonging
to the ship, but it was very difficult to manage it
in that dreadful rough sea, and before they got to





MINNIES ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS. 91
land, the boat was half full of water, and ready
to sink.
"It made me very sad to look at the poor wreck;
the sides had all been knocked in, and the waves
were breaking over the deck, and the masts, and
casks, and pieces of wood were floating about in the
water. I felt so sorry for the poor captain, for the
ship belonged to him. The people at Llandudno got
up a subscription for him and his crew, to help him a
little."
Oh! poor things! I am glad they were saved,
and that the people were kind to them," cried
Helen.
"But I should have liked to see a real wreck!"
said Edith.
One evening," continued Minnie, "papa took us
in a boat-quite a large one, with two sails-to such
a beautiful cavern in the Little Orme's Head, which
is another rocky mountain on the other side of Llan-
dudno."
Oh, stop, Minnie! I don't understand," exclaimed
Helen. You told us in one of your letters that
Conway Bay was- on one side of Llandudno. Now,
Llandudno is not on an island, so it can't have s(
many sides."
I shall go and fetch the atlas," cried Edith; or
else I am sure I shall not know where all the places
are you are going to tell.us about."





92 MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS.

Edith brought the atlas, and when they had opened
it at the map of England and Wales, Minnie showed
her sisters that Llandudno was situated on a narrow
peninsula, with Conway Bay on one side, and Llan-
dudno Bay on the other; Llandudno Bay being formed
by the two projecting mountains called the Great
Orme's Head and the Little Orme's Head. She then
continued:
"Well, we went in the boat to this cave in the
Little Ormw's Head. Oh! how I wish you could
have been with us! When we arrived at the en-
trance to the cave, I thought our boat could not
possibly get in; there seemed such a very small
opening. But the boatmen took down the masts,
and we stooped down and managed somehow to
get in, all among great rocks, till we lifted up our
heads; and there, oh! Helen and Edith, the rocks
went up an immense height, and it was almost
dark, so that at first I could not see anything, and
only hear the waves thundering on the little stretch
of beach. Oh! they made such a noise! But soon
I got accustomed to the faint light, and then I saw
h9w beautiful the colour of the water was-quite a
brilliant green; and then we landed, and I could see
just a tiny hole up high on one side, and from it a
faint silver light gleamed down I It made me think
so of Rolf's cave in Feats on the Fiord. I am sure
his cave must have been just like this one; only Rolf





MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS. 93
was quite safe at high water on the top of the sloping
beach; but if any one were in this cave at anything
near high water, they must be drowned, for the
beach is quite low, and the rocks are so steep that
no one could possibly climb them."
Oh! if it was like Rolf's cave, I know quite well
what sort of a cave it must be; because I have just
,been reading Feats on the Fiord again," said Edith.
"How very beautiful it must be!"
"But, Minnie," said Helen, "you have not told
us whether you saw any Welshwomen, with men's
hats on, at Llandudno."
"And you have not told us about the Welsh
ponies. Did you not say you rode to Conway on
some Welsh ponies ?"
Yes, I did," said Minnie. But, first, Helen,
we did not see any Welsh women with hats like
papa's at Llandudno; we saw some afterwards, at
Bangor; but there were a good many women with
round felt hats, like papa's wideawake.
It is so strange to hear almost all the people talk
Welsh. Of course, I could not understand them,
but I can say a few words. 'Dim Cymreig' means
'I can't speak Welsh. I said it to an old woman
who began to talk Welsh to me. She was spinning
wool with a spinning-wheel, in a little house by a
waterfall near Trefriw.
"The Welsh ponies are not at all pretty, like





94 MINNIE'S ACCOUNT OF HER TRAVELS.

English ones, but they trot along very nicely, and
papa says they are more sure-footed for climbing
than ours. We rode to Conway across the sands.
Such a beautiful ride But the ponies sank almost
up to their knees in the sand at every step, which
made us very slow. Conway is a very pretty little
town, with an old wall, like Chester, all round it;
and such a fine old castle! Mamma made a sketch of
it, and I tried to make a little one; but then I liked
to run about, and see all the curious nooks and cor-
ners. Oh! it would be such a capital place to play
at hide-and-seek in. If you had been there, we
would have had a game.
"There is a very deep copper-mine in the Great
Orme's Head, 900 feet deep I Papa says that is
more than twice the height of St. Paul's I looked
down the shaft-the great well that the men go up
and down, in a large bucket. They have to sit on
the edge with their feet inside. It looked so black
and dismal down the shaft! I am sure I should
never be brave enough to go down. I am very
glad I am not a miner! A little boy and girl sold
mamma some pretty pieces of copper ore from the
mine. Mamma says we may put them in our curio-
sity boxes."
"Oh, how nice!" exclain ed Helen and Edith.
And Minnie continued: We left Llanduduo after
staying there some time, and went in a Welsh car-





MINNIE'S A CCOUNTO OF HER TRA VELS. 9q
such a nice sort of carriage !-to the loveliest place,
I think, I ever saw-Llanrwst. We went to a large
hotel, close by the Conway River and a pretty old
bridge. But I told you about that in my letter from
Llanrwst; so I will go on to something else now,
as I am afraid mamma will want us to go to bed
soon."
Oh, then, be quick, Minnie; never mind Llan-
rwst: tell us about your going up Snowdon. Miss
Morison says it is the highest mountain in Wales,"
said Edith.
"Well," continued Minnie, I'll tell you about
Snowdon, then; but I must not forget to tell you,
to-morrow, about the hotel at Capel Curig. Only
fancy! they have a pretty little water-wheel, by a
rushing stream, to churn the butter! I must tell
you also, to-morrow, about the splendid waterfalls
between Llanrwst and Llanberis. Llanberis is the
name of the nearest village to Snowdon."
"Almost every name in Wales begins with Llan!"
cried Helen.
"Yes; papa says Llan means a place of meeting,
or a village."
"Oh, never mind about Llans," said Edith; I
do so want to hear about Snowdon. Did you not
go up on ponies ?"
"Oh I yes. I could not walk so far, neither could
mamma; but papa walked all the way. We took




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