Citation
Happy hours, or, The home story-book

Material Information

Title:
Happy hours, or, The home story-book
Portion of title:
Home story-book
Spine title:
Happy hours
Creator:
Cherwell, Mary
Gilbert, John, 1817-1897 ( Illustrator )
C.S. Francis & Co ( Publisher )
J.H. Francis & Co ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
New York
Boston
Publisher:
C.S. Francis & Co.
J.H. Francis & Co.
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
<3>, 202, <1> p., <6> leaves of plates : ill. ; 15 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Family -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children and death -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Pets -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Horses -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Selfishness -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Obedience -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Truthfulness and falsehood -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1851 ( rbbin )
Family stories -- 1851 ( local )
Bldn -- 1851
Genre:
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) ( rbbin )
Family stories ( local )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- New York -- New York
United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Added engraved title page.
Funding:
Brittle Books Program
Statement of Responsibility:
by Mary Cherwell ; with illustrations from designs by Gilbert.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026633665 ( ALEPH )
16821146 ( OCLC )
ALG4160 ( NOTIS )

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Full Text
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THE OLD OAK TREE. Pave 17.







HAPPY HOURS;

OR,

THE HOME STORY-BOOK.

BY

MARY CHERWELL.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DESIGNS BY GILBERT.

NEW YORK:
C. 8. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY.

BOSTON:
J. H. FRANCIS & CO, WASHINGTON STREET.

1851.



CONYVENTS.



PAGE
THE OLD OAK-TREE e e e e ® e e 4 ° e 5

THE WHITE PIGEON . . 2. « e« e o e e 21
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS . ° 7 e © ° . oe 45
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. . ‘ 2 ° 73

COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY :—HERO . ° ° ° ° 86

COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY :—FLUSH anp ROVER ° 113

THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN . ° ° : . ee 6 138

EMILY MAYNARD .
HENRY MORTON .

AGNES AND HER PETS . . , ° - 0 177

THE SISTERS ..,



HAPPY HOURS;

OR,

THE HOME STORY-BOOK.



THE OLD OAK-TREE.

Ir was in the first month of the year,
and on the first day of that month—New-
year’s day—that two little boys, George
and Edward Howard, were seen wending
their way through one of the quiet lanes
in the neighbourhood of Cranford. It
was one of those bright joyous mornings
known only at that season of the year.

The air was clear and bracing; the



6 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

branches of an avenue of trees, inter-
woven overhead, and covered with white
rime, appeared like a roof of lace work;
here and there, in the hollows of the road,
were seen pools of frozen water, which,
a stray gleam of sunshine would cause
to shine like mirrors; while the white
frost, with which the grass was clad,
elistened with the brilliancy of countless
gems. The two boys I have mentioned
cheerfully pursued their way; their shrill
voices and merry laughter ringjng again
through the light morning air. Edward,
who was by one year the younger of the
two, was carrying a parcel, carefully
packed in brown paper, and his brother
George was jumping nimbly backward
and forward over the ditches which skirted



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 7

the road: or sliding on any pieces of ice
wnicn fell in his way, till his face glowed
with health and exercise.

“Ah! [ wish I were as warm as you
are, George,’ cried Edward; “I declare
my fingers are quite cold with carrying
this parcel. I wonder why Uncle Philip
wished us particularly to bring it.”

“Well if you are cold Edward,’ said
his brother, “why not run about as I do.
See, here is a capital slide just before
us; put the parcel down for a moment,
and take a run with me’

“No, it is not worth while to stop
now,” said Edward, “for you know you
must carry the parcel half the distance.
That old oak-tree is just half way between
our house and Uncle Philip’s: when



8 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

we reach that I shall have done my
portion.”

“T mean to carry it half way, and only
half way,” returned George; “and I am
certain that that tree is not the place ;
for you know very well, Edward, that
Thomas the gardener told us the other
day he had measured the distance, and
the half mile was ten yards on the other
side of the oak.”

“J don’t care what Thomas fancies,”
cried Edward; “I know that every one
else says the tree is half way, and I shall
carry the parcel there and no further.”

At the beginning of this conversation,
George had been on the point of offering
to carry the parcel the remainder of the
distance; but, no sooner did his brother



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 9

tell him that he expected him to carry it
half way, than he obstinately resolved not
to do so; merely, as he said, because he
would not be dictated to by a younger
brother. Edward, feeling convinced
that he had done his share, determined,
with equal obstinacy, not to yield the
point.

I am afraid from what has been said
about the two brothers, that my young
readers will fancy them to have been very
obstinate, quarrelsome boys, but such was
not generally the case. They were good-
tempered and obliging to all their friends,
kind to their poorer neighbours, and, ex-
cept on one point, seldom disagreed with
one another; but each had a foolish pride

about being directed to do anything by



10 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

the other; and when that feeling hap-
pened to be aroused, you could not have
found two more obstinate little fellows in
the whole village of Cranford. ‘Their
Unele had, on the morning to which this
tale refers, come to pass the day with
their father; and had asked his nephews
to go to the Grange, which was the name
of his residence, and bring him a parcel,
which he expected would be left there by
the coach: the boys, who always delighted
to oblige their Unclé in any way, had
cheerfully set out on their errand. Just
before they reached the Grange, the
-eoachman had left the parcel, and with
it they started, on their return home—
we have seen with what success.
Arrived at the Oak-tree, Edward. as-



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 11

serted that he had fulfilled his share of the
distance; set down his load, and refused
to carry it a step further.

“Well, a nice tale you will have to tell
Uncle Philip when you reach home,’ said
George; “for I declare I will not touch
the parcel till you have carried it ten
yards further.” “I shall tell my Uncle I
have done my duty,” said Edward; “I
do not intend to touch it again.”

“Neither will I,” cried George.

And at length off they walked, actually
leaving their Uncle’s property under the
tree, to any chance that might await it.
After walking a few paces in silence,
George began to feel rather ashamed of
the part he had been taking, and had his
brother shown any concession, he would



12 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

willingly have turned back. Nearly the
same thoughts were passing through Ed-
ward’s mind. “ After all,” he thought, “it
was only ten yards, and I might as well
have given up: I would go back now
only I do not like to seem to yield first.”
But as they walked. on in silence, of course
neither knew the other’s thoughts, and
in a few minutes more they stood empty-
handed before their Uncle. “ Well, my
dear boys,” said Uncle Philip, looking up
from the newspaper he was reading, “ now
what success, what news of the parcel ¢
I trust the coachman has not disappointed
me.”

“N—n—o,” stammered George, “it
came by the coach.”

“ Ah! that’s right; [am glad it is come



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 13

but bring it here, then. Why—Eh?
where have you put it 2”

George and Edward glanced at one
another; then held down their heads, and
looked as confused and foolish as possible ;
but neither of them spoke.

Uncle Philip was puzzled: “ Perhaps
they did not care to oblige me,’ he
thought. “Why, George—Edward!” he
said, looking hurt and offended, “if I had
known that you considered it too much
trouble to execute a little commission for
me, I would not have asked.’”’—“ Oh no,
uncle, no, indeed, we did not think it a
trouble: we are always glad to do any-
thing to please you; but—but”—they
could get no further: neither wished to
complain of the other, for each knew he



14 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

had been behaving very foolishly. Their
father at this moment entered the room,
and knowing his sons’ failings, had very
little difficulty in discovering how mat-
ters stood.

“T am sorry to find,” said Mr. Howard
seriously, “that notwithstanding all I
have said to you on the subject, you still
continue to indulge in such feelings. On
you particularly as the elder, George, I
had hoped my advice would have had
more effect..-—“Oh indeed it was my
fault as much as George’s,” said Edward.
—“ No, no,” cried George, “I was most
to blame; I feel I have been very fool-
ish and very obstinate: I will run back
directly and fetch the parcel.”—* No,
George,” said Mr. Howard, “your uncle



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 15

will not trouble you again; with his per-
mission I will send a messenger, who I
doubt: not will prove more trustworthy.”
He then rang the bell, and after describ-
ing the spot in which he would find it,
desired the servant to go in quest of the
forsaken parcel. John found it exactly as
the boys had left it, and soon returning
placed it before uncle Philip; who in the
mean time had been conversing apart
with Mr. Howard. “ You leave the matter
in my hands then,” said the latter, as they:
returned to the boys. ‘The fact was, Uncle
Philip was very fond of his nephews,
and had intended to surprise them by
a New-year’s gift; and though at first
vexed at what he justly thought not only
obstinacy but want of proper attention



16 THE OLD OAK-TREE,

and respect to himself; yet now that he
saw how foolish and mortified they looked,
he almost thought them already: suffi-
ciently punished. But in compliance with
a wish their father had expressed, he
agreed to let him proceed in the affair as
he thought best.

Mr. Howard took a knife, cut the
strings of the parcel, removed the outer
covering, and drew forth two _ small
packages; on the first was written—
“Master George Howard,’ and on the
second—“ Master Edward Howard, with
their Uncle Philip’s love.” “These,” said
their father, “your uncle had kindly in-
tended as presents to you both.” The
boys looked up, Mr. Howard removed
the paper which covered them, and there



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 17

stooa two of the neatest little desks in
the world! Uncle Philip fidgeted about,
blew his nose, placed his hands under his
coat-tails, and walked to the window. |
really think he longed to interfere; he
seemed vexed that what he had in-
tended as a pleasant surprise for his
nephews, should through their ill conduct
have been the cause of all the present
disquietude. “'They were, I say, intend
ed for you,’ continued Mr. Howard;
“but, as you have allowed your foolish
pride so far to get possession of you, as
not only to cause you to disagree, but
also to commit a breach of trust, (for
though the two desks were intended for
you, yet at the time you could not have

known what property of your uncle’s you
2



18 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

were leaving to the chance of being lost;)
I have resolved”—*“ Yes, yes, there—
there—that will do, Papa,’ interrupted
Unele Philip, “they will be good boys in
future; they will not do the same again.”

“It is to prevent such a repetition, my
dear brother,” said Mr. Howard, “that I
must now stand in the way of your kind
intentions. Having proved yourselves,”
he said, again addressing George and
Edward, “unworthy of your unele’s
kindness, I must beg that he will take
back with him the desks which he so
kindly designed for you. He will no
doubt find some, amongst his young
friends, who will be glad to accept them;
and who, instead of quarrelling as to
which can do least, will rather strive



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 19

which can do most, to oblige the other.”
“Oh! I really think now you are too
hard upon them,” whispered Uncle Philip;
“remember, young people will be young
people, boys will be boys.”

“But we must strive to make them
sood boys,” said Mr. Howard. “No, my
dear brother! I an sorry that my sons
have not proved themselves deserving of
your kindness. You will oblige me by
taking back the desks: we will say nothing
further on the subject.”

I shall not tell my readers whether this
lesson made a proper impression on
George and Edward; I shall leave them
to guess. Thus much however I will say:
About six months after the occurrence of
the events I have just related, was Uncle



20 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

Philip’s birthday. Mr. Howard and his
sons passed the day with him, and a very
merry day they made of it; and when the
boys took their departure for the night,
each was observed to carry under his arm
a parcel, about half the size of that which
they had left six months before, beneath
the Old Oak-Tree.



THE WHITE PIGEON.

wee ee

In some remote part of Ireland there
formerly stood a fine old -castle, in which
castle dwelt a widow lady, the mother of
an only son. I have forgotten the lady’s
name, so will call her Lady O’N.; but the
little boy’s, I remember well, was Des-
mond.

Lady O’N. was doatingly fond of her
little boy; but in spite of all her affection,
she did not quite understand the right
method of making him happy. It is true
she surrounded him with every indulgence



22 THE WHITE PIGEON.

in her power procure ; hurfoured all his
childish caprices; and could not endure
that any one should for a moment oppose
him. All the servants in the castle were
expected to consult the wishes and attend
to the orders of little Master Desmond,
with as much deference as if he had been
a sensible considerate man, instead of a
thoughtless troublesome child. His tem-
per, 2S you may suppose, was very much
spout by all this indulgence and atten-
tion; indeed, by the time he was six
years of age, he had grown so self-willed
and overbearing, he could not put up
with the slightest contradiction or disap-
pointment. |
Now, in a rude hut, distant about a
mile from the castle, dwelt a poor old



THE WHITE PIGEON. 23

man who had known many aorrows. His
three’ sons had fallen in battle, and a
grand-daughter, the child of his Jast sur-
viving son, who, he had hoped, would
have been spared to be the joy and con-
solation of his old age, had also been
taken from him within a year after her
father’s death.

The poor old man was very sad and
melancholy, and the only thing which
now seemed to give him pleasure, was to
feed and pet a gentle white pigeon which
had belonged to his poor Norah.

The lady at the castle, who was a gen-
tle and charitable dame, pitying the soli-
tary old man, had often called to see his
little grand-daughter when she lay ill,
and had sent delicacies from the.castle for



-24 THE WHITE PIGEON.

the sick child, which he could not have
aflorded to purchase. On one of her visits
to the lone hut, she had taken her little
son Desmond with her, and the old man,
desirous to amuse the little boy as well as
he was able, had taken him round his
little garden, in which he cultivated a
few roots and herbs; and, amongst other
things, had shown him poor Norah's
pretty favourite. It was a few days after
that visit that the little girl died.

Unfortunately for the good old man, it
happened, about the same time, that
young Master Desmond, in spite of the
constant efforts of all in the castle to
amuse and keep him in good-humour,
was at more than usual loss for amuse-
ment. Rain fell almost incessantly for





THE WHITE PIGE ON~- Page 24.



26 THE WHITE PIGEON.

posed to do or be pleased with. But as
his mother continued to talk about his
little important self; he sat down on a
cushion at her feet, and, leaning his face
on both his hands, looked very thought-
ful for a minute or two. If a book had
been on his knee you would have fancied
he was learning his lesson very atten-
tively, but Desmond, though he lived in
a splendid mansion, and was dressed and
tended like a little prince, was as ignorant
as any of the rough-looking little children
who played barefoot about the doors of
the peasants’ huts: he did not even know
his letters. There were not, to be sure,
so many pretty little books in those days
as there are now, to tempt little boys and
girls to study, and reward them for the



THE WHITE PIGEON. 27

pains they take in learning to read. But
what, then, was passing in Desmond's
mind that he leant his head on his hand,
and looked so grave? Perhaps he was
thinking what he could do to give plea-
sure to his kind mama, who loved him so
dearly. No: littke Desmond was thinking
only of himself. Presently he jumped up,
and, with a bright smile on his face, which
delighted his mama and made her clasp
him in her arms and kiss him fondly, he
cried, “Oh I have thought of what I should
like to amuse me.” He fancied he had done
something very clever in finding this out
for himself. “I should like the pretty
white pigeon,’ he continued, “mama, do
you remember, that the old man showed
me, the day you took me with you to his



28 THE WHITE PIGEON

hut?’ “Yes, my darling,” said his mo-
ther, “and I dare say the poor old man
will be very willing to sell it. I will send
to him this morning ; it will,be a charm-
ing pet for you. And now run and ask
Michael to look out a nice little house
for the pretty bird to roost in.” Off ran
- little Desmond, in high glee, to find Mi-
chael, and Lady O’N. immediately sum-
moned one of her servants, and putting
money in his hand, desired him to go to
the hut of the old peasant and give him
whatever he asked for his white pigeon,
as Master Desmond wished to possess it.

The servant accordingly set off, and,
finding the old man in his hut, told him
on what errand he had come. ‘To his
surprise, the old man steadily refused to



THE WHITE PIGEON. 29

part with bis bird. ‘The servant, knowing
how serious a matter it was to disappoint
Master Desmond of anything to which
he took a fancy, offered him a sum more
than treble the value of the pigeon. but
the old man sadly replied “That, and
ten times more, would not buy this poor
bird of me. I do not want gold; this hut.
will shelter me while I live; but the
pigeon my poor Norah loved, and that
used to feed from her hand, I cannot part
with.”

The servant saw that the old man was
in earnest, and that it would be in vain
to urge him further. He therefore went
back to the castle to tell -his lady of his
il success.

Lady O’N. was very much disap-



30 THE WHITE PIGEON.

pointed to see him return empty-handed ;
but when she heard how much the poor
old man valued his pigeon, she felt that
it would be quite cruel to wish any longer
to deprive him of it. ‘The next thing to
be done was to break the news to little
Desmond. He had heard that the ser-
vant was come back, who had been sent
to the old man’s dwelling, and now came
running into the room, crying eagerly,
“Where is my pigeon ?—O let me see my
pigeon !”

“Come to me, my love,” said Lady
O’N.; “come and listen to a sorrowful
little story I have to tell you. When
you have heard it, I am sure you will not
wish any longer for the poor old man’s
bird.”



THE WHITE PIGEON. 31

“TI do not want to hear a story!” cried

the spoilt child; and burst out a crying,
as he was accustomed to do whenever he
could not get what he wished. “I do not
care about anything if I cannot have the
white pigeon.”

It was of no use that his mama tried
to make him feel pity, by talking to him
about the grief of the poor old man, and
explaining to him why he could not part
with his grand-daughter’s favourite pet.
Desmond would not attend to any thing
she said, but kept crying and sobbing;
and insisting on the pigeon being
got for him. This could not be done;
but Lady ON, lamenting his disap-
pointment, tried to divert him in every
way she could think of. It was all in



32 THE WHITE PIGEON.

vain. Desmond was so little of the habit
of bearing disappointment, that nothing
they were able to give or promise him
could make him forget the pretty white
pigeon he had so much ‘set his mind on
having. When at length his passion was
exhausted and he could not ery any more,
he sat down sullenly in a corner, and
would not speak or take notice of any-
body. At dinner-time much to the con-
cern of his mama, he would hot eat any-
thing; in short, he continued in this
comfortless humour the rest of the day,
and when evening came, after the manner
of sorrowing children, sobbed himself to
Sleep. Lady ON. hoped he would
think less about it on the morrow; but,
alas! he arose the next morning in the



THE WHITE PIGEON. 33

same disconsolate mood. He would not
play; he would not smile; he would not
speak. Lady ON. felt quite unhappy ;
she feared he would fret himself into a
fever, and began to reproach herself for
having indulged her little boy so foolishly.
She could not, however, bear the thoughts
of his making himself ill, and, since no-
thing but the possession of the pretty
white pigeon would pacify him, she
resolved to go herself to the hut of the
old peasant, and see what could be done
about the matter.

Without telling Desmond of her in-
tention, for fear of another disappoint-
ment, she set off On reaching the old
man’s hut, she found him engaged in
supplying his favourite with a cup of

3



34 THE WHITE PIGEON.

fresh water. When he saw the lady,
however, he came forward respectfully,
though with his usually sad aspect, to
ereet her. With much reluctance she
made him acquainted with the object of
her visit; telling him how inconsolable
her little boy was, because he had not
been able to obtain the pretty white
pigeon he had once seen at that spot, and
how much she feared that fretting after
it would make him ill.

The poor old man now felt very much
perplexed. He would not have sold his
favourite at any price: but, calling to
remembrance the good lady’s kindness
to his grand-daughter, he felt it would
be ungrateful to refuse her what she
thought necessary for her child’s comfort.



THE WHITE PIGEON. 35

So, after keeping silence for a moment or
two, he replied, in a sorrowful tone, “ You
shall have the pigeon, good Madam, since
Master Desmond has so much set his
heart on it”. The old man spoke almost
with tears in his eyes, and Lady O'N.,,
who saw how great a trial it was for him
to part with his bird, felt quite ashamed
of her little boy’s selfishness. She assured
him, however, that Desmond would take
great care of the pretty pigeon when it
was in his possession, and, should he grow
tired of it, which, in less than a month,
might very likely be the case, she would
return it in safety to its old abode.
Then, thanking the old man for the
sacrifice he made for the sake of her
little son, she left the hut, after the old



36 THE WHITE PIGEON.

man had promised to bring the pigeon
himself to the castle in the course of an
hour or two.

Little Desmond, who had never waited
so long and so hopelessly for anything
he wanted before, was almost wild with
joy when, on Lady O’N’s return home,
she informed him that the pretty white
pigeon would soon be his own. Even
his mama almost forgot the sadness of
the old man, and the selfishness of the
child, in her delight at seeing the rosy
colour return to his cheeks, and happy
smiles again brightening his face.

“And when will it be here, dear
mama?’ cried Desmond, as he clasped
his arms round his mother’s neck.

“Not till the afternoon, I dare say,



THE WHITE PIGEON. 37

love,” said Lady O'N,, for she thought
of the reluctance with which the poor
old man would doubtlessly set out on his
errand.

But it was no longer a difficult matter
to keep little Desmond in good humour;
and joyous and happy in the prospect of
having his wish gratified, we will leave
him for a little time and go back to the
humble dwelling of the poor peasant.

The good old man, though it was such
grief to him to part with his bird, had no
thought of delaying the fulfilment of his
promise ; but as soon as the lady had left
the hut, prepared to carry his treasure to
its new home.

The pretty pigeon, ignorant of all that
was to befal it, was fluttering gaily about



38 THE WHITE PIGEON.

its perch, its white wings gleaming in the
sunshine; but when the old’: man came
near, it flew down, and alighted on his
out-stretched hand. Very gently, he
put the tame little bird into a small
wicker-basket, and carefully tied down
the lid; then, with his oaken-staff in
one hand, and imprisoned pet in the
other, took his way forthwith to the
castle.

When he arrived there, the porter,
who usually opened the outer-gate, hap-
pened to be out of the way; but a stupid-
looking boy came forward to ask what he -
wanted.

This boy, whose name was Michael,
eould seldom deliver any order or direc-
tion in the words he received it; or



THE WHITE PIGEON. 39

1 should rather say, he rarely compre-
hended the purport of what was said to
him; and, in repeating a message, gene-
rally left out, or added something, so as
to completely alter its sense. His want
of understanding had been the cause of
so many droll mistakes, that it was some-
times suspected that there was some
lurking love of mischief joined to his
dulness and _ stupidity. However this
might be, it was the old man’s ill-luck to
give the basket, containing his precious
pigeon, into the hands of this urchin.
He left it with a simple message, saying,
he had brought the bird Master Des-
mond so longed for, and begged Michael
to carry it carefully and present it to him
immediately. The boy promised to do



40 THE WHITE PIGEON.

so; and the old man stood for a moment
eazipg mournfully at bis treasure, as
Niichael bore it away. He then turned
to retrace his steps homeward, uncon-
scious as the poor bird itself of the fate
that awaited it within the castle.

The old man had no sooner departed,
than the stupid boy burried to the castle
kitchen with the basket, and opening the
lid, said, “See, here is a fine plump little
pigeon, which is to be dressed immedi-
ately for Master Desmond's dinner. He
was crying for one all day yesterday, and
the old man who brought this here, said
my lady ordered it herself”

The cook looked with compassion at
the poor little white pigeon, which lay at
the bottom of the basket, very frightened



THE WHITE PIGEON. Al

at the strange faces that were peering
in on it, and said, “it was a thousand
pities to kill such a pretty gentle bird;
but, to be sure, Master Desmond must
have everything he wanted.”

That day little Desmond scarcely cared
40 obey the summons to dinner. He
‘Was so impatient to see the pretty white
pigeon, which his mama was promising
would arrive every moment, that he could
think of nothing else. Poor bird! it
arrived at last in a very different state
from what he expected. The little,
living, fluttering pigeon, which Desmond
had so much wished to possess, and the
old man had parted with so reluctantly,
neither of them ever saw again.

“What dainty have we here?” said



42 THE WHITE PIGEON.

Lady O’N.,asa small silver dish was placed
before Desmond; in the centre of which
appeared a little bird delicately dressed.

“It is the pigeon, Madam,” said the
servant in reply. Desmond opened his
eyes very wide, and looked in great
amazement, first at the dish before him,
and then at his mother.

“The pigeon! what pigeon?’ cried
Lady O’N., hastily; dreading that some
mistake had occurred.

The servant explained, that an old man,
about two hours before, had brought a
pretty little white pigeon to the castle,
which, he said, Master Desmond was to
have as soon as possible; and the cook,
accordingly, had dressed it immediately,
in great haste.



THE WHITE PIGEON. 43

“Q, Desmond,” cried Lady O’N., re-
proachfully, “It is the old man’s bird.
O, what grief he will be in when he hears
of the fate of his poor little pet. If you
had not so selfishly wished to deprive
him of his treasure, the pretty pigeon
would now be fluttering on its perch, as
gaily as it was this morning, when I
begged him, for your sake, to let me
have it.”

Little Desmond began to ery very
much, partly for his own disappointment,
but partly also for the old man, and
partly because his mama had never spo-
ken to him in a tone of so much displea-
sure before.

J never heard what the poor old man
said, or how much grieved he appeared



44 THE WHITE PIGEON.

when he was told of the fate of his
pigeon. One good, however, resulted
from Michaels unfortunate mistake.
Lady ON. resolved to teach her little
boy to consider the feelings of others
more than she had hitherto done; and
Desmond, I am happy to say, became, in
a little time, a more amiable, as well as a
happier boy



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

ArMYTAGE House was a large, old-
fashioned, Gothic building; over which
the ivy grew with such luxuriance, that
its small windows were rendered smaller
still, so deeply were they embedded in
their verdant mantle. In front of the
house was a neatly laid-out garden,
where there were none of your fanciful
fountains or mimic heaps of roex-work,
which, by their presumptuous imitation
of nature, only serve to remind us of their
insignificance. No, there was nothing of



46 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

the kind in the garden of Armytage
House. The paths were smooth and
dry, the box edgings were cut with the
ereatest nicety, and the beds which they
surrounded were filled in summer with
an abundance of sweet-smelling flowers ;
now, however, the bare stems alone re-
mained, save that one or two sickly rose-
buds had struggled into bloom against
the inclemency of the season. Two
tall yew-trees, cut into trim shapes,
overshadowed the garden-gate, on which
was seen a brass plate bearing this in-
scription, “Dr. Meanwell’s Classical
Academy.”

But I will not detain my readers by a
lengthened description of the outside of
the house, for though I am an old lady



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. AT

now, yet I recollect well that I always
made a point of skipping any long ac-
counts of verdant slopes, flowery meads,
or storied piles, which I met with in the
story books which my kind mama pre-
sented to me when I was a little girl.
So, if my young friends will kindly join
me, we will step in at once, and see what
is going on in Dr. Meanwell’s school-
room.

It is Wednesday, a half-holiday, and
the fifth of November. The Doctor is
seated at a high desk, from which he can
see that his young subjects are paying
proper attention to their various studies.
He is dressed in black, and by his side
lies a cane, whose only duty it is to give a
smart tap-tap on the desk, whenever it



48 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

does not suit him to raise his voice to
enjoin silence ; for the full penalty of the
law, flogging, is never resorted to at
Armytage’ House. The Doctor is look-
ing grave, for the boys of the first Latin
class are repeating their lesson—it is
finished. ‘The morning has passed satis-
factorily ; the boys have been as attentive
as most boys can be; and the Doctor
smiles blandly around him, and is prepa-
ing to dismiss them to the play-ground,
when suddenly a titter is heard at the
further end of the long desk which runs
down the whole length of the school-
room.

“Silence!” cried Doctor Meanwell.
“Boys, it is now twelve oclock; your
conduct to-day has pleased me much,



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 49

you have been steady and attentive, and,
as nothing gives me greater pleasure than
to see you happy, I shall consent to the
request you made this morning: as soon
as it is dark, the bonfire shall be lighted,
and the fireworks commence. But mark
me: there must be no playing with the
fireworks. The gardener will superin-
tend the festivities; and——” Here the
Doctor paused; for from the same end
of the desk, whose occupants had been
called to order at the commencement of
his speech, there proceeded the sound of
smothered laughter.

The Doctor removed the spectacles
from his nose, and sent an inquiring
glance to the corner whence these dis-

respectful sounds proceeded: “Young
+



50 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

gentleman,” he exclaimed, “ what is the
reason of this interruption” The boys
returned no answer; but, directed by the
glance of many a merry pair of laughter-
loving eyes, he soon discovered that the
cause was no other than a rough portrait
sketched on the wall with a blackened
cork, by some precocious draughtsman.
“Heyday! what have we here 2” said
Doctor Meanwell, who in the innocence
of his heart, at first supposed it to be a
representation of the popular Guy Faux,
but, on a nearer inspection the truth
began to break upon him. Could it be!
Yes, it certainly was, a caricature-likeness
of himself—yes, there were his spectacles
and his bald head; and even the little
wart which had taken up its abode on



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 51

his time-honoured nose, was faithfully
pourtrayed.

Now, the Doctor had a great dislike
of ridicule in any shape. He always
checked it when displayed by his pupils
upon one another; and it was not to
be expected that he would endure it
with particular patience when directed
against himself. He threw a searching
and inquiring glance along the forms
on which his pupils were seated in quest
of the delinquent; (for, without asking
questions, Doctor Meanwell’s quick-
ness of observation often enabled him
to detect an offending urchin;) but
though many a little cheek was ready to
burst with ill-surpressed laughter, on
none did he detect any symptoms of em-



52 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

barrassment, till his eye fell on Charles
Radnor @nd Arthur Newell. And what
were the*signs of guilt that there met
his penetrating glance? Charles Rad-
nors éye fell as the Doctors met his;
and little Newell, pencil in hand, pre-
tended to be working most industriously
at a sum which his master haa told him
was right ten minutes before. “Charles
Radnor,” said the Doctor, “was this your
doing?” ‘There was a striking difference
in the personal appearance of the two
boys, who thus drew Dr. Meanwell’s
attention. Little Newell, as Arthur was
called by his schoolfellows, was of small
stature, rendered in walking the more
conspicuous from a lameness in one of
his feet, the consequence of a fall



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 53

received in infancy: he had _ light
curling hair, blue eyes, and a fair com-
plexion; but the glow given by active
exercise to the countenance was wanting
in his. Charles Radnor, on the contrary,
tall of his age, and easy and elegant in
form, excelled amongst his companions
in the skill and agility required for out-
door sports and games. A strong friend-
ship subsisted between these two boys,
which had commenced and increased
eradually from the time they had first
met at school, notwithstanding they bore
no greater resemblance to each other in
character than in person. Arthur, the
boy of slight and delicate frame, pos-
sessed the greater portion of courage and
firmness of mind. Quiet and mild in



5A THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

manner, he had strong and. acute feelings,
and returned affection with gratitude.
Charles was of a more lively disposition,
and had less steady principle, but his
kindness and goodness of heart made
him a general favourite in the school,
and by none of his young comrades was
he more beloved than by Arthur Newell.
Schoolboys are generally thoughtless and
high-spirited, and Arthur's lameness
often attracted heedless remarks from his
companions, who would take an incon-
siderate pride in boasting of their
strength and agility to one who was
quite unable to mingle in any active
sport. Charles Radnor had too much
consideration for the feelings of his friend
ever to make such remarks; and the



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 55

gratitude felt towards him by the poor
lame boy in return, was great in the
extreme.

But with all his kindness of heart,
Charles had two great failings—a love
of mischief, and yet so great a terror of
the punishment consequent upon his
own acts, that to screen himself he would
often descend to the meanness of telling
a falsehood. Yet, let it not’ be supposed
that he sinned thus quite deliberately,
or without self-reproach: many and
many were the times he had resolved to
conquer himself of this fault, “On the next
opportunity,’ he would think, “I will
make a resolute stand against such sin-
ful weakness;” but no sooner did the
femptation occur, than it proved too



56 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

strong for him, and all his good resolu-
tions vanished in the momentary dread
of punishment.

But all this time, Doctor Meanwell'’s
question has been unanswered— Did
you do this, Charles Radnor ?”

Need we tell the answer? He had
drawn the likeness, or rather the attempt
at likeness, but with no intention that it
should meet the eye of the original. It
was his effort to eflace it, unobserved,
that first roused the laughter of his com-
panions; no sooner were they silent than
he again attempted to remove it; but
the laughter of the other boys again
drew the Doctor's attention to the spot;
and now nothing was wanting, but to
discover the mischievous artist. Charles



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 57

thought but of the probable punishment
that would await him—that he should be
confined, solitary, to the house, while the
rest of his companions were enjoying the
bonfire and fireworks—and the tempta-
tion proved too strong for him. All his
good resolutions vanished in air, and the
ready falsehood released him for the time
from the consequences of his fault.

The Doctor passed on to little Newell.
“Newell, do you know anything of this 2”

“Charles will be doubly punished if
I say it was he,” thought Newell; “I
would rather endure the blame myself, a
hundred times, if it were not for the
meanness of telling a falsehood. And
yet it will seem so unkind to betray him,
and get him into disgrace, when I could



58 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

so easily save him. It cannot be so mean
er dishonourable to tell an untruth to
save one’s friend, as telling an ordinary
falsehood would be; and see how pale
and frightened poor Charles looks! I
really cannot tell the Doctor it was his
doing.” Again the Doctor urged his ques-
tion. “ Was this your doing, Newell 2”

Newell still paused’: his conscience
whispered to him, “Tell the truth” But
another glance at the pale face of his
friend made him hesitate; and, while he
coloured with shame at the act he was
committing he stammered out—

“Tt was, Sir.”

Dr. Meanwell looked grieved. “T had
hoped,” he said, “that as we commenced
the day, so we should have finished it,



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 59

without one fault calling for serious re-
proof. Asregards the rudehess to myself,
I could have overlooked it; but, as mas-
ter of this school, I should not be doing
my duty were I not to insist on a proper
degree of respect, more especially as I
have resolved to dispense with all cor-
poral punishment. I must own, too,
that I feel hurt that any of you, and more
especially Newell, whom I have treated
with more than usual kindness, should
repay my care by striving to cast ridicule
upon me. Newell, you will remain in the
school-room this afternoon. I am sorry
to be obliged to punish you on a day
which I hoped would have been one of
pleasure to you all. For the rest of you,
your lessons are over for the day; amuse



60 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

yourselves in making preparations for the
evening. ‘There are plenty of materials
about. I shall be looking out for a famous
bonfire.”

Off ran the schoolboys, leaving their
solitary companion in possession of the
deserted room, which now seemed doubly
dreary from the absence of the noise and
bustle which had been there but the
moment before.

Newell sat sadly, listening to the dis-
tant shouts and laughter of his compa-
nions, who were busily engaged in piling
brushwood, brambles, thorns, or whatever
they could lay their hands on, suitable
for the bonfire. At no time are the
sounds of cheerful sports more tantalizing
to the young, than when they are pre-



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 61

vented joining in them themselves, and
more especially when it has been caused
by their own conduct. And ag Newell
sat listening, gloomily, to the distant
sounds, every whoop and shout of laugh-
ter but served to depress his spirits more
and. more. He had another source of
regret—the Doctor thought him un-
grateful; and Newell, always warm in
his affections when kindly treated, was
now reproaching himself for having
allowed the Doctor to think him forgetful
of his attention and kindness. ‘The more
he thought upon the matter, the more
uneasy he grew. “The Doctor is the
best and kindest friend I have,” he cried.
“ How often has he told us that a false-
hood always bears its own punishment



62 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

with it! And now he must for ever
think me either ungrateful, or guilty of
the meanness of telling an untruth.”

The thoughts of Charles Radnor were
not more enviable than those of his friend.
What to him now were the enjoyments
of the evening, to which he, in common
with his companions had so long looked
forward with pleasure? He felt in
constant dread that some of his school-
fellows, knowing him to be the real
offender, might inform the Doctor of his
meanness. While all around him were
gay and cheerful he stood silent and
apart. What mattered it to him now
that he should be thought the most active
in the playground—the most skilful in his
class? He felt that the smallest boy in



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 63

the school was his superior——he felt little
in his owneyes. Every moment he was
inclined to run to the Doctor to tell him
the whole truth, and clear his conscience
from its stain; but then arose the fear
and dread of punishment: and when the
opportunity presented itself; he had not
sufficient courage or strength of mind to
carry out his intentions.

As it grew dusk, the solitary prisoner
could hear that the festivities of the even-
ing had commenced. A_ bright stream
of light, which, as it reached tlte clouds,
would burst into sparkling stars, pro-
claimed when the rushing rocket rose
high in air. The sudden flash, and the
loud shouts of the schoolboys, told when
cny firework of great brilliancy was dis-



64 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

charged; but broader still grew the light,
and louder ,still the shouts, as the great
bonfire suddenly burst forth its flame and
smoke. “They are all happy,’ thought
Newell; “and even- Radnor, perhaps,
enjoys himself and thinks nothing of
the sacrifice I have made for his sake.”
His sorrows were too much for him; he
burst into tears and hid his face in his
hands, sobbing bitterly.

But surely the bonfire is stronger than
ever bonfire was before, for the heat of
it seems to reach him even in the room ;
and it must be the scent of the burning
wood and tar which he smells, and the
crackling of the brushwood which he
hears. See, even the smoke seems to
have penetrated the chamber! But why



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 65

that sudden shout, followed by as sudden
a stillness? It is different from any he has
heard before that evening. Again, those
are voices which he hears; they must be
under the school-room window. And,
can it be ?—-yes, there is his own name
shouted—Newell: Newell! and the ap-
palling truth bursts upon him as the cry
of fire! fire! resounds through the air.
Newell rushed to the door, but it was
too late. A spark from one of the torches
(carried from the house for the purpose
of lighting the bonfire) had fallen in the
hall; the current of air caused by an
open door had soon spread and fanned it
into a flame. A'ready the broad staircase
was in a blaze, and the volume of smoke

which rushed in at the school-room door
5



66 THE SCHOOLEELLOWS.

drove him back, gasping for breath. He
scrambled on to the window-sill, and
looked = despaizingly around him; the
height was far too great for a leap, and
he well knew that there was no ladder at
hand of sufficient length to reach him.
Beneath him stood his frightened school-
fellows, each shouting to him to eseape,
and each giving different advice. “Jump,
jump, Newell,” cried one party. “No,
no,’ cried another; “he would be dashed
to pieces. Keep where you are; the Doce-
tor has sent for assistance ; we shall have
a ladder in a few minutes.”

“Silence, all!” cried the commanding
voice of the Doctor. “Newell, listen to
me: be calm; raise yourself gently from
the window; cling firmly to the stout



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 67

branches of the ivy, and so let yourself
down.”

Poor Newell trembled, and his face
looked ghastly pale. From his lameness
he had generally been prevented from
joining in the athletic sports of the other
boys, and he had never attempted to
climb in his life. “I cannot, I cannot,”
he cried, as in obedience to the Doctor's
directions he strove to make his way
from the window. “Courage, courage,”
cried the Doctor, though his own voice
trembled as he spoke, while he saw the
feeble efforts made by the poor boy to
cling to the ivy.

“It is useless,” cried poor Newell; “I
jeel I have not sufficient strength. It is
my own fault that Tam here; I am justly



68 THE SCHUOLFELLOWS.

punished. But—but, dear Mr. Meanwelli,
I was not ungrateful—I was not unmind-
ful of your kindness. I did not—Oh God
forgive me !—Do not ery so, dear Charles ;
you could not know it would come to this.
God bless you——bless you all!”

“Oh, Arthur! Arthur! IT shall die,”
cried his conscience-stricken friend. “ Oh
Sir, Sir, he was punished for my fault.
It was I drew that picture, and [ basely
allowed Newell to be punished for me.
Oh, I have murdered him! But though
my repentance may have come too late,
still if I cannot save him I can perish
with him. I[ will climb up to the school-
room by the ivy, in the same way that
you told Newell to descend.” And he
rushed forward to carry out his project.





THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 69

“Stay, stay, rash boy!” cried the Doc-
tor, holding him back; “and yet,’ he
thought, as he saw the smoke now issuing
from the window, “it seems his only
chance. Before the gardener returns with
the ladder the poor boy may perish. Be
firm, Radnor, then,’ he said; “be firm:
take this rope with you; when you reach
the room tie one end of it firmly round
Newell's waist, pass the other round the
leg of the desk which is close to the win-
dow, and throw it down to us; by that
means we can save you both.”

Radnor waited not another instant, but
boldly commenced the ascent. Every eye
was strained after him, as from branch to
branch, and from stem to stem, he drew
himself up. Once he paused, and it was



70 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

thought his strength was exhausted, but
it was only for a moment to recover
breath, in the next he had started with
renewed vigour, and paused not again till
he was by the side of little Newell. Here
he followed the Doctor's directions, and
in a few minutes both boys were safe from
the reach of the devouring flames.

But the excitement, joined to the suffo-
cating heat and smoke, had proved too
much for the weak frame of poor Newell,
and as he reached the ground the good
Doctor caught him fainting in his arms,
and bore him to a neighbouring house.

When he returned slowly to conscious-
ness, the flames were nearly subdued by
the exertions of the neighbours, and the
Doctor and Charles Radnor were bending



Hy An
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ie yi} RNY N
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. Py iL ' NN =
AY PrN Bh iy if : y
Wa | R NY
Y Wy Yue Mito Sy
- {

y ///, Vy
i 6 i ‘ -
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Y \ aly 4p ,
we ba
\\ 7
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——— shih



THE SCHOOL FELLOW S—Pave 71.



THE SCHOOLFELLOWS 71

anxiously over him, the latter bitterly
reproaching himself for his past con-
duct.

“Ts that you, dear Charles ?” said New-
ell, faintly. “Oh, Newell,’ cried his friend,
“can you ever forgive me for the meanness
I have been guilty of; and if you do, can
I ever forgive myself ?”

“ Dear Charles,” said Newell, “do not
ask my forgiveness; I have nothing to
forgive. If youhave done me any wrong,
you would have more than repaid it by
risking your life to save mine, as you did
so bravely but a few moments since.”

“But, my dear boys,” said Doctor
Meanwell, “there is indeed Ong of whose
forgiveness you both stand in need—ONE
whom you have indeed this day grievously



72 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

offended. How far better, how far nobler
would it have been had you told the truth
at once! You must feel that you have
both been much to blame, and that I am
indeed right when I say that nothing can
serve as an excuse for falsehood ; thatin
telling an untruth we but fashion a rod
for our future punishment. Oh! before
you close your eyes this night, fall down
and pray to your Heavenly Father for
strength in future to resist every tempta-
tion of falsehood.”



FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

Tur month of June was a time looked
forward to with joy by Frederick Sedley
and in fact by many other young people
of his age; not only because then the
fields and hedge-rows would be decked
with their gayest flowers, but because
there approached, what is dearer to little
boys and girls than the bright shining sun,
or the prettiest flowers that ever bloomed
—the midsummer holidays, when they
would see again their kind parents and
their own dear little brothers and sisters.



74 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

Frederick Sedley wasa very good boy;
he had gained the prize at school, for
good behaviour, and had written home
such a pretty letter to tell his dear papa
and mama that the academy would break
up for the midsummer vacation on the
eighteenth, and that his kind Instructor,
Mr. Parsons, would bring him home in
the coach which passed through Elms-
dale, which was the name of the place
where Frederick lived.

Very few of the schoolboys wanted
calling up on the morning of the eight-
eenth of June, for the thoughts of home
had made them sleep lightly. Frederick
was one of the first to rise, and the time
seemed to go so slowly, that the boys felt
sure the coach must have passed; for it



FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 15

seemed longer coming that morning than
it had ever done before. But no! the
clock struck nine, and punctual to its
time, up drove the coach that was
to convey them home. Then there was
such shouting, and clapping of small
hands. Only some of the elder boys tried
to look grave, because they knew Mr.
Parsons was very good to them all, and
though they were as pleased as the others
to go home, yet they did not like to seem
unmindful of his kindness. But Mr.
Parsons only smiled kindly upon his noisy
pupils; for though he was very fond of
them, yet he knew it was only natural
for them to prefer home to school.

When Frederick reached home he
found his papa and mama and his little



76 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

- brother and sister, Thomas and Lucy, all’
waiting to see him. Then he had to dis-
play his reward for good conduct, and
opened his ciphering-book to show all
the long sums he had gone through, till
little Lucy held up her hands in surprise
at his being able to add up such long
puzzling rows of figures.

Now nothing delighted Mr. and Mrs.
Sedley so much as to see their children
cheerful and happy; and as they were
much pleased with Frederick’s conduct
at school, they asked him what he would
like best for his amusement in the holl-
days. Frederick considered for a moment,
for he was not a selfish boy; he did not
think of his own amusement only: so he
replied, that he should prefer something



FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. ae

that would please his little brother and
sister also. “Go, then,’ said Mr. Sedley,
“and consult together.” Then there was
a great consideration among the young
folks to hit upon something which would
give enjoyment to them all. At last little
Thomas proposed a donkey, and as this
pleased all parties, a donkey, it was set-
tled, it should be.

The next morning Mr. Sedley took
them to the stable, and there they found
one of the nicest donkeys they had ever
seen; he had a beautiful saddle and bridle,
and looked so sleek and good-tempered,
that there really seemed no occasion for the
pretty whip which was hanging by his side.

“Now, my dear children,’ said Mr.
Sedley, “I have one thing to mention



78 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

which you will be sure to observe: you
may ride over the common, and round the
orcliard and through the fields at the back
of the house, but on no account,—and I
speak particularly to you, as the eldest,
Frederick,—on no account go on the
high-road.”

“Oh no, papa, we do not want to ride
on the dusty road,’ said Frederick; “and
we shall be sure not to go there now that
we know it is against your wish.”

“Mount, then,” cried Mr. Sedley, “and
let us see how you can manage your
steed —Off with you!”

And off went the merry party. First
one mounted, and then the other; and
on they rode through the fields and lanes,
and picked the bright hedge-flowers, and



FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 79

made wreaths of king cups to put round
the donkey’s neck; and the donkey nib-
bled the grass as he went along, and
switched his tail, and seemed quite proud
of the fine figure he cut. So they passed
day after day, and three happier children
were not to be found.

But, | am sorry to say that this happi-
ness was at last suddenly marred, and all
through one act of disobedience. You
remember that Mr. Sedley had_ told
them on no account to go on the high-
road. Well, they all paid great attention
to his wishes, till, one morning, when, as
they were riding on the common, they
were joined by Alfred Faulding, a little
boy, the son of one of their father’s friends.

After Alfred had patted and admired



80 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

the donkey, he began to tell them of all
the pretty things he had at home. “ Ah!”
he said, “I have two such beautiful rab-
bits, one of them is covered with black
and white spots; the other is jet black.
You must come and see them, Frederick.”

But Frederick said, “No thank you
Alfred, not to-day.” He did net say the
reason, for he was afraid of being laughed
at. Little Thomas, however, saved him
the trouble, for he said, “Oh! no, indeed,
Frederick cannot go without asking
papa’s leave; for you know, Alfred, he
cannot reach your house without passing
the road; and papa said we were none of
us to go there.”

“That is all very well for a little fellow
like you, Master Thomas,’ said Alfred ;



FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. Sl

“but if I were Frederick, I would not
be such a milk-sop as that; I should be
ashamed to be tied to mama's apron-
strings, like a great baby.” Frederick
was so foolish as-to feel quite ashamed
of Alfred’s ridicule. “It cannot make
much difference,” thought he, “I shall
be back again in a minute, and if I do
not tell where I have been, papa need
know nothing about it” And Alfred
at length persuaded him to ride to his
house and look at the rabbits.

They were indeed very pretty rabbits,
with long drooping ears, which, Alfred
said, were called “lop-ears.”. Frederick
was quite delighted with them, and could
have watched them for hours, as they sat
munching the cabbage-stalks which he

6



82 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

gave tnem. But Alfred having now dis-
played his treasures, thought it as well
for them to be moving back again: “ For,’
he said, “somebody might be sent for
you, Frederick; and then I suppose I
should have a share of the blame for
bringing you here.’ So they both
mounted the donkey at once, and off
they started on their way back to the
spot where they had left Thomas and
Lucy.

“You see, Frederick, you had nothing —
to be afraid of,’ said Alfred; “and you
might never have seen my beautiful rab-
bits, if you had minded exactly what your
papa told you; and I should like to
know what harm was likely to have hap-
pened to you 2”



FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 83

Frederick did not feel easy, though he
tried to appear so, as he answered, “ Oh!
I see there was no danger at all” But
he spoke rather too soon, for at this mo-
ment, when they were within sight of the
common, a coach, at full speed, turned
the corner of a neighbouring lane. The
coachman saw the two boys, but it was
too late for him to stop theshorses. He
shouted to them to get: out of the way.
Frederick flogged the donkey, and tried
with all his might to do so, but in vain.
The animal, frightened at the noise,
turned round in the middle of the road;
in the next instant the coach had passed
at full gallop, and Frederick, Alfred, and
the donkey were dashed together to the
ground. Little Lucy screamed with



84 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

terror; but Thomas, although quite
as much frightened, had presence of
mind enough to run immediately to the
house for assistance. Mr. Sedley has-
tened to the spot, and found Frederick
lying quite still in the path by the road-
side, where he had been thrown. He
raised him in his arms, and carried him
to the house, followed by Alfred, who
had escaped with scarcely any injury.
Though stunned and bruised, it was soon
found that Frederick had not been so
seriously hurt as was at first feared; but
his ancle was sprained, and for several
days he was obliged to keep at home
and lie quietly on a sofa. When he re-
covered, there were no more pleasant

rides to be had on the donkey, for Mr



FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 85

Sedley at once sent him back to his
former owner. Frederick felt that this
punishment of his fault was but just.
He regretted the loss of the donkey, but
he felt still more sorry to have forfeited
his father’s confidence by suffering him-
self to be so easily persuaded to disobey
his commands. It was a lesson he never
forgot, nor would he ever afterwards
allow the sneers or laughter of his com-
panions to turn him from what his con-
science told him was right.



COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

HERO.

“Ou, Cousin John, will you draw ne
Some pretty pictures, if you please, and
tell me some amusing stories about
them ?”

So spoke Willy Franklin, a little fair-
haired boy, of some six or seven years
old: for nothing amused him more than
to sit by his cousin and watch him at his
drawings; and when he had finished
them, to ask him to explain what they
all meant: and as Cousin John was very



COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 87

fond of children generally, and particu-
larly so of little Willy, he would good-
naturedly take his pencil and sketch him
as many little drawings as he pleased.
So he answered, “ Well then, Willy, my
little man, come and sit on this chair by
my side, and I will see what I can do.”
Then he sketched and sketched away, till
he had finished two nice drawings.

“Oh what pretty pictures,” cried Willy,
“what can*they be about 2”

“The first)’ said Cousin John, “is, as
you see, the picture of a handsome black
charger, with an officer mounted on his
back; the name of the horse was Hero,
and the rider is intended for my father,
and your uncle, Willy. My father, as
you ‘know, held a commission in the



88 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

army during the late war; and in all the
battles in which he was engaged he always
rode ‘Black Hero’ because he was a
horse he could always depend upon,
beimg possessed of great strength and
speed. Then he was beautifully shaped,
With a fine arching neck and rich flowing
mane; but, what was better than all his
beauty, was, that he might always be
trusted in hour of need: neither the deep
roar of the artillery nor the sharp rattle
of the musketry raised any feeling of
fear in him: he would rush to the very
cannon’s mouth as bravely as if he had
been taking an ordinary canter in the
fields.

“In the course of an engagement
_ which took place between our forces and



COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 89

the French, the regiment to which my
father. belonged was ordered to charge
some of the enemy’s cavalry, who were
posted on an opposite hill. In_ the
encounter my father was wounded in the
arm by a musket-ball; and, being unable
to control his horse or keep up with his
companions, he was captured by a French
soldier, who, seeing his helpless con-
dition, contented himself with disarming
him and leading him to the rear of the
French regiment. The contest was kept
upewith fearful energy, and the enemy
were at first driven back by the resolute
courage of our troops; but as reinforce-
ment after reinforcement continued to
arrive to the assistance of the French,
they in turn became victors; and the



90 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

English commender, seeing the inutility
and folly of contending against such
superior numbers, ordered the retreat to
be sounded, which in cavalry regiments,
is done by the trumpet sound.

“My father’s horse, hearing the notes
he had always been accustomed to obey,
burst suddenly from the soldier who was
holding him, galloped at full speed
through the very centre of the French
regiment, and carried his master safely
to the side of his old comrades.

“You may be sure that after this my
father was always very fond of Black
Hero, for he had probably saved _ his life,
or, at all events, had rescued him from a
long and dreary imprisonment.

“At the conclusion of the war my



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COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 91

father returned to England, and brought
with him the noble animal, the com-
panion of his toils. I was a little boy
then, Willy, but I recollect well the day
when they rode up to our own door, and
mama, in her joy, actually threw her
arms around Hero’s neck. And he grew
such a favourite with us all, for he was so
gentle and docile, he would let me and
my little brothers and sisters mount him,
and then he would walk about as quietly
as a lamb.”

“Oh what a good brave horse,” said
Willy; “how I should have loved him.
But what does the other picture mean ?
Is that ahout Hero, too 2”

“That,” said fis cousin, “refers to
anotner part of his history—My father



92 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

soon after his return home received a
letter from a very old friend of his, a
Mr. Manby, who was very anxious to see
him, but who was prevented by his infirm-
ities from travelling so far as our house.
So Hero was saddled and brought round
to the door, and my father started off on
his expedition. His friend was delighted
to see him, and they remained so long
chatting and talking over old times, that
when my father rose to depart, the eve-
ning had already set in. It was then the
latter end of September, and the sky,
which had been serene and_ beautiful
during the day, had now become dark
and overclouded. Already distant flashes
of lightning were to be seen, and a few
Jarge drops of rain which fell proclaimed



COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 93

that a heavy storm was at hand. Mr.
Manby tried to persuade my father to
remain under the shelter of his roof for
the night; but knowing the anxiety mama
would be in during his absence, he deter-
mined at once to hasten homewards
Mr. Manby then offered to despatch a
messenger to our house to inform us of
his intention of not returning till the
next day; but my father would not for an
instant hear of another being exposed
for his sake to danger from which he
would himself shrink. ‘And_ besides,
said he, ‘Hero and I have faced so many
dangers already, that, trusting in Provi-
dence, we need not fear to encounter
even so stormy a night as this.” So,
drawing his coat about him, and bending



94 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

his head before the wind and rain, off he
dashed on his homeward way.

“Soon the rain descended in _ torrents,
and the night grew darker and darker,
save that every now and then a bright
flash of lightning would illume the road
with a noonday light. But still my father
urged on his steed, and the noble animal,
regardless of the pelting of the sharp
hailstones in his face, or the deep and
appalling roar of the thunder overhead,
kept bravely on his way. The road
now lay across a bleak common without
tree or shelter of any kind, and here the
full fury of the storm burst upon them.
My father knew the road well, for it was
one he had often travelled as a boy, and he
had not for an instant doubted of easily



COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 95

finding his way home; but, deceived by
the darkness and the storm, he at length
found himself in a part of the heath en-
tirely unknown to him. Utterly at a loss
which way to turn, he had only the usual
chance of benighted travellers,—loosing
the rein, and leaving it to chance and his
horse’s instinct to extricate him from his
difficulty. Leftto himself, Hero sped swift-
ly across the heath; but scon a new and
unexpected impediment presented itself.
As iny father rode on, he heard the rushing
of water, and, on a nearer approach, had
some difficulty in recognising the broad
and rapid stream, swollen by the sudden
deluge, which lay before him, as what had
in the morning been but a small rivulet.

What was to be done? My father had



96 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

been too much in the habit of overcoming
difficulties and dangers, by boldly facing
them, to be daunted by his present di-
lemma; and after a moment's pause, he
chose what seemed the most suitable spot
for the attempt, and pressed his horse to
the stream. For the first time in his life
Hero refused to obey. When brought to
the edge of the water he snorted fearfully,
tossed his head, and could not be per-
suaded to attempt the passage. At length,
on being again and again urged, he sud-
denly took the bit in his teeth, galloped
some distance up the bank of the stream,
and finally plunged in at a spot where the
water seemed chafing and rushing with
more force and rapidity than anywhere
around. Well accustomed to the manage-



COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 97

ment of his horse, my father kept his
broad chest to the stream ; for it required
all the skill and resolution of both horse
and rider to enable them to reach the
opposite bank.

“Mama and all of us children were sit-
ting up listening to the raging of the
storm; for although we hoped that my
father would have staid the night with his
friend, still we were in too great a state of
anxiety and uncertainty to think of sleep.
It was now past twelve o’clock, and mama
was just insisting upon our retiring to
rest,—though by the anxious look of her
pale face, I could see she had no such in-
tention herself—when the sounds of a
horse’s hoofs were heard in the avenue,

and the next instant my father galloped
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12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00049.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00049.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00050.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00050.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00051.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00051.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00052.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00052.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00053.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00053.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00054.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00054.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00055.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00055.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00056.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00056.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00057.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00057.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00058.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00058.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00059.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00059.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00060.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00060.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00061.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00061.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00062.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00062.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:00 PM 00063.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00063.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00064.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00064.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00065.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00065.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00066.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00066.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00067.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00067.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00068.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00068.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00069.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00069.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00070.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00070.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00071.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00071.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00072.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00072.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00073.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00073.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00074.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00074.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00075.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00075.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00076.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00076.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00078.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00078.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00079.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00079.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00080.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00080.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00081.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00081.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00082.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00082.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00083.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00083.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00084.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00084.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00085.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00085.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00086.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00086.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00087.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00087.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00088.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00088.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00089.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00089.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00090.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00090.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00091.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00091.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00092.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00092.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00093.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:01 PM 00093.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00094.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00094.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00095.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00095.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00096.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00096.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00097.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00097.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00098.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00098.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00100.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00100.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00101.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00101.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00102.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00102.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00103.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00103.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00104.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00104.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00105.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00105.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00106.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00106.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00107.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00107.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00108.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00108.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00109.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00109.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00110.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00110.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00111.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00111.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00112.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00112.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00113.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00113.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00114.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00114.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00115.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00115.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00116.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00116.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00117.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00117.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00118.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00118.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00119.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00119.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00120.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00120.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00121.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00121.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00122.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00122.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00123.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00123.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00124.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00124.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00125.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00125.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00126.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00126.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00127.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00127.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00128.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00128.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:02 PM 00129.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00129.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00130.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00130.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00131.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00131.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00132.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00132.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00133.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00133.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00134.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00134.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00135.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00135.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00136.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00136.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00137.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00137.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00138.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00138.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00139.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00139.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00140.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00140.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00141.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00141.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00142.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00142.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00143.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00143.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00144.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00144.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00145.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00145.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00146.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00146.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00147.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00147.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00148.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00148.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00149.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00149.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00150.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00150.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00151.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00151.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00152.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00152.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00153.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00153.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00154.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00154.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00155.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00155.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00156.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00156.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00157.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00157.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:03 PM 00158.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00158.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00159.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00159.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00160.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00160.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00161.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00161.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00162.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00162.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00163.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00163.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00164.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00164.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00165.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00165.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00166.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00166.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00167.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00167.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00168.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00168.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00169.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00169.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00170.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00170.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00171.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00171.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00172.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00172.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00173.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00173.jp2 is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

12/15/2014 12:46:04 PM 00174.jpg is specified in the METS file but not included in the submission package!

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THE OLD OAK TREE. Pave 17.

HAPPY HOURS;

OR,

THE HOME STORY-BOOK.

BY

MARY CHERWELL.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DESIGNS BY GILBERT.

NEW YORK:
C. 8. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY.

BOSTON:
J. H. FRANCIS & CO, WASHINGTON STREET.

1851.
CONYVENTS.



PAGE
THE OLD OAK-TREE e e e e ® e e 4 ° e 5

THE WHITE PIGEON . . 2. « e« e o e e 21
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS . ° 7 e © ° . oe 45
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. . ‘ 2 ° 73

COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY :—HERO . ° ° ° ° 86

COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY :—FLUSH anp ROVER ° 113

THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN . ° ° : . ee 6 138

EMILY MAYNARD .
HENRY MORTON .

AGNES AND HER PETS . . , ° - 0 177

THE SISTERS ..,
HAPPY HOURS;

OR,

THE HOME STORY-BOOK.



THE OLD OAK-TREE.

Ir was in the first month of the year,
and on the first day of that month—New-
year’s day—that two little boys, George
and Edward Howard, were seen wending
their way through one of the quiet lanes
in the neighbourhood of Cranford. It
was one of those bright joyous mornings
known only at that season of the year.

The air was clear and bracing; the
6 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

branches of an avenue of trees, inter-
woven overhead, and covered with white
rime, appeared like a roof of lace work;
here and there, in the hollows of the road,
were seen pools of frozen water, which,
a stray gleam of sunshine would cause
to shine like mirrors; while the white
frost, with which the grass was clad,
elistened with the brilliancy of countless
gems. The two boys I have mentioned
cheerfully pursued their way; their shrill
voices and merry laughter ringjng again
through the light morning air. Edward,
who was by one year the younger of the
two, was carrying a parcel, carefully
packed in brown paper, and his brother
George was jumping nimbly backward
and forward over the ditches which skirted
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 7

the road: or sliding on any pieces of ice
wnicn fell in his way, till his face glowed
with health and exercise.

“Ah! [ wish I were as warm as you
are, George,’ cried Edward; “I declare
my fingers are quite cold with carrying
this parcel. I wonder why Uncle Philip
wished us particularly to bring it.”

“Well if you are cold Edward,’ said
his brother, “why not run about as I do.
See, here is a capital slide just before
us; put the parcel down for a moment,
and take a run with me’

“No, it is not worth while to stop
now,” said Edward, “for you know you
must carry the parcel half the distance.
That old oak-tree is just half way between
our house and Uncle Philip’s: when
8 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

we reach that I shall have done my
portion.”

“T mean to carry it half way, and only
half way,” returned George; “and I am
certain that that tree is not the place ;
for you know very well, Edward, that
Thomas the gardener told us the other
day he had measured the distance, and
the half mile was ten yards on the other
side of the oak.”

“J don’t care what Thomas fancies,”
cried Edward; “I know that every one
else says the tree is half way, and I shall
carry the parcel there and no further.”

At the beginning of this conversation,
George had been on the point of offering
to carry the parcel the remainder of the
distance; but, no sooner did his brother
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 9

tell him that he expected him to carry it
half way, than he obstinately resolved not
to do so; merely, as he said, because he
would not be dictated to by a younger
brother. Edward, feeling convinced
that he had done his share, determined,
with equal obstinacy, not to yield the
point.

I am afraid from what has been said
about the two brothers, that my young
readers will fancy them to have been very
obstinate, quarrelsome boys, but such was
not generally the case. They were good-
tempered and obliging to all their friends,
kind to their poorer neighbours, and, ex-
cept on one point, seldom disagreed with
one another; but each had a foolish pride

about being directed to do anything by
10 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

the other; and when that feeling hap-
pened to be aroused, you could not have
found two more obstinate little fellows in
the whole village of Cranford. ‘Their
Unele had, on the morning to which this
tale refers, come to pass the day with
their father; and had asked his nephews
to go to the Grange, which was the name
of his residence, and bring him a parcel,
which he expected would be left there by
the coach: the boys, who always delighted
to oblige their Unclé in any way, had
cheerfully set out on their errand. Just
before they reached the Grange, the
-eoachman had left the parcel, and with
it they started, on their return home—
we have seen with what success.
Arrived at the Oak-tree, Edward. as-
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 11

serted that he had fulfilled his share of the
distance; set down his load, and refused
to carry it a step further.

“Well, a nice tale you will have to tell
Uncle Philip when you reach home,’ said
George; “for I declare I will not touch
the parcel till you have carried it ten
yards further.” “I shall tell my Uncle I
have done my duty,” said Edward; “I
do not intend to touch it again.”

“Neither will I,” cried George.

And at length off they walked, actually
leaving their Uncle’s property under the
tree, to any chance that might await it.
After walking a few paces in silence,
George began to feel rather ashamed of
the part he had been taking, and had his
brother shown any concession, he would
12 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

willingly have turned back. Nearly the
same thoughts were passing through Ed-
ward’s mind. “ After all,” he thought, “it
was only ten yards, and I might as well
have given up: I would go back now
only I do not like to seem to yield first.”
But as they walked. on in silence, of course
neither knew the other’s thoughts, and
in a few minutes more they stood empty-
handed before their Uncle. “ Well, my
dear boys,” said Uncle Philip, looking up
from the newspaper he was reading, “ now
what success, what news of the parcel ¢
I trust the coachman has not disappointed
me.”

“N—n—o,” stammered George, “it
came by the coach.”

“ Ah! that’s right; [am glad it is come
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 13

but bring it here, then. Why—Eh?
where have you put it 2”

George and Edward glanced at one
another; then held down their heads, and
looked as confused and foolish as possible ;
but neither of them spoke.

Uncle Philip was puzzled: “ Perhaps
they did not care to oblige me,’ he
thought. “Why, George—Edward!” he
said, looking hurt and offended, “if I had
known that you considered it too much
trouble to execute a little commission for
me, I would not have asked.’”’—“ Oh no,
uncle, no, indeed, we did not think it a
trouble: we are always glad to do any-
thing to please you; but—but”—they
could get no further: neither wished to
complain of the other, for each knew he
14 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

had been behaving very foolishly. Their
father at this moment entered the room,
and knowing his sons’ failings, had very
little difficulty in discovering how mat-
ters stood.

“T am sorry to find,” said Mr. Howard
seriously, “that notwithstanding all I
have said to you on the subject, you still
continue to indulge in such feelings. On
you particularly as the elder, George, I
had hoped my advice would have had
more effect..-—“Oh indeed it was my
fault as much as George’s,” said Edward.
—“ No, no,” cried George, “I was most
to blame; I feel I have been very fool-
ish and very obstinate: I will run back
directly and fetch the parcel.”—* No,
George,” said Mr. Howard, “your uncle
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 15

will not trouble you again; with his per-
mission I will send a messenger, who I
doubt: not will prove more trustworthy.”
He then rang the bell, and after describ-
ing the spot in which he would find it,
desired the servant to go in quest of the
forsaken parcel. John found it exactly as
the boys had left it, and soon returning
placed it before uncle Philip; who in the
mean time had been conversing apart
with Mr. Howard. “ You leave the matter
in my hands then,” said the latter, as they:
returned to the boys. ‘The fact was, Uncle
Philip was very fond of his nephews,
and had intended to surprise them by
a New-year’s gift; and though at first
vexed at what he justly thought not only
obstinacy but want of proper attention
16 THE OLD OAK-TREE,

and respect to himself; yet now that he
saw how foolish and mortified they looked,
he almost thought them already: suffi-
ciently punished. But in compliance with
a wish their father had expressed, he
agreed to let him proceed in the affair as
he thought best.

Mr. Howard took a knife, cut the
strings of the parcel, removed the outer
covering, and drew forth two _ small
packages; on the first was written—
“Master George Howard,’ and on the
second—“ Master Edward Howard, with
their Uncle Philip’s love.” “These,” said
their father, “your uncle had kindly in-
tended as presents to you both.” The
boys looked up, Mr. Howard removed
the paper which covered them, and there
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 17

stooa two of the neatest little desks in
the world! Uncle Philip fidgeted about,
blew his nose, placed his hands under his
coat-tails, and walked to the window. |
really think he longed to interfere; he
seemed vexed that what he had in-
tended as a pleasant surprise for his
nephews, should through their ill conduct
have been the cause of all the present
disquietude. “'They were, I say, intend
ed for you,’ continued Mr. Howard;
“but, as you have allowed your foolish
pride so far to get possession of you, as
not only to cause you to disagree, but
also to commit a breach of trust, (for
though the two desks were intended for
you, yet at the time you could not have

known what property of your uncle’s you
2
18 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

were leaving to the chance of being lost;)
I have resolved”—*“ Yes, yes, there—
there—that will do, Papa,’ interrupted
Unele Philip, “they will be good boys in
future; they will not do the same again.”

“It is to prevent such a repetition, my
dear brother,” said Mr. Howard, “that I
must now stand in the way of your kind
intentions. Having proved yourselves,”
he said, again addressing George and
Edward, “unworthy of your unele’s
kindness, I must beg that he will take
back with him the desks which he so
kindly designed for you. He will no
doubt find some, amongst his young
friends, who will be glad to accept them;
and who, instead of quarrelling as to
which can do least, will rather strive
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 19

which can do most, to oblige the other.”
“Oh! I really think now you are too
hard upon them,” whispered Uncle Philip;
“remember, young people will be young
people, boys will be boys.”

“But we must strive to make them
sood boys,” said Mr. Howard. “No, my
dear brother! I an sorry that my sons
have not proved themselves deserving of
your kindness. You will oblige me by
taking back the desks: we will say nothing
further on the subject.”

I shall not tell my readers whether this
lesson made a proper impression on
George and Edward; I shall leave them
to guess. Thus much however I will say:
About six months after the occurrence of
the events I have just related, was Uncle
20 THE OLD OAK-TREE.

Philip’s birthday. Mr. Howard and his
sons passed the day with him, and a very
merry day they made of it; and when the
boys took their departure for the night,
each was observed to carry under his arm
a parcel, about half the size of that which
they had left six months before, beneath
the Old Oak-Tree.
THE WHITE PIGEON.

wee ee

In some remote part of Ireland there
formerly stood a fine old -castle, in which
castle dwelt a widow lady, the mother of
an only son. I have forgotten the lady’s
name, so will call her Lady O’N.; but the
little boy’s, I remember well, was Des-
mond.

Lady O’N. was doatingly fond of her
little boy; but in spite of all her affection,
she did not quite understand the right
method of making him happy. It is true
she surrounded him with every indulgence
22 THE WHITE PIGEON.

in her power procure ; hurfoured all his
childish caprices; and could not endure
that any one should for a moment oppose
him. All the servants in the castle were
expected to consult the wishes and attend
to the orders of little Master Desmond,
with as much deference as if he had been
a sensible considerate man, instead of a
thoughtless troublesome child. His tem-
per, 2S you may suppose, was very much
spout by all this indulgence and atten-
tion; indeed, by the time he was six
years of age, he had grown so self-willed
and overbearing, he could not put up
with the slightest contradiction or disap-
pointment. |
Now, in a rude hut, distant about a
mile from the castle, dwelt a poor old
THE WHITE PIGEON. 23

man who had known many aorrows. His
three’ sons had fallen in battle, and a
grand-daughter, the child of his Jast sur-
viving son, who, he had hoped, would
have been spared to be the joy and con-
solation of his old age, had also been
taken from him within a year after her
father’s death.

The poor old man was very sad and
melancholy, and the only thing which
now seemed to give him pleasure, was to
feed and pet a gentle white pigeon which
had belonged to his poor Norah.

The lady at the castle, who was a gen-
tle and charitable dame, pitying the soli-
tary old man, had often called to see his
little grand-daughter when she lay ill,
and had sent delicacies from the.castle for
-24 THE WHITE PIGEON.

the sick child, which he could not have
aflorded to purchase. On one of her visits
to the lone hut, she had taken her little
son Desmond with her, and the old man,
desirous to amuse the little boy as well as
he was able, had taken him round his
little garden, in which he cultivated a
few roots and herbs; and, amongst other
things, had shown him poor Norah's
pretty favourite. It was a few days after
that visit that the little girl died.

Unfortunately for the good old man, it
happened, about the same time, that
young Master Desmond, in spite of the
constant efforts of all in the castle to
amuse and keep him in good-humour,
was at more than usual loss for amuse-
ment. Rain fell almost incessantly for


THE WHITE PIGE ON~- Page 24.
26 THE WHITE PIGEON.

posed to do or be pleased with. But as
his mother continued to talk about his
little important self; he sat down on a
cushion at her feet, and, leaning his face
on both his hands, looked very thought-
ful for a minute or two. If a book had
been on his knee you would have fancied
he was learning his lesson very atten-
tively, but Desmond, though he lived in
a splendid mansion, and was dressed and
tended like a little prince, was as ignorant
as any of the rough-looking little children
who played barefoot about the doors of
the peasants’ huts: he did not even know
his letters. There were not, to be sure,
so many pretty little books in those days
as there are now, to tempt little boys and
girls to study, and reward them for the
THE WHITE PIGEON. 27

pains they take in learning to read. But
what, then, was passing in Desmond's
mind that he leant his head on his hand,
and looked so grave? Perhaps he was
thinking what he could do to give plea-
sure to his kind mama, who loved him so
dearly. No: littke Desmond was thinking
only of himself. Presently he jumped up,
and, with a bright smile on his face, which
delighted his mama and made her clasp
him in her arms and kiss him fondly, he
cried, “Oh I have thought of what I should
like to amuse me.” He fancied he had done
something very clever in finding this out
for himself. “I should like the pretty
white pigeon,’ he continued, “mama, do
you remember, that the old man showed
me, the day you took me with you to his
28 THE WHITE PIGEON

hut?’ “Yes, my darling,” said his mo-
ther, “and I dare say the poor old man
will be very willing to sell it. I will send
to him this morning ; it will,be a charm-
ing pet for you. And now run and ask
Michael to look out a nice little house
for the pretty bird to roost in.” Off ran
- little Desmond, in high glee, to find Mi-
chael, and Lady O’N. immediately sum-
moned one of her servants, and putting
money in his hand, desired him to go to
the hut of the old peasant and give him
whatever he asked for his white pigeon,
as Master Desmond wished to possess it.

The servant accordingly set off, and,
finding the old man in his hut, told him
on what errand he had come. ‘To his
surprise, the old man steadily refused to
THE WHITE PIGEON. 29

part with bis bird. ‘The servant, knowing
how serious a matter it was to disappoint
Master Desmond of anything to which
he took a fancy, offered him a sum more
than treble the value of the pigeon. but
the old man sadly replied “That, and
ten times more, would not buy this poor
bird of me. I do not want gold; this hut.
will shelter me while I live; but the
pigeon my poor Norah loved, and that
used to feed from her hand, I cannot part
with.”

The servant saw that the old man was
in earnest, and that it would be in vain
to urge him further. He therefore went
back to the castle to tell -his lady of his
il success.

Lady O’N. was very much disap-
30 THE WHITE PIGEON.

pointed to see him return empty-handed ;
but when she heard how much the poor
old man valued his pigeon, she felt that
it would be quite cruel to wish any longer
to deprive him of it. ‘The next thing to
be done was to break the news to little
Desmond. He had heard that the ser-
vant was come back, who had been sent
to the old man’s dwelling, and now came
running into the room, crying eagerly,
“Where is my pigeon ?—O let me see my
pigeon !”

“Come to me, my love,” said Lady
O’N.; “come and listen to a sorrowful
little story I have to tell you. When
you have heard it, I am sure you will not
wish any longer for the poor old man’s
bird.”
THE WHITE PIGEON. 31

“TI do not want to hear a story!” cried

the spoilt child; and burst out a crying,
as he was accustomed to do whenever he
could not get what he wished. “I do not
care about anything if I cannot have the
white pigeon.”

It was of no use that his mama tried
to make him feel pity, by talking to him
about the grief of the poor old man, and
explaining to him why he could not part
with his grand-daughter’s favourite pet.
Desmond would not attend to any thing
she said, but kept crying and sobbing;
and insisting on the pigeon being
got for him. This could not be done;
but Lady ON, lamenting his disap-
pointment, tried to divert him in every
way she could think of. It was all in
32 THE WHITE PIGEON.

vain. Desmond was so little of the habit
of bearing disappointment, that nothing
they were able to give or promise him
could make him forget the pretty white
pigeon he had so much ‘set his mind on
having. When at length his passion was
exhausted and he could not ery any more,
he sat down sullenly in a corner, and
would not speak or take notice of any-
body. At dinner-time much to the con-
cern of his mama, he would hot eat any-
thing; in short, he continued in this
comfortless humour the rest of the day,
and when evening came, after the manner
of sorrowing children, sobbed himself to
Sleep. Lady ON. hoped he would
think less about it on the morrow; but,
alas! he arose the next morning in the
THE WHITE PIGEON. 33

same disconsolate mood. He would not
play; he would not smile; he would not
speak. Lady ON. felt quite unhappy ;
she feared he would fret himself into a
fever, and began to reproach herself for
having indulged her little boy so foolishly.
She could not, however, bear the thoughts
of his making himself ill, and, since no-
thing but the possession of the pretty
white pigeon would pacify him, she
resolved to go herself to the hut of the
old peasant, and see what could be done
about the matter.

Without telling Desmond of her in-
tention, for fear of another disappoint-
ment, she set off On reaching the old
man’s hut, she found him engaged in
supplying his favourite with a cup of

3
34 THE WHITE PIGEON.

fresh water. When he saw the lady,
however, he came forward respectfully,
though with his usually sad aspect, to
ereet her. With much reluctance she
made him acquainted with the object of
her visit; telling him how inconsolable
her little boy was, because he had not
been able to obtain the pretty white
pigeon he had once seen at that spot, and
how much she feared that fretting after
it would make him ill.

The poor old man now felt very much
perplexed. He would not have sold his
favourite at any price: but, calling to
remembrance the good lady’s kindness
to his grand-daughter, he felt it would
be ungrateful to refuse her what she
thought necessary for her child’s comfort.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 35

So, after keeping silence for a moment or
two, he replied, in a sorrowful tone, “ You
shall have the pigeon, good Madam, since
Master Desmond has so much set his
heart on it”. The old man spoke almost
with tears in his eyes, and Lady O'N.,,
who saw how great a trial it was for him
to part with his bird, felt quite ashamed
of her little boy’s selfishness. She assured
him, however, that Desmond would take
great care of the pretty pigeon when it
was in his possession, and, should he grow
tired of it, which, in less than a month,
might very likely be the case, she would
return it in safety to its old abode.
Then, thanking the old man for the
sacrifice he made for the sake of her
little son, she left the hut, after the old
36 THE WHITE PIGEON.

man had promised to bring the pigeon
himself to the castle in the course of an
hour or two.

Little Desmond, who had never waited
so long and so hopelessly for anything
he wanted before, was almost wild with
joy when, on Lady O’N’s return home,
she informed him that the pretty white
pigeon would soon be his own. Even
his mama almost forgot the sadness of
the old man, and the selfishness of the
child, in her delight at seeing the rosy
colour return to his cheeks, and happy
smiles again brightening his face.

“And when will it be here, dear
mama?’ cried Desmond, as he clasped
his arms round his mother’s neck.

“Not till the afternoon, I dare say,
THE WHITE PIGEON. 37

love,” said Lady O'N,, for she thought
of the reluctance with which the poor
old man would doubtlessly set out on his
errand.

But it was no longer a difficult matter
to keep little Desmond in good humour;
and joyous and happy in the prospect of
having his wish gratified, we will leave
him for a little time and go back to the
humble dwelling of the poor peasant.

The good old man, though it was such
grief to him to part with his bird, had no
thought of delaying the fulfilment of his
promise ; but as soon as the lady had left
the hut, prepared to carry his treasure to
its new home.

The pretty pigeon, ignorant of all that
was to befal it, was fluttering gaily about
38 THE WHITE PIGEON.

its perch, its white wings gleaming in the
sunshine; but when the old’: man came
near, it flew down, and alighted on his
out-stretched hand. Very gently, he
put the tame little bird into a small
wicker-basket, and carefully tied down
the lid; then, with his oaken-staff in
one hand, and imprisoned pet in the
other, took his way forthwith to the
castle.

When he arrived there, the porter,
who usually opened the outer-gate, hap-
pened to be out of the way; but a stupid-
looking boy came forward to ask what he -
wanted.

This boy, whose name was Michael,
eould seldom deliver any order or direc-
tion in the words he received it; or
THE WHITE PIGEON. 39

1 should rather say, he rarely compre-
hended the purport of what was said to
him; and, in repeating a message, gene-
rally left out, or added something, so as
to completely alter its sense. His want
of understanding had been the cause of
so many droll mistakes, that it was some-
times suspected that there was some
lurking love of mischief joined to his
dulness and _ stupidity. However this
might be, it was the old man’s ill-luck to
give the basket, containing his precious
pigeon, into the hands of this urchin.
He left it with a simple message, saying,
he had brought the bird Master Des-
mond so longed for, and begged Michael
to carry it carefully and present it to him
immediately. The boy promised to do
40 THE WHITE PIGEON.

so; and the old man stood for a moment
eazipg mournfully at bis treasure, as
Niichael bore it away. He then turned
to retrace his steps homeward, uncon-
scious as the poor bird itself of the fate
that awaited it within the castle.

The old man had no sooner departed,
than the stupid boy burried to the castle
kitchen with the basket, and opening the
lid, said, “See, here is a fine plump little
pigeon, which is to be dressed immedi-
ately for Master Desmond's dinner. He
was crying for one all day yesterday, and
the old man who brought this here, said
my lady ordered it herself”

The cook looked with compassion at
the poor little white pigeon, which lay at
the bottom of the basket, very frightened
THE WHITE PIGEON. Al

at the strange faces that were peering
in on it, and said, “it was a thousand
pities to kill such a pretty gentle bird;
but, to be sure, Master Desmond must
have everything he wanted.”

That day little Desmond scarcely cared
40 obey the summons to dinner. He
‘Was so impatient to see the pretty white
pigeon, which his mama was promising
would arrive every moment, that he could
think of nothing else. Poor bird! it
arrived at last in a very different state
from what he expected. The little,
living, fluttering pigeon, which Desmond
had so much wished to possess, and the
old man had parted with so reluctantly,
neither of them ever saw again.

“What dainty have we here?” said
42 THE WHITE PIGEON.

Lady O’N.,asa small silver dish was placed
before Desmond; in the centre of which
appeared a little bird delicately dressed.

“It is the pigeon, Madam,” said the
servant in reply. Desmond opened his
eyes very wide, and looked in great
amazement, first at the dish before him,
and then at his mother.

“The pigeon! what pigeon?’ cried
Lady O’N., hastily; dreading that some
mistake had occurred.

The servant explained, that an old man,
about two hours before, had brought a
pretty little white pigeon to the castle,
which, he said, Master Desmond was to
have as soon as possible; and the cook,
accordingly, had dressed it immediately,
in great haste.
THE WHITE PIGEON. 43

“Q, Desmond,” cried Lady O’N., re-
proachfully, “It is the old man’s bird.
O, what grief he will be in when he hears
of the fate of his poor little pet. If you
had not so selfishly wished to deprive
him of his treasure, the pretty pigeon
would now be fluttering on its perch, as
gaily as it was this morning, when I
begged him, for your sake, to let me
have it.”

Little Desmond began to ery very
much, partly for his own disappointment,
but partly also for the old man, and
partly because his mama had never spo-
ken to him in a tone of so much displea-
sure before.

J never heard what the poor old man
said, or how much grieved he appeared
44 THE WHITE PIGEON.

when he was told of the fate of his
pigeon. One good, however, resulted
from Michaels unfortunate mistake.
Lady ON. resolved to teach her little
boy to consider the feelings of others
more than she had hitherto done; and
Desmond, I am happy to say, became, in
a little time, a more amiable, as well as a
happier boy
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

ArMYTAGE House was a large, old-
fashioned, Gothic building; over which
the ivy grew with such luxuriance, that
its small windows were rendered smaller
still, so deeply were they embedded in
their verdant mantle. In front of the
house was a neatly laid-out garden,
where there were none of your fanciful
fountains or mimic heaps of roex-work,
which, by their presumptuous imitation
of nature, only serve to remind us of their
insignificance. No, there was nothing of
46 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

the kind in the garden of Armytage
House. The paths were smooth and
dry, the box edgings were cut with the
ereatest nicety, and the beds which they
surrounded were filled in summer with
an abundance of sweet-smelling flowers ;
now, however, the bare stems alone re-
mained, save that one or two sickly rose-
buds had struggled into bloom against
the inclemency of the season. Two
tall yew-trees, cut into trim shapes,
overshadowed the garden-gate, on which
was seen a brass plate bearing this in-
scription, “Dr. Meanwell’s Classical
Academy.”

But I will not detain my readers by a
lengthened description of the outside of
the house, for though I am an old lady
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. AT

now, yet I recollect well that I always
made a point of skipping any long ac-
counts of verdant slopes, flowery meads,
or storied piles, which I met with in the
story books which my kind mama pre-
sented to me when I was a little girl.
So, if my young friends will kindly join
me, we will step in at once, and see what
is going on in Dr. Meanwell’s school-
room.

It is Wednesday, a half-holiday, and
the fifth of November. The Doctor is
seated at a high desk, from which he can
see that his young subjects are paying
proper attention to their various studies.
He is dressed in black, and by his side
lies a cane, whose only duty it is to give a
smart tap-tap on the desk, whenever it
48 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

does not suit him to raise his voice to
enjoin silence ; for the full penalty of the
law, flogging, is never resorted to at
Armytage’ House. The Doctor is look-
ing grave, for the boys of the first Latin
class are repeating their lesson—it is
finished. ‘The morning has passed satis-
factorily ; the boys have been as attentive
as most boys can be; and the Doctor
smiles blandly around him, and is prepa-
ing to dismiss them to the play-ground,
when suddenly a titter is heard at the
further end of the long desk which runs
down the whole length of the school-
room.

“Silence!” cried Doctor Meanwell.
“Boys, it is now twelve oclock; your
conduct to-day has pleased me much,
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 49

you have been steady and attentive, and,
as nothing gives me greater pleasure than
to see you happy, I shall consent to the
request you made this morning: as soon
as it is dark, the bonfire shall be lighted,
and the fireworks commence. But mark
me: there must be no playing with the
fireworks. The gardener will superin-
tend the festivities; and——” Here the
Doctor paused; for from the same end
of the desk, whose occupants had been
called to order at the commencement of
his speech, there proceeded the sound of
smothered laughter.

The Doctor removed the spectacles
from his nose, and sent an inquiring
glance to the corner whence these dis-

respectful sounds proceeded: “Young
+
50 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

gentleman,” he exclaimed, “ what is the
reason of this interruption” The boys
returned no answer; but, directed by the
glance of many a merry pair of laughter-
loving eyes, he soon discovered that the
cause was no other than a rough portrait
sketched on the wall with a blackened
cork, by some precocious draughtsman.
“Heyday! what have we here 2” said
Doctor Meanwell, who in the innocence
of his heart, at first supposed it to be a
representation of the popular Guy Faux,
but, on a nearer inspection the truth
began to break upon him. Could it be!
Yes, it certainly was, a caricature-likeness
of himself—yes, there were his spectacles
and his bald head; and even the little
wart which had taken up its abode on
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 51

his time-honoured nose, was faithfully
pourtrayed.

Now, the Doctor had a great dislike
of ridicule in any shape. He always
checked it when displayed by his pupils
upon one another; and it was not to
be expected that he would endure it
with particular patience when directed
against himself. He threw a searching
and inquiring glance along the forms
on which his pupils were seated in quest
of the delinquent; (for, without asking
questions, Doctor Meanwell’s quick-
ness of observation often enabled him
to detect an offending urchin;) but
though many a little cheek was ready to
burst with ill-surpressed laughter, on
none did he detect any symptoms of em-
52 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

barrassment, till his eye fell on Charles
Radnor @nd Arthur Newell. And what
were the*signs of guilt that there met
his penetrating glance? Charles Rad-
nors éye fell as the Doctors met his;
and little Newell, pencil in hand, pre-
tended to be working most industriously
at a sum which his master haa told him
was right ten minutes before. “Charles
Radnor,” said the Doctor, “was this your
doing?” ‘There was a striking difference
in the personal appearance of the two
boys, who thus drew Dr. Meanwell’s
attention. Little Newell, as Arthur was
called by his schoolfellows, was of small
stature, rendered in walking the more
conspicuous from a lameness in one of
his feet, the consequence of a fall
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 53

received in infancy: he had _ light
curling hair, blue eyes, and a fair com-
plexion; but the glow given by active
exercise to the countenance was wanting
in his. Charles Radnor, on the contrary,
tall of his age, and easy and elegant in
form, excelled amongst his companions
in the skill and agility required for out-
door sports and games. A strong friend-
ship subsisted between these two boys,
which had commenced and increased
eradually from the time they had first
met at school, notwithstanding they bore
no greater resemblance to each other in
character than in person. Arthur, the
boy of slight and delicate frame, pos-
sessed the greater portion of courage and
firmness of mind. Quiet and mild in
5A THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

manner, he had strong and. acute feelings,
and returned affection with gratitude.
Charles was of a more lively disposition,
and had less steady principle, but his
kindness and goodness of heart made
him a general favourite in the school,
and by none of his young comrades was
he more beloved than by Arthur Newell.
Schoolboys are generally thoughtless and
high-spirited, and Arthur's lameness
often attracted heedless remarks from his
companions, who would take an incon-
siderate pride in boasting of their
strength and agility to one who was
quite unable to mingle in any active
sport. Charles Radnor had too much
consideration for the feelings of his friend
ever to make such remarks; and the
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 55

gratitude felt towards him by the poor
lame boy in return, was great in the
extreme.

But with all his kindness of heart,
Charles had two great failings—a love
of mischief, and yet so great a terror of
the punishment consequent upon his
own acts, that to screen himself he would
often descend to the meanness of telling
a falsehood. Yet, let it not’ be supposed
that he sinned thus quite deliberately,
or without self-reproach: many and
many were the times he had resolved to
conquer himself of this fault, “On the next
opportunity,’ he would think, “I will
make a resolute stand against such sin-
ful weakness;” but no sooner did the
femptation occur, than it proved too
56 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

strong for him, and all his good resolu-
tions vanished in the momentary dread
of punishment.

But all this time, Doctor Meanwell'’s
question has been unanswered— Did
you do this, Charles Radnor ?”

Need we tell the answer? He had
drawn the likeness, or rather the attempt
at likeness, but with no intention that it
should meet the eye of the original. It
was his effort to eflace it, unobserved,
that first roused the laughter of his com-
panions; no sooner were they silent than
he again attempted to remove it; but
the laughter of the other boys again
drew the Doctor's attention to the spot;
and now nothing was wanting, but to
discover the mischievous artist. Charles
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 57

thought but of the probable punishment
that would await him—that he should be
confined, solitary, to the house, while the
rest of his companions were enjoying the
bonfire and fireworks—and the tempta-
tion proved too strong for him. All his
good resolutions vanished in air, and the
ready falsehood released him for the time
from the consequences of his fault.

The Doctor passed on to little Newell.
“Newell, do you know anything of this 2”

“Charles will be doubly punished if
I say it was he,” thought Newell; “I
would rather endure the blame myself, a
hundred times, if it were not for the
meanness of telling a falsehood. And
yet it will seem so unkind to betray him,
and get him into disgrace, when I could
58 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

so easily save him. It cannot be so mean
er dishonourable to tell an untruth to
save one’s friend, as telling an ordinary
falsehood would be; and see how pale
and frightened poor Charles looks! I
really cannot tell the Doctor it was his
doing.” Again the Doctor urged his ques-
tion. “ Was this your doing, Newell 2”

Newell still paused’: his conscience
whispered to him, “Tell the truth” But
another glance at the pale face of his
friend made him hesitate; and, while he
coloured with shame at the act he was
committing he stammered out—

“Tt was, Sir.”

Dr. Meanwell looked grieved. “T had
hoped,” he said, “that as we commenced
the day, so we should have finished it,
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 59

without one fault calling for serious re-
proof. Asregards the rudehess to myself,
I could have overlooked it; but, as mas-
ter of this school, I should not be doing
my duty were I not to insist on a proper
degree of respect, more especially as I
have resolved to dispense with all cor-
poral punishment. I must own, too,
that I feel hurt that any of you, and more
especially Newell, whom I have treated
with more than usual kindness, should
repay my care by striving to cast ridicule
upon me. Newell, you will remain in the
school-room this afternoon. I am sorry
to be obliged to punish you on a day
which I hoped would have been one of
pleasure to you all. For the rest of you,
your lessons are over for the day; amuse
60 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

yourselves in making preparations for the
evening. ‘There are plenty of materials
about. I shall be looking out for a famous
bonfire.”

Off ran the schoolboys, leaving their
solitary companion in possession of the
deserted room, which now seemed doubly
dreary from the absence of the noise and
bustle which had been there but the
moment before.

Newell sat sadly, listening to the dis-
tant shouts and laughter of his compa-
nions, who were busily engaged in piling
brushwood, brambles, thorns, or whatever
they could lay their hands on, suitable
for the bonfire. At no time are the
sounds of cheerful sports more tantalizing
to the young, than when they are pre-
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 61

vented joining in them themselves, and
more especially when it has been caused
by their own conduct. And ag Newell
sat listening, gloomily, to the distant
sounds, every whoop and shout of laugh-
ter but served to depress his spirits more
and. more. He had another source of
regret—the Doctor thought him un-
grateful; and Newell, always warm in
his affections when kindly treated, was
now reproaching himself for having
allowed the Doctor to think him forgetful
of his attention and kindness. ‘The more
he thought upon the matter, the more
uneasy he grew. “The Doctor is the
best and kindest friend I have,” he cried.
“ How often has he told us that a false-
hood always bears its own punishment
62 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

with it! And now he must for ever
think me either ungrateful, or guilty of
the meanness of telling an untruth.”

The thoughts of Charles Radnor were
not more enviable than those of his friend.
What to him now were the enjoyments
of the evening, to which he, in common
with his companions had so long looked
forward with pleasure? He felt in
constant dread that some of his school-
fellows, knowing him to be the real
offender, might inform the Doctor of his
meanness. While all around him were
gay and cheerful he stood silent and
apart. What mattered it to him now
that he should be thought the most active
in the playground—the most skilful in his
class? He felt that the smallest boy in
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 63

the school was his superior——he felt little
in his owneyes. Every moment he was
inclined to run to the Doctor to tell him
the whole truth, and clear his conscience
from its stain; but then arose the fear
and dread of punishment: and when the
opportunity presented itself; he had not
sufficient courage or strength of mind to
carry out his intentions.

As it grew dusk, the solitary prisoner
could hear that the festivities of the even-
ing had commenced. A_ bright stream
of light, which, as it reached tlte clouds,
would burst into sparkling stars, pro-
claimed when the rushing rocket rose
high in air. The sudden flash, and the
loud shouts of the schoolboys, told when
cny firework of great brilliancy was dis-
64 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

charged; but broader still grew the light,
and louder ,still the shouts, as the great
bonfire suddenly burst forth its flame and
smoke. “They are all happy,’ thought
Newell; “and even- Radnor, perhaps,
enjoys himself and thinks nothing of
the sacrifice I have made for his sake.”
His sorrows were too much for him; he
burst into tears and hid his face in his
hands, sobbing bitterly.

But surely the bonfire is stronger than
ever bonfire was before, for the heat of
it seems to reach him even in the room ;
and it must be the scent of the burning
wood and tar which he smells, and the
crackling of the brushwood which he
hears. See, even the smoke seems to
have penetrated the chamber! But why
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 65

that sudden shout, followed by as sudden
a stillness? It is different from any he has
heard before that evening. Again, those
are voices which he hears; they must be
under the school-room window. And,
can it be ?—-yes, there is his own name
shouted—Newell: Newell! and the ap-
palling truth bursts upon him as the cry
of fire! fire! resounds through the air.
Newell rushed to the door, but it was
too late. A spark from one of the torches
(carried from the house for the purpose
of lighting the bonfire) had fallen in the
hall; the current of air caused by an
open door had soon spread and fanned it
into a flame. A'ready the broad staircase
was in a blaze, and the volume of smoke

which rushed in at the school-room door
5
66 THE SCHOOLEELLOWS.

drove him back, gasping for breath. He
scrambled on to the window-sill, and
looked = despaizingly around him; the
height was far too great for a leap, and
he well knew that there was no ladder at
hand of sufficient length to reach him.
Beneath him stood his frightened school-
fellows, each shouting to him to eseape,
and each giving different advice. “Jump,
jump, Newell,” cried one party. “No,
no,’ cried another; “he would be dashed
to pieces. Keep where you are; the Doce-
tor has sent for assistance ; we shall have
a ladder in a few minutes.”

“Silence, all!” cried the commanding
voice of the Doctor. “Newell, listen to
me: be calm; raise yourself gently from
the window; cling firmly to the stout
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 67

branches of the ivy, and so let yourself
down.”

Poor Newell trembled, and his face
looked ghastly pale. From his lameness
he had generally been prevented from
joining in the athletic sports of the other
boys, and he had never attempted to
climb in his life. “I cannot, I cannot,”
he cried, as in obedience to the Doctor's
directions he strove to make his way
from the window. “Courage, courage,”
cried the Doctor, though his own voice
trembled as he spoke, while he saw the
feeble efforts made by the poor boy to
cling to the ivy.

“It is useless,” cried poor Newell; “I
jeel I have not sufficient strength. It is
my own fault that Tam here; I am justly
68 THE SCHUOLFELLOWS.

punished. But—but, dear Mr. Meanwelli,
I was not ungrateful—I was not unmind-
ful of your kindness. I did not—Oh God
forgive me !—Do not ery so, dear Charles ;
you could not know it would come to this.
God bless you——bless you all!”

“Oh, Arthur! Arthur! IT shall die,”
cried his conscience-stricken friend. “ Oh
Sir, Sir, he was punished for my fault.
It was I drew that picture, and [ basely
allowed Newell to be punished for me.
Oh, I have murdered him! But though
my repentance may have come too late,
still if I cannot save him I can perish
with him. I[ will climb up to the school-
room by the ivy, in the same way that
you told Newell to descend.” And he
rushed forward to carry out his project.


THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 69

“Stay, stay, rash boy!” cried the Doc-
tor, holding him back; “and yet,’ he
thought, as he saw the smoke now issuing
from the window, “it seems his only
chance. Before the gardener returns with
the ladder the poor boy may perish. Be
firm, Radnor, then,’ he said; “be firm:
take this rope with you; when you reach
the room tie one end of it firmly round
Newell's waist, pass the other round the
leg of the desk which is close to the win-
dow, and throw it down to us; by that
means we can save you both.”

Radnor waited not another instant, but
boldly commenced the ascent. Every eye
was strained after him, as from branch to
branch, and from stem to stem, he drew
himself up. Once he paused, and it was
70 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

thought his strength was exhausted, but
it was only for a moment to recover
breath, in the next he had started with
renewed vigour, and paused not again till
he was by the side of little Newell. Here
he followed the Doctor's directions, and
in a few minutes both boys were safe from
the reach of the devouring flames.

But the excitement, joined to the suffo-
cating heat and smoke, had proved too
much for the weak frame of poor Newell,
and as he reached the ground the good
Doctor caught him fainting in his arms,
and bore him to a neighbouring house.

When he returned slowly to conscious-
ness, the flames were nearly subdued by
the exertions of the neighbours, and the
Doctor and Charles Radnor were bending
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THE SCHOOL FELLOW S—Pave 71.
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS 71

anxiously over him, the latter bitterly
reproaching himself for his past con-
duct.

“Ts that you, dear Charles ?” said New-
ell, faintly. “Oh, Newell,’ cried his friend,
“can you ever forgive me for the meanness
I have been guilty of; and if you do, can
I ever forgive myself ?”

“ Dear Charles,” said Newell, “do not
ask my forgiveness; I have nothing to
forgive. If youhave done me any wrong,
you would have more than repaid it by
risking your life to save mine, as you did
so bravely but a few moments since.”

“But, my dear boys,” said Doctor
Meanwell, “there is indeed Ong of whose
forgiveness you both stand in need—ONE
whom you have indeed this day grievously
72 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS.

offended. How far better, how far nobler
would it have been had you told the truth
at once! You must feel that you have
both been much to blame, and that I am
indeed right when I say that nothing can
serve as an excuse for falsehood ; thatin
telling an untruth we but fashion a rod
for our future punishment. Oh! before
you close your eyes this night, fall down
and pray to your Heavenly Father for
strength in future to resist every tempta-
tion of falsehood.”
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

Tur month of June was a time looked
forward to with joy by Frederick Sedley
and in fact by many other young people
of his age; not only because then the
fields and hedge-rows would be decked
with their gayest flowers, but because
there approached, what is dearer to little
boys and girls than the bright shining sun,
or the prettiest flowers that ever bloomed
—the midsummer holidays, when they
would see again their kind parents and
their own dear little brothers and sisters.
74 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

Frederick Sedley wasa very good boy;
he had gained the prize at school, for
good behaviour, and had written home
such a pretty letter to tell his dear papa
and mama that the academy would break
up for the midsummer vacation on the
eighteenth, and that his kind Instructor,
Mr. Parsons, would bring him home in
the coach which passed through Elms-
dale, which was the name of the place
where Frederick lived.

Very few of the schoolboys wanted
calling up on the morning of the eight-
eenth of June, for the thoughts of home
had made them sleep lightly. Frederick
was one of the first to rise, and the time
seemed to go so slowly, that the boys felt
sure the coach must have passed; for it
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 15

seemed longer coming that morning than
it had ever done before. But no! the
clock struck nine, and punctual to its
time, up drove the coach that was
to convey them home. Then there was
such shouting, and clapping of small
hands. Only some of the elder boys tried
to look grave, because they knew Mr.
Parsons was very good to them all, and
though they were as pleased as the others
to go home, yet they did not like to seem
unmindful of his kindness. But Mr.
Parsons only smiled kindly upon his noisy
pupils; for though he was very fond of
them, yet he knew it was only natural
for them to prefer home to school.

When Frederick reached home he
found his papa and mama and his little
76 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

- brother and sister, Thomas and Lucy, all’
waiting to see him. Then he had to dis-
play his reward for good conduct, and
opened his ciphering-book to show all
the long sums he had gone through, till
little Lucy held up her hands in surprise
at his being able to add up such long
puzzling rows of figures.

Now nothing delighted Mr. and Mrs.
Sedley so much as to see their children
cheerful and happy; and as they were
much pleased with Frederick’s conduct
at school, they asked him what he would
like best for his amusement in the holl-
days. Frederick considered for a moment,
for he was not a selfish boy; he did not
think of his own amusement only: so he
replied, that he should prefer something
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. ae

that would please his little brother and
sister also. “Go, then,’ said Mr. Sedley,
“and consult together.” Then there was
a great consideration among the young
folks to hit upon something which would
give enjoyment to them all. At last little
Thomas proposed a donkey, and as this
pleased all parties, a donkey, it was set-
tled, it should be.

The next morning Mr. Sedley took
them to the stable, and there they found
one of the nicest donkeys they had ever
seen; he had a beautiful saddle and bridle,
and looked so sleek and good-tempered,
that there really seemed no occasion for the
pretty whip which was hanging by his side.

“Now, my dear children,’ said Mr.
Sedley, “I have one thing to mention
78 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

which you will be sure to observe: you
may ride over the common, and round the
orcliard and through the fields at the back
of the house, but on no account,—and I
speak particularly to you, as the eldest,
Frederick,—on no account go on the
high-road.”

“Oh no, papa, we do not want to ride
on the dusty road,’ said Frederick; “and
we shall be sure not to go there now that
we know it is against your wish.”

“Mount, then,” cried Mr. Sedley, “and
let us see how you can manage your
steed —Off with you!”

And off went the merry party. First
one mounted, and then the other; and
on they rode through the fields and lanes,
and picked the bright hedge-flowers, and
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 79

made wreaths of king cups to put round
the donkey’s neck; and the donkey nib-
bled the grass as he went along, and
switched his tail, and seemed quite proud
of the fine figure he cut. So they passed
day after day, and three happier children
were not to be found.

But, | am sorry to say that this happi-
ness was at last suddenly marred, and all
through one act of disobedience. You
remember that Mr. Sedley had_ told
them on no account to go on the high-
road. Well, they all paid great attention
to his wishes, till, one morning, when, as
they were riding on the common, they
were joined by Alfred Faulding, a little
boy, the son of one of their father’s friends.

After Alfred had patted and admired
80 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

the donkey, he began to tell them of all
the pretty things he had at home. “ Ah!”
he said, “I have two such beautiful rab-
bits, one of them is covered with black
and white spots; the other is jet black.
You must come and see them, Frederick.”

But Frederick said, “No thank you
Alfred, not to-day.” He did net say the
reason, for he was afraid of being laughed
at. Little Thomas, however, saved him
the trouble, for he said, “Oh! no, indeed,
Frederick cannot go without asking
papa’s leave; for you know, Alfred, he
cannot reach your house without passing
the road; and papa said we were none of
us to go there.”

“That is all very well for a little fellow
like you, Master Thomas,’ said Alfred ;
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. Sl

“but if I were Frederick, I would not
be such a milk-sop as that; I should be
ashamed to be tied to mama's apron-
strings, like a great baby.” Frederick
was so foolish as-to feel quite ashamed
of Alfred’s ridicule. “It cannot make
much difference,” thought he, “I shall
be back again in a minute, and if I do
not tell where I have been, papa need
know nothing about it” And Alfred
at length persuaded him to ride to his
house and look at the rabbits.

They were indeed very pretty rabbits,
with long drooping ears, which, Alfred
said, were called “lop-ears.”. Frederick
was quite delighted with them, and could
have watched them for hours, as they sat
munching the cabbage-stalks which he

6
82 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

gave tnem. But Alfred having now dis-
played his treasures, thought it as well
for them to be moving back again: “ For,’
he said, “somebody might be sent for
you, Frederick; and then I suppose I
should have a share of the blame for
bringing you here.’ So they both
mounted the donkey at once, and off
they started on their way back to the
spot where they had left Thomas and
Lucy.

“You see, Frederick, you had nothing —
to be afraid of,’ said Alfred; “and you
might never have seen my beautiful rab-
bits, if you had minded exactly what your
papa told you; and I should like to
know what harm was likely to have hap-
pened to you 2”
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 83

Frederick did not feel easy, though he
tried to appear so, as he answered, “ Oh!
I see there was no danger at all” But
he spoke rather too soon, for at this mo-
ment, when they were within sight of the
common, a coach, at full speed, turned
the corner of a neighbouring lane. The
coachman saw the two boys, but it was
too late for him to stop theshorses. He
shouted to them to get: out of the way.
Frederick flogged the donkey, and tried
with all his might to do so, but in vain.
The animal, frightened at the noise,
turned round in the middle of the road;
in the next instant the coach had passed
at full gallop, and Frederick, Alfred, and
the donkey were dashed together to the
ground. Little Lucy screamed with
84 FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS.

terror; but Thomas, although quite
as much frightened, had presence of
mind enough to run immediately to the
house for assistance. Mr. Sedley has-
tened to the spot, and found Frederick
lying quite still in the path by the road-
side, where he had been thrown. He
raised him in his arms, and carried him
to the house, followed by Alfred, who
had escaped with scarcely any injury.
Though stunned and bruised, it was soon
found that Frederick had not been so
seriously hurt as was at first feared; but
his ancle was sprained, and for several
days he was obliged to keep at home
and lie quietly on a sofa. When he re-
covered, there were no more pleasant

rides to be had on the donkey, for Mr
FREDERICK SEDLEY’S HOLIDAYS. 85

Sedley at once sent him back to his
former owner. Frederick felt that this
punishment of his fault was but just.
He regretted the loss of the donkey, but
he felt still more sorry to have forfeited
his father’s confidence by suffering him-
self to be so easily persuaded to disobey
his commands. It was a lesson he never
forgot, nor would he ever afterwards
allow the sneers or laughter of his com-
panions to turn him from what his con-
science told him was right.
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

HERO.

“Ou, Cousin John, will you draw ne
Some pretty pictures, if you please, and
tell me some amusing stories about
them ?”

So spoke Willy Franklin, a little fair-
haired boy, of some six or seven years
old: for nothing amused him more than
to sit by his cousin and watch him at his
drawings; and when he had finished
them, to ask him to explain what they
all meant: and as Cousin John was very
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 87

fond of children generally, and particu-
larly so of little Willy, he would good-
naturedly take his pencil and sketch him
as many little drawings as he pleased.
So he answered, “ Well then, Willy, my
little man, come and sit on this chair by
my side, and I will see what I can do.”
Then he sketched and sketched away, till
he had finished two nice drawings.

“Oh what pretty pictures,” cried Willy,
“what can*they be about 2”

“The first)’ said Cousin John, “is, as
you see, the picture of a handsome black
charger, with an officer mounted on his
back; the name of the horse was Hero,
and the rider is intended for my father,
and your uncle, Willy. My father, as
you ‘know, held a commission in the
88 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

army during the late war; and in all the
battles in which he was engaged he always
rode ‘Black Hero’ because he was a
horse he could always depend upon,
beimg possessed of great strength and
speed. Then he was beautifully shaped,
With a fine arching neck and rich flowing
mane; but, what was better than all his
beauty, was, that he might always be
trusted in hour of need: neither the deep
roar of the artillery nor the sharp rattle
of the musketry raised any feeling of
fear in him: he would rush to the very
cannon’s mouth as bravely as if he had
been taking an ordinary canter in the
fields.

“In the course of an engagement
_ which took place between our forces and
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 89

the French, the regiment to which my
father. belonged was ordered to charge
some of the enemy’s cavalry, who were
posted on an opposite hill. In_ the
encounter my father was wounded in the
arm by a musket-ball; and, being unable
to control his horse or keep up with his
companions, he was captured by a French
soldier, who, seeing his helpless con-
dition, contented himself with disarming
him and leading him to the rear of the
French regiment. The contest was kept
upewith fearful energy, and the enemy
were at first driven back by the resolute
courage of our troops; but as reinforce-
ment after reinforcement continued to
arrive to the assistance of the French,
they in turn became victors; and the
90 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

English commender, seeing the inutility
and folly of contending against such
superior numbers, ordered the retreat to
be sounded, which in cavalry regiments,
is done by the trumpet sound.

“My father’s horse, hearing the notes
he had always been accustomed to obey,
burst suddenly from the soldier who was
holding him, galloped at full speed
through the very centre of the French
regiment, and carried his master safely
to the side of his old comrades.

“You may be sure that after this my
father was always very fond of Black
Hero, for he had probably saved _ his life,
or, at all events, had rescued him from a
long and dreary imprisonment.

“At the conclusion of the war my
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COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 91

father returned to England, and brought
with him the noble animal, the com-
panion of his toils. I was a little boy
then, Willy, but I recollect well the day
when they rode up to our own door, and
mama, in her joy, actually threw her
arms around Hero’s neck. And he grew
such a favourite with us all, for he was so
gentle and docile, he would let me and
my little brothers and sisters mount him,
and then he would walk about as quietly
as a lamb.”

“Oh what a good brave horse,” said
Willy; “how I should have loved him.
But what does the other picture mean ?
Is that ahout Hero, too 2”

“That,” said fis cousin, “refers to
anotner part of his history—My father
92 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

soon after his return home received a
letter from a very old friend of his, a
Mr. Manby, who was very anxious to see
him, but who was prevented by his infirm-
ities from travelling so far as our house.
So Hero was saddled and brought round
to the door, and my father started off on
his expedition. His friend was delighted
to see him, and they remained so long
chatting and talking over old times, that
when my father rose to depart, the eve-
ning had already set in. It was then the
latter end of September, and the sky,
which had been serene and_ beautiful
during the day, had now become dark
and overclouded. Already distant flashes
of lightning were to be seen, and a few
Jarge drops of rain which fell proclaimed
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 93

that a heavy storm was at hand. Mr.
Manby tried to persuade my father to
remain under the shelter of his roof for
the night; but knowing the anxiety mama
would be in during his absence, he deter-
mined at once to hasten homewards
Mr. Manby then offered to despatch a
messenger to our house to inform us of
his intention of not returning till the
next day; but my father would not for an
instant hear of another being exposed
for his sake to danger from which he
would himself shrink. ‘And_ besides,
said he, ‘Hero and I have faced so many
dangers already, that, trusting in Provi-
dence, we need not fear to encounter
even so stormy a night as this.” So,
drawing his coat about him, and bending
94 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

his head before the wind and rain, off he
dashed on his homeward way.

“Soon the rain descended in _ torrents,
and the night grew darker and darker,
save that every now and then a bright
flash of lightning would illume the road
with a noonday light. But still my father
urged on his steed, and the noble animal,
regardless of the pelting of the sharp
hailstones in his face, or the deep and
appalling roar of the thunder overhead,
kept bravely on his way. The road
now lay across a bleak common without
tree or shelter of any kind, and here the
full fury of the storm burst upon them.
My father knew the road well, for it was
one he had often travelled as a boy, and he
had not for an instant doubted of easily
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 95

finding his way home; but, deceived by
the darkness and the storm, he at length
found himself in a part of the heath en-
tirely unknown to him. Utterly at a loss
which way to turn, he had only the usual
chance of benighted travellers,—loosing
the rein, and leaving it to chance and his
horse’s instinct to extricate him from his
difficulty. Leftto himself, Hero sped swift-
ly across the heath; but scon a new and
unexpected impediment presented itself.
As iny father rode on, he heard the rushing
of water, and, on a nearer approach, had
some difficulty in recognising the broad
and rapid stream, swollen by the sudden
deluge, which lay before him, as what had
in the morning been but a small rivulet.

What was to be done? My father had
96 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

been too much in the habit of overcoming
difficulties and dangers, by boldly facing
them, to be daunted by his present di-
lemma; and after a moment's pause, he
chose what seemed the most suitable spot
for the attempt, and pressed his horse to
the stream. For the first time in his life
Hero refused to obey. When brought to
the edge of the water he snorted fearfully,
tossed his head, and could not be per-
suaded to attempt the passage. At length,
on being again and again urged, he sud-
denly took the bit in his teeth, galloped
some distance up the bank of the stream,
and finally plunged in at a spot where the
water seemed chafing and rushing with
more force and rapidity than anywhere
around. Well accustomed to the manage-
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 97

ment of his horse, my father kept his
broad chest to the stream ; for it required
all the skill and resolution of both horse
and rider to enable them to reach the
opposite bank.

“Mama and all of us children were sit-
ting up listening to the raging of the
storm; for although we hoped that my
father would have staid the night with his
friend, still we were in too great a state of
anxiety and uncertainty to think of sleep.
It was now past twelve o’clock, and mama
was just insisting upon our retiring to
rest,—though by the anxious look of her
pale face, I could see she had no such in-
tention herself—when the sounds of a
horse’s hoofs were heard in the avenue,

and the next instant my father galloped
7
98 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

up to the door, drenched to the skin, and
covered with his horse’s foam.

“ After our first joy at seeing him safe
had somewhat subsided, we did not forget
to pat and praise Black Hero for the part
he had taken in the night’s exertion. It
afterwards appeared, from the marks of
the horse’s hoofs on the spot, that my
father must, in the darkness, have mis-
taken the usual ford; for, had he suc-
ceeded in forcing the horse into that part
of the stream which he first attempted, he
would probably have perished, as the very
stillness of the water was there only occa-
sioned by its greater depth.

“T must tell you one more of Hero’s
feats, and then I shall have done. He
performed it when he was growing old;
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 99

twelve months only before he died. It
was his last grand deed, but it was his
best and his bravest.

“We were living, at the time the inci-
dent Iam about to relate to you occurred,
on the coast of ——-shire. Our house was
beautifully situated. Behind it rich ma-
Jestic woods extended further than the
eye could geach; while before it lay a
smooth verdant plain, gradually sloping
to the sea. You might have wandered
for hours in that secluded spot without
meeting a single human being. The sea
presented nearly the same appearance,
for we seldom caught more than a distant
view of some far-off vessel, visible but for
a moment above the horizon, and in the
next lost to the eye, as it pursued its
course of business or pleasure.
100 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

“We had been out one afternoon roam-
ing amongst the woods, plucking the wild
flowers, playing at hide-and-seek among
the trees, running and jumping about,
laughing till we made the place ring
again with our merriment, when we heard
mamas voice calling to us to return home.
We begged of her to allow us to stay out
a little longer, as we were enjoying our-
selves so much. ‘And besides, mama,
we urged, ‘it will not be dark yet for an-
other hour.’

‘But, my dear children, said mama,
‘you must come in an hour earlier this
evening, for, from the appearance of the
sky, we are fearful that a heavy storm is
at hand’

“So bats, balls, and hoops were collected
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 101

together, and in we went; and I can as-
sure you we were not sorry we had taken
mama’s advice, for in half an hour it began
pouring with rain, and we should certainly
have got wet through, had we not gone
in when we did.

“Tn the evening we were all sitting round
the table, listening eagerly to my father,
who was relating some adventure which
he had met with abroad ; when suddenly
a bright gleam of light shone before the
window, and, the next instant, was fol-
lowed by a loud report. All of us chil-
dren fancied it must have been a flash of
lightning. But my father shook his head.
‘No, said he, ‘it was the report of a
gun; it came from the sea: it must have
been from some vessel in distress; and
102 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

from the sound she must be close on our.
coast.’

“Even as he spoke a report louder, and
apparently nearer still than the former
one, burst on our ears. My father sum-
moned his servants around him, caused
bonfires to be lit to show the position of
the coast to those on the ship, and has-
tened to the beach, to see what further
assistance could be rendered.

“The storm had now somewhat subsided,
and by the fitful light of the moon he dis-
covered a vessel, the masts hanging over
her sides, a complete wreck, driven entirely
at the mercy of the winds and waves, which
were fast drifting her on the rocky coast.
Every instant brought her nearer and
nearer, till at length the people on deck
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 103

could be distinctly seen, in every attitude
of despair, rushing franticly about, and
expecting every moment to be over-
whelmedin the raging waves. When with-
in only a short distance of The shore, the
ship struck violently, and became firmly
fixed between acleftof the rock. Nolonger
borne up by the buoyancy of the water, the
waves swept uncontrolled over her, threat-
ening to sweep every living soul from the
devoted vessel. The shrieks ofthe wretched
crew and passengers, men, Women, and
children, were perfectly heart-rending ;
for though so near shore, no assistance
could be rendered to them, as no boat was
to be found within miles of the spot.—
‘Yet something must be done, cried
my father; ‘we cannot see our fellow-
104 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

creatures perish thus, without an attempt
to save them.”—‘ Adam, he said to an old
servant, who had formerly been a soldier
in his regiment, ‘saddle Hero instantly.
I will galloptover to the next village to
seek assistance of some kind

“Adam soon saddled and led forth
Hero, who neighed and tossed his noble
head, as if he knew that a fitting moment
had arrived to call forth his prowess. My
father mounted, and was on the point of
starting off; but on looking again at the
vessel, he checked himself. ‘It would
be useless’ he said: ‘before I could
reach the village and return with assist-
ance, the rising tide will have buried
every vestige of the wreck. ‘There ts
but one chance; Hero is still strong,
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 105

and I doubt not could swim with me to
the vessel!

«¢Qh, my dear, dear master ” eried old
Adam, ‘tempt not so the fearful waves ;
many a noble form will they roll over
this night. Oh! add not your own to the
number. If yonder stout vessel could
not withstand their fury, how can you
‘expect to brave them ?

“ Adam, said my father; ‘He has power
to save and to destroy; to confound the
mighty, and to bid the weak be strong,’

« one must go, let it be me. I am an old
man. I have neither wife nor child to
mourn for me; and with the waves that
roll over him, old Adam will be forgotten.’
106 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

““Nay, nay; think not so seriously of it,
Adam, replied my father. ‘I have an in-
ward conviction that I can succeed in
saving the lives of these poor people;
and so feeling, I should be criminal were
I not to attempt it; and he pressed
forward as he spoke nearer to the
breakers.

“‘Oh, stay, master, dear master! urged
Adam, wringing his hands—but in vain.

“My father urged Hero to the sea:
the animal gave one noble bound, and
plunged amid the breakers. For an
instant man and horse were buried
beneath the foaming surf—in the next,
they emerged, and old Adam gazed after
them with straining eyes, as from time to
time they were hidden in the hollows of
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 107

the waves, or were seen hurried along
upon their giant crests.

“As my father drew near the wreck he
was seen by the persons on deck, who
at first imagined it was a boat put out to
their rescue. The keen eye of the sailors,
however, soon detected the reality, and
one of their number sprang instantly to
the vessel’s side with a rope, coiled round
his arm, which he prepared to cast to
their deliverer so soon as he could ap-
proach sufficiently near for the purpose.
Nearer and nearer still the bold voyag-
ers approached the vessel: the sailor's
practised hand sends the rope _ flying
through the air, uncoiling as it flies. It
falls within my father’s reach—he grasps
it, and turning his horse’s head towards
.08 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

the shore, he bears with him that frail cord
on which depends the existence of the
luckless crew. Yeta few minutes, and the
callant steed and his bold rider will be
safe. But can they succeed in forcing
their way through the foaming breakers,
widely as they burst on the beach? Can
they succeed in landing, despite the back-
ward current of the retreating waves ?
They are nearly safe now; but ah, the
noble steed’s strength is well-nigh spent!
He struggles, struggles hard, but in
vain: the tide prevails—One moment
more, and they will again be swept to sea!
But no; old Adam rushes in. Bravely,
bravely done, old man!—He seizes the
reins—one effort more—they are safe,
they are safe!
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. 109

“But were the people saved?” said
Willy ; “the women and all the poor little
children 2” |

“They were, Willy. By means of the
rope there was no great difficulty in
drawing them safely ashore. Not quite so
pleasantly, perhaps, as if they had landed
in a boat; though I did not hear any
of them complain of the mode adopted for
their preservation, for they were thankful
that God had, in his mercy, suffered my
father to be the means of rescuing them
from otherwise certain destruction.

“After a time Hero began to feel the
influence of years, and of the different
hardships he had gone through. So we
had him turned loose in a rich paddock,
where he might roam about at his ease
110 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

We had a stable built for him to go into
when he pleased, so that he might not be
exposed to the inclemency of the weather;
and there he passed the remainder of his
days in peace and quietness; for my
father would not allow him to be ridden
or used again in any way. He became
quite celebrated in our neighbourhood,
and when any visitors came they always
asked permission to see the famous horse.
Hero would walk gently about, as if he
were not aware of their presence; he
grew daily more and more feeble, and the
only time at which he would show some-
thing of his former fire was when he
heard his old master’s voice. Then he
would arch his neck, give a loud clear
ueigh, and commie galloping up in such
COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY. lll

style, that you would hardly fancy him
to be the same quiet feeble horse he
seemed but the moment before:

“Qne morning we missed him at his
accustomed spot in the paddock; he had
not left his stable. We found him there
stretched on his side; his eyes closed,
and lying so motionless, that, but for his
faint breathing, we should have fancied
him already dead. |

“We patted him and spoke to him;
but he stirred not, till at length we went
mournfully to call my father.

““ What, Hero! my poor Hero” said
he: ‘Old companion of my toils; must
we then part at last? Many friends have
I known, but none who proved truer to
me than thou!

)
112 COUSIN JOHN’S FIRST STORY.

“The old steed heard his beloved mas-
ter’s voice; for an instant his eyes opened;
he pricked his ears, and he gave one of
his loud shrill neighs—it was but for an
instant; in the next he had fallen back in
a struggle to start to his feet.

“Soldiers seldom weep; but I saw the
eenerous tears coursing down my father's
nanly cheeks, as he turned from the last
look at his faithful companion through
many a toilsome day.

“In the same field in which the poor
horse died, beneath the shade of a wide-
spreading oak-tree, we dug his grave.
With the softest turf we raised a mound
oer Hero's head. With the sweetest
flowers we decorated Hero’s tomb.
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

FLUSH AND ROVER.

THE next time Willy saw his cousin,
he begged him to give. him the pictures
that he had drawn of the good forse,
Hero, asthe tale had made a great
impression on him, and he wanted to
show the drawings to his little sisters,
and to tell them all about them.

“Have you drawn any other pictures,
cousin John,” he said, “since I saw you
last? If you have, pray show them to
me. I should so like to hear the his-

8
114 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

tory of any other favourites you may
have had.”

“No. Willy,” said his cousin, “I have
not drawn anything lately ; but come with
me to the library, and I will show you a
little painting by a far better artist than
I am, which I think will amuse you.”

“Oh, what two dear little dogs!” cried
Willy ; “I do so love dogs; and there
are their names, too, written underneath ;
‘Flush and Rover? I know which
would be my favourite.”

“Which do you fancy most, then 2”
inquired his cousin.

“Oh! Rover, he looks such a nice
handsome little fellow; Iam sure he
must be the best dog.”

“Well, Willy,” said his cousin, “you
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 115

shall hear their history, and then you
can judge for yourself.

“Flush and Rover were two little
spaniel puppies, the only remaining
members of a large family; their bro-
thers and sisters having been consigned
soon after their birth, to a watery grave ;
poor Flush had only been saved from a
similar fate at the earnest entreaty of his
master’s daughter ; and Rover, on account
of his promising appearance, his fine black
and white spots and glossy silken ears,
giving every prospect of his becoming a
very handsome dog.

“The two puppies began ,very early
to display a vast difference in their dis-
positions. Rover was never easy unless he
were scrambling out of his warm bed,
116 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

and then no sooner had he got on to the
cold flag-stones with which the yard was
paved, than he would begin the most
piteous whining, till he was again placed
in his comfortable house. When there,
he would always be disturbing the sweet
temper of his brother by rolling and
jumping over him when he felt inclined
for a nap, and so upsetting the harmony
of the family, that his mother was often
obliged to give him a good shaking before
he could be brought to a proper sense of
duty and propriety. Flush, on the con-
trary, was of an extremely sweet and easy
disposition ; he was not, perhaps, quite
so handsome nor so lively as his brother,
ond though at a proper time he would
jom m his gambols and be as frisky and
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 117

playful as possible, yet, in general, he
was so good and staid, that his mother
felt no uneasiness in leaving him when
her duties called her for a time from
home.

“When the two puppies grew old
enough, their mother was separated from
them, and they only saw her now and
then, as their master, who was fond of
shooting, used to take her out to assist
in finding the ganée; but she was always
glad to see them on her return, and even
after a hard day’s hunting about the
fields, would be quite ready for a game
at play with Flush and Rover. Flush
would jump and frisk about her, crouch
himself slyly close to the ground, then
run up to her and put his little paws
118 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

round her neck; and the party would be
as cheerful and happy as possible till
Rover, not content with their innocent
amusements, would mischievously seize
the tip of his good mother’s tail between
his sharp teeth, causing her to give a
yelp of pain, and so irritating her, that
she would bestow on him a well-merited
chastisement, and send him whining
dismally to bed. In this manner did
Rover frequently breakeup the pleasure
of the evening.

“Their master now thinking them suffi-
ciently advanced in strength and sagacity,
took them out with him to assist. him in
his sport. Rover was quite proud and
delighted at the opportunity of display-
ing his superior beauty before the other
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 119

dogs in the field; and was pertly run-
ning in advance of the others, flourishing
his tail and looking as conceited as you
please, when a sharp cut from his master’s
whip made him drop it quickly between
his legs, and slink behind their heels.
When they reached the fields, Rover
got still further into disgrace. The duty
the dogs had to perform, was to keep
within a moderate distance of their
master, and hunt up any game_ they
might find, for him to shoot. Flush,
keeping near his mother, and watching
her movements, managed. very well for a
beginner; and Rover's giddiness was for
a time kept in check by the remembrance
of the whip, and by the voice of his
master, when he saw he was inclined to
120 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

roam faraway. Their master was pleased
with their conduct, and all was going on
tolerably well, although as yet they had
found no game, when, in an unfortunate
moment, Rover espied two dogs at play
in an adjoining field, and, deaf to his
master’s cry of ‘ Back, Rover! and _ the
angry crack of his whip, thinking only
in his vanity of surprising the two stran-
gers by the beauty of his glossy coat, off
started the thoughtless Rover. Scarcely
had he gone half-way across the field,
when, whir-r-r, whir-r-r, with out-spread
Wings, up started two glistening phea-
sants, the first they had yet seen. Rover
had in his haste nearly run over them,
and, frightened by the unexpected sight,
and the noise they made in rising, back
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 121

went the startled and disobedient puppy ;
but something worse than fright was in
store for him; his master, angry that his
vanity had been the cause of his losing
so good an opportunity of filling his
game-bags, took out his whip, and began
to administer so sound a beating, that
the hapless Rover yelped and howled,
and rolled over and over on his back.
But the whip this time was applied un-
sparingly, till Flush, creeping up to his
master, and looking wistfully and im-
ploringly in his face, seemed to beg of
him not to beat poor Rover any more.
As to Rover hinself; he now turned
quite sulky at the treatment he had
received, and doggedly refused to hunt
any more; dropping his long ears and
122 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

tail, and looking quite glum and ul-
tempered. At last when, on persisting
in declining his share of the labour, his
master again showed him the whip, he
looked at him doubtfully for a moment,
and then fairly took to his heels. Reach-
ing home, sore and sulky, he sneaked into
his kennel, and would not come out
again that day.

“ His master tried him again and again,
but always found him so perverse and dis-
obedient, that at last he gave up all hope
of Rover being useful to him in the field,
and left him at home as a pet dog for the
children.

“Rover was now vain beyond all bounds;
he was washed and combed, pampered
and fed with all kind of dainties, and.
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 123

having nothing to do all the day long,
would hardly have been recognised as the
companions of the other dogs.

“He felt his own importance, and, puffed
up with conceit, would not condescend
any longer to notice his relations. They,
however, were quite as comfortable as he,
if not more so; for idleness and luxury
do not always bring happiness. True,
they worked hard all day; but when they
came home in the evening, the exercise
they had taken only made them enjoy
their plain food the more; whereas
Rover, with all kinds of dainties before
him, hardly ever knew what it was to
enjoy a hearty meal. At first he took
great delight in the pats and caresses that
were bestowed on him in the drawing
124 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

room; but overfeeding and indulgence
did not tend to improve his temper, and
he soon began to consider it a trouble to
be roused from his sleep, to show himself
off to any friends of his young mistress
who happened to call. With all his
laziness, he still retained his mischievous
propensities ; and though so well fed, yet
nothing pleased him more than to watch
for an opportunity when the cook’s back
was turned, of stealing something nice
from the dresser; and when successful
in this trick, he would waddle off with
the dainty as quickly as he could, and if
unable to eat it all himself, hide it under
his bed, rather than let the other dogs
have a bit.

“One day when he was out for a walk,
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 125

he saw a labouring man asleep on a sunny
bank. Rover went sniffing about, and
soon discovered, lying by his side, a
parcel tied up in a handkerchief. lie
dragged ita little distance off, and with
some difficulty succeeded in extracting
its contents; but what was his disap-
pointment at finding it was merely only
bread and cheese, which the poor man
had brought from home for his dinner.
Rover had much too fine and delicate an
appetite to think for an instant of eating
such plain fare; but, actuated by the
spirit of mischief, he began scratching a
hole in which to bury his treasure. So
intent was he on this work, that he did
not perceive the owner of the dinner
wake up, and stretch out his hand to the
126 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

place where he had left his provision.
Not finding it there, the man arose and
looked about him, and seeing how Rover
was occupied, had no difficulty in tracing
the thief. Moving cautiously up to the
unfortunate dog, almost before he was
aware of his approach, he had seized him
by the neck. Rover bit, and snapped,
but all in vain; his capturer held him
fast. ‘You little wretch, said he, ‘ TI
teach you to steal my dinner again!
and, after cuffing him soundly, he tossed
him into the middle of a large muddy
pond.

“Spaniels can generally swim very
well; but Rover was so unaccustomed to
exertion, that he had the greatest diffi-
culty in reaching the other side.
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 127

“ Covered with black mud, and over-
come with fear, pain, and fatigue, he at
length managed to reach home. ‘Oh
my poor Rover, said his kind mistress,
‘where have you been? Rover, how-
ever, was too tired and too much ashamed
of his appearance to wish to be taken
notice of. He crept off to bed, and
strove to forget his pain and mottifica-
tion in sleep.

“The next morning, a good washing
restored his silky coat to its former
whiteness; but the servant,.in order to
save so much additional trouble, (for
whenever Rover went out he was sure to
get into some scrape) resolved, in future,
to prevent hin leaving the house.

“ Not allowed to take his usual exer-
128 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

cise, though that was moderate enough,
he grew fatter and more _ ill-tempered
every day ; everybody in the house quite
disliked him, his little mistress alone
excepted. By her he was still caressed
and fondled, until on one unfortunate day
when, as she was kindly stroking his
head, he actually snapped at the hand of
his benefactress.

“Her papa declared he would not keep
so surly an animal another day in the
house, and Rover's fate was on the point
of being sealed when he was saved by
the kind intercession of his mistress.
At her request it was agreed he should
be spared, if any one could be found
who would take him with his present
character.
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 129

“A neighbouring farmer was at last
induced to take him into his possession,
who said his bad temper would not so
much signify to him, as he wanted a sharp
little dog that would run about his yard,
and bark and give notice whenever stran-
gers intruded on the premises.

“The fare at the farmhouse was very
different to what Rover had been accus-
tomed to, and he no longer ran any
chance of being spoiled by over-feeding.
On the contrary, misery awaited him
from the other extreme. His new master
had a large family of his own to provide
for, and what scraps they left—and they
were not very abundant—had to be shared
by the great yard dog. Rover had to
look very sharp, or his hungry fellow-

9




Lov COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

vatchman would eat it all up before he
could get a mouthful. His rage and
hunger once so far overcame his prudence,
that he even ventured to attack his large
companion, when he was as usual eating
a most undue proportion of their dinner.
He received, however, so much the worst
of itin the encounter that ensued, that
he never had the temerity to assert his
rights in that quarter a second time.

“ Driven to his own resources, he was
obliged to prowl about the village in
search of prey, and soon regaining his
former activity, became the most trouble-
some and expert thief in the place. His
favourite practice was to watch round
the corner of the street in which the
butcher's shop was situated; and, let it
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 131

pe left one moment unguarded, a mutton
chop, steak, or cutlet, was sure to vanish.
So daring a marauder did he grow, that
no goodwife in the village could venture
to leave her cottage door open for an
instant, with any cooking before the fire ;
knowing, from experience, that Rover
would, without ceremony, invite himself
to a share in the repast.

“The farmer had so many complaints
made to him of depredations of his dog,
that he would willingly have got rid of
his bargain; the animal’s mischieveus
tricks were, however, so well known, that
he could not obtain another home for him
in the neighbourhood.

“While Rover's ill conduct was daily
binging him into greater disgrace, Flush
132 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

continued happy and comfortable in his
old home, and gradually fell into the
place his silly brother had forfeited. He
soon became a greater favourite with the
family than poor unfortunate Rover had
ever been; for kind treatment, instead
of making him cross and snappish, seemed
only to increase his natural docility and
sagacity. ‘The shooting season was over,
and there was no further occupation for
him in the field; but he generaly accom-
panied his master’s family in their walks ;
and a most amusing companion the chil-
dren found him. He was very proud to
make himself useful, and would never let
them walk in peace till they had given
him something to carry; leaping and
bounding in their path until he had ob-
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 133

tained possession of a stick, a little basket
or parasol. Perfectly satisfied when he
was thus laden, he would drop his ears,
and trot along by their side, looking
gravely sensible of the responsibility of
his charge. No fear of Flush losing any-
thing confided to him! If the boys
challenged each other to a race, and he
did not choose to be behindhand in
sharing the sport, he would bring the
stick that he was carrying, lay it at his
master’s feet, and look wistfully and be-
seechingly at him till he resumed it; but
not till then would Flush bound away to
take his part in the race.

“His master sometimes purposely
dropped his stick, and, calling away the
dog, would walk on, leaving it in the
134 COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY.

road ; and, no matter what the distance
he had only to make a sign to Flush, when
off he would bound, and never failed to
return with the cane, which he would lay
quietly down at his master’s feet, and
then look knowingly up at him, as if
asking for something else to do. The
sagacious little dog once performed a
more important service :—

“This master had occasion to walk toa
neighbouring town on business, and took
with him a pocket-book containing papers
of great value. On his return home he
found, to his dismay, that the book was
missing. He remembered well that he
had had it safe just before he started on
his return, and fancying that he might
by chance have dropped it on the road,
COUSIN JOHN'S SECOND STORY. 135

he retraced his steps, looking carefully
right and left, in the hope of recovering
the lost papers. Flush, who had run out,
jumping and frisking up, as he always did,
to welcome him home, now accompanied
him, and seemed aware that something
was amiss. Heran on before his master,
snufling about till he came to a stile
about a mile distant from home. Here
he paused, and by the quick motion of
his bushy little tail, his master was in
hopes that he had discovered the lost
pocket-book. But no: Flush kept hunt-
ing round and round the same spot for
some time, and at last much to his mas-
ter’s disappointment, turned into a path
branching off in a contrary direction to
the one he had traversed in the morning.
136 COUSIN ,VHN’S SECOND STORY.

“¢No no, Flush)? he cried; ‘here!
here !

“But Flush continued to run gaily on
with his nose close to the ground, till he
found his master was not following him,
Then he looked back, and seemed to beg
of him to proceed; but finding he did
not do so, began jumping and barking ;
running on a little distance, and then
turning round and wagging his tail again.
His master, at length, struck by his con-
‘luct, resolved to see where he would lead
him.

“Flush now trotted nimbly along the
path for about a quarter of a mile fur-
ther, till he came to a small cottage,
where a man was standing at the door
with something in his hand which he
COUSIN JOHN’S SECOND STORY. 137

seemed to be examining. Flush began
jumping and barking around him, and his
master, on his approach, was overjoyed
at discovering that the poor man held in
his hand the lost pocket-book. He had
picked it up but a few minutes before
Flush and his master returned to the
spot where it had been lost.

“T have not time to relate any more
anecdotes about Flush and Rover this
morning, Willy; but tell me, have you
changed your opinion of your favourite
dog ?” |
Willy laughed, and said, he “now
liked Flush a thousand times better
than Rover.”
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

“Goop morming, uncle Charles,” cried
James and Frank Thornton.—* Good
morning, my dear boys,” said uncle Charles
inreturn. “ Which of you have I to thank
for cutting open the leaves of Alison’s
History, which I found ready for my
perusal this morning 2”

“Oh, that was Frank’s doing,’ said
James: “Frank is always so good and
thoughtful.”

“But you have been thoughtful and
industrious too this morning, James,’
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 139

said his brother; “see, uncle Charles, he
has fed your birds, and watered your
flowers, and then he has placed your easy
chair and footstool for you, all quite snug
and comfortable.”

“Oh yes, uncle, I did indeed,” said
James, “ because I thought you would be
tired this morning, as you were out so late
last night.”

“Well, you have both been very good
boys,” said their uncle, patting them
kindly on the head; “but, master James,
how comes it that you know I was out so
late last night, eh? Those twinkling little
eyes of yours look too bright this morn-
ing to have been open till the hour at
which I returned home.”

“Why, uncle Charles,” said James,
140 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

“we wanted to keep ourselves awake till
you came home last night; so when we
were in bed we began telling one another
all the tales we could think of, and that
kept us awake for some time; and after
that we agreed to speak to one another
every two or three minutes, just to pre-
vent ourselves falling asleep; but, some-
how or other, we forgot to do so, and we
dropped off before we were aware of it,
till we recollect hearing the clock strike
eleven, so, as you had not come home
then, we fancied you would be late. But
had you a pleasant party, uncle ? and was
that funny old Indian gentleman there ?
and did he tell any of his dreadful
stories ?’—

“Gently, gently, you little chatterbox,”
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 141

cried uncle Charles; “one question at a
time, if you please. We passed a very
pleasant evening certainly ; the funny old
Indian gentleman, as you call him, formed
one of the party, and he related a great
number of anecdotes.”

“But were they dreadful stories 2” said
James, “Do you know, uncle, I am very
fond of dreadful stories.”

“Oh, how can you say so James!” said
his brother; “you know I caught you the
other day with the tears in your eyes, whilst
you were reading the account of a poor
family who had been buried in the snow.”

“Ah! [I know I could not help crying
a littl when I read that story,” said
James, “because it seemed so very sad
for the poor people to be ruined as they
142 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

were, after they had been good and indus-
trious for so many years before. Did it
not, uncle? But Ido not think I quite
meant to say dreadful stories; I think I
meant to say, I like interesting stories,
about people who have escaped from
prison, or from wild beasts, or any kind
of danger; yes, I think I like interesting
stories, uncle.”

“T have no doubt you do,’ said uncle
Charles, smiling, “and [rather think I can
recollect such a tale for you, and one re-
lated too by your friend, the Indian gen-
tleman. The worst of it is, that I did
not hear the commencement of the tale,
so I do not know whether it happened to
a friend of Major Philips, or whether he
had heard or read of it. However, I
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 143

suppose these facts will not be of much
importance to you, as the tale is, I think,
interesting, and had well nigh proved
dreadful. So, boys, take your seats, and
I will begin at once :—

“Tn the summer of the year 18—, the
Indian villages, north of the Ganges, were
kept in a continual state of anxiety, in
consequence of the quantity of wild ani-
mals which infested their neighbourhood.
The season was one of unusual drought,
and the wild beasts, unable to obtain a
supply of water in their usual haunts,
descended in whole herds to the plains. A
British detachment was stationed on the
outskirts of one of these villages, and day
after day, distressing and appalling ac-
counts were brought in of the ravages
144 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

which were nightly exercised on the,
flocks and herds of the poor Indians. As
yet, fortunately, no human being had
falien into their clutches; but still, after
nightfall, the roars and savage cries of the
various animals grew sufficiently alarm-
ing, to prevent any one from venturing
abroad. A grand hunt was _ therefore
proposed by the officers of the English
regiment, at which several of the most
influential of the Indians in the neigh-
bouring villages, consented to assist.
“Colonel N., who commanded the Bri-
tish detachment, was appointed leader
of the party, as he was well skilled in the
Indian hunting-field. Elephants were
collected from all quarters, and they, with
the mounted horsemen, formed the main
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 145

body of attack; a large party of Indians
accompanied them as guides and beaters;
and another party was sent in advance
with tents and provisions, as the hunt
was arranged to last for two days.

“The greatest success attended them
in their expedition. In addition to de-
stroying a great number of beasts of prey,
they secured enough game to support the
surrounding villages for some days. The
game, it was agread to distribute equally
between the Iinelish party and the In-
dians; and toward the evening the tents
were pitched, and the distribution of spoil
commenced. eably, till unfortunately the honour of
having slain the largest and most fero-

cious of the wild beasts, was mutually
10
146 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN:

claimed by one of the English soldiers
and an Indian chief. Neither would
yield the poimt; high words ensued, the
Indian laid his hand on his knife, and the
Enelish soldier struck him. The dark
eyes of the Indian flashed with rage, as
with his bare knife in his hand he sprang
on his unarmed antagonist; and, had not
Colonel N. rushed in and struek his arm in
the air, he would most probably have slain
the soldier on the spot.

“The rest of the party now interfered,
and endeavoured to restore the harmony
of the meeting. Buta gloom settled on
the Indian chief's brow. When the
hunting meal was cooked, he touched no
portion of it, but preserved a sullen
Silence. ‘The English officers strove again
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 147

and again to produce a reconciliation, but
without effect.

“*No, he said, ‘the insult put upon
him by the soldier he could have over-
looked,—he was a low man, mere dirt,—
but to have his avenging arm struck
from its destined vengeance by the great
English chief—he would not forgive it!
——After a time, however, he seemed to
relax a little; acknowledged that his
people could not shoot like ours; and
we were superior In every respect; and
even consented to receive the apology
of the soldier who had struck him.

“The English were glad to have thus
arranged an affair which they at first
thought might have met with a serious
termination, and proceeded to fix the
[48 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

tents for the night. Colonel N. retiring
from the rest of the party, threw himself
on a quiet bank to refresh himself after
the toil of the day. The still evening air,
the quiet hum of the insects, and_ his
previous exertions all tended to produce
a desire for sleep, and he was almost un-
consciously falling into a dose, when he
was startled by a rustling in the bush
immediately behind him. ‘The idea in-
stantly occurred to him, that the Indians,
knowing him to be alone, had followed
him, and were about to avenge upon
him the insult he had offered their chief.
He sprang to his feet, seized his gun, and
cocked it as he rose. But all was now
quiet, nothing was to be seen, not a leaf
seemed to stir; and the Colonel was
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 149

about to turn away, thinking that he
must have been deceived by his half
waking fancies, when he saw a pair of
piercing eyes gazing fiercely on him. A
second glance proved them to belong to
one of the most deadly snakes of India
The creature was just uncoiling itself
from a sapling, and preparing to spring
npon its prey. ‘The Colonel was a brave
man; he had faced dangers in the battle
field; and, in the hunting parties, he was
always the first and the bravest. But,
as he looked on his deadly foe, the big
drop stood out on his brow, and his knees
trembled beneath him. Another moment,
and the reptile would spring upon him;
and he well knew that but one bite of its
venomous fangs would be certain death.
150 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

With an effort, he recovered himself,
brought his gun to his shoulder, and fired.
The snake writhed convulsively on the
eround; but the Colonel, knowing the
tenacity of life possessed by these reptiles,
ventured not near it, but hastened to pro-
cure the assistance of his companions,
who, with the Indians, soon destroyed it.

“"The Colonel was complimented for the
presence of mind he had displayed, and
the service he had rendered the commu-
nity by destroying so dangerous a serpent.

“ brave, said the old Indian: ‘He is as
the simoom of the desert; what can resist
him ? My brother has concealed the insult
he ofifere all be honoured as
he deserves. Let the snake be hung


THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 151

vefore the entrance of his tent, as a proof
of his skill.) I myself will place it there
with my own hands’

“The English party were well pleased
with the idea; and were gratified to think
that the Indian had so soon forgiven the
insult he considered himself to have re-
ceived.

“But they little dreamed of the savage
intentions entertained by the wily Indian.
He had seen at a glance that the dead
snake was a female, and his experience
told him that its male companion was not
far off, and would on missing its mate,
no doubt endeavour to trace her out,
With well assumed kindness, therefore.
he urged the party to return to the tents,
whist he seized the snake and followed
152 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

them: taking care, as he did so, to trail
the mangled reptile along the grass,
thereby making it easy for her companion
to discover her track.

“As the hunt was to be renewed the
following day, the English party retired
early to rest. One by one the different
hunters repaired to their beds, and,
amongst the rest, Colonel N., with the
dead snake, as a trophy of his skill, still
hanging in his tent; and none were to be
seen abroad but a few sleepy soldiers
appointed as sentinels.

“'The revengeful Indian, however, did
not sleep; and, concealed behind a brake,
he stood anxiously awaiting the comple-
tion of his abominable project. As he
had calculated, so it fell out; the male
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 153

snake, on its return, haa missed its com-
penion, and traced her to the bounds of
the encampment. Whilst the hunters
were stirring, it had been prevented from
approaching nearer; but now that all was
quiet, the Indian hugged himself with
savage glee, as he saw the deadly creature
slowly crawling within the éircle of the
tents. Sometimes it would pause a mo-
ment, as if in doubt, and he felt fearful
that it would change its course; but no:
true to ifs purpose, it returned to the
trail, and the Indian again rejoiced as he
saw it drawing its undulating body nearer
and nearer the Colonel's tent. When it
arrived there, it raised its crest, and a
low hissing sound issued from its dis-
tended jaws. Cautiously it moved round
154 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

and round, seeking for a spot at which to
enter, till it came to the opening. There
it seemed again to hesitate, and then
gently forced its head beneath the folds
of the tent. All was quiet; and, inch by
inch, it drew after it the rest of its body.

“The eyes of the Indian gleamed with
savage deltght; he drew a long deep
inspiration; for, as he had watched the
movements of the serpent, scarcely had
he dared to breathe, so fearful was he of
disturbing its progress. But now his
triumph was complete—his revenge was
at hand. The Englishman, who had
dared to insult him, was sleeping in all
the calmness of imagined security; yet,
let him make but the slightest movement,
and the fangs of one of the most deadly
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 155

of Indian serpents would be instantly
fixed upon him.

“Long and anxiously the Indian waited |
for the completion of his hopes, till at
last, his patience becoming exhausted,
he was rising from his hiding-place, and
cautiously approaching the Colonel’s tent,
when, suddenly, a sharp cry burst from
within. The folds of the tent were vio-
lently agitated, and the voice of his vic-
tim rang on his ears. He waited not to
hear more: with a loud exulting laugh
of savage glee and triumph, he rushed
from the encampment, and sprang into
the jungle.

“Had he but waited a moment longer
he would have found that his triumph
was not quite so complete as he had ima-
156 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

cined. A large faithful dog, which always
accompanied the Colonel, had, unknown
to the Indian, taken up its place for the
night at the foot of his master’s bed. The
noiseless approach of the snake had not
disturbed the faithful creature, till it was
within a few paces of the couch; then,
as the serpent was in the very act of
making its spring, the brave dog seized
it by the throat.

Colonel N., roused from his sleep by
the violent struggle that took place
between the dog and his formidable foe,
rushed from the tent, calling the sentinels
to his assistance. They came quickly,
with swords and muskets, and sue-
ceeded in destroying the serpent, though
not without some difficulty, as the crea-
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 157

ture had wound itself so closely round
the dog, that they could hardly kill it
without injuring the latter. However,
having at last effected its destruction,
they turned their attention to the dog.
The brave animal was well-nigh spent
with the struggle, and the crushing folds
of the snake; but, as he had seized his
foe near the neck, as he had never relin-
quished his hold, and as there was no
apparent wound to be found upon him,
his master hoped that no serious effect
would ensue. He carried him gently to
his own bed and laid him there. The
poor dog seemed grateful for his master’s
kindness; he licked his hand, and looked
fondly up in his face; but he could not
prevent a moan of pain from breaking
158 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

from him. He became more restless
every minute; his eyes distended, and the
foam rolled from his mouth. He re-
mained thus for the space of half an
hour; and, as the symptoms then became
more and more apparent, Colenel N,
was urged by his companions to shoot
the poor animal, as it was evident that
the serpent had inflicted some unseen
wound. But he could not bring himself to
destroy the brave dog that, but the mo-
ment before, had saved his life—that had
so long been the companion of his daily-
walks—while there remained any chance
of its recovery. But, as the venom in-
flicted by the snake coursed through its
veins, the struggles and agony of the
poor dog increased in violence; and death,


THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 159

within one short hour, put a period to
its sufferings.

At daybreak the next morning, the
English party assembled to resume their
sports; but, to their surprise, the Indians
had all disappeared. It was afterwards
known that they, in common with the
offended Indian, were acquainted with
his treacherous project; and, fearful of
their participation in it being discovered,
had silently departed to their homes in
the dead of the night.

“"This, boys, as far as I can recollect,
is the story I heard last night. I hope it
has amused you. What say you, James
is it dreadful enough for your taste ?”

“Qh, thank you, uncle; thank you for
the trouble you have taken to amuse us.
160 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

It was a very nice story indeed; though
I wish it had not ended quite so dread-
fully as it did. I am so sorry to think
that the good dog should have been
killed—and directly after his brave con-
duct, too. But you have not told us
the name of the snakes.”

“They were of the kind called the Cobra
di Capello, or hooded snake; and are the



most deadly of India’s serpents. Some-
times they are alse called dancing snakes.
from their being carried about for show
by the natives who play some of their
rough airs, of which the snakes are so
enamoured, that, for the time they will
forget their deadly propensities, and keep
time to the music by the motions of
their bodies. By the same means, the
THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN. 161

Indian snake-charmers are said to be able
to lure them from their lurking-places,
when they wish to destroy them.”

“And is there no cure for their bite,
uncle 2” |

“No, not that I am aware of; in fact,
so strong is the poison which accompa-
nies their bite, that people seldom live
more than an hour after its infliction.
But, bless my heart,” said Unele Charles,
drawing out his watch, “how quickly the
‘morning has passed. Why, you little
rogues, you have been taking up all my
time, and I have half a dozen visits to
make before dinner. But, boys, you will
find a long account of the snake, in a
work on Natural History, which lies on

the library table. You cannot amuse
11
162 THE REVENGEFUL INDIAN.

yourselves better than by searching it
out, and reading it during my absence.
Now, Edward, my hat: and my cane,
James. Thank you, thank you, my dear
boys. Good bye—good bye.”
EMILY MAYNARD.

Emity MAYNARD was engaged in
reading to her little cousins a new book
of poems, which their papa had just given
them. ‘They were very pretty poems;
full of truth, and yet simple, and suited
to the age of children, such as you, my
dear little readers. Some of them were
lively; Others were of a more serious
character. ‘here was one ealled “The
Mother's Grave.” It was a tale of a
little girl whose mother had died early
Kimily read it aloud ; and, as she read, her
164 EMILY MAYNARD.

voice faltered, and a tear stole down her
cheek. Her young listeners cried; partly
from the story, and partly because they
saw their cousin weep. Emily bent over
them for an instant; and, kissing them
affectionately, dried their eyes. “It
is a melancholy story,” she said, “and
brought back so forcibly, to my mind,
the time when I was a little girl like you,
my dear children, and when I also had
a kind mama to love me, that I could not
help weeping.” It is a thought that
always makes me sad; and yet, though
painful to dwell upon, I will relate to you
the story of my early years; for it may
Serve as a lesson to you, and save you
from the regret which I have suffered.”
“T was, at the time I refer to, rather
EMILY MAYNARD. 165

younger perhaps than yourselves. My
father’s pursuits called him much from
home, and I was left entirely under the
care of my mother; and oh, how kind a
mother! It was impossible for any child
to be otherwise than fond of her.

“You may fancy, that, at my age, I
could have had few,” if any, opportunities
of making, by any acts of mine, a fit
return for all a mother’s love. But what
does a parent look for, in return for
the many sleepless nights and watchings
during infancy,—for the sacrifice of health
—for the loss of all pleasure—for seeking
no greater happiness than the welfare of
her child? She asks but a small, a very
small return—love and obedience.

“But though I did love my mama, and
166 EMILY MAYNARD.

very tenderly too, yet I did not always
do as she bid me. _ I had a very foolish,
wicked way of arguing with her, when
she told me to do anything, instead of at
once trying cheerfully to execute her
wishes. For instance, she would perhaps
say, ‘Go, Emily, and fetch me the little
parcel which you wilMfind in my room: it
is on my dressing-table’ ‘Then, I would
answer, ‘I shall have finished my doll’s
dress In a minute, mama, and then I will
run and fetch your parcel” ‘ Emily, my
dear, mama would reply, ‘I want the
parcel now: go at once. And then, after
various idle excuses, I at last did what I
ought to have done at first.

“But I did not long have an opportu-
nity of behaving in this naughty manner.
EMILY MAYNARD. 167

Poor mama was suddenly taken ill; so
ill, that the doctor would not even let
me go into her room. And then, when
I was left alone, I thought how often I
had vexed her, and many little disobe-
dient acts, which I thought nothing of at
the time, rose up in my memory, now
that my dear mama might be snatched
away from me. I asked the nurse every
minute in the day how mama was, and
begged of her to let me go in, and wait
upon her. But she told me I could not
see mama: that perhaps she would be
better shortly, and could then be able
to see me again. So I sat down on the
stairs, leading to mama’s room, and sobbed
bitterly, for I would have given anything
to have waited upon dear mama, and to
168 EMILY MAYNARD.

have run on the messages which before
I used to think so troublesome. I waited
there till the doctor came, and prayed of
him to let me go into the room, and |
would be so good. He laid his hand
gently on my head: ‘Not to-day, my
little girl? he said; ‘poor mama must not
be disturbed: she is better than she has
been, but is still very weak: to-morrow,
perhaps, or the next day, I can let you
see her, but you must promise me to be
very quiet? Oh, how thankful I was
when the good doctor fulfilled his pro
mise, and led me softly into mama’s
room. But, oh! poor mama! she looked
so wan, and so pale, and smiled so feebly
upon me, that I could not help sobbing
aloud: I thought my heart would break.
EMILY MAYNARD. 169

‘Oh mama, mama, I cried; ‘why have
they kept me from you so long? I will
be very good if you will let me come and
wait upon you. IT will never again be so
naughty and troublesome as I have been.
Will you let me stay with you, dear
mama? Oh say you will’ Mama clasped
me in her: arms. ‘Bless thee! bless
thee! my child, I heard her murmur;
and I felt her hot tars fall on my neck.”
Emily paused, for her heart was full, and
her litttle cousins’ cheeks were suffused
with tears. “And did your poor mama
ever get better?” said they. “Alas! no,”
said Emily; “she relapsed, and grew
daily weaker and weaker ; but while she
lived, I was always with her; and it was
some consolation to me to think that I
170 EMILY MAYNARD.

could be near her, and always at hand to
attend to her wants. But now, my dear
children, this has been a sad subject to
us all; yet, let me hope that it will do
s6me good. You have a kind papa and
mama to love you. Let your conduct
towards them be such, that you will, at
any time be able to look back upon it
without self-reproach; so that when the
time shall come, that it may please your
Heavenly Father to call those dear pa-
rents to another world, your grief at
losing them may not be heightened by
the remembrance of any act of disobe-
dience or unkindness to them in this.”
HENRY MORTON.

LirtLe Henry Morton was a very
nice little boy; but he was not very fond
of his book. He lived in a pretty house,
surrounded by a pleasant garden filled
with roses and pinks, and all kinds of
sweet-sinelling flowers. Henry hada piece
of ground which he called his own gar-
den; and, one day, when he had been a
good boy, and had learned his lessons
well, his mama told him he might go and
cunuse himself there.

Now nothing pleased Henry more than
172 HENRY MORTON.

working in his garden, which he longed
to make as gay as possible. So ue took
some seeds which his kind aunt Mary
had given him, and set about sowing
them. But the ground was so hard that
he found great trouble in making holes
large enough for his purpose.

“Ah, Master Henry,’ said Ralph, the
gardener, who was passing by at the time,
“vour flowers will never grow weil with
the ground as hard as it now is, Before
you sow seeds, you ought to dig it up well
first, and, after that, rake it nice and
smooth; then the roots will be able to
spread, and your flowers will grow fine
and large.”

“Will you dig up the ground for
me, then?” said Henry, “for, I want


HENRY MORTON—Paze 172.
HENRY MORTON. 173

very much to plant my seeds this after-
noon.”

“Why, you must have patience,’ replied
Ralph, “if I am to do it for you, for I
have my cucumber frames and mushroom
beds, and all my tender spring plants to
cover up before the evening, or the frost
might come and kill them all) And what
would you do then, Master Henry, for
salads and early vegetables, and all nice
things of the kind ?”

Henry was very vexed that he could
not get his bed dug up that afternoon ;
and he walked away with the gardener’s
large spade over his shoulder, to see if
he could not do it himself. But the spade
was so heavy that he could scarcely carry
it, and, instead of doing his garden any
174 HENRY MORTON.

good, he only knocked down the flowers
he already had, and made himself very
hot and very tired.

“Oh, mama,” he cried, as he saw Mrs.
Morton approaching, “I cannot do any-
thing with this nasty great spade. I wish
you would make me a present of a little
spade—one that I could use with ease:
will you, dear mama ?”

“T have no doubt you would find a
little spade very useful,” said Mrs. Mor-
ton; “in fact, you can hardly expect to
succeed in your gardening without one.
But still, Henry, there is something else
to be thought of first. ‘There are many
little boys who can read and write very
prettily, at your age: now, if you will
pay a little more attention to your books,
HENRY MORTON. 175

and will perfect yourself, in a month’s
time, in the lessons which I intend giving
you, I will then ask papa to make you a
present of the spade.”

The next morning Henry sat down and
began to learn his lessons very steadily ;
for he longed to see his seeds in the
ground, as Aunt Mary told him they
would grow into fine plants, and bear
very beautiful flowers. He kept on and
on, day after day, till at last he made him-
self quite perfect in the lessons his mama
had set him. And when he came in to
breakfast one morning, he found a long
brown paper parcel on the table; and on
it was written: ‘Master Henry Morton.
His mama told him he might open it;
and there he found—oh! such a nice
176 HENRY MORTON.

spade: and arake anda hoe! And Henry
ran and kissed his papa and mama, and
thanked them for their kind present; and
then he locked again at his treasures, and
jumped about, and could scarcely contain
himself for joy. After he had finished
his lesson for the day, he bounded down
to his garden, and worked away as busily
asa bee. He dug up his ground, and
hoed and raked it, and planted his seeds.
And the Spring passed away; the Sum-
mer came, and the flowers bloomed ; and
Henry loved them all the more, because
they seemed to smile upon him, and say
—* We are the reward of perseverance.”
AGNES AND HER PETS.

“OQ MAMA, MAMA! you never saw such
funny little rogues in all your life! They
do jump and frisk and play about so.”

“Well, but my dear Agnes,” said Mrs.
Mildmay, “you have not yet told me
what it is that has so amused you.”

“Q, mama! it is old Mrs. Pierson’s
kittens; do pray come and look at them.
She has only one that she has not pro-
mised to give away, and she says I may
have it if you will let me; it is sucha

love of a kitten; so I have just come to
12
L738 AGNES AND HER PETS.

ask your leave, and then I will run with
my little basket and fetch it home. May
I not, dear mama ?”

“Gently, gently, Agnes,” said Mrs.
Mildmay; “a kitten is a very pretty,
amusing little thing; but how do you
think she would agree, as she grew up,
with your other favourites? Remember,
we must not forget old friends, Agnes;
and I am afraid that your canary and
goldfinch would stand a great chance of
having their sweet notes stopped by the
teeth and claws of Miss Pussy, unless
great care be taken to keep them safely
out of her reach.”

“QO, I shall be quite sure to take care
of that,” said Agnes; “and _ besides,
mama, when we were in London last
AGNES AND HER PETS. 179

year, do you know I saw a large cage,
fall of all sorts of animals? There were
cats and rats, and rabbits, and dogs, and
birds; and they all seemed as happy and
comfortable together as possible. So,
surely, my three pets ought to agree with
one another.”

“Well, my dear Agnes, said her
mama, “I have no objection to your
kitten ; in fact, my reason for not keeping
one before was only on account of your
birds; but if you like to run the risk,
go and fetch home your new friend.
Only, remember I have warned you
beforehand of the danger of leaving your
birds within her reach.”

Off started Agnes, and soon returned,
bounding into the room with her pet
180 AGNES AND HER PETS.

under her arm. Tibby, (for that was the
name by which her little mistress chose
to call the kitten,) mewed most mourn-
fully at first, at her separation from her
mother, and not all the efforts of Agnes
could, for some time, induce her to join
in a game at play. But she was so
kindly treated, and so well fed, that
she soon began to make herself very
comfortable. She would’run after a ball
of thread which Agnes threw before
her, seize it in her paws, and _ roll
over and over with it, til Agnes was
convulsed with laughter at her funny
tricks. Still the old pets, the canary and
goldfinch, were not forgotten; their
cages were cleaned, and they were fed
with as much care and attention as ever.”
AGNES AND HER PETS. 181]

“IT have been thinking,’ said Agnes,

one day, “what a good thing it would
be, if I could make my three favourites
agree well together, so that I might not
be afraid of Tibby attacking the birds in
my absence. Now, I have thought of a
nice plan. I remember once, when I
was a naughty girl, that mama would not
let me have my breakfast til I had pro-
mised to behave myself better im future.
Now, I will do just the same with you,
Miss Tibby, I will not give you your
breakfast quite so early this morning.”
But it was soon found that hunger
only increased Tibby’s inclinations for
her natural prey. When an hour or two
had passed beyond her usual feeding
time, she began to prowl about in search
182 AGNES AND HER PETS.

of something with which to satisfy her
appetite ; and when she saw the birds,
her eyes glistened, and she crouched
down and looked so fierce, that Agnes
feared every moment, she would spring
at them, in spite of her protecting pre-
sence. She hastened, therefore, to supply
Tibby with her accustomed meal. Re-
solved not to repeat so dangerous an
experiment a second time, but yet not
altogether discouraged by her first failure,
Agnes soon thought of another plan.
She tried, by giving her as much as she
could eat, to make the cat more amiable
with her companions. This measure
proved much more successful than the
last; but though Tibby did not look quite
as eagerly after the birds yet she still
AGNES AND HER PETS. 183

cust sucn a longing eye upon them,
that Agnes would have been afraid to
leave them for a moment within her
reach.

As Tibby grew up, she began to leave
off many of her pretty. playful ways.
When Agnes threw her a ball to play
with, she no longer ran frisking after it
as formerly. She seemed to think that
such gambols were all very well for a
kitten, but not fit for a cat of her age
and experience; so she let the ball roll
on, and would not condescend to take
the slightest notice of it, but sat staring
and winking thoughtfully at the fire,
like a grave steady cat as she was, only
now and then she would suffer her eyes
to wander to the cages, as if thinking
184 AGNES AND HER PETS.

what a nice little meal she could make
from their contents.

Agnes was very careful not to let her
have an opportunity by always hanging
them out of her reach; and Tibby, for
some time, looked and longed in vain
At last, on one unfortunate day, as Agnes
was sitting poring over her lessons, she
suddenly heard a carriage draw up to the
door, and, looking up from her book, saw
her cousin, Mary Lee, nodding and kiss-
ing her hand to her through the window.

Mary and Agnes were about the same
age, and very fond of each other; but
as the distance was great between their
respective houses, they were not able to
meet very often; and a great treat it was
to both the little girls whenever Mr. Lee




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Ain

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AGNES AND HER PETS. 185

brought his daughter Mary to spend a
day with Agnes. Forgetful now of every-
thing else, in her joy at seeing her cousin,
Agnes ran to welcome her, leaving Tibby
apparently enjoying a comfortable doze
on the hearth-rug. The temptation was
too strong to be resisted; and the cat lost
no time in springing at her victims.
The birds fluttered wildly about the
cage; dashing themselves into the very
clutches of their fierce foe; and Agnes
returned but in time to see the mangled
remains of one unhappy songster strew-
ing the carpet, while Tibby, with the
other in her mouth, stole swiftly from
the room.

“Oh, my poor little birds,” cried Agnes
bursting into tears, “ would nothing satisfy
186 AGNES AND HER PETS.

that cruel cat but taking your innocent
lives? I shall never more hear your cheer-
ing songs: and to take you both too!
O poor little goldfinch! you were so
tame you would feed out of my hand—
and my little canary, that would always
chirp, and welcome me whenever I came
into the room, and that had so many
pretty ways ”

Poor Agnes, how sorry she was! ler
cousin, Mary, did her best to console her,
and good-naturedly said that, if her aunt
would give her leave, she would give
Agnes one of the two pretty birds she
had at home, as she should be quite con-
tented with one only. Agnes mama,
however, said she could not permit this,
because Tibby would still be with them,
AGNES AND HER PETS. 187

and she did not like to expose another
bird to the fate that had befallen the
poor canary and goldfinch.

Agnes had nothing to plead against
this decree. She remembered her mama’s
warning, and heartily repented not having
viven greater heed to it. Tibby was now
her only remaining pet, and she was no
longer any source of amusement, since
she had ceased to be a lively playful kit-
ten; besides, Agnes thought she would,
in future, always put her in mind of the
cruel death inflicted on her sweet little
songsters.
THE SISTERS.

«An, Emma,” cried Laura Thornton,
as she opened the door of a room where
her sister was diligently pursuing her
morning studies, “here you are still busy
with your books and exercises. I have
been running about the garden till I grew
tired of being alone, and I thought you
would surely have prepared your lessons
by this time; but I see by your business-
looking face that you are not yet ready to
come out with me.”
THE SISTERS. 189

“Indeed, sister,’ replied Emma, smi-
lingly, “I have got through the greater
part of my lessons—my French exercises
will occupy only another balf-hour. But,
dear Laura, when do you intend to set
about your own 2”

“T have not even thought about them
yet, Emma,” replied Laura, a little impa-
tiently, “and I wonder how you can pore
over your books on this lovely May
morning, When the garden looks so in-
viting. See, what a bright sun, and what
a beautiful clear blue sky! I assure you
the lawn is quite dry to-day—now do
come out just for ten minutes, and have
a game with me at battledore and shuttle-
cock.”

“As soon as I have finished my les-
190 THE SISTERS.

sons, dear sister,” still said Emma. “I
enjoyed my walk before breakfast very
much, but really I do not enjoy playing
about the garden all the day long. Mama
often tells us that a litthe work makes
play ten times more pleasant, and I am
sure I find it so. Do you not remember
that, by the time I was ready to go out
with you yesterday, you were quite tired,
and said you did not know how it was
that amusement always seemed to give
me more pleasure than you, though I was
less eager to Join in it.”

Finding her sister was not to be per-
suaded to quit her studies, Laura wisely
determined, instead of interrupting them
any longer, to commence her own, and
with a rather disconsolate air drew a chair
THE SISTERS. 191

to the opposite side of the table at which
Emma was seated.

A very pleasant room was the little
study which was always entered so
reluctantly by Laura Thornton. Mrs.
Thornton’s residence was tot above a
mile or two distant from London, and the
front of the house looked towards a dusty
road on which coaches, carts and car-
riages of all kinds were continually pass-
ing. At the back, however, the prospect
was different. There, there was a garden
prettily laid out and appearing larger
than it really was, from the unsightly
brick walls being thickly covered with
ivy; a smooth verdant lawn extended
down the centre, diversified with flower-
beds and evergreen shrubs. On this
192 THE SISTERS.

lawn opened the French windows of the
little room which Mrs. ‘Thornton allowed
Laura and Emma to appropriate for their
morning studies, and in which she hoped
a portion of each day would be usefully
and pleasantly employed.

Emma, before she commenced her
studies, always put fresh flowers in the
pretty china vase which ornamented the
centre of their little table: this morning
she had gathered a large bunch of white
and blue violets, and they filled the
apartment with a delicious fragrance.
Laura had no sooner spread her books
before her than she discovered that this
bouquet of violets would be wonderfully
improved by the addition of some ane-
mones .and garden-primroses. “I will
THE SISTERS. 193

gather a few and return to my lessons in
two minutes,” she said. The anemones
and primroses were added; Emma was
called upon to admire them; and Laura
at last opened her books and took up her
pen. The morning was now far ad-
vanced, and Emma’s studies being just
finished, Laura felt doubly impatient to
conclude hers.

“Do not hurry, Laura,’ said Emma,
good-naturedly, “or you wil never do
your lessons well. I shall not go out till
you, too, are ready. I will sit by the
window, and amuse myself with this
story-book.”

“Thank you, Emma,” said Laura,
“and pray put your translation out of

my reach, for while it lies so temptingly
13
194 THE SISTERS.

before me, I can scarcely help copying it,
instead of hunting out the words in the
dictionary.” .

In spite of Emma’s exhortation, Laura
did hurry through her studies with far
too little attention. Her exercises were
written very incorrectly, and her lessons
learned very imperfectly. She felt no
satisfaction when her troublesome tasks,
as she called them were concluded, for
she had conquered no difficulties, and
exercised no perseverance.

Mrs. Thornton generally joined her
daughters about twelve o'clock, and it was
very seldom that Emma’s lessons were
not in readiness for her mother’s inspec-
tion. “Her cheerful smile tells me that
she has been diligent this morning,’
THE SISTERS. 195

thought Mrs. Thornton, as she entered
the little study——and she guessed rightly.
Hinma received the affectionate praise
her attention to her mama’s instruction
merited, and which always gave her so
much pleasure. As to poor Laura, the
gravity, which had displeased her in
Emma’s countenance in the earlier part
of the morning seemed transferred to
her own, when her mama’s attention was
turned to her performances.

“How is this, Laura, again, to-day
your lessons are not learned?” said Mrs.
Thornton. “TI shall begin to grow weary
of instructing my little girl, if she con-
tinues so indolent and careless.”

“Oh, dear mama,” said Laura, “there
can be no occasion to keep learn, learn,
196 THE SISTERS.

all day. I think we might as well be
quite poor persons, if we are to keep
working so hard all our lives”

“And how can you, my dear, be sure
that your parents will always be as rich
as they now are?’ said Mrs. Thornton.
“Many who have thought as heedlessly
as you now do, and wasted valuable
time in trifling pursuits, would, in after-
life, gladly have recalled the hours they
unprofitably passed in youth. The for-
mer possessors of this very house were
a sad example of the truth of what I
tell you.

“Mr. Nugent was a West India mer-
chant of immense wealth at the time he
first came to reside in this neighbour-

hood. He had two daughters, Emily and _
T.IE SISTERS. 197

Lousia, who were about my age; and
as our families visited, we soon became
very intimite friends. They were both
very lively, pleasant girls, and were
brought up in all the comfort and luxury
their father’s great wealth could com-
mand. They had servants to wait upon
them, carriages for their use whenever
they required them; and they had only
to express a wish to their fond and in-
dulgent parents, and, if possible, it was
sure to be gratified. With all the notice
taken of them, you may be sure they
stood a fair chance of being spoiled. Mrs.
Nugent used to lament the trouble that
her dear girls were put to in their in-
struction; for, with all her riches, she
knew that patience and perseverance
198 THE SISTERS.

were the only roads to learning, and she
did not wish thet her daughters should
be inferior in that respect to those of
their own rank tn life.

“Emily, the elder of my two friends,
was a pretty, lively girl, and decidedly
the quicker of the two. She could play
a little—sing a little; then she under-
stood a little of drawing, and a _ very
little of French and Italian; in fact, a
little of almost everything, but nothing
well; for, with all her quickness, she had
not the steadiness and perseverance of
her younger sister. Louisa could not
boast so many accomplishments, but what
she undertook, she did perfectly.

“T was sitting with them one day when
they were at their studies. Emily had
THE SISTERS. 199

just thrown down her becks, impatient
of the time it took her to accomplish her
lessons. Louisa was steadily pursuing
hers, and urging her sister to greater
application, when she made _ nearly the
same remark that you did just now, my
dear Laura. But time proved which had
pursued the wiser course.

“A sudden and quite unlooked-for
change in Indian affairs, and the failure
of a house in which he was largely in-
terested, completely involved the unfor-
tunate Mr. Nugent. He was obliged
to part with every article of luxury, to
satisfy the demands of his creditors; and
with but a very small portion of his once
extensive means, was compelled to retire
to a distant part of the country.
200 THE SISTERS.

“Now it was that Louisa was able to
turn her acquirements to the best ad-
vantage—to the support and comfort of
her family. With her knowledge and
accomplishments, she had no difficulty
in obtaining an engagement as a gover
ness; and I question if, at any period of
her life, she felt happier than when she
brought to her parents the first fruits of
her industry.”

“And what did Emily do, mama?
said Laura.

“She now,” said Mrs. Thornton, “saw
the folly of her former idleness. She
could not use the same means as_ her
sister had done; for, knowing only a little
of many things, she was more suited
for a pupil than a preceptress. She was
THE SISTERS. 201

still young, however; and, by diligent
application, she hoped in time to be able
to add her portion to the support of her
family.

“Before that period arrived, I am
happy to say, that, through the kind
assistance of some of Mr. Nugent’s
friends, he was enabled to regain a sufli-
cient portion of his fortune to place his
family, if not in their former affluence,
at all events, above the frowns of the
world.

“Tndependent of such considerations
as these,” said Mrs. Thornton, “the
amusement and pleasure always result-
ing from a well-stored mind, are of
themselves sufficient inducements to
perseverance.”
202 THE SISTERS.

Laura said no further word upon the
matter; but the manner in which she
applied herself to her studies on the
following day, offered the best proof
possible that she was convinced of the
truth of her mama’s reasoning.

THE END.
And now, my dear young friends, I must bid you
farewell; but iet us hope, that it may only be fora
brief period ; for if the perusal of my little tales has
contributed to your happiness and amusement, we
may, probably, again meet to pass together more

Harpy Hours

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