Front Cover
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The Old Oak-tree
 The White Pigeon
 The Schoolfellows
 Frederick Sedley's Holidays
 Cousin John's First Story
 Cousin John's Second Story
 The Revengeful Indian
 Emily Maynard
 Henry Morton
 Agnes and her Pets
 The Sisters
 Back Cover

Title: Happy hours, or, The home story-book
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00002021/00001
 Material Information
Title: Happy hours, or, The home story-book
Alternate Title: Home story-book
Happy hours
Physical Description: <3>, 202, <1> p., <6> leaves of plates : ill. ; 15 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Cherwell, Mary
Gilbert, John, 1817-1897 ( Illustrator )
C.S. Francis & Co ( Publisher )
J.H. Francis & Co ( Publisher )
Publisher: C.S. Francis & Co.
J.H. Francis & Co.
Place of Publication: New York
Publication Date: 1851
Subject: 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
Statement of Responsibility: by Mary Cherwell ; with illustrations from designs by Gilbert.
General Note: Added engraved title page.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00002021
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002223905
oclc - 16821146
notis - ALG4160

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Page i
        Page 1
    Half Title
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
    Table of Contents
        Page 4
    The Old Oak-tree
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
    The White Pigeon
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
    The Schoolfellows
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 70a
        Page 71
        Page 72
    Frederick Sedley's Holidays
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
    Cousin John's First Story
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 90a
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
    Cousin John's Second Story
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
    The Revengeful Indian
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
    Emily Maynard
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
    Henry Morton
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
    Agnes and her Pets
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 184a
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
    The Sisters
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
    Back Cover
        Page 208
        Page 209
Full Text

fA 0.4 4 1-!?.

44. L 1
7.7 it . tit,


.441L, 11,


t Yll




T II l () L D () AK T, H 1 1 1Pie 17.



















EMILY MAYNARD ....... 163






IT 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 lear and bracing; the


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,
glistened with the brilliancy of countless
gems. The two boys I have mentioned
cheerfully pursued their way; their shrill
voices and merry laughter ringing 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 road; or sliding on any pieces of ice
wnicn fell in his way, till his face glowed
with health and exercise.
"Ah! I 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


we reach that I shall have done my
I 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."
"I 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



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
I am afraid from what has been said
about the two brothers, that my young
readers will fancy them to have been very
obstinate, quarrelsomne 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


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
Uncle 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 Uncle in any way, had
cheerfully set out on their errand. Just
before they reached the Grange, the
coachman 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-



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



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
Mom the newspaper he was reading, now
what success, what news of the parcel ?
I trust the coachman has not disappointed
"N-n-o," stammered George, "it
came by the coach."
Ah! that's right; I am glad it is come



but bring it here, then. Why-Eh?
where have you put it ?"
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 bf
me, I would not have asked."-" Oh noa
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



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.
I 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
ault 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



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



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



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. I
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


were leaving to the chance of being lost;)
I have resolved "-"Yes, yes, there--
there-that will do, Papa," interrupted
Uncle 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 uncle'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



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
good 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



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.


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-
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


in her power I procure; huifloured 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, as you may suppose, was very much
spoilt 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-
Now, in a rude hut, distant about a
mile from the castle, dwelt a poor old



man who had known many srrows. His
three sons had fallen in battle, and a
grand-daughter, the child of his last 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



the sick child, which he could not have
afforded 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


T HE W H 1 T E PIG E N Page 24.


~, '* ~ "t~.

h o.~l ;CIEII


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



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: little 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


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



part with his bird. The servant, knowing
how serious a matter it was to disappoit
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
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
ill success.
Lady O'N. was very much disap-



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 ?-0 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



I 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 O'N., lamenting his disap-
pointment, tried to divert him in every
way she could think of It was all in



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
pigeoij he had so much set his mind on
having. When at length his passion was
exhausted and he could not cry 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 not eat any-
thing; in short, he continued in this
Pomfortless humour the rest of the day,
and when evening came, after the manner
of sorrowing children, sobbed himself to
sleep. Lady O'N. hoped he would
think less about it on tle morrow; but,
alas! he arose the next morning in the



same disconsolate mood. He would not
play; he would not smile; he would not
speak. Lady O'N. 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



fresh water. When he saw the lady,
however, he came forward respectfillly,
though with his usually sad aspect, to
greet 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 gooI la d's kindness
to his grand-daughter, he felt it would
be ungrateful to refuse her what she
thought necessary for her child's comfort



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 petty 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



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,



love," said Lady O'N., for she thought
of the reluctance with which the poor
old man would doubtlessly set out on his
But it was no longer a difficult matter
to keep little D.esmond in good humour;
and joyous and happy in the prospect of
having his wish gratified, we will leave
hin 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 fuilfilment 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



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



. 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



so; and the old man stood for a moment
gazing mournfully at his treasure, as
.lichael 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 hurried 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



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
~o 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



Lady O'N., as a 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.



"O, Desmond," cried Lady O'N., re-
proachfully, "It is the old man's bird.
0, 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
Jhim 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 cry 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.
I never heard what the poor old man
said, or how much grieved he appeared



when he was told of the fate of his
pigeoh. One good, however, resulted
from Michael's unfortunate mistake.
Lady O'N. 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


ARMYTAGE HOUtE 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 rock-work,
which, by their presumptuous imitation
of nature, only serve to remind us of their
insignificance. No, there was nothing of


the kind in the garden of Armytage
Houe. The paths were smooth and
dry, the box edgings were cut with the
greatest 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
But I will not detain my readers by a
lengthened description of the outside of
the house, for though I am an old lady



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 Ir. Meanwell's school-
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



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 by; 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-
Silence!" cried Doctor Meanwell.
Boys, it is now twelve o'clock; your
conduct to-day has pleased me much,


you have teen 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



gentleman," he exclaimed, what is the
reason af 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 ?" 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


his time-honoured nose, was faithfully
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-



barrassmant, 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-
nor's 6ye fell as the Doctor's 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



received in infancy: he had light
curling hair, blue eyes, and a fir coin-
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
gradually 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



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



gratitude felt towards him by the poor
lame boy in return, was great in the
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
temptation occur, than it proved too



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 efface 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



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 ?'
"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 hifn,
and get him into disgrace, when I could



so easily save him. It cannot be so mean
or 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 ?"
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-
It was, Sir."
Dr. Meanwell looked grieved. "I had
hoped," he said, that as we commenced
the day, so we should have finished it,



without one fault calling for serious re-
proof. As regards 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



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



vented joining in them themselves, and
more especially when it has been caused
by their own conduct. And as Newell
sat listening, gloomily, to the distant
sounds, every whoop and shout of laugh-
ter but served to depress his spirits more
and more. Hie 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



with it! And now he must for ever
think me either ungrateful, or guilty of
the meainiess 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 school was his superior--he felt little
in his own eyes. Every moment he was
inclined to run to the Doctor to tell him
the whole truth, and clear his conscience
from its stain; btl 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 the 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
any firework of great brilliancy was dis-



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



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



drove him back, gasping for breath. He
scrambled on to the window-sill, and
looked despairingly 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 escape,
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 Doc-
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



branches of the ivy, and so let yourself
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
feel I have not sufficient strength. It is
my own faullt that I am here; I am justly


punished. But-but, dear Mr. Meanwell,
I was not ungrateful-I was not unmind-
ful of your kindness. I did not-Oh God
forgive me!-Do not cry so, dear Charles;
you could not know it would come to this.
God bless you-bless you all!"
"Oh, Arthur! Arthur! I shall die,"
cried his conscience-stricken friend. Oh
Sir, Sir, he was punished for my fault.
It was I drew that picture, and I 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



"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



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 neighboring 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


ap agg

'1III E I I L 14 L O\ '


anxiously over him, the latter bitterly
reproaching himself for his past con-
Is 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 you have 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 ONE of whose
forgiveness you both stand in need-ONE
whom you have indeed this day grievously



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; that in
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."


THE 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.


Frederick Sedley was a 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


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


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 holi-
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


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



which you will be sure to observe: you
may ride over the common, and round the
orchard 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
"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 nianage 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


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, I 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



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 not 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;


" 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 stt
munching the cabbage-stalks which he



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
"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
knpw what harm was likely to have hap-
pened to you ?"


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 neighboring lane. The
coachman saw the two boys, but it was
too late for him to stop the *horses. 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



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


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.


On, Cousin John, will you draw nme
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


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 ?"
"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



army during the late war; and in all the
battles in which lie was engaged he always
rode 'Black Hero,' because hle was a
horse he could always depend upon,
being 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
"In the course of an engagement
which took place between our forces and



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
upowith 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



English commander, 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 alwayss 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

: I

B L A K HI E O-Page 91.

*. t \,*'


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 about Hero, too ?"
:That," said his cousin. refers to
another part of his history.--My father



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
large drops of rain which fell proclaimed



that a heavy storm was at hand. Mr.
Manby tried to persuade my father to
remain under the shelter of his roof foi
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



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



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. Left to himself, Hero sped swift-
ly across the heath; but soon a new and
unexpected impediment presented itself
As my father rode on, he heard the rushing
of water; and, on a nearer approach, had
some difficulty in recognizing 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


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. WVell accustomed to the manage-



meant 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

University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs