Front Cover
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Back Cover

Title: Buds and blossoms from our own garden
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00002047/00001
 Material Information
Title: Buds and blossoms from our own garden
Alternate Title: Wreaths of friendship
Physical Description: 240, <2> p., <1> leaf of plates : ill. ; 19 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Woodworth, Francis C ( Francis Channing ), 1812-1859
Arthur, T. S ( Timothy Shay ), 1809-1885
Howland, William ( Engraver )
Alden, Beardsley & Co ( Publisher )
Wanzer, Beardsly & Co ( Publisher )
Baner & Palmer ( Stereotyper )
Publisher: Alden, Beardsley & Co.
Wanzer, Beardsley & Co.
Place of Publication: Auburn <N.Y.>
Rochester <N. Y.>
Manufacturer: Stereotyped by Baner & Palmer
Publication Date: 1852
Subject: Friendship -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1852   ( rbgenr )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1852   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1852
Genre: Publishers' advertisements   ( rbgenr )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- New York -- Auburn
United States -- New York -- Rochester
Statement of Responsibility: by F.C. Woodworth and T.S. Arthur.
General Note: Illustrations engraved by Howland.
General Note: Added title-page, illustrated, has Arthur's name first.
General Note: First published in 1849 with title: Wreaths of friendship, by T. S. Arthur and F. C. Woodwroth.
General Note: Publisher's advertisements follow text.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00002047
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002240055
oclc - 39520507
notis - ALJ0598

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front page 1
        Front page 2
        Front page 3
        Front page 4
        Front page 5
        Front page 6
    Half Title
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Title Page
        Page v
        Page vi
        Page vii
        Page viii
        Page ix
        Page x
    Table of Contents
        Page xi
        Page xii
        Page 13
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    Back Cover
        Page 244
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Full Text



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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by


in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District
of New York.

Stereotyped by BABIt & PALM2.,
11 Spruce Street.

_II_ __ __
__ ___

SOUNG friends-stop a mo-
ment. We have set up a
sort of turnpike gate here,
as you see, between the
title-page and the first sto-
ry in our book, in the shape
of a preface, or introduction.
SWhat! do you mean to take
toll of us, then ?" Why, no-not
exactly. But we want to say
half a dozen words to you, as you pass
along, and to tell you a little about these
WREATHS which we have been twining
for our friends. So you need not be in
quite so great a hurry. Wait a minute.

~--------- ___ I

You have no doubt noticed that it is a
very common thinglor an author to take
up several of the first pages of his book
with apologies to his readers. First, per-
haps, he apologizes for writing at all; and
secondly, for writing so poorly-just as if
it was a crime to make a book, for which
crime the author must get down on his
knees, and humbly beg the public's pardon.
We think we shall not take this course, on
the whole, for this reason, if for no other-
that we do not feel very guilty about what
we have done. But as the plan of our
book is somewhat new, we have been
thinking it would be well enough, in intro-
ducing it to you, at least to tell how we
came to make it.
We have both of us published a good
deal, in one way and another, for young
people; and we got a notion-a very





pleasant one, certainly, and rather natural,
withal, whether well founded or not-that
among that class of the public composed
of boys and girls, we had a pretty respect-
able number of friends. Under this im-
pression, we put our heads together, one
day, and made up our minds to invite these
friends, of ours, every one pf them, to a
kind of festival, and that we would share
equally in the pleasure of giving the en-
tertainment. The book, reader, which we
have named BUDS AND BLOSSOMS, as
perhaps you have already guessed, grew
out of that plan of ours.
We have not, as you will perceive, in-
dicated the authorship of the tales and
sketches, as they appear; and those read-
ers who have any curiosity in this matter,
are referred to the index.
We hope the volume will please you.




More than this: we hope it will prove to
be useful-useful for the future as well as
for the present life; and, indeed, if it had
not been for this hope, much as we love to
entertain our young friends, these wreaths
would never have been twined by our
We have little else to add, except the
fondest wishes of our hearts; and, to tell
the truth, it was to express to you these
kind wishes- to give you something like a
hearty shake of the hand-rather than be-
cause we had any thing of importance to
say in our preface, that we stopped you at
the outset.



Authors.. Page.
What shall we Build ? s. A. 13
The Two Cousins c.w. 16
A Noble Act T. A. 28
The Word of God T. A. 35
Harsh Words and Kind Words. T.s. A. 36
The Herons and the Herrings c. w. 41
Early Spring Flowers c. w. 43
Temptation Resisted T. s. A. 51
Evening Prayer T. s. A. 61
Stretching the Truth c. w. 63
The City Pigeon T. A. 67
A Day in the Woods T. s. A. 72
The Spider and the Honey Bee c. w. 81
Emma Lee and her Sixpence *. T. s. A. 88
Uncle Roderick's Stories c. w. 93
Honesty the Best Policy c. w. 94
Hoow a Rogue Feels when he is Caught F. c. w. 97
The Weekly Newspaper F. c. 100
The Cider Plot F. c. w. 103

r- -- -


My First Hunting Excursion .. w.
--Saturday in Winter T. s. A.
Rover and his Little Master T. A.
Something Wrong T. s. A.
The Favorite Child F. C. w.
The Mine T. A.
The Miner T.. A.
Visit to Fairy Land w.
The Hermit T. s. A.
A Picture T. s. A.
The Boy and the Robin FC. W.
Something about Conscience F. W.
Old Ned T. S. A.
,The Freed Butterfly T. s. A.
Julia and Her Birds .c. w.
The Song of the Snow Bird F. c. .
How to Avoid a Quarrel T. s. A.
Passing for More than One is Worth F. c. w.
The Lament of the Invalid F. C. W.
The Use of Flowers T.S. A.
Sliding Down Hill F. c. w.
A Garden Overrun with Weeds T. A.
Disappointment Sometimes a Blessing. F. c. w.
The Old Man at the Cottage Door T. S. A.
Story of a Stolen Pen FC. cw.






OUR children were playing on the
sea-shore. They had gathered
bright pebbles and beautiful
shells, and written their names
in the pure, white sand; but at
S last, tired of their sport, they
were about going home, when
one of them, as they came to a pile
of stones, cried out:
"Oh! let us build a fort; and we
will call that ship, away out there, an
enemy's vessel, and make believe we are
firing great cannon balls into her!"
"Yes, yes! let us build a fort," responded Ed-
ward, the other lad.
And the two boys-for two were boys and two
girls-ran off to the pile of stones, and began
removing them to a place near the water.


"Come, Anna and Jane," said they, "come and
help us."
"Oh, no. Don't let us build a fort," said Jane.

"Yes; we will build a fort," returned the boys.
"What else can we build ? You wouldn't put a
house down here upon the water's edge ?"
"No; but I'll tell you what we can build, and
it will be a great deal better than a fort."
"Well; what can we build ?"
A light-house," said the girls; and that will
be just as much in place on the edge of the sea as
a fort. We can call the ship yonder a vessel lost




in the darkness, and we will hang out a light and
direct her in the true way. Won't that be much
better than to call her an enemy, and build a fort
to destroy her ? See how beautifully she sits upon
and glides over the smooth water! Her sails are
like the open wings of a bird, and they bear her
gracefully along. Would it not be cruel to shoot
great balls into her sides, tear her sails to pieces,
and kill the men who are on board of her? Oh!
I am sure it would make us all happier to save her
when in darkness and danger. No, no; let us not
build a fort, but a light-house; for it is better to
save than to destroy."
The girls spoke with tenderness and enthusiasm,
and their words reached the better feelings of their
"Oh, yes," said they; "we will build a light-
house, and not a fort." And they did so.
Yes, it is much better to save than to destroy.
Think of that, children, and let it go with you
through life. Be more earnest to save your
friends than to destroy your enemies. And yet,
when a real enemy comes, and seeks to do evil,
be brave to resist him.





HERE, mother, I knew it would
be so. Lucy Wallace has just
sent over to tell me she can't
walk out in the woods with me.
There's no use in my trying to
please any body-there's no use
in it. I'm an odd sort of a creature,
I it seems. Nobody loves me. It al-
ways was so. Oh, dear! I wish I
knew what I had done to make the
Girls hate me so!"
This not very good-natured speech
was made by a little girl, whom I shall
call Angeline Standish. She was some ten or
twelve years old, as near as I can recollect. Per-
haps my readers would like to know something
about the occasion which called for this speech;
but it is a long story, and hardly worth telling.
The truth is, when little boys and girls get very

PA ~-

- -- ` ---


angry, or peevish, or fretful, they sometimes blow
out a great deal of ill-humor, something after the
manner that an overcharged steam boiler lets off
steam-with this difference, however, that the
steam boiler gets cooler by the operation, while
the boy or girl gets more heated. The throat is
a poor safety-valve for ill-humor; and it is bad
business, this setting the tongue aging at such
a rate, whenever the mercury in one's temper
begins to rise toward the boiling point.
As is usual, in such cases, Angeline felt worse
after these words had whistled through the escape
pipe of her ill-nature, than she did before; and,
.for want of something else to do, she commenced
crying. She was not angry-that is, not alto-
gether so-though the spirit she showed was a
pretty good imitation of anger, it must be con-
fessed. She was peevish. Matters had not gone
right with her that day. She was crossed in this
thing and that thing. Her new hat had not come
home from the milliner's, as she expected; one of
her frocks had just got badly torn;. she had a hard
lesson to learn; and I cannot repeat the whole
catalogue of her miseries. So she fretted, and



stormed, and cried, and felt just as badly as she
Not long after the crying spell was over, and
there was a little blue sky in sight, Jeannette
Forrest, a cousin of Angeline's, came running
into the room, her face all lighted up with smiles,
and threw her arms around her cousin's neck,
and kissed her. This was no uncommon thing
with Jeannette. She had a very happy and a
very affectionate disposition. Every body loved
her, and she loved every body.
One not acquainted with Angeline, might very
naturally suppose that she would return her
cousin's embrace. But she did no such thing.
Her manner was quite cool and distant. Human
nature is a strange compound, is it not ?
"Why, cousin," said the light-hearted Jean-
nette, "what is the matter? You are not well,
are you ?"
"Yes, well enough," the other replied, rather
crustily. Take care, Angeline, there's a cloud
coming over your cousin's face. Speak a kind
word or two, now. Then the sun will beam out
again, brightly as ever. Jeannette was silent for


a moment, for she was astonished, and did not
know what to make of her cousin's manner. It
would have appeared uncivil and rude to most
little girls. But the sweet spirit of Jeannette-
loving, hoping, trusting-was differently affected.
She saw only the brighter side of the picture. So
the bee, as she flies merrily from flower to flower,
finds a store of honey where others would find
only poison.
"Dear Angeline," said her cousin, at length,
"I'm sure something is the matter. Tell me
what it is, won't you? Oh, I should love to
make you happy, if I only knew how!"
Angeline seemed scarcely to hear these words
of love. That is strange enough, I hear you say.
So it is, perhaps, and it may be stranger still, that
she read- not the language of love and sympathy
that was written so plainly in her cousin's coun-
tenance. It is true, though, for all that. She did
not say much of any thing to this inquiry-she
simply muttered, between her teeth,
"I don't believe any body loves me."
Jeannette was no philosopher. She could not
read essays nor preach sermons. Her argument



to convince her cousin that there was, at least,
one who loved her, was drawn from the heart,
rather than from the head. It was very brief,
and very much to the point. She burst into tears,
and sobbed,
"Don't say so, dear."
Jeannette could not stay long. Her mother
had sent her on an errand, and told her she must
make haste back. Perhaps it was as well that
she could not stay-and perhaps not. Human
nature is a strange sort of compound, as I said
before; and it may be that the ice which had
covered over the streams leading from Angeline's
heart would not have melted under the influence
even of the warm sun that, for a moment or two,
beamed upon them so kindly. For one, however,
I should like to know what would have come out
of that conversation, if it had been allowed to go
on. Jeannette went home, and Angeline was
again left to her own reflections, which were any
thing but pleasant. It was Saturday afternoon;
and, there being no school, she had hoped to be
able to ramble in the woods with some of her
little companions. But here she was disap-



pointed, too, and this increased her peevishness;
though the reason why she could not go was,
because she did not learn her lesson in season,
and that was her own fault. Toward night,
when Mrs Standish had leisure to sit down to
her sewing, she called Angine, and reminded
her of the ill-natured spirit she had shown in the
early part of the afternoon. The child was
rather ashamed of what she had said, it is true;
but she tried to excuse her conduct.
"Every thing went wrong to-day, mother," she
said; "I couldn't help feeling so. Oh, dear! I don't
see how any body can be good, when things go in
this way-I mean any body but Jeannette. I wish
I was like her. It is easy for her to be good."
"Your cousin has, no doubt, a very different
disposition from yours," said the mother. "But
it is much easier for you to be always good-
natured and happy than you suppose, Angeline."
"I wish I knew how, mother."
"Well, you say things went wrong with you
this afternoon. I think I know what some of
these things were. They were not so pleasant
as they might have been, certainly. They were


troublesome. But don't you think the greatest
trouble of all was in your own heart ?"
"No, ma'am. I was well enough until the
things began to go wrong; and then I felt bad,
and I couldn't help it."
Mrs Standish laughed, as she said, So, then,
as soon as the things begin to go wrong, you take
the liberty to go wrong too. Every thing works
well inside, until it is disturbed by something out-
side ?"
"That is it, mother."
"And when the things inside go smoothly, be-
cause every thing is smooth outside, you have a
very good and happy disposition ?"
"Pretty good, I-think."
"And so, when there is a hurricane inside,
because the wind blows rather more than usual
outside, you are cross, and unhappy, and bad
enough to make up for being so good before ?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am afraid I am, sometimes."
"No, my child, you are wrong, all wrong. If
all was right inside, the other things you speak of
would not disturb you so, if they should happen
to go wrong."




"Why, mother, wouldn't they disturb me at
all ?"
"They might, occasionally, but not near as
much. Do you remember that our clock went
wrong last winter ?"
"Yes, ma'Ani; we couldn't tell what time it
was, and it used to strike all sorts of ways."
"What do you suppose made the clock act so,
Angeline? It goes well enough now, you know."
"I believe Mr Mercer said one of the wheels
was out of order."
"That was all. It was not the weather-not
because we forgot to wind itup-not because
things did not go right in the room. Now, your
mind is something like a clock. If it is kept in
order, it will run pretty well, I guess--no matter
whether it rains or shines-whether it is winter
or summer. Milton says, very begtifully, in his
poem called the 'Paradise Lost,'

'The mind is its own place, and of itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.'

He means by this, that our happiness or unhapi
ness depends more upon wlt is within us than it

- -- -



S upon what's without. And he is right. Do
o u understand, +0y child ?"
fIunderstand what you mean, but it is not so
Easy to seeho I am to go to work and be gpod
the time,.:le cousin Jeanriette. I'm not Ike
b'r, mother, knd I never can 1b like her, I
True, you will always be very unlike your
cousin. But I don't know.of iny thing to hinder
your being as good and amiable as she is, for all
"Oh, mother! I'd give every thing in the world,
if I only knew how!"
I think you can learn, my child, with much
less expense; though, to be sure, you will have to
give up some things that perhaps you will find it
hard to part with. You will be obliged to give
up some of ydir bad habits."
That would be easy enough."
"Not so easy as you think, it may be. It is a
good deal easier to let a bad habit come in, than
it is to turn one out. But 'where there's a will,
here'ss a way,' you know."
"Well, mother, wh| shall I do ? I should like


to begin pretty soon, for scarcely any body loves
me now."
"Before you learn much, it might be well to
unlearn a little. When any thing goes wrong,
as you say, you must, at least, not make it go
worse. You must not make every body around
you unhappy, if you do feel a little cross and
"Oh, mother, I can't speak pleasantly when I
don't feel so."
"Then, in most cases, you had better not speak
at all."
"I never thought of that; I can stop talking,
if I try."
So you can, and you can do more. You can
get into the habit of finding the south or sunny
side of things,' as Jean Paul says, and if you do,
you will not be likely to have a snow-storm in
your heart very often. Besides, you ought to
remember, that all these disappointments and
crosses are a part of your education for heaven,
and you should endeavor to improve them as
such, so that their good effect will not be lost.
And another thing, my child: you ought to ask

._ __ 1



God to assist you in this self-government-to
make you his child-to give you a new heart-
to teach you to love Christ, and to be like him.
Then you will seldom feel cross and fretful, be-
cause things go wrong. You will be cheerful
and good-natured. You will make others hap-
py-and you will very soon forget the old story,
that nobody loves you."
Now, many little boys and girls-possibly some
who read this story-would have thought this
task too hard. They would have regarded it as
a pretty severe penance. Perhaps they would
have concluded, after having put all these diffi-
cult things into one scale, and the thing to be
gained by them into the other, that the reward
was not worth so great a sacrifice. So thought
not Angeline, however. She began the work in
earnest, that very day. She went over to her
uncle's, with an unusual amount of sunshine in
her countenance, and made it all right with Jean-
nette. In the evening, she told her little brother
James what she intended to do, and invited him
to help her; and before they retired to rest that
night, they knelt down together and offered up a



prayer, that God, for Christ's sake, would help
them in governing themselves.
One day-perhaps some six weeks after this--
Mrs Standish said, smilingly, to her daughter,
"Well, my dear, does Lucy Wallace love you
any better?"
Oh, mother," said Angeline, as a tear of joy
stood in her eye, "every body loves me now!"


e_ =--I-


"WHAT have you there, boys ?" asked Captain
"A ship," replied one of the lads who were
passing the captain's neat cottage.
"A ship! Let me see;" and the captain took
the little vessel, and examined it with as much
fondness as a child does a pretty toy. "Very
fair, indeed; who made it ?"
I did," replied one of the boys.


"You, indeed! -Do you mean to be a sailor,
"I don't know. I want father to get me into
the navy."
"As a midshipman ?"
Yes, sir."
Captain Bland shook his head.
"Better be a farmer, a physician, or a mer-
"Why so, captain ?" asked Harry.
"All these are engaged in the doing of things
directly useful to society."
"But I am sure, captain, that those who
defend us against our enemies, and protect all
who are engaged in commerce from wicked
pirates, are doing what is useful to society."
"Their use, my lad," replied Captain Bland,
is certainly a most important one; but we may
call it rather negative than positive. The civilian
is engaged in building up and sustaining society
in doing good, through his active employment, to
his fellow-man. But military and naval officers
do not produce any thing; they only protect and

.=-- ~;~- `-- T-- ~---



"But if they did not protect and defend, cap-
tain, evil men would destroy society. It would
be of no use for the civilian to endeavor to build
up, if there were none to fight against the enemies
of the state."
"Very true, my lad. The brave defender of
his country cannot be dispensed with, and we
give him all honor. Still, the use of defence and
protection is not so high as the use of building up
and sustaining. The thorn that wounds the hand
stretched forth to pluck the flower, is not so much
esteemed, nor of. so much worth, as the blossom it
was meant to guard. Still, the thorn performs a
great use. Precisely a similar use does the sol-
dier or naval officer perform to society; and it
will be for you, my lad, to decide as to which
position you would rather fill."
"I never thought of that, captain," said one of
the lads. "But I can see clearly how it is. And
yet I think those men who risk their lives for us
in war, deserve great honor. They leave their
homes, and remain away, sometimes for years,
deprived of all the comforts and blessings that
civilians enjoy, suffering frequently great hard-


ships, and risking their lives to defend their
country from her enemies."
"It is all as you say," replied Captain Bland;
"and they do, indeed, deserve great honor. Their
calling is one that exposes them to imminent
peril, and requires them to make many sacrifices;
and they encounter not this peril and sacrifice
for their own good, but for the good of others.
Their lives do not pass so evenly as do the lives
of men who spend their days in the peaceful
pursuits of business, art, or literature; and we
could hardly wonder if they lost some of the
gentler attributes of the human heart. In some
cases, this is so; but in very many cases the
rererse is true. We find the man who goes fear-
lessly into battle, and there, in defence of his
country, deals death and destruction unsparingly
upon her enemies, acting, when occasion offers,
from the most humane sentiments, and jeopard-
izing his life to save the life of a single individual.
Let me relate to you a true story in illustration
of what I say.
When the unhappy war that has been waged
by our troops in Mexico broke out, a lieutenant


in the navy, who had a quiet berth at Washing-
ton, felt it to be his duty to go to the scene of
strife, and therefore asked to be ordered to the
Gulf of Mexico. His request was complied with,
and he received orders to go on board the
steamer Mississippi, Commodore Perry, then
about to sail from Norfolk to Vera Cruz.
"Soon after the Mississippi arrived out, and
before the city and castle were taken, a terrible
northerr' sprung up, and destroyed much shipping
in the harbor. One vessel, on which were a
number of passengers, was thrown high upon a
reef, and when morning broke, the heavy sea was
making a clear breach through her. She lay
about a mile from the Mississippi, and it slft
became known on board the steamer, that a
mother and her infant were in the wreck, and
that unless succor came speedily, they would
perish. The lieutenant of whom I speak, imme-
diately ordered out a boat's crew, and although
the sea was rolling tremendously, and the 'north-
er' still blowing a hurricane, started to the rescue.
Right in the teeth of the wind were the men com-
pelled to pull their boat, and so slowly did they

~ --



progress, that it took over two hours to gain the
"At one time, they actually gave out, and the
oars lay inactive in their hands. At this crisis,
the brave but humane officer, pointing with one
hand to the fortress of San Juan de Ulloa, upon
which a fire had already commenced, and with
the other to the wreck, exclaimed, with noble en-
"' Pull away, men! I would rather save the life
of that woman and her child, than have the honor
of taking the castle!'
"Struck by the noble, unselfish, and truly hu-
mane feelings of their officer, the crew bent with
new. vigor to their oars. In a little while the
wreck was gained, and the brave lieutenant had
the pleasure of receiving into his arms the almost
inanimate form of the woman, who had been
lashed to the deck, and over whom the waves had
been beating, at intervals, all night.
"In writing home to his friends, after the excite-
ment of the adventure was over, the officer spoke
of the moment when he rescued that mother and
child from the wreck as the proudest of his life.


_ 1



"Afterward he took part in the bombardment
of Vera Cruz, and had command, in turn, of the
naval battery, where he faithfully and energetic-
ally performed his duty as an officer in -the ser-
vice of his country. He was among the first of
those who entered the captured city; but pain, not
pleasure, filled his mind, as he looked around, and
saw death and destruction on every hand. Vic-
tory had perched upon our banners; the arms of
our country had been successful; the officer had
biravely contributed his part in the work; but he
frankly owns that he experienced far more delight
in saving the woman he had borne from the
wreck, than he could have'felt had he been the
commander of tle army that reduced the city.
"Wherever duty calls, my lads," concluded the
captain, "you will find that brave officer. He
will never shrink from the post of danger, if his
country have need of him; nor will he ever be
deaf to the appeal of humanity; but so long as he
is a true man, just so long will he delight more in
saving than in destroying."

_ ___ __



'EmI WigM)ID 07P (BD&HDo

SENRY, what book is that you have
in your hand ?"
"It is the Bible, mother."
"Oh, no, it cannot be, sure-
"Why, yes it is-see!"
"And my little boy to treat
so roughly the book containing God's
holy word !"
Henry's face grew serious.
"Oh, I forgot!" he said, and went and
laid the good book carefully away.
"Try and not forget again, my son. If you
treat this book so lightly now, you may, when
you become a man, as lightly esteem its holy
truths; and then you could never live in heaven
with the angels. No one goes to heaven who
does not love and reverence the Word of God,
which is holy in every jot and tittle."


ILLIAM BAKER, and his brother
Si Thomas and sister Ellen, were
playing on the green lawn in
front of their mother's door,
S when a lad named Henry Green
came along the road, and seeing the children en-
joying themselves, opened the gate and came in.
He was rather an ill-natured boy, and generally
took more pleasure in teasing and annoying others,
than in being happy with them. When William
saw him coming in through the gate, he called to
him and said, in a harsh way,
"You may just clear out, Henry Green, and
go about your business! We don't want you
But Henry did not in the least regard what
William said. He came directly forward, and
joined in the sport as freely as if he had been
invited instead of repulsed. In a little while he
began to pull Ellen about rudely, and to push



Thomas, so as nearly to throw them down upon
the grass.
"Go home, Henry Green! Nobody sent for
you! Nobody wants you here!" said William
Baker, in quite an angry tone.
It was of no use, however. William might as
well have spoken to the wind. His words were
entirely unheeded by -Henry, whose conduct be-
came ruder and more offensive.
Mrs Baker, who sat at the window, saw and
heard all that was passing. As soon as she could
catch the eye of her excited son, she beckoned
him to come to her, which he promptly did.
"Try kind words on him," she said; "you will
find them more powerful than harsh words. You
spoke very harshly to Henry when he came in,
and I was sorry to hear it."
"It won't do any good, mother. He's a rude,
bad boy, and I wish he would stay at home.
Won't you make him go home ?"
"First go and speak to him in a gentler way
than you did just now. Try to subdue him with
William felt that he had been wrong in letting


his angry feelings express themselves in angry
words. So he left his mother and went down
upon the lawn, where Henry was amusing himself
by trying to trip the children with a long stick, as
they ran about on the green.
"Henry," he said, cheerfully and pleasantly,
"if you were fishing in the river, and I were
to come and throw stones in where your line
fell, and scare away all the fish, would you like
"No, I should not," the lad replied.
It wouldn't be kind in me ?"
"No, of course it wouldn't."
"Well, now, Henry," William tried to smile
and to speak very pleasantly, "we are playing
here and trying to enjoy ourselves. Is it right for
you to come and interrupt us by tripping our feet,
pulling us about, and pushing us down? I am
sure you will not think so if you reflect a moment.
So don't do it any more, Henry."
"No, I will not," replied Henry, promptly. "I
am sorry that I disturbed you. I didn't think
what I was doing. And now I remember, father
told me not to stay, and I must run home."

---- --- ----- -- ~L -- ~LIL--~LLIII




So Henry Green went quickly away, and the
children were left to enjoy themselves.
"Didn't I tell you that kind words were more
powerful than harsh words, William?" said his
mother, after Henry had gone away; "when we
speak harshly to our fellows, we arouse their angry
feelings, and then evil spirits have power over
them; but when we speak kindly, we affect them
with gentleness, and good spirits flow into this
latter state, and excite in -them better thoughts
and intentions. How quickly Henry changed,
when you changed your manner and the charac-
ter of your language. Do not forget this, my son.
Do not forget, that kind words have double the
power of harsh ones,"


i[ .. _


ic~ 91 z




A HERON once came-I can scarcely tell why-
To the court of his cousins, the fishes,
With despatches, so heavy he scarcely could fly,
And his bosom brimfull of good wishes.

He wished the poor Herrings no harm, he said,
Though there seemed to be cause for suspicion;
His government wished to convert them, instead,
And this was the end of his mission.

The Herrings replied, and were civil enough,
Though a little inclined to be witty:
"We know we are heathenish, savage, and rough,
And are greatly obliged for your pity.

"But your plan of conversion we beg to decline,
With all due respect for your nation;
No doubt it would tend to exalt and refine,
Yet we fear it would check respiration."


_ __ ~__LII__ ___



The Heron returned to his peers in disdain,
And told how their love was requited.
"Poor creatures!" they said, "shall we let them remain
So ignorant, blind, and benighted ?"

Then soon on a crusade of love aid good-will
The Herons in council decided;
And they flew, every one that could boast a long bill,
To the beach where the Herrings resided.

So the tribe were soon converts from ocean to air,
Though liking not much the diversion,
And wishing at least they had time to prepare
For so novel a mode of conversion.

A sensible child will discover with ease
The point of the tale I've related-
A blockhead could not, let me say what I please-
Then why need my MORAL be stated ?

U_ _



C'z; /'r

l i all the amusements
of my childhood, I can
Think of none which I
Sloved so0, much. as rambling in the
/ woods .and meadows among the
flowers. What a rich treat it used to be, just
after the earth had thrown aside its white mantle,
and begun to be clothed in its summer dress, to
get permission to spend a whole Saturday.after-






noon in the woods with my brother and sister.
Oh, how delighted we all were, when we found
the first wild flowers of spring! Let me see.
What flowers show their pretty faces the earliest?
Do you remember, young friend? Perhaps you
have always lived in the city, and have never
made their acquaintance. But if you have ever
seen them, blushing in their native haunts, I am
sure you must remember how they look, and what
their names are. I cannot see how any body can
forget them, they are so beautiful and lovely.
One of the earliest flowers of spring, and one
which grew in the woods only a few rods from
my father's door, near the stream that turned my
miniature water-wheels, is the Trailing Arbutus.
Often you may find this plant unfolding its deli-
cate blossoms before the snow has left the ground.
That, in our northern latitudes, is usually among
the first flowers in blossom. Soon after she
appears, you may see one and perhaps two differ-
ent species of the Anemone. One, especially--
the Anemone Thalictroides, as it used to be called
in botany, though it is now the Thalictrum Ane-
monoides, I believe--is among the fairest of all




these flowers of spring. She has a blossom as
white as snow. The Anemone Nemrosa is almost
as fair, too, though not quite, I think. You can
sometimes see them both smiling side by side,
early in the month of May, nodding gracefully at
each other, and smiling as if they were very
happy. It does not require much imagination
to fancy they are conversing together; and, in-
deed, I would quite as soon believe that flowers
could talk, as I would believe those stories about
the fairies that children hear sometimes.
There is another beautiful flower which makes
her appearance very early-the Spring Beauty,
or Claytonia Virginica. She is usually found
in the same locations with the Anemone. Then
there is the Liver Leaf. Did you ever find that,
little girl? Very possibly you have not taken
a ramble early enough in the spring to see
her. She makes her visit frequently in the latter
part of April, and she does not stay long. But
after her flower has faded and fallen, there
may be seen a few deeply notched and curious
leaves, to mark the spot where she bloomed so



The Blood Root, too, will make her visit, and
go away again, if you delay your ramble in the
woods till the first of May. The blossom of the
Blbod Root is a very delicate white. Hundreds
of exotic flowers are cultivated in our gardens,
and very much admired, that are not half so
pretty as this. The leaves that appear before the
plant is in blossom, are oval, a little like those of
the Adder's Tongue,.which is in flower somewhat
later, and like those of one species of the Solo-
mon's Seal-the Convallaria Bifolia. But when
the flower of the Blood Root appears, you see
quite a different kind of leaf, so that even close
observers of wild flowers are sometimes deceived,
and think that their early leaves belong to some
other plant.
Every body who has been at all familiar with
.the forest and meadows in the spring, knows the
Violet. There are a good many sisters in this
charming family, but none, perhaps, in our lati-
tude, that are more beautiful than the Viola Ro-
tundifolia, or Yellow Violet, with roundish leaves,
lying close to the ground. The Blue Violet, too,
appears soon after, and is perhaps equally pretty.



I recollect distinctly where it used to grow near
the little brook that ran through our meadow-a
brook that many a time has served to turn my
water-wheel. Oh, those days of miniature water-
wheels, and kites, and wind-mills! how happy they
were, and how I love to think of them now I By
the way, have you ever read Miss Gould's poeti-
cal fable about the little child and the Blue Vio-
let? I must recite a stanza or two of this poem,
I think. The child speaks to the, Violet, and

SViolet, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow land, wild where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
With which your soft petals unfold ?
And how do you hold up your tender young head,
Where rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
And dark, gloomy olouds, ranging over you, shed
Their waters, so heavy and cold ?

No one has nursed you,' or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!

_ ___



Speak, my sweet violet, answer and tell,
How you have grown up and flourished so well,
And look so contented, where lonely you dwell,
And we thus by accident meet ?"
Then the Violet answers, and tells the child
why it is so contented, and how it is able to hold
up its head, and where its pretty blue petals come
from. But I will not recite the remainder of the
poem, for I am sure my readers do not need to be
told who made the flowers, and who taught them
to bloom so sweetly in their wild haunts.
The early flowers of spring! I loved them
fondly when a child; but now I am a man, I love
them still more. Shall I tell you why, dear child ?
There is something sad in the reason, and yet it
is not all sadness. I had a sister-I had a sister.
Ah! that tells the tale. I have no sister now!
The dearest companion of my early rambles
among the flowers-herself the fairest and sweet-
est of them all-has fallen before the scythe of
Death. She has gone now to a world of per-
petual spring, and the flowers she loved so well
are blooming over her grave. She faded away in
the early spring, and we laid her to rest where

i i--~m~-- ~-----



her mother had song been sleeping. By the side
of the streamlet where we used to play in the
sunny days of childhood, and where the Dandelion
grew, and the Butter-cup, and the Violet-there
is now the form of her I tenderly loved.
But my strain is sad-too sad. I will sing, and
be cheerful.
Alas! how soon
The things of earth we love most fondly perish!
Why died the flower our hearts had learned to cherish ?
Why, ere 'twas noon ?

I cannot tell-
But though the grave be that loved sister's dwelling,
And though my heart e'en now with grief is swelling,
I know 'tis well.

'Tis well with thee-
'Tis well with thee, thou lone and silent sleeper!
'Tis well, though thou hast left me here a weeper
Awhile to be.

'Tis well for me-
'Tis well; my home, since thou art gone, is dearer-
SThe grave is welcome, if it bring me nearer
To heaven *.nd thee.


I'll not repine-
No, blest one; thou art happier than thy brother:
I'll think of thee, as with thy angel-mother,
Sweet sister mine.

Still would I share
'Thy love, and meet thee where the flowers are springing,
Where the wild bird his joyous note is singing-
Come to me there.

Oh! come again,
At the still hour, the holy hour of even,
Ere one pale star has gemmed the vault of heaven;
Come to me then.



CHARLES MURRAY left home, with his books in
his satchel, for school. Before starting, he kissed
his little sister, and patted Juno on the head, and
as he went singing away, he felt as happy as any
little boy could wish to feel. Charles was a good-
tempered lad, but he had the fault common to
a great many boys, that of being tempted and
enticed by others to do things which he knew to
be contrary to the wishes of his parents. Such




acts never made him feel any happier; for the fear
that his disobedience would be found out, and the
consciousness of having done wrong, were far
from being pleasant companions.
On the present occasion, as he walked briskly
in the direction of the school, he repeated over
his lessons in his mind, and was intent upon hav-
ing them so perfect as to be able to repeat every
word. He had gone nearly half the distance, and
was still thinking over his lessons, when he stop-
ped suddenly, as a voice called out,
"Halloo, Charley!"
Turning in the direction from which the voice
came, he saw Archy Benton, with his school
basket in his hand; but he was going from, in-
stead of in the direction of the school.
"Where are you going, Arch ?" asked Charles,
calling out to him.
"Into the woods, for chestnuts."
"Ain't you going to school, to-day ?"
"No, indeed. There was a sharp frost last
night, and Uncle John says the wind will rattle
down the chestnuts like hail."
"Did your father say you might go ?"
-- ------------..

-- ----` = r



"No, indeed. I asked him, but he said I
couldn't go until Saturday. But the hogs are in
the woods, and will eat the chestnuts all up, be-
fore Saturday. So I am going to-day. Come, go
along, won't you ? It is such a fine day, and the
ground will be covered with chestnuts. We can-
get home at the usual time, and no one will sus-
pect that we were not at school."
"I should like to go, very well," said Charley;
"but I know father will be greatly displeased, if
he finds it out, and I am afraid he will get to
know it, in some way."
"How could he get to know it? Isn't he at
his store all the time ?"
"But he might think to ask me if I was at
school. And I never will tell a lie."
You could say yes, and not tell a lie, either,"
returned Archy. You were at school yester-
"No, I couldn't. A lie, father says, is in the
intent to deceive. He would, of course, mean to
ask whether I was at school to-day, and if I said
yes, I would tell a lie."
"It isn't so clear to me that you would. At



any rate, I don't see such great harm in a little
fib. It doesn't hurt any body."
"Father says a falsehood hurts a boy a great
deal more than he thinks for. And one day he
showed me in the Bible where liars were classed
with murderers, and other wicked spirits, in hell.
I can't tell a lie, Archy."
"There won't be any need of your doing so,"
urged Archy; "for I am sure he will never think
to ask you about it. Why should he ?"
"I don't. know. But whenever I have been
doing any thing wrong, he is sure to begin to
question me, and lead me on until I betray the
secret of my fault."
"Never mind. Come and go with me. It is
such a fine day. We shan't have another like it.
It will rain on Saturday, I'll bet any thing. So
come along, now, and let us have a day in the
woods, while we can."
Charles was very strongly tempted. When he
thought of the confinement of school, and then of
the freedom of a day in the woods, Ie felt much
inclined to go with Archy.
"Come along," said Archy, as Charles stood




balancing the matter in his mind. And he took
hold of his arm, and drew him in a direction
opposite from the school. "Come! you are just
the boy I want. I was thinking about you the
moment before I saw you."
The temptation to Charles was very strong.
"I don't believe I will be found out," he said to
himself; and it is such a pleasant day to go into
the woods !"
Still he held back, and thought of his father's
displeasure if he should discover that he had played
the truant. The word "truant," that he repeated
mentally, decided the matter in his mind, and he
exclaimed, in a loud and decided voice, as he drag-
ged away from the hand of Archy, that had still re-'
tained its hold on his arm, "I've never played truant
yet, and I don't think I ever will. Father says he
never played truant when he was a boy; and I'd
like to say the same thing when I get to be a man."
"Nonsense, Charley! come, go with me," urged
But Charles Murray's mind was made up not
to play the truait. So he started off for school,
saying, as he did so-

--- .-- ---7 .



"No, I can't go, Archy; and if I were you, I
would wait until Saturday. You will enjoy it so
much better when you have your father's consent.
It always takes away more than half the pleasure
of any enjoyment to think that it is obtained at
the cost of disobedience. Come! go to school
with me now, and I will go into the woods with
you on Saturday."
"No, I can't wait until Saturday. I'm sure it
will rain by that time; and if it don't, the hogs
will eat up every nut that has fallen before that
"There'll be plenty left on the trees, if they
do. It's as fine sport to knock them down as to
pick them up."
But Archy's purpose was settled, and nothing
that Charles Murray could say had any influence
with him. So the boys parted, the one for his
school, and the other for a stolen holiday in the
The moment Charles was alone again, he felt
no longer any desire to go with Archy. He had
successfully resisted the. temptation, and the
allurement was gone. But even for, listening to


temptation he had some small punishment, for
he was late to school by nearly ten minutes, and
had not his lessons as perfect as usual, for which
the teacher felt called upon to reprimand him.
But this was soon forgotten; and he was so good
a boy through the whole day, and studied all his
lessons so diligently, that when evening came, the
teacher, who had not forgotten the reprimand,
said to him:
You have been the best boy in the school to-
day, Charles. To-morrow morning try and come
in time, and be sure that your lessons are all well
committed to memory."
Charles felt very light and cheerful as he went
running, skipping, and singing homeward. His
day had been well spent, and happiness was his
reward. When he came in sight of home, there
was no dread of meeting his father and mother,
such as he would have felt if he had played the
truant. Every thing looked bright and pleasant,
and when Juno came bounding out to meet him,
he couldn't help hugging the favorite dog in the
joy he felt at seeing her.
When Charles met his mother, she looked at

__ _



him with a more earnest and affectionate gaze
than usual. And then the boy noticed that her
countenance became serious.
"Ain't you well, mother ?" asked Charles,
"Yes, my dear, I am very well," she replied;
"but I saw something an hour ago which has
made me feel sad. Archy Benton was brought
home from the woods this afternoon, where he
had gone for chestnuts, instead of going to school,
as he should have done, dreadfully hurt. He had
fallen from a tree. Both his arms are broken, and
the doctor fears that he has received some inward
injury that may cause his death."
Charles turned pale, when his mother said this.
"Boys rarely get hurt, except when they are
acting disobediently, or doing some harm to
others," remarked Mrs Murray. "If Archy had
gone to school, this dreadful accident would not
have happened. His father told him that he
might go for chestnuts on Saturday, and if he
had waited until then, I am sure he might have
gone into the wpods and received no harm, f6r all
who do right are protected from evil."
"He tried to persuade.me to go with him," said
\ *


Charles, "and I was strongly tempted to do so.
But I resisted the temptation, and have felt glad
about it ever since."
Mrs Murray took her son's hand, and pressing
it hard, said, with much feeling,
"How rejoiced I am that you were able to
resist his persuasions to do wrong. Even if you
had not been hurt yourself, the injury received by
Archy would have discovered to us that you were
with him, and then how unhappy your father and
I would have been, I cannot tell. And you would
have been unhappy, too. Ah! my son, there is
only one true course for all of us, and that is, to
do right. Every deviation from this path brings
trouble. An act of a moment may make us
wretched for days, weeks, months, or perhaps
years. It will be a long, long time before Archy
is free from pain of body or mind-it may be that
he will never recover. Think how miserable his
parents must feel; and all because of this single
act of disobedience."
We cannot say how often Charles said to him-
self, that evening and the next day, when he
thought of Archy,

- L~' "- "'



"Oh, how glad I am that I did not go with
When Saturday came, the father and mother
of Charles Murray gave him permission to go
into the woods for chestnuts. Two or three other
boys, who were his school companions, likewise
received liberty to go; and they joined Charles,
and altogether made a pleasant party. It did not
rain, nor had the hogs eaten up all the nuts, for
the lads found plenty under the tall old trees, and
in a few hours filled their bags and baskets.
Charles said, when he came home, that he had
never enjoyed himself better, and was so glad
that he had not been tempted to go with Archy
It was a lesson he never afterward forgot. If
he was tempted to do what he knew was wrong,
he thought of Archy's day in the woods, and the
tempter instantly left him. The boy who had
been so badly hurt, did not die, as the doctor
feared; but he suffered great pain, and was ill for
a long time.



HEAVENLY FATHER! Through the day,
Have we wandered from thy way ?
Have our thoughts to error turned ?
Has within us evil burned ?

Heavenly Father! Oh, remove
Evil thoughts and evil love!
Give us truth our minds to fill;
Give us strength to do thy will.

Often we are led astray
From the true and righteous way;
But, we humbly pray to thee,
From the tempter keep us free.

_. .--- ------ -- --- --- -------~IIPI~L~I.
I -

_ .. -- -F ---



Heavenly Father! While we sleep,
Angel watchers round us keep.
When the morning breaks, may we,
Better, wiser children be.

- *1


IT is a very bad habit, this stretching the truth,
as one does a piece of India rubber; and the
worst of it is, that when any body forms the habit,
there is no telling how much it will grow upon
There is Jack Weaver, for instance. He is a
sailor all over, to be sure-an "old salt," as he
would call himself. But that does not confer
upon him any license to spin such yarns as he
does, to his young shipmates on the forward deck.
He has cruised half a dozen years after whales,
in the Pacific ocean, and, of course, has seen some



828 8 RI f.VtW


sights that are worth speaking of. But that is no
reason why he- should fill the head of that young
fellow sitting on a coil of rope with a hundred
cock-and-bull stories, that have scarcely a word
of truth in them, from beginning to end. Why,
he don't pretend to tell stories without stretching
the truth.
I know some boys, too, who seem to find it very
difficult to relate any incident as it took place.
They are so much in the habit of stretching the
truth, in fact, that those who are acquainted with
them seldom believe more than half of one of
their stories. These b9ys, however, have not the
slightest intention, when they are pulling out a
foot into a yard, of doing any thing wrong.
Very possibly they think they are telling a pretty
straight story. Habits are strong, you know-
especially bad habits. Just look at Selden Mason,
one of the best-natured boys I ever saw, and who
has not got an enemy among all his school-mates;
it is wonderful what a truth-stretcher he has got
to be. Every boy shakes his head, when he hears
a great story, and says it sounds like one of Sel-
den's yarns. And yet he is so particular and



minute in relating any thing, sometimes, that one
who did not know him would not suspect him of
treating the truth so badly. His apparent sin-
cerity reminds me of an anecdote related of
another boy, who had this habit worse than Sel-
den has, I should think. The boy remarked tMiat
his father once killed ninety-nine crows at a sin-
gle shot! He was asked why he did not say a
hundred, and have done with it. The fellow was
indignant. "Do you think I would tell a lie for
one crow ?" said he!
Selden Mason's habit of truth-stretching has
got such a hold of him now, that you can per-
ceive the marks of it in almost every thing he
says. I have sometimes been half sorry he was
so good a boy in other respects; for, as his com-
panions like him pretty well, there is the more
danger that they will catch the habit of him,
before they are aware of it. His teacher was
once asked what he thought of Selden, on the
whole. "I can't help being pleased with the
fellow," said lie, "' he is a good scholar, and very
obedient; but I should like him a great deal
better if he didn't tell such monstrous stories.



He is like a book all printed in italic letters, with
an exclamation point at the end of every sen-
tence." Selden has often gone by the name of
the "Exclamation Point," since that time.
Poor fellow! I wish he had tried to break him-
self of that habit, before it became so deeply
rooted. I am afraid it will stick to him as long
as he lives now; and if it does, he will get a very
bad character as a man of business. Scarcely
any reliance can be placed upon his word. No
matter how careful he may be to state a thing
exactly as it is, in his business matters, if he keeps
up this general habit, people will say, "Oh! that's
nothing but one of Mason's italic stories!"
Look out, my boy! It wouldn't be the strang-
est thing in the world, if you had got into a habit
something like this of Selden's, though it may not
yet be half so strong. But keep a sharp look-out,
at any rate. Take care that you never stretch
the truth.




ITI all is the beautiful lingerer in
S our crowded cities a favorite.
All love this gentle bird, that,
Shunning the cool and quiet
woods, stays with man in the
hot and noisy town, and, amid strife and the war
of passions, passes ever before him a living em-
blem of peace. It is no light chance," says
Willis, in his exquisite lines To a City Pigeon,"
It is no light chance. Thou art set apart
Wisely by Him who has tamed the heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair,
That else were sealed in this crowded air;
I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions gleam."

In these same lines, how truly and how sweetly
has he said:
"A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!


/ 4


Thou'rt linked with all that's fresh and wild,
In the prison'd thoughts of a city child;
And thy glossy wings
Are its brightest image of moving things."

In the language of the same poet, how often
have we said, as we looked forth upon the gentle

"Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove;
Thy daily visits have touched my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat;
And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye."

In his lines to "The Belfry Pigeon," Mr Wil-
lis has expressed most truthfully the feelings and
thoughts which all have had for this gentle crea-
ture, which,

"Alone of the feathered race,
Doth look unscared on the human face."

As we know of nothing on the subject more
appropriate and beautiful than the address referred
to, we will copy it for our young readers.

- --L III1-




SOn the cross beam under the Old South Bell,
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeples with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

"Whatever is rung on that noisy bell-
Chime of the hour or funeral knell-
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon-
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon-

L -------L_-- -- IL-- -- ----L---Y--LX
---------- ~- ~L



When the clock strikes clear at morning light-
When the child is waked with nine at night'-
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with love of prayer-
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

"Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee 1
With wings to fly to wood and glen.
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men,
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish f6r rest,
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest."


- ~--- --




A IDAT 10 PIlE 0I0 .MDao

"SCHOOL !" said Richard White, to himself;
"School! I don't want to go to school. Why am
I sent to school every day ? What good is there
in learning grammar, and arithmetic, and geo-
graphy, and all them things ? I don't like school,
and I never did."
"Dick!" called out a voice; and the lad, who
had seated himself on a cellar door, and placed
his satchel beside him, looked up, and met the
cheerful face of one of his school-fellows.





"What are you sitting there for, Dick? Don't
you hear the school bell ?"
"Yes; I hear it, Bill."
"Then get up and come along, or you will be
"I don't care if I am. I don't like to go to
"You don't?"
No, indeed. I'd never go to school if I could
help it. What's the use of so much learning?
I'm going to a trade as soon as I get old enough;
and Pete Elder says that a boy who don't know
A B C, can learn a trade just as well as one who
"I don't know any thing about that," replied
William Brown; "but father says, the more learn-
ing I get when a boy, the more successful in life
will I be when a man; that is, if I make a good
use of my learning."
"What good is grammar going to do a me-
chanic, I wonder ?" said Richard, contemptuously.
What use will the double rule of three, or frac-
tions, be to him ?"
"They may be of a great deal of use. Father


says we cannot learn too much while we are boys.
He says he never learned any thing in his life that
did not come of use to him at some time ot
"Grammar, and geography, and double rule of
three, will never be of any use to me."
"Oh, yes, they will, Dick! So come along.
The bell is nearly done ringing. Come, won't
you ?"
"No; I'm going out to the woods."
"Come, Richard, come! That will be playing
"No; I've made my mind up not to go to
school to-day."
"You'll be sorry for it, Dick, if you do stay
away from school."
"Why will I?" said the boy, quickly. "Are
you going to tell?"
"If I should be asked about you, I will not tell
a lie; but I don't suppose any one will inquire of
"Then why will I be sorry ?"
You'll be sorry when you're a man."
Richard White laughed aloud at the idea of his




being sorry when he became a man, for having
neglected his school when a boy.
' "If you are not going, I am," said William
Brown, starting off and running as fast as he
could. He arrived at the door of the school-
house just as the bell stopped ringing. In stop-
ping to persuade Richard not to play truant, he
had come near being too late.
As soon as William left him, Richard White
got up from the cellar door where he had been
reclining lazily, and throwing his satchel over his
shoulder, started for the woods. His books and
satchel were in his way, and rather heavy to
carry about with him for six or seven hours. But
he did not think it prudent to leave them any
where, for the person with whom they were left
would suspect him of playing truant, and through
that means his fault might come to the knowledge
of his parents.
After thinking over this, as he went on his
way, it occurred to Richard that the satchel was
as likely to betray him if carried along as if left at
some store to be called for on his return. Finally,
he concluded to ask for a newspaper at a shop.



With this he wrapped up his satchel, and taking it
under his arm, went on without any more fears
of betrayal from this source.
As soon as the foolish boy reached the woods,
he hid his satchel, so as to get clear of the trouble
it was to him, beside a large stone, and covered it
with leaves and long grass. Then he felt free,
and, as he thought, happy.
But it was riot long before he got tired of ram-
bling about alone. He listened, sometimes, to the
birds, and sometimes tried, with stones, to kill the
beautiful and innocent creatures. Then he thought
how pleasant it would be to find a nest, and carry
off the young ones; and he searched with great
diligence for a long time, but could find no nest.
Once a little striped squirrel glided past him,
and mounted a high tree. As it ran around and
around the great trunk, appearing and disappear-
ing at intervals, Richard tried to knock it off with
stones. But his aim was not very true. Instead
of hitting the squirrel, he managed to get a severe
blow himself; for a stone which he threw very
high, struck a large limb, and, bouncing back, fell
upon his upturned face, and cut him fadly.


From that moment, all the pleasure he had felt
since entering the woods was gone. The blood
stained his shirt bosom, and covered his hand
when he put it up to his face. Of course, the
wound, and the blood upon his shirt, would betray
him. This was his first thought, as he washed
himself at a small stream. But, then, all at once
it occurred to him-for evil suggestions are sure
to be made to us when we are in the way to re-
ceive them-that it would be just as easy to say
that a boy threw a stone, which struck him as he
was walking along the street, as to say that he got
hurt while in the woods. And, without stopping
to think how wicked it would be to tell a lie,
Richard determined to make this statement when
he got home.
The smarting of the wound, and the uneasiness
occasioned by a sight of the blood, so disturbed
Richard's feelings, that he was unable to regain
enough composure of mind to enjoy his day of
freedom in the wor ds. By twelve o'clock, he was
tired and hungry, and heartily wished himself at
home. But it would not do to go now; for if he
were to do so, his father would understand that


he had not been to school. There was no alter-
native for him but to remain out in the lonely
woods, without any thing to eat, for five hours
longer. And a weary time it was for him.
At last the sun, which had been for a very long
time, it seemed to him, descending toward the
western horizon, sunk so low that he was sure it
must be after five o'clock, and then, with sober
feelings, he started for home. The day had disap-
pointed him. He was far from feeling happy.
When he thought of the wound on his face and
the blood upon his bosom, he felt troubled. If he
told the truth, he knew he would be punished, and
if he told a lie, and was found out, punishment
would as certainly follow.
These were his thoughts and feelings when he
came to the place where he had concealed his
satchel. But, lo! his books were gone. Sore
one had discovered and carried them off.
Sadly enough, now, did Richard White return
home. We will not pain our young readers with
an account of his reception. The father already
knew that his son had not been to school, for a
man had found the satchel in the woods. Rich-


hard's name was on it, and this led the man to
bring it to his father, with whom he was ac-
Richard never went to school again. On the
very next week, he was sent to learn a trade, and
he soon found that there was a great difference
between a school-boy and an apprentice.
William Brown continued to go to school two
years longer, when he also went from home to
learn a trade. He was then a good scholar, and
had a fondness for books. Because he was learn-
ing a trade, he did not give up all other kinds of
leading, but, whenever he had leisure, he applied
himself to his books. Both he and Richard were
free about the same time. Richard had learned
his trade well, and was as good a workman as
William; but he had not improved his mind. He
had not been able to see the use that learning was
going to be to a mechanic.
Fifteen years have passed since these two lads
completed their terms of apprenticeship, and en-
tered the world as men; and how do they now
stand? Why, William Brown has a large man-
ufactory of his own, and Richard White is one of

_I __ ~_ _



his workmen. By his superior intelligence and
enterprise, the former is able to serve the public
interests by giving direction to the labors of a
hundred men, and his reward is in proportion to
the service he thus renders; while the latter
serves the public interest to the extent of only
one man's labors, and his reward is in exact ratio
Did Richard White gain any thing by his day
in the woods ? We think not. Is there any use
in education to a mechanic? Let each of our
young readers answer the question for himself.

-c-i~u-~i~u --~ ~-~-~rL---n.---- I---



A BEE who had chased after pleasure all day,
And homeward was lazily wending his way,
Fell in with a Spider, who called to the Bee:
"Good evening! I trust you are well," said he.

The bee was quite happy to stop awhile there-
For indolence always has moments to spare-
"Good evening !" he said, with a very low bow,
"My health, sir, alas! 'tis quite delicate now.

"From spring until autumn, from morning till night,
I'm obliged to be toiling with all my might;
My labors are wearing me out, and you know
I might as well starve, as to kill myself so."

The Spider pretended to pity the Bee-
For a cunning old hypocrite Spider was he-


-------- I/

Ic .

ii __


" I'm sorry to see you so ill," he said;
And he whispered his wife, He will have to be bled."

"Some people-perhaps they are wiser than I-
Some people are in a great hurry to die;
Excuse me, but candor compels me to say,
'Tis wrong to be throwing one's life away.

" Your industry, sir, it may do very well
For the beaver's rude hut, or the honey-bee's cell;
But it never would suit a gay fellow like me;
I love to be idle-I love to be free.

"This hoarding of riches-this wasting of time,
In robbing the gardens and fields-'tis a crime!
And then to be guilty of suicide, too!
I tremble to think what a miser will do."

'Tis strange the poor Bee was so stupid and blind.
"Mister Spider," said he, you have spoken my mind;
There's something within me that seems to say,
I have toiled long enough, and 'tis better to play.





"But how in the world shall I manage to live ?
I might beg all my life, and nobody would give.
'Tis easy enough to be merry and sing,
But living on air is a different thing."


The Spider was silent, and looked very grave-
'Twas a habit he had-the scheming old knave!
No Spider, intent on his labor of love,
Had more of the serpent, or less of the dove.


"To serve you would give me great pleasure," said he;
"Come into my palace, and tarry with me;
The Spider knows nothing of labor and care.
Creie, you shall be welcome our bounty to share.

"I live like a king, and my wife like a queen,
In meadows where flowers are blooming and green;
'Tis sweet on the violet's bosom to lie,
And list to the stream that runs merrily by.

"With us you shall mingle in scenes of delight,
All summer and winter, from morning till night;

__ ii


And when neathh the hills the sun sinks in the west,
Your head on a pillow of roses shall rest.

SWhen miserly Bees shall return from their toils,
We'll catch them, and tie them, and feast on the spoils;
I'll lighten their burdens-I ought to know how-
My pantry is full of such gentlemen now."

The Bee did not wait to be urged any more,
But nodded his thanks, as he entered the door.
"Aha !" said the Spider, "I have you at last."
And he caught the poor urchin, and wound him up fast.

The Bee, when aware of his perilous fate,
Recovered his wit, though a moment too late.
"0 treacherous Spider I for shame !" said he,
"Is it thus you betray a poor, innocent Bee ?"

The cunning old Spider then laughed outright;
"Poor fellow !" he said, "you are in a sad plight!
Ha! ha! what a dunce you must be to suppose,
That the heart of a Spider should pity your woes!


vin u



1_1 ___ ~1__ 1______ __ __
~_ ___ __ ___ __


SI never could boast of much honor or shame,
Though a little acquainted with both by name;
But I think if the Bees can a brother betray,
We Spiders are quite as good people as they.

"On the whole, you have lived long enough, I opine;
So now, by your leave, I will hasten to dine;
You'll make a good dinner, it must be confessed,
And the world, I am thinking, will pardon the rest."

This lesson for every one, little and great,
Is taught in that vagabond's tragical fate:
Of Ai who is scheming your friend to ensnare,
Unless yoWve a passion for bleeding, beware I




MMA'S aunt had given her a- six-
pence, and now the question was,
what should she buy with it ?
"I'll tell you what I will do,
mother," she said, changing her
mipd for the tenth time.
"Well, dear, what have you determined upon
now ?"
"I'll save my sixpence until I get a good many
more, and then I'll buy me a handsome wax doll.
Wouldn't you do that, mother, if you were me ?"
"If I were you, I suppose I would do just as
you will," replied Emma's mother, smiling.
"But, mother, don't you think that would be a
nice way to do ? I get a good many pennies and
sixpences, you know, and could soon save enough
to buy me a beautiful wax doll."
"I think it would be better," said Mrs Lee, "for
you to save up your money and buy something
worth having."

L ----r -----~I- -I~l---.-.'-~--r~u ~-ru-r~--~rrrl
----- r

-. -- --- i --I--------- ----Y---l



"Isn't a large wax doll worth having ?"
"Oh, yes! for a little girl like you."
"Then I'll save up my money, until I get
enough to buy me a doll as big as Sarah John-
In about an hour afterward, Emma came to
her mother, and said-
"I've just thought what I will do with my six-
pence. I saw such a beautiful book at a store,
yesterday! It was full of pictures, and the price
was just sixpence. I'll buy that book." ,
"But didn't you say, a little while ago, that you
were going to save your money until you had
enough to buy a doll ?"
"I know I did, mother; but I didn't think about
the book then. And it will take so long before I
can save up money enough to get a new doll. I
think I will buy the book."
"Very well, dear," replied Mrs Lee.
Not long after, Emma changed her mind again.
On the next day, her mother said to her-
"Your Aunt Mary is quite sick, and I am
going to see her. Do you wish to go with
me ?"


"Yes, mother, I should like to go. I am so
sorry that Aunt Mary is sick. What ails her ?"
"She is never very well, and the least cold
makes her sick. The last time she was here she
took cold."
As they were aboutoleaving the house, Emma
"I'll take my sixpence along, and spend it,
"What are you going to buy ?" asked Mrs Lee.
"I don't know," replied Emma. "Sometimes
I think I will buy some cakes; and then I think I
will get a whole sixpence worth of cream candy,
I like it so."
"Have you forgotten the book ?"
"Oh, no! Sometimes I think I will buy the
book. Indeed, I don't know what to buy."
In this undecided state of mind, Emma started
with her mother to see her aunt. They had not
gone far before they met a poor woman, with
some very pretty bunches of flowers for sale.
She carried them on a tray. She stopped before
Mrs Lee and her little girl, and asked if they
would not buy some flowers.

I --



"How much are they a bunch ?" asked Emma.
"Sixpence," replied the woman.
"Mother! I'll tell you what I will do with my
sixpence," said Emma, her face brightening with
the thought. that came into her mind. "I will buy
a bunch of flowers for Aunt Mary. You know
how she loves flowers. Can't I do it, mother ?"
"Oh, yes, dear! Do it, by all means, if you
think you can give up the nice cream candy, or
the picture book, for the sake of gratifying your
Emma did not hesitate a moment, but selected
a very handsome bunch of flowers, and paid her
sixpence to the woman with a feeling of real
Aunt Mary was very much pleased with the
bouquet Emma brought her.
"The sight of these flowers, and their delight-
ful perfume, really makes me feel better," she said,
after she had held them in her hand for a little
while; I am very much obliged to my niece, for
thinking of me."
That evening, Emma looked up from a book
which her mother had bought her as they returned

r __ ____ __ -



home from Aunt Mary's, and with which she had
been much entertained, and said-
"I think the spending of my sixpence gave me
a double pleasure."
"How so, dear ?" asked Mrs Lee.
"I made aunt happy, and the flower woman too.
Didn't you notice how pleased the flower woman
looked? I wouldn't wonder if she had little
children at home, and thought about the bread
that sixpence would buy them when I paid it to
her. Don't you think she did ?"
"I cannot tell that, Emma," replied her mother;
"but I shouldn't at all wonder if it were as you
suppose. And so it gives you pleasure to think
you have made others happy ?"
"Indeed it does."
"Acts of kindness," replied Emma's mother,
"always produce a feeling of pleasure. This
every one may know. And it is the purest and
truest pleasure we experience in this world. Try
and remember this little incident of the flowers as
long as you live, my child; and let the thought of
it remind you that every act of self-denial brings
to the one who makes it a sweet delight."

U__I __ __



rvLffi RoarnICz was an old bach-
elor-as thorough going an old
bachelor as any one need wish
to see. Some folks said he had
a great many droll whims in
his head. I don't know how
that was; but this I know, that he loved every
body, and almost every body loved him. He had
evidently seen better days, when, in my boyhood,
I first made his acquaintance; or rather, he had
been "better off in the world," as the phrase goes.
Whether he had been happier, may admit of a
question; for the wealthiest man.is not always the
happiest. There were marks about him which
seemed to show that he had been higher on the
wheel of fortune, and that the change in his con-
dition had had a chastening effect-just as some
fruits become mellower and better after being bruis.
ed a little and frost-bitten. He was a great lover
of children, and withal an inveterate story-teller.

L -- -Mom



His memory must have been pretty good, I think;
for he would often tell stories to his little friends
by the hour, about what happened to him when
he was a boy. Some of these stories were funny
enough; but the old gentleman usually managed
to tack on some good moral to the end of them.
By your leave, boys and girls, I will serve up two
or three of these stories for an evening's enter-
tainment. They will bear telling the second time,
I guess, and I will repeat them, as nearly as my
recollection will allow, in the good old bachelor's
own words.


A PERSON is, on the whole, a great deal better
off to be honest. Dishonesty is a losing game.
A wise man was once asked what one gained by
not telling the truth. The reply was, "Not to be
believed when he speaks the truth." He was
right. There are a great many other respects,
too, in which a dishonest person suffers by his
dishonesty. I must tell you what a lie once cost

_ I I __ __ ___ I



me. I was about nine years old, perhaps. In
justice to myself, I ought to say that I was not
much addicted to this vice; but told a fib once in
a great while, as I am afraid too many other little
boys, pretty good on the whole, sometimes allow
themselves to do. One very cool day in the
spring of the year, my father, who was a farmer,
was ploughing, and I was riding horse. I didn't
relish the task very well, as I was rather cold, and
old Silvertail was full of his mischief. It was a
little more than I could do to manage him. More-
over, there was some rare sport going on at
"Father," said I, after bearing the penance for
the greater part of the forenoon, "how much
longer must I stay in the field ?"
"About an hour," was the reply.
An hour seemed a great while in the circum-
stances, and I ventured to say, I wish I could go
home now-my head aches."
"I am very sorry," said my father; "but can't
you stay till it is time to go home to dinner ?"
I thought not-my headache was getting to be
pretty severe.



"Well," said he, taking me off the horse, and
no doubt suspecting that my disease was. rather in
my heart than my head-a suspicion far too well-
founded, I am sorry to say-" well, you may go
home. I don't want you to work if you are sick.
Go straight home, and tell your mother that I say
you must take a good large dose of rhubarb. Tell
her that I think it will do you a great deal of
There was no alternative. I went home, of
course, and delivered the message to my mother.
I told her, however, that I thought my head was
better, hoping to avoid taking the nauseous medi-
cine. But it was of no use. It was too late.
She understood my case as well as my father did.
She knew well enough my disease was laziness.
So she prepared the rhubarb-an unusually gene-
rous dose, I always thought-and I had to swal-
low every morsel of it. Dear me! how bitter it
was! It makes me sick to think of a dose of rhu-
barb, let me be ever so well. I am sure I would
have rode horse all day-and all night, too, for
that matter-rather than to have been doctored
after that sort. But it cured my laziness pretty

_ _


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