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Gem, or, Book of pleasant pages : designed for home instruction and amusement; with six colored engravings.

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Title:
Gem, or, Book of pleasant pages : designed for home instruction and amusement; with six colored engravings.
Series Title:
Gem, or, Book of pleasant pages : designed for home instruction and amusement; with six colored engravings.
Alternate title:
Fisher and Brother's home juvenile tales
Place of Publication:
Philadelphia
Baltimore
New York
Publisher:
Fisher and Brothers
Publication Date:
Language:
English

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University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
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This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
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AAA4353 ( ltqf )
ALH0586 ( ltuf )
46322724 ( oclc )
026781330 ( alephbibnum )

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Full Text







Pisher & Brother's Mome Juvenile Sales e«
THE GEM;
OR, BOOK OF

PLEASANT PAGES. -

DESIGNED FOR

istration and Smusement,



PRAPAADDAIIIIIVIF FIL LAIN"
WITH SIX COLORED ENGRAVINGS

eer



~n—eom

*
FISHER & BROTHER:

No, 15 NORTH SIXTH STREET, PHILADELPHIA: .
No. 74 CHATHAM STREET, NEW YORK:
No. 5 NORTH ST, BALTIMORE: $
71 COURT ST., BOSTON, "@



ey
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by
FISHER S& BROTHER,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

i



THE FOUNDLINGS ;
OR, A MYSTERY EXPLAINED.

[SEE FRONTISPIECE. ]

—

Mr. Rawson and his family, consisting of his wife, his
mother, and hissister, were one evening sitting around
the fire, busily engaged in conversing upon various topics,
when a loud rap was heard at the front door. It was sup-
posed by the family that it must be the summons of some
traveller who sought a shelter from the cold, as it was a
chilly, piercing cold night in the latter part of Nove

Mrs. Rawson arose and took the lamp, for the
of answering the demand. It was an unusual occu
to be thus alarmed so late as nine o’clock in the ev
in that still country village. ‘ « d

On opening the door, Mrs. Rawson could discover no
one, and it was in vain that she attempted to penetrate
the darkness without: her eye could behold no one, and she
was about to close the door, when thefaint murmur of an
infant’s voice attracted her attention. On looking around
upon that portion of the step that was concealed from view
as she stood within the door way, she discovered a basket, .
which she immediately took up and bore into the apart-

ment she had just left.
It would be impossible to describe the wonder and as-
* whe ° S




oe
¢
POR he



6 THE FOUNDLINGS.







tonishment that were displayed at exposing the contents
of that mysterious basket. Its contents were no less than
that of a beautiful little baby boy, nicely stowed away in
a fine warm blanket. Of course, it was of no use to ask
where it came from, or who left it on the step, for all these
facts were involved in a deep and impenetrable mystery,
a mystery which, perhaps, a life-time would never unfold.

Suffice it to say, however, the little stranger was _pro-
perly taken care of, and shared the bed and attentions of
its new-found parents.

The little new-comer appeared to be about three months

old, plump as a pigeon, and as pretty as a picture.

Mr. Rawgon determined to attempt to ascertain who its
tural mother was, if possible—if not, he resolved to
teit as his ow child.
€ must now turn our attention to another event which
€ same evening, was transpiring in another part of

‘this same town.

~ In this village resided one Mrs. Wilson, a widow lady,
who with her son} and her sister, constituted the whole of
her family. On wt evening referred to, they were in like
manner seated arotnd a table in the centre of the room,
before a warm fire, and the son was busily engaged in
reading for their amusement, whilst they were as busily
engaged in sewing. ‘+ %

A loud rapat the front door startled them all, at that

hour of the evening, which was late for thecountry. The
son arose, and taking the lamp, proceeded to answer the



‘

THE FOUNDLINGS. 7





summons. On opening the door, a gust of wind extin-
guished it: he heard distant footsteps, and quickly re-
turned to re-light his lamp, but on coming back to the door
all was still: he saw nothing but a bundle on the step,
which he took into the house, and placed upon the table
around which the family was seated. On opening the bun-
dle, which was found to be a basket tied up in a piece of
sheet, it was found to contain a sweet pretty little plump
girl baby, apparently about three months old.

Here was food for conjecture, wonderment and surprise :
and this in fact was all they could do, for all else was wrap-
ped in impenetrable mystery. The family of Mr. Rawson
and of Mrs. Wilson were quite intimate together, notwith-
standing they lived a good half mile apart. Early the
next morning good Mrs. Wilson visited her friend Mrs.
Rawson for the purpose of relating the wonderful occur-
rence of thé previous evening: but judge of Mrs. Wil-
son’s surprise on entering Mrs. Rawson’s house, to find a
little baby asleep, on a little temporary bed made for it,
on the sofa in her parlor. . y .

- Mrs. Rawson soon related the story of, the last night, and
it was so like the event, in all its particulars, that occure
red at Mrs. Wilson’s, she could hardly congain herself till
Mrs. Rawson got through her recital, she was so anxious |
to tell her story. em

Mrs. Rawsont having, however, related the fatts,: Mrs.
Wilson now told a story which matched her’s~in almost.
every particular. ‘ “y



8 THE FOUNDLINGS.





Each party had fully concluded to adopt the little ones
which fortune had thus singularly cast upon their care
and protection.

hen the secret of the “ foundlings” was out, you may
well suppose that it afforded a subject for gossip among
the neighbors for any number of weeks and months.

When all attempts at finding any clue to the parents of
these children had utterly failed, they were formally
adopted into the families upon whose door-stones they had
been left. The little boy received the name of Frank Raw-
son, and the little girl received the name of Fanny Wilson.

You may be sure that these little children were very

ecious to their new-found parents, and received every

ind of care and attention, that love and sympathy could
dictate. They were bandsomely ,clothed, appropriatel
fed, and properly protected, and their parents were well
rewarded for their care, in seeing them growing up in a
state of health. We must now pass over a period in their
infancy, to the time when they are old enough to attend
school. Here their acquaintance with each other begins.

These children.were very much beloved by their boa -
mates, for the amiableness of their dispositions, and the
frankness of their natures.

As i uently the case among school children, who
often their pet associates, these little ones, Frank and
Fanny, were frequently together. Theré was not that

striking resemblance between them; which so often char-
acterise twins—still, the people said there was a strong



THE FOUNDLINGS. : 9





resemblance; whether this was the effect of that peculiar
power in human nature of persons assimilating who
constantly together, or whether this was but an imagi-
nary likeness conceived by the neighbors, from seeing
them so often in each other’s company, we are unable to
decide. They grew up together, and a strong attach-
ment consequently sprung up between them. On both
sides the parents saw this: they knew that their histories
were similar—perhaps their origin was the same; at all
events their tastes and feelings were similar, and they en-
couraged the attachment.

We are now called upon to make another leap in our
story. We arrive now af that point where Frank Raw-
son and Fanny Wilson have reached the age of twenty.
Their attachment for each other continues unabated, and
Fanny Wilson is now the recipient of the constant atten-
tions of Frank Rawson.

Both feel that they have arrived at that point in their
history when a mutual por ere becomes necessary
They made a formal pledge of mutual love, and Frank
Rawson made to Fanny Wilson a proffer of his heart and
hand which she accepted. a

The parents on both sides watched the prosressa their
growing love, and gave their sanction to t union qpshese
fond dapeted a % iii .

reparations marriage were being a
the wedding day was tama "

The singular history of these two persons were now

a,



10. THE FOUNDLINGS.





as familiar to the inhabitants as household words, and the
parents felt desirous that this happy conclusion to their
children’s minority should be as public,as was now their
once private history.

The village pastor was-consulted on the matter, and
readily acquiesced in performing the ceremony of marriage
in the village church on the afternoon appointed for that
ceremony. A wedding in church, though not a new event,
was nevertheless a rather uncommon one, consequently the
circumstance called together all the neighbors, far and
near. The people had assembled, and all were upon the
tip-toe of anxious expectation. Soon the village pastor
was seen coming down the lane, leading to the church,
clad‘in his black robe, who entered the house, walked slow-
ly up, the aisle, and took a seat within the chancel. In a
few minutes after a carryall drove up, containing the bride
and bridegroom, and two friends, and immediately after,
another, containing Mr. and Mrs. Rawson, Mrs. Wilson,
and her son and sister.

The bride, bridegroom and their two friends proceeded
up the aisle, and stood in front of the chancel, whilst the
village pastor stood up to greet them. Mr. and Mrs. Raw-
son, and Mrs. Wilson, who were to give the parties away,
took a seat in the front pew, near the chancel.

The pastor now arose, and put the usual question to as-
certain if the union about to be formed was with the con-
sent of parents, whereupon Mr. Rawson and Mrs. Wilson,
who were to give the parties away, took a seat in the front
pew, near the chancel.

J



THE FOUNDLINGS. ’



The minister now stated “ that if there was any one
sent who knew of any cause why the parties now about
to be married, should not be joined together, they must
now assert it, or ever after hold their peace.” -

At this point of the ceremony, a female in a remote cor-
ner of the church, with her face covered with a deep black
veil, arose, and in a firm and distinct voice, excl
“1 forbid this marriage.”

On hearing this the pastor desired the woman to advance

to the altar. She didso. The pastor now inquired,“Wo- |

man, on what authority do you forbid these rites?”
“ They are brother and sister,” replied the woman. The

audience were completely electrified at this unexpected ~

intelligence. The bride and bridegroom looked into each

other’s pale faces, as much as to ask, “ What does all this

mean 7”?

“Do you know this to be true, woman?” inquired the ©

pastor.
“I do!” replied the woman, in the same firm voice.
“ And you are,” — here the pastor was interrupted by the

woman, who exclaimed with emphasis, “J am their mo--

ther.”

“What proof have we of this?” inquired pastor.
The woman then gave a clear and distinct recital of her
leaving her children upon their door-steps, in the month of
November, so many years a As a reason for the act,
she related the story of the death of her husband, who left
hef with these twin children, when but about three months



wm - THE FOUNDLINGS.

A.



old. They lived in a village some five miles distant. Her
husband was well known to the kind persons with whom
she had left these infants. She must take this step, or her
children must starve. Since she left them on the steps she
had not lost sight of them—she had been with them, and
about them, and watched their course. At this point of
her history, she raised the thick veil that hid her face.
She was about forty-five years of age: the resemblance

between her and her children was so strong, that all were -

convinced of the truth of her story. The result of this de-
noument was, that the children provided a home for their
mother, and they lived together the rest of- their days, a

happy family.
TRUE AFFECTION,

The affection a the mere fact of helplessness
and dependence fills the heart of a woman is the divinest
attribute of her nature Is there a more lovely sight on
earth than the devotion of'a daughter to an aged, perhaps
peevish, parent, sinking into a second childhood ?

This true affection is the more eminently displayed in
the relationship of wife, mother and sister—those house-
hold jewels that adorn the family. altar and fireside.

‘



oy “ee

THE LITTLE MILK-MAID.
——=-— we

There was once a little milkmaid who lived at a farm-
house. Her name was Sally. On the summer mornings
she used to be up and dressed at five o’clock. Then a
took her bright milk-pail on her head, and her three-legged
stool in her hand, and called her little dog Trusty, and
tripped over the dewy grass to the stile that led to, the
field where the cows fed. The wild thyme gave olf a
sweet scent as she walked along; and the green leaves
glistened in the sun, for the dew was still on them; and
the lark flew up high, and his song came pouring down over
her head. When she got to the stile, she saw all the four
cows quite at the other side of the field. One was called
Dapple, one Brindle, one Frisky, and one Maggie. The
saw her get over the stile, but never stirred a step towards
her. Dapple looked up for a moment, and then a eat-
ing again; Brindle did not seem to mind her; Maggie
was lying down, and did not move; and Frisky lashed
her. tail and shook her head, and went on eating.

« Oh, this willnever do!” said Sally. “ Trusty, Trusty
—go and bring me Dapple.” :

apple was brown all over, except a white face and
tail. Trusty ran behind Dapple, and barked two or three
times, feat to tell her tomove on. And she began to walk
slowly and gravely towards Sally. Then Sally put dow:.
43



tlh ; :

iv THE LITTLE MILEAMAID.

her little three-legged stool, and sat down by Dapple and
milked her. When she had done, she gave her a pat, and
said, “ Now, youmay go.” Then Dapple began to eat
again. :

“ Now, Trusty,” said Sally, “ go and bring me Brindle.”
Brindle was all white. Trusty ran up to her, and she be-
gan to walk on; but when she had got to the middle of the
field, she stopped to eat, and Trusty was obliged to bark
pretty sharply, and tell her it was shameful of her. Then
she went on, and was milked.

Sally next sent Trusty to bring Frisky. She was brown
and.white, prettily spotted ; but she was sometimes quite
‘naughty when she was milked, and this time she seemed to
mean to be so: for, as soon as Trusty got up to her, she
set off and gallopped up to Sally. Then, just as Sally
began to mill her, she walked on, and left her and her stool
behind, and very nearly knocked the pail over besides.

- So Sally had to get up, and move stool and pail onwards,
and then she said, “ Stand still, Frisky,” and stroked and
patted her. So she stood still, and was very good.

“ Now, Trusty, bring pretty Maggie,” said Sally. Mag-
gie was black and white, and very pretty and gentle. She
came directly, and stood quite still and was milked. Then
owe all done.

lly now lifted the pail, which was quite full, on her
head, and carried it so firmly and steadily, that she had
not to put her hand up to it, not even when she got over
the stile, and in this way she walked along” batk to the
‘arm.





i >
THE LITTLE MILK-MAID. 6.
— >>> SSS Se

Then she went into the cool, fresh dairy, and Trust
lay down at the door. The dairy had a stone shelf all
round it, with shallow round pans ranged all along it, all
filled with sweet rich milk, covered with thick yellow
cream. Here she took down her pail; and first she filled
a large jug with the new milk for breakfast.

She then poured all the rest into two or three pans, like
the others on theshelf. Next, she took a flat wooden spoon,
and skimmed the cream off of several of the others, and

ured it all into a square wooden machine called a churn.
Mt had a handle which turned round. She threw in some
salt, and then began to turn the handle round and round,
and it turned a wheel inside, and the wheel beat and splash-
ed the cream round and round in the churn. Presently
she looked in, and said, “It’s not come yet.” Then
she turned the handle round again for some time. At —
last when she looked in, there was a large lump of fine
fresh butter, and all about it a thin white liquid, called
buttermilk, and all the cream was gone. She took out
the butter, and put it into a bowl of cold spring .wa-
ter, and made it up into three large rolls with two flat
wooden knives. Next she cut off three or four slices,
made them up into nice little rounds, and pressed them
with a wooden stamp, with a rose bud and leaves cut
out upon it,.and when she took it off, there were the
rose bud and leaves marked on the butter. © ;

Then Sally poured all the buttermilk, and all the tmilk
from which she had skimmed the cream, into a clean

2 he



* 16 THE LITTLE MILE-MAID.



wooden pail, and stirred in some barley-meal, and carried
it off to the pig sty. She stood still oytside the paling of
the pig’s little yard, and called “ Pig—pig—pig !”’ and out
came the pigs from their sty, little and big, grunting and

ueaking and scrambling, and tumbling over one another.

hen she poured all her pailful into the pig’s trough, and
then they ee wpeains ot grunting and scrambling
more than ever, and put their long noses in, some of them
up to their eyes, and some got their feet in, and all of
them gobbled it up as fast as they possibly could. i+) -: -)

After Sally had fed the pigs, she took out some corn, and
went to the poultry yard, and called, “ Chuck—chuck—
chuck!” and then the cocks and hens, and ducks and
geese, came running round her, crowing and clucking,
and quacking, and cackling, and the pigeons flew down
and helped to eat, and all of them pecked up the corn as
fast as they could. In the afternoon they had boiled po-
tatoes and sopped bread and vegetables, and curd, too,
if Sally had been making whey.

When Sally had done all this, she went back into her
room, and opened the bed curtains; and there was lying
a little rosy-cheeked girl with light curly hair. And when
Sally looked at her, she opened two large blue eyes, and
held out her arms, and Sally kissed her, and said, “ Are

ou ready to get up, little Annie?” And she said “ Yes.”
bis was Sally’s little sister, that her kind mistress let her
have with her to love and take care of.

Then Sally took up little Annie, and got a large brown



THE LITTLE MILK-MAID. sc an





pan for her bath, and stood her in it, dnd brought a jug
of fresh cold water to pour over her.

Little Annie stood very still, but when the water was:

coming; she held up her hands and said, “ Will it be cold?”

“Oh no!” said Sally, “it’s a beautiful warm morning.”
Then she washed and dressed little Annie, and afterwards
they had their breakfast together in a nice comfortable
kitchen. Sally had a a appetite after having been so
busy, and little Annie had a large basin of boiled bread
and milk, and she always gave some to Trusty.. This
was the end of the little Milk-maid’s morning work.

—=0 (=

ANECDOTE.

In 1586, Philip the Second of Spain sent the young
constable of Castile to Rome, to congratulate Sixtus the
Fifth upon his exaltation. The pontiff, dissatisfied at the
youth of the ambassador, pettishly said, “Is your mas-
ter deficient in men, that he hds sent me an ambassador
without a beard ?”—* If my sovereign had thought,” re-

lied the proud Spaniard, “ that the merit consisted in the
ba he would no doubt have sent you a goat, and not

a gentleman like me.”

f r

~ Ve,



THE GUARDIAN DOG.

[SEE ENGRAVING. }
—e—- fr

Little Harry Hudson was an only child, consequently
the pet of his father and mother, and the delight of his
‘old grandfather. —

The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, the old
grandfather already spoken of, little Harry, and a young
cousin, Mary Wright, who was a resident also in Mr.
Hudson’s family.

When Master Harry was about four years old, one of
his uncles who lived not many miles distant, sent him a
beautiful little spaniel pup, the care of which devolved en-
tirely upon his young master Harry. The new-comer
into the family received all his food from the hand of Har-
ry; he slept in the same bed with him at night, and was
his constant companion by day.,

Harry would go no where, would neither eat his meals .
or go to bed, without his dog was at his side. The dog,
being one of the tractable breed, was soon taught a num-
ber of innocent tricks which, under the direction of mas-
ter Harry, he would frequently play off to the amusement
of the-family and the neighbours. ‘

The attachment between Harry and his dog was eyery
day becoming stronger, until at last the doggwo e

y a 8 8 Ogg wou





oe

3) 17)

aS .
N a

THE GUARDIAN DOG.

es ee eee 3





(19)



4,

Rie ica
cen





THE GUARDIAN DOG. 21



ceive no food from any other hands than those of his mas-
ter. : ;
The dog as yet had received no name, and it was sug-
gested, on one occasion, by the village schoolmaster; that
the dog ought to be named “ Fido,” because of his faith-
ful attachment to little master Harry. In accordance
with that suggestion, the dog received the name of “ Fido,”
and knew no other as long as he lived.

Although the dog would stand beside the father, or mo-
ther, or even the old grandfather of » and receive
their caresses, yet the moment he heard the voice of
his young master, he would dart like an arrow towards
him, lie down, and roll at his feet, or cover his face and
hands with his kisses. ‘

One morning Harry wanted to take a little walk, and
his cousin una to coax him to leave “ Fido” at
home. Harry scratched his head, and thought.af sana
finally consented to go without him, but he been

ne more than ten minutes before the was missing,

aving gone, as they very truly suspected, in scarch of his
Baring arcived &t, sx, genre ol age, mea

aving arrived at six years o . was
inened te take short aie wee other i
than his dog, having never met with any accident, or
missed returning in season; hence the parents felt little
or.no anxiety. But this day was an exception to all
others that had preceded it. Twelve o’clock found the
family all seated around â„¢ a table, but neither the
2



22 THE GUARDIAN DOG.





dog nor Harry was present. The father went to the door
an looked, the cousin ran down the lane and called, but
all to no purpose; neither Harry or Fido were anywhere
to be seen.

The parents now became alarmed; messengers from
among Mr. Hudson’s workmen, were dispatched to the
neighboring farm-houses, to endeavour to obtain intelli-

nce, but in vain. They had seen young Harry and his

og pass their houses, but beyond that they knew nothing.
The neighbors were aroused, and went in different direc-
tions in pursuit of the lost child, but they only returned to
say, that they had called for Harry in every direction, but
7 ee of him. cain ha
oO ther now suggested, that as t ad
sought in vibe, oad that wherever Harry was, thers the
would be, that they should try once more, and not
Harry, but call for the dog, as it would be possible
that the dog might answer, if Herry was in a condition to
neither hear or answer.

This piece of advice was acted upon. Away went the
neighbors again in pursuit, and’the fields and woods re-
sounded with the shrill whistles, and loud calls, of the
sturdy farmers.

Soon a faint bark of a dog was heard at a great dis-
tance; they followed the sound, still whistling and calling,
when lo! and behold! there they found master Harry ru
bing his eyes, having just been aroused from a nap by the
barking his faithful dog, who sat beside him, staring his
young master in the face.



THE GUARDIAN DOG. 28



The facts in the case were, that master Harry had so
long trudged about in the woods and fields, that he had be-
come weary, and he laid down = the to rest him-
self, and, before he was aware of it, he fell into a sound

| sleep, whilst his faithful companion watched and guarded

him.

The joy of the family may easily be imagined, when
they a the little fellow trudging 4 ‘bee with his
dog by his side, and it may also be readily imagined how
much stronger was their attachment to the faithful com-
patiion of their beloved little boy.

The family caressed the dog with more than ordinary
fondness, but he stuck close to his young master, who fed
him first, before he would eat anything himself.

Day by day master Harry became more and more at-
tached to his dog, and having now begun to attend the
village school, his faithful would follow him to the
door, and, either lie down in the adjoining wood shed, or,
on a pleasant day, under a tree near by, and patiently
wait for his a return.

On occasions when Harry would not return from school
at noon, but stay until its close in the afternoon, Fido
would always the little basket containing his mas-
ter’s dinner, and when Harry partook of it at noon, his
dog always sat beside him, and received.a liberal share
of it. Lis,

' One day Harry was missed by the dog; he laid about
the house, taking no notice of any one; occasionally he



24 THE GUARDIAN DOG.





|

would go out in front of the house, look in different direc-
tions, howl mournfully, and, returning into the house,
would Jie down under a table for hours together, as if
awaiting the return of his young master.

We have said that the dog missed his young master ;
he did so, for poor Harry was laying upon his bed up stairs”
—sick—very sick.

Although he occasionally inquired for his dog, yet his
a. advised the family that he should not see him,

ior fear the excitement it might induce, and the violence of
the dog’s caresses, might combine to produce an unfavor-
ble result, for Harry Cine sick of a brain fever, it was
_— that he should be kept as still and as quiet as pos- —
sible

One morning, Fido followed Mrs. Hudson up stairs, and
saw her enter the room where he and his young rer a
had slept so long together, and would have entered, had he
not been gently repulsed by Mrs. Hudson, who did so much
inst her inclination. Asif by an instinct amounting |
almost to reason, the dog seemed to realize that his young |
master was in that room, and he laid himself down at |

the door, and occasionally breathed out a most piteous
, but having been frequently driven down stairs by |
nurse, he took up his old quarters under the kitch- ©

en table, where he would lay and groan from morning

till night. He refused all food, notwithstanding it was
frequently offered him, and all the nourishment that he
was known to take was simply water. Three or four |



THE GUARDIAN DOG. 25



times a day he would visit the brook, take a few laps
of water, and, turning back, would utter a most piteous
howl, and return to his old resting-place beneath the
kitchen table.

The affection and care of father and mother, and the

” skill of the physician, were of no avail: poor Harry died.

Sadness and gloom now rested upon that hitherto happy

household.

The preparations for the funeral having been made, and
the day of burial having arrived, Harry’s body was brought
into the spacious kitchen, and the coffin placed upon a ta-
ble in the middle of it. The friends and neighbors of the
family were assembled, the prayer was said, and the usual
consolations of such occasions administered, and the neigh- ©
bors passed up to look through the opgn coffin lid, to
dice more, and for the last time, upon young Harry’s face,

Among the number assembled was the schoolmaster of
the village: he was Harry’s teacher, and had become very
much attached to him. He stood for several minutes ga-
zing upon his cold and pallid features, and as he turned

away, he exclai “ Alas, poor Harry!”

The faithful dog heard his master’s name: he jum
into a chair that stood beside the table, thence from
table he jumped upon the coffin. He saw the face of his
young master: he lapped it with his tongue, then jum
to the floor, laid himself out beneath the table, utt a
dismal groan, and died. All this, which was done int’
time than it has required to tell it, so astonished ‘al! ‘pre-

.D ist



26 THE GUARDIAN DOG.

eo LE——E====a[a[l==a[a=a=anaSeaee ee

sent, that no one approached the dog, or attempted to
drive him from his position.

The body of young Harry was now borne to the
churchyard, while the family, oppressed with grief and
sorrow, followed on, accompanied by their sympathizing
neighbors.

he family took their last farewell of Harry, and re-
turned sorrowful to their gloomy home. Judge of their
surprise, to find, on their return, the faithful dog still lying
under the table. They spoke to him: they touched him:
yet, he moved not:—he was dead. They observed his
act while upon the coffin: they saw him jump to the floor
—they heard his groan: but did not imagine that he died.
‘Such was the fact. What devotion, what friendship, on
the of adumb animal! Well might his conduct pat
to the blush many of the human race, who of course lay
claim to intelligence: what an example have we here of
unshaken devotion, of unchangeable friendship?

A memento was raised over the remains of poor Harry,
and _— a youth of the town would repair to the spot,
and tell his companion the story of the “ Guardian dog.”

Mr. Hudson sent to a neighboring cfty, and obtained the
services of a man whose business was to preserve birds
and animals, and Fido was prepared in the usual manner,
and fixed in a sitting position, so as to look as natural as if
alive. He was then placed upon the mantel-piece of the
parlour, as a memento of his fidelity to Harry, as well as
a remembrance of their son, and of the strong attachment
that existed between him and his dog.



THE GUARDIAN DOG. 27



Oftentimes would the father relate the story to some
stranger or traveller, who might ask “why he kept that
dog sitting upon his mantel-piece’”’ and tears would run
profusely down the listener’s cheeks as he heard the plain-
tive story.

We are sometimes blamed for the attachment we mani-
fest for a dog; but, who, that is conversant with the nu-
merous instances on record, of their fidelity, and watch-
fulness, their affection, and devotion, can help loving a dog
for the nobleness of his nature? Unlike most other ani-
mals, they seem to appreciate human kindness, and reci-
procate it with a show of affectionate devotion and love,
which approaches so near to reason, and seems so far
onan instinct, that one is puzzled to know to which to ate
tribute it.

——==0) (=

ADVICE.

He that would pass the latter part of his life with honor
and decency, must, when he is young, consider that he
shall one day be old, and lay up knowl for his sup-
port, when his powers of acting shall forsake him; and re-
member when e is old, that he has once been young, and
forbear to animadvert with unnecessary rigor, on faults
which experience only can correct.



THE LAMB
THAT WOULD BE WISER THAN ITS MOTHER,
aaibies

There was a lamb that lived in a green field with its
mother, a careful, gentle sheep. This lamb spent a very
happy life, and as it was now the month of June, she was
well grown, and could eat and i play about ye nese
She used to jump and frisk very often. Sometimes she
would run round and round her mother; then she would
spring quite off the ground: then she would take long races
up and down the field, shaking her tail up and down from
side to side; at last, quite tired, she would stretch herself
out on the soft, cool grass, and fall asleep; but she was
soon awake, and ready to begin her fun and play again.

One day, while she was frisking about the field, she ran
up the bank, and peer through a hole in the hedge, at
the field on the other side. Then she ran back to her mo-
ther, crying, “Oh, mother! I have seen such a beautiful
field. It is much greenep and pleasanter than this. I
should like to get into it, and eat the grass there.”

But her mother said, “ No, child, you must not go there,
This is our field: we have no business in the other.”

Still the lamb said, “But 1 should like to go. Let me

”
“ No,” repeated her mother, “ you must not go there.

You do not know what dangers you might fall into!”
28



THE LAMB. 29

——

Again the lamb said, “ But I should like to go.”

Next morning this wilful lamb did nothing but think of
the other field. . She could neither eat grass, nor play, nor
enjoy herselfat all. At last she ran again to the bank,
and a through the hole. ‘Then she looked back at
her er, who was quietly cropping the grass. Then
she put her head through the hole. Then her two fore
legs. At last tail and all got through. Now what joy was
she in! She ran, and gambolled, and jumped. She tast-
ed the and it seemed sweeter by far than the grass in
the old field. “I am wiser than my mother,” she thought
to herself. “ She never tasted such grass as this.”

Presently she to wander all round the field, and
came to another hole in the hedge. She peeped through
again, and there she saw another field that looked finer
still. So through this hole she went; and then she gam-
bolled and jumped, and ran till she was tired, and ate
grass till she could eat no more.

Then she n torun round the field again, and came
to another in the hedge, and saw a field beyond that
which seemed finer still than al sthe others. Into it she
went, and again friéked, ran, played, and ate grass till she
could eat no more.

But now the sun got low in the sky, and the long sha-
dows of the trees lay across the grass, and it looked very
lonely. The lamb began to wonder whether her mother



was uneasy about her, and thought she would go home. -

She therefore ran along the hedge looking for the hole.

|



80 THE LAMB.



The sun went quite down, and it grew darker and
darker. The nde cold, and elt through the
. The am w quite frightened, and could
at the hole. She a for her mother, and ran up
and down so fast that she got quite confused, and lost her
senses, and would not have seen the hole even if there
had been light enough. y

At last this ittle thing ran up a high bank, and
jomeet up to aan the me but she only knocked
— d against the stump of atree. Then she lost her
footing, a slipped down into a deepditch of dry mud.

Then she cried and ran along the bottom of it, quite una-
ble to get out, and at last fell asleep, tired out and fall of

and grief. .

When > awoke it was light, and she cried for her
mother, and looked round, but instead of her pleasant green
field, she saw nothing except the steep muddy banks of
the ditch. Then she cried more than ever, ran along
as fast as she could.

At last she thought to herself that it was of no. use to
cry, and that she had better go slower, and see if she could
not get out of the ditch somewhere. Soshe walked along,
looking at the side, and at last she found a place where it
- ‘was not so very steep, and climbed up got into the
field again. ba

The lamb now tried again to find the hole. She ran
across the grass, and looked everywhere, but could not
find it. At last she stopped and listened. Sne thought



THE LAMB. $1





she heard a sound that she knew. It came through the
air from a distance, a mournful cry of baa— baa—, so far
off that she could hardly hear it; but she knew it, for it
was her mother’s voice. ‘

Now the lamb knew which way to go. Sheran straight
across the field, found the hole, and got through into the
next—then into the next—then she heard the sound of her
mother’s mournful cry quite plain. She ran fast and
straight across to the hole that led to her own happy field,
and pushed her way through it in a minute. Then she
looked round, and saw her re mother wandering up and
down, crying for her little lamb.
¢- “ Baa—!” cried the mother.

“Maa—!” answered the lamb, in a voice that said
plainly, “ Here lam, herel am!” Her mother saw her,
and ran to her, and fondled her, and rejoiced over her;
and the happy lamb jumped about her mother, and rubbed
against her, and danced round her, and it would have taken
a great deal to make her ever again think herself wiser .
than her mother. ,

iis
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

Love is a noble and a generous passion—it can be found-
ed only on a pure and ardent friendship—on an exalted
respect—on an implicit confidence in its object. .



LOOK FORWARD !

a oe

Ona lovely afternoon in the month of July, little Edward
Rashley went into the country, to spend a half-holiday with
his aunt Catherine. The sun shone brightly, over the
green fields, the birds were singing in full ahbeas in the
woods, and butterflies of all hues were fluttering in the
air. Soon after he arrived at his aunt’s, he went out to
have a ramble in the fields by himself, but soon got tired of
the solitude ; and not being much accustomed to thinking
or examining the nature of the objects around him, his
mind was as idle as his body, so that very little tempta-
tion was needed to lead him into mischief

While Edward was sauntering along, snipping the heads
of dandelions, or plucking handfuls of long grass and scat-
tering them about, a large and brilliant dragon-fly came
hovering around, and was about to settle down near to
where he was walking. Off went his cap in an instant,
and the pursuit began. It led him a long and fruitless
chase, however. ¥ Now, just within his grasp, his cap was
about to enclose it ; now darting off, it shot away through
the fields many hundred yards ahead of its pursuer. But
Ned persevered, and again came up with the gaudy in-
sect, now slowly sailing onwards a few yards before him,
a few feet above the level of his head. Thus:eagerly ga-
zing _— and running heedlessly onwards, his whole



LOOK FORWARD! 88



attention engrossed with the object of gern. he saw not,
lying immediately before him, a deep drain that had been
cut across the field to carry off the water; and, just as he
was about to strike down the dragon-fly, down ie himself
tumbled into the drain. et a ase oa le.

He soon got up again, however, at first thinking
received hittle haohes no sooner were his feet placed
upon the ground, than a shot through one. of his
legs, and he felt himself unable to stand upright. He
had sprained one of his ankles very severely, and there he
lay, quite unable to move a single step homewards. He
shouted loudly to a man walking at a distance across the
~ fields, who came to his relief and carried him home to the
house of his aunt. They had him placed on a sofa, with
a doctor to see him,-and all the care and attention that his
kind aunt could bestow ; but there he was, and there he
would be, a prisoner and a patient, for perhaps several
weeks to come.

One day, seating herself on the sofa beside Edward, she
kindly drew his attention to the causes that led to the a¢-
cident from which he was suffering, and showed him that
it was an evil from which might come much good, if he
would but reflect upon it when future temptations came
in his way. She convinced him he ought to think about
his pleasures as well as merely wish toenjoy them. I can-
not indeed tell you all she said to him, but her words
made him think, and then he remembered that he hadoften
suffered from not looking before him.



84 ; LOOK FORWARD
ae

Once, for example, when going to school on a fine morn-
ing, a regatta -was about to take place not far from where
he lived. He had nearly arrived at. the school, when he
met a band of music, with colours flying, and a number
of people, all crowding towards the. place. “Ah!”
thought he, * how nice it would be to go and see the re-
gatta. Such crowds would be there, and such music, the
cannons firing, and the flage flying, with the boatmen all
dressed in fine liveries, and the boats dashing along through
the water.” Scarcely was the wish formed, when it was
confirmed by two of his companions coming up and urging
' him along with them. It was indeed a beautiful race,
and he much enjoyed the sight: but when it was all over,
the thought of what he had done arose and forced itself
upon him. Then the looking backward was very unplea-
sant; and much more so was the looking forward to his
ae at school, for the master was a stern man, and

d certainly punish him for being absent without leave.

He felt, aed that mse he looked oa to = conse-

as much as to the pleasures of attending ate

ta, it would have prevented him from getting into this un-

pleasant position. But toschool he was compelled to g0,

and also to suffer a very severe punishment for playing
tuant*-~- ™ -<- ™ i” .

Ned, taerefore, began to think about these things in ge-
neral, and resolved to look forward a little more frequent.
ly to the of his pleasures. “ Why, I think,
too, it will me to get over many difficulties. And



LOOK FORWARD! 86



to begin at once, | shall just now look forward to the time

when my foot shall have got well again, and bear up
against the pain I now feel by thinking on that future
pleasure.

“ And then again—how often have I wished to possess a
copy of ‘ Robinson Crusoe,’ but instead of looking forward
to the time when my pocket money might amount to the
necessary sum, | always spent it on the day it was receiv-
ed, and very often on.things that did me more harm than
good. Let me see, then; I get six cents a week, that
is twenty-four cents a month; at the end of two months
and a half I shall therefore have sixty cents, which
will buy a beautifully bound copy of the book. This
is now the 15th of August, so that by the lst of November
I shall be able to get it. I shall therefore look forward
ateadily to that time, and keep that pleasure ever in view,
and this will be a good practical lesson, as aunt Cather-
ine would —

Nor was this only a good intention that he made, but a
purpose that he kept until the time came, and the book
was bought, which afforded him ten times more pleasure
than if he had bought one half of the sweetmeats in the
confectioner’s shop. [ might also tell you about Ned’s
flower-garden,—how w ully he worked and pulled
up the weeds, because he looked forward to the fine nose-

vs which he afterwards gathered ;—and how he looked
Siok to gui 0 pian ot schon, wahed:denaaicand
got it. But all these were the least advantages he derived

a



86 LOOK FORWARD!



from this habit... It was the gaining of the habit itself that
was the great thing. It made him feel from experience
that things obtained by his own exertion hada far higher
value to him than if they had merely been given to him.
He now took better care of his things than he had for-
merly done, and thus laid the foundation of good habits.
_Edward grew up to be a man, and the seeds of virtue
thus planted in his young mind, grew up along with him,
and bore excellent fruit. He obtained a situation in a
counting house, at first with a small salary, but small as it
was, even at the beginning, he contrived to lay by a part
of it for future purposes. When young and healthy, and
his salary increased, he looked forward to a time when he
might be old and infirm, and continued saving up one
small sum after another, until he had obtained what he
—- would bea reasonable provision for his old age.
But he was charitable, too. He gave liberally to the poor
and to many useful institutions, and thus lent out his mone
at a far higher rate of interest than any bank could afford
to pay. This is what the wise man called “lending to the
Lord,” and he had to look keenly forward with eye
of faith into a state of being beyond the present life, to see
the reward of this conduct. Ah, it was a bright prospect
he saw there! What earthly pleasure could seduce him
from that sight! What were all the dim vanities of time
compared with the glories he there saw revealed! What |
was too hard to bear, too great a sacrifice to be made, to
gain an entrance into that place where there are pleasures _
for evermore | ;









i
i
;
:

iN



ae
a
Bee ib “RAMBLING IN T HE COUNTRY. See p. 39.
| “ 2
ot 3





§

;

— § 3 as aM

THE YOUTHFUL
SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS.

[SBR ENGRAVING] |

ae

William and Mary Frost,weére the names of the little’
boy and girl, who, from circumstances that will be reveal-
ed in the course of our ‘story, had. received the name of
‘the young shepherd and shepherdess,’ Billy, as his sister
Mary always called him, was eight years old, and she was
ten, and no two persons were more devoted to each otber
than were these little children. They were constant com-
panions by day, and at.night, being occupants of the same
room, they would ently lay conversing ee
of to-morrow, ercome by sleep, they would sink
to rest. % ~ ‘ ; . . % :

arents of these children had early inculcated ha-
bits of industry, and those who most frequently saw them,
would bear witness to the fact, that there were few mo-
ments in the day in which they were not busily >

Mr. Frost was a somewhat wealthy farmer, and owning
a large estate, employed several men to assist in carryi
on his farm. Among his cattle there was a sheep a
lamb, which he gave to his little son ter for
their own, and appropriated to their use a

und a short distance from the house.

rogh To the pentane eeehchaoee







Lol
40 THE YOUTHFUL



————_"—

the sheep and lamb, wending their way every pleasant
morning, as soon as breakfast was over. In the centre
of the pasture was a large rock, curiously fractured, in
the breakages of which, the children constructed rude
seats, which they daily occupied.

Mary always carried ‘their luncheon in a tin kettle, of
which they partook in the middle of the forenoon and af-
ternoon, in which repast the pet sheep always came up
for their share. When Mary took off the cover of the ket-
tle, and rapped upon it with a stone, it would have amused
you to have seen these sheep run with all speed to get
their share of the luncheon.

eevee after having eaten, they would lie down by
the side of Billy and Mary, and by vagious little manifes-
tations give evidence of their attachment to the children.

In the ing, as the children were travelling to the
pasture, the neighbours would frequently greet them with —
“ good morning, little shepherd,” and “good morning, little
shepherdess ;”” and it was from this custom that they ob-
tained these distinct names. And, in fact, whenever they
were spoken of among the neighbors, or the workmen em-

by farmer Frost, they were invariably called “ Bil-
y, the shepherd,” and “Mary, the shepherdess.”

We have ow bio that the pasture where the
Tacs nai toon sheep, mes boys the sea-shore.
They tly resort there for the of
picking up shells, which they would carci ceuaas in
the water, and carry home with them, to preserve. They



es
SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS. 41



had already collected quite a large amount,of them, which
they frequently amused themselves with arranging.

he little shepherd and shepherdess were not idle whilst
they were in the field, for they always carried with them
some book from which they took turns in reading, and in
this way each contributed something for the improvement
of their minds.

Often, while Billy was reading, would be braid-
ing straws while she was listening. business of straw
braiding was carried on in this town to a considerable ex-
tent. a week a man used to come around to the
houses, and collect the braided straw of the neighbors,
paying them so ae yard, accord: ing to its fineness.

ary and Billy too had been taught to braid straw by
their mother, who was formerly in the habit of doing it,
before Mr. Frost ‘was as well off in property as he was
then. The children were fond of doing this work, and they
used to sell their straw braid every week, when the man
come round, and, as their father always allowed them to
keep the money, they put it into one box together, and had
acquired a very pretty amount, to which they were add-
ing from week to week.

henever the weather was stormy, so that Billy and
Mary could not go with the sheep to the ure, they
woth dptindltheie time arranging their . shells, and other
curiosities, about an upper room which their father and
mother had iated for their use. By putting up
pictures around the room, and tastefully arranging their

:



42 THE YOUTHFUL



shells, they had formed what they styled a museum, and,
whenever they did not go to the field, they spent much of
their time here.

Very ate when the father and mother were seat-
ed around the parlor table, in the evening, Billy and Mary |
would amuse and instruct themselves by reading to their
parents, and asking such questions as would enable them
to fully comprehend the subject on which they were read-
ing; and in this way they —— thoroughly learned
whatever they undertook. It is not surprising that under
such instructions, these children should make great pro-
ficiency in their youthful studies.

About this time Mr. and Mrs. Frost received a letter
from his brother, that he was intending to come in a very
few days, as soon as he could afrange his business, and
make a short visit at the farm-house. This was very gra-
tifying intelligence to the children; for their uncle Amos
had frequently visited them before, and they always en-

joyed his company very much.
Uncle Amos was one of those kind of men who was
very fond of children, notwi ing he was a bachelor;

- nevertheless, one thing was certain, if his love did not ex-
tend to children in on, he was warmly attached to his
little niece and nephew in particular. How anxiously,
from day to or did Billy and Mary wateh the stage-
coach, to see if it was not going to stop in front of their
fatherdl door por. It seemed as if they could not wait, so de-
sirous were they for the arrival of their uncle.



SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS. 48



The long wished, and anxiously looked for time, at
length arrived. The coach drove up to the door full of
passengers, and the children bounded to the door to receive
their uncle. It was.a stormy day, and ry Pos not go to
the field, but it‘was pleasant enough to them, now that
their uncle had come. No sooner had their uncle step-
ped his feet-upon the ground, than both the children were
hanging about his neck. Mutual kisses evidenced their
ee aan at meeting, and the approach of Mr. and Mrs.

rost, with their hands extended, signified to the brother
how welcome she was to the farm-house. The driver soon
deposited two ponderous trunks in the front entry, mount-
ed his box, and with a crack of his whip, the stage was
again on its way. {t was afternoon, and nearly tea-
time, when Uncle Amos arrived, and much of the time
was spent in congratulations, and conversation about re-
latives.. Uncle Amos having obtained permission for the
children fo sit up awhile in the evening, he told them
that he had brought them some presents, which he would
show them after tea, as soon as the lamps were lighted. As
soon as it was dark enough to light the lamps, Uncle Amos
brought in from the entry one of his huge great trunks,
and proceeded to unlock it. The first present that he
roduced wag a box containing a large sized “ Magic
ntern.” This was something entitely new to the chil-
dren, for they had never seen or heard of anything of
the kind before. Uncle Amos explained to them how,
that, by having a light inside, while the roong} was



44 THE YOUTHFUL





and by drawing these painted pieces of glass through the
slide, ‘the figures would be refleeted upon the white wall.
This he promised to show them the next evening, The
next thing that their uncle took from his trunk was a
box containing a curious little instrument, which their
uncle informed them was a “ Microscope,” by the aid of
which they could see little snakes squirming about ina
drop of vinegar, and that it would make a single: hair of
the head look as big and as coarse as a piece of twine.
This he promised to show them to-morrow, as they could
only use it in the day-light.

heir uncle then presented them with several sheets
of nice pasteboard, and told them that on the morrow
he would show them how to make a mimic theatre.

Having showed them all the présents that he had
brought, he kissed them and they went to bed, but it
was a long time before they went to sleep, for they
could not help thinking of enjoyment t nt should
experience the next day in company .with Uncle Amos,
learning how to use the instruments that he had so gen-
erously given them: finally, however, they dreieias
sleep, to dream of their approaching happiness.

The lark was not an earlier riser that morning than
was Billy and Mary. They were in high glee, fresh for
the enjoyments of the day.

The microscope was now brought forward, and much
to their astonishment and admiration, they actually saw
the little Wigsling snakes in a drop of vinegar. Various



SHEPHERD AND SHEPHEDRESS. 5



minute objects were placéd in the instrument, and its won-
derful magnifying powers developed to these children new
mysteries which they could study at their leisure at a fu-
‘""Gincle Amos-next proceeded to make the miniature the-

ne to ma miniature t
atre, and to show the children how to it.

Next came the “ Magic Lantern.” display of the
beautifully colored figures and paintings on the wall, was
highly gratifying to the family, who seemed to enjoy the
amusement quite as much as the children.

The time of Uncle Amos’ visit was now drawing toa
close, which of course the children very much regretted ;
but they bad learned to use the “Microscope,” and to work
the “ Lantern,” and the mimic “Theatre,” so that they
could amuse themselves, and also the children of the
mn when their uncle had left them.

family and the guest separated, but not without the
children extorting from their uncle a promise that he would
visit them again as soon as he could.

The little “ and shepherdess” resumed their
daily visits to the field, accompanied by their sheep, and
once more engaged in their reading and straw-braiding
as usual. ‘They continued to add to the number of sheels
and cbriosities in their museum, as well as to the number
of actors in their mimic theatre, and they found the lan-
thorn and the theatre sufficient occupy the leisure time
in the evening, when not’engaged in their studies. |.

a” ; %;,
ae
ia}



LOOK UP!

_—

“We did not get out of school until a quarter past five,”
said Claude to his cousin Tom. “ Let us make haste, for I
want to.get home svon, and I'll tell you why. You know
Mr. Green, that keeps the bell-hanger’s shop at the corner
of the common ?”

“ Yes, I see him sometimes,” was the reply.

“Then, Mr. Green is at our house making some altera-
tions in the kitchen, and 1 want tosee him. 1 want to ask
hiih a few questions; for the last time that he came to our
house, he told me a great many things that I had never
heard before. He told me several curious facts about the
patty he was using—about vegetable oils, and animal oils.

think that one day Mr. Green will be a gentleman, for he
knows more than my papa does. Papa says so.”

“ Well, you will not see him at your house,” replied cou-
sin Tom, “ for there he is sitting down by the green-gate !
See, he is positively having his tea in the open air; his lit-
tle girl has brought it to him.”

he two boys crossed the common to their friend at the
green gate, and were soon busy talking to him.

“I wonder, Mr. Green,” said Claude: “1 wonder that
yen like keeping a shop—such a learned man as you_are}

wonder you do not try to be ‘a gentleman !”

“ What is that ?”’ said Mr. Green.

‘é 46 *

‘



LOOK UP! 47

“To live in a larger house, and not keep a shop, and not
have to work. Ihave heard say that you ‘have a little
money; and lam sure that, as everybody round about
these parts, likes you, if you were to get twenty men, and
pay them wages every week, you would get plenty of
work for them todo. Then you would get richer, you see
<< ys might become a gentleman. Why don’t you
00! up 99

“ Ah, Master Claude, that is a very good question. Now,
if you think that you'll not be keeping the tea waiting, I’ll
tell you something about ‘looking up.’

‘Tf you could only have seen me when I first came to
this village—but it is of rio use my saying that, for it was
before you were born—forty years ago. “ih then I thought
that no one would welcome me! As I entered High street,
even the wind blew in my face, saying, ‘Go back again;
you are not wanted here!’ It was a cold east wind that
did so: but 1 have forgiven him for it long ago.

“But help was soon sent me. ‘Here is a poor stra
boy !’ cried a little girl who was carrying a basket; and
she ran to her mother to tell her. Her mother and some
of the neighbors soon surrounded me, and—kind people
they were!—they took me in, gave me warm food,
ool warm straw to lie upon. In the morning | told them
how my father and mother had lived in the country, but
were dead, and that I had wandered about for three days,

looking for a resting-place, and for some friends—¢ ad
none.” ,





48 LOOK UP!

eV6—0
“After a few days a clergyman came to see me: he
was a very wise, pious and kind man, who fulfilled the du-
ties of a Christian pastor in thus going about, doing good.
He looked over the books which had belonged to my fath-
er, and the Bible, and the prayer-book, which had been
much used. He asked me several questions, and at last
he took me to live in his house, to clean the boots and shoes,
and knives and forks.

In the pastor’s house.I learned how good a thing it is
tolook up to God,—for it was his habit every morning to
look up to God, who had taken care of us durin the
night; while in the evening we looked up again to Him,
- and thanked Him for taking care of us during the a

After I had been with our good te for a year, I told
him that I was very happy, and liked living in his house,
but that I should like very mich to learn some business,
that I might one day be a “ workman,” and not always be
a household servant. This wish the pastor highly approved
of, and I was bound apprentice to old Me. Solder, the
plumber.

One evening, some time after my departure, the pastor
happened to meet me, and I thought that his face looked
rather serious. When he asked me how I was getting on,
I gave an account which showed that I was quite satisfied
with myself, but the pastor soon showed me that he was
not. “ Well, Green,” he said, “I am not quite so pleased :
I should like to see you looking up.

“ You know,” he said to me, “you know how varied



v LOOK UP! 49
—-—————————————————_ nnn
are the works of God. Some are more beautiful than
others. Here is a stone: here is a piece of stick which has
had life, and is a superior substance to a stone; here is a
worm, which is superior to the stick: here is a bee, which
is superior tothe worm : there,on the green, is a sheep,
superior to the bee, and you are a man,” he said, “ supe-
rior to the sheep.”

“ And you are a man,” | added, for 1 was always ready
to make a joke,—“and you are a man, sir, superior to me.

“ Neither you nor I know that,” he replied; “I may
have higher duties to perform. But I want you to learn
from my remarks to look up. These objects in nature of
which I have been speaking—all have their places ap-
pointed by their Maker, and as they are placed, so they
must ever remain. The stone cannot raise itself to be a
vegetable, neither can that vegetable ever raise itself to be
an animal.”

« Neither,” I replied, “cana sheep raise itself to be a
man. It never wishes to.” :

« True,” replied the pastor, “ that is what I wish to show
you. The sheep never looks up, just because he cannot
improve himself; but a man is made to look up, just be-
cause a man can improve himself. , ’

“From the minerals up to the lower animals, we find that
objects cannot change; but when we reach man, the case
is very different. There are many kinds of men. The
lowest kinds are often like the brutes; but the highest
kind—they wish to improve. themselves ; and they try, by »



60 LOOK UP!



the help of God, to do so, that they may become more
like the race above them—the angels in heaven. It isa



-great privilege for man,—he is able to know, and look up.

“ You know most of the men in my parish, Green,” said
the pastor. “Ihave men ofall kinds living here: some,
who care nothing for their souls, and live as though they
had no soul: others, who have been careless, but now are
looking up,—every year they have been rising higher and
higher. k now, at the two cottages on the other side
of the road! In that slovenly cottage where John Grub
lives, there he has lived for three years, and the garden is
as weedy, and his home is as untidy, as it was at first.”

“ And James Reach, sir, who lives in the next house,
he,” I said, “was an untidy man once.”

“True,” replied the pastor, “ but he is happier now, just
from having learned to look up.”

Well, J left the pastor, and walked home slowly, think-
ing of a great many more things he had told me. _ I lifted
up the latch, crossed. the red-brick floor to the stair-case,
went up into my bed-room, and sat down: and there I sat
thinking until it was so dark that I could not hardly see
my hand. Then, I jumped off my chair, stamped on the
floor, clenched my fist, and cried out “I'll do it!” But
when | was silent again, after hearing the sound of my own
voice, there camea strong and gentle thought across m
mind, which made me kneel down in the room before 5
and ask Him to help me.

Claude. And what was it you were going to do?



LOOK UP! 51



Green. To save fifty half-eagles !

Claude. Well! | don’t think that that was very good, if
that was all you were going todo. I think it was rather
wicked to ask God’s help for that purpose.

Green. There is where you make a mistake; master
Claude. It is not a wicked thing to want fifty half-eagles.
True, 1 did not ask the Almighty for His best blessings—
I did not ask Him for pardon for all that I had done wrong:
d did not ask Him for His Holy a that I might learn
to do right. No! I only asked for strength to earn fifty
half-eagles !

Claude. And did you call that a good wish?

Green. Yes, I did: and the pastor did too. I'll tell you
why, soon. The resolution, however, whether it was good
or bad, that alone made a great c in me. [ soon
lost all interest in my former sports. I began to look down
on these things, for I had always a bright light before me
to look up to. There was a vision of bright eagles for me
to delight in; and, as-I reached up to it a day, I made
good use of every moment of my time. Every week |
saved money, and became richer. Every week I looked
up to the twenty-five golden eagles, and felt myself nearer
to it. When I had saved ten half-eagles, 1 said to myself
—I am only forty from it?’ when I had saved twenty, I
said, “ Ah, I am only thirty off.” Every week I felt my-
self changing. 1 felt myself a moreimportant man, for,

I looked in and again to the half-eagles, 1 felt "67
as much pleasure n't a though wetealeedy a 8 ;
own *

‘



® which you have

62 LOOK UP!





Claude. Well, I think that you are teaching us all wrong!
You are teaching us to be fond of money, and to be covetu-

ous.

Green. No! indeed, am not. Money is not, in itself,
a bad thing—it is one of God's — I wanted this
money not for the sake of saying that I was rich, but that
1 might have a'cottage with a clean garden, and get mar-
ried, just as John Reach had done—for this is what the
pastor had told metodo. There was no harm in want:
" ing to live in a respectable way. ‘i

Claude. And did you get a cottage ?

Green. Yes, I had the very cottage which John Grub
livedin. And, when I had lived there some time, my wife
and I began to look up to something else. Mr. Solder,
my old master, was going to sell his business,and my wife
and I looked up to be able to take his shop. Every day
we looked up, and worked on as I had done before, and in
time we t the business, which you see I have now.

Claude. Well, it was worth while to look up to try to
gain that.

Green. Yes. But there are two reasons why it is
worth while.. It is not only for what you gain at last that
you should look up: but for the good you gain while doing

80.

I had not been in my shop many days, when John Reach
came in for some screws. “ Ah, friend,” he said, shaki
hands, “ am glad to see you here. The hard

to gain this shop and business has



_ LOOK UP! 58



done you good I dare say, now, that when you were
looking up for this business, you felt just as I did, when I
determined to have a good — aoe out to my-
self a beautiful garden, with beds raked perfectly smooth,
and every part in good order. This picture I kept in my
mind, saying to myself, as 1 dug,‘ 1’ll make my garden
like it—it shall be a beautiful place.’ ”

“Yes,” I said, « it was looking up to that picture which
kept you active.”

« True,” replied friend Reach, “I was’nt aware that I
could be so active, or even that I had so much strength in
me, until I looked up to the thought of a pleasant and
beautiful garden.”

Claude. Ah, I see now the advantage of looking up—it
keeps you employed, and makes you feel that you have
something to aim at.

Green. Yes, Claude,and you remember it. You are now
great boy: nine years old: and you never looked up to be
anything (except being ‘ King of the Castle,’)—so now find
veal a look up to! Look up to be the best boy in

e school !

And afterwards look up to-be a, good man—try and be
very good, and look up to the time when you may help
others to make the world better.

—t—



THE BLASTED OAK; i]
OR, THE MYSTERIOUS PARCHMENT.

[sEm ENGRAVING.]

‘
—e

The mother of Mark and. Mary Dayton died when they |

were four and six years of age. Mary was the oldest, but

a little girl of six years could not be expected to do much

â„¢., work, and Mark being two years younger, their whole
care devolved upon their father.

Mr. Dayton was an industrious man, and had acquired

a little money, though this was known only to himself.

ing a mechanic, a daily laborer for the comforts he en-

joyed, he was of course no owner of bank stocks, or rail

‘poad shares: and in fact,so far as the latter are concerned,

«. rail.roads had not then begau to be dreamed of.

sci When Mark and Mary had reached the years of ten and

ae they were most severely afflicted by the decease

“of their father, by meansof which they were deprived of

last and only proteetor.

_ Mr. Dayton-had one’ Sister living in the town where he

» resided, a maiden arene another who left home several

years before, and died, as was supposed, in another part of

the country. To the surviving aunt these children were

igned, for whom she provided to the best of her abili-

ties. on treated them with great kindness, and they in

-_ wa



ED OAK.

“np

Ak \\

aril ates
oes

= POMS, 5.
—— ——

THE BLAST



pneee ee tee

(55)



Se I nahisitioh eich og foie Ae as eee, ae
———— een eee seseeeeeseeerrseeereemsenerseneeeereeee ree eee







-
THE BLASTED OAK. ‘67
——ooooooo——— eee
return did everything in their power to assist their kind
aunt. :

On one occasion, Mark and Mary were. ranging the
woods, when they were suddenly alarmed by the appear- —
ance of a rough looking man, whose face indicated any-
thing but the best intentions.

He seized upon Mary, and attempted to drag her still
farther into the woods : she shrieked with alarm, and plead
to be set at liberty, but her cries and tears were all in
vain. The relentless monster seized her more firmly by the ©
arms, amid her cries for help, and the cries of the little
he urged her onward.

At this moment, a coarse looking, roughly clad woman
ap , and at the top of her voice shrieked out, “Hold,
villain | what would you with that child?” Ais she said
this, she presented a pistol within four feet of his head.

“ Let go your hold upon that child, or by the heaven above
me I fire,” said the woman. The man let go the child, at
the same time attempting toseize the woman. — She fired,
but his position was such that she did not hit him. With
a laugh of exultation, he jumped towards her for the pur-
pose of seizing her, when he received .a flesh wound bom
a dagger that she drew from beneath her coarse outside

dress.

“ Villian, you are foiled,” shouted the woman as she ran
to the children, and directed them which way to get out of
the wood. She directed them to directly in front of
her, and close to her. ary the i

4



68 THE BLASTED OAK.



==.

‘pointed towards him, she warned him not to follow her, er
attempt to injure the children—if he did, he should pay for
it dearly, “ Aye, with thy life, villain!” “T’ll leave you
now, woman,” replied the man, “ but remember, we- shall
meet again.” tole
The woman conducted the children onward, until they
- in sight of their aunt’s house where she bade them
ieu.
“Oh, good woman,” exclaimed Mary, “go with us to
my aunt’s? How she will thank you for saving us!”
~ “No,” replied the woman, “I leave you here: beyond
ois — may not now go—so farewell.” ‘
~~ _« Who may I thank,” inquired Mary, “for my preserva-
tion from this cruel man 7”
“ The Gipsey ofthe Blasted Oak,” replied the woman,
and then hastily fled
The children sped to their aunt, recited the affair of the
rescue in the woods, and told her “that the woman who
saved them, called herself the « gipsey of the blasted oak.”
The affair became noised about in the village, and every
effort was made to ascertain who the villain was that had
thus boldly attempted to kidnap Mary : but her fright was
so great that she could give but an imperfect description
of him ; hence all their efforts were fruitless—and as for
the gipsey, she was nowhere to be found.
is matter having been pretty much forgotten, and the
excitement of the occasion having entirely ceased, anoth-
er attempt was made by this villain, when Mary was one





THE BLASTED OAK. 59

oe



day on her way to school. To take the road to the scnool
house, it was a distance of some two miles, but across lots,
through the woods, it was but about three-fourths of a
mile, and this path was generally taken by all the chil-
dren in company, who lived in that part of the town where
Mary’s aunt resided. They always met in the field this
side, or at the entrance of the wood, and the boys and girls

thus met, uently formed quite a .
On colaiin : Cites necessarily

this occasion, however, Mary
delayed: her brother had already gone, and she was a lit-
tle late. However, she went on, singi the

singing
woods, but had not proceeded far, before she was stopped
by the same villain who had before met her. .,

“I have you now, my young Miss,” exclaimed the man,
and he seized hold of her, “ and your escape is this time
impossible.”

“ Let that lie choke you, villain,” exclaimed an unearth- ~
ly voice, from a hideously dressed being who appeared, as
if by magic, at the same time dealing a stunning blow
from a cudgel which she had, that prostrated the villain to
the earth. “No, no: her escape is possible. Come, girl ;
quick, with me.” So saying, she took Mary by the hand,
and rapidly conducted her through the ‘wood, to within a
few feet of the school house.

“ Farewell, child,” said the woman, “you are-safe.”

“Qh, kind woman,” said Mary, “how I ought to love
you for _~ saving me: Oh, tell me your name?”

“The of the Blasted Oak,” replied. the-woman,
and suddenly disappeared.



60 THE BLASTED OAK.



a

‘| Mary entered the school room much alarmed and ex-
cited, and related the circumstance to the teacher. When
they returned from school, all who went in that direction
accompanied Mark and Mary, among whom were several

= boys.
hen the aunt listened to the recital of this second at-
tack, she became intensely anxious to see this gipsey, and
was resolved to do so, if possible. Accordingly she went
to the woods, and loitered about a considerable time, with- _
out seeing her, until at length she made a call for the
See ete A cers
i name » the gipsey ap ,

seeing a woman approaching her, she drew from beneath
her outer garment a pistol, which she ted, al-
lowing the woman to approach only within the distance of
some twenty feet.

“ Hold, woman!” exclaimed the gipsey, “approach no
nearer, or thy safety will not be assured.”

“ But, good woman!” replied the aunt, “you have twice
saved my children, and I desire to thank you.”

“1 need no thanks, woman,” replied the gipsey, “let it
suffice thee that the children are safe,and be thankful that
they areso. If you have thanks to bestow, they belong
there!” as she uttered this last sentence she pointed stea-

dily upwards.

tI do thank Heaven,” replied the aunt, “that my chil-
dren are safe.”

“ They are not thy children,” replied the gipsey, “only



’

THE BLASTED OAK. 61
a SS
so far as you are their protector They are the children ot
another.”

“ How knew you'that ?” anxiously inquired the aunt.
“No matter: it is so, and I know it,” replied the gipsey,
“and that is sufficient.” ,

“Come, good woman,” said the aunt, “tell me who you
are.”

“I am the Gipsey of the Blasted Oak; more than this
1 shall not tell you. The time may come when you will
know me better, but that time is not yet; question me no
farther—farewell.” So saying the Gipsey fled from the
presence of the aunt, and was soon lost to view among
the rocks and trees. About a fortnight after this inter-
view, the aunt’s household was aroused at night by the

cry of fire. Ina few moments the village was alarmed.

‘The front door of the house of the protector of Mark and
Mary was broken in (for that was the house which was

on fire,) and in an instant the family weéré ‘aroused, and -

fled half clad from the burning building into the road,
The house being of wood, was very soon enveloped in
flames. All efforts were used to save it, and the movea-
bles contained in it, but all were useless, and as the house
stood alone by itself, the villagers could only look on and
see it burn.

The attention of the assembled villagers was now di-
rected to the opposite side of the road, where a struggle
seemed to be going on between a man and woman.

The man was endeavoring to release himself from the

$3



62 THE BLASTED OAK.





apparently iron grasp of an infuriated woman, who called
on the bystanders to secure the man. ‘I know him well,”
said the Gipsey, for suchshe was. ‘1 tracked him to this
spot, and saw him apply the torch to this building. He
has twice attempted to carry off the young girl that lives
here, but Ihave prevented him. Icharge you—.” Here
the woman’s words were lost, for at this instant the incen-
diary struck the Gipsey a blow with his fist, that felled her
to the coer The people gathered round, and a magis-
trate who was present, ordered the people to arrest and
bind the incendiary.

Mark and Mary, together with their aunt, were wit-
nesses of these transactions. The aunt drew near to the
Gipsey, and endeavored to restore her. She had received
lier death-blow, but she rallied a little so as to be able to
speak. The aunt seeing this,addressed the Gipsey. The

my knew her voice, and instantly recognized her. “It
is well that we have again met: the hour of my disclosure
has come, for [ must soon die. Hast thou a sister
Grace !”

«| had,” replied the aunt, “ but she is dead.”

“No, not dead,” replied the Gipsey, “ behold her !”

“« My sister,” frantically exclaimed Miss Dayton, the
name of the aunt.

« Listen,” said the Gipsey, “my moments are brief: go
to the blasted oak, and there, in a hollow, you will find mo-
ney enclosed in parchment ; it was placed there by your
brother, who is dead. In my wanderings I have beenthe '

®.y
Â¥

:



THE BLASTED OAK. 63



witness to his placing it there, and I have watched it with

a constant care, lest it be stolen. I have been near these

chil— children, since their fa— father died, and have

pro— pro— protected—” here her voice failed to a whis-

ma “I thirst—give me—drink: farewell—fare--” here
er voice ceased entirely, and she breathed no more.

“ And who are you, man?” inquired the magistrate of
the bound prisoner, “ who are you, that you have thus
persecuted these children ?”

« Their father once w me—deeply wronged me!”
replied the incendiary. “Their mother was the betrothed
of my heart, and she coldly gave me upfor him. I swore
vengeance, and when their father and mother died, and it
was no more possible for me to revenge myself on them,

I determined that I would have it on their children.”

« Alas !” replied the magistrate, “ what a fiendish heart
must you possess, who would wrong the innocent children
of the man from whom’ you had received perhaps but an

_ imaginary injary. But your race is run, and v nce,
were you now dis to pursue it, is beyond your
power.”

The prisoner was borne to his confinement : the assem-
bled villagers returned to their homes; and should you
ever travel a stranger in that part of the country, where-
ever you might put up, you would be sure to hear the
story of the “Gipsey of the Blasted Oak.”

:



BERTHA AND THE BIRD.

—

A herdsman and his wife, with one little girl, named
Bertha, lived in a small village. They were very poor.
Sometimes they scarcely knew how to live, and Bertha
could do little to ry rmeps She was slow at any kind of
work. She liked better to sit alone and dream, though
awake, of how she would supply them with all comforts,
if she could suddenly grow rich. Then she would fancy
that kind Spirits came and shewed her some treasure, or
gave her stones that changed into gold and jewels. In this
way she forgot what had been given her to do: then she
was much blamed, and often punished.

One night she lay awake crying, and while she lay so
the herdsman said to his wife, “I wish we had never had
this little girl left with us. She is only a burthen. If they
had but left their little son instead, he might have worked
for us,” These words drove sleep quite away from Bertha.
She lay thinking of them all night. She was astonished
to find that she was not the daughter of the herdsman and
his wife, and a longing desire to find her real parents
grew stronger and stronger in her. Before morning, she
rose softly, and opened the door of the little hut. The
early dawn was just beginning to light the eastern sky.
She stepped upon the open field, and the next minute was
in a thick forest, where no ray could yet penetrate. She

64



BERTHA AND THE BIRD. * 65







ran fearfully through the trees, and when she reached the
other side of the forest the sun had risen and it was bright
day. '
She soon saw a range of mountains before her, and
having lived in the plain country: she was afraid of moun-
tains: but her fearof being followed and carried back
made, her hurry on. She wandered through the valleys,
and up the sides of steep hills, often ng at the vil-
lages for food and shelter. After four days she came on
a fittle footpath which led to high barren‘rocks piled one
onthe other. She clambered over the nearest, and now.
lost all sight of green grass, or village, or trees, or single
habitation. She still wandered on, and at night lay ont
hard rocks, and could not sleep for weeping. At day-
break she climbed up a steep crag, and looked round.
Everywhere she saw the same frightful, bare rocks. She
went on and on, often sitting down to weep and lament;
but at last, towards evening, she came to the limits of the
rocks, and saw trees, meadows, and soft green hills in the
distance, and the sound of rushing water gladdened her
heart.

She came soon to a waterfall, and stooped down to raise
some drink to her parching mouth in the hollow of her
hand. As she stooped she heard a slight cough, and was
joyfully surprised to see an old woman resting on the ground
at the border of a wood. She was dressed in black; a
black hood nearly covered her face; in her hand she held
a crutch,



66 BERTHA AND THE BIRD.
——<—<—<<—$ oe ee

From this old woman Bertha for help, and im- |
mediately. received from her some food and wine. While
she ate, the old woman sung a strange song, and when —
she had finished, asked her if she would follow her home. _
Bertha gladly agreed. .

The did woman limped on before, twisting her face so
oddly every moment that it was always changing, -and
Bertha could not make out what kind of countenance she
had. As she went on, the wild rocks were left far behind.
The tops of the trees were standing in the glow of the sun-
set ; aif things seemed melted into soft gold: on the fields
lay a mild brightness: the pure, azure sky bent kindly
over them: the gushing of the brooks and gentle rustli
of. the trees alone broke the silence. Bertha forgot herse
and her guide: her spirit and eyes were wandering among

the shining clouds.

They came to a hill planted with birch trees. Below
lay a valley full of soft-waving trees, in the midstof which

as a little cottage. A glad barking was heard, and a

ble little dog came running towards them wagging its
tail, and fawning on the old woman. As they came near-
er to the cottage, astrange, but very clear, sweet
sounded from it, like forest -horns and flutes in the far dis-
tance. The words were these :—
« ee in ee 80 gay
Tis .
“Mono like ‘oie
For ever and aye:
Oh, I do love to stay
Alone = wood so gay.”



BERTHA AND THE BIRD: 67





Bertha could.not wait to be told toenter. She stepped
into the cottage. It wasnowdusk. All was neatly swept
and trimmed, Some bowls stood ina cupboard, and some
strange-shaped potsona table. A’bird _— a glitter-
ing cage at the window, and she perceived that it was the
singer. The old woman sat down, caressed her dog and
stroked her bird, which answered her with its song. Then
she brought out supper, and made Bertha sit by her and
eat: then she showed her toa little bed in along narrow
closet. Bertha was so tired that she fell asleep, but every
now and then awoke, and heard the old woman coughing,
and talking with her dog and bird, which seemed dreaming,
and only answered with one or two words of its rhyme.
This, with the rustling of the trees by the window, and
the song of a distant nightingale, made so strange a mix-
ture of sounds, that Bertha never thought she was awake,
but falling from one dream into another.

In the morning the old woman set her to spin, which she
now learned very easily ; she also’had charge of the bird
and the dog, whose name was Sprite. She did her work
cleverly. She felt as if she had been accustomed to it,
and asif it all must be so. She felt contented ; her wheel
went round: Sprite barked merrily: the bird clear}
and sweetly, and as it sangits feathers shone like gold,
and glittered with deep blue and red. The old woman
taggnt her to read, and she found old books in the cottage,

it! strange old stories in them. She also had. the charge
of the bird’s eggs, for every day it laid an egg containing a



68 BERTHA AND THE BIRD.



precious pearl, and these the old woman made her store
in one of the strange-shaped pots. She was often
, for the old woman sometimes went out for weeks
and months, leaving her food, and the charge of every-
thing. She never felt sad:: still her wheel went round. |
There was no storm nor vatty Sythe ’ Ue aie
any Creature came near : only Sprite p =
led, and the bird sang still, Mt *

“eae eee
to
Metter Be torkiy,
For ever and aye :
Oh I do love to stay
Alone in wood so gay.”

Four years passed away in this peaceful manner. Then
Bertha n, as she sat at her wheel, to wonder what the
world was like, that she read of in the old books, and to
long again to find her parents and her brother. «Perha
they are great and rich,” she thought, “and would make
me a great lady.”

After these thoughts of being rich and great, the cot-
tage looked dull to her, and the bird’s song sounded sad.
The old woman did not notice the change, as Bertha al-
ways did her work well, but one day ee her for her
diligence. “Thou art a good girl? she said, «it will be

with thee if thou continuest so; but none ever pros-
pers if they leave the straight path.”

Bertha often pondered over these words. “What does



BERTHA AND THE BIRD. - 69





the straight path mean?” she thought. Suddenly she be-
an to make a plan of leaving the cottage, taking away the
Bird, and going into the that she longed so much .to
see: but she only thought of it—she did not mean to do it.
The next time that the old woman went out, Bertha
looked after her, and felt very sad, as if she feared to see
her go. Then she returned to her work, but was restless.
At last she rose from her work, tied little Sprite to the ta-
ble, for she felt afraid to let him go with her, took up the
bird, and went out. The bird turned its head strangely
backwards, and the dog struggled and whined, but she
The path di pleasant flo
e path went winding among t flowery ways,
and oltwen easy to her, only that she feared that she should meet her olf mistress. The bird often
tried to sing, but the shaking of her hand, as she walked
quickly along, put him out. At last she sat down to rest
in a shady place. Then the bird began a song in a clear
but sad tone, and his rhyme was altered. He now sang—

+ Alone in wood so gay,
Ah far away!
But thou wilt say
‘Some other day,
’Twere best to stay,
Alone in wood so gay.”

Bertha felt very miserable. She thought of the old wo-

man, to whom she had behaved so ungratefully ; then of
the poor little dog, whom she had left alone to die of



70 , BERTHA AND THE BIRD.



hunger. She wept bitterly. She longed still to see that
world and all the new things she had dreamed of: but
then the bird again, in a more sorrowful tone than ever,
sung his » She rose from the ground, took up the
cage, and quickly turned back towards the cottage.
Bat as she went back, the path which had seemed so
short and easy, now proved steep, long, and diffigult.
The sharp stones cut her feet: thorns tore her dress:
the little streams had swelled into mountain torrents,
and she had to wade through them with fear and dan-
:_ the wind rose, and ey rain began to fall.
But Bertha had one comfort which supported her through

= ue eT

all, and made her walk straight on: it was the clear voice _

ofthebird. It sang more sweetly than ever. She could
not catch the o— but there was something in the tone
that supported her stren:

At last she reached ho All looked just as she |

had left it. The poor little dog still lay tied to the table,

and looked as if he was d ing. He raised his head feebly, _
y:

and looked at her reproachfu
the cord, brought him food and drink, stroked him, and
weptoverhim. “Qh look up dear little Sprite,” she cried,
“or I can never be happy again.”

a looked for help. “If my mistress would
but come,” she thought, “1 would tell her of all I have
done : no matter what becomes of me, so that he

She ran to him, untied |

would get ter.” As this thought passed through her”

mind, ran to the door to look out for the old woman,



BERTHA AND THE BIRD. 71

———





and to her joy Sprite rose up, ran to her, and jumped up
_ on her.

When Bertha went outside the door of the cottage, and

- Jooked round, everything seemed changed. The woods

had widened out and left a soft lawn. Flowers had
sprung up. Trees were ranged in groups and avenues.
At the farther end of a long walk, arched over by spreading
beeches, she saw a beautiful lady, leaning on the arm of a
noble-looking gentleman, and leading by the hand a pret-
ty boy, with long fair hair. They were coming towards
her. They smiled on her as ~~ drew near; and held out
their arms to her. “ We have found our Bertha at last,”
said the lady, kissing her fondly. Bertha laid her head on
her breast, and felt that she was in her mother’s arms.
They all caressed her and welcomed her.

Bertha turned to look for the cottage, but it had vanish-
ed. In its place was a pleasant, cheerful dwelling, that
looked like a gafe home; warm and bright and roomy ;
vines covered the walls: roses looked in at the windows.
They walked towards it. Sprite bounded on before. As
they entered the door, Bertha heard the clear-toned bird
sing more joyously than ever, and now its song was—

“ With these I love go well
Oh, it is sweet to dwell !
iy ems ap a sa ell,

rings ins grassy
And in each echo’s swell
Its joy doth tell.”



72 BERTHA AND THE BIRD.





With her parents’ approval, Bertha sought out the poor
herdsman and his wife, and took care of them in their old
age, and made them comfortable.

The clear-toned bird continued to sing its joyous song. |
But now Bertha no longer hid the pearls in strange-shaped

Peshe often thought of the old woman, and what had be-
come of her, but never could hear of her,

Once only, on a summer evening, when sunset was
throwing a golden mist over all things, she thought she saw
her in the far distance, in her black hood, limping towards
a waterfall: but it grew dusk before she could get near her,
and she never saw her again.

—1) 1

EARLY RISING.

“I wish you would wake me up to-morrow morning at
five o’clock,’”’ said Charles. 1 did so effectually, and left
him—in an hour | returned to his he was,
fast asleep, and the sun shining full on his face. The next”
day and the next day he made the same request, but I-was
tired of waking him. Every person who wishes to form a
habit of rising early, should second the exertions of others,
and not lie a moment after he is awakened.









(4)





THE DESERTED MANSION;
OR, THE PLEDGE OF TRUTH.

[sum ENGRAVING]
—~—

Rosina Randolph was one of those somewhat romantic
young girls who ever delight in deeds of daring, and who
took more real satisfaction in reading of. and dar-
ing feats of some enthusiastic adventurer, than in all the
love-tales that were ever written. On this theme she al-
ways conversed With enthusiasm, and as she was reading
the history of some daring officer or soldier’s military ca~
reer, would often exclaim, “ Noble fellow: what a fine
"Pajech wore the peculiar predilections of Rost Randolph

uch were t iar predilections
and so indellibly was her mind stamped with the impress
of these idea’ of nobility, that she had declared over and
over agaffi, that she would never marry a man who would
acknowledge such a passion in his soul as fear.

“ No, no, not I,” she would ae Pas tohow.
«« My husband must be a bold, resolute, daring fellow.
None of your little, puny, trembling men for me; I want
a husband that I can up to for protection—one that

* could and would defend me, however hazardous my situa-

tion, ilous the ise.” .
oo ns i

xy .

ae



‘

y% THE DESERTED MANSION.





eee ee

Having given a fair description of Rosina’s mind, ano-
ther may be expected—more particularly relating to her
person. In brief, then, Rosina was tall, finely proportion-
ed, of a strong and nervous temperament, with a brilliant
black eye, a handsome face, and with hair as dark as the .
raven’s wing; added to these she had a rather lofty and
commanding appearance, and was just twenty years old.
It might be thought that a person so constituted was inca-
pable of love; but not so: Rosina could love, and when-
ever she did, it would be with an ardent devotion.

Several of ‘the young men of the village had signified
their regards for her, but they were not reciprocated b
her. Perhaps she did look upon one young man wit
rather more favor than any of the rest#and he doubtless
thought so. That young man was Herbert Wilton.

Herbert was. handsome, noble looking fellow, and had
formed a very favorable opinion of Rosina, and having
been many times in her company, had become quite fasci-
nated with her.

Herbert was twenty-two years old, and as several of the

oung fellows in the village had tried to gain hé? particu-
ar regard, and had failed, he came to the conclusion that
he would make a trial. One fine afternoon in the early
rtof October, Herbert strolled along in the’ neighbor-
of Rosina’s residence, intending to make a call on
her, but fortunately found her in the garden with the man
who was employed as gardener, who was digging up.some
artichokes for her. n the gardener retired, and they
entered into conversation. :



THE DESERTED MANSION. 11
SS OOOSSSSmmmmom'

A walk was proposed by Herbert, to which Rosina as-
sented, and intimated that she should like to walk to the
field where stood the “ deserted mansion.” This “ desert-
ed mansion” so called had stood even longer than the me-
mory of the oldest inhabitant could trace back. All that
was known of it was, that it once belonged to somebody,
nobody knew who: that it was once a resort of a famous
band of robbers, but nobody knew when: that it was
haunted, but nobody knew with what ; but there were con-
nected with it mysterious tales of singular sounds, blue
lights, rattling chains, &c., &c., all which were calculated
to invest this “deserted mansion” with a remarkable de-
gree of interest, and any amount of vain and foolish su-

perstition.

To this field the pair bent their steps. It was an old
brick mansion, which many had entered and explored in
the day-time—but darkness and night invested it with all
kinds of superstitious horror. The windows were all shat-
tered to pieces, and every square of glass broken, from the
repeated peltings of stones inflicted by the boys. A part
of the roof. had tumbled in, one of the chimnies had been
a mark for years for the boys to hurl rocks at, consequente
ly it had been reduced quite one half from its original
height. It had now become the residence of the owl and
the bat, and in some parts of it, the birds had. .
sufficient courage to build their fragile nests.

It was during this walk that Her took occasion to
press his suit for Rosina’s hand. She had a great deal to se



78 THE DESERTED MANSION.



say about courage, fortitude, during, and danger, and inti-
mated to Herbert that the man of her choice would be he |
to whose heart fear was a stranger.
Herbert signified his disposition to und almost any |
danger to secure so — a prize as herself, and declared
that he would hold himself in readiness to perform any
feat of daring that reason and judgment would prescribe.
Rosina desired him to enter with her the “deserted man-
sion.” In the corner of the building, upon a rafter, wasa
bird’s nest, some twenty feet from the ground. She asked |
Herbert if he was willing to secure that bird’s nest, and |
offer to her as a pledge of his truth.
“ Willingly, most willingly,” replied Herbert : “instant-
ly if you require it.”
« That shall be the pledge,” said Rosina, “ but it is to be
taken at such time as I shall appoint.”
“ Name the time,” replied the enthusiastic Herbert, “and }
I will pluck it from its resting-place, and put it in your pos-
session.” :
“ Let that time, then,” said Rosina, “ be to-night, after
the village clock shall have struck the hour of mid-
night. at that hour you will repair to this spot—
alone—and _ your own hands pluck the nest from
its resting-place, and put it in my —_ » to you,
and alone, will on my hand.” ,
e Enough,” responded Herbert, “it shall be done.”
The two came out of the building, and returned to the
_q Tesidence of Rosina, where Herbert took his leave, giving

a >,







her the assurance “that by day-light the next morning she
should be in possession of the nest.”

Rosina promised “to be up and waiting for him as early
as five o’clock,” and they separated.

Herbert thought several times of the dismal duty that he
had pledged himself to perform, and at times almost re-
pented his rashness; but his word had been given, and
that must not be violated. ,

It began to cloud up towards night, and when eveni
sat in, there was a heavy mist, or rather drizzly rain, which
continued all night. Herbert armed himself with a load-
ed pistol, and procuring a twenty-foot ladder, and a glass
lantern, he awaited in some little anxiety the striking of
the hour of twelve. At length the solemn hour was given
out by the village elock, which fell on the ear like a
death-knell, on that dark and rainy night.

Herbert then started out of the house, with his pistol
in his breast, and his lantern in his hand, and raisi
the ladder to his shoulder, which lay beside the wall, he
staggered on under his load to the spot, where centered
all the acts of ghosts, hobgoblins, gipsies and witches,
for the last fifty years.

It was a moment of intense excitement when he push-
ed his ladder into the interior of the deserted mansion,
and then entered himself. In spite of his strongest deter-
minations to be calm and unmoved, he felt his hair actual-
ly rise upon his head, and saw, or thought he saw, minute
balls of fire darting every now and then across his path.



80 THE DESERTED MANSION.
———————— ees

He sat down his lantern, which, in so large a place,
gave but a feeble light, and proceeded to fix his ladder in
an appropriate situation. ;

In raising his ladder to the proper position, he accident-
ally struck an owl who was roosting on a rafter, who set
up a most hideous screeching, which broke upon his ear
like the roar of a cataract. The disturbed inhabitant,
however, found another resting-place, and finally calmed
down into , alg

Having fixed his ladder in what he supposed to be a fa-
vorable position, he commenced ascending, but unfortu-
nately, as it stood only upon rubbish, the foundation gave
way, and the ladder slid one side: he partly jumped and
partly fell from his position, and in doing so upset the lan-
tern and extinguished the light.

Here was no enviable situation for a young man to be
placed in: what was to be done? He must not return
without accomplishing the object of his visit, and he en-
deavoured once more to accomplish the task he had under-
taken. In his second attempt he was more successful :
he ascended the ladder in safety, procured the nest, and
descended. He resolved to leave the ladder behind him
as a proof that he had been there, and proceeded to grope
his way out of that terrible place. —

Rosina arose at the hour she had promised, and inquired
of the two men who worked upon her father’s farm, if they
went to the field of the deserted mansion to watch, as she

" had desired them. She was informed that they did go,







THE DESERTED MANSION. 81



and they related all the particulars concerning the visit of
the young man. ee ae ae o’clock a his appearance, and p' in her possession the bird’s
nest as he-had prooniesd, - « Hare,” seidihe, « here, Rosine,

is m y pledge of truth.”

He rt then went on and stated the particulars of his
visit to the deserted mansion, which siphed perfectly with
the statement of the men.

Rosina told him that she had sent two men to watch
him, and that they had related to her all the particulars.
as he had recounted them. ;

“Enough, Herbert,” added Rosina, “you have been true
to yar word, I will be true to mine: there is my.hand,
and with it my heart: your noble daring has met my ap-
proval, and 1 am ever your’s.”

Herbert’s adventure was the town talk, and there was
many a courageous youth who was now ready to visit the
deserted mansion, since Herbert had gone there and re«
turned alive.

But the glory laid in his expedition; and since the visit
of Herbert, the mysterious noises, and wonderful stories,
lost all their charm, and the deserted mansion ceased to
be either an object of fear or mystery.

About this time our troubles with Mexico commenced,
and the government were making enlistments for the army.
Herbert Wilton felt a desire to see a little more of the world
—and so enlisted as a private soldier to go to Mexico.

On the field he distinguished himself, and it was not six



‘ ' Tieesiailitidnn q



months before he was promoted to the rank of an officer.

In the communications to government, young Wilton
was once or twice mentioned as being a remarkable young
soldier, and surpassed by none in his feats of daring.

In the storming of one of their castles, and in the taking
of one of the Mexican batteries, Herbert Wilton particu-
larly distinguished himself, especially in the latter action,
for which he was again promoted. The regiment to whieh
he was attached remained in the field some two , dur-
ing which time young Wilton was continually distinguish-
ing himself, and in return he was , and received
at the close of the campaign the highest encomiums of his
commander.

Herbert returned to meet his beloved Rosina: she saw
in him the man she so much desired for a husband. This
meeting was a most affectionate one. Their hearts were
united, and the day was appointed for the marriage cere-
monies, and in just four weeks after his return, Miss Rosi-
na Randolph was married to Major Herbert Wilton, of
the United States army.

=

—=00

The purest motive of human action is the love of God.:
He who is influenced by that, feels its influence in all parts
of duty, upon every occasion of action: throughout the
whole course of conduct.



THE PET LAMB.

—~——

‘One bleak, boisterous afternoon in March, a little boy
called Alfred Herbert was seated by his papa in the gig,
driving homewards. Mr. Herbert was a country surgeon,
and had been making a long round among his patients.
There was nothing that Alfred and his sister Lucy liked
better, than to go out in this way with their papa: and he
often took one of them: but this time he had been obliged
to ge farther than he expected, and so it was getting dark
and very cold, and they had still a long way to go. Al-
fred was only five years old. The wind blew in his face,
and his cape would open and fly back. Then his toes be-
gan to ache and smart ; his fingers were quite stiff, and as
to his nose, it was red as a poppy and ascold asice. —

« How long shall we be now, papa?” he had asked about
ten times. At last it began to snow, and then, when he
felt the soft, cold flakes of snow come patting against his
cheeks and resting on his poor, frozen nose, he could bear
it no longer, and began to cry.

Just then they were passing a hedge, and a cow put its
head over, and gave a loud moo—moo. It was so near
that it made Bobby the pony start, and made Alfred stop
erying. ‘“ Why the cow seems to have something to say
tous,” said his papa. “ What does it say?” asked Alfred

83



84 THE PET LAMB.

Eee

in a lamentable voice : « Don’t you think it sounded like
‘moo, moo, how do you do?” ” said his re. At this Al-
fred laughed so heartily that he quite forgot the cold, and
went on merrily for a quarter of an hour.
ut next he began to feel hungry, and to think of the
warm parlour at » with tea all ready, and the bright
ee and Lucy, and his a — Seam remembered
is aching toes again, and very nearly n to cry a se-
cond time : but his papa said, “ Make haste, Bobby ! trot
along, and take us home quickly : we shall soon be there
now.” So Alfred commanded himself, and did not cry.
At this minute a little boy stopped them at the corner
of a lane, and said he had been waiting for a long time to
speak to Mr. Herbert as he passed: for he said his poor
father was very ill, and wanted help sadly. His head was
very bad, and he had had no rest for two nights. « Poor
man!” cried Alfred : «let us go and make him well, papa.”
Mr. Herbert turned off the road, and went to the poor
man’s cottage; and before he went in he told Alfred to
run up and down the lane twenty times, and then get into
the gig again. So Alfred ran up and down twenty times
with all his might, and just as he was climbing up the step
again, his papa came out. * Will the poor man soon be
better?” he asked directly. “Yes, I think he will,” said
Mr. Herbert. So Alfred was ver glad, and then his papa
wrapped him up so warm a snug in a cloak, that
he called it his nest, and felt quite comfortable, and did
not care for the cold at all.



THE PET LAMB. 85



On they went again, and now they came to the common
that was just outside the town where they lived. The
wind blew across the wide common, and whistled among
the thick furze bushes, The clouds scudded away over
the sky, and the moon went sailing along, sometimes hi-
ding her face behind them, then shining out round and
clear. Alfred kept watching the bright moon. “ Here
comes a great black cloud to hide it,” he cried. “See
how the black cloud’s edges turn all light and silvery as
they come near the moon,” said his papa. “Now the
moon has gone to bed behind a cloud,” cried Alfred. “Ah,
there it comes again !’”? “ And look,” said his papa, “how
the white snow sparkles all over when it comes again.”
Then they made a little story about the furze bushes: that
they were all getting ready for a dance on the heath, and
were dressed out in white, sprinkled with diamonds,

“T can see other lights now,” said Mr. Herbert. “I
can see the lights from the windows in the town. We
shall be home in a quarter of an hour now.” So Alfred
began to clap his hands and say, “ Ah, mamma! you don’t
know how near we are to you.”

Just as he spoke they heard a low baa—baa—quite
close to them: so close that it made Mr. Herbert stop the
gig. They listened, and it came again—baa—baa—in a
oh, pitiful tone. “It must be a lamb,” said Mr. Herbert,
“ but Ican see no sheep nor any creature near us.” “Per
- is a poor little lamb that has lost its mother,” said



86 THE PET LAMB,
ool

Mr. Herbert got out and was going to look by the road-

ide, but Bobby, who was impatient to get to his ‘stable,
would not stand still, so that he was afraid to leave him.
“ Let me go, papa,” cried Alfred, jumping up out of his
snug nest, and bustling down by the step. “ Pil go and
look for the little lamb.” “Climb up the bank y the
road-side,” said his papa, “ and look down into the ditch.”

Alfred was soon at the top of the bank, but he could
see nothing. Still the sound went on, fainter and more
pitiful than ever. “ Shall [ get down into the ditch, papa?”
said he. «Yes, if you think you can me it,” answer.
ed his papa. So then Alfred began to get down, slipping,
and sliding, and jumping, and was soon out of sight.

“ I’ve found the poor little lamb, papa,” he soon called -
out from the bottom of the ditch. Mr. Herbert had now
led Bobby and the gig to the edge of the bank, and asked
Alfred whether he thought he could lift up the lamb. «I’l]
try,” answered he.

Some time passed, in which the lamb bleated more than
ever, and the frosty sticks and snow dry leaves in the
ditch crackled and rustled, but nothing was heard of Al-
fred. “What are you doing, Alfred?” Mr. Herbert call-
ed. “Pm coming,” he was answered out of the ditch ina
panting voice, us if quite out of breath. «It’s very dif

cult to get up the side.”

Mr. Herbert took the reins over his arm, and leaned as
‘far as possible over the bank; and then, with great efforts,
Alfred contrived to raise the lamb up within his reach, and



THE PET LAMB. 87
SS———=_=_=_=3

to give it up to him. Then he soon clambered up himself.

“Will the poor lamb die?” said he, looking at it as it
lay quiet over his papa’s arm.

“It is stiff with the cold, and most likely nearly starved,”
said Mr. Herbert. “It is very young, not more than a
week old, | should think.”

“Let us make haste home,” cried Alfred. “ Mamma
will make it get well.”

Mr. Herbert lifted Alfred in, put the lamb on his knees,
covered them both with the cloak, jumped in himself, and
off went Bobby as fast as he could trot. They were
at their own door in no time.

Out ran little Lucy before they had even rung the bell.
Out came James the groom to take the pony to the stable.
Then, out came mamma to the door to welcome them, and
help off the coats and hats, and it all looked bright and
warm inside. . Mr. Herbert lifted out Alfred, and he went
tottering along with his poor little lamb in his arms, too
full of anxiety about it to speak a word.

“ What have you got, Alfred?” cried Lucy. But he was
too eager to get the lamb into the warm room, to answer
her, and never stopped till he had placed it safe down on





the rug.

* Where did you get this poor, pretty little lamb?” ask-

Lucy, “and what is the matter with it?” .

“ We foundtit in a ditch,” answered he, “and it is cold
and hungry. Come, mamma, and tell us what to do to
make the lamb well !””



88 THE PET LAMB.

oOo eeoeE*elesnealeaeaaaaaaasssSsas>ss



Their papa and mamma soon came in together, and
found the two children sitting by the lamb, stroking and
pn it. Their mamma sent directly for a blanket to
ay it on, and moved it farther from the fire. Then she
brought a saucer of warm milk and held it close to its
mouth, but it would not drink: so she dipped her fingers
in, and then put them into its mouth, and it began to suck
them. Then in a minute, to the great Fick of the two
children, it n to lap up the milk, and never stopped |
till it had finished it all. «Now do not fear,” she said.
« The lamb will get well, I think.”

Lucy patted and kissed it, and then Alfred pulled off his
worsted glove, and stroked it: but when his cold little hand
lay on the white, soft wool, they all laughed: for it was as
red as his worsted comforter, which he still had on.

« My dear little fellow,” said his mamma, “now we
must take care of _— why how cold and wet you are !”
so first she made the tea, and rang for the toast and fresh

, and then put on the bread and milk to boil, and then
shs took Alfred on her lap, and took off his cap, and cape,
and comforter: and kissed his bright, rosy cheeks; and
then she pulled off his boots, and socks, all wet with
clambering about in the ditch: and then Lucy ran for dry
ones for him, and she put them on. So little Alfred was
soon wafip, and comfortable, and as happy as he could
be.

le *»
And then the white milk frothed up, and she poured it
out, and they all sat down to tea, and told all their adven-



; THE PET LAMB. 89
aaa 5°00—wH—— SS
tures, and laughed and talked away. Every now and
then Lucy and Alfred stole on tiptoe to look at the lamb,
which had fallen fast asleep. Before they went to bed it
had another saucer full of warm milk, and then they got
a deep basket with some hay in the bottom, and placed the
little creature in it, blanket and all, and there it was left
for the night.

The very first thing in the morning, the two children
went, hand in hand, to look at the lamb. It started up,
and stood on its feet, when they went near it: then bleat-
ed, and seemed frightened: but when it felt their soft
hands patting and stroking its head and sides, it seemed to

et quiet, and when they brought some more warm milk,
it drank out of their hands, and finished all up. After
breakfast, as it was a sunny morning, Mr. Herbert told the
children they might take it into the eee where it jump-
ed and frisked about much to their delight.

Mr, Herbert found out the farmer to whom it belonged:
but he said he should like the little boy to keep it, as he
had saved its life, and to make it a pet lamb. Alfred
said it should be Lucy’s pet lamb, too: and it pret-
tier, and stronger, and more playful, and cropped the grass
and ran about the field : and they called it Daisy. It soon
became so tame that it would come into the » and
follow them in their walks, and they were u

* slways took care of it.



THE MYSTIC RING;
OR, THE PROPHECY FULFILLED.
[sam ENGRAVING.)

——~—

“ lt is useless, my dear, to search any longer,” said Col.
Renton to his wife, as they entered the dining room togeth-
er: “if that ring was dropped out of the Teuaiiieed
upon it, noone will have the honesty to return it.”

“I had rather have lost anything else, than that ring,’

Mrs. Renton, “ and I can never forgive myself
for such a piece of carelessness.” ;

It is proper to remark, that, the ring in question was a
beautiful one, set With four precious gems: it was ht
by Col. Renton at aprice of fifty dollars, and presented
him to his wife on the night.of their marriage. Mrs. Ren-
ton looked upon this pledge of her husband’s love, as being
of more value to her than for its mere intrinsic worth ;
the associations connected with its presentation to her,
invested it with a degree of sacredness, which did not at-

tach itself to ry commas ring.
been out to walk the afternoon before,
and in her glove from her hand, by some unac-

countable misfortune, the ring came off her hand at the |
game al and dropping from her gléve, was lost, and had





=s -% yi < j
= 0M —

: Gl

ey ll |

wu

“



i
i a

Hi PETS.
T







THE MYSTIC RING. 93
a

Sl eee

occasioned the conversation which occurred on their en-
~ance into the dining-room: the loss of the ring in the

smner here described, although true, was a matter of
supposition with Mrs. Renton, which was based.on the
‘act, that she had hunted high and low throughout the
,ouse, but could not find it. Charles and Caroline, their
son and daughter, were amusing themselves in the front
garden, playing with their pet rabbits. They were call-
ed in, and their services were put in requisition to hunt
in and about the house, to endeavour to find the lost trinket.

Having given themselves faithfully to the search for a
considerable time, and being unsuccessful, Charley pro-

to his sister that they should go to the fortune-tel-
er’s hut in the woods, not far off, and invoke her divina-
tion in endeavoring to gain the lost ring. She stood at the
door of the old cottage, and seeing the hey and girl comin
across the lot in the path which led to the house, she call
her grandson to come into the house.

This grandson was the child of her daughter, who had
died some seven years since, and she, Leing the only sur-
viving relative in the family, took the little boy into her
keeping, and supported herself and him very comforta-
bly by the business of fortune-telling. Some had great
faith in her predictions, whilst most people, if they ever
consulted her, did it more for sport, than for any belief
that they entertained in the truth of her statements.

As it was, very many persons consulted her, and seem-
“ed willing to contribute _ to her support even in

(





94 THE MYSTIC RING. e

ooo Saou]

that way, for the old lady was very kind-hearted and amia-

e.

In order to add more weight to her predictions, she in-
vested her fortune-telling with some show of mystery, and
for that yg e she had fitted up a small room in her hut,
which she darkened, and used only a single candle when-
ever she exercised what she called “her spirit of divina-
tion.” She made the little boy quite serviceable, for she
used to secrete him in the room, and require his assistance
in some of her mysterious actions. We have already ob-
served that she saw Charley and Caroline coming on in the

ath that led to her hut, and she called the boy into the
wont and told him to go into the “ mysterious chamber,”
as she called it, for there were customers coming.

The boy gnacetagy repaired to the chamber, and the
children now entered the house.

«Good afternoon, aunt Peggy,” said Charley, as they
entered the hut.

“ Ab, good day, child, good day,” replied the old lady,
“and what can aunt Peggy do for the young master and
miss ?” inquired she.

“To tell you the truth, aunt Peggy,” said Caroline,
“ There has been something lost at our house, and we have
come to you to see if you can’t help us to find it.”
i Well, well, child,” replied Peggy. ‘it is’nt a ring, is
it?”

« La, me, aunt Pege

!” replied Caroline, ‘1 do believe,
you area witch; how

lige appen to guess that 1”



THE MYSTIC RING. 95





« Ah, well: I might as well have guessed that as any-
thing,” replied Peggy, “for there’s a good many fol
that don’t believe I know anything.”

“I should think that you must know something,” re-

lied Charley, “or you would never have known that we
had lost a ring.” ©

The old lady was well satisfied that a ring was the ar-
ticle lost, and determined that she would give the children
evidence of her knowledge.

“Stay here, children,” said the old lady: “ I'll go into
the mysterious chamber, and put things to rights, and then
we'll see what we can do about the ring.”

Toexplain this matter it should here be remarked, that
the old lady had found this identical ring that was lost, and
supposing that it was possible that some person might
come to consult her in regard to it, she retained it until
she should have an apportunity of ascertaining the real
owner. The old lady went into the mysterious chamber,
for the purpose of affixing the ring to a piece of black cloth,
and hanging this cloth inside of a frame work which she
had made, before which was suspended a curtain. This
curtain, by order of the old lady, at a given signal, was
mysteriously drawn aside by the little boy who was se-
creted in behind the large quilt that was hung up for the
very purpose of secreting him from the observation of any

visitor.

Having made all her arrangements, and given the little
boy instructions how to proceed, she returned to the kitch-
en for Charley and Caroliné.

¢

















96 THE MYSTIC RING.

«Come, children!” said the old lady, “give me your
hands, and let me lead you to the mysterious chamber.”

They arose to follow the old lady, and she conducted
them through a dark entry into a dark room: on arriving
there she groped around for a couple of chairs, and desir
ed them to be seated.

The room was dark as midnight: the old lady soon pro-
duced her flint and steel, and finally struck a light, and

Jaced the candle near the curtain.

« Now, children,” said the old lady, “1 will endeavor to
ascertain what kind of a ring it was that has been lost.”

She made several mysterious gyrations in front of the
curtain, and then exclaimed, “appear y? At this instant
the curtain was drawn aside, and lo! there was a ring ats.
tached to a piece of hanging black cloth.

“ That’s it! that’s it!” simultaneously exclaimed Caro-
line and Charley : “Oh! let us have it !—do, aunt Peggy!”

“ Be quiet, children Y said the old ladv: “ this ring» is
like the one you lost, is it not t”

«It is! it is!” replied Charley.

“ Be — then!" said the old lady: “1 know now
the kind of ring you’ve lost: to-morrow you will receive
the original in a mysterious manner.”

The old lady now extinguished the candle, and led the
children out of the room into that from whence-she came.
After spending a few minutes in conversation, the children
left for their home. ‘

The children, on their return, related the affair of their





THE MYSTIC RING. 97







visit to the fortune-teller, but notwithstanding their en
thusiasm, the father and mother were disposed to treat the
whole matter with indifference. Even the children’s as-
sertion that they had seen an exact representation of the
lost ring, did not have the effect to produce any additional
confidence in the minds of the parents in the promises or
sayings of the fortune-teller. ‘
Nothing more was said that day concerning the lost
ring. The search, however, was continued during the re-
mainder of that day, and through a part of the next.
About three o’clock in the afternoon of the next day, the
old lady’s grand-child was dispatched with a small pack-
age, and was instructed to leave it with the maid of the *
house. The boy accordingly repaired to the kitchen of :
Col. Renton’s house, and left a little package directed te '
his care. The package was delivered by the maid to Col.
Renton while at the supper table. He opened the pack-
age, and behold it contained a small biscuit. He threw it
over to his wife, saying that it was some joke of the cook’s,
and took no further notice of the matter. The biscuit
lay beside the plate of Mrs. Renton, and Caroline asked
her if she could have it. Having assented, Caroline cut
it open with the intention of eating it, when there, in the
middle of it, appeared the ring.
“Oh mother—father—see, see! the ring—the ring! 1
cut it out of this cake!” exclaimed Caroline, laughing,
and dancing out of her chair.
ft Thering !” exclaimed the father—* let me see it.” The

4



98 THE MYSTIC RING.
—<—=—[———EESESESE Eee

Colonel and his wife examined the ring, and were satisfied
of its identity. The next question was, how came it there?
The cook was sent for, and questioned about the matter.
All she knew about it was, that a boy came there that af-
ternoon, and left a package, requesting that it might be
delivered to Col. Renton. What the package was she

id not know—for of course it was not her duty to open

The cool did not inquire the boy’s name, and she nev-
er had seen him before.

“This matter,” said the Colonel, “ must be hunted out:
for whoever found the ring and returned it should be liber.
ally rewarded.

The Colonel, unbeknown to his family, repaired imme-
diately to the fortune-teller’s hovel. She saw him com-
* ng, and secreted the boy.

“Well, aunt Peggy,” said the Colonel, “1 am_ indebt-
ed to you then for the recovery of my lost ring. Name
your reward, and I shall most.willingly pay it.””

“Have you found it, then?” inquired aunt: Peggy, as-
suming an air of a.

“ [ have!” replied the Colonel, “ and if you will not tell
me how much I shall give you, take this twenty dollar
note,and with it my thanks.”

“ Nay, Colonel,” replied Peggy, “I will take thy mon-
ey only on one condition.”

oad it!” said the Colonel: “it shall be complied
with,”

“It is.this: that thou shalt not require of me to know

x





. ~
THE MYSTIC RING. 99

how I was able to trace out the ring, ana send the person
to thee with it: this is the condition :” replied Peggy.

‘ Well, well, Peggy |” replied the Colonel : “1 am satis-
fied to get the ring, and as I have got it, 1 hardly need trou-
ble my head about thy sorcery.”

The Colonel now returned to his family, and they were
very anxious in their inquiries to ascertain by him, how
aunt Peggy knew where it was: but as the Colonel pos-
sessed no information on that point, he could of course
communicate - a his oa

The noise, of aunt Peggy’s exploit was gossipped all
through the neighborhood, and the curfoniiady towns,
in fact, and it was the means of adding many a dollar to
her pocket. This act had a tendency to increase the faith
of many in her divinations, and many and many is the
love-sick swain that might have been seen following the
path to Peggy’s cottage, to learn something of the secrets
concerning them: locked upin the mysterious chamber.

—0)——

VICE.

It was a wise saying among the ancients, that ‘the way
to vice lies down hill. If you take but a fewsteps, the mo-
tion soon becomes so impetuous and violent, that it is im-
possible for you to resist it.



_Â¥

“DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.”

—

“I never will play with Charley Mason again, mother.
He’s a naughty boy, and I don’t love him.”

“ What is the matter now, my son? I thought youand
Charley were very good friends.”

“Why, mother, he’s got my new India rubber ball, which
sister Anne gave me, and he says he’ll keep it all the time.
But I say he shan’t—shall he?”

And saying this, little George Hammond burst into a sad
fit of tears. His mother spoke gently tohim, and said—
“ How came Charley to run away with your ball?”

“ Why, mother, he wanted to play with it, and so did I.
I let him look at it, and then took it again, because it was
my ball, you know: and by and by, when I was Playing
bounce, it rolled away. 1 ran after it, and so did he:
he got it before I could, and carried it home.” *

“Well, George, it was wrong for him to carry it away
in such a manner: but let me ask you, my son, if Charley
had a nice ball, and you had none, don’t you think you
should like to have played with it?” ‘

“O, yes, indeed !”

“ And do you think Charley would have let you ?”

, *O! I guess he would : for he’s a real nice boy, some-
times.” |
i Georgy, do you remember what papa told Fan-

:

(



Full Text



Pisher & Brother's Mome Juvenile Sales e«
THE GEM;
OR, BOOK OF

PLEASANT PAGES. -

DESIGNED FOR

istration and Smusement,



PRAPAADDAIIIIIVIF FIL LAIN"
WITH SIX COLORED ENGRAVINGS

eer



~n—eom

*
FISHER & BROTHER:

No, 15 NORTH SIXTH STREET, PHILADELPHIA: .
No. 74 CHATHAM STREET, NEW YORK:
No. 5 NORTH ST, BALTIMORE: $
71 COURT ST., BOSTON, "@
ey
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by
FISHER S& BROTHER,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

i
THE FOUNDLINGS ;
OR, A MYSTERY EXPLAINED.

[SEE FRONTISPIECE. ]

—

Mr. Rawson and his family, consisting of his wife, his
mother, and hissister, were one evening sitting around
the fire, busily engaged in conversing upon various topics,
when a loud rap was heard at the front door. It was sup-
posed by the family that it must be the summons of some
traveller who sought a shelter from the cold, as it was a
chilly, piercing cold night in the latter part of Nove

Mrs. Rawson arose and took the lamp, for the
of answering the demand. It was an unusual occu
to be thus alarmed so late as nine o’clock in the ev
in that still country village. ‘ « d

On opening the door, Mrs. Rawson could discover no
one, and it was in vain that she attempted to penetrate
the darkness without: her eye could behold no one, and she
was about to close the door, when thefaint murmur of an
infant’s voice attracted her attention. On looking around
upon that portion of the step that was concealed from view
as she stood within the door way, she discovered a basket, .
which she immediately took up and bore into the apart-

ment she had just left.
It would be impossible to describe the wonder and as-
* whe ° S




oe
¢
POR he
6 THE FOUNDLINGS.







tonishment that were displayed at exposing the contents
of that mysterious basket. Its contents were no less than
that of a beautiful little baby boy, nicely stowed away in
a fine warm blanket. Of course, it was of no use to ask
where it came from, or who left it on the step, for all these
facts were involved in a deep and impenetrable mystery,
a mystery which, perhaps, a life-time would never unfold.

Suffice it to say, however, the little stranger was _pro-
perly taken care of, and shared the bed and attentions of
its new-found parents.

The little new-comer appeared to be about three months

old, plump as a pigeon, and as pretty as a picture.

Mr. Rawgon determined to attempt to ascertain who its
tural mother was, if possible—if not, he resolved to
teit as his ow child.
€ must now turn our attention to another event which
€ same evening, was transpiring in another part of

‘this same town.

~ In this village resided one Mrs. Wilson, a widow lady,
who with her son} and her sister, constituted the whole of
her family. On wt evening referred to, they were in like
manner seated arotnd a table in the centre of the room,
before a warm fire, and the son was busily engaged in
reading for their amusement, whilst they were as busily
engaged in sewing. ‘+ %

A loud rapat the front door startled them all, at that

hour of the evening, which was late for thecountry. The
son arose, and taking the lamp, proceeded to answer the
‘

THE FOUNDLINGS. 7





summons. On opening the door, a gust of wind extin-
guished it: he heard distant footsteps, and quickly re-
turned to re-light his lamp, but on coming back to the door
all was still: he saw nothing but a bundle on the step,
which he took into the house, and placed upon the table
around which the family was seated. On opening the bun-
dle, which was found to be a basket tied up in a piece of
sheet, it was found to contain a sweet pretty little plump
girl baby, apparently about three months old.

Here was food for conjecture, wonderment and surprise :
and this in fact was all they could do, for all else was wrap-
ped in impenetrable mystery. The family of Mr. Rawson
and of Mrs. Wilson were quite intimate together, notwith-
standing they lived a good half mile apart. Early the
next morning good Mrs. Wilson visited her friend Mrs.
Rawson for the purpose of relating the wonderful occur-
rence of thé previous evening: but judge of Mrs. Wil-
son’s surprise on entering Mrs. Rawson’s house, to find a
little baby asleep, on a little temporary bed made for it,
on the sofa in her parlor. . y .

- Mrs. Rawson soon related the story of, the last night, and
it was so like the event, in all its particulars, that occure
red at Mrs. Wilson’s, she could hardly congain herself till
Mrs. Rawson got through her recital, she was so anxious |
to tell her story. em

Mrs. Rawsont having, however, related the fatts,: Mrs.
Wilson now told a story which matched her’s~in almost.
every particular. ‘ “y
8 THE FOUNDLINGS.





Each party had fully concluded to adopt the little ones
which fortune had thus singularly cast upon their care
and protection.

hen the secret of the “ foundlings” was out, you may
well suppose that it afforded a subject for gossip among
the neighbors for any number of weeks and months.

When all attempts at finding any clue to the parents of
these children had utterly failed, they were formally
adopted into the families upon whose door-stones they had
been left. The little boy received the name of Frank Raw-
son, and the little girl received the name of Fanny Wilson.

You may be sure that these little children were very

ecious to their new-found parents, and received every

ind of care and attention, that love and sympathy could
dictate. They were bandsomely ,clothed, appropriatel
fed, and properly protected, and their parents were well
rewarded for their care, in seeing them growing up in a
state of health. We must now pass over a period in their
infancy, to the time when they are old enough to attend
school. Here their acquaintance with each other begins.

These children.were very much beloved by their boa -
mates, for the amiableness of their dispositions, and the
frankness of their natures.

As i uently the case among school children, who
often their pet associates, these little ones, Frank and
Fanny, were frequently together. Theré was not that

striking resemblance between them; which so often char-
acterise twins—still, the people said there was a strong
THE FOUNDLINGS. : 9





resemblance; whether this was the effect of that peculiar
power in human nature of persons assimilating who
constantly together, or whether this was but an imagi-
nary likeness conceived by the neighbors, from seeing
them so often in each other’s company, we are unable to
decide. They grew up together, and a strong attach-
ment consequently sprung up between them. On both
sides the parents saw this: they knew that their histories
were similar—perhaps their origin was the same; at all
events their tastes and feelings were similar, and they en-
couraged the attachment.

We are now called upon to make another leap in our
story. We arrive now af that point where Frank Raw-
son and Fanny Wilson have reached the age of twenty.
Their attachment for each other continues unabated, and
Fanny Wilson is now the recipient of the constant atten-
tions of Frank Rawson.

Both feel that they have arrived at that point in their
history when a mutual por ere becomes necessary
They made a formal pledge of mutual love, and Frank
Rawson made to Fanny Wilson a proffer of his heart and
hand which she accepted. a

The parents on both sides watched the prosressa their
growing love, and gave their sanction to t union qpshese
fond dapeted a % iii .

reparations marriage were being a
the wedding day was tama "

The singular history of these two persons were now

a,
10. THE FOUNDLINGS.





as familiar to the inhabitants as household words, and the
parents felt desirous that this happy conclusion to their
children’s minority should be as public,as was now their
once private history.

The village pastor was-consulted on the matter, and
readily acquiesced in performing the ceremony of marriage
in the village church on the afternoon appointed for that
ceremony. A wedding in church, though not a new event,
was nevertheless a rather uncommon one, consequently the
circumstance called together all the neighbors, far and
near. The people had assembled, and all were upon the
tip-toe of anxious expectation. Soon the village pastor
was seen coming down the lane, leading to the church,
clad‘in his black robe, who entered the house, walked slow-
ly up, the aisle, and took a seat within the chancel. In a
few minutes after a carryall drove up, containing the bride
and bridegroom, and two friends, and immediately after,
another, containing Mr. and Mrs. Rawson, Mrs. Wilson,
and her son and sister.

The bride, bridegroom and their two friends proceeded
up the aisle, and stood in front of the chancel, whilst the
village pastor stood up to greet them. Mr. and Mrs. Raw-
son, and Mrs. Wilson, who were to give the parties away,
took a seat in the front pew, near the chancel.

The pastor now arose, and put the usual question to as-
certain if the union about to be formed was with the con-
sent of parents, whereupon Mr. Rawson and Mrs. Wilson,
who were to give the parties away, took a seat in the front
pew, near the chancel.

J
THE FOUNDLINGS. ’



The minister now stated “ that if there was any one
sent who knew of any cause why the parties now about
to be married, should not be joined together, they must
now assert it, or ever after hold their peace.” -

At this point of the ceremony, a female in a remote cor-
ner of the church, with her face covered with a deep black
veil, arose, and in a firm and distinct voice, excl
“1 forbid this marriage.”

On hearing this the pastor desired the woman to advance

to the altar. She didso. The pastor now inquired,“Wo- |

man, on what authority do you forbid these rites?”
“ They are brother and sister,” replied the woman. The

audience were completely electrified at this unexpected ~

intelligence. The bride and bridegroom looked into each

other’s pale faces, as much as to ask, “ What does all this

mean 7”?

“Do you know this to be true, woman?” inquired the ©

pastor.
“I do!” replied the woman, in the same firm voice.
“ And you are,” — here the pastor was interrupted by the

woman, who exclaimed with emphasis, “J am their mo--

ther.”

“What proof have we of this?” inquired pastor.
The woman then gave a clear and distinct recital of her
leaving her children upon their door-steps, in the month of
November, so many years a As a reason for the act,
she related the story of the death of her husband, who left
hef with these twin children, when but about three months
wm - THE FOUNDLINGS.

A.



old. They lived in a village some five miles distant. Her
husband was well known to the kind persons with whom
she had left these infants. She must take this step, or her
children must starve. Since she left them on the steps she
had not lost sight of them—she had been with them, and
about them, and watched their course. At this point of
her history, she raised the thick veil that hid her face.
She was about forty-five years of age: the resemblance

between her and her children was so strong, that all were -

convinced of the truth of her story. The result of this de-
noument was, that the children provided a home for their
mother, and they lived together the rest of- their days, a

happy family.
TRUE AFFECTION,

The affection a the mere fact of helplessness
and dependence fills the heart of a woman is the divinest
attribute of her nature Is there a more lovely sight on
earth than the devotion of'a daughter to an aged, perhaps
peevish, parent, sinking into a second childhood ?

This true affection is the more eminently displayed in
the relationship of wife, mother and sister—those house-
hold jewels that adorn the family. altar and fireside.

‘
oy “ee

THE LITTLE MILK-MAID.
——=-— we

There was once a little milkmaid who lived at a farm-
house. Her name was Sally. On the summer mornings
she used to be up and dressed at five o’clock. Then a
took her bright milk-pail on her head, and her three-legged
stool in her hand, and called her little dog Trusty, and
tripped over the dewy grass to the stile that led to, the
field where the cows fed. The wild thyme gave olf a
sweet scent as she walked along; and the green leaves
glistened in the sun, for the dew was still on them; and
the lark flew up high, and his song came pouring down over
her head. When she got to the stile, she saw all the four
cows quite at the other side of the field. One was called
Dapple, one Brindle, one Frisky, and one Maggie. The
saw her get over the stile, but never stirred a step towards
her. Dapple looked up for a moment, and then a eat-
ing again; Brindle did not seem to mind her; Maggie
was lying down, and did not move; and Frisky lashed
her. tail and shook her head, and went on eating.

« Oh, this willnever do!” said Sally. “ Trusty, Trusty
—go and bring me Dapple.” :

apple was brown all over, except a white face and
tail. Trusty ran behind Dapple, and barked two or three
times, feat to tell her tomove on. And she began to walk
slowly and gravely towards Sally. Then Sally put dow:.
43
tlh ; :

iv THE LITTLE MILEAMAID.

her little three-legged stool, and sat down by Dapple and
milked her. When she had done, she gave her a pat, and
said, “ Now, youmay go.” Then Dapple began to eat
again. :

“ Now, Trusty,” said Sally, “ go and bring me Brindle.”
Brindle was all white. Trusty ran up to her, and she be-
gan to walk on; but when she had got to the middle of the
field, she stopped to eat, and Trusty was obliged to bark
pretty sharply, and tell her it was shameful of her. Then
she went on, and was milked.

Sally next sent Trusty to bring Frisky. She was brown
and.white, prettily spotted ; but she was sometimes quite
‘naughty when she was milked, and this time she seemed to
mean to be so: for, as soon as Trusty got up to her, she
set off and gallopped up to Sally. Then, just as Sally
began to mill her, she walked on, and left her and her stool
behind, and very nearly knocked the pail over besides.

- So Sally had to get up, and move stool and pail onwards,
and then she said, “ Stand still, Frisky,” and stroked and
patted her. So she stood still, and was very good.

“ Now, Trusty, bring pretty Maggie,” said Sally. Mag-
gie was black and white, and very pretty and gentle. She
came directly, and stood quite still and was milked. Then
owe all done.

lly now lifted the pail, which was quite full, on her
head, and carried it so firmly and steadily, that she had
not to put her hand up to it, not even when she got over
the stile, and in this way she walked along” batk to the
‘arm.


i >
THE LITTLE MILK-MAID. 6.
— >>> SSS Se

Then she went into the cool, fresh dairy, and Trust
lay down at the door. The dairy had a stone shelf all
round it, with shallow round pans ranged all along it, all
filled with sweet rich milk, covered with thick yellow
cream. Here she took down her pail; and first she filled
a large jug with the new milk for breakfast.

She then poured all the rest into two or three pans, like
the others on theshelf. Next, she took a flat wooden spoon,
and skimmed the cream off of several of the others, and

ured it all into a square wooden machine called a churn.
Mt had a handle which turned round. She threw in some
salt, and then began to turn the handle round and round,
and it turned a wheel inside, and the wheel beat and splash-
ed the cream round and round in the churn. Presently
she looked in, and said, “It’s not come yet.” Then
she turned the handle round again for some time. At —
last when she looked in, there was a large lump of fine
fresh butter, and all about it a thin white liquid, called
buttermilk, and all the cream was gone. She took out
the butter, and put it into a bowl of cold spring .wa-
ter, and made it up into three large rolls with two flat
wooden knives. Next she cut off three or four slices,
made them up into nice little rounds, and pressed them
with a wooden stamp, with a rose bud and leaves cut
out upon it,.and when she took it off, there were the
rose bud and leaves marked on the butter. © ;

Then Sally poured all the buttermilk, and all the tmilk
from which she had skimmed the cream, into a clean

2 he
* 16 THE LITTLE MILE-MAID.



wooden pail, and stirred in some barley-meal, and carried
it off to the pig sty. She stood still oytside the paling of
the pig’s little yard, and called “ Pig—pig—pig !”’ and out
came the pigs from their sty, little and big, grunting and

ueaking and scrambling, and tumbling over one another.

hen she poured all her pailful into the pig’s trough, and
then they ee wpeains ot grunting and scrambling
more than ever, and put their long noses in, some of them
up to their eyes, and some got their feet in, and all of
them gobbled it up as fast as they possibly could. i+) -: -)

After Sally had fed the pigs, she took out some corn, and
went to the poultry yard, and called, “ Chuck—chuck—
chuck!” and then the cocks and hens, and ducks and
geese, came running round her, crowing and clucking,
and quacking, and cackling, and the pigeons flew down
and helped to eat, and all of them pecked up the corn as
fast as they could. In the afternoon they had boiled po-
tatoes and sopped bread and vegetables, and curd, too,
if Sally had been making whey.

When Sally had done all this, she went back into her
room, and opened the bed curtains; and there was lying
a little rosy-cheeked girl with light curly hair. And when
Sally looked at her, she opened two large blue eyes, and
held out her arms, and Sally kissed her, and said, “ Are

ou ready to get up, little Annie?” And she said “ Yes.”
bis was Sally’s little sister, that her kind mistress let her
have with her to love and take care of.

Then Sally took up little Annie, and got a large brown
THE LITTLE MILK-MAID. sc an





pan for her bath, and stood her in it, dnd brought a jug
of fresh cold water to pour over her.

Little Annie stood very still, but when the water was:

coming; she held up her hands and said, “ Will it be cold?”

“Oh no!” said Sally, “it’s a beautiful warm morning.”
Then she washed and dressed little Annie, and afterwards
they had their breakfast together in a nice comfortable
kitchen. Sally had a a appetite after having been so
busy, and little Annie had a large basin of boiled bread
and milk, and she always gave some to Trusty.. This
was the end of the little Milk-maid’s morning work.

—=0 (=

ANECDOTE.

In 1586, Philip the Second of Spain sent the young
constable of Castile to Rome, to congratulate Sixtus the
Fifth upon his exaltation. The pontiff, dissatisfied at the
youth of the ambassador, pettishly said, “Is your mas-
ter deficient in men, that he hds sent me an ambassador
without a beard ?”—* If my sovereign had thought,” re-

lied the proud Spaniard, “ that the merit consisted in the
ba he would no doubt have sent you a goat, and not

a gentleman like me.”

f r

~ Ve,
THE GUARDIAN DOG.

[SEE ENGRAVING. }
—e—- fr

Little Harry Hudson was an only child, consequently
the pet of his father and mother, and the delight of his
‘old grandfather. —

The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, the old
grandfather already spoken of, little Harry, and a young
cousin, Mary Wright, who was a resident also in Mr.
Hudson’s family.

When Master Harry was about four years old, one of
his uncles who lived not many miles distant, sent him a
beautiful little spaniel pup, the care of which devolved en-
tirely upon his young master Harry. The new-comer
into the family received all his food from the hand of Har-
ry; he slept in the same bed with him at night, and was
his constant companion by day.,

Harry would go no where, would neither eat his meals .
or go to bed, without his dog was at his side. The dog,
being one of the tractable breed, was soon taught a num-
ber of innocent tricks which, under the direction of mas-
ter Harry, he would frequently play off to the amusement
of the-family and the neighbours. ‘

The attachment between Harry and his dog was eyery
day becoming stronger, until at last the doggwo e

y a 8 8 Ogg wou


oe

3) 17)

aS .
N a

THE GUARDIAN DOG.

es ee eee 3





(19)
4,

Rie ica
cen


THE GUARDIAN DOG. 21



ceive no food from any other hands than those of his mas-
ter. : ;
The dog as yet had received no name, and it was sug-
gested, on one occasion, by the village schoolmaster; that
the dog ought to be named “ Fido,” because of his faith-
ful attachment to little master Harry. In accordance
with that suggestion, the dog received the name of “ Fido,”
and knew no other as long as he lived.

Although the dog would stand beside the father, or mo-
ther, or even the old grandfather of » and receive
their caresses, yet the moment he heard the voice of
his young master, he would dart like an arrow towards
him, lie down, and roll at his feet, or cover his face and
hands with his kisses. ‘

One morning Harry wanted to take a little walk, and
his cousin una to coax him to leave “ Fido” at
home. Harry scratched his head, and thought.af sana
finally consented to go without him, but he been

ne more than ten minutes before the was missing,

aving gone, as they very truly suspected, in scarch of his
Baring arcived &t, sx, genre ol age, mea

aving arrived at six years o . was
inened te take short aie wee other i
than his dog, having never met with any accident, or
missed returning in season; hence the parents felt little
or.no anxiety. But this day was an exception to all
others that had preceded it. Twelve o’clock found the
family all seated around â„¢ a table, but neither the
2
22 THE GUARDIAN DOG.





dog nor Harry was present. The father went to the door
an looked, the cousin ran down the lane and called, but
all to no purpose; neither Harry or Fido were anywhere
to be seen.

The parents now became alarmed; messengers from
among Mr. Hudson’s workmen, were dispatched to the
neighboring farm-houses, to endeavour to obtain intelli-

nce, but in vain. They had seen young Harry and his

og pass their houses, but beyond that they knew nothing.
The neighbors were aroused, and went in different direc-
tions in pursuit of the lost child, but they only returned to
say, that they had called for Harry in every direction, but
7 ee of him. cain ha
oO ther now suggested, that as t ad
sought in vibe, oad that wherever Harry was, thers the
would be, that they should try once more, and not
Harry, but call for the dog, as it would be possible
that the dog might answer, if Herry was in a condition to
neither hear or answer.

This piece of advice was acted upon. Away went the
neighbors again in pursuit, and’the fields and woods re-
sounded with the shrill whistles, and loud calls, of the
sturdy farmers.

Soon a faint bark of a dog was heard at a great dis-
tance; they followed the sound, still whistling and calling,
when lo! and behold! there they found master Harry ru
bing his eyes, having just been aroused from a nap by the
barking his faithful dog, who sat beside him, staring his
young master in the face.
THE GUARDIAN DOG. 28



The facts in the case were, that master Harry had so
long trudged about in the woods and fields, that he had be-
come weary, and he laid down = the to rest him-
self, and, before he was aware of it, he fell into a sound

| sleep, whilst his faithful companion watched and guarded

him.

The joy of the family may easily be imagined, when
they a the little fellow trudging 4 ‘bee with his
dog by his side, and it may also be readily imagined how
much stronger was their attachment to the faithful com-
patiion of their beloved little boy.

The family caressed the dog with more than ordinary
fondness, but he stuck close to his young master, who fed
him first, before he would eat anything himself.

Day by day master Harry became more and more at-
tached to his dog, and having now begun to attend the
village school, his faithful would follow him to the
door, and, either lie down in the adjoining wood shed, or,
on a pleasant day, under a tree near by, and patiently
wait for his a return.

On occasions when Harry would not return from school
at noon, but stay until its close in the afternoon, Fido
would always the little basket containing his mas-
ter’s dinner, and when Harry partook of it at noon, his
dog always sat beside him, and received.a liberal share
of it. Lis,

' One day Harry was missed by the dog; he laid about
the house, taking no notice of any one; occasionally he
24 THE GUARDIAN DOG.





|

would go out in front of the house, look in different direc-
tions, howl mournfully, and, returning into the house,
would Jie down under a table for hours together, as if
awaiting the return of his young master.

We have said that the dog missed his young master ;
he did so, for poor Harry was laying upon his bed up stairs”
—sick—very sick.

Although he occasionally inquired for his dog, yet his
a. advised the family that he should not see him,

ior fear the excitement it might induce, and the violence of
the dog’s caresses, might combine to produce an unfavor-
ble result, for Harry Cine sick of a brain fever, it was
_— that he should be kept as still and as quiet as pos- —
sible

One morning, Fido followed Mrs. Hudson up stairs, and
saw her enter the room where he and his young rer a
had slept so long together, and would have entered, had he
not been gently repulsed by Mrs. Hudson, who did so much
inst her inclination. Asif by an instinct amounting |
almost to reason, the dog seemed to realize that his young |
master was in that room, and he laid himself down at |

the door, and occasionally breathed out a most piteous
, but having been frequently driven down stairs by |
nurse, he took up his old quarters under the kitch- ©

en table, where he would lay and groan from morning

till night. He refused all food, notwithstanding it was
frequently offered him, and all the nourishment that he
was known to take was simply water. Three or four |
THE GUARDIAN DOG. 25



times a day he would visit the brook, take a few laps
of water, and, turning back, would utter a most piteous
howl, and return to his old resting-place beneath the
kitchen table.

The affection and care of father and mother, and the

” skill of the physician, were of no avail: poor Harry died.

Sadness and gloom now rested upon that hitherto happy

household.

The preparations for the funeral having been made, and
the day of burial having arrived, Harry’s body was brought
into the spacious kitchen, and the coffin placed upon a ta-
ble in the middle of it. The friends and neighbors of the
family were assembled, the prayer was said, and the usual
consolations of such occasions administered, and the neigh- ©
bors passed up to look through the opgn coffin lid, to
dice more, and for the last time, upon young Harry’s face,

Among the number assembled was the schoolmaster of
the village: he was Harry’s teacher, and had become very
much attached to him. He stood for several minutes ga-
zing upon his cold and pallid features, and as he turned

away, he exclai “ Alas, poor Harry!”

The faithful dog heard his master’s name: he jum
into a chair that stood beside the table, thence from
table he jumped upon the coffin. He saw the face of his
young master: he lapped it with his tongue, then jum
to the floor, laid himself out beneath the table, utt a
dismal groan, and died. All this, which was done int’
time than it has required to tell it, so astonished ‘al! ‘pre-

.D ist
26 THE GUARDIAN DOG.

eo LE——E====a[a[l==a[a=a=anaSeaee ee

sent, that no one approached the dog, or attempted to
drive him from his position.

The body of young Harry was now borne to the
churchyard, while the family, oppressed with grief and
sorrow, followed on, accompanied by their sympathizing
neighbors.

he family took their last farewell of Harry, and re-
turned sorrowful to their gloomy home. Judge of their
surprise, to find, on their return, the faithful dog still lying
under the table. They spoke to him: they touched him:
yet, he moved not:—he was dead. They observed his
act while upon the coffin: they saw him jump to the floor
—they heard his groan: but did not imagine that he died.
‘Such was the fact. What devotion, what friendship, on
the of adumb animal! Well might his conduct pat
to the blush many of the human race, who of course lay
claim to intelligence: what an example have we here of
unshaken devotion, of unchangeable friendship?

A memento was raised over the remains of poor Harry,
and _— a youth of the town would repair to the spot,
and tell his companion the story of the “ Guardian dog.”

Mr. Hudson sent to a neighboring cfty, and obtained the
services of a man whose business was to preserve birds
and animals, and Fido was prepared in the usual manner,
and fixed in a sitting position, so as to look as natural as if
alive. He was then placed upon the mantel-piece of the
parlour, as a memento of his fidelity to Harry, as well as
a remembrance of their son, and of the strong attachment
that existed between him and his dog.
THE GUARDIAN DOG. 27



Oftentimes would the father relate the story to some
stranger or traveller, who might ask “why he kept that
dog sitting upon his mantel-piece’”’ and tears would run
profusely down the listener’s cheeks as he heard the plain-
tive story.

We are sometimes blamed for the attachment we mani-
fest for a dog; but, who, that is conversant with the nu-
merous instances on record, of their fidelity, and watch-
fulness, their affection, and devotion, can help loving a dog
for the nobleness of his nature? Unlike most other ani-
mals, they seem to appreciate human kindness, and reci-
procate it with a show of affectionate devotion and love,
which approaches so near to reason, and seems so far
onan instinct, that one is puzzled to know to which to ate
tribute it.

——==0) (=

ADVICE.

He that would pass the latter part of his life with honor
and decency, must, when he is young, consider that he
shall one day be old, and lay up knowl for his sup-
port, when his powers of acting shall forsake him; and re-
member when e is old, that he has once been young, and
forbear to animadvert with unnecessary rigor, on faults
which experience only can correct.
THE LAMB
THAT WOULD BE WISER THAN ITS MOTHER,
aaibies

There was a lamb that lived in a green field with its
mother, a careful, gentle sheep. This lamb spent a very
happy life, and as it was now the month of June, she was
well grown, and could eat and i play about ye nese
She used to jump and frisk very often. Sometimes she
would run round and round her mother; then she would
spring quite off the ground: then she would take long races
up and down the field, shaking her tail up and down from
side to side; at last, quite tired, she would stretch herself
out on the soft, cool grass, and fall asleep; but she was
soon awake, and ready to begin her fun and play again.

One day, while she was frisking about the field, she ran
up the bank, and peer through a hole in the hedge, at
the field on the other side. Then she ran back to her mo-
ther, crying, “Oh, mother! I have seen such a beautiful
field. It is much greenep and pleasanter than this. I
should like to get into it, and eat the grass there.”

But her mother said, “ No, child, you must not go there,
This is our field: we have no business in the other.”

Still the lamb said, “But 1 should like to go. Let me

”
“ No,” repeated her mother, “ you must not go there.

You do not know what dangers you might fall into!”
28
THE LAMB. 29

——

Again the lamb said, “ But I should like to go.”

Next morning this wilful lamb did nothing but think of
the other field. . She could neither eat grass, nor play, nor
enjoy herselfat all. At last she ran again to the bank,
and a through the hole. ‘Then she looked back at
her er, who was quietly cropping the grass. Then
she put her head through the hole. Then her two fore
legs. At last tail and all got through. Now what joy was
she in! She ran, and gambolled, and jumped. She tast-
ed the and it seemed sweeter by far than the grass in
the old field. “I am wiser than my mother,” she thought
to herself. “ She never tasted such grass as this.”

Presently she to wander all round the field, and
came to another hole in the hedge. She peeped through
again, and there she saw another field that looked finer
still. So through this hole she went; and then she gam-
bolled and jumped, and ran till she was tired, and ate
grass till she could eat no more.

Then she n torun round the field again, and came
to another in the hedge, and saw a field beyond that
which seemed finer still than al sthe others. Into it she
went, and again friéked, ran, played, and ate grass till she
could eat no more.

But now the sun got low in the sky, and the long sha-
dows of the trees lay across the grass, and it looked very
lonely. The lamb began to wonder whether her mother



was uneasy about her, and thought she would go home. -

She therefore ran along the hedge looking for the hole.

|
80 THE LAMB.



The sun went quite down, and it grew darker and
darker. The nde cold, and elt through the
. The am w quite frightened, and could
at the hole. She a for her mother, and ran up
and down so fast that she got quite confused, and lost her
senses, and would not have seen the hole even if there
had been light enough. y

At last this ittle thing ran up a high bank, and
jomeet up to aan the me but she only knocked
— d against the stump of atree. Then she lost her
footing, a slipped down into a deepditch of dry mud.

Then she cried and ran along the bottom of it, quite una-
ble to get out, and at last fell asleep, tired out and fall of

and grief. .

When > awoke it was light, and she cried for her
mother, and looked round, but instead of her pleasant green
field, she saw nothing except the steep muddy banks of
the ditch. Then she cried more than ever, ran along
as fast as she could.

At last she thought to herself that it was of no. use to
cry, and that she had better go slower, and see if she could
not get out of the ditch somewhere. Soshe walked along,
looking at the side, and at last she found a place where it
- ‘was not so very steep, and climbed up got into the
field again. ba

The lamb now tried again to find the hole. She ran
across the grass, and looked everywhere, but could not
find it. At last she stopped and listened. Sne thought
THE LAMB. $1





she heard a sound that she knew. It came through the
air from a distance, a mournful cry of baa— baa—, so far
off that she could hardly hear it; but she knew it, for it
was her mother’s voice. ‘

Now the lamb knew which way to go. Sheran straight
across the field, found the hole, and got through into the
next—then into the next—then she heard the sound of her
mother’s mournful cry quite plain. She ran fast and
straight across to the hole that led to her own happy field,
and pushed her way through it in a minute. Then she
looked round, and saw her re mother wandering up and
down, crying for her little lamb.
¢- “ Baa—!” cried the mother.

“Maa—!” answered the lamb, in a voice that said
plainly, “ Here lam, herel am!” Her mother saw her,
and ran to her, and fondled her, and rejoiced over her;
and the happy lamb jumped about her mother, and rubbed
against her, and danced round her, and it would have taken
a great deal to make her ever again think herself wiser .
than her mother. ,

iis
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

Love is a noble and a generous passion—it can be found-
ed only on a pure and ardent friendship—on an exalted
respect—on an implicit confidence in its object. .
LOOK FORWARD !

a oe

Ona lovely afternoon in the month of July, little Edward
Rashley went into the country, to spend a half-holiday with
his aunt Catherine. The sun shone brightly, over the
green fields, the birds were singing in full ahbeas in the
woods, and butterflies of all hues were fluttering in the
air. Soon after he arrived at his aunt’s, he went out to
have a ramble in the fields by himself, but soon got tired of
the solitude ; and not being much accustomed to thinking
or examining the nature of the objects around him, his
mind was as idle as his body, so that very little tempta-
tion was needed to lead him into mischief

While Edward was sauntering along, snipping the heads
of dandelions, or plucking handfuls of long grass and scat-
tering them about, a large and brilliant dragon-fly came
hovering around, and was about to settle down near to
where he was walking. Off went his cap in an instant,
and the pursuit began. It led him a long and fruitless
chase, however. ¥ Now, just within his grasp, his cap was
about to enclose it ; now darting off, it shot away through
the fields many hundred yards ahead of its pursuer. But
Ned persevered, and again came up with the gaudy in-
sect, now slowly sailing onwards a few yards before him,
a few feet above the level of his head. Thus:eagerly ga-
zing _— and running heedlessly onwards, his whole
LOOK FORWARD! 88



attention engrossed with the object of gern. he saw not,
lying immediately before him, a deep drain that had been
cut across the field to carry off the water; and, just as he
was about to strike down the dragon-fly, down ie himself
tumbled into the drain. et a ase oa le.

He soon got up again, however, at first thinking
received hittle haohes no sooner were his feet placed
upon the ground, than a shot through one. of his
legs, and he felt himself unable to stand upright. He
had sprained one of his ankles very severely, and there he
lay, quite unable to move a single step homewards. He
shouted loudly to a man walking at a distance across the
~ fields, who came to his relief and carried him home to the
house of his aunt. They had him placed on a sofa, with
a doctor to see him,-and all the care and attention that his
kind aunt could bestow ; but there he was, and there he
would be, a prisoner and a patient, for perhaps several
weeks to come.

One day, seating herself on the sofa beside Edward, she
kindly drew his attention to the causes that led to the a¢-
cident from which he was suffering, and showed him that
it was an evil from which might come much good, if he
would but reflect upon it when future temptations came
in his way. She convinced him he ought to think about
his pleasures as well as merely wish toenjoy them. I can-
not indeed tell you all she said to him, but her words
made him think, and then he remembered that he hadoften
suffered from not looking before him.
84 ; LOOK FORWARD
ae

Once, for example, when going to school on a fine morn-
ing, a regatta -was about to take place not far from where
he lived. He had nearly arrived at. the school, when he
met a band of music, with colours flying, and a number
of people, all crowding towards the. place. “Ah!”
thought he, * how nice it would be to go and see the re-
gatta. Such crowds would be there, and such music, the
cannons firing, and the flage flying, with the boatmen all
dressed in fine liveries, and the boats dashing along through
the water.” Scarcely was the wish formed, when it was
confirmed by two of his companions coming up and urging
' him along with them. It was indeed a beautiful race,
and he much enjoyed the sight: but when it was all over,
the thought of what he had done arose and forced itself
upon him. Then the looking backward was very unplea-
sant; and much more so was the looking forward to his
ae at school, for the master was a stern man, and

d certainly punish him for being absent without leave.

He felt, aed that mse he looked oa to = conse-

as much as to the pleasures of attending ate

ta, it would have prevented him from getting into this un-

pleasant position. But toschool he was compelled to g0,

and also to suffer a very severe punishment for playing
tuant*-~- ™ -<- ™ i” .

Ned, taerefore, began to think about these things in ge-
neral, and resolved to look forward a little more frequent.
ly to the of his pleasures. “ Why, I think,
too, it will me to get over many difficulties. And
LOOK FORWARD! 86



to begin at once, | shall just now look forward to the time

when my foot shall have got well again, and bear up
against the pain I now feel by thinking on that future
pleasure.

“ And then again—how often have I wished to possess a
copy of ‘ Robinson Crusoe,’ but instead of looking forward
to the time when my pocket money might amount to the
necessary sum, | always spent it on the day it was receiv-
ed, and very often on.things that did me more harm than
good. Let me see, then; I get six cents a week, that
is twenty-four cents a month; at the end of two months
and a half I shall therefore have sixty cents, which
will buy a beautifully bound copy of the book. This
is now the 15th of August, so that by the lst of November
I shall be able to get it. I shall therefore look forward
ateadily to that time, and keep that pleasure ever in view,
and this will be a good practical lesson, as aunt Cather-
ine would —

Nor was this only a good intention that he made, but a
purpose that he kept until the time came, and the book
was bought, which afforded him ten times more pleasure
than if he had bought one half of the sweetmeats in the
confectioner’s shop. [ might also tell you about Ned’s
flower-garden,—how w ully he worked and pulled
up the weeds, because he looked forward to the fine nose-

vs which he afterwards gathered ;—and how he looked
Siok to gui 0 pian ot schon, wahed:denaaicand
got it. But all these were the least advantages he derived

a
86 LOOK FORWARD!



from this habit... It was the gaining of the habit itself that
was the great thing. It made him feel from experience
that things obtained by his own exertion hada far higher
value to him than if they had merely been given to him.
He now took better care of his things than he had for-
merly done, and thus laid the foundation of good habits.
_Edward grew up to be a man, and the seeds of virtue
thus planted in his young mind, grew up along with him,
and bore excellent fruit. He obtained a situation in a
counting house, at first with a small salary, but small as it
was, even at the beginning, he contrived to lay by a part
of it for future purposes. When young and healthy, and
his salary increased, he looked forward to a time when he
might be old and infirm, and continued saving up one
small sum after another, until he had obtained what he
—- would bea reasonable provision for his old age.
But he was charitable, too. He gave liberally to the poor
and to many useful institutions, and thus lent out his mone
at a far higher rate of interest than any bank could afford
to pay. This is what the wise man called “lending to the
Lord,” and he had to look keenly forward with eye
of faith into a state of being beyond the present life, to see
the reward of this conduct. Ah, it was a bright prospect
he saw there! What earthly pleasure could seduce him
from that sight! What were all the dim vanities of time
compared with the glories he there saw revealed! What |
was too hard to bear, too great a sacrifice to be made, to
gain an entrance into that place where there are pleasures _
for evermore | ;



i
i
;
:

iN



ae
a
Bee ib “RAMBLING IN T HE COUNTRY. See p. 39.
| “ 2
ot 3


§

;

— § 3 as aM

THE YOUTHFUL
SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS.

[SBR ENGRAVING] |

ae

William and Mary Frost,weére the names of the little’
boy and girl, who, from circumstances that will be reveal-
ed in the course of our ‘story, had. received the name of
‘the young shepherd and shepherdess,’ Billy, as his sister
Mary always called him, was eight years old, and she was
ten, and no two persons were more devoted to each otber
than were these little children. They were constant com-
panions by day, and at.night, being occupants of the same
room, they would ently lay conversing ee
of to-morrow, ercome by sleep, they would sink
to rest. % ~ ‘ ; . . % :

arents of these children had early inculcated ha-
bits of industry, and those who most frequently saw them,
would bear witness to the fact, that there were few mo-
ments in the day in which they were not busily >

Mr. Frost was a somewhat wealthy farmer, and owning
a large estate, employed several men to assist in carryi
on his farm. Among his cattle there was a sheep a
lamb, which he gave to his little son ter for
their own, and appropriated to their use a

und a short distance from the house.

rogh To the pentane eeehchaoee




Lol
40 THE YOUTHFUL



————_"—

the sheep and lamb, wending their way every pleasant
morning, as soon as breakfast was over. In the centre
of the pasture was a large rock, curiously fractured, in
the breakages of which, the children constructed rude
seats, which they daily occupied.

Mary always carried ‘their luncheon in a tin kettle, of
which they partook in the middle of the forenoon and af-
ternoon, in which repast the pet sheep always came up
for their share. When Mary took off the cover of the ket-
tle, and rapped upon it with a stone, it would have amused
you to have seen these sheep run with all speed to get
their share of the luncheon.

eevee after having eaten, they would lie down by
the side of Billy and Mary, and by vagious little manifes-
tations give evidence of their attachment to the children.

In the ing, as the children were travelling to the
pasture, the neighbours would frequently greet them with —
“ good morning, little shepherd,” and “good morning, little
shepherdess ;”” and it was from this custom that they ob-
tained these distinct names. And, in fact, whenever they
were spoken of among the neighbors, or the workmen em-

by farmer Frost, they were invariably called “ Bil-
y, the shepherd,” and “Mary, the shepherdess.”

We have ow bio that the pasture where the
Tacs nai toon sheep, mes boys the sea-shore.
They tly resort there for the of
picking up shells, which they would carci ceuaas in
the water, and carry home with them, to preserve. They
es
SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS. 41



had already collected quite a large amount,of them, which
they frequently amused themselves with arranging.

he little shepherd and shepherdess were not idle whilst
they were in the field, for they always carried with them
some book from which they took turns in reading, and in
this way each contributed something for the improvement
of their minds.

Often, while Billy was reading, would be braid-
ing straws while she was listening. business of straw
braiding was carried on in this town to a considerable ex-
tent. a week a man used to come around to the
houses, and collect the braided straw of the neighbors,
paying them so ae yard, accord: ing to its fineness.

ary and Billy too had been taught to braid straw by
their mother, who was formerly in the habit of doing it,
before Mr. Frost ‘was as well off in property as he was
then. The children were fond of doing this work, and they
used to sell their straw braid every week, when the man
come round, and, as their father always allowed them to
keep the money, they put it into one box together, and had
acquired a very pretty amount, to which they were add-
ing from week to week.

henever the weather was stormy, so that Billy and
Mary could not go with the sheep to the ure, they
woth dptindltheie time arranging their . shells, and other
curiosities, about an upper room which their father and
mother had iated for their use. By putting up
pictures around the room, and tastefully arranging their

:
42 THE YOUTHFUL



shells, they had formed what they styled a museum, and,
whenever they did not go to the field, they spent much of
their time here.

Very ate when the father and mother were seat-
ed around the parlor table, in the evening, Billy and Mary |
would amuse and instruct themselves by reading to their
parents, and asking such questions as would enable them
to fully comprehend the subject on which they were read-
ing; and in this way they —— thoroughly learned
whatever they undertook. It is not surprising that under
such instructions, these children should make great pro-
ficiency in their youthful studies.

About this time Mr. and Mrs. Frost received a letter
from his brother, that he was intending to come in a very
few days, as soon as he could afrange his business, and
make a short visit at the farm-house. This was very gra-
tifying intelligence to the children; for their uncle Amos
had frequently visited them before, and they always en-

joyed his company very much.
Uncle Amos was one of those kind of men who was
very fond of children, notwi ing he was a bachelor;

- nevertheless, one thing was certain, if his love did not ex-
tend to children in on, he was warmly attached to his
little niece and nephew in particular. How anxiously,
from day to or did Billy and Mary wateh the stage-
coach, to see if it was not going to stop in front of their
fatherdl door por. It seemed as if they could not wait, so de-
sirous were they for the arrival of their uncle.
SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS. 48



The long wished, and anxiously looked for time, at
length arrived. The coach drove up to the door full of
passengers, and the children bounded to the door to receive
their uncle. It was.a stormy day, and ry Pos not go to
the field, but it‘was pleasant enough to them, now that
their uncle had come. No sooner had their uncle step-
ped his feet-upon the ground, than both the children were
hanging about his neck. Mutual kisses evidenced their
ee aan at meeting, and the approach of Mr. and Mrs.

rost, with their hands extended, signified to the brother
how welcome she was to the farm-house. The driver soon
deposited two ponderous trunks in the front entry, mount-
ed his box, and with a crack of his whip, the stage was
again on its way. {t was afternoon, and nearly tea-
time, when Uncle Amos arrived, and much of the time
was spent in congratulations, and conversation about re-
latives.. Uncle Amos having obtained permission for the
children fo sit up awhile in the evening, he told them
that he had brought them some presents, which he would
show them after tea, as soon as the lamps were lighted. As
soon as it was dark enough to light the lamps, Uncle Amos
brought in from the entry one of his huge great trunks,
and proceeded to unlock it. The first present that he
roduced wag a box containing a large sized “ Magic
ntern.” This was something entitely new to the chil-
dren, for they had never seen or heard of anything of
the kind before. Uncle Amos explained to them how,
that, by having a light inside, while the roong} was
44 THE YOUTHFUL





and by drawing these painted pieces of glass through the
slide, ‘the figures would be refleeted upon the white wall.
This he promised to show them the next evening, The
next thing that their uncle took from his trunk was a
box containing a curious little instrument, which their
uncle informed them was a “ Microscope,” by the aid of
which they could see little snakes squirming about ina
drop of vinegar, and that it would make a single: hair of
the head look as big and as coarse as a piece of twine.
This he promised to show them to-morrow, as they could
only use it in the day-light.

heir uncle then presented them with several sheets
of nice pasteboard, and told them that on the morrow
he would show them how to make a mimic theatre.

Having showed them all the présents that he had
brought, he kissed them and they went to bed, but it
was a long time before they went to sleep, for they
could not help thinking of enjoyment t nt should
experience the next day in company .with Uncle Amos,
learning how to use the instruments that he had so gen-
erously given them: finally, however, they dreieias
sleep, to dream of their approaching happiness.

The lark was not an earlier riser that morning than
was Billy and Mary. They were in high glee, fresh for
the enjoyments of the day.

The microscope was now brought forward, and much
to their astonishment and admiration, they actually saw
the little Wigsling snakes in a drop of vinegar. Various
SHEPHERD AND SHEPHEDRESS. 5



minute objects were placéd in the instrument, and its won-
derful magnifying powers developed to these children new
mysteries which they could study at their leisure at a fu-
‘""Gincle Amos-next proceeded to make the miniature the-

ne to ma miniature t
atre, and to show the children how to it.

Next came the “ Magic Lantern.” display of the
beautifully colored figures and paintings on the wall, was
highly gratifying to the family, who seemed to enjoy the
amusement quite as much as the children.

The time of Uncle Amos’ visit was now drawing toa
close, which of course the children very much regretted ;
but they bad learned to use the “Microscope,” and to work
the “ Lantern,” and the mimic “Theatre,” so that they
could amuse themselves, and also the children of the
mn when their uncle had left them.

family and the guest separated, but not without the
children extorting from their uncle a promise that he would
visit them again as soon as he could.

The little “ and shepherdess” resumed their
daily visits to the field, accompanied by their sheep, and
once more engaged in their reading and straw-braiding
as usual. ‘They continued to add to the number of sheels
and cbriosities in their museum, as well as to the number
of actors in their mimic theatre, and they found the lan-
thorn and the theatre sufficient occupy the leisure time
in the evening, when not’engaged in their studies. |.

a” ; %;,
ae
ia}
LOOK UP!

_—

“We did not get out of school until a quarter past five,”
said Claude to his cousin Tom. “ Let us make haste, for I
want to.get home svon, and I'll tell you why. You know
Mr. Green, that keeps the bell-hanger’s shop at the corner
of the common ?”

“ Yes, I see him sometimes,” was the reply.

“Then, Mr. Green is at our house making some altera-
tions in the kitchen, and 1 want tosee him. 1 want to ask
hiih a few questions; for the last time that he came to our
house, he told me a great many things that I had never
heard before. He told me several curious facts about the
patty he was using—about vegetable oils, and animal oils.

think that one day Mr. Green will be a gentleman, for he
knows more than my papa does. Papa says so.”

“ Well, you will not see him at your house,” replied cou-
sin Tom, “ for there he is sitting down by the green-gate !
See, he is positively having his tea in the open air; his lit-
tle girl has brought it to him.”

he two boys crossed the common to their friend at the
green gate, and were soon busy talking to him.

“I wonder, Mr. Green,” said Claude: “1 wonder that
yen like keeping a shop—such a learned man as you_are}

wonder you do not try to be ‘a gentleman !”

“ What is that ?”’ said Mr. Green.

‘é 46 *

‘
LOOK UP! 47

“To live in a larger house, and not keep a shop, and not
have to work. Ihave heard say that you ‘have a little
money; and lam sure that, as everybody round about
these parts, likes you, if you were to get twenty men, and
pay them wages every week, you would get plenty of
work for them todo. Then you would get richer, you see
<< ys might become a gentleman. Why don’t you
00! up 99

“ Ah, Master Claude, that is a very good question. Now,
if you think that you'll not be keeping the tea waiting, I’ll
tell you something about ‘looking up.’

‘Tf you could only have seen me when I first came to
this village—but it is of rio use my saying that, for it was
before you were born—forty years ago. “ih then I thought
that no one would welcome me! As I entered High street,
even the wind blew in my face, saying, ‘Go back again;
you are not wanted here!’ It was a cold east wind that
did so: but 1 have forgiven him for it long ago.

“But help was soon sent me. ‘Here is a poor stra
boy !’ cried a little girl who was carrying a basket; and
she ran to her mother to tell her. Her mother and some
of the neighbors soon surrounded me, and—kind people
they were!—they took me in, gave me warm food,
ool warm straw to lie upon. In the morning | told them
how my father and mother had lived in the country, but
were dead, and that I had wandered about for three days,

looking for a resting-place, and for some friends—¢ ad
none.” ,


48 LOOK UP!

eV6—0
“After a few days a clergyman came to see me: he
was a very wise, pious and kind man, who fulfilled the du-
ties of a Christian pastor in thus going about, doing good.
He looked over the books which had belonged to my fath-
er, and the Bible, and the prayer-book, which had been
much used. He asked me several questions, and at last
he took me to live in his house, to clean the boots and shoes,
and knives and forks.

In the pastor’s house.I learned how good a thing it is
tolook up to God,—for it was his habit every morning to
look up to God, who had taken care of us durin the
night; while in the evening we looked up again to Him,
- and thanked Him for taking care of us during the a

After I had been with our good te for a year, I told
him that I was very happy, and liked living in his house,
but that I should like very mich to learn some business,
that I might one day be a “ workman,” and not always be
a household servant. This wish the pastor highly approved
of, and I was bound apprentice to old Me. Solder, the
plumber.

One evening, some time after my departure, the pastor
happened to meet me, and I thought that his face looked
rather serious. When he asked me how I was getting on,
I gave an account which showed that I was quite satisfied
with myself, but the pastor soon showed me that he was
not. “ Well, Green,” he said, “I am not quite so pleased :
I should like to see you looking up.

“ You know,” he said to me, “you know how varied
v LOOK UP! 49
—-—————————————————_ nnn
are the works of God. Some are more beautiful than
others. Here is a stone: here is a piece of stick which has
had life, and is a superior substance to a stone; here is a
worm, which is superior to the stick: here is a bee, which
is superior tothe worm : there,on the green, is a sheep,
superior to the bee, and you are a man,” he said, “ supe-
rior to the sheep.”

“ And you are a man,” | added, for 1 was always ready
to make a joke,—“and you are a man, sir, superior to me.

“ Neither you nor I know that,” he replied; “I may
have higher duties to perform. But I want you to learn
from my remarks to look up. These objects in nature of
which I have been speaking—all have their places ap-
pointed by their Maker, and as they are placed, so they
must ever remain. The stone cannot raise itself to be a
vegetable, neither can that vegetable ever raise itself to be
an animal.”

« Neither,” I replied, “cana sheep raise itself to be a
man. It never wishes to.” :

« True,” replied the pastor, “ that is what I wish to show
you. The sheep never looks up, just because he cannot
improve himself; but a man is made to look up, just be-
cause a man can improve himself. , ’

“From the minerals up to the lower animals, we find that
objects cannot change; but when we reach man, the case
is very different. There are many kinds of men. The
lowest kinds are often like the brutes; but the highest
kind—they wish to improve. themselves ; and they try, by »
60 LOOK UP!



the help of God, to do so, that they may become more
like the race above them—the angels in heaven. It isa



-great privilege for man,—he is able to know, and look up.

“ You know most of the men in my parish, Green,” said
the pastor. “Ihave men ofall kinds living here: some,
who care nothing for their souls, and live as though they
had no soul: others, who have been careless, but now are
looking up,—every year they have been rising higher and
higher. k now, at the two cottages on the other side
of the road! In that slovenly cottage where John Grub
lives, there he has lived for three years, and the garden is
as weedy, and his home is as untidy, as it was at first.”

“ And James Reach, sir, who lives in the next house,
he,” I said, “was an untidy man once.”

“True,” replied the pastor, “ but he is happier now, just
from having learned to look up.”

Well, J left the pastor, and walked home slowly, think-
ing of a great many more things he had told me. _ I lifted
up the latch, crossed. the red-brick floor to the stair-case,
went up into my bed-room, and sat down: and there I sat
thinking until it was so dark that I could not hardly see
my hand. Then, I jumped off my chair, stamped on the
floor, clenched my fist, and cried out “I'll do it!” But
when | was silent again, after hearing the sound of my own
voice, there camea strong and gentle thought across m
mind, which made me kneel down in the room before 5
and ask Him to help me.

Claude. And what was it you were going to do?
LOOK UP! 51



Green. To save fifty half-eagles !

Claude. Well! | don’t think that that was very good, if
that was all you were going todo. I think it was rather
wicked to ask God’s help for that purpose.

Green. There is where you make a mistake; master
Claude. It is not a wicked thing to want fifty half-eagles.
True, 1 did not ask the Almighty for His best blessings—
I did not ask Him for pardon for all that I had done wrong:
d did not ask Him for His Holy a that I might learn
to do right. No! I only asked for strength to earn fifty
half-eagles !

Claude. And did you call that a good wish?

Green. Yes, I did: and the pastor did too. I'll tell you
why, soon. The resolution, however, whether it was good
or bad, that alone made a great c in me. [ soon
lost all interest in my former sports. I began to look down
on these things, for I had always a bright light before me
to look up to. There was a vision of bright eagles for me
to delight in; and, as-I reached up to it a day, I made
good use of every moment of my time. Every week |
saved money, and became richer. Every week I looked
up to the twenty-five golden eagles, and felt myself nearer
to it. When I had saved ten half-eagles, 1 said to myself
—I am only forty from it?’ when I had saved twenty, I
said, “ Ah, I am only thirty off.” Every week I felt my-
self changing. 1 felt myself a moreimportant man, for,

I looked in and again to the half-eagles, 1 felt "67
as much pleasure n't a though wetealeedy a 8 ;
own *

‘
® which you have

62 LOOK UP!





Claude. Well, I think that you are teaching us all wrong!
You are teaching us to be fond of money, and to be covetu-

ous.

Green. No! indeed, am not. Money is not, in itself,
a bad thing—it is one of God's — I wanted this
money not for the sake of saying that I was rich, but that
1 might have a'cottage with a clean garden, and get mar-
ried, just as John Reach had done—for this is what the
pastor had told metodo. There was no harm in want:
" ing to live in a respectable way. ‘i

Claude. And did you get a cottage ?

Green. Yes, I had the very cottage which John Grub
livedin. And, when I had lived there some time, my wife
and I began to look up to something else. Mr. Solder,
my old master, was going to sell his business,and my wife
and I looked up to be able to take his shop. Every day
we looked up, and worked on as I had done before, and in
time we t the business, which you see I have now.

Claude. Well, it was worth while to look up to try to
gain that.

Green. Yes. But there are two reasons why it is
worth while.. It is not only for what you gain at last that
you should look up: but for the good you gain while doing

80.

I had not been in my shop many days, when John Reach
came in for some screws. “ Ah, friend,” he said, shaki
hands, “ am glad to see you here. The hard

to gain this shop and business has
_ LOOK UP! 58



done you good I dare say, now, that when you were
looking up for this business, you felt just as I did, when I
determined to have a good — aoe out to my-
self a beautiful garden, with beds raked perfectly smooth,
and every part in good order. This picture I kept in my
mind, saying to myself, as 1 dug,‘ 1’ll make my garden
like it—it shall be a beautiful place.’ ”

“Yes,” I said, « it was looking up to that picture which
kept you active.”

« True,” replied friend Reach, “I was’nt aware that I
could be so active, or even that I had so much strength in
me, until I looked up to the thought of a pleasant and
beautiful garden.”

Claude. Ah, I see now the advantage of looking up—it
keeps you employed, and makes you feel that you have
something to aim at.

Green. Yes, Claude,and you remember it. You are now
great boy: nine years old: and you never looked up to be
anything (except being ‘ King of the Castle,’)—so now find
veal a look up to! Look up to be the best boy in

e school !

And afterwards look up to-be a, good man—try and be
very good, and look up to the time when you may help
others to make the world better.

—t—
THE BLASTED OAK; i]
OR, THE MYSTERIOUS PARCHMENT.

[sEm ENGRAVING.]

‘
—e

The mother of Mark and. Mary Dayton died when they |

were four and six years of age. Mary was the oldest, but

a little girl of six years could not be expected to do much

â„¢., work, and Mark being two years younger, their whole
care devolved upon their father.

Mr. Dayton was an industrious man, and had acquired

a little money, though this was known only to himself.

ing a mechanic, a daily laborer for the comforts he en-

joyed, he was of course no owner of bank stocks, or rail

‘poad shares: and in fact,so far as the latter are concerned,

«. rail.roads had not then begau to be dreamed of.

sci When Mark and Mary had reached the years of ten and

ae they were most severely afflicted by the decease

“of their father, by meansof which they were deprived of

last and only proteetor.

_ Mr. Dayton-had one’ Sister living in the town where he

» resided, a maiden arene another who left home several

years before, and died, as was supposed, in another part of

the country. To the surviving aunt these children were

igned, for whom she provided to the best of her abili-

ties. on treated them with great kindness, and they in

-_ wa
ED OAK.

“np

Ak \\

aril ates
oes

= POMS, 5.
—— ——

THE BLAST



pneee ee tee

(55)



Se I nahisitioh eich og foie Ae as eee, ae
———— een eee seseeeeeseeerrseeereemsenerseneeeereeee ree eee

-
THE BLASTED OAK. ‘67
——ooooooo——— eee
return did everything in their power to assist their kind
aunt. :

On one occasion, Mark and Mary were. ranging the
woods, when they were suddenly alarmed by the appear- —
ance of a rough looking man, whose face indicated any-
thing but the best intentions.

He seized upon Mary, and attempted to drag her still
farther into the woods : she shrieked with alarm, and plead
to be set at liberty, but her cries and tears were all in
vain. The relentless monster seized her more firmly by the ©
arms, amid her cries for help, and the cries of the little
he urged her onward.

At this moment, a coarse looking, roughly clad woman
ap , and at the top of her voice shrieked out, “Hold,
villain | what would you with that child?” Ais she said
this, she presented a pistol within four feet of his head.

“ Let go your hold upon that child, or by the heaven above
me I fire,” said the woman. The man let go the child, at
the same time attempting toseize the woman. — She fired,
but his position was such that she did not hit him. With
a laugh of exultation, he jumped towards her for the pur-
pose of seizing her, when he received .a flesh wound bom
a dagger that she drew from beneath her coarse outside

dress.

“ Villian, you are foiled,” shouted the woman as she ran
to the children, and directed them which way to get out of
the wood. She directed them to directly in front of
her, and close to her. ary the i

4
68 THE BLASTED OAK.



==.

‘pointed towards him, she warned him not to follow her, er
attempt to injure the children—if he did, he should pay for
it dearly, “ Aye, with thy life, villain!” “T’ll leave you
now, woman,” replied the man, “ but remember, we- shall
meet again.” tole
The woman conducted the children onward, until they
- in sight of their aunt’s house where she bade them
ieu.
“Oh, good woman,” exclaimed Mary, “go with us to
my aunt’s? How she will thank you for saving us!”
~ “No,” replied the woman, “I leave you here: beyond
ois — may not now go—so farewell.” ‘
~~ _« Who may I thank,” inquired Mary, “for my preserva-
tion from this cruel man 7”
“ The Gipsey ofthe Blasted Oak,” replied the woman,
and then hastily fled
The children sped to their aunt, recited the affair of the
rescue in the woods, and told her “that the woman who
saved them, called herself the « gipsey of the blasted oak.”
The affair became noised about in the village, and every
effort was made to ascertain who the villain was that had
thus boldly attempted to kidnap Mary : but her fright was
so great that she could give but an imperfect description
of him ; hence all their efforts were fruitless—and as for
the gipsey, she was nowhere to be found.
is matter having been pretty much forgotten, and the
excitement of the occasion having entirely ceased, anoth-
er attempt was made by this villain, when Mary was one


THE BLASTED OAK. 59

oe



day on her way to school. To take the road to the scnool
house, it was a distance of some two miles, but across lots,
through the woods, it was but about three-fourths of a
mile, and this path was generally taken by all the chil-
dren in company, who lived in that part of the town where
Mary’s aunt resided. They always met in the field this
side, or at the entrance of the wood, and the boys and girls

thus met, uently formed quite a .
On colaiin : Cites necessarily

this occasion, however, Mary
delayed: her brother had already gone, and she was a lit-
tle late. However, she went on, singi the

singing
woods, but had not proceeded far, before she was stopped
by the same villain who had before met her. .,

“I have you now, my young Miss,” exclaimed the man,
and he seized hold of her, “ and your escape is this time
impossible.”

“ Let that lie choke you, villain,” exclaimed an unearth- ~
ly voice, from a hideously dressed being who appeared, as
if by magic, at the same time dealing a stunning blow
from a cudgel which she had, that prostrated the villain to
the earth. “No, no: her escape is possible. Come, girl ;
quick, with me.” So saying, she took Mary by the hand,
and rapidly conducted her through the ‘wood, to within a
few feet of the school house.

“ Farewell, child,” said the woman, “you are-safe.”

“Qh, kind woman,” said Mary, “how I ought to love
you for _~ saving me: Oh, tell me your name?”

“The of the Blasted Oak,” replied. the-woman,
and suddenly disappeared.
60 THE BLASTED OAK.



a

‘| Mary entered the school room much alarmed and ex-
cited, and related the circumstance to the teacher. When
they returned from school, all who went in that direction
accompanied Mark and Mary, among whom were several

= boys.
hen the aunt listened to the recital of this second at-
tack, she became intensely anxious to see this gipsey, and
was resolved to do so, if possible. Accordingly she went
to the woods, and loitered about a considerable time, with- _
out seeing her, until at length she made a call for the
See ete A cers
i name » the gipsey ap ,

seeing a woman approaching her, she drew from beneath
her outer garment a pistol, which she ted, al-
lowing the woman to approach only within the distance of
some twenty feet.

“ Hold, woman!” exclaimed the gipsey, “approach no
nearer, or thy safety will not be assured.”

“ But, good woman!” replied the aunt, “you have twice
saved my children, and I desire to thank you.”

“1 need no thanks, woman,” replied the gipsey, “let it
suffice thee that the children are safe,and be thankful that
they areso. If you have thanks to bestow, they belong
there!” as she uttered this last sentence she pointed stea-

dily upwards.

tI do thank Heaven,” replied the aunt, “that my chil-
dren are safe.”

“ They are not thy children,” replied the gipsey, “only
’

THE BLASTED OAK. 61
a SS
so far as you are their protector They are the children ot
another.”

“ How knew you'that ?” anxiously inquired the aunt.
“No matter: it is so, and I know it,” replied the gipsey,
“and that is sufficient.” ,

“Come, good woman,” said the aunt, “tell me who you
are.”

“I am the Gipsey of the Blasted Oak; more than this
1 shall not tell you. The time may come when you will
know me better, but that time is not yet; question me no
farther—farewell.” So saying the Gipsey fled from the
presence of the aunt, and was soon lost to view among
the rocks and trees. About a fortnight after this inter-
view, the aunt’s household was aroused at night by the

cry of fire. Ina few moments the village was alarmed.

‘The front door of the house of the protector of Mark and
Mary was broken in (for that was the house which was

on fire,) and in an instant the family weéré ‘aroused, and -

fled half clad from the burning building into the road,
The house being of wood, was very soon enveloped in
flames. All efforts were used to save it, and the movea-
bles contained in it, but all were useless, and as the house
stood alone by itself, the villagers could only look on and
see it burn.

The attention of the assembled villagers was now di-
rected to the opposite side of the road, where a struggle
seemed to be going on between a man and woman.

The man was endeavoring to release himself from the

$3
62 THE BLASTED OAK.





apparently iron grasp of an infuriated woman, who called
on the bystanders to secure the man. ‘I know him well,”
said the Gipsey, for suchshe was. ‘1 tracked him to this
spot, and saw him apply the torch to this building. He
has twice attempted to carry off the young girl that lives
here, but Ihave prevented him. Icharge you—.” Here
the woman’s words were lost, for at this instant the incen-
diary struck the Gipsey a blow with his fist, that felled her
to the coer The people gathered round, and a magis-
trate who was present, ordered the people to arrest and
bind the incendiary.

Mark and Mary, together with their aunt, were wit-
nesses of these transactions. The aunt drew near to the
Gipsey, and endeavored to restore her. She had received
lier death-blow, but she rallied a little so as to be able to
speak. The aunt seeing this,addressed the Gipsey. The

my knew her voice, and instantly recognized her. “It
is well that we have again met: the hour of my disclosure
has come, for [ must soon die. Hast thou a sister
Grace !”

«| had,” replied the aunt, “ but she is dead.”

“No, not dead,” replied the Gipsey, “ behold her !”

“« My sister,” frantically exclaimed Miss Dayton, the
name of the aunt.

« Listen,” said the Gipsey, “my moments are brief: go
to the blasted oak, and there, in a hollow, you will find mo-
ney enclosed in parchment ; it was placed there by your
brother, who is dead. In my wanderings I have beenthe '

®.y
Â¥

:
THE BLASTED OAK. 63



witness to his placing it there, and I have watched it with

a constant care, lest it be stolen. I have been near these

chil— children, since their fa— father died, and have

pro— pro— protected—” here her voice failed to a whis-

ma “I thirst—give me—drink: farewell—fare--” here
er voice ceased entirely, and she breathed no more.

“ And who are you, man?” inquired the magistrate of
the bound prisoner, “ who are you, that you have thus
persecuted these children ?”

« Their father once w me—deeply wronged me!”
replied the incendiary. “Their mother was the betrothed
of my heart, and she coldly gave me upfor him. I swore
vengeance, and when their father and mother died, and it
was no more possible for me to revenge myself on them,

I determined that I would have it on their children.”

« Alas !” replied the magistrate, “ what a fiendish heart
must you possess, who would wrong the innocent children
of the man from whom’ you had received perhaps but an

_ imaginary injary. But your race is run, and v nce,
were you now dis to pursue it, is beyond your
power.”

The prisoner was borne to his confinement : the assem-
bled villagers returned to their homes; and should you
ever travel a stranger in that part of the country, where-
ever you might put up, you would be sure to hear the
story of the “Gipsey of the Blasted Oak.”

:
BERTHA AND THE BIRD.

—

A herdsman and his wife, with one little girl, named
Bertha, lived in a small village. They were very poor.
Sometimes they scarcely knew how to live, and Bertha
could do little to ry rmeps She was slow at any kind of
work. She liked better to sit alone and dream, though
awake, of how she would supply them with all comforts,
if she could suddenly grow rich. Then she would fancy
that kind Spirits came and shewed her some treasure, or
gave her stones that changed into gold and jewels. In this
way she forgot what had been given her to do: then she
was much blamed, and often punished.

One night she lay awake crying, and while she lay so
the herdsman said to his wife, “I wish we had never had
this little girl left with us. She is only a burthen. If they
had but left their little son instead, he might have worked
for us,” These words drove sleep quite away from Bertha.
She lay thinking of them all night. She was astonished
to find that she was not the daughter of the herdsman and
his wife, and a longing desire to find her real parents
grew stronger and stronger in her. Before morning, she
rose softly, and opened the door of the little hut. The
early dawn was just beginning to light the eastern sky.
She stepped upon the open field, and the next minute was
in a thick forest, where no ray could yet penetrate. She

64
BERTHA AND THE BIRD. * 65







ran fearfully through the trees, and when she reached the
other side of the forest the sun had risen and it was bright
day. '
She soon saw a range of mountains before her, and
having lived in the plain country: she was afraid of moun-
tains: but her fearof being followed and carried back
made, her hurry on. She wandered through the valleys,
and up the sides of steep hills, often ng at the vil-
lages for food and shelter. After four days she came on
a fittle footpath which led to high barren‘rocks piled one
onthe other. She clambered over the nearest, and now.
lost all sight of green grass, or village, or trees, or single
habitation. She still wandered on, and at night lay ont
hard rocks, and could not sleep for weeping. At day-
break she climbed up a steep crag, and looked round.
Everywhere she saw the same frightful, bare rocks. She
went on and on, often sitting down to weep and lament;
but at last, towards evening, she came to the limits of the
rocks, and saw trees, meadows, and soft green hills in the
distance, and the sound of rushing water gladdened her
heart.

She came soon to a waterfall, and stooped down to raise
some drink to her parching mouth in the hollow of her
hand. As she stooped she heard a slight cough, and was
joyfully surprised to see an old woman resting on the ground
at the border of a wood. She was dressed in black; a
black hood nearly covered her face; in her hand she held
a crutch,
66 BERTHA AND THE BIRD.
——<—<—<<—$ oe ee

From this old woman Bertha for help, and im- |
mediately. received from her some food and wine. While
she ate, the old woman sung a strange song, and when —
she had finished, asked her if she would follow her home. _
Bertha gladly agreed. .

The did woman limped on before, twisting her face so
oddly every moment that it was always changing, -and
Bertha could not make out what kind of countenance she
had. As she went on, the wild rocks were left far behind.
The tops of the trees were standing in the glow of the sun-
set ; aif things seemed melted into soft gold: on the fields
lay a mild brightness: the pure, azure sky bent kindly
over them: the gushing of the brooks and gentle rustli
of. the trees alone broke the silence. Bertha forgot herse
and her guide: her spirit and eyes were wandering among

the shining clouds.

They came to a hill planted with birch trees. Below
lay a valley full of soft-waving trees, in the midstof which

as a little cottage. A glad barking was heard, and a

ble little dog came running towards them wagging its
tail, and fawning on the old woman. As they came near-
er to the cottage, astrange, but very clear, sweet
sounded from it, like forest -horns and flutes in the far dis-
tance. The words were these :—
« ee in ee 80 gay
Tis .
“Mono like ‘oie
For ever and aye:
Oh, I do love to stay
Alone = wood so gay.”
BERTHA AND THE BIRD: 67





Bertha could.not wait to be told toenter. She stepped
into the cottage. It wasnowdusk. All was neatly swept
and trimmed, Some bowls stood ina cupboard, and some
strange-shaped potsona table. A’bird _— a glitter-
ing cage at the window, and she perceived that it was the
singer. The old woman sat down, caressed her dog and
stroked her bird, which answered her with its song. Then
she brought out supper, and made Bertha sit by her and
eat: then she showed her toa little bed in along narrow
closet. Bertha was so tired that she fell asleep, but every
now and then awoke, and heard the old woman coughing,
and talking with her dog and bird, which seemed dreaming,
and only answered with one or two words of its rhyme.
This, with the rustling of the trees by the window, and
the song of a distant nightingale, made so strange a mix-
ture of sounds, that Bertha never thought she was awake,
but falling from one dream into another.

In the morning the old woman set her to spin, which she
now learned very easily ; she also’had charge of the bird
and the dog, whose name was Sprite. She did her work
cleverly. She felt as if she had been accustomed to it,
and asif it all must be so. She felt contented ; her wheel
went round: Sprite barked merrily: the bird clear}
and sweetly, and as it sangits feathers shone like gold,
and glittered with deep blue and red. The old woman
taggnt her to read, and she found old books in the cottage,

it! strange old stories in them. She also had. the charge
of the bird’s eggs, for every day it laid an egg containing a
68 BERTHA AND THE BIRD.



precious pearl, and these the old woman made her store
in one of the strange-shaped pots. She was often
, for the old woman sometimes went out for weeks
and months, leaving her food, and the charge of every-
thing. She never felt sad:: still her wheel went round. |
There was no storm nor vatty Sythe ’ Ue aie
any Creature came near : only Sprite p =
led, and the bird sang still, Mt *

“eae eee
to
Metter Be torkiy,
For ever and aye :
Oh I do love to stay
Alone in wood so gay.”

Four years passed away in this peaceful manner. Then
Bertha n, as she sat at her wheel, to wonder what the
world was like, that she read of in the old books, and to
long again to find her parents and her brother. «Perha
they are great and rich,” she thought, “and would make
me a great lady.”

After these thoughts of being rich and great, the cot-
tage looked dull to her, and the bird’s song sounded sad.
The old woman did not notice the change, as Bertha al-
ways did her work well, but one day ee her for her
diligence. “Thou art a good girl? she said, «it will be

with thee if thou continuest so; but none ever pros-
pers if they leave the straight path.”

Bertha often pondered over these words. “What does
BERTHA AND THE BIRD. - 69





the straight path mean?” she thought. Suddenly she be-
an to make a plan of leaving the cottage, taking away the
Bird, and going into the that she longed so much .to
see: but she only thought of it—she did not mean to do it.
The next time that the old woman went out, Bertha
looked after her, and felt very sad, as if she feared to see
her go. Then she returned to her work, but was restless.
At last she rose from her work, tied little Sprite to the ta-
ble, for she felt afraid to let him go with her, took up the
bird, and went out. The bird turned its head strangely
backwards, and the dog struggled and whined, but she
The path di pleasant flo
e path went winding among t flowery ways,
and oltwen easy to her, only that she feared that she should meet her olf mistress. The bird often
tried to sing, but the shaking of her hand, as she walked
quickly along, put him out. At last she sat down to rest
in a shady place. Then the bird began a song in a clear
but sad tone, and his rhyme was altered. He now sang—

+ Alone in wood so gay,
Ah far away!
But thou wilt say
‘Some other day,
’Twere best to stay,
Alone in wood so gay.”

Bertha felt very miserable. She thought of the old wo-

man, to whom she had behaved so ungratefully ; then of
the poor little dog, whom she had left alone to die of
70 , BERTHA AND THE BIRD.



hunger. She wept bitterly. She longed still to see that
world and all the new things she had dreamed of: but
then the bird again, in a more sorrowful tone than ever,
sung his » She rose from the ground, took up the
cage, and quickly turned back towards the cottage.
Bat as she went back, the path which had seemed so
short and easy, now proved steep, long, and diffigult.
The sharp stones cut her feet: thorns tore her dress:
the little streams had swelled into mountain torrents,
and she had to wade through them with fear and dan-
:_ the wind rose, and ey rain began to fall.
But Bertha had one comfort which supported her through

= ue eT

all, and made her walk straight on: it was the clear voice _

ofthebird. It sang more sweetly than ever. She could
not catch the o— but there was something in the tone
that supported her stren:

At last she reached ho All looked just as she |

had left it. The poor little dog still lay tied to the table,

and looked as if he was d ing. He raised his head feebly, _
y:

and looked at her reproachfu
the cord, brought him food and drink, stroked him, and
weptoverhim. “Qh look up dear little Sprite,” she cried,
“or I can never be happy again.”

a looked for help. “If my mistress would
but come,” she thought, “1 would tell her of all I have
done : no matter what becomes of me, so that he

She ran to him, untied |

would get ter.” As this thought passed through her”

mind, ran to the door to look out for the old woman,
BERTHA AND THE BIRD. 71

———





and to her joy Sprite rose up, ran to her, and jumped up
_ on her.

When Bertha went outside the door of the cottage, and

- Jooked round, everything seemed changed. The woods

had widened out and left a soft lawn. Flowers had
sprung up. Trees were ranged in groups and avenues.
At the farther end of a long walk, arched over by spreading
beeches, she saw a beautiful lady, leaning on the arm of a
noble-looking gentleman, and leading by the hand a pret-
ty boy, with long fair hair. They were coming towards
her. They smiled on her as ~~ drew near; and held out
their arms to her. “ We have found our Bertha at last,”
said the lady, kissing her fondly. Bertha laid her head on
her breast, and felt that she was in her mother’s arms.
They all caressed her and welcomed her.

Bertha turned to look for the cottage, but it had vanish-
ed. In its place was a pleasant, cheerful dwelling, that
looked like a gafe home; warm and bright and roomy ;
vines covered the walls: roses looked in at the windows.
They walked towards it. Sprite bounded on before. As
they entered the door, Bertha heard the clear-toned bird
sing more joyously than ever, and now its song was—

“ With these I love go well
Oh, it is sweet to dwell !
iy ems ap a sa ell,

rings ins grassy
And in each echo’s swell
Its joy doth tell.”
72 BERTHA AND THE BIRD.





With her parents’ approval, Bertha sought out the poor
herdsman and his wife, and took care of them in their old
age, and made them comfortable.

The clear-toned bird continued to sing its joyous song. |
But now Bertha no longer hid the pearls in strange-shaped

Peshe often thought of the old woman, and what had be-
come of her, but never could hear of her,

Once only, on a summer evening, when sunset was
throwing a golden mist over all things, she thought she saw
her in the far distance, in her black hood, limping towards
a waterfall: but it grew dusk before she could get near her,
and she never saw her again.

—1) 1

EARLY RISING.

“I wish you would wake me up to-morrow morning at
five o’clock,’”’ said Charles. 1 did so effectually, and left
him—in an hour | returned to his he was,
fast asleep, and the sun shining full on his face. The next”
day and the next day he made the same request, but I-was
tired of waking him. Every person who wishes to form a
habit of rising early, should second the exertions of others,
and not lie a moment after he is awakened.



(4)


THE DESERTED MANSION;
OR, THE PLEDGE OF TRUTH.

[sum ENGRAVING]
—~—

Rosina Randolph was one of those somewhat romantic
young girls who ever delight in deeds of daring, and who
took more real satisfaction in reading of. and dar-
ing feats of some enthusiastic adventurer, than in all the
love-tales that were ever written. On this theme she al-
ways conversed With enthusiasm, and as she was reading
the history of some daring officer or soldier’s military ca~
reer, would often exclaim, “ Noble fellow: what a fine
"Pajech wore the peculiar predilections of Rost Randolph

uch were t iar predilections
and so indellibly was her mind stamped with the impress
of these idea’ of nobility, that she had declared over and
over agaffi, that she would never marry a man who would
acknowledge such a passion in his soul as fear.

“ No, no, not I,” she would ae Pas tohow.
«« My husband must be a bold, resolute, daring fellow.
None of your little, puny, trembling men for me; I want
a husband that I can up to for protection—one that

* could and would defend me, however hazardous my situa-

tion, ilous the ise.” .
oo ns i

xy .

ae
‘

y% THE DESERTED MANSION.





eee ee

Having given a fair description of Rosina’s mind, ano-
ther may be expected—more particularly relating to her
person. In brief, then, Rosina was tall, finely proportion-
ed, of a strong and nervous temperament, with a brilliant
black eye, a handsome face, and with hair as dark as the .
raven’s wing; added to these she had a rather lofty and
commanding appearance, and was just twenty years old.
It might be thought that a person so constituted was inca-
pable of love; but not so: Rosina could love, and when-
ever she did, it would be with an ardent devotion.

Several of ‘the young men of the village had signified
their regards for her, but they were not reciprocated b
her. Perhaps she did look upon one young man wit
rather more favor than any of the rest#and he doubtless
thought so. That young man was Herbert Wilton.

Herbert was. handsome, noble looking fellow, and had
formed a very favorable opinion of Rosina, and having
been many times in her company, had become quite fasci-
nated with her.

Herbert was twenty-two years old, and as several of the

oung fellows in the village had tried to gain hé? particu-
ar regard, and had failed, he came to the conclusion that
he would make a trial. One fine afternoon in the early
rtof October, Herbert strolled along in the’ neighbor-
of Rosina’s residence, intending to make a call on
her, but fortunately found her in the garden with the man
who was employed as gardener, who was digging up.some
artichokes for her. n the gardener retired, and they
entered into conversation. :
THE DESERTED MANSION. 11
SS OOOSSSSmmmmom'

A walk was proposed by Herbert, to which Rosina as-
sented, and intimated that she should like to walk to the
field where stood the “ deserted mansion.” This “ desert-
ed mansion” so called had stood even longer than the me-
mory of the oldest inhabitant could trace back. All that
was known of it was, that it once belonged to somebody,
nobody knew who: that it was once a resort of a famous
band of robbers, but nobody knew when: that it was
haunted, but nobody knew with what ; but there were con-
nected with it mysterious tales of singular sounds, blue
lights, rattling chains, &c., &c., all which were calculated
to invest this “deserted mansion” with a remarkable de-
gree of interest, and any amount of vain and foolish su-

perstition.

To this field the pair bent their steps. It was an old
brick mansion, which many had entered and explored in
the day-time—but darkness and night invested it with all
kinds of superstitious horror. The windows were all shat-
tered to pieces, and every square of glass broken, from the
repeated peltings of stones inflicted by the boys. A part
of the roof. had tumbled in, one of the chimnies had been
a mark for years for the boys to hurl rocks at, consequente
ly it had been reduced quite one half from its original
height. It had now become the residence of the owl and
the bat, and in some parts of it, the birds had. .
sufficient courage to build their fragile nests.

It was during this walk that Her took occasion to
press his suit for Rosina’s hand. She had a great deal to se
78 THE DESERTED MANSION.



say about courage, fortitude, during, and danger, and inti-
mated to Herbert that the man of her choice would be he |
to whose heart fear was a stranger.
Herbert signified his disposition to und almost any |
danger to secure so — a prize as herself, and declared
that he would hold himself in readiness to perform any
feat of daring that reason and judgment would prescribe.
Rosina desired him to enter with her the “deserted man-
sion.” In the corner of the building, upon a rafter, wasa
bird’s nest, some twenty feet from the ground. She asked |
Herbert if he was willing to secure that bird’s nest, and |
offer to her as a pledge of his truth.
“ Willingly, most willingly,” replied Herbert : “instant-
ly if you require it.”
« That shall be the pledge,” said Rosina, “ but it is to be
taken at such time as I shall appoint.”
“ Name the time,” replied the enthusiastic Herbert, “and }
I will pluck it from its resting-place, and put it in your pos-
session.” :
“ Let that time, then,” said Rosina, “ be to-night, after
the village clock shall have struck the hour of mid-
night. at that hour you will repair to this spot—
alone—and _ your own hands pluck the nest from
its resting-place, and put it in my —_ » to you,
and alone, will on my hand.” ,
e Enough,” responded Herbert, “it shall be done.”
The two came out of the building, and returned to the
_q Tesidence of Rosina, where Herbert took his leave, giving

a >,




her the assurance “that by day-light the next morning she
should be in possession of the nest.”

Rosina promised “to be up and waiting for him as early
as five o’clock,” and they separated.

Herbert thought several times of the dismal duty that he
had pledged himself to perform, and at times almost re-
pented his rashness; but his word had been given, and
that must not be violated. ,

It began to cloud up towards night, and when eveni
sat in, there was a heavy mist, or rather drizzly rain, which
continued all night. Herbert armed himself with a load-
ed pistol, and procuring a twenty-foot ladder, and a glass
lantern, he awaited in some little anxiety the striking of
the hour of twelve. At length the solemn hour was given
out by the village elock, which fell on the ear like a
death-knell, on that dark and rainy night.

Herbert then started out of the house, with his pistol
in his breast, and his lantern in his hand, and raisi
the ladder to his shoulder, which lay beside the wall, he
staggered on under his load to the spot, where centered
all the acts of ghosts, hobgoblins, gipsies and witches,
for the last fifty years.

It was a moment of intense excitement when he push-
ed his ladder into the interior of the deserted mansion,
and then entered himself. In spite of his strongest deter-
minations to be calm and unmoved, he felt his hair actual-
ly rise upon his head, and saw, or thought he saw, minute
balls of fire darting every now and then across his path.
80 THE DESERTED MANSION.
———————— ees

He sat down his lantern, which, in so large a place,
gave but a feeble light, and proceeded to fix his ladder in
an appropriate situation. ;

In raising his ladder to the proper position, he accident-
ally struck an owl who was roosting on a rafter, who set
up a most hideous screeching, which broke upon his ear
like the roar of a cataract. The disturbed inhabitant,
however, found another resting-place, and finally calmed
down into , alg

Having fixed his ladder in what he supposed to be a fa-
vorable position, he commenced ascending, but unfortu-
nately, as it stood only upon rubbish, the foundation gave
way, and the ladder slid one side: he partly jumped and
partly fell from his position, and in doing so upset the lan-
tern and extinguished the light.

Here was no enviable situation for a young man to be
placed in: what was to be done? He must not return
without accomplishing the object of his visit, and he en-
deavoured once more to accomplish the task he had under-
taken. In his second attempt he was more successful :
he ascended the ladder in safety, procured the nest, and
descended. He resolved to leave the ladder behind him
as a proof that he had been there, and proceeded to grope
his way out of that terrible place. —

Rosina arose at the hour she had promised, and inquired
of the two men who worked upon her father’s farm, if they
went to the field of the deserted mansion to watch, as she

" had desired them. She was informed that they did go,




THE DESERTED MANSION. 81



and they related all the particulars concerning the visit of
the young man. ee ae ae o’clock a his appearance, and p' in her possession the bird’s
nest as he-had prooniesd, - « Hare,” seidihe, « here, Rosine,

is m y pledge of truth.”

He rt then went on and stated the particulars of his
visit to the deserted mansion, which siphed perfectly with
the statement of the men.

Rosina told him that she had sent two men to watch
him, and that they had related to her all the particulars.
as he had recounted them. ;

“Enough, Herbert,” added Rosina, “you have been true
to yar word, I will be true to mine: there is my.hand,
and with it my heart: your noble daring has met my ap-
proval, and 1 am ever your’s.”

Herbert’s adventure was the town talk, and there was
many a courageous youth who was now ready to visit the
deserted mansion, since Herbert had gone there and re«
turned alive.

But the glory laid in his expedition; and since the visit
of Herbert, the mysterious noises, and wonderful stories,
lost all their charm, and the deserted mansion ceased to
be either an object of fear or mystery.

About this time our troubles with Mexico commenced,
and the government were making enlistments for the army.
Herbert Wilton felt a desire to see a little more of the world
—and so enlisted as a private soldier to go to Mexico.

On the field he distinguished himself, and it was not six
‘ ' Tieesiailitidnn q



months before he was promoted to the rank of an officer.

In the communications to government, young Wilton
was once or twice mentioned as being a remarkable young
soldier, and surpassed by none in his feats of daring.

In the storming of one of their castles, and in the taking
of one of the Mexican batteries, Herbert Wilton particu-
larly distinguished himself, especially in the latter action,
for which he was again promoted. The regiment to whieh
he was attached remained in the field some two , dur-
ing which time young Wilton was continually distinguish-
ing himself, and in return he was , and received
at the close of the campaign the highest encomiums of his
commander.

Herbert returned to meet his beloved Rosina: she saw
in him the man she so much desired for a husband. This
meeting was a most affectionate one. Their hearts were
united, and the day was appointed for the marriage cere-
monies, and in just four weeks after his return, Miss Rosi-
na Randolph was married to Major Herbert Wilton, of
the United States army.

=

—=00

The purest motive of human action is the love of God.:
He who is influenced by that, feels its influence in all parts
of duty, upon every occasion of action: throughout the
whole course of conduct.
THE PET LAMB.

—~——

‘One bleak, boisterous afternoon in March, a little boy
called Alfred Herbert was seated by his papa in the gig,
driving homewards. Mr. Herbert was a country surgeon,
and had been making a long round among his patients.
There was nothing that Alfred and his sister Lucy liked
better, than to go out in this way with their papa: and he
often took one of them: but this time he had been obliged
to ge farther than he expected, and so it was getting dark
and very cold, and they had still a long way to go. Al-
fred was only five years old. The wind blew in his face,
and his cape would open and fly back. Then his toes be-
gan to ache and smart ; his fingers were quite stiff, and as
to his nose, it was red as a poppy and ascold asice. —

« How long shall we be now, papa?” he had asked about
ten times. At last it began to snow, and then, when he
felt the soft, cold flakes of snow come patting against his
cheeks and resting on his poor, frozen nose, he could bear
it no longer, and began to cry.

Just then they were passing a hedge, and a cow put its
head over, and gave a loud moo—moo. It was so near
that it made Bobby the pony start, and made Alfred stop
erying. ‘“ Why the cow seems to have something to say
tous,” said his papa. “ What does it say?” asked Alfred

83
84 THE PET LAMB.

Eee

in a lamentable voice : « Don’t you think it sounded like
‘moo, moo, how do you do?” ” said his re. At this Al-
fred laughed so heartily that he quite forgot the cold, and
went on merrily for a quarter of an hour.
ut next he began to feel hungry, and to think of the
warm parlour at » with tea all ready, and the bright
ee and Lucy, and his a — Seam remembered
is aching toes again, and very nearly n to cry a se-
cond time : but his papa said, “ Make haste, Bobby ! trot
along, and take us home quickly : we shall soon be there
now.” So Alfred commanded himself, and did not cry.
At this minute a little boy stopped them at the corner
of a lane, and said he had been waiting for a long time to
speak to Mr. Herbert as he passed: for he said his poor
father was very ill, and wanted help sadly. His head was
very bad, and he had had no rest for two nights. « Poor
man!” cried Alfred : «let us go and make him well, papa.”
Mr. Herbert turned off the road, and went to the poor
man’s cottage; and before he went in he told Alfred to
run up and down the lane twenty times, and then get into
the gig again. So Alfred ran up and down twenty times
with all his might, and just as he was climbing up the step
again, his papa came out. * Will the poor man soon be
better?” he asked directly. “Yes, I think he will,” said
Mr. Herbert. So Alfred was ver glad, and then his papa
wrapped him up so warm a snug in a cloak, that
he called it his nest, and felt quite comfortable, and did
not care for the cold at all.
THE PET LAMB. 85



On they went again, and now they came to the common
that was just outside the town where they lived. The
wind blew across the wide common, and whistled among
the thick furze bushes, The clouds scudded away over
the sky, and the moon went sailing along, sometimes hi-
ding her face behind them, then shining out round and
clear. Alfred kept watching the bright moon. “ Here
comes a great black cloud to hide it,” he cried. “See
how the black cloud’s edges turn all light and silvery as
they come near the moon,” said his papa. “Now the
moon has gone to bed behind a cloud,” cried Alfred. “Ah,
there it comes again !’”? “ And look,” said his papa, “how
the white snow sparkles all over when it comes again.”
Then they made a little story about the furze bushes: that
they were all getting ready for a dance on the heath, and
were dressed out in white, sprinkled with diamonds,

“T can see other lights now,” said Mr. Herbert. “I
can see the lights from the windows in the town. We
shall be home in a quarter of an hour now.” So Alfred
began to clap his hands and say, “ Ah, mamma! you don’t
know how near we are to you.”

Just as he spoke they heard a low baa—baa—quite
close to them: so close that it made Mr. Herbert stop the
gig. They listened, and it came again—baa—baa—in a
oh, pitiful tone. “It must be a lamb,” said Mr. Herbert,
“ but Ican see no sheep nor any creature near us.” “Per
- is a poor little lamb that has lost its mother,” said
86 THE PET LAMB,
ool

Mr. Herbert got out and was going to look by the road-

ide, but Bobby, who was impatient to get to his ‘stable,
would not stand still, so that he was afraid to leave him.
“ Let me go, papa,” cried Alfred, jumping up out of his
snug nest, and bustling down by the step. “ Pil go and
look for the little lamb.” “Climb up the bank y the
road-side,” said his papa, “ and look down into the ditch.”

Alfred was soon at the top of the bank, but he could
see nothing. Still the sound went on, fainter and more
pitiful than ever. “ Shall [ get down into the ditch, papa?”
said he. «Yes, if you think you can me it,” answer.
ed his papa. So then Alfred began to get down, slipping,
and sliding, and jumping, and was soon out of sight.

“ I’ve found the poor little lamb, papa,” he soon called -
out from the bottom of the ditch. Mr. Herbert had now
led Bobby and the gig to the edge of the bank, and asked
Alfred whether he thought he could lift up the lamb. «I’l]
try,” answered he.

Some time passed, in which the lamb bleated more than
ever, and the frosty sticks and snow dry leaves in the
ditch crackled and rustled, but nothing was heard of Al-
fred. “What are you doing, Alfred?” Mr. Herbert call-
ed. “Pm coming,” he was answered out of the ditch ina
panting voice, us if quite out of breath. «It’s very dif

cult to get up the side.”

Mr. Herbert took the reins over his arm, and leaned as
‘far as possible over the bank; and then, with great efforts,
Alfred contrived to raise the lamb up within his reach, and
THE PET LAMB. 87
SS———=_=_=_=3

to give it up to him. Then he soon clambered up himself.

“Will the poor lamb die?” said he, looking at it as it
lay quiet over his papa’s arm.

“It is stiff with the cold, and most likely nearly starved,”
said Mr. Herbert. “It is very young, not more than a
week old, | should think.”

“Let us make haste home,” cried Alfred. “ Mamma
will make it get well.”

Mr. Herbert lifted Alfred in, put the lamb on his knees,
covered them both with the cloak, jumped in himself, and
off went Bobby as fast as he could trot. They were
at their own door in no time.

Out ran little Lucy before they had even rung the bell.
Out came James the groom to take the pony to the stable.
Then, out came mamma to the door to welcome them, and
help off the coats and hats, and it all looked bright and
warm inside. . Mr. Herbert lifted out Alfred, and he went
tottering along with his poor little lamb in his arms, too
full of anxiety about it to speak a word.

“ What have you got, Alfred?” cried Lucy. But he was
too eager to get the lamb into the warm room, to answer
her, and never stopped till he had placed it safe down on





the rug.

* Where did you get this poor, pretty little lamb?” ask-

Lucy, “and what is the matter with it?” .

“ We foundtit in a ditch,” answered he, “and it is cold
and hungry. Come, mamma, and tell us what to do to
make the lamb well !””
88 THE PET LAMB.

oOo eeoeE*elesnealeaeaaaaaaasssSsas>ss



Their papa and mamma soon came in together, and
found the two children sitting by the lamb, stroking and
pn it. Their mamma sent directly for a blanket to
ay it on, and moved it farther from the fire. Then she
brought a saucer of warm milk and held it close to its
mouth, but it would not drink: so she dipped her fingers
in, and then put them into its mouth, and it began to suck
them. Then in a minute, to the great Fick of the two
children, it n to lap up the milk, and never stopped |
till it had finished it all. «Now do not fear,” she said.
« The lamb will get well, I think.”

Lucy patted and kissed it, and then Alfred pulled off his
worsted glove, and stroked it: but when his cold little hand
lay on the white, soft wool, they all laughed: for it was as
red as his worsted comforter, which he still had on.

« My dear little fellow,” said his mamma, “now we
must take care of _— why how cold and wet you are !”
so first she made the tea, and rang for the toast and fresh

, and then put on the bread and milk to boil, and then
shs took Alfred on her lap, and took off his cap, and cape,
and comforter: and kissed his bright, rosy cheeks; and
then she pulled off his boots, and socks, all wet with
clambering about in the ditch: and then Lucy ran for dry
ones for him, and she put them on. So little Alfred was
soon wafip, and comfortable, and as happy as he could
be.

le *»
And then the white milk frothed up, and she poured it
out, and they all sat down to tea, and told all their adven-
; THE PET LAMB. 89
aaa 5°00—wH—— SS
tures, and laughed and talked away. Every now and
then Lucy and Alfred stole on tiptoe to look at the lamb,
which had fallen fast asleep. Before they went to bed it
had another saucer full of warm milk, and then they got
a deep basket with some hay in the bottom, and placed the
little creature in it, blanket and all, and there it was left
for the night.

The very first thing in the morning, the two children
went, hand in hand, to look at the lamb. It started up,
and stood on its feet, when they went near it: then bleat-
ed, and seemed frightened: but when it felt their soft
hands patting and stroking its head and sides, it seemed to

et quiet, and when they brought some more warm milk,
it drank out of their hands, and finished all up. After
breakfast, as it was a sunny morning, Mr. Herbert told the
children they might take it into the eee where it jump-
ed and frisked about much to their delight.

Mr, Herbert found out the farmer to whom it belonged:
but he said he should like the little boy to keep it, as he
had saved its life, and to make it a pet lamb. Alfred
said it should be Lucy’s pet lamb, too: and it pret-
tier, and stronger, and more playful, and cropped the grass
and ran about the field : and they called it Daisy. It soon
became so tame that it would come into the » and
follow them in their walks, and they were u

* slways took care of it.
THE MYSTIC RING;
OR, THE PROPHECY FULFILLED.
[sam ENGRAVING.)

——~—

“ lt is useless, my dear, to search any longer,” said Col.
Renton to his wife, as they entered the dining room togeth-
er: “if that ring was dropped out of the Teuaiiieed
upon it, noone will have the honesty to return it.”

“I had rather have lost anything else, than that ring,’

Mrs. Renton, “ and I can never forgive myself
for such a piece of carelessness.” ;

It is proper to remark, that, the ring in question was a
beautiful one, set With four precious gems: it was ht
by Col. Renton at aprice of fifty dollars, and presented
him to his wife on the night.of their marriage. Mrs. Ren-
ton looked upon this pledge of her husband’s love, as being
of more value to her than for its mere intrinsic worth ;
the associations connected with its presentation to her,
invested it with a degree of sacredness, which did not at-

tach itself to ry commas ring.
been out to walk the afternoon before,
and in her glove from her hand, by some unac-

countable misfortune, the ring came off her hand at the |
game al and dropping from her gléve, was lost, and had


=s -% yi < j
= 0M —

: Gl

ey ll |

wu

“



i
i a

Hi PETS.
T

THE MYSTIC RING. 93
a

Sl eee

occasioned the conversation which occurred on their en-
~ance into the dining-room: the loss of the ring in the

smner here described, although true, was a matter of
supposition with Mrs. Renton, which was based.on the
‘act, that she had hunted high and low throughout the
,ouse, but could not find it. Charles and Caroline, their
son and daughter, were amusing themselves in the front
garden, playing with their pet rabbits. They were call-
ed in, and their services were put in requisition to hunt
in and about the house, to endeavour to find the lost trinket.

Having given themselves faithfully to the search for a
considerable time, and being unsuccessful, Charley pro-

to his sister that they should go to the fortune-tel-
er’s hut in the woods, not far off, and invoke her divina-
tion in endeavoring to gain the lost ring. She stood at the
door of the old cottage, and seeing the hey and girl comin
across the lot in the path which led to the house, she call
her grandson to come into the house.

This grandson was the child of her daughter, who had
died some seven years since, and she, Leing the only sur-
viving relative in the family, took the little boy into her
keeping, and supported herself and him very comforta-
bly by the business of fortune-telling. Some had great
faith in her predictions, whilst most people, if they ever
consulted her, did it more for sport, than for any belief
that they entertained in the truth of her statements.

As it was, very many persons consulted her, and seem-
“ed willing to contribute _ to her support even in

(


94 THE MYSTIC RING. e

ooo Saou]

that way, for the old lady was very kind-hearted and amia-

e.

In order to add more weight to her predictions, she in-
vested her fortune-telling with some show of mystery, and
for that yg e she had fitted up a small room in her hut,
which she darkened, and used only a single candle when-
ever she exercised what she called “her spirit of divina-
tion.” She made the little boy quite serviceable, for she
used to secrete him in the room, and require his assistance
in some of her mysterious actions. We have already ob-
served that she saw Charley and Caroline coming on in the

ath that led to her hut, and she called the boy into the
wont and told him to go into the “ mysterious chamber,”
as she called it, for there were customers coming.

The boy gnacetagy repaired to the chamber, and the
children now entered the house.

«Good afternoon, aunt Peggy,” said Charley, as they
entered the hut.

“ Ab, good day, child, good day,” replied the old lady,
“and what can aunt Peggy do for the young master and
miss ?” inquired she.

“To tell you the truth, aunt Peggy,” said Caroline,
“ There has been something lost at our house, and we have
come to you to see if you can’t help us to find it.”
i Well, well, child,” replied Peggy. ‘it is’nt a ring, is
it?”

« La, me, aunt Pege

!” replied Caroline, ‘1 do believe,
you area witch; how

lige appen to guess that 1”
THE MYSTIC RING. 95





« Ah, well: I might as well have guessed that as any-
thing,” replied Peggy, “for there’s a good many fol
that don’t believe I know anything.”

“I should think that you must know something,” re-

lied Charley, “or you would never have known that we
had lost a ring.” ©

The old lady was well satisfied that a ring was the ar-
ticle lost, and determined that she would give the children
evidence of her knowledge.

“Stay here, children,” said the old lady: “ I'll go into
the mysterious chamber, and put things to rights, and then
we'll see what we can do about the ring.”

Toexplain this matter it should here be remarked, that
the old lady had found this identical ring that was lost, and
supposing that it was possible that some person might
come to consult her in regard to it, she retained it until
she should have an apportunity of ascertaining the real
owner. The old lady went into the mysterious chamber,
for the purpose of affixing the ring to a piece of black cloth,
and hanging this cloth inside of a frame work which she
had made, before which was suspended a curtain. This
curtain, by order of the old lady, at a given signal, was
mysteriously drawn aside by the little boy who was se-
creted in behind the large quilt that was hung up for the
very purpose of secreting him from the observation of any

visitor.

Having made all her arrangements, and given the little
boy instructions how to proceed, she returned to the kitch-
en for Charley and Caroliné.

¢














96 THE MYSTIC RING.

«Come, children!” said the old lady, “give me your
hands, and let me lead you to the mysterious chamber.”

They arose to follow the old lady, and she conducted
them through a dark entry into a dark room: on arriving
there she groped around for a couple of chairs, and desir
ed them to be seated.

The room was dark as midnight: the old lady soon pro-
duced her flint and steel, and finally struck a light, and

Jaced the candle near the curtain.

« Now, children,” said the old lady, “1 will endeavor to
ascertain what kind of a ring it was that has been lost.”

She made several mysterious gyrations in front of the
curtain, and then exclaimed, “appear y? At this instant
the curtain was drawn aside, and lo! there was a ring ats.
tached to a piece of hanging black cloth.

“ That’s it! that’s it!” simultaneously exclaimed Caro-
line and Charley : “Oh! let us have it !—do, aunt Peggy!”

“ Be quiet, children Y said the old ladv: “ this ring» is
like the one you lost, is it not t”

«It is! it is!” replied Charley.

“ Be — then!" said the old lady: “1 know now
the kind of ring you’ve lost: to-morrow you will receive
the original in a mysterious manner.”

The old lady now extinguished the candle, and led the
children out of the room into that from whence-she came.
After spending a few minutes in conversation, the children
left for their home. ‘

The children, on their return, related the affair of their


THE MYSTIC RING. 97







visit to the fortune-teller, but notwithstanding their en
thusiasm, the father and mother were disposed to treat the
whole matter with indifference. Even the children’s as-
sertion that they had seen an exact representation of the
lost ring, did not have the effect to produce any additional
confidence in the minds of the parents in the promises or
sayings of the fortune-teller. ‘
Nothing more was said that day concerning the lost
ring. The search, however, was continued during the re-
mainder of that day, and through a part of the next.
About three o’clock in the afternoon of the next day, the
old lady’s grand-child was dispatched with a small pack-
age, and was instructed to leave it with the maid of the *
house. The boy accordingly repaired to the kitchen of :
Col. Renton’s house, and left a little package directed te '
his care. The package was delivered by the maid to Col.
Renton while at the supper table. He opened the pack-
age, and behold it contained a small biscuit. He threw it
over to his wife, saying that it was some joke of the cook’s,
and took no further notice of the matter. The biscuit
lay beside the plate of Mrs. Renton, and Caroline asked
her if she could have it. Having assented, Caroline cut
it open with the intention of eating it, when there, in the
middle of it, appeared the ring.
“Oh mother—father—see, see! the ring—the ring! 1
cut it out of this cake!” exclaimed Caroline, laughing,
and dancing out of her chair.
ft Thering !” exclaimed the father—* let me see it.” The

4
98 THE MYSTIC RING.
—<—=—[———EESESESE Eee

Colonel and his wife examined the ring, and were satisfied
of its identity. The next question was, how came it there?
The cook was sent for, and questioned about the matter.
All she knew about it was, that a boy came there that af-
ternoon, and left a package, requesting that it might be
delivered to Col. Renton. What the package was she

id not know—for of course it was not her duty to open

The cool did not inquire the boy’s name, and she nev-
er had seen him before.

“This matter,” said the Colonel, “ must be hunted out:
for whoever found the ring and returned it should be liber.
ally rewarded.

The Colonel, unbeknown to his family, repaired imme-
diately to the fortune-teller’s hovel. She saw him com-
* ng, and secreted the boy.

“Well, aunt Peggy,” said the Colonel, “1 am_ indebt-
ed to you then for the recovery of my lost ring. Name
your reward, and I shall most.willingly pay it.””

“Have you found it, then?” inquired aunt: Peggy, as-
suming an air of a.

“ [ have!” replied the Colonel, “ and if you will not tell
me how much I shall give you, take this twenty dollar
note,and with it my thanks.”

“ Nay, Colonel,” replied Peggy, “I will take thy mon-
ey only on one condition.”

oad it!” said the Colonel: “it shall be complied
with,”

“It is.this: that thou shalt not require of me to know

x


. ~
THE MYSTIC RING. 99

how I was able to trace out the ring, ana send the person
to thee with it: this is the condition :” replied Peggy.

‘ Well, well, Peggy |” replied the Colonel : “1 am satis-
fied to get the ring, and as I have got it, 1 hardly need trou-
ble my head about thy sorcery.”

The Colonel now returned to his family, and they were
very anxious in their inquiries to ascertain by him, how
aunt Peggy knew where it was: but as the Colonel pos-
sessed no information on that point, he could of course
communicate - a his oa

The noise, of aunt Peggy’s exploit was gossipped all
through the neighborhood, and the curfoniiady towns,
in fact, and it was the means of adding many a dollar to
her pocket. This act had a tendency to increase the faith
of many in her divinations, and many and many is the
love-sick swain that might have been seen following the
path to Peggy’s cottage, to learn something of the secrets
concerning them: locked upin the mysterious chamber.

—0)——

VICE.

It was a wise saying among the ancients, that ‘the way
to vice lies down hill. If you take but a fewsteps, the mo-
tion soon becomes so impetuous and violent, that it is im-
possible for you to resist it.
_Â¥

“DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.”

—

“I never will play with Charley Mason again, mother.
He’s a naughty boy, and I don’t love him.”

“ What is the matter now, my son? I thought youand
Charley were very good friends.”

“Why, mother, he’s got my new India rubber ball, which
sister Anne gave me, and he says he’ll keep it all the time.
But I say he shan’t—shall he?”

And saying this, little George Hammond burst into a sad
fit of tears. His mother spoke gently tohim, and said—
“ How came Charley to run away with your ball?”

“ Why, mother, he wanted to play with it, and so did I.
I let him look at it, and then took it again, because it was
my ball, you know: and by and by, when I was Playing
bounce, it rolled away. 1 ran after it, and so did he:
he got it before I could, and carried it home.” *

“Well, George, it was wrong for him to carry it away
in such a manner: but let me ask you, my son, if Charley
had a nice ball, and you had none, don’t you think you
should like to have played with it?” ‘

“O, yes, indeed !”

“ And do you think Charley would have let you ?”

, *O! I guess he would : for he’s a real nice boy, some-
times.” |
i Georgy, do you remember what papa told Fan-

:

(
DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY. 101
————— $__ewaaaaaaaa—————— SW
ny yesterday—* to do as she would be done by? You
would like very much to play with Charley’s ball, and yet
were not willing to let him play with yours. This was not
right. You did not do as you would be done by. You
did wrong, and so did he. If you had let him play ‘bounce’
with you, then you would both have been happy little
boys, and now you have been both wrong and both angry.
I admit that Charley did wrong,but you did wrong first.”

“ Well, mother, I dare qay that iv all true: but Charles
has got my ball.”

“Charley will not keep it long, my dear. He only
took it to trouble you a little : he will give it to you, I dare
say, this afternoon.”

“But Charley did not do as he would be done by, mo-
ther, when he ran home with it.”

“No: I suppose he did not think aapthing about it, any
more than you did in not letting him play with you. Don’t
you remember how kind Charley was, a little while ago,
wher he had his new balloon? Did you not play with it?”

“ Yes-mother: and don’t you know how J let it blow
away into a big tree, and Patrick could not get it down
again—and how long it was up there ?”

“ And did Charley cry about it ?”

“I guess not: but he was very sorry and so was [: and
I took the money uncle gave me, and bought some more
paper: and sister Anne made hima real nice balloon, big-
ger than his first one was.”

« And did you not feel happy, when you carried it to
him? and was not Charley very glad to have it?”
102 DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.







“ Yes, indeed: and he’s got it now—and we play with
it sometimes.” ;

“ That was doing as you would be done by. You lost
his balloon, and gave him another to replace it, which was
just 1”
oe Mother, if Charley loses my ball, do you think he will
be just, too, and bring me another ?”

“ Certainly, if he does what is right. But I think I hear
Charley’s voice in the hall. Go and see if it is he.”

“ Yes, mother, ’tis Charley !” said George, as he ran into
the hall to meet him—and the mother following him.

“ I’ve brought home your ball, Georgy,” said Charles.
“ Mother said 1 was a naughty boy to run away with it,
and she told me to come and bring it right back. I’m sor-
ry I plagued you, and I won't do so any more.”

“ And I am very sorry I refused to let you play with
the ball,” said George, “ for I know it was that which
made. you think of running off with it.” :

Thus the two boys were soon reconciled: and GRerge’s
mother was glad to see how well her son understood his
error, and the way to atone for it. We have only to add,
that if children would all do as they wish others to do to
them, they would never seize one another’s toys, nor use
harsh words, nor exercise angry feelings among them.

a) 1
ACQUISITION OF KNOWLEDGE.

—r—-

I felt the ennobling pride of learning. It isa fine thing
to know that whichis unknown to others: it is still more
dignified to remember that we have gained it by our en-
ergies. The struggle after knowledge, too, is. full of de-
light. The intellectual chase, not less than the material
one, brings fresh vigour to our pulses, and infinite palpita-
tions of strange and sweet suspense. The idea that is
gained with effort, affords far greater satisfaction than
that which is acquired with dangerous facility. We dwell
with more fondness on the perfume of the flower that we
have ourselves tended, than on the odour which we cull
with carelessness, and cast away without remorse. The
strength and sweetness of our knowledge depend — the
impression which it makes upon our own minds. It is the
liveli of the ideas that it affords, which renders re-
ocaFeies fascinating ; so that a trifling fact or deduction,
when discovered or worked out by our own brain, affords
us infinitely greater pleasure than a more important tru
obtained by the exertions of another.

The high poetic talent—as if to prove that a poet is
only, at the best, a wild although beautiful error of
nature—the high poetic talent is the rarest in creation.

' D'Israelli.

103
“T WON'T BE A MINUTE!”

—— .

«“] won’t be a minute!” is the excuse to others, and
often to ourselves, for turning aside from the pursuit of
some important plan, to gratify a petty curiosity, or other
equally worthless feeling.

I had promised J. B. —, on Thursday, to meet him at
several saip in Philadelphia, on points of business of great
consequence to me, upon which depended the issue of
certain legal proceedings pending between us. I break-
fasted with him in the morning, at his house at Ger-
mantown, and we came tothe city together. Everything
promised well for a settlement satisfactory to me, till my
unlucky disregard of the value of “just one minute,” de-
stroyed all the plans which had taken time, and labor, and
money, to bring into such a promising position.

“I won’t be a minute !” said I, turning aside from my
companion, and stopping at a shop window to admire some

rints. They were beautiful—and [ could soon overtake

. B—, so in I went to — the prices. Theshopman
was obliging, and I was delighted: and thus two minutes
fled. With a hurried step I -re-entered the street, under
the impression that a quickened pace would presently bring
mé in time tomy companion’s side. An accident, how-
' ever, had happened in the crowded ‘thoroughfare, and five

minutes more elapsed before I could get a fair start to over-
104
“I WON'T BE A MINUTE!” 106



take my friend: and then, in walking quicker than the
mass, | found that I was not only impeded by the passen-
gers I met, but, moreover, those whom | overtook! “Five
minutes to twelve !’? said my watch. At twelve we had
agreed to meet a legal gentleman of noted punctuality at
his office in south Sixth street. At the crossing at Third
and Chesnut streets, the tide of carriages, cabs, and om-
nibuses, rendered it impossible for me to get along without
considerable delay, and the State-house clock reminded
me that the time for our appointment had already passed.

“ Ten minutes past twelve.” said my watch, when an-
noyed and heated, tapped at the door of Mr. Law’s cham-
bers. Rap, rap, rap. No answer. J. B— must have
called, transacted his business, and gone. Rap, rap, rap!
No answer still. A clock in the vicinity chimed “ a quar-
ter-past,” and at half-past we were to have met another
professional man at the Madison House, I could not give
up the idea of seeing Mr.. Law, knowing what had been
done, without an effort : so I knocked at the doors of the
adjoining rooms. “ Mr. Law is likely to be found in the
register’s office,” said the inmate: so thither I hurried.
I had some trouble in finding the place. and when I had -
done so, I learned from the clerk that Mr. Law and a friend
had been there, but had away—no one knew whither.
The clock chimed half-past, and 1 was more than five
minutes walk from the Madison House. I resolved to take
a cab, but not one could be had, so hurriedly walking away
I resolved to endeavor to keep my second appointment.
106 “T WON'T BE A MINUTE.”
SSS

“ Twenty-three minutes to one !” said my watch, as,
almost breathless, I sprang up the stairs at the Franklin
House. The official informed me with coolness that J. B—
had been waiting several minutes for me, and that, as I
had not kept the other engagements, he had concluded that
[ had no objection to the law-suit proceeding—and so had
left just in time to leave in the afternoon rail-road line for
Germantown.

“Sixteen minutes to one!” said my watch. I rushed into
the street. ‘“Cabman, drive me with all haste to the Ger-
mantown depot,” said I, jumping into the vehicle, and
smashing my hat against the top. Away we went, as fast
as the lean horse could carry us. “Every moment is.of
poe ance,” I shouted to the driver through the window,
who lashed his beast to a gallop.

* Fourteen minutes to one !” said my watch, as I rushed
to the ticket-office. “Just too late, sir,” said the money-
taker: “the cars leave here every other hour, and the
last has been gone just one minute |”?

1 missed J. B—, who refused afterwards to enter into
any negotiations for the settlement of our dispute: the
law-suit went on, and I had to pay damages and costs.

The moral is plain—Never allow any good opportunit
to pass, or it may chance that ianipeatle difficulties will
prevent its ever being overtaken.



—=0 0
READING.

—

Montesquieu has said that reading is only idleness in dis-

ise.

ere is so for those who read rather than meditate, who
desire rather to know what others have said, than to take
the pains of developing their own ideas—who love reading
rather than books.. A lady, who was in the habit of de-
vouring every modern work, especially romances, said—
“ What matters it whether their tendencies be injurious
or not? it is enough for me that I am amused.”

Besides it is useless labor, if we know not how to reflect
and compare: if the good thought of a writer do not kindle
our spirit, sharpen our intellect, purify our judgment.

If we read books without consideration, and without
forming any judgment upon them, the ideas of others only
weaken our own, and deprive our mind of all originality
if we do not oblige ourselves to give an account of our
reading, it leaves no trace, and forms no treasury of wis-
dom within our minds. We must not only heap up, but
select,—not gather all which offers itself to our hand, but
rather pluck those fruits alone which have reached matu-
rity. It is in the moral as in the physical world,—that
which nourishes us is not the quantity we swallow, but
rather that which we digest. The seed does not spring
up, or grow, unless we both choose good seed and cultivate

107
108 BEADING.

—————————————
the ground into which it is to be cast. Who does not
know that a man may be deeply read in learned lore,
and yet be a fool? The clear-sighted man must guess
at futurity. History loses half its value to those who
only read in it that which is past—they must also read
in it that which is to come. “Read,” said Seneca,
“not that thou mayest know more than others, but that
thou mayest know better than others. It is not the study
itself, but the fruit of study whichgwe require to see.” °

. * <

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