Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The first home
 The voyage
 The new home
 The first day at school
 Lucy's friends
 The farm
 Country pleasures
 The bower
 Vanity a bad guide
 The good physician
 The beautiful soul
 The premium
 Christmas eve
 Back Cover

Group Title: Routledge's juvenile library
Title: The cousins
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00026587/00001
 Material Information
Title: The cousins a tale of early life
Series Title: Routledge's juvenile library
Physical Description: 192 p., 1 leaf of plates : col. ill. ; 16 cm.
Language: English
Creator: McIntosh, Maria J ( Maria Jane ), 1803-1878
George Routledge and Sons ( Publisher )
Woodfall and Kinder ( Printer )
Publisher: George Routledge and Sons
Place of Publication: London
Manufacturer: Woodfall and Kinder
Publication Date: [187-?]
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Cousins -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Pride and vanity -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children and death -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Love -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Onlays (Binding) -- 1875   ( rbbin )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1875   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1875
Genre: Onlays (Binding)   ( rbbin )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Statement of Responsibility: by Maria J. M'Intosh.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00026587
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002227695
oclc - 50255243
notis - ALG7995

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Page 1
        Page 1a
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
    Table of Contents
        Page 6
    The first home
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
    The voyage
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
    The new home
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
    The first day at school
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
    Lucy's friends
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
    The farm
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
    Country pleasures
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
    The bower
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
    Vanity a bad guide
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
    The good physician
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
    The beautiful soul
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
    The premium
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
    Christmas eve
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
    Back Cover
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
Full Text

- d-

I 1

The Baldwin Library
RmnBFI d,















in offering this little volume to the public, the
Author thinks it due to them and herself to state
.hat it is a child's book, and nothing more. It
was commenced some years ago, as one of a series
of tales then in course of publication. From
causes wholly unimportant to the public, that
series was discontinued, and this manuscript was
consequently laid aside. It has lately been re-
sumed and completed, and is now presented as
a simple narrative of the events of childhood,
intended to show the beauty and excellence, even
in its earliest dawn upon the soul, of that charity
which "envieth not, vaunteth not itself, is not
puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly."




S 41
S 69
S 90
S 00
S 108
S 120
S 143
S 163



M AY MOWBRAY and Lucy Lovett were cousins.
They had often heard of each other, and Cousin
Lucy and Cousin Mary had been,familiar words
with them as soon as they could speak; yet they
never met till they were more than nine years
old. Mr. Mowbray, the father of Mary, was a
native of the State of Georgia; and though he
was educated at a Northern college, and married
a Northern lady-the sister of Lucy's father, Mr.
Lovett-he returned, after his marriage, to his
own home, and there, in Georgia, was Mary
Mowbray born, and there did she spend the first
nine years of her life: and that first home Mary


still loves better than any other place in the
world, and nothing pleases her more than to sit
down of an evening, and talk over with some
friend all its delights. Mary lives now with her
Uncle and Aunt Lovett in New York, and she
always begins her description of her childhood's
home by saying that the house was not at all like
New-York houses. "It was not built," she says,
"of brick or stone, but of wood." She calls the
houses in New-York one-sided, because they have
rooms, generally, only on one side of the hall or
entrance, while her father's house had rooms on
both sides-large rooms, and several of them, so
that it covered more than twice as much ground
as most of the houses in New-York do. There
were no marble mantle-pieces in it, she confesses,
nor shining black grates; but, then, she adds, the
fireplaces were not such little things, casting, as
she speaks, a somewhat contemptuous glance at
her uncle's. They were wide and high, and
when a fire was needed in them, which was not
often, it was not made of little pieces of black
coal, bit of great logs of oak wood and sticks of
pitch pine, or, as Mary calls it, light wood, wlbch


made such a bright, cheerful blaze, that children
might play by it a whole winter's evening with-
out thinking of a candle or lamp. But these were
only the smallest part of the pleasures of that dear
home. Its greatest enjoyments were not to be
found within doors. These were in standing,
guarded by her "Maumer," as she still calls her
black nurse, on the river's edge, to see her father's
fisherman paddle out in his canoe and throw his
lines for fish, or, in the still evening, as the boat
glided noiselessly along, cast his net for shrimp or
prawn, or in long rambles through the fields and
along roads bordered on each side by woods; and
sometimes she was allowed to extend her rambles
into these woods in search of jessamines, in the
early spring, and of blackberries and whortle-
berries in summer. And oh, the beauty and the
fragrance of those woods! I have been almost
tempted myself to spend one winter, at least, in
that far Southern land, when I have heard Mary
describe them, with their clumps of honey-suckle,
their wreaths of yellow jessamine twining from
tree to tree, the white fringe-tree waving its long
snowy tendrils over the crimson flowers of the


red-bud, and the myrtles, and the bays, and the
laurels, and the wild orange, and the wild olive,
and the spring violets, and-and-a thousand
others, whose names I cannot pretend to remem-
ber, but which Mary rattles off, mingling trees,
and shrubs, and vines, and plants in most bewil-
dering confusion. Then, when she leaves the
woods and comes home again, it is to tell you of
the orange-groves, which often showed the golden
fruit of the last year and the white flowers of this
gleaming together from its polished dark-green
leaves, and of the birds-the red-bird, with its
one clear, sweet note-the black-bird, with hi3
merry whistle, and the mocking-bird, that prince
of songsters. Not one poor bird shut up in a
cage," she says-and here she is apt to cast the
same glance at her aunt's birdcage which she had
given to her uncle's fireplace-" but dozens of
them flying from bough to bough, and tree to
tree, and singing so joyously-just as if they
were so happy that they could not help it."
But Mary had remembrances of her home which
touched me more than all these things. She told
of her mother's reading and praying by the bed-


side of the sick and dying negro; of her taking
Mary with her on Sunday to the house which the
negroes called their "Prayer House," and gather-
ing the children of her husband's plantation there,
to teach them hymns and Scripture texts, and to
pray with them. Once, when describing these
scenes, Mary dropped her head on her aunt's lap
and burst into tears. It was long before she
could explain why she wept. At length she
said that it was because she remembered waking
in the night and hearing some one whispering by
the side of her little crib; that she was frightened
at first, till, opening her eyes, she saw, by the
shaded night-lamp, that it was her own dear
mother kneeling down and praying softly for
her. Do you not pity Mary for having so kind
and tender a mother taken away from her ?
Mrs. Mowbray was ill for many weeks before
her death. She knew she would never be well
again, ad, though satisfied that this was right
and best for her, since her heavenly Father or-
dered it, there was one earthly care of which she
could not quite free herself. This care was for
Mary. Mr. Mowbray was a very tender and in-


dulgent father, but he could scarcely be expected
to devote himself to the education of a little girl
as a mother would have done. Mr. Mowbray had
neither mother nor sister to whose charge the
motherless Mary might be confided, and he rejoiced
almost as much as his wife did, when her brother,
Mr. Lovett, having received intelligence of her ex-
treme and hopeless illness, came to visit her, and
begged that he might be permitted to take his niece
home with him. In Mrs. Lovett they both knew
that Mary would find a devoted and conscientious
Had this plan been communicated to Mary
under any ordinary circumstances, she would pro-
bably have refused her consent to it; but when
her mother, in a still, darkened chamber, propped
up in bed by pillows, called her to her side, and
in a low, husky voice told her that God, who had
given her a kind mother so long, was about to
take her to Himself; that she was to go home with
her Uncle Lovett, in order that her Aunt Lovett
might take the place to her of this dear lost
mother, and charged her to love and honour this
good uncle and aunt, and always to remember


that their wishes were the wishes of her own
mother, Mary was awed, and had no power nor
wish to object to anything. She could only weep
in anguish over the thought of parting for ever
with her from whom she had never parted, even
for a few hours, without tears. The promises
which Mary made then to her mother could not
be easily forgotten. Till this time, being shy and
timid in her disposition, and having seen little of
her uncle, she had been very reserved in her man-
ner to him; but after this she would sit on his
knee and hang around his neck as lovingly as if
he were her father; and soon after her mother's
death she gave a very strong proof of her readiness
to be controlled by his wishes.
We have spoken of Mary's Maumer. This was
a negro woman, who had nursed and attended on
her always from her birth, and as she was kind
and affectionate, Mary had become very much
attached to her, and Mr. Mowbray had intended
to send he to her uncle's house with her, but to
this Mr. Lovett objected. She is a very good
woman," he said, "and takes great care of Mary
-too great care, for she is now old enough to


take care of herself; in my house she will not
need a nurse: but this is not all. In Mary's new
home she must learn many new habits and un-
learn many old ones. This cannot be always
pleasing to her, and her nurse, being too ignorant
to understand my reasons, would listen to her
complaints, increase her dissatisfaction, and, per-
haps, often teach her to evade my wishes. You
can see how much more difficult this would make
the task of her improvement both to her and to
Mr. Mowbray acknowledged the truth of this
statement; yet he was so unaccustomed to deny
any of Mary's wishes, that he could not bear to
disappoint her, and Mr. Lovett found that Mary's
cheerful compliance was necessary to the accom-
plishment of his design. Calling her to him, he
placed her on his knee, and said, "You told me
the other day you loved me. Now I want to know
what you meant by loving me-how you feel to-
wards a person that you love ?"
Mary hesitated a moment, and then, throwing
her arms around his neck and kissing him, said,
"I feel so."


That is very pleasant now, but I might be ill
-rso ill that even to touch me would give me
pain; you would not kiss me then, but you would
still love me, would you not ?"
"And how would you prove that you loved
After a little thought, Mary answered, "By
doing whatever you told me to do."
Very good! And you would do this, not be-
cause you were afraid of me, but because you liked
to do it-because you wished to give me pleasure
-to make me happy. Is it not so ?"
Then we have found out that to love a person
is to wish to make them happy. Do you believe
that I love you ?"
"Then you believe that I wish to make you
happy; and if I should ask anything unpleasant
from you, you would know that I had some good
reason for it, for I could not love you and yet
desire to make you uncomfortable; and now I am
going to ask you to show your love for me by


giving up a great pleasure to gratify me. I can-
not very well explain to you my reasons for asking
this; yet, while you believe that I love you, you
must know that they are good reasons. Whom
would you like, most of all, to have go home with
us ?"
"Father!" said Mary, looking smilingly around
at Mr. Mowbray, who sat silent, but attentive, in
the same room.
"Ah but you know that father cannot go, so
that is a pleasure I cannot ask you to give up;
but whom, next to father, would you most de-
sire ?"
"I thought so; and now I wish you to leave
Maumer. Do you love me well enough to gratify
me in this ?"
There were a few minutes of silence, during
which Mary sat with a downcast face, her lip
quivering, and her bosom heaving with scarce-
suppressed sobs. At length Mr. Lovett said,
" Speak, Mary remember, I only ask this-I do
not command it. Shall Maumer go or stay ?"
Mary looked up in his face, and said, with a


great effort, She must stay;" and, unable longer
to control herself, dropped her head upon his bo-
som, and sobbed convulsively.
: "Lovett! said Mr. Mowbray, "I cannot in-
flict such suffering on my child. Your family are
all strangers to her, and she was always fearful
of strangers; her nurse had better go with her."
Mr. Lovett caressed Mary tenderly and sooth-
ingly, while he replied to this: "I know it must
be severe suffering to Mary to part with an old
friend, and such a kind friend as her Maumer, and
I love her too well to inflict such suffering on her
for any slight cause. Even now, important as my
reasons are, if Mary finds it too difficult to grant
my request, I will not urge it."
Mr. Mowbray took Mary from her uncle's knee
into his own arms, and said, "You hear what
your uncle says, my daughter; nurse shall go if
you wish it."
"No, papa, I don't want her to go now."
Mr. Mowbray was afraid that there was a little
anger about this decision, and that when it passed
away, Mary would repent. He was, therefore,
anxious to learn her reason for it, and asked her


earnestly, "Why not-why do you not want hek
now to go ?"
"Because I know that poor mamma doesn't
wish her to go," whispered Mary, leaning her
head on her father's shoulder.
Surprised and overcome by this unexpected
mention of his wife, Mr. Mowbray could not
speak for a few seconds. When he could com-
mand himself sufficiently, he asked gently, How
can you tell, dear Mary, what mamma wishes
about this; she never spoke to you of it, did
she ?"
"No; but you know she said that Uncle Lo-
vett's wishes were her wishes too."
A fervent embrace was the only answer which
Mr. Mowbray could make to his child, but Uncle
Lovett praised her, and called her his good child i
and, soothed and comforted, Mary went almost
cheerfully to communicate to her nurse the new
arrangement. To reconcile her to this arrange-
ment was quite impossible. By turns she wept
over Mary and railed against Mr. Lovett, saying
often, "I tink he is a bery hard case, dat de poor
child must go to strange people, and not eben hab


poor Maumor wid 'em to see if dey treat 'em good
or bad."
Mr. Lovett was very indulgent to the old wo-
man's expression of her feelings, for he knew that
parting with Mary was a severe trial to her, and
that she could not understand his motives; but
her intemperate language showed Mr. Mowbray
how correct Mr. Lovett's views had been, since
every unpleasant task imposed upon Mary during
the course of her education would .probably have
excited her anger against those who were her




M-. LOVETT and Mary came by sea to New York.
It was January, but the weather was mild for the
season, and very calm, so that, though their voy-
age was long, it was not unpleasant. They spent
twelve days on board the ship. Mary was sea-
sick only for a few hours, during which her Uncle
Lovett nursed her as tenderly as her Maumer, or
even her mother, could have done. He carried
her on deck in his arms, told her stories of her
cousins Lucy, and Charles, and Emma, and read
to her from some little books which her father
had bought for her in Savannah. When she be-
came sufficiently accustomed to the motion of the
ship to stand alone, and walk on the deck, he had
many a romp with her there. He was on the


watch, too, for all the wonders of the sea, that he
might show them to her. When a dolphin was
caught, he ran down stairs and brought her up
quickly, that she might see the beautiful colours
of the dying fish. He pointed out to her, at a
distance, a jet of water spouting up from the calm
sea, and told her it was thrown out from the nos-
trils of the small species of whale called the
Grampus. But the most interesting to Mary of
all she saw at sea were the little birds, which the
sailors told her were called Mother Carey's chick-
ens. She was never weary of watching them, as
they rested for a moment lightly on the crest of
one wave, and then flew off to another. She
pitied as much as she wondered at them, and,
though assured that this was their native home,
she could not but think that they would be much
more comfortable on shore, fed and housed as her
pet pigeons were, or flying among the woods, and
gathering their food in the fields of her home.
As they approached the shore, there were other
objects which interested and surprised Mary. It
was quite early when, to speak as sailors do,
" they made Sandy Hook," which is the first point


of land you pass in coming from the sea to New
York. Early as it was, Mr. Lovett, who wished
Mary to see the light-house, while its light still
beamed upon the water, like a large and brilliant
star, wrapped her up warmly and took her on
deck with him. It was a cold day, and the air
had a sharp, cutting feeling, which Mary had
never experienced before. It made the tears
come in her eyes, but she had too much curiosity
about the land they were approaching, and which
it would soon be light enough for her to see dis-
tinctly, to be willing to leave the deck. Mr. Lo-
vett gathered together all the blankets, and cloaks,
and shawls he could, and, getting a little nook
for her, sheltered from the wind by the bales of
cotton with which the vessel was freighted, he
suffered her to stay with him.
As the light from the light-house grew dim,
what had seemed to Mary to be great clouds
lying along the edge of the sky, so low that they
touched the water, became more distinct in form
and colour. They were the hills of Neversink,
in New Jersey. Mary, who had lived always in
a level country, and who had never seen a hill of


half the height of these, clapped her hands, and
cried, "Oh! Uncle Lovett, see the mountains-
the mountains!"
Uncle Lovett smiled, but he did not undeceive
Mary; for he said to himself, "'When she sees a
mountain, she will readily enough perceive the
The wind was fair and the vessel sailed fast,
so that they soon came to that part of the bay
called the Narrows. Hitherto they had only had
land on one side of the vessel, but now Long
Island was on one side and Staten Island on the
other. Mary knew very little of Long Island.
Mr. Lovett only raised her up once to see that it
was there, and then covered her up again in her
sheltered nook, from which she could only see
the shore of Staten Island. There had been a
great deal of snow, and the whole country was
white with it.
"Uncle Lovett," said Mary, who had never
seen snow, which rarely falls in Georgia, "do
they never have any grass here, and is the sand
always so white?"
Mr. Lovett made her observe that what she


thought was sand was on the trees and houses as
well as on the ground, and then he told her it
was snow, and related some pleasant stories of
his snow-balling, and making snow men and
snow houses, when he was a little boy. There is
a telegraph on Staten Island, and when they
passed it, her uncle showed Mary how its great
arms were moving about, and explained to her
that the signs which were thus made were care-
fully observed in New York, and conveyed the
intelligence there that a ship was coming up, and
even what ship it was.
You will readily believe that, with observing
all these things, and watchiV the vessels going
and coming, which seemed to her very numerous,
though they were fewer than there would have
been in a summer's day, Mary did not find her
sail from Sandy Hook to the city tedious. But
from the time that the steeples of New York
became visible, Mary could see nothing but them,
and think of nothing but her new home, and
the unknown aunt and cousins who were to
welcome her to it. I am sure that all my readers
who may have been obliged to leave their own


dear homes, and their fathers and mothers, to go
among strangers, will feel for Mary, and will
desire to know something about this home, and
the reception she was likely to meet at it. We
will, therefore, leave Uncle Lovett to get a car-
riage, and to see his and Mary's trunks put on it,
and to lift Mary into it, and, following her him-
self, to drive to No. 96 street, in the upper
part of the city, where we will go before him,
and take a peep at the house, and at Aunt Lovett
and the children.




THE house does not seem very large, but the
steps, or, as we must say, now that we are in
New York, "the stoop," looks very nice and tidy.
The door is quite clean, and the knobs of the
lock are as bright as silver. Now we will go
within the house. You need not take hold of
the bell-handle : I can take you in without ring-
ing. Now we are in. The hall is not very wide,
but the floorcloth which covers it is spotlessly
clean; and as we look up the stairs, the brass
rods which confine the carpet shine as if they
had just been cleaned. The parlour doors are
open. There is no fire to be seen in either of
the grates, yet the rooms are warm, though the
air was so frosty out of doors. Ah! I see now


what makes them warm: there stands the drum
-there must be a stove in the hall below. All
this will be quite new to Mary. It would be
long before she would suspect, if not told, in
seeing that bronzed-looking statue standing on a
square pedestal, and having an arch over it, that
statue, and pedestal, and arch were all hollow,
and that the heated air from the stove below
ascended into them, and was distributed from
them through these upper rooms. But there
seem to be persons speaking below us: let us
go down.
Now we are in the basement, and is it not a
pleasant room, with the sun shining so brightly
on the windows, whose white muslin curtains
shade, but do not shut out, his rays? The canary
and mocking-bird do not want any shade, and so
they are hung inside the curtains; and how they
twitter and jump from side to side of their
perches, as if they longed to get out and have
more of the golden light. There is a little fire
in the grate, not because it is needed, however,
for the door is open, and there in the hall stands i
the Nott stove. Most people have some whims,


and it is one of Uncle Lovett's few whims that
he cannot feel warm unless he sees the fire.
Aunt Lovett delights to gratify even his whims,
and so she always keeps a little fire in this room
when he is at home, and she has had it made
here for several days past, with the hope that he
would come before night to enjoy it. And there
sits Aunt Lovett herself, with her foot on the
cradle, in which little Emma, a baby of only
eight months old, lies sleeping. She is teaching
Charles, a boy of four years old, to spell, and
is, at the same time, sewing on a dress which
seems to be intended for a little girl, probably
for Lucy, who sits beside her, busy, too, with
her needle. But Charles has done his lesson,
and, as he goes to put his book away, Lucy drops
her work to talk a little.
Mamma, I wonder if they will come to-
day ?"
I hope so, Lucy, but they will certainly not
come any sooner for your laying your work aside.
Remember, that skirt must be finished to-day."
Lucy measures the skirt to see how much she
has done, and discovering that more than half yet


remains unhemmed, she sews very industriously
for several minutes; then the needle is held
suspended while she asks, "Mamma, did you
not say that Cousin Mary had never been to
school ?"
"Yes, Lucy, I did; and I told you so that,
should you find. your cousin less advanced in her
education than yourself, you should not consider
it as a proof that she was less capable, but only
as a reason for being more indulgent to her,
and for endeavouring to help her forward in her
A few minutes more of silence succeeded, and
then Lucy says, Mamma, I had one hundred
and twenty credit marks for good lessons, and
seventy-three for punctual attendance, the last
The credit marks for punctual attendance,
Lucy," answers her mother, should have been
given, I think, to your father and me, for making
you get up often against your will, and hurrying
you to school."
But a carriage drives to the door. Charles,
who has been looking out of the window, claps


his hands, and cries "Papa, papa!" Mrs. Lovett
starts up. Lucy drops her work and dances
about, and the baby, awoke by the bustle, holds
out her dimpled hands to be taken up, and laughs
aloud at the antics of Charles and Lucy, doubtless
supposing them to be enacted solely for her amuse-
Mr. Lovett came at once to the basement with
Mary. His wife and children crowded around
him to give him their welcome home. As soon
as he had returned their affectionate greetings, he
presented his companion to them, saying to Mrs.
Lovett, "Ihave brought you another daughter:
this is our little Mary.
To Mary he said, "Here are Cousin Lucy and
Cousin Charles, Mary. I hope you will all love
each other very much, and be very happy toge-
"I love Cousin Mary," cried Charles, hugging
and kissing her with such earnestness that he
almost threw her down. Lucy kissed her too,
but more quietly; and even Emma, whom her
father had taken from the cradle, seemed, by her
laughter, and her soft tones, to invite the stranger


to be sociable; but Mary could not so soon be
sociable. She had never been more than a few
miles from her father's house before, and every-
thing here seemed so strange and so new to her,
that she felt her distance from home and the
change in her condition far more than she had
done when on the wide sea, with no companion
but her uncle. Then her uncle had talked to her
about being soon at home, but now they were at
his home, and Mary thought it could never be
home to her. Her lip began to quiver, and the
tears rushed into her eyes. She remembered
her Maumer, and thought if she had been there,
how she would have thrown herself into her arms
and sobbed out all her sorrows.
Mrs. Lovett saw something of Mary's feelings,
and thought them very natural. She pitied the
poor motherless child, thus sent away from all
she had ever known, and seating herself, she
drew Mary affectionately to her, and, placing her
on her lap, said, "Come .ere, my dear little
girl, let me take off your wrappings, and warm
your hands by this fire. You must be very
cold." Her voice was so soft and gentle that


Mary gained courage to look up in her face. Mrs,
Lovett was quite touched by the anxious, be-
seeching expression of Mary's eyes, and, bending
her head down to hide her own tears, she pressed
her lips tenderly on her forehead. But Mary had
seen those tears, and, feeling at once that she had
found a friend, she dropped her head on her aunt's
bosom, and wept there as confidingly as she could
have done in her Maumer's arms. Mrs. Lovett
did not ask Mary what she was crying for, or tell
her that she must not cry, but she soothed and
caressed her, parting her hair from her forehead,
and calling her her dear little girl, till the sobs
began to die away. Then she asked her some
questions about her voyage-such questions as
only required yes or no for an answer; and Mr.
Lovett, taking Charles on one knee---mma was
already on the other-told him of the dolphin,
and the Grampus, and Mother Carey's chickens,
and of what Cousin Mary thought and said when
she saw them, till Mary became interested too,
and sat upon her aunt's lap, and listened, and
smiled, and wac comforted.
For some time there was no work and no study


for Charles and Lucy; but after dinner, which
was served at two o'clock, Mrs. Lovett said,
"Come, Lucy, your skirt must be finished: two
hours' steady work will complete it, and then you
can get your tea-set, and the cook shall bake you
some little cakes, and your cousin and you may
have a tea-party."
Lucy did not like the beginning of this sentence,
but towards the last of it her eyes sparkled, and
she cried joyfully, "Oh, thank you, mamma!"
and was seated at her work in a minute. For an
hour her needle went quite fast, and she lost no
time, except now and then a very little in mea-
suring how much she had done. During this
hour Charles had said another lesson to his mother
had talked to Mary, and romped with Emma, who
was creeping about the floor. Mary had played
with Emma, and made acquaintance with the
mocking-bird and the canary, and pulled off the
only rose on Mrs. Lovett's pet rose-bush, which
seemed a very trifling affair to her, who had been
accustomed to see perfect trees of the same rose
blooming all winter in the open air.
As the afternoon wore away, Lucy began to


look at the windows, as if she feared the daylight
would be gone before her task was done, and
Mary to watch the progress of the work with a
doubt whether there was much prospect of an
enjoyment which depended on its completion.
At length Mary drew near her cousin, and in-
quired, "Is it 'most done ?"
"Almost done!" exclaimed Lucy, correcting
her cousin's 'most, without, perhaps, observing it.
" Almost done! no, indeed! I wish it were."
Sew more and measure less, Lucy, and it
soon will be," said Mrs. Lovett, gently.
"Can you hem, Cousin Mary?" asked Lucy,
after a few minutes' silent application to the
"Oh! yes."
Now those.who remember that Mary had been
accustomed to ramble in the woods, and watch
the fishermen, and that she was her father's petted
plaything, will easily believe that she had not
spent much time in sewing, yet she was quite
right in saying that she could hem. Mrs. Mow-
bra} had taught her daughter to sew very neatly,
though she could not induce her to do much of it


in a day. To hem around the skirt of a dress
would have seemed to Mary like sailing around
the world, the hemming one side of a pocket
handkerchief in a day having been the greatest
feat she had ever performed with the needle.
"I wish Harriet Freeman were here!" said
Lucy. She paused awhile, expecting to be asked
why she wished it; but as no one thought of this,
she added, "She is so good-she would help me
Mary was too quick of understanding not to
read this hint as it was intended, and she replied,
"If I had a thimble I would help you."
"I can lend you a thimble. Mamma, Cousin
Mary wants to help me; can't she have my gold
thimble just this afternoon?"
If she wishes to help you, certainly. Do you
wish it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Lovett, who had
been engaged with the baby, and had not heard
the previous conversation between the cousins.
There was some charm in sewing, for the first
time in her life, with a gold thimble, and Mary
answered "Yes, ma'am," more readily than Lucy,
perhaps, expected. The thimble-a birthday pre-


sent to Lucy from her grandmother-was produced,
and Mary threaded her needle.
"Shall I give you half to do?" asked
Mary looked frightened, for half of what was
yet to be done on the skirt seemed to her a great
deal. Mrs. Lovett marked the expression of her
face, and said, "Oh! no, Lucy, a quarter of it
will help you very much; besides, you could not
get along so well with your cousin working so
near to you."
A quarter was marked, and Mary's labours
began. She was really desirous to sew very fast,
both from a good-natured wish to help her cousin,
and for her own credit's sake; but steady appli-
cation to anything is not easy for one who has
been accustomed only to amuse herself, and before
Mary's one quarter was finished, Lucy exclaimed,
"I have done!" then, looking over Mary, she
added, "Oh, dear me! why, you have almost a
finger to do yet!"
"I will do that," said Mrs. Lovett kindly,
taking the work from Mary's hand. After ex-
amining the sewing, she added, "your Cousin

ITE NEW 11031E.

Mary's work is much better than yours, Lucy.
It is veri neat, indeed."
"But 1 did mine more than three times as fast.
I think hers ought to be best."
There was a little roughness in Lucy's manner,
as if she was vexed at her mother's praise of her
cousin. Mrs. Lovett took no notice of it, except
by looking steadily at her for a moment, which
Lucy understood as a reproof, for she hung her
head, and looked ashamed. It was in a somewhat
diffident tone that she asked, a few minutes after,
"Mamma, may we have our tea-party now ?"
She was reassured by her mother's cheerful
reply, "Certainly; you and your cousin can set
out your table in this corner, where you will be
out of the way, and lay your cloth on it, while I
get your cups, and saucers, and plates down from
the shelf."
In a moment the little folks were all in motion.
The table was soon arranged; the tea-set, washed
by Mrs. Lovett herself, was put upon it; the
servant brought in the cakes which the cook had
made for them; and when Mr. Lovett returned
from a visit he had been making, he found Mary,


and Lucy, and Charles, and Lucy's doll seated at
table. He placed a chair for himself at one cor-
ner of the table, and ate a cake, and drank a cup
of tea with them, declaring both to be excellent.
The party went on very merrily, till Charles,
having helped himself to butter with his own
knife, Lucy seized his arm, exclaiming, "Why,
Charles, don't you know that it is very rude to
put your own knife in the butter ?" Poor Charles,
who had been playing the gentleman of the
party to his own perfect satisfaction, hung his
head, and looked quite abashed. Nor was he the
only person made to feel unpleasantly by Lucy's
ill-timed reproof. Mary's knife, too, had been in
the butter, and she feared that Lucy had seen it,
and intended her observations for her as well as
for Charles. This was a mistake. Lucy knew
nothing of Mary's misdemeanor. Indeed, her
rebuke to Charles was chiefly intended to display,
to her newly-arrived cousin, her acquaintance
with the rules of conduct observed among police
persons, and she was sincerely grieved at the
evident gloom her lesson had cast over the party.
"My daughter," said Mr. Lovett, "Charles


was certainly wrong to put his knife in the but-
ter; but Charley," placing his hand affectionately
on the little boy's head as he spoke, "has not
been much in society; he will know better one
of these days." Charles was consoled, and re-
turned his father's kind glance with a bright,
happy smile. Mr. Lovett continued: "If Charles
was wrong in what he did, you were far more
wrong in your manner of correcting him. Re-
member, after this, Lucy, that love is the best of
all teachers, and anger the worst."
It was now Lucy's turn to feel abashed, but
Mr. Lovett practised his own rule, and did not
long allow his daughter to think him angry with
her. His kind and pleasant manner soon dis-
persed the little cloud, and the remainder of the
evening passed away cheerfully. At nine o'clock
Lucy and Mary went up stairs to a small room
beside Mr. and Mrs. Lovett's, in which they were
to sleep together.
Both of these little girls had been taught al-
ways, before they lay down to sleep, to remember
their Father in heaven, and to ask His pardon for
the faults of the day, and His kind care through


the night. As Mary whispered, in low, soft
tones, her simple prayer on this first evening in
her new home, she felt that the words, "I pray
God to bless my uncle, and aunt, and cousins,"
which she had learned from her mother, and had
repeated every evening from her infancy, had new
meaning in them. It was for the first time a
real prayer, for there was love in it.




THE next morning, when there was just daylight
enough to show distinctly the objects in the room
in which Mary and Lucy slept, Mrs. Lovett stood
by their bedside.
Lucy, get up, my child get up, or you will
not have time to put your room in order before
"Oh, mamma, it's so soon !" and Lucy rubbed
her eyes, and made a vain attempt to open them.
"I have been out of bed for an hour, Lucy.
Come, I will help you up." And Mrs. Lovett
lifted her daughter playfully from the bed, and
placed her on the floor.
Mary slept on without stirring. Mrs. Lovett
leaned over her, intending to awake her, but re-


membering her voyage, and remarking the depth
of her slumbers, she said, "I will not awake your
cousin yet, Lucy; she is probably fatigued by her
voyage. Let her sleep till you are ready to make
the bed, and then call her."
Mrs. Lovett turned from the bed, but before
she reached the door, Lucy said, sulkily, Mam-
ma, must I make the bed for Cousin Mary every
day ?"
"No, Lucy, you must make it for yourself;
and if you do not wish your cousin to sleep with
you, she shall have another room, and I will make
her bed."
Lucy looked ashamed, yet her ill-humour was
not conquered, for she still muttered, as if speak-
ing to herself, "I don't see why Cousin Mary
can't make a bed as well as I!"
"Lucy !" said Mrs. Lovett, "you grieve me by
such selfishness! When you wept for the death
of your cousin's mother, and hoped your papa
would bring her home, I hoped you would take
pleasure in being kind to her, and that you would
be willing to do for her a far greater service than
allowing her to sleep in your bed after you had


made it." Mrs. Lovott paused, but, as Lucy did
not reply, she resumed-" I wish your cousin's
new home to be pleasant to her; yet much of the
attendance, and many of the indulgences to which
she has been accustomed, she cannot have here.
She will not be less happy-nay, I think she will
be more happy for this, if she sees that we love
her, and strive, by our attentions, to prevent her
missing them. This kindness on our part will
make her love us too, and learn our habits, in
order that she may help us; so that on both sides
the labours will be from love, which makes all
labour light."
At this moment Mary moved, afd half opening
her eyes, and, perhaps, seeing Mrs. Lovett dimly,
said, "Mother!" Lucy's heart was touched;
the love which her mother's words had failed to
awaken stirred within her, and she said, "Do not
get up yet, cousin; the room will be warmer pre-
sently, and I will call you in time."
When Mary did get up, Lucy assisted her very
cheerfully in dressing herself. She then un.
covered the bed, and rang the bell for the servant.
Jane, the servant, came in, and, turning over the


bed, arranged it for the clothes, which, after she
had gone out again, Lucy spread upon it very
carefully, walking around the bed several times
to be sure that they did not hang lower on one
side than on the other. She had not yet disposed
the heavy quilt to her perfect satisfaction, when
Mrs. Lovett again entered. Both Mary and Lucy
had thick and curling hair, and, as they could not
well comb and brush it themselves, Mrs. Lovett
had come to do it for them. As soon as she had
finished doing this, they went with her, first into
her own room for Emma, and then down into the
basement, where Mr. Lovett was seated, with a
Bible and hymn-book on the table beside him.
Charles called the cook and Jane, and when' all
were seated, Mr. Lovett read two verses of a
hymn. Mrs. Lovett, Lucy, and the servants had
each a hymn-book. Charley looked on his mo-
ther's book, though we doubt whether he could
read many of the words correctly, and Lucy,
having found the hymn, held her book so that her
cousin could sing with her. After the hymn, Mr.
Lovett read a part of a chapter in the New Testa-
ment, and then, kneeling down, he thanked God


for his care of them all during the night, and
prayed him to bless and be good to them through
the day. There was nothing strange to Mary in
this mode of beginning the day, for her father had
been accustomed to do the same.
After breakfast Mr. Lovett went out. He was
a lawyer, and when he was in New York, gene-
rally passed the whole day at his office in Wall-
street. Mrs. Lovett, when the breakfast-table
had been put away, was for some time engaged in
the kitchen, and, during her absence, Lucy and
Charles devoted themselves to the amusement of
Emma, who was seated in the cradle. A "mau-
mer" for Emma seemed to Mary a great want in
her .uncle's household, and she proposed to her
aunt to send to Georgia for one; but Mrs. Lovett
assured her it was not requisite, as Emma was not
accustomed to be can '"d in the arms in the house,
and when she was aoroad Jane always carried
About twelve o'clock, when the air was warm-
est and the sun brightest, Mrs. Lovett sent Emma
out with Jane, and she went out with Charles,
and Lucy, and Mary. They walked first round a


large enclosure, planted with trees and laid out in
plots, which Lucy told her cousin were covered
with grass in summer. They were now white
with snow. This enclosure was called Washington
Park. They then passed into Broadway. Mary
had never seen so many houses in all her life to-
gether as she saw on that morning, nor dreamed
of so many people as were hurrying through
Broadway. She asked her aunt who each person
was that passed them at first, but she soon.found,
to her surprise, that of most of them Mrs. Lovett
knew as little as herself.
We have not time to tell you of all the novelties
which Mary found in her present abode. She
soon, as her Aunt Lovett had predicted, began to
do many things she had never done before, in
order to help her kind friends; and, as the exercise
of grateful and affectionate feelings is always
pleasant, Mary became industrious, and acquired
habits of regular employment without any dis-
agreeable constraint.
Mary and Lucy often surprised each other by
their different modes of speaking. That Mary
used many very singular expressions cannot be


denied; nor will it seem very wonderful, if it be
remembered that she had passed much of her time
with her "Maumer," and been surrounded, at
the period when she was learning to talk, with
untaught negroes. But, had Lucy been as clear-
sighted to her own faults as to those of others,
she would not have assumed so arrogant an air of
superiority to Mary on this subject, for she was
not herself free from inaccuracies of language, as
will be proved by the anecdote we are about to
Charles was one morning busily engaged in
making a kite, in which employment he scattered
papers and twine about the room, with little re-
gard to the fact that his sister had just been put-
ting it in order by their mother's wish.
"Charles!" exclaimed Lucy, angrily, "what
is the use of my putting the parlour in order, if
you will make such a muss 9"
"A muss !" thought Mary, who was present;
"what can that be ?" Mouse came nearer the
word than any other she had ever heard, and she
supposed that Charles must be cutting a paper
mouse. Still she was not quite satisfied with this


idea, and she would have addressed her question
to Lucy, had she not feared to excite that taunting
laugh which always made her so angry. Lucy
left the room in a few minutes, and she then ap-
plied to Charles.
What are you cutting, Charles ?"
"I am making a kite, Cousin Mary; did you
ever see a kite sailing up, up as high as the
clouds ?"
"No, Charley; but I thought Lucy said you
were making a mouse."
"Well, she did say I was making a muss."
I am sure that kite does not look like our
"A mice!" said Charley, who did not very
well understand the distinctions of number, or of
different orders of animals; "oh, no, she did not
mean a mice; mices are little rats, are they not ?"
Well, what did she mean ?" asked Mary, more
confused than ever, and scarcely taking time, from
her inquiries, to laugh at the blunders of Charles.
Oh, she meant a-a muss; Cousin Mary, you
must ask papa; he will tell you all about it."
And Mary did ask her uncle in the evening,


when Lucy was not present. He laughed heartily
at her story, and then bade her call Lucy, saying
she must explain the word, as it was one he never
used. When Lucy came, he said to her, "My
daughter, your cousin says you told her thif
morning that Charles was making a mouse in tht
parlour, and she wants to know what kind oi
mouse it was."
Mr. Lovett spoke very seriously, but Lucy knew
there was a laugh under his grave looks, and, like
a great many older and wiser people, Lucy could
not bear to be laughed at. Her face flushed with
anger, and she replied in a rude tone, I think
Cousin Mary had better learn to speak properly
herself before she laughs at me. I do not say,
' Do don't, and enty, and-' she stopped abruptly,
for her father had seized her arm, and was looking
into her face with a sternness he seldom assumed
to his children. As Lucy ceased speaking and
hung her head, the sternness passed away from
Mr. Lovett's face, and its expression became deeply
sorrowful as he said, "I was only disposed to
laugh, Lucy, at your incorrect language, but I can
scarcely forbear weeping at your improper temper."


Mary was quite; grieved at the disagreeable
feelings her innocent question had excited. Side.
ling up to Uncle Lovett, she put her hand on him,
and said softly, Do don't be vexed with Cousin'
Lucy.' .
"I will not," said;Uncle Lovett, "if Cousin
Lucy will show me that she is not vexed with
Mary drew near to Lucy, and, putting her arm
timidly round her neck, said, You are not vexed
with me-are you, cousin ?"
Lucy's,"No' was not very frank, but Mr. Lovett
said, Then I am not vexed either, and you shall
come here," lifting Lucy to one knee as he spoke,
" and Cousin Mary here," placing her on the
other, and we will have a lecture on language ;
you shall give us the meaning of muss, and she
shall give us the mw-aning of do don't, and then I
will tell you what I think of them both."
SIn za moment the ill humour and the sorrow had
all vanished from the faces of the little girls, who
entered heartily into what seemed to them a very
amusing play, Lucy commenced the definitions,
and, as she was a lively and witty child, she gave


h very amusing account-of a]l that was meant by
muss. "When a great many people are collected
in the street, and they begin to .shout, and run
about in different directions, that is a muss; and
when there has been a great deal of snow, and it
thaws, and the streets are muddy, then they are
all in. a muss; :and when the. cook leaves the dirty
dishes on.the table, and the pots and kettles on
the hearth, there iasa.great muss in the kitchen;
and when Charles cuts papers, overt the carpet,-
and leaves, his ball on .one chair, and his kite on
another, he makes.-a muss;,! and;whennamma up-
sets her work-basket, she makes a muss; and when
papa-when papa gets dow ato his office, I guess
he makes a muss sometimes." ..
.This -was all very archly said, and not only the
girls, but.Mr. Loy~tt,,too, laughed merrily atthe
conclusion., When the laugh was over, Mr. Lovett
said, "Well, Lawyer Lucy, you have argued your
case, and have certainly made all you could of a.
muss. Now we will hear Lawyer Mary plead for
'dadon.'l.' What have you to say for it,.Mary ?"
k;Mary's.:ideas,,of ".do don't," -seemed ot so
cear as, Jucy's- of a. muss, for. she hesitated,.a
D 2


if she did not know exactly how to express her
When do you use do don't,' Mary?" asked
Mr. Lovett.
When I want to beg a person not to do some-
"You said to me just now 'do don't' be vexed;
can you not ask the same thing in other words ?"
Mary thought for a moment, and then said,
"Please not to be vexed."
"Very well," said Mr. Lovett; "now I under-
stand what you mean; but let me tell you what
' do don't' seems to others to mean. Please to be
-Please not to be vexed. And now both causes
have been heard, Judge Lovett will pronounce
sentence. Muss he declares to be inelegant, and
altogether unnecessary, since there is some good
and true English word expressing each thing for
which it is used. 'Do don't' he thinks quite in-
admissible, because it commands two directly op-
posite things, to do, and not to do, at the same
time; so he condemns these two faulty expressions
to be banished for ever from the company of Miss
Lucy Lovett and Miss Mary Mowbray; but the


court will take a recess, as I see mamma is pre-
paring to pour out tea."
Thus did this kind father and uncle endeavour
to improve his children in a cheerful, pleasant
manner, correcting at once their faults of language
or manner, and their worse faults of temper and
feeling. He was often deeply pained at a display
of vanity and selfishness in Lucy, which made her
always anxious for praise herself, and jealous of
any praise bestowed on another. These faults in
Lucy had increased greatly during the last year,
a part of which she had passed away from home.
Her absence was caused by a severe illness, from
which she suffered the summer before Mary's
arrival in New Yolk, and which left her so feeble
that her physician advised that she should travel.
To travel at that time was scarcely possible for
Mr. and Mrs. Lovett, and they gladly accepted
the offer of a friend to take Lucy with his own
family to Saratoga. She spent some weeks with
these friends at the Springs, and afterwards at
Niagara. At both these places Lucy met with
thoughtless people, who, amused by the silly, af-
fected airs caused by her excited vaunty, were


ever ready to flatter her by saying "How pretty,"
01 "How graceful," or "How sensible a child
Lucy Lovett is!" I said these people were
thoughtless; I should have said they were cruel,
for a moment's amusement to themselves, to
cherish a great evil in a child. When they had
laughed a while over Lucy's vanity and credulity,
they forgot her, but she did not forget them or
their praises. She returned home with her health
restored, and, perhaps, many persons would have
said, with her manners improved. Lucy had for-
merly been rather careless about her dress; she
was now very attentive to it, and, but for her
mother's good taste and firmness, she would often
have adorned herself in a way that would have
been quite ridiculous. She now entered a room
easily, and conversed quite as readily as her father
and mother. In truth, Lucy was no. longer a
little girl; she was a little lady, but a vain and
selfish lady, expecting all to be occupied withiher,
and hurt and offended when she saw others obtain
more notice than herself. Never had Mr. and
Mrs Lovett grieved over their daughter's illness
as they now grieved over her faults. We have

N( YLTI1S. 55

said that Mary Mowbray was a shy, timid child.
There could not be a more perfect contrast than
between Lucy and herself in company. She was
bashful, awkward, and silent. Mr. and Mrs.
Lovett would have gladly seen her more at ease,
but they felt her awkwardness to be a less evil
than Lucy's vanity; yet even this evil they hoped
that Lucy's affectionate heart and good under-
standing would overcome, aided, as these were,
by their constant teachings, in which they ever
prayed God to direct them aright. Poor Lucy !
it required severer trials than her tender parents
could have inflicted on her, to destroy this "root
of evil." within her.




WE must begin a new chapter, for we are going
to describe a very important event in Mary Mow-
bray's life. The first day at school! what girl
does not remember it-does not recollect how her
heart sank within her, as father, or mother, or
friend, left her there alone with strangers. So
felt Mary, when, about a fortnight after her arrival
in New York, her Aunt Lovett left her at Mrs.
Butler's school with her Cousin Lucy.
S"With her Cousin Lucy !" my readers exclaim;
"why, then, she was not alone." Ah! but I
doubt whether Mary found much comfort- from
the presence of Cousin Lucy. If, from want of
acquaintance with the rules of a school, or want
of-education, she should commit any error, Mary


know that not one of all the strangers around her
would detect it more quickly, laugh at it more pro-
vokingly, or report it at home so eagerly as Cousin
Lucy. "How ill-natured Lucy must have been!"
you are all ready to say. No, my young friends,
Lucy was not ill-natured, but always ready to
display her own superiority, even at the expense
of wounding the feelings of another.
The first morning of Mary's school life was
passed in such an examination of her acquirements
as might enable her teacher to assign her a place
in the various classes of which her school was
composed. To Mrs. Butler's first question, To
what studies have you ever attended, my dear ?"
Mary found it very difficult to reply. She looked
up and looked down, grew red and grew pale, but
said not a word. Lucy Lovett, who neglected no
opportunity of showing her information on any
subject, called from a distant part of the room,
"Mrs. Butler, Cousin Mary never studied at all;
she never was at school."
Mrs. Butler saw the workings of quick feeling,
as well as of quick temper, in the tears that sprang
to Mary's eyes, and the deep red that burned in


her cheeks as Lucy thus published her want of
education. Mrs. Butler's manner was always
gentle, but it was dignified as well as gentle, and
Lucy's eye sank abashed beneath the grave ex-
pression of hers, as she said, "When I desire any
Information from you, Miss Lovett, I. will address
myself to you." She then drew Mary nearer to
her, saying, I know, my dear, that you have not
been to school, and perhaps you have not had
Regular lessons at home.; but you have read-some
,books, have,you not?" ..
"XYes, ma'am.". .
. -"And:what were they? Can you not tell me
something.of them ?"
"I hare read Early Lessons, and the Parent's
Assistant, and Peter Parley's books--all Peter
Parley's books.'
Then you have read his history of the United
States ?"
Yes,- ma'am; and I have read a much larger
history of the United States than that."
"Perhaps, then, you can tell me in what part
of the United States the first .settlement was
made ?"


"At Jamestown, in Virginia."
By whom ?"
By English people."
"Under whose command ?"-
"Under Captain Smith!s.":
In this way, by a kind, and: gentle manner, Mrs.
Butler drew from her little pupil an account of the
first settlement of most of the colonies, and of the
most remarkable events occurring afterward in the
history, of the United States..io She then asked,
" Did you ever read any other history ?"
S"Yes, ma'am, I read some in the History of
England." .
By a few judicious questions, Mrs. Butler found
that Mary was well acquainted with the most im-
portant facts in early English History. For this
information, Mary was indebted rather to her
mother's wisdom and perseverance than to herown.
Mrs. Mowbray had insisted on: her daughter's
reading a small portion of.history to: her every
day, when she would explain to her whatever she
did not understand, and. would often impress an
important circumstance on her mind by telling her
some pleasant story about it.


And now," asked Mrs Butler, at length, can
you tell me what England is-whether it is a con-
tinent or-"
"It is an island," answered Mary, without
waiting for the conclusion of the question.
"And in what geography did you learn that ?"
I didn't learn it in a geography."
"In what, then?"
"In a map."
A succession of questions followed, and here,
again, it was found that Mary had learned a great
deal of the situation of different places, the
boundaries and relative size of countries, and the
names of great rivers and high mountains, by
merelyplaying, as she considered it, with a map
at her mother's feet. Great was Lucy's surprise,
and, we fear, scarcely less great her dissatisfaction,
when she found Mary placed in the same class
with herself in geography. But a yet more mor-
tifying surprise awaited her; and when Mrs
Butler said to Mary, "You seem so well ac-
quainted with the History of the United States,
that I think I may place you with a higher class,
which has just commenced the History of Eng-


land," Lucy reddened, and pouted, and almost
wept with discontent.
She was a little consoled, however, at the result
of Mary's examination in arithmetic, for it was
found that, though she could add and subtract, and
multiply and divide, she knew no rules, and no
table but the multiplication table. In spelling
and defining words, too, Mary was often at fault,
doing the first very imperfectly, and the' last
scarcely at all.
Well, Mary, how do you like school, or, rather
how do you like your teacher, for you scarcely
know anything of school yet?" inquired Mr.
Lovett, when the little girls returned home in the
"Oh! I like her very much, Uncle Lovett;
she was so good to me; she called me my dear,
and she said I had learned a great deal of his-
tory, and she put me in the English History
"Yes," said Lacy, giving vent to the feelings
which had been painfully suppressed at school,
"* and she put Cousin Mary in my geography class.
and I think it was very partial in her."


"' Did not4 Mrs. Butler examine youi cousin in
geography before she placed her there ?"
Yes;, but Cousin Mary said herself she never
had studied a, geography; she only learned what
she knew from playing with maps; and if people
can learn so easily as that, don't see the use of
going to school and studying, and I never mean to
study any more .. .
Lucy was very much excited, or she would
hardly have ventured to speak to her father in the,
way she was now doing. Her voice was raised, her
face pushed, and, as she cornluded her speech, she,
burst into-tears.
Mr. Lovett rose from his chair, and, taking his
daughter's hand, led her up stairs to a little room
which was c.lkd his library. Before leaving her
there, he pointed-out to her the hateful character
of that envy which caused-her present unhappi-
"Lucy!" he said, "I am grieved at your
sorrow, but far more grieved at its wicked cause.
I have brought you here, not to punish you, but
that you might, in this quiet room by yourself,
think how sinful your feelings are, and repent of,


them, and ask God's pardon;'for them. If you
will examine those feelings closely, my dear child,
you will see that, they are like. those which, we
learn in the Bible, belong to.the wicked one-to
Satan. Your cousin has done you no harm, has
done nothing-.to displease you; yet you are
angry with her, and though you may.. not be
willing to acknowledge it, you hate her in your
heart !'
I don't hate her, papa," sobbed Lucy. :
"My child, we hate those to whom we wish evil, 1
whose misfortunes would give us pleasure; now
I fear that in your present temper you would take.
pleasure in your cousin's mortification. I will:
not ask' you to answer the question to me, but I
wish you to answer it to yourself, whether you.
would not be glad at anything which would make
her less -pleasing in my eyes or in those of Mrs. t
Butler. If this be so, you have the feelings tow
wards her which Cain had towards his brother
Abel, whom he hated because he thought that his :
father Adam, and even the just and holy God,
were partial to him, preferring him to himself;
and remember, my dear daughter, .that these feel-


ings, not being resisted by Cain, made him p
Had Mr. Lovett spoken harshly to Lucy, she
would probably have continued to feel angry, to
think hardly of her cousin, and to believe that she
herself had been treated very badly, and was little,
if at all, to blame; but he was so affectionate, and
spoke so tenderly to her, that all her anger passed
away; and then she could see that Mary had been
quite innocent, and that, in truth, her own feelings
had been like those of Cain. When her father
solemnly reminded her to what those feelings had
led Cain," she shuddered, and said, softly, "Oh,
papa! I am very sorry."
Then, my daughter," said Mr. Lovett, kiss-
ing her tenderly, "let us tell our heavenly Father
that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you.
and to take this evil temper of envy and hatred
away from you."
The father and daughter knelt down together
and prayed, and when they rose up, they went
down stairs, quiet and thoughtful, but happy.
When they entered the parlour, Mary was seated
on a low bench, with a book in her lap. Lucy


dropped. her father's hand, and sat down by Mary
and put her arm around her. The colour came
up quickly into Mary's cheeks, and she moved, as
if she wanted to push away her cousin's arm, for
she had seen Lucy's unjust feelings, and resented
them; and she thought now that Lucy caressed
her, not because she liked her, but in order to
please her father. As she turned, however, her
eye rested on Lucy's face, and she saw that tears
were in her eyes, that the angry expression had
passed from her countenance, and that she looked
gentle and loving. Mary's resentment was gone
in a moment; she put her arm around Lucy's
neck and kissed her, and for the first time Lucy
and Mary really loved each other.
That evening at eight o'clock Lucy closed her
books, having committed all her lessons perfectly,
while Mary still sat, turning from one to the
other of hers, yawning over them, and thinking
studying lessons a very wearisome business. As
Lucy passed her father to lay her books on the
shelf, he said, in a whisper, Could you not help
Cousin Mary ?"
Lucy elturned cheerfully to the table, and did


help her cousin so effectually, that in half an hour
Mary too could put her books aside, and feel that
her tasks were done.
"And now," said Mr. Lovett, "come here,
and I will answer for you a question which Lucy
asked this morning, and which, I suspect, Mary
has very often felt a wish to ask this evening-
what is the use of study ?" Mr. Lovett's ex-
planations were always so pleasantly given, that
in a moment both little girls stood at his side
with smiling but attentive faces.
"First," began Mr. Lovett, "let me say that
nothing can be learned without trouble. Even
Mary did not learn what she knows without a
great deal of trouble."
Oh, yes I did!" interrupted Mary; "I never
had any trouble at all."
Ah! that may be; you never had any trouble,
but your kind mamma had a great deal, in order
to make things so simple and plain to you that
your learning them should seem like playing.
Very few people are willing, or have the leisure
necessary to give so much attention to one child
as she gave to you; th, Aefore, if children wish to


learn anything, they must generally take some
trouble themselves; they must study. But even
if every child could have such an attentive
teacher, it would be far better for them to study."
"What! if they could learn without it?" ex-
elaimed both children.
"Yes, even if they could learn without it.
Can you tell me what it is to study ?"
"To read your lessons over and over till you
know them," said Lucy.
"But suppose, while reading your lessons over,
you are thinking of something else; would that
be study?"
There was no answer to this, and Mr. Lovett
continued: "To study is to fix your mind earnestly
on any subject, to think intently upon it. The
power to do this, like every other power we have,
improves with exercise. Do you remember how
awkwardly you held a needle when you first
began to sew ? Now you do it easily. Just so
great will be the difference in this power of study-
ing between one who exercises it and one who does
not: and as there are many things with which
sensible men and women desire to be acquainted


that cannot be well understood without study, I
think you will agree with me that it is better for
little boys and girls to exercise this important
power, even though they could learn without it."
Lucy and Mary acknowledged that Mr. Lovett
had answered very satisfactorily the question,
"'What is the use of study?" We have heard
other girls besides Lucy and Mary ask the same
question, and we hope they will be as well satis-
fled with the answer.




AT the same school with Lucy and Mary w a
young girl named Ann Noel, who, wanting talent,
or industry and perseverance enough to become
a good scholar, had yet sufficient shrewdness to
perceive Lucy's weak point, and, by flattering her
vanity, to obtain her aid in the performance of
her tasks at school. Her flattery became doubly
grateful when Lucy had ascertained that she lived
in a very handsome house, which was furnished
with great elegance; but when Lucy had heard
Miss Ann Noel play a very simple tune in very
bad time on a beautiful rosewood piano, and had
been informed by her that she attended a dancing-
school where they sometimes gave fancy balls,
and that to the next fancy ball she intended to


wear a lace dress looped up with roses, she began
to consider it quite an honour to be permitted to
perform Miss Ann Noel's sums, to write out for
her the answers required by her lesson in geogra-
phy and history, and to furnish her every week
with a composition, which she was quite satisfied
to show as her own.
Lucy and Mary had been frequently invited to
pass the Saturday, which was always a holyday
in their school, at Mr. Noel's house. To these
invitations Mrs. Lovett had always replied that
she seldom allowed her children to visit without
her. At length Miss Ann Noel proposed that,
since her friend Lucy could not come to her, she
would come to Lucy, and bring her brother, a
boy of nine years, with her. As Mrs. Lovett
really knew nothing against the children, she did
not think it necessary to mortify Lucy by de-
clining thlF proffered visit, and, on the following
Saturday, Emma's cradle was removed up stairs,
and the basement was relinquished to Lucy and
Mary, and Miss Ann and Master Thomas Noel.
Mary was not particularly pleased with these
visitors. Still she had assisted Lucy in her pro-


parations for them, and brought out her toys, and
did her best to amuse them. Before we relate
the result of these efforts, we would remind our
young readers of what we have said of Mary's
inaccuracies of language. Her desire to please
her Uncle Lovett had done much to overcome
these, but still they were not wholly forgotten;
and when Mary was excited, so that she spoke
rapidly and without thinking, she often used
For the first hour after the arrival of Master
and Miss Noel, things went on very well. She
dressed the dolls in the style most approved at
fancy balls, and he amused himself with a dis-
sected map of the sovereigns of England; but
when once he had succeeded in putting it to-
gether, the map was thrown aside, and, wander-
ing listlessly about the room, he stopped near the
bird-cages. After teasing the canary a minute,
he asked Mary what they fed it on. She told
him hemp and canary seed, sugar, and occasionally
something green.
"But flies-don't you give it flies ?"
If Mary had been allowed sometimes to use


incorrect language, no one had been more care-
fully taught the far more important lesson that
she should love and oe kind to all the creatures
of God, and she could only exclaim in her horror,
"Flies !"
"Yes; we catch flies for our birds at home,
and they pick them out of our fingers, and eat
What! eat the poor flies ?"
"Yes, eat them; and here's a fly now; I'll
catch it, and you shall see how quickly this little
fellow will nibble it up."
"Oh, no-do don't !" exclaimed Mary, clasping
her hands in a perfect agony of affright for the
poor fly; "do don't "
"Do! well, I am doing it as fast as I can,"
said the rude and taunting boy, pursuing the fly
as he spoke.
Oh, don't-please don't; the bird loves sugar
a heap better-indeed it does, and I'll get you
some sugar for it."
"A heap! how high a heap?" and again his
sneering laugh made the colour grow brighter on
Mary's cheeks; but the poor fly had been chased


to the window, it seemed almost caught, and
Mary forgot herself.
"Aunt Lovett would a heap rather it should eat
sugar; en't it, Cousin Lucy !"
A heap, en't it-now do don't," said the in-
sulting boy, dancing up to her, and flourishing
his poor, struggling captive in her face. Miss
Noel had greeted every specimen of her brother's
wit with a loud laugh. This Mary did not mind
much-not very much-but now her Cousin Lucy
laughed too, and this did wound her bitterly.
"Where did she learn to talk so ?" asked Miss
Ann Noel, contemptuously.
Lucy, vexed and mortified that her cousin
should do or say anything that might be thought
ungenteel before the rich and fashionable Noels,
and anxious to clear her own family of the
charge, answered hastily, "Oh! at the South;
you know every body there learns to talk like the
This was too much for Mary's endurance. She
threw off all restraint, and stood with her eyes
dilated, her cheeks glowing, and her whole frame
quivering with passion, while she exclaimed,


"They don't! they don't talk like negroes any
more than you do; and if they did, the negroes
are a great deal better than you-a great deal
better; and I love them better, and I would
rather talk like them, and I will talk like them;
I will say do don't, buckra, en't it, neber, yerre,
cungo-" *
Mary was stringing together every negro ex-
pression she had ever heard, and many which she
had never used. How much longer the list
would have been we know not, but Mary felt a
hand laid softly on her head, and, looking up, she
met the grave, earnest eyes of Uncle Lovett.
Completely overpowered by her emotions, she
cast herself into his arms, sobbing, "Oh, let me
go home! let me go home to my own papa, where
nobody will laugh at me."
"Nobody shall laugh at you here, my dear
child; nobody would laugh at you who was not

Do don't, which is not a negro expression, but only a
provincialism common to the people of the South, has been
already explained; buckra means white man or woman;
en't it, is it not so; neber, never; yerre, hear; cungo,
come, let us go.


too rude to deserve your notice. Come with me
up stairs, and I will show you these beautiful
prints, and something yet more beautiful, which
I have in this box. I was bringing them for the
amusement of your visitors; but I cannot suppose
that a young gentleman who finds entertainment
in catching flies, or young ladies who take
pleasure in wounding the feelings of others, could
derive any enjoyment from such things."
Saying this, Mr. Lovett left the room, carrying
the still weeping Mary in his arms. Soon after-
ward, Mrs. Lovett entered the basement with
Emma, and seated herself there. Lucy knew,
from this movement, that her mother was not
pleased with her present companions, or willing
to trust her alone with them. They evidently
did not like the restraint of Mrs. Lovett's pre-
sence, and their dissatisfied glances and impolite
manners made Lucy so uncomfortable, that she
was not sorry to hear them say, immediately after
dinner, that they must return home. They soon
took their leave; and though Lucy had grieved
her cousin, displeased her parents, and offended
against her own sense of right to please them,


they so connected her with the disagreeable
events of the day that they parted from her very
coldly, and without inviting her to return their
visit. Neither did Mrs. Lovett ask to see them
again, and Lucy felt that her intercourse with
them was at an end. You will think that she
had no great reason to regret that, and yet Lucy
did regret it; for so silly had her vanity and love
of admiration made her, that she thought she de-
rived some credit from being the friend of a girl
who was so rich as Miss Noel, and was always
dressed so handsomely, and who could go to fancy
balls and wear lace frocks.
"And for such a disagreeable, ill-bred girl as
that, Lucy, you could treat your cousin un-
kindly," said Mrs. Lovett, sorrowfully, as the
door was closed on the visitors.
Lucy had endured many disappointments during
this day, and her spirits were so depressed, that,
when she attempted to answer her mother, she
burst into tears, and sobbed out, I didn't do any-
thing to Cousin Mary, mamma; I only laughed a
little at what Tom Noel said; and Cousin Mary
did say a great many strange words."


Not stranger than 'you hadn't ought to,'
which Master Tom Noel more than once repeated
since I came in, or 'you ben't going, be you?' which
his sister said to you just before she went away;
why did you not laugh at these ?"
"I didn't think it would be right to laugh at
my company.
"And do you think it was right to laugh at
your cousin, whom her dying mother sent here,
believing she would find only friends in her uncle's
house ? You may lose your father and mother,
Lucy, and be sent with Mary to her home. What
would you think, in such a case, of her laughing
at you, or encouraging her friends to laugh atyou?"
I could not help their laughing, mamma."
"Yes, Lucy; had you been more affectionate
to Mary when they began to treat her rudely, and
shown, by your seriousness, your disapproval of
their conduct to her, it would have checked them,
and, what you may think of more consequence,
they would have respected you far more than they
now do."
Lucy wept on silently for a few minutes; and
then said, I am very sorry, mamma."


Do you feel that you have done wrong, Lucy,
and are you sorry for that, or are you only sorry
for having displeased me ?"
"I am sorry I did anything to vex Cousin
Mary, mamma."
"Then tell your cousin so," said Mrs. Lovett,
giving her daughter a kiss of forgiveness.
Mary had dined up stairs with Charles, and
Lucy found her in noisy, merry play with him.
Mary's anger towards her cousin had softened.
and, had it not, she could not have withstood
Lucy's weeping overtures towards reconciliation;
so peace was again established between them.




Awn now we are going into the country, for sum-
mer has come, and the air of the city is hot and
disagreeable, and Emma droops, and grows pale
and languid, no longer springing into her father's
outstretched arms, but just smiling her acknow-
ledgment of his invitation, while her head rests
on her mother's shoulder. Mary Mowbray is
charmed at the thought of spending the summer in
the country, for she thinks of long rambles in the
flowery woods, and all the pleasures of the country
at home. Some of these pleasures she will not
find, but she will have others instead, of which
she knows nothing. Such, to her, will be the
fields of new-mown hay, with its vanilla-like per-
fume, the spicy clover, and the honeyed buck-


wheat. Lucy would have liked another journey
to Saratoga better than the quiet farm which her
father had chosen for the summer retreat of his
family. This farm was three or four miles distant
from the country town of N- which is situated
about thirty miles up the Hudson, or, as the New
Yorkers call it, the North River. The farm house
was of stone, built roughly, and looking weather-
stained and smoked without, butwithinit was clean,
neat, and comfortable. The rooms were large, the
walls very white, the floors covered with bright
home-made carpeting, and the white pine tables,
and even the rush-bottomed chairs, were spotless.
The house was built nearly at the foot of a hill,
up the side of which extended the apple orchard.
On one side of the house ran a clear brook, which,
a little lower down, was made to turn a saw-mill
belonging to the same farmer; and on the other
side, separated by a narrow road, was a clover-
field. Beyond this might be seen waving the just
ripening wheat and rye. All looked new to Mary;
and full of curiosity, she asked a thousand ques-
tions of her uncle. After dinner he walked out,
and she turned to her aunt for information. Mrs.



Lovett, finding that she could not fully satisi?
her, referred her to Mrs. Nye, the farmer's wife,
who was in the parlour, "fixing up things a little,'
to use her own words. This good woman was
quite pleased at Mary's interest in the farming,
and she asked her if she would like to go round
a bit" with her, and see the chickens and the
little ducks. There were few things Mary would
have liked better, and this her Aunt Lovett saw,
though she was too bashful to express all her
pleasure. Charles, too, begged to go, but Lucy,
when invited, drew back, saying she did not care
to see ducks and chickens. Good Mrs. Nye's
calico bonnet, coarse dress, and stout shoes did
not recommend her to the companionship of a fine
lady, such as Lucy Lovett always strove to ap-
Charles and Mary cared for none of these things,
so they walked down to the brook, and saw the
ducks sail along upon it with a slow, graceful
motion, arching their necks as if to look at their own
image in the clear water; then, dipping their bills
and fluttering their wings, throw a sparkling
shower over their glossy backs. Then they took


a peep at the chickens, and saw Mrs. Nye feed
them. This Mrs. Nye was a very good-natured
woman, and, seeing that the children liked their
ramble, she took them to the saw-mill, which was
then at work. There she showed them the wheel
which, in turning, moved the saws up and down;
and greatly surprised they were to see how quickly
those saws would make their way through boards
more than an inch thick. Farmer Nye was at
the mill himself, and he answered all Charley's
questions, and laughed heartily at some of
"I mean to come back here to-morrow," said
"Then, my little man, you will have it all to
yourself, for I shall not be here myself to-mor-
Where are you going?" asked the little boy,
who had already made himself quite at home.
"If the sun shines I shall be in the hay-field.
Did .you never hear make hay when the sun
shines ?'"
Yes; and may I go there too? I should like
to go to the hay-field."


SYes, you may go if you'll help work."-
"Well, I'll help," said Charley, stepping with
more dignity at the thought of his importance in
being able to help work.
"Can't I go too?" asked Mary, pulling Mrs.
Nye by the apron and looking timidly at the
farmer; can't I go too ?"
"You; I am afeard you'd be tired; besides,
little ladies don't like to make hay: it spoils their
Oh! I don't mind that," said Mary, whose
earnestness overcame her bashfulness, "I don't
mind that; and I know I shouldn't get tired, for I
used to go to the cotton-house and the barn where
they thrashed rice, when I was at home, and I
never got tired, though I helped sometimes to pick
the cotton."
"Why, where was your home ? I thought you
lived in New York."
So I do now; but I mean my papa's home in
"In Georgia! why, how far the child has come!"
exclaimed the farmer. Well, which home do
you like best, little miss ?"


"I like my papa's home best," said Mary,
"but I like this better than New York," she
added, looking around on the green and flowery
"You like this better than New York, do you,"
repeated the farmer, smiling with pleasure at the
preference given to his home. Well, since you
like the country so well, I think I must let you
go to the hay-field too."
And now," said Mrs. Nye, suppose you help
me pick some raspberries for tea ?"
Both children gave a glad consent, and away
they went to the garden, stopping at the kitchen.
that Mrs. Nye might get a basket. One side of
the garden was hedged with raspberry-bushes,
which were now covered with the rich ripe ber-
ries, and on the other side clusters of the trans-
parent red and white currants were hanging thickly
from their slender stalks. Mrs. Nye soon had
her basket filled with raspberries, though it is
doubtful whether Charles put quite as many in as
he took out. Mary, however, picked very steadily,
and when they were going in, Mrs. Nye gave her
a handful of the berries. She was quite pleased

THE FAuM. 85

at this, for she thought of her Cousin Lucy, who
certainly looked, when they entered the parlour,
as if she needed something to cheer her. Lucy
was yawning, half. asleep, over the pictures in a
Farmer's Magazine which she had picked up, and
which was the only thing she could find to amuse
her, as her father had not yet returned from his
walk, and her mother was too much occupied with
Emma to unpack her books or toys.
"Here, Cousin Lucy," exclaimed Mary, pre-
senting her offering as soon as she entered, here
are some raspberries."
"I picked them!" said Charley. "Cousin Mary,
and I, and Mrs. Nye picked some too," he added,
" and I am going to make hay to-morrow. Did
you ever make hay, mother ?"
No, sir," said the smiling Mrs. Lovett,
Well, Cousin Mary and I are going to make
nay to-morrow. I promised Mr. Nye to help him,
and Cousin Mary begged to go too-"
"But you begged to go too, Charley," said Mary;
"you begged to go before Mr. Nye said anything
about your helping him."


Yes, but then he said I might go if I would.
help him, but that girls couldn't help, because it
would spoil their clothes."
But afterward, you know, he said I might go,
when I told him I didn't mind about spoiling the
"But I am afraid I must say something,against
that; I doubt whether all the hay you and Charles.
will make will pay for spoiling. yur clothes.
However," added Mrs, Lovett, as she saw, the
blank faces of the disappointed pair, "we, will
think about that; it will be time enough to deter-,
mine aoout it tomorrow. Let me hear now what
you have seen this afternoon."
An animated description of Mrs. Nye's poultry-
yard and garden, and of Farmer Nye's saw-mill,
followed; and do you not think that Lucy, when
she heard their pleasant account, and saw their
bright faces, and thought of her own sleepy,
weary afternoon, regretted the foolish pride and
self-conceit which had made her refuse to go out
with Mrs. Nye?
While Mary was yet in the midst of her praises
of good, kind Mrs Nye and her raspberries,


Charles, who was looking out of a window, cried
out, "Oh! see the cow-the beautiful spotted
cow 1"
All eyes were attracted to the window, and
there was a very pretty, gentle-looking cow,
walking quietly along the road towards the house;
and, following her with a switch in her hand,
which, however, she seemed to have no occasion
to use, was a little girl, with just such a calico
bonnet, such a coarse dress, and such stout shoes
as those worn by Mrs. Nye. The bonnet had
fallen entirely from her head, and hung by its
strings around her neck. On one arm she car-
ried a calico bag, evidently containing books, and
on the other an empty basket.
What a pretty little girl!" said Mrs. Lovett,
as she saw the glossy, waving brown hair, the
glowing, healthy complexion, and, what pleased
her most, the frank, smiling expression of her
That is my daughter Clara, ma'am," said the
pleased Mrs. Nye, who had heard her through
the open window of the parlour, as she stood in,
the yard below.


She seems to have books with her, Mrs. Nyc;
has she been to school ?"
"Yes, ma'am, she goes to school every day
except Saturday; and when she is coming home
in the evening, as she passes the pasture, she just
drives the cow along with her, and that puts me
in mind to go and milk the poor thing; she seem-
ed to want it bad enough." Mrs. Nye turned
away to look for her pails.
"Aunt Lovett, don't you think Mrs. Nye
would let me go and see her milking the cow?"
said Mary.
"Ask her, my dear; there, she is passing the
Mary looked wishfully at her, but could not
summon courage to call; but Charles cried out
from his window, "Mrs Nye, won't you let
Cousin Mary and me come with you ?"
"Oh, yes, come along."
"And Cousin Lucy," said Mary, looking doubt-
fully at Lucy.
"And sister Lucy too," sung out Charles to the
now distant Mrs. Nye.
"Yes, oh yes!" was returned; and this time


Lucy was as ready as any to get her bonnet and
run to the orchard, where the cow was quietly
eating hay out of the hand of pretty Clara Nye.
while Mrs. Nye knelt beside her, and drew the
rich, foaming milk into her clean, bright pail.




THE next morning's sun rose as brightly as even
Farmer Nye could have desired, and long before
Mary and Charles were awake, he and his men
were in the field cutting the grass with their long
scythes, and laying it down to dry. Charles was
quite vexed when he heard this from Mrs. Nye;
but she comforted him by saying that they would
all come home to their dinners at twelve o'clock,
and that he could go with them when they re-
turned to their labours. Accordingly, while the
men were dining, Mrs. Nye came to see if the
children would like to go. They might ride to
the field, she said, in the empty cart, which was
going to bring back some hay that had been cured
already. "Mr. Nye," she added, "will drive to


the school and take Clara in, and they will have,4
I dare say, quite a nice time."
A shout of delight from Charles, and the be-
seeching looks of Lucy and Mary, seemed to put
any objection from Mr. and Mrs. Lovett out of
the 'pl':ti..n ; but they hd no desire to object;
for Mr. Lovett thought the ride:to the ield, and,
the sport in the open air, would be' healthy as
well as pleasant. The children read consent in
his. smiling face before he spoke, and, long before
the cart came to the gate, they were on the steps
awaiting it. Mr. Lovett said it was quite a treat
to see such joyous faces as theirs were when,
waving their hands to Emma, they drove off.
Not less joyous was that of Clara Nye, when her
father, having obtained an afternoon's holiday for
ner from her teacher, lifted her into the cart
beside-them. Lucy was generally more sociable
with strangers than Mary, but she was not yet.
quite reconciled to Clara's coarse dress, and she
remained silent and reserved. Had Clara Nye-
been coarse and vulgar in her manners, we would
not ,have blamed Lucy for this reserve, but she
was a gentle, pleasing, unaffected girl, with a great


deal more true politeness than Lucy's fashionable
friend, Miss Ann Noel. Mary felt much more
at ease with her than she had done with any
of her cousin's favourites in New York, who had
never seemed to her children like herself, but
little men and women. Accordingly, Mary began
the conversation with Clara, asking her, "Did you
ever see them make hay ?"
"Oh, yes, a great many times."
"Did you ever help make it ?" asked Charley.
"Yes," said Clara; "father, didn't I help last
year some ?"
"To be sure you did."
"But didn't you spoil your clothes? Your
father told my cousin Mary that making hay
would spoil girls' clothes."
"Ah! but my girl's clothes are none of youth
flimsy things, like your cousin's and your sister's
there; they're stout, strong clothes, made to wear
in the country," said Farmer Nye, looking at
Lucy's and Mary's muslin dresses as slightingly
as Lucy had done at Clara's.
They were soon at the hay-field, and for two
hours they ran about in the sweet, balmy air and


the bright sun as busy as the bees, and as sportive
as the butterflies that flew around them; some-
times turning over the hay, and sometimes over-
turning each other. As no one could be hurt by
a fall on the hay, the overturns only caused a
laugh. When the cart was loaded with hay,
Farmer Nye sent a man home with it, while he
led the children by what he called a short cut,"
through a lane, another field, and an orchard,
home. They were quite in time to see the milk-
ing again.
This had been a very happy day to the whole
party, and we doubt whether Lucy would not
have preferred her ride in the cart, her two
hours' merry sport in the hay-field, and her walk
home through the flowery lane and orchard, to
being dressed up among a crowd of gay people,
even though she, had heard two or three out of
that crowd say, What a pretty girl Lucy Lovett
is i"
When Saturday-Clara's holyday-came, Lucy
and Mary were very desirous to know how she
would employ her time; so immediately after
breakfast they went in search of her. They


found her churning the butter, and when that
was done, she told them she was going to sew
till dinner-time, and after dinner her mother had
promised to take them all into a wood where
there were a great many blackberries. Nothing
could be more delightful in the children's eyes,
and back they ran to Mrs. Lovett with the report.
It did not seem to her quite so unobjectionable
as to them. Their clothes, she thought, would
be torn to pieces by the blackberry-briers, and
their thin summer slippers seemed very unsuit-
able for walking in a wood where the ground
could scarcely fail to be damp.
I wish I had some clothes like Clara Nye's,"
said Mary; "her father says her clothes were
made on purpose to wear in the country." Lucy
turned away with a pouting lip, thinking, per-
haps, that not even the pleasures of a black-
berry-gathering could repay her for wearing such
That is a very wise wish, Mary," said Mr.
Lovett; then, turning to his wife, he added, "We
should have thought of this before; the country
will be of no service to them unless they can be


out in the air, and these thin slippers and fine
frocks will scarce endure a day's walking through
woods, and dusty or muddy roads."
"I thought so entirely of poor little Emma's
wants that I quite forgot theirs," said Mrs. Lovett;
"but, if I could get some strong calico, I could
soon make them each a walking-suit."
"I dare say I could get some for you at N-,"
said Mr. Lovett, naming the country town near
them. "If Farmer Nye can let me have a horse,
I will try this morning. While I go to ask him,
measure their slippers for me, and I will bring
them each a pair of thick shoes. I can easily be
back to dinner, so cheer up," putting a hand on
each little downcast head; with your feet well
protected from damp, we must run the risk of
torn dresses for once, and let you go for the black-
Mary clapped her hands with pleasure, ex-
claiming, "Thank you, thank you, Uncle Lovett"'
but Lucy remained silent. When her father had
left the room, and her mother asked for her slipper
to measure its length, she said, sulkily, "I don't
Want to wear great coarse shoes like Clara Nve's."


Mrs. Lovett hesitated a moment, and then said,
"Give me your slipper, Lucy; your father will
get the shoes for you, and then you shall have
your choice between wearing them or staying at
home." Lucy gave her slipper very reluctantly.
Mr. Lovett got the horse and went to N- ,
and returned to dinner, with two pairs of thick
leather boots, some strong calico, and some coarse
linen check, out of which, he said, a sort of carman's
frock might be made for Charles, which would
keep his clothes clean when at play out of doors.
As soon as Mary had dined, she was busy with
her shoes, putting in the strings and lacing them
up, talking all the time of pleasant remembrances
of blackberrying in Georgia, and her equally plea-
sant expectations from it here. During all this
time, Lucy sat at the table, looking very uncom-
fortable. She still continued there when Clara
Nye, with her bonnet on and a basket in her hand,
made her appearance at the door, asking if they
were ready.
"I am almost ready, Clara," said Mary, quickly.
"I have only to put on my bonnet, and to get-
oh! I haven't any basket."


Never mind that-I'll lend you a basket; but,
Lucy, are not you going too ?"
Lucy looked at her mother and said nothing.
"Answer, my dear," said Mrs. Lovett; "it de-
?ends on yourself: here are your shoes," holding
them out to her as she spoke.
Lucy hung her head, and her face grew red as she
muttered, "I don't want to wear those ugly shoes."
"Then, Lucy, you must stay at home; but think
well of it; your afternoon will be very lonely
when Mary, and Clara, and Charles have all gone."
Lucy burst into tears. Mary took the shoes
from her aunt, and, going up to her, said, "Don't
cry, Cousin Lucy; I'll put the strings in your
shoes, and you can soon be ready; and they are
very nice shoes, indeed, when you get them on:
just look at mine," and she held out her foot.
But Lucy would not look at anything. She wept
on, and Mr. Lovett, taking the shoes from Mary,
and giving Charles his hat from the shelf, told
them to go. Mary still lingered a moment at the
floor, but Lucy did not move; Clara called to her,
and soon the blackberry-party was out of sight
and hearing.


Mary thought sadly at first of Lucy's loneliness
and vexation, but it was impossible to think sadly
long on such a bright, beautiful afternoon, with
chirping birds and gay flowers all around her.
When they arrived at the blackberries, the only
thought for some time was wbe should first have
a full basket.
They were about half was home again, when
Mary exclaimed, Oh, I am Jo glad! there's
Cousin Lucy."
She was quite right. Coming towards them
through the winding footpath, hidden every now
and then by the thick green boughs, and again,
as the path turned, standing out clearly before
them, were Cousin Lucy and Uncle Lovett. As
they drew near, Lucy hung her head. She had
on the thick shoes, and probably thought they
would remember how unwilling she had been to
wear them. The joyful greeting she received
from the little folks of the party must soon have
put her at ease.
"Mrs. Nye, does this wood belong to Mr. Nye?"
asked Mr. Lovett.
"Yes, sir-at least a part of it does."


"You have some fine large trees here, and I
have been thinking that, with his permission, I
would like to put up a swing on one of them for
these young people."
To be sure, sir there's nothing to hinder you,
if you would like to do it. Nobody likes to see
children happy better than my good man."
You may believe that few propositions could
have been more popular with the children than
this of a swing in a beautiful shady wood

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