Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Bob Flash and the bird's nest
 The harvester
 The fisherman's daughter
 Grandma's pupil
 Back Cover

Group Title: Pleasant stories for the young : illustrated with four engravings on steel
Title: Pleasant stories for the young
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00055890/00001
 Material Information
Title: Pleasant stories for the young illustrated with four engravings on steel
Physical Description: 83 p. : ill. ; 16 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Topham, Francis William, 1808-1877 ( Engraver , Illustrator )
Finden, Edward Francis, 1791-1857 ( Engraver )
Beechey, William, 1753-1839 ( Illustrator )
Wallis, Robert, 1794-1878 ( Engraver )
Bonington, Richard Parkes, 1801-1828 ( Illustrator )
Rolls, Charles, b. 1800 ( Illustrator )
Stocks, Lumb, 1812-1892 ( Engraver )
Inskipp, James, 1790-1868 ( Illustrator )
American Sunday-School Union ( Publisher )
Publisher: American Sunday-School Union
Place of Publication: Philadelphia ;
New York
Publication Date: c1871
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1871   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1871
Genre: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
United States -- New York -- New York
General Note: Illustrations engraved by T.W. Topham, E. Finden after W. Beechey, R. Wallis after R.P. Bonington and C. Rolls, and L. Stocks after J. Inskipp.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00055890
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 - 002236077
notis - ALH6546
oclc - 57568735

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Cover 1
        Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Table of Contents
        Page 5
        Page 6
    Bob Flash and the bird's nest
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
    The harvester
        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
    The fisherman's daughter
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
    Grandma's pupil
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
    Back Cover
        Cover 1
        Cover 2
Full Text


* The Baldwin Library
? .m(BUJ2

2/. 2 -


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llhUstnrafO tfit foul r 6I1gravings orn Sel.


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by


in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.








UT they are so pretty, I don't
want to put them back."
Who is Bob talking to?
There's ho one to be seen. And
who is Bob, anyhow? Now that
is a question that I am not able to
answer; but you shall know what
I know about him. One autumn
evening as Farmer Dobbin, who
lives at the famous farm of Clover-
side," was coming home from


market, he was talking to himself
on this wise: "Pretty good day's
business. Let's see: forty pounds
of butter at seventy cents, that's
twenty-eight dollars; fifteen dozens
of eggs at forty cents, six dollars;
four turkeys at two dollars, eight
dollars; ten pairs of chickens,
twenty-five dollars: how much in
all?" But this sum was too tough
for the farmer's head, and he gave
it up. Perhaps some boy or girl
who is reading this story can tell
how much money he ought to have
had in his pocket. "Now," the
farmer went on, "I have here a
silk Sunday-go-to-meetin' gown for


wife; a right pretty shawl for
Nancy; a dissected map and four
picture books for Lucy; and a
frock and pants for Kate and Tom.
I mean that the frock is for Kate,
and the pantaloons for Tom. But
what have we here ?" exclaimed
the worthy farmer, as he spied fast
asleep on the roadside a boy, about
eight years of age, strangely dress-
ed in crimson tight breeches, and
a bright blue woolen woven jacket.
The farmer got out of his wagon,
and with no little difficulty waken-
ed the child, who informed him
that he had the day before run
away from a circus company which


had been travelling through the
country. "They made me dance
on the rope, and sometimes gave
me nothing to eat," said Bob;
" and when I saw the boys and
girls out in the fields seeming so
happy, I thought that I would run
off, and get some kind farmer to
let me live with him. Are you a
farmer, sir ?"
"Yes, I'm a farmer. Where did
you sleep last night ?"
Over there in the woods; and
I had a real nice time, only once I
thought I saw a bear, or maybe it
was a lion."
"Oh no," said farmer Dobbin,


"we have neither bears nor .lions
about these parts. It must have
been one of those calves in the
meadow that you saw; they go into
the woods for water."
Well, as you're a farmer, I guess
you'll take me to your house. You
look like a kind man."
But suppose your father or
mother come after you," replied
Mr. Dobbin, not displeased that
the boy had so good an opinion of
"There's no danger of that,"
said Bob, "seeing that I haven't
any father or mother that I know


Why, where did you come from
then ?"
"Well, you see, I was in an
orphan asylum in New York, and
one day when I ran off to see the
beasts at the menagerie, the man
who rode the horses in the circus
(it was part of the same show)
caught me up, and put me in front
of him, and asked me how I'd like
to ride that way every day. I
thought it would be very nice, and
I was glad to stay with him. But
it's not such fun when you have to
do such things all the time; and
the first good chance, I just cleared


"What is your name, my boy ?"
"'Bob Flash,' the circus men
called me, because I used to ride
'Flash' our fastest horse; but in
the asylum, it was 'Bob Crane.' "
Well Bobby," said farmer Dob-
bin, it won't do to let you sleep
in the woods, and perhaps starve
on the road. I'll take you home
to-night, and give you a good sup-
per, and to-morrow we'll see what's
to be done with you."
So Bob was lifted into the wagon;
Old Black and Brown Bess started
at a brisk pace for their stable; and
in an hour more the farmer drew
up at his own door. But before


he reached it, there had been no
little guessing among the people
on the porch as to the unusual ad-
dition to the bundles in the wagon.
"What can it be ?" wondered
good Mrs. Dobbin. It looks like
a little girl or boy, all dressed up
in red and blue."
"No, no," replied Tom, the
ploughman, who stood wiping his
heated brow after his long day's
work; "it's just one of them things
that they rig up to skeer away the
crows. They've been bad enough,
in the corn near the upper meadow,
and Mr. Dobbin said he would get
something' to keep them off."


"It's not that, I'm sure," said
little Lucy, jumping up and down.
"I know what it is; it's the big
doll papa promised me when I
weeded all my garden. But it's
moving. Maybe it's one of the kind
of dolls that you wind up, and then
they go themselves."
But soon the porch was reached,
and out sprang Bobby Crane.
Well, my little man," began
kind Mrs. Dobbin, where did you
come from? You seem very light
on your feet." (Bobby had thrown
himself from the wagon when it
was three yards off.)
Oh, ma'am," exclaimed Bob, "if


you will only let me stay here, I'll
do a heap more than that. Look at
this!" and he sprang to the top of
the porch like a monkey, and in
another moment was on the roof of
the house, from which he descended
rapidly by the spout, hand over
Dear me," said the delighted
Lucy, "-what a smart boy! Where
did you get him from, papa? And
are you going to keep him ?"
That's more than I can tell just
now," answered her father. "We
must ask your mother about it.
Come here, Bob, and tell my good
wife your own story."


"And now, ma'am," said the
child, after finishing the story, "if
you'll only let me stay here, and be
your boy, I'll try to give you no
Mrs. Dobbin was much pleased
with the boy's honest face and good
manners, and soon drew from him
all that he could remember of his
former life; which knowledge con-
sisted of little more than anecdotes
of the teachers and children at the
orphan asylum in Philadelphia, and
his experience as a circus rider.
"Oh do let Bobby stay," en-
treated Lucy. "You know how
often I've wanted a little brother to


go nutting with me, and when I
have to walk so far to school by
"What do you say, father?" in-
quired Mrs. Dobbin of the farmer,
who was engaged in the agreeable
occupation of counting his market
money, at the same time giving at-
tention to Bob's story.
"I say this," replied the good
man: I like the boy well enough;
and what's more, I'd like to keep
him here, and say no more about
it. But that wouldn't be fair. We
must do as we would be done by;
and if we'd put a child in an orphan
asylum, and that child had run


away, and at last wandered to some
strange farmhouse in the country,
we'd think it pretty hard if the
farmer and his wife just kept him,
and we none the wiser. Now, I'll
write to those people in Philadel-
phia, and tell them the runaway
is here, and offer to take him off
their hands, if nobody else has a
better claim. That's what I call
fair dealing."
Oh please don't do that," cried
Bobby, whose delightful dream of a
country life was thus rudely broken.
" I am afraid they'll take me back;
and--and--I want to stay here,"
exclaimed the poor boy, winding


up with a hearty cry, in which
Lucy, whose disappointment was
great, bore him company.
"Now look here, little ones, if
you want to get along well in this
world, and in the next too, you've
got to mind this rule: 'Always do
what you know to be right, whether
you like it or not.' I am sure it's
right to do this about Bobby, and
I'm going to do it." And he did it
so promptly that in four days a
letter came from the matron of the
orphan asylum which said that.
Bobby had been brought there when
he was only five years old by a
woman who said that his friends


would send for him; but as no
friends had appeared, the managers
would be glad to resign him to Mr.
Dobbin's charge, where he could
learn how to work, and in time
earn wages.
Great was the delight of the
family when this letter was read.
Farmer Dobbin laughed out loud;
Mrs. Dobbin gave orders to Nancy
for an extra supply of cakes and
pies; Tom, the ploughman, who
was in the wagon ready to go to
mill, gave such a shout that the
horses started off as if the family
must soon have flour, or go without
bread; Neptune, the great watch


dog, always ready for a frolic,
barked at the horses, and chased
the old cat to her permanent for-
tress, the top of the pump; Lucy
threw her sun-bonnet up into a
tree; and Bobby--about whom all
this fuss was made--gave vent to
his joy by many surprising feats
worthy of his best exhibitions when
he was known to the pleasure-seek-
ing public as Bobby Flash."
Now, you see," explained the
farmer, when his voice could be
heard, what a good rule that is,
'Always do what you know to be
right.' If I had not written to the
asylum, I should never have felt


easy about Bob; whereas, now we
can keep him with a good con-
So Bobby was considered and
treated like a son; and, we may
add, he behaved better than many
real sons. Surprisingly quick at
every thing he undertook, he soon
made up the deficiencies of early
education, and rapidly advanced
from class to class in the school
over the creek which Lucy and he
attended in the summer.
And now we have reached the
point at which our story opens.
Bobby has found a bird's nest, and
carried it off in his hat, so as to


examine his prize at his leisure.
" They are so pretty," said Bob to
himself, I don't want to put them
back." "But oh, Bobby," whis-
pered his conscience, think how
sorry the old birds will be when
they find their home and children
gone when they come back with
food. Perhaps, Bobby, your father
and mother are mourning over you."
This last thought was enough.
The boy put back the nest very
carefully where he had found it;
and in the evening was rewarded
by seeing two respectable elderly
black-birds enjoying the cool breeze
on a branch of the tree where their


little family had gone to sleep at
early twilight.
We have spoken of Bobby's suc-
cess in his studies on week days;
but we must not forget to praise
his conduct in Sunday-school also.
His teacher did not give him many
verses to learn at once; but Bobby
was sure to know his lesson with-
out leaving out a word, or putting
one in that did not belong there.
He did more than this; he hid the
word of God in his heart; and by
his gentle, dutiful conduct, and
interest in the best things, it was
plain that he had received the
" new heart" for which he earnestly


One evening when he was about
twelve years old and had lived
nearly four years with Mr. Dobbin,
he saw Lucy running to meet him,
and crying as if her little heart was
"What is the matter?" Bobby
asked. "Why, I never saw you going
on in that fashion before; at least
not since your lamb was killed by
that strange dog."
Oh Bobby, Bobby," sobbed the
child, "they've come after you;
they're going to take you away,
and what will we do ?"
"Who's come after me? Who'll
take me away? They'd find it


pretty hard work to do it," an-
swered Bob, making one bound into
a cherry tree, (for he had not for-
gotten all his old circus tricks,) as
he saw a strange man come out on
the porch and look around, as if
trying to find some one. "Don't
tell where I am, Lucy; for here I
mean to stay as long as that man
is about; even if he stays all
"No, no, my boy," said Farmer
Dobbin, (who had come up through
the orchard unseen by the children,)
" come with me to the house, and
when we know more, we can see
what is to be done. Remember our



old rule, 'Always do what you know
to be right.'"
So the three went together into
the house. No sooner had Bobby
entered the door than a strange
woman rushed towards him, and,
with sobs and tears, pressed him to
her heart, exclaiming, "This is in-
deed my long lost boy! Thank
heaven, he is found at last !" Then
the strange man clasped him in his
arms, and called him his "dear
son;" and Bobby cried, and Lucy
cried, and Mrs. Dobbin cried, (I can't
tell what Farmer Dobbin might
have done if he had not been seized
with a violent fit of coughing);



and Nancy, the cook, did not
cry, but she marched out of the
room in a state of high indignation,
saying that it was too bad that man
and woman should come to take
away her boy; and when she reached
the kitchen she gave Neptune a
kick which sent him yelping into
the yard.
Now I suppose you would like to
hear who Bobby really was; and
how he was sent to the asylum;
and how his parents found him at
last. His real name was Robert
Wayne; and when he was nearly
five years old, a servant in the
family had stolen him away from


his parents, hoping to keep him
with her and get the reward sure
to be offered" for his recovery; but
when she reached New York she
was taken very ill; and before she
died she sent Bobby to the orphan
asylum by a woman who promised
to write to the boy's parents where
he was. But she too waited for a
reward until she was afraid to be
known; and so the matron at the
asylum continued to believe what
she had been told at first. But
when Mr. Wayne came to live in
New York State, he determined to
seek for his boy at every orphan
asylum and home he could hear of;


and a little talk with the matron at
the house where Bobby had stayed
soon put him on the right track.
You are not to suppose that
Bobby was rudely separated from
his kind friends and never saw them
any more. Mr. Wayne was so much
pleased with a farm within a mile
of Mr. Dobbin's place, that he
bought it and settled on it; and
Bobby spent at least half his time
and certainly every Saturday with
the kind people who had taken him
to their home when he was a stran-
ger, and who never ceased to love
him. He grew up to be a good
man and an active Sunday-school


teacher; and always felt great in-
terest in boys who were friendless.
You may be sure when he passed
by the road where Farmer Dobbin
had first lifted him into his wagon,
he thought with gratitude of the
heavenly protector who in his
"time of trouble," had mercifully
watched over little "Bob FI:i.,h."




I .-

- 'a---


ERHAPS, most of our city
boys -and girls know what
is meant by "harvest;" and it is
a word full of pleasant memo-
ries. How often are city children,
tired of schools, of streets and
houses and people, gladdened with
the hope, "Never mind: 'There's a
good time coming !' A time when
geography and history and arith-
metic will be forgotten; when my
few inches of garden in the back


yard, with its drooping bushes and
straggling vines, shall take care of it-
self; when the troublesome little girl
over the way, who keeps borrowing
my blocks and dolls and hoop, can
go and plague somebody else; when
I shall get first into the street car,
then in the real car on the rail-
road; then in Uncle Fred's wagon;
and go to the dear old farm-house
where mother played when she was
a little girl, and where she plays
with her children, now she is a
woman." Such had long been the
cherished hope of our little harv-
ester whom you see in this picture.
But we must go back in our story.


Little-but what do you think her
name is? Peggy, or Susie, or Mag-
gie, or Sallie? Neither of them.
It was-Mary, Mary Bright. Did
you ever hear of a school, or a girls'
party, or of a large family, where
there was not a "Mary?" Our
Mary lived in a large city, and she
was one of a family of six children.
Our business is with Mary only,
whom we must attempt to describe,
so that you may feel acquainted
with her.
1. MARY's LooKs. Mary looked
about eleven years old; which she
had a right to do, and for which
nobody could blame her: for that


was just her age. 2. MARY'S EYES.
Her eyes were dark grey,-a good
colour to wear; and she was so
fond of reading, and crocheting,
and looking at all sorts of pretty
things, that she kept them at work
from morning until night. 3.
MARY'S HAIR. Her hair was auburn;
and as it had a natural curl, a great
deal of trouble was saved in fixing
it; for curls fix themselves. It
used to be quite long, but as the
weather was very warm, her mother
cut it off, before she left town, as
short as you see it in the picture.
4. MARY's TEMPER. It was not a
good temper at all. It was quick


and fiery; and woe betide any little
boy or girl, or indeed any body else
of whom she did not stand in awe,
who did not understand right off
what Mary meant, or who would
not play exactly in the way she
wanted. Once, when she was not
four years old, she told Lucy Martin
who was spending the day with
her, that her little kitten "looked
like a wabba." This was too much
for Lucy to understand, and she
consulted the nurse as to Mary's
meaning. Margaret could cast no
light on the matter; and unfortu-
nately Mary had heard the confer-
ence, and great was her wrath at


such stupidity. I mean wabba,'"
she exclaimed. "You do know
what a 'wabba' is; you saw that
' wabba' the man brought here to
sell;" and she stamped her foot,
and looked as angry as possible. It
was not until a week had passed,
and after many passionate repeti-
tions of the queer word, that upon
a second visit of the man," "wab-
ba" was found to mean rabbit. So
you see I am not wrong in saying
Mary had a quick temper. As she
grew older, this sad disposition
showed itself in many ways. People
who are always looking out for
slights and ready to take offence,


can generally find what they are
looking for. Mary had given so
much trouble at her uncle's farm,
only the summer before our story
begins, that her aunt Julia had
written to her parents that unless
she would promise to be a better
girl when she visited them, she need
not come again. This alarmed Miss
Mary greatly; for of all the pleas-
ures of her life, the .iiiuiini at the
farm were the greatest.
Mamma," she inquired, break-
ing the silence which followed the
reading of aunt Julia's letter, "what
shall I do to get rid of my bad
temper ? I know I punish myself


as much as I trouble other people.
I am sure I don't want to get so
angry; and the other day when my
Sunday-school teacher prayed with
me, I felt as if I would not be cross
again for a month. But the next
morning Willie put my new French
doll in the bath tub and spoiled
her clothes. I just scolded him till
he cried."
"Well, my dear," said her mother,
"I am glad to see that you feel dis-
posed to conquer this unruly tem-
per. I think a good plan would be
to begin a course of self-punish-
ment. Take yourself into your own
hands, and instead of confessing to


me what has been amiss, inflict the
penalty on your own head."
"Well, mamma, I will try that
plan; and on my birthday, which
is only three months off, I will let
you know how it succeeds; though
I hope before that time you will
have found out for yourself."
This conversation took place on
Monday, and the next day Mary-
showed so much forbearance as to
excite the astonishment of her bro-
ther Joe, who had an unamiable
habit of plaguing her in order "to
have the fun," as he called it, of
seeing her "get mad." But on
Wednesday afternoon Joe carried


the war too far for a spirit that was
as yet by no means tamed; he pin-
ned Mary's prettiest frock, in which
she was awaiting a visit from some
children, to the chair; so that when
she hastily rose to meet her visitors,
a long tear at the back proclaimed
the success of Joe's mischievous
trick. The bad boy was too much
amused to make any secret of the
authorship of the affair; and Mary
was too angry to remember her
resolutions of restraining her tem-
per. What she said to her brother,
and how she looked when she said it,
will never be known,-at least not
by our means. It -v-;I:, of a nature,


however, to check even careless Joe
in the midst of his mirth; and Mary,
when she gave herself time to reflect,
was shocked at her own violence.
She rushed up stairs into her own
room to inflict the penalty which
she had fixed upon in her mind as
the punishment of such doings. To
the great surprise of Dolly, the
chambermaid, she hastily took off
her clothes and got into bed, re-
straining her sobs for a private
When were you taken sick, my
dear? and what ails you ?" inquired
the kind hearted girl.
"I am not sick, Dolly," replied


Is it so very sleepy you are
then, that you go to bed at four
o'clock in the afternoon, and when
company has just come to spend
the evening with you ?" asked Dol-
ly, who soon brought Mary's mother
to her bedside, with the same ques-
tion as to this unusual time for re-
Oh mamma, I'm not sick nor
sleepy. It's something much worse.
Can't you guess? Don't you re-
member how you used to send me
to bed when I was naughty, and I
would rather have been puni.-ii:l.
in any other way? Well, I have
treated Joe very badly, and so I


put myself right to bed, because we
agreed I was to take myself in
Her mother felt glad to see Mary's
earnestness in correcting her fault,
but she said, As your little friends
are downstairs, I think this time it
will not be worth while for you stay
in bed more than an hour. In the
meantime I will amuse the girls
with those new books from London,
and you can make your appearance
at five o'clock: it is now four."
At five, therefore, Mary came into
the parlour (having first made her
peace with Joe) ; and from that hour
until nine o'clock the children had


a great deal of pleasure, playing
games and looking at pictures.
Under her system of self-punish-
ment Mary rapidly improved; and
when the time came for her annual
visit to the farm, her aunt Julia had
very little to complain of in her
conduct. You see her in the pic-
ture, out in the field, binding up a




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ID you ever think of the
.- anxious lives led by the
wives and children of the
fishermen, who go so far from land,
or stay out so long upon the deep
sea? Your fathers are perhaps
merchants, or doctors, or lawyers,
or ministers, or mechanics; and
although there is no danger of
their drowning, yet sometimes you
may feel uneasy when they stay


out later than usual. But how
must it be with the fisherman's
children, who know that a sudden
storm, the loss of an oar, or an
accident, may at any time plunge
the dear father into a watery
grave ?
Of the many bold fishermen on
the coast of Nantucket, no one was
more famous for his courage, en-
terprise, and success than Carl
Anchor, the father of the little girl
who is now sitting on the shore
with her back to the high post
which warns the sailors of the
shoal water. Until he was nearly
forty years old, Carl was a whaler,


and made many voyages to Hud-
son's Bay and Davis' Straits, with
great success. But for the last ten
years he had been contented to
live in his little cottage by the sea,
going out every week-day to fish.
There was no need of his supply-
ing the table in this way; for he
had saved enough to maintain his
family without his own efforts; but
he had two good reasons for his
industry. The first was, that he
always found doing nothing the
hardest kind of "doing;" and the
second reason was, that the money
he made by fishing enabled him to
provide for several poor families,-


the widows and children of fisher-
men who had been lost at sea, or
died at home. And then he had
other uses for money not needed
by himself, wife, and daughter.
He made it his business to furnish
every whaling vessel which left his
own port, with a library of good
books for the sailors to read, in
many dreary hours, when they had
nothing to occupy their hands or
minds; and he gave many dona-
tions to the Seamen's Chapel. As
for Kate Anchor, she was known
and loved from one end of the
island to the other. If any old
dame wanted some one to read to


her the promises of the Bible, which
her old eyes.could no longer make
out, Kate was ready to be specta-
cles and voice for her. Was any
child so cross-grained or trouble-
some that nobody could reduce it
to submission? If Kate were to
come into the cottage, the little
thing would soon be chattering or
crowing (according to its age), in
her arms. Were medicines wanted
for the sick ? Kate's mother kept
a large supply, and Kate knew
almost as well as her mother; what
the invalid needed, and how to give
or apply it. At the Fishermen's
Sunday-school, Kate had attended


from the infant school to the Bible
class; and now that she was thir-
teen she was sometimes allowed to
teach some of the smallest children,
or to help Miss Stevenson distri-
bute the library books. I am sure
the little ones never wanted any
other teacher, for she knew how to
keep them interested and quiet
better than some older folks that I
have known. On Saturday after-
noons there was a sewing school;
and Kate was busy then showing
the awkward little hands of her
scholars how to hold a needle, and
to hem, and fell, and gather.
It was now winter; and there


had been a succession of "hard
blows," which had occasioned many
sleepless hours in the cottages of
those fishermen who had been ex-
posed to the storms; but day after
day had witnessed the return of
the boats filled with fish, and "all
safe on board."
Towards the end of February,
however, there was great alarm on
the coast; for three days had :pa,:ed
away and no tidings had come of
Karl Anchor's boat. On the morn-
ing of the fourth day, Kate had
gone to the shore to watch for the
glad signal from the ships in the
offing which should announce that


her father's boat was in sight. All
day the girl -thiy led; and for many
days after this she would take her
station on the same spot, whenever
she could be spared from home;
yet no sign came from the missing
vessel. The old sailors at last
gave up all hope, and said it was
all over with poor Karl. The good
minister often came and prayed
with the "Widow Anchor" (as they
now called her), and her daughter;
and he preached a sermon about
the kind-hearted man who had done
so much for the poor; and the
widows and orphans whom Karl
had so often helped in their dis-


tress, sobbed aloud as they thought
of the kind face and cheerful voice
which they feared were gone forever.
But as for Kate, she only said,
"I will not give him up!" and day
by day she sat watching by the
sea. Nor was her faith without
reward, for one bright afternoon a
signal gun was fired rapidly; and
Kate, who had fallen asleep ex-
hausted by grief, was awakened by
the noise and shouts of rejoicing
sailors, who came crowding to the
shore, and saw far off in the dis-
tance a boat, and a well-known
flag; and surely Karl himself was
waving it with his own hand.


When he reached the shore, and
clasped his thin, pale daughter in
his arms, there arose from the men,
women, and children a mighty
shout; and with songs of rejoicing,
thanksgiving, and the voice of
melody, the procession moved on
towards the fisherman's cottage;
where they left the happy little
family to adore the goodness of
Him who preserveth those "that
go down to the sea in ships, that
do business in great waters."
But how was it that Karl was
so long away? The tale is soon
told: His boat, deprived of sails
and oars, had been carried far out


to sea; and though picked up on
the second day by an outward-
bound ship, it was three months
before they met a vessel coming to
the Nantucket coast. When in
sight of land, Karl launched his
own boat on the waves, (for "I was
determined," he said, "to come as
I went,") and put her head towards
home. And what became of Kate,
after this ?" Why-just what might
be expected, just as I hope it will
be with you-the good girl grew
up to be a good woman; and many
who shared in her bounty and pro-
fited by her instructions, had reason




Tr dnted For G G Ln Esiade-. S


fT is just as you said, Grand-
Sma. 'Persevere and you
will succeed.' It seemed so
hard at first that I thought there
was no use in trying, and yet now
I am getting on so nicely. Every
afternoon, after dinner, you can lie
down and take a long sleep, in-
stead of little uneasy naps in your
chair. And perhaps the lady at
the castle will like my lace, and
buy it, instead of sending it to


town; she is so rich that she could
give me plenty of money for it.
Oh, grandma, I am so very glad
that you have taught me how to
make lace!"
Thus rattled on light-hearted
Christine, whose story, or rather
the story of her parents and grand-
parents, you are noi to hear or
read. Christine is only -ixt.:,:n--
though dressed in this old-fashioned
style you might think her several
years older--and she lives in this
cottage with nobody but her i amil-
mother. Many years before this
her grandfather was forest-keeper
for a great man, whose castle stood


in a beautiful park about a mile
from their present home. His son
succeeded him as forest-keeper, and
marrying a farmer's daughter in the
neighbourhood, lived with his wife
and mother very happily in their
cottage. His duties were light:-
to preserve the estate from tres-
passers; to see to the hounds; to
clear away the dead trees, and to
keep all the hedges and outbuild-
ings in good order did not so much
engross his time as to allow no
opportunities for attending to their
own little patch of ground, which
produced more than Hans and his
family required for their simple


wants. But earthly blessings are
fleeting, and at any moment may
be withdrawn. Christine's mother
was called away when the little
girl was only six years old; and
she commended her child to her
grandma's care, thankful that the
good old woman was spared to
accept the charge. For many
weeks poor Christine was incon-
solable; and during all her life the
counsels and prayers of the excel-
lent mother exercised a powerful
influence on her heart, which she
had early given to the dear Saviour
who redeemed her. She was so
well behaved, amiable, and intelli-


gent that the lady at the castle
encouraged her children to send for
her, and have her spend a day
with them frequently; and with
Ermengarde, who was nearly her
own age, she was especially inti-
mate. The two girls shared in the
lessons of the tutors who gave
instruction in the solid branches,
but even of music and drawing
Christine learned something, be-
cause her friend would say 'she
never knew a lesson well until she
had gone over it with the forester's
daughter. On Sundays Christine
always attended service at the
chapel in the castle, where the good


chaplain, who had for more than
fifty years been a member of the
family, instructed the children in
the neighbourhood, and in the
afternoon preached a sermon to
their elders. When Christine was
fourteen, 'sad tidings came to the
castle and to the cottage, and to
many households in the land. War
had been declared; men were
wanted for the army; and among
those who were summoned was the
What a dreadful thing is war!
How many homes have been deso-
lated ; how many happy wives and
children have been made widows


and orphans; how many men have
been sent to an untimely death,
without preparation or hope, or
maimed and impoverished for life.
We cannot calculate the crimes
and miseries which have resulted
from war! What a sight! Men
who are commanded by the Prince
of Life and Peace to love each
other, doing all that they can to
ruin and murder each other: and
for what? To avenge some real
or fancied insult; to gain posses-
sion of a disputed throne; to de-
prive a fellow-man of a few miles
of the earth's surface! My dear
children, as long as you live, raise


your voices, use your pens, exert
all your influence, against "war,
horrid war!"
And there is another foe to the
human race which is worse even
than war; a foe who is always at
work, by day and by night, stab-
bing, shooting, scourging helpless
women and tender children; rob-
bing men of reputation, money,
and life; filling almshouses, insane
asylums, hospitals, and jails; tor-
turing, in body and in mind, thou-
sands of our poor afflicted race!
" Who is this," do you ask ? This
is the Demon of Intemperance!
What a blessing it would be if


war and intemperance could be
banished from this earth! Give
your prayers and your efforts that
the world may be rid of them.
But to return to Hans. After a
fond farewell of his mother and his
dear daughter he went to join the
army. How inexpressibly dear
now seemed the familiar scenes
upon which, it might be, he was
gazing for the last time! The
grand old .woods stirred by the
wind; the garden, where from
his boyhood he had watched the
trees, and fruit, and flowers; the
dogs, who were like members of
his own family; but above all, the


mother whose love had never waxed
cold, and the daughter, who had
ever been dutiful and affectionate,-
how could he leave these ? Hans
went to the wars, and was in many
battles, and was promoted from
rank to rank, in consequence either
of his bravery, or the loss of the
officers above him. At last he was
wounded and taken to the military
hospital. For weeks it was hoped
that he would live to enjoy his
honours (if enjoyment there could
be in honours so acquired), and to
return to his home; but at last the
physician wrote word to his mother
that he thought it impossible that


the soldier could ever return; and
that if they wished to see him
again, they should hasten, for at
any moment a fever might occur
which he had not strength to resist.
It was a sad journey, and a sad meet-
ing, when Christine and her grand-
mother,-after passing through the
long rows of beds where the poor
soldier, in various stages of sick-
ness and suffering, bore mute testi-
mony to the horrors of war,-stood
by the couch of the son and the
father. A week later they saw him
laid in the grave; and then they re-
turned to the little cottage, that now
seemed so desolate and dreary.


Two years had flown when our
story opens; and we find Christine
in the picture busily employed in
helping her dear grandmother;
and after that good woman was, in
an advanced age, taken to her rest,
Ermengarde, who had long been
married, insisted that Christine
should leave the cottage and live
with her. In this new home, there-
fore, she was usefully and pleas-
antly employed in teaching the
children of her life-long friend;
and many hours did she pass with
them in the little cottage, fitted up
as a playhouse, where they could
retire after their long rambles in


the woods. And amidst her in-
structions you may be sure that
Christine did not forget to talk to
her young pupils of a Saviour,
who, though he was rich, yet, for
our sakes became poor.


aW\5t7 I,

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