A FABLE.
A company of geese used to meet together very often, to talk about the affairs of the nation, and to contrive ways and means to do the public good. They were full of learning; had read all the valuable books that ever were printed in the goose language; and had got the notion into their heads that when they died, wisdom would perish in the earth. They looked down upon the great mass of goosehood about them with feelings of pity—almost of contempt. At their public meetings—which were held pretty often, for they had much more public than private business to attend to—they occupied a great share of their time in discussing questions which were so deep and muddy, that nobody but they ever saw to the bottom of them. Indeed, many very sensible geese, who made few pretensions to learning, have doubted whether they saw very clearly into these questions themselves. I, too, have my doubts on the subject, as well as these sensible geese; and I go farther than they in my doubts. I doubt whether, in case any learned goose could see to the bottom of very many of these muddy subjects, his knowledge would be worth much to him. I will give you a specimen of some of the questions they used to debate upon, and leave you to judge of their value for yourselves. They were such as these:
"How thick is the shadow of a goose in the moonlight?"
"How much would the shadow of a tolerably learned gander weigh, if it could be weighed?"
"How early do goslings begin to know a great many things, if not more?"
"When a fox starts off after a goose, is it because he loves himself, or because he loves his wife and the little foxes?"
"Whether geese ought not to be willing to die, for the sake of affording a good dinner to Christians on Christmas and Thanksgiving days?"
"Whether there would be such a thing as a good, pious goose, who was not willing to die for such a purpose?"
One day, our learned geese were holding a meeting in the barn yard, according to their custom, and were, if possible, more earnest and noisy than ever in their discussions. This time they were considering what it was best to do to prevent foxes from making such havoc in the neighborhood. The question was submitted, whether it would not be safer and better for geese to sleep with their heads up, instead of placing them under their wings, after the old fashion.
But right in the midst of the debate, while one of the speakers was astonishing himself as well as the rest of the company, with his reasoning and his eloquence, a fox, who had been slily listening to the debate, stepped into their ranks, and seized the orator, cutting short his neck and his speech at the same instant.
MORAL.
There are several things to be learned by this fable. But I shall content myself with simply pointing out one of them, presuming your good sense will discover the rest: Before you attempt to take care of others, learn to take care of yourselves.
XII.
THE WRONG WAY.
Edward was rather a rude, headstrong boy. Like a great many young people of his age, he needed to be punished sometimes, and sometimes his parents did deal pretty sternly with him. Edward had a sister, older than himself, by some years. Fanny—for this was the name of the girl—tried one day, to tame little Eddy, when, according to her notion, he was inclined to be too wild. Fanny was grieved to see her brother act so rudely. They were visiting that day, at Aunt Sally's, and it was natural enough that Fanny should wish to have her brother behave as well as he could.
"Eddy," said she, in the hearing of her aunt and some of her cousins, "you act like a young colt."
"Well, what if I do?" said Eddy, rather tartly.
"Why, you will need breaking, if you go on so, that's all."
"And suppose I should need breaking, I'd like to know who'll break me."
"May be I'd try my hand at it, if there's nobody else to do it."
"I'd like to see you try it."
"Hush, Edward! I'm ashamed of you."
"You had better hush yourself, if you want me to hush."
At this point in the dispute between the brother and sister, Aunt Sally thought it was best to put a stop to it. She saw that Fanny could do no good to Edward, while he was in that mood, and so she said a word or two which turned the thoughts of both the brother and sister into another channel.
I suppose it can hardly be necessary to say to you, that, whatever may have been the right way to manage Edward, that which his sister tried at this time was certainly the wrong.
XIII.
THE RIGHT WAY.
Edward still behaved rather rudely—still "acted like a young colt." "What a pity!" Fanny said to herself. "Mamma will be mortified, if she ever hears about it. Well, I must try again, and see what I can do with the little fellow this time."
So she called Eddy out into the yard in front of the house, and there, where nobody else but him could hear her, she said,
"Eddy, I want to tell you a little story."
"Well," said Edward, "I want to hear a little story."
"Once there was a little boy," the sister said, commencing her story, "that had a sister who was kind to him. His sister took good care of her brother. She tried to do so, at any rate. When this little boy was abroad, playing with his cousins, he was rude. He would not mind his sister. He was a good deal younger than she was, and one would suppose that he ought to have listened to her, when she talked to him. But he did not. He was just as rude as ever; and his sister was afraid that, when his mamma heard of his conduct, she would feel ashamed of her son. What do you think of that boy, Eddy?"
"Sister," said the little fellow, "I am a very naughty boy. But I am sorry I behaved so. I will try to do better, if you will forgive me."
And so, you see, the wild, rattle-headed boy, who was so full of fun, that he could hardly hold in, and who was so wild that Fanny thought it was best to check him with a curb bit, something as she would a young colt, was completely tamed by this soft, gentle language. My young friend, don't you think there's great power in such words? I do, and I advise you, when you are dealing with such a "young colt" as Eddy was, to try the plan that Fanny tried last, and see if it don't succeed better than anything else?
Use gentle words, for who can tell
The blessings they impart!
How oft they fall as manna fell,
On some nigh-fainting heart!
"In lonely wilds by light-winged birds
Rare seeds have oft been sown;
And hope has sprung from gentle words,
Where only grief had grown."