THE
BOYS AND GIRLS
LIBRARY
BY PETER PARLEY
LONDON.
Published by H. G. Collins.
THE
BOYS’ AND GIRLS’ LIBRARY;
CONTAINING
A VARIETY OF USEFUL AND INSTRUCTIVE READING,
SELECTED FROM EMINENT
WRITERS FOR YOUTH,
BY PETER PARLEY.
LONDON:
H. G. COLLINS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCLI.
CONTENTS.
| PAGE | |
| Childhood | [7] |
| The Old Year and the New Year | [9] |
| The Story of Edward Lyon; or, Confessing a Fault | [10] |
| To my good Angel | [16] |
| Self-Denial | [17] |
| Henry and his Sister | [24] |
| Anna and her Kitten | [26] |
| Faithfulness | [28] |
| The Great Man | [41] |
| Philosophy in Common things.—The Air Thermometer | [43] |
| The Rabbit | [52] |
| “ Sleigh Ride | [55] |
| Story of a Greyhound | [61] |
| The Truant | [63] |
| A Summer morning Ramble | [67] |
| The Hottentots | [71] |
| “ Whispering Figure | [76] |
| A Story of the Sea | [79] |
| The Old Slate | [85] |
| Children, a poem | [90] |
| Lizzy; a Fairy Tale | [91] |
| Ellen. A true story | [109] |
| Philosophy in common things.—Corking the kettle spout up | [111] |
| The Lost Children | [114] |
| Forgiveness | [123] |
| The two Nosegays | [124] |
| Camgno; or, the tame Roe | [127] |
| The Secret | [131] |
| Science of the Human Frame.—The Skin | [136] |
| Voices from Nature | [142] |
| King Alfred | [145] |
| Grace Middleton | [148] |
| Shells | [153] |
| Emulation.—A conversation between Harry and his father | [155] |
| A Nurse’s Song | [160] |
| The Shepherd and the Fairy | [161] |
| Simple Pleasures | [165] |
| The Robin’s “Good Bye” to little Araminta | [171] |
| The Baby House | [174] |
| Fidelity and Obedience | [183] |
| Bessie Lee | [186] |
| The Stars.—Orion | [200] |
| “ Apple | [204] |
| “ New Singing School | [208] |
| The Balloon | [215] |
| Curious Little Painters | [217] |
| The Upas; or, Poison Tree | [225] |
| Disobedience, and its consequences | [227] |
| The Game of Weathercocks | [233] |
| James Cartier.—An early traveller in America | [235] |
| Anselmo’s Escape; or, the Dog St. Bernard | [239] |
| To my Boy Tom, on giving him his first Spelling-Book | [245] |
| Second Story of the Sea | [247] |
| The Child at Prayer | [251] |
| “ Child Angel | [257] |
| “ Storm | [259] |
| Something about Dogs | [262] |
| The Morning Walk | [265] |
| “ Ostrich | [271] |
| “ Violet.—Modesty | [274] |
| “ Elephant | [277] |
THE
BOYS’ AND GIRLS’ LIBRARY.
CHILDHOOD.
“Heaven lies about us in our infancy.”
Wordsworth.
“My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So let it be when I grow old,
Or let me die.”
Ibid.
The angel that takes care of the tender lambs and sprinkles dew upon the flowers, in the still night, takes care of thee, dear little one, and lets no evil come to thy tender years.
Fair child! when I gaze into thy soft, dark eyes, my childhood returns, like a bright vision, and I think of the time when every sight and every sound in nature gave to me such sweet delight, and all seemed so fair. I almost fancy I hear thy gentle voice breathing forth thy joy in sweet and happy words, such as little children are wont to use when they first begin to look up into the blue sky, to gaze upon the rainbow, or the bright clouds that float over the moon.
The bright sun, the moon and stars, the murmuring rivulet, the broad ocean heaving to and fro in the sunlight, the thunder and the storm, the quiet glen where I listened to the busy hum of the insects, the joyous song of the birds, as they flew from spray to spray, the odour of fresh flowers—all filled my breast with heavenly love and peace; and when I look into thy face, dear Sophia, I feel my soul return to join you, and I forget the present, and live only in the past.
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW YEAR
BY RUFUS DAWES.
An old man, wrinkled with many woes,
Went trudging along through the wintry snows;
’Twas the thirty-first of December, at night,
He had travelled far and was worn out quite.
The clock was just on the click of twelve,
When the old man stopp’d and began to delve:
And he made a grave in the broad highway,
To be trampled upon on the coming day.
Then in he crept, and had hardly strength,
To stretch himself out at his utmost length,
When the clock struck twelve!—at the solemn tone,
The old man died without a groan.
Just then a youth came tripping by,
With a holiday look and a merry eye;
His back was loaded with books and toys,
Which he toss’d about to the girls and boys.
He gave one glance at the dead old man.
Then laughed aloud, and away he ran.
But when he comes back, let him laugh, if he dare,
At the following lines which are written there.
“Beneath the stone which here you view,
Lies Eighteen Hundred and Forty-two.
His grandfathers blundered so sadly, that he
Inherited only their penury,
With a few little play-things he’s left for his heir,
Who will frolic awhile, and then die of care.
He lived, a wretched life, we’re told.
And died at last, just twelve months old!”
THE STORY OF EDWARD LYON;
OR,
CONFESSING A FAULT.
“I don’t like James Parker, and I’ll never play with him again as long as I live,” said a little boy, warmly, whose name was Edward Lyon.
His father, hearing the words of his son, called him, and said,
“Edward, my son, what has happened to cause you to speak so unkindly of your little playmate? I thought you liked James very much.”
“So I did, father; but I don’t like him now.”
“Why not?”
“Because he got angry with me to-day, and struck me.”
“Struck you, my son!”
“Yes, indeed! he did so,—but I struck him back for it!”
When Edward’s father heard this, he was very much grieved. Taking his boy upon his knee, he asked him to tell him all about his difficulty with James Parker, and why James had struck him.
“Why, you see, father,” began Edward, “he was building a house with the blocks you told us we might have from the building, and had got it up very high, when I told him, in fun, that I would knock it down, and threw a great stone at it, just by way of make believe. Somehow or other, the stone slipped in my hand, and struck his house, and knocked it all to pieces. But I didn’t mean to do it. And then he came up to me, with his face as red as blood, and struck me with all his might.”
“And then you struck him back again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then what did he do?”
“He doubled up his fist, as if he was going to hit me again.”
“But didn’t do it?”
“No. He stopped a minute, and then began to cry, and went off home.”
“Suppose he had struck you again—what would you have done?”
“I should have hit him back.”
“Like a wicked boy, as you were, then.”
“But he was wicked, too, father.”
“Not so wicked as you, I think. In the first place, it was wrong in you even to pretend that you were going to knock his house down. Wrong in two ways. First, you told an untruth in saying that you meant to knock it down, when you did not intend to do so. And then you took pleasure in seeing him troubled, lest his house, the building of which gratified him so much, should be wantonly destroyed. Both the feeling and act here were evil. And my son, in indulging the one and doing the other, was not under good influences. And then, can you wonder that James, after what you had said, should have believed that you knocked his house down on purpose? You said that you meant to do it, and then did do it. What better evidence could he have had of your unjustifiable trespass upon his rights? Pleased with his house, its destruction could only arouse within him feelings of indignation against the one who had wantonly thrown it down. Put yourself in his place, and think whether you would not have felt as angry as he did; perhaps much more so. Carried away by this feeling, he struck you. This was wrong, but not half so much as the fact of your returning the blow. You knew that you had given him cause to feel incensed at your conduct, and you ought to have borne his blow as a just punishment for what you had done. But, instead of this, you made the matter ten times worse by striking him back. The fact, that he did not return your blow, but resisted the impulse he felt to strike you again, shows that he is a much better boy than you are, Edward; for you have declared, that if he had struck you again, you would have returned the blow, and have fought with him, I doubt not, until the one or the other of you had been beaten.”
“I am sorry I knocked his house down,” Edward said, as soon as his father ceased speaking, and he hung his head and looked ashamed and troubled. “And I was sorry the moment I saw that I had done it.”
“Then why did you not tell him so at once?”
“I would, if he had given me time. But he doubled up his fist and hit me before I could speak.”
“Still, knowing that you had provoked him to do so, you ought to have forgiven the blow.”
“And so I would, if I had only had time to think. But it came so suddenly”—
“You have had time to think since, my son, and yet you have declared that you do not like James, and never intend playing with him again.”
“I didn’t feel right when I said that, father. I was angry at him. But I don’t suppose he will ever play with me again after what has happened.”
“Why not?”
“Of course he is very angry with me.”
“More angry with himself for having struck you, I expect.”
“Oh, if I thought so, I would go at once and ask him to forgive me for knocking his house down, and for having struck him,” Edward said, his eyes filling with tears.
“That ought not to be your reason for asking his forgiveness, Edward.”
“Why not, father?”
“You should go to him and ask his forgiveness because you are conscious of having injured him. You ought not to think anything about what he may think or feel, but go to him and confess your wrong, simply because you have acted wrong.”
“But how do I know that he will take it kindly?”
“That you must not think of, my boy. Think only of the fact you have injured James, and that simple justice requires of you to repair that injury in the best way you can. Surely, the least you can now do is to go to him, and tell him that you are sorry for what you have done.”
For a time, pride and shame struggled in the breast of Edward, but at length he made up his mind to do as his father had proposed. He not only saw clearly that he had been wrong, but he also felt that he had been wrong. James Parker lived only a little way from his father’s house, and thither he at length turned his steps, though with reluctance, for he did not know how James would receive him.
As he came into the yard of the house where James’ father lived, he saw his little playmate seated quietly in the door, with his face turned away, so that he did not notice him, nor seem to hear the sound of his footsteps, until he was close to him. Then he turned quickly, and Edward saw that he had been weeping.
“James,” he said, holding out his hand, “I am sorry that I knocked your house down—but I didn’t mean to do it. And I am more sorry still that I struck you.”
“And I have been so sorry that I struck you, that I have cried ever since,” James said, taking the offered hand of his young friend. “I might have known that you did not mean to knock my house down when you threw the stone,—that it was an accident. But I was so angry that I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m so glad you have come. I wanted to see you so bad, and tell you how sorry I was; but was afraid you would not forgive me for having struck you.”
From that day Edward and James were firmer friends than ever. Each forgave the other heartily, and each blamed himself to the full extent of his error. And besides, each learned to guard against the sudden impulse of angry feelings, that so often sever friends, both young and old.
TO MY GOOD ANGEL.
Hail, protecting spirit, hail!
Guardian of my being here;
Though my faltering footsteps fail,
And I sink in doubt and fear,
Still to cheer me
Thou art near me,
All unseen by mortal eye,—
All unheard by mortal ear;
Thou, a spirit of the sky,
Dost protect and guide me here.
Hail, immortal spirit, hail!
When the storm is in my breast,
And the foes of peace assail,
Thou canst calm my soul to rest.
Then to cheer me
Still be near me—
Guardian angel, to me given,
Guide me still till life be o’er,
Then to that long looked-for heaven,
Let my happy spirit soar.
SELF-DENIAL.
There were two little boys, named James and William. One day, as they were about starting for school, their father gave them two or three pennies a-piece, to spend for themselves. The little boys were very much pleased at this, and went off as merry as crickets.
“What are you going to buy, William?” James asked, after they had walked on a little way.
“I don’t know,” William replied. “I have not thought yet. What are you going to buy with your pennies?”
“Why, I’ll tell you what I believe I’ll do. You know ma’ is sick. Now, I think I will buy her a nice orange. I am sure it will taste good to her.”
“You may, if you choose, James. But I’m going to buy some candy with my money. Pa’ gave it to me to spend for myself. If ma’ wants an orange, she can send for it. You know she’s got money, and Hannah gets her everything she wants.”
“I know that,” James said. “But then, it would make me feel so happy to see her eating an orange that I bought for her with my own money. She is always doing something for us, or getting us some nice thing, and I should like to let her see that I don’t forget it.”
“You can do as you please,” was William’s reply to this. “For my part, I don’t often get money to spend for myself. And now I think of it, I don’t believe pa’ would like it if we were to take the pennies he gave us for ourselves, and give them away,—or, what is the same thing, give away what we bought with them. Indeed, I’m sure he would not.”
“I don’t think so, William,” urged James. “I think it would please him very much. You know that he often talks to us of the evil of selfishness. Don’t you remember how pleased he was one day, when a poor chimney-sweeper asked me for a piece of cake that I was eating, and I gave him nearly the whole of it? If that gave him pleasure, surely my denying myself for the sake of ma’, who is sick, would please him a great deal more.”
William did not reply to this, for he could not, very well. Still, he wanted to spend his pennies for his own gratification so badly, that he was not at all influenced by what his brother said.
In a little while, the two little boys came to a confectioner’s shop, and both went into it to spend their money.
“Well, my little man, what will you have?” asked the shop-keeper, looking at William, as he came up to the counter.
“Give me three pennies’ worth of cream candy,” William said.
The cream candy was weighed out, and then the man asked James what he should get for him.
“I want a nice sweet orange, for a penny,” said James.
“Our best oranges are twopence,” was the reply.
“But I have only a penny, and I want a nice orange for my mother, who is sick.”
“Do you buy it with your own money, my little man?” asked the confectioner.
“Yes, sir,” was the low answer.
“Then take one of the best, for your penny, and here is some candy into the bargain. I love to see little boys thoughtful of their mothers.” And the man patted James upon the head, and seemed much pleased.
William felt bad when he heard what the man said, and began to think how very much pleased his mother would be when James took her the orange after school.
“I wish I had bought an orange too,” he said, as he went along, eating his candy, which did not taste half so good as he had expected it would taste.
Do you know why it did not taste so good? I will tell you. His mind was not at ease. When our thoughts trouble us, we take little or no pleasure in anything. To make this still plainer, I will just mention the case of a boy, who thought it would be so pleasant if he could play all the time, instead of going to school. So much did he think about this, that one morning, he resolved that he would not go to school when sent, but would go out into the woods, and play all day, and be so happy.
So, when he started off, with his dinner in a little basket, instead of going to the school-room, he went to the woods.
“Oh, this is so pleasant!” he said, on first arriving at the woods—“No books nor lessons—no sitting still all day. Oh, I shall be so happy!”
As he said this, the thought of his parents, and of their grief and displeasure, if they should find out that he had played truant, came into his mind, and made him feel very unhappy. But he endeavoured to forget this, and began to frisk about, and to try his best to be delighted with his new-found freedom. But it was of no use. His thoughts would go back to his parents, and to a consciousness of his disobedience; and these thoughts destroyed all the pleasantness of being freed from school. At last, he grew weary of everything around him, and began to wish that he was again at school. But he was afraid to go now, it had become so late; and so he had to stay in the woods all day. It seemed to him the longest day he had ever spent, for the thoughts of his disobedience, and the fear of his parents’ displeasure, if they were to find out what he had done, prevented him from taking any enjoyment. Oh, how glad he was, when the sun began to go down towards the west! But it seemed to him that it never would get to be five o’clock. Every man he saw with a watch he asked the time of day, and every answer he received disappointed him, for he was sure it must be later.
At last the time came for him to go home. As he drew near, he began to tremble, lest his parents should have made the discovery that he had not been to school. They did not know it, however, until the little boy, to ease his troubled mind, confessed his fault.
Now this little boy could not enjoy himself in the woods because his mind was not at ease. He was not satisfied with himself. He could not approve of his own conduct.
So it was with William. He felt that he had been selfish, and that this selfishness would appear when his brother carried home the orange for their sick mother. It was for this reason that his candy did not taste so good to him as he had expected that it would. But James ate his with much satisfaction.
“I wish I had bought ma’ an orange with my pennies,” William said, as they were going home from school.
“I wish you had, too,” replied his unselfish brother, “for then we should have two to give her, instead of one.”
“See, ma’, what a nice sweet orange I have bought you,” he said, as he arrived at home, and went into his mother’s sick chamber.
“It is, indeed, very nice, my son, and it will taste good to me. I have wanted an orange all the morning. Where did you get it?”
“Pa’ gave me a penny, this morning, and I bought it with this. I thought you would like to have one.”
“You are very good, my son, to think of your sick mother. And you wouldn’t spend your penny for cake or candy; but denied yourself, that you might get an orange for me? Mother loves you for this manifestation of your self-denial and love for your parent.” And she kissed him.
William heard all this, and it made him feel very bad indeed. Oh, how he did wish that he had bought something for his mother with the pennies his father had given him! But it was too late now.
The pain he felt, however, was useful to him. It taught him to know that we may often obtain far greater happiness by denying ourselves for the sake of others, than in seeking alone the gratification of our own appetite; and he seriously resolved he would try in future to do better.
HENRY AND HIS SISTER.
Said Henry, one day,
As from school he came in,
“Don’t you think, sister dear,
A good boy I have been,
Such a beautiful book to have gained?
“Just look at these pictures,
The bird on the tree,
These lambs in the meadow,
This flower, and this bee,
With its honey from blossoms obtained.
“And here is a story,
And here is a song;
Let me read the story,
It won’t take me long;”
And so the nice story he read.
“Oh, what a nice story!”
And little Jane’s smile
Played on her face,
Like a sunbeam, awhile—
“I’m so glad you were good!” then she said.
ANNA AND HER KITTEN.
Little Anna has a very pretty grey kitten; and she loves the kitty very much; and the kitty loves her. Sometimes when Anna is playing with her doll and nine-pins, kitty puts out her paw and rolls all the playthings about the room, but Anna does not mind that; she knows the little pussy does it all for play.
One day, when Anna was alone with the kitty, in the parlour, she made scratches on the window; and that was a very naughty trick. When her nurse came into the room, she asked Anna, “Who made these scratches on the window?” Little Anna felt ashamed of the mischief she had done; and she did not speak a word.
The kitten was asleep in the chair; and the nurse said, “I suppose this naughty puss did it;” and she took the kitten out of the chair, and told her she must box her ears, for scratching the window; but little Anna began to cry; and she ran up to her nurse, saying, “Oh, don’t whip little kitty; she did not scratch the window. I did it.”
And so the nurse did not strike poor puss; and Anna took the kitty in her arms, and smoothed her soft grey fur, and made her very happy. Anna’s father and mother and her grandmother loved their little girl very much, because she told the truth, and was so kind to her good little kitten.
