A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HENRY AND HIS FATHER.
“What is the matter, Henry?” asked Mr. Carey of his son, who looked more sober than usual, one day, after his return from school.
“I don’t feel happy,” Henry replied, looking up into his father’s face with an effort to smile. “But I suppose it is my own fault, although I can’t help it.”
“Has anything very particular happened?”
“No, sir. Nothing very particular. Only I’ve been next to head in my class for a week.”
“Next to head! Why, I thought you had been at the head of your class for the last three or four months.”
“So I have been until within a week. But, since then, do all I can, Herbert Wellmore keeps his place above me.”
“And this is the reason of your unhappiness?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But do you think it is a just cause of unhappiness?”
“I always feel bad if I am not first in everything, father.”
“Do you think it right to feel so, Henry?”
“Is it not right, father, for me to excel others in every way?”
“Yes, if it is in your power to do so; for then you can be more useful than any one else. But, it seems that Herbert Wellmore can excel you—and I suppose he does so fairly.”
“Oh, yes. It is fair enough—and that is just what I don’t like. It shows that he can do better than I can.”
“Then he will have it in his power to be more useful to his fellow-men than you. And should not this make you glad instead of discontented?”
“I didn’t think anything about that, father.”
“So I supposed—if you had so thought, you would, probably, never have been willing to have seen your school-fellow. But why does this circumstance make you unhappy?”
“I don’t like any one to get ahead of me.”
“Why?”
Henry tried to determine in his own mind the reason, but was unable to do so. Mr. Carey saw this, and added:
“Don’t you think that selfishness has something to do with it? Wounded self-love, I have before told you, is a frequent cause of our unhappiness. Now, think again, and try if you cannot determine the reason why you wished to excel all others in your class.”
“That I might be thought to be the smartest boy in it, I suppose.”
“Would you not call that a mere selfish feeling?”
“I suppose so. And yet ought I not to try and keep ahead?”
“Certainly, as I have said before. But you should not feel the slightest pain if another boy excels you fairly. Suppose every boy were to be disturbed in mind, as you have been, because other boys were in advance;—don’t you see that every boy in a class, but one, would be unhappy? And would that be right? None of us, my son, have minds alike. This, you know, I have before explained to you, and also the reason why it is so. Now, do you remember that reason?”
“It is because in society there are various uses, all requiring a different order of talent. Is not that the reason?”
“Yes, my son; that is the reason, and I am glad you have remembered so correctly what I told you a few days ago. From this you may see that there is always something that one person will be able to do better than another; and, of course, one kind of knowledge that he will be able to acquire more easily than another. Have you not, yourself, noticed, that while one boy excels in penmanship, another, who cannot learn to write even a fair hand, will far outstrip this one in arithmetic?—and a third go ahead of the other two in acquiring a correct geographical knowledge?—A fourth delights most in the study of navigation and surveying, while a dull boy, in almost everything else, can acquire a knowledge of chemical laws more rapidly than any in his class. You have, of course, observed all this?”
“Oh, yes, frequently. There is Thomas Wiley, for instance, who, in spelling, reading, and writing, is always behind every one else; and yet no one can answer more questions in geography, or project so beautiful a map, as he can. Charles Lee has no trouble at all with the hardest question in algebra; but is deficient in grammar, and hates his Latin and Greek more than any punishment or reprimand the teacher can give. And, now I think of it, I don’t know any two boys in school who are alike in regard to learning their lessons.”
“Do you not think that it would be very foolish in Thomas Wiley to make himself unhappy because he could not write so pretty a hand as you do? Or for Charles Lee to forget all his skill at solving algebraic problems, in making himself miserable because he was behind another boy in Latin and Greek, whose mind was peculiarly fitted for the acquirement of language, while his was not?”
“I certainly think it would, father.”
“Then bring this home to yourself. Is there no one thing in which you can excel Herbert Wellmore?”
“Yes, sir. I can solve a problem in half the time it takes him to do it in. But, then, he is always correct—and so gets as much as I do from the teacher, who does not seem to take into account my superior quickness.”
“In this, I need hardly point out to you, my son, the selfish principle that influences you. Instead of feeling grateful to your heavenly Father for having given you the ability to work out a difficult problem with half the labour it costs another, you are unhappy because this superior ability is not praised, and you, in consequence, held up to view as deserving of more commendation than Herbert; when, in fact, he is the one who should be praised for his steady perseverance in overcoming difficulties that are as nothing to you.”
“I believe I have permitted myself to indulge in wrong feelings,” Henry said, after remaining silent for a few moments. “But I think you have told me that emulation is not to be condemned.”
“It certainly is not, my son. I would have you, as now, emulous of superior acquirements; but, at the same time, aware, that in this emulation there would be no jealousy or unkind feelings. Be first in everything, if possible,—and yet willing to see others excel you,—remembering, that in so excelling they will have the power to be more useful to mankind; for the true power that resides in knowledge is the power of doing good.”
A NURSE’S SONG.
The voice of children is heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill;
When my heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.
“Now, come home, my children, the sun is down,
And the dews of night fall fast;
Come, leave off play, and let us away,
Till the morning appears in the east.”
No, no, let us play, for it is yet day—
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky, the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep.
“Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to rest.”
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
And all the hills echoed for joy.
THE SHEPHERD AND THE FAIRY.
A shepherd, who was of an unfortunately discontented turn of mind,—one who was much fonder of reclining lazily on a sunny bank, than of viewing his own lot on its sunny side—was one day moodily watching his flock, wishing himself all the while its owner instead of guardian; in other words, a happier man. His faithful dog lay beside him, and every now and then licked the hand of his master, as it hung listlessly by his side, and then looked up into his face, as if to read his thoughts. But the shepherd was in no humour to stroke the shaggy hide of his friend, Keeper—his envious musings having been diverted to the sleek coat of his master’s hunter, which had just bounded, with its wealthy rider, over an adjacent hedge. The sullen tender of flocks was all at once roused from his reverie by the small, silvery voice of a sprightly little fairy.
“What ails thee, my good man?” said she, tapping his shoulder with her wand; “you seem mighty melancholy. Have you met with any disaster?—lost anything?—perhaps your wife!”
“No such luck.”
“Or some of your sheep?”
“What should I care—they’re my master’s.”
“Your purse, then?”
“Purse!” growled the shepherd, “no great loss, if I had, for it’s always empty.”
“Ah! I think I can guess what’s the matter,” said the fairy: “you are wishing to be rich, and discontented because you are poor. But, prithee, now listen to me. Once upon a time, when we fairies used to mix much more with mankind than we do at present, we learnt many of their pernicious customs; and seeing the high store they set by money, and the uses to which they applied it, we (in an evil hour) resolved to have money of our own. Nature had ready coined it to our hands, in the gold and silver seeds of flowers, and these we stored up, and made our circulating medium. Then came amongst us, envy, avarice, dishonesty. Instead of being, as heretofore, the protectors of the beautiful flowers, we became their ravagers; instead of the most benevolent and happy little creatures in the world, we became a discontented, malevolent, and restless race. We began to dislike our native dells and dingles, and to haunt, more than ever, the habitations of man. We knew well enough, however, that the cause of all our misery had been our foolish imitation of their practices; and with a view to revenge, many a sorry trick and mischievous prank did we delight to play them—as, doubtless, you may have often heard. This, however, availed us nothing; and, at last, growing tired of such profitless vengeance, we made up our minds to return entirely to our shady recesses, and, what was better, to our ancient habits. Truly, it cost some of us not a little to part with our stores of golden treasure; but at last we all agreed to throw away our money; and having then no further use for our purses, we hung them up, as memorials of our folly, upon the most ugly and worthless weeds we could discover, where you may even now behold them.”
The fairy, as she spoke, pointed out to the shepherd some mean, ragged-looking plants which grew beside him; and, sure enough, there he saw suspended, the little triangular pods or purses, of which she had been speaking.
They proved more useful to him than they had done to their former possessors; for the common weed to which they were attached, could never in future, cross his path, without reminding him of the lesson of his fairy monitress; taught by which, he soon found that, in the enjoyment of a contented mind, a light purse need not always make a heavy heart.
Note.—Shepherd’s purse, or wedge-shaped treacle-mustard, one of our commonest road-side weeds, varying greatly in the size and form of its leaves. “It flowers from spring to the end of autumn, and ripens copiously its triangular pole or pouches, whence its name,—distinguished from all other British plants. The root is tapering, and exhales a peculiar scent when pulled out of the ground. Small birds are fond of the seeds and young flowers.”—[Sowerby’s English Botany.
SIMPLE PLEASURES.
Far, far down in the pass of the Clara mountains I dwelt with my sister Joanna. We lived with an old aunt, who took us home after our father’s death. She was not in good health, and so could not do much for us. We were generally left to an old woman, who had the charge of us; but she was a little severe, and a little sharp, and very deaf; so that we did not have many pleasant days with her. Nevertheless, we tried to amuse ourselves as well as we could. We had tamed a little rat, so that when we laid a bit of sugar on the stone by the stove, he would come out and eat it, while we stood in the other corner of the room. It is true that we dared scarcely breathe, but yet we were a little flattered by his confidence in us.
Bits of sugar were, however, in these times, rare treasures for us; and not more than two pieces a week, could we have for the rat and for our own eating. Sundays were great holidays for us, for then we had Cologne water on the corners of our handkerchiefs, butter to our potatoes at breakfast, and roast meat at dinner.
It was also among our pleasures that we could, twice in the week, walk an hour in the court-yard. But, as people are seldom content with what they have, we were not satisfied with our amusements; and when summer arrived, and all the great people came out to their estates in the country, we took great pleasure in the idea of making a country residence for ourselves. We had sometimes followed the old woman to the cellar, and we had observed a place in the corner, on which the light struck from a certain air-hole, open towards the garden. There we planted a pea, one fine morning towards the end of May. For three weeks we went every day, and sought out the place, removing the earth a little about it, to see whether the pea had not begun to sprout.
Our delight was great, when, on the twenty-fourth day, after the planting, we saw a little swelling up of the pea, beautifully green and very shy, just peeping up with an expanded leaf.
We danced round it and sang for joy. Near this plantation we then placed a little pasteboard house, and before it a small bench, on which we put some paper gentlemen and ladies. And no one can have a livelier enjoyment in his country residence than we had in ours.
We lodged in a dark and very small room. But from my bed I could see a little bit of sky in the morning, and the chimney of our neighbour’s house. But when the smoke rose from the chimney, and was coloured red and yellow by the rising sun, under the dome of the blue sky, then I thought the world up there in the air must be very beautiful, and I longed to go thither.
I conceived a great desire to fly, and confided this wish to Joanna. We made ourselves paper wings, and as these could not lift us up, we tried whether they would not at least sustain us, if we let ourselves go, without holding on to anything, from the stove, chest of drawers, or whatever we had climbed up upon.
But besides that, we got many bruises in these attempts, we made such a noise by falling to the floor, that it brought in the old woman, who gave a hearty scolding to the clumsy angels. Meanwhile, we thought of still another means of sustaining ourselves as we hovered over the earth. We selected suitable sticks, which we used as stilts, and on these we went round about the court yard, imagining all the time that we were flying.
Would that we had been content with this! But the desire to know more of the world without, threw us into misfortune. The house which we lived in was situated within a court-yard, and was separated from the street by a high wooden fence. A part of the enclosure was a garden, well fenced in and belonged to a notary. He was a severe man, and we were much afraid of him.
The temptation to evil came this time in the shape of a little pig. We saw, one day, when we were passing our play hour in the court-yard, a fortunate pig, who was enjoying himself in the most riotous manner in this garden. Spinach, tulips, strawberries, and parsley, all were thrown around him, as he dug with his snout in the earth.
Our anger at this was very great, and not less our wonder how the pig could have got into the garden, as the gate was shut and the fence was so firm. We looked about carefully, and at last discovered a hole, which had been nearly covered by a few old boards placed against it, but which the little pig had instinctively found out, and through which he had forced his way.
We thought it of the greatest importance to get the pig immediately out of the pleasure garden, and we could see no other means of doing so than to creep through, in at the same hole by which he had made his way; and now we hunted with great zeal our poor guide, and then put in order, as well as we could, what he had scattered about.
We closed the hole in the fence with a board, but could not resist the desire to let it serve us, now and then, as an entrance to this paradise. As we did not mean to hurt, or even meddle with anything in the garden, we thought it would not be wrong to take a breath of fresh air now and then. Every Sunday, in particular, we crept in by the pig’s hole, which we always closed carefully after us. All around, within the garden fence, there was a hedge of syringa bushes, which hindered us from being seen from without.
However, it was very wrong in us to go into another person’s garden without leave; and we soon found that every wrong thing brings its punishment with it sooner or later.
There was a little summer house in the garden, near that part of the fence which separated it from the street. There were some bushes so near that Joanna and I took the bold resolution to climb up by them, so as to get on the roof of the summer house, and there to look over the fence into the street. Thought, said, done.
Proud, triumphant, and glad, we found ourselves, after a quarter of an hour’s labour, on the much-promised roof, and richly were we repaid for our trouble. We had a full view of the street. We saw, now and then, an old woman with a milk-cart, sometimes a gentleman in a chaise, and when we were in great luck, a lady with a parasol; and, still better, we had even a distinct perspective of King street, and had the indescribable delight of seeing a crowd of walkers and idlers, on horseback and in carriages, passing by. The whole world seemed to be moving there. After we had once seen this, we could not live without seeing it again.
One day,—I remember it as if it were yesterday,—one day we had taken our high post, and were looking curiously upon the world in King street. All at once we saw a stately rider on horseback, and directly after him a pair of white horses, drawing a splendid carriage. That must be the queen!—perhaps the king himself! Out of our senses with delight, we began to clap our hands and hurra loudly. At the same moment we heard the notary coughing in the garden. We were dreadfully frightened. We wanted to get down quickly from the roof, and hide ourselves among the trees; but, in our alarm, we could not find the right places for our hands and feet. Joanna rolled like a ball over the notary’s strawberry bed, and I remained hanging by the chin to a great nail in the plank, and screaming as if out of my senses. See! here is the scar by the nail, it can be seen even now.——
These youthful adventures were related to amuse two little girls, who were suffering under a disappointment, having been prevented from going out to see an exhibition of fire-works. When their governess had reached this point in her story, a more than delicate supper was announced, and the children ran off to enjoy it, without stopping to inquire farther about the scar on the good lady’s chin.
(From the President’s Daughters by F. Bremer.)
THE ROBIN’S “GOOD BYE” TO LITTLE ARAMINTA.
ROBIN.
Good bye, good bye! I’m going away!
I’ll come again next spring, clear!
I scarce can find one leafy spray,
On which to plume my wing, dear.
ARAMINTA.
Dear Robin, are you going south,
To pass the coming season?
This chill air don’t agree with you—
You’re ill?—Is that the reason?
Your doctor thinks you cannot stay
With safety in this climate?
Advises you to travel? hey?
(That word—how shall I rhyme it?)
ROBIN.
I have no doctor. I’m as well
As you are, Araminta;
But I’ve relations at the south,
With whom I pass the winter.
We birds, that have no clothes or fire,
Must fly this stormy weather;
Good bye!—my friends are setting out;
We always go together.
ARAMINTA.
Stay just a moment! Tell me how
You’re going? Wings will weary;
And there’s no steamboat in the sky;
The way is long and dreary.
ROBIN.
There’s One above, who will not see
A sparrow fall unheeded;
He, ’Minta, will watch over me,
And give me strength when needed.
I’m going where the orange glows,
Like gold, thro’ the emerald leaves, love;
I’m going where its richest rose
The laughing summer weaves, love.
ARAMINTA.
But tell me, Robin, how you’ll find
The route you want to glide on;
There are no sign-posts in the air,
Not even a road to ride on!
ROBIN.
Ah, little one! I cannot err,
With His true hand to guide me;
His care is ever o’er my way,
His helpful love beside me.
THE BABY-HOUSE.
Are there any of you, my young friends, so young or so ignorant as to believe that, if you might go to the beautiful toy shops, and had but money enough to buy just what toys you fancy, you should be quite happy?
You have heard of Napoleon, the great Emperor of France, and perhaps you have heard of his wife, the lovely Empress Josephine. She had a daughter, Hortense, who was married to the King of Holland, Napoleon’s brother. The Queen of Holland had children, dearly beloved by their grandmother Josephine. One year, as the Christmas holidays approached, she sent for those artisans in Paris who manufacture toys, and ordered toys to be made expressly for her grandchildren, more beautiful and more costly than any that were to be bought. Her commands were obeyed—the toys arrived in Holland at the right time, and on Christmas morning were given to the children. For a little while they were enchanted; they thought they should never see enough of a doll that could speak, wild beasts that could roar and growl, and birds that could sing.
But, alas! after a few hours, they were tired of a doll that could say nothing but ma—ma, pa—pa, of beasts that growled in but one tone, and the birds that sang the same note. Before evening the toys were strewn over the floor, some broken, all neglected and deserted; and the mother, on coming into the apartment, found one of the little princes crying at a window that overlooked a court, where some poor children were merrily playing.
“Crying to-day, my son?” she exclaimed. “Oh! what would dear grandmamma say?—what are you crying for?”
“I want to go and play with those children in that pretty dirt, mamma.”
This story was brought to my mind last Christmas eve. I went to see a very good neighbour of ours, Mrs. Selby, a carpenter’s wife. The whole family are industrious and economical, and obliged to be so, for Mr. Selby cannot always get work in these times. He will not call them hard times. “It would be a shame to us,” he says, “to call times hard when we never go hungry, and have decent clothes to cover us, and have health on our cheeks, and love in our hearts.”
And, sure enough, there was no look of hard times there. The room was clean and warm. Mrs. Selby was busy over her mending basket, putting a darn here, a button in this place, and a hook and a eye there, to have all in order for Christmas morning. Her only son, Charles, was very busy with some of his father’s tools in one corner; not too busy, though, to make his bow to me, and draw forward the rocking-chair. I wish I could find as good manners among our drawing-room children, as I see at Mrs. Selby’s. Sarah and Lucy, the two girls, one eleven, the other ten years old, were working away by the light of a single lamp, so deeply engaged that they did not at first notice my entrance. “Where is little Nannie?” I asked. “She is gone to bed—put out of the way,” replied Mrs. Selby. “Oh, mother!” exclaimed the girls. “Well, then—have not you banished her?” “Banished? No, mother—Oh! mother is only teasing us;” and they blushed and smiled.
“Here is some mystery,” said I; “what is it, Sarah?” “Mother may tell if she pleases, ma’am,” said Sarah. Mother was very happy to tell, for all mothers like to tell good of their children.
“You know, ma’am, the children all doat on little Nannie, she is so much younger than they—only five years old—and they had a desire to have some very pretty Christmas gift for her; but how could they, they said, with so little money as they had to spend? They have, to be sure, a little store. I make it a rule to give each a penny at the end of the week, if I see them improving in their weak point.” “Weak point! what is that, Mrs. Selby?” “Why, ma’am, Charles is not always punctual at school; so I promised him that if he will not be one half minute behindhand for a week, he shall have a penny. Sarah, who is a little head over heels, gets one for making the beds and dusting neatly. And Lucy—Lucy is a careless child—for not getting a spot on her apron. On counting up Charles had fifty-one pennies Sarah forty-eight, and Lucy forty-nine.”
“No, mother,” said Lucy; “Sarah had forty-eight, and I forty-seven.” “Ah, so it was; thank you, dear, for correcting me.” “But Lucy would have had just the same as I, only she lost one penny by breaking a tea-cup, and it was such cold weather it almost broke itself.”
I looked with delight at these little girls, so just and generous to one another. The mother proceeded: “Father makes it a rule, if they have been good children, to give them two shillings each, for holidays; so they had seventy-five pennies a-piece.”
“Enough,” said I, “to make little Miss Nannie a pretty respectable present.”
“Ah, indeed, if it were all for Nannie? but they gave a Christmas present to their father and to me, and to each other, and to the poor little lame child, next door; so that Nannie only comes in for a sixth part. They set their wits to work to contrive something more than their money would buy, and they determined on making a baby-house, which they were sure would please her and give her many a pleasant hour when they were gone to school. So there it stands in the corner of the room. Take away the shawl, girls, and show it to Miss ——. The shawl has been carefully kept over it, to hide it from Nanny, that she may have the pleasure of surprise to-morrow morning.” The shawl was removed, and if my little readers have ever been to the theatre, and remember their pleasure when the curtain was first drawn up, they can imagine mine. The baby-house was three stories high—that is, there were three rooms, one above the other, made by placing three old wooden boxes one on the other. Old, I call them, but so they did not appear: their outsides had been well scoured, then pasted over with paper, and the gum arabic was put on the paper, and over that was nicely scattered a coating of granite-coloured smalt. The inside wall of the lower room, or kitchen, was covered with white paper, to look like fresh white wash; the parlour and chamber walls were covered with very pretty hanging-paper, given to the children by their friend, Miss Laverty, the upholsterer. The kitchen floor was spread with straw matting. Charles had made a very nice dresser for one side, and a table and a seat resembling a settee, for the other. The girls had created something in the likeness of a woman, whom they called a cook; the broom she held in one hand,—they had made it admirably,—and the pail in the other was Charles’ handy-work. A stove, shovel and tongs, tea-kettle and skillet, and dishes for the dresser they had spent money for. They were determined, first, to get their necessaries, Sarah said, (a wise little house-wife,) if they went without everything else. The kitchen furniture, smalt and gum arabic, had cost them eighteen-pence—just half their joint stock. “Then how could you possibly furnish your parlour and chamber so beautifully?”
“Oh, that is almost all our own work, ma’am. Charlie made the frames of the chairs and sofas, and we stuffed and covered them.” “But where did you get this very pretty crimson cloth to cover them, and the materials for your carpet and curtains?” The parlour carpet was made of dark cloth, with a centre piece of flowers and birds, very neatly fashioned, and sewed on. The chamber carpet was made of squares of divers coloured cloth.
The cloth for the centre-table was neatly worked; the window-curtains were strips of rich coloured cotton sewed together; the colours matched the colours of the carpet. To my question to Sarah, where she had got all these pretty materials, she replied, “Oh, ma’am, we did not buy them with money, but we bought them and paid for them with labour, father says.”
These little girls were early beginning to learn that truth in political economy, that all property is produced and obtained by labour. “Miss Laverty, the upholsteress, works up stairs; we picked hair for her, and she paid us in these pieces.”
“The centre-table, bedstead, and chairs,” said the mother, “and the wardrobe for the bed-chamber, Charlie made. The bed-sheets, pillows, spreads, &c., the girls made from pieces fished, as they say, out of my piece-basket. The work was all done in their play hours; their working time is not theirs, and therefore they could not give it away.”
“I see,” said I, looking at some very pretty pictures hanging around the parlour and chamber walls, “how these are arranged; they seem cut out of old books, pasted against pasteboard, and bound around with gilt paper; but pray tell me how this little mamma doll was bought, and the little baby in the cradle, and this pretty tea-set, and the candle-sticks, and the book-case and flower-vase on the centre-table, and the parlour stove. Charlie could make none of these things; you could not contrive them out of Miss Laverty’s pieces; and surely the three sixpences left after your expenditure for the kitchen, would go very little way towards paying for them.”
“To tell the truth, ma’am,” said Mrs. Selby, “the girls were at their wits’ ends. Miss Laverty could not afford to pay them money for their work. I had got almost as much interested in fitting up the baby-house as they, and would gladly have given them a little more money, but I had not a shilling to spare. Sarah and Lucy laid their heads together one night after they went to bed, and in the morning they came to me and told me their plan.
“We have always a pudding-pie on Sunday instead of meat. ‘Can’t you, mother,’ said they, ‘reckon up what our portion of the pie costs?—Make one just large enough for you, and my father, and Nannie, and we will eat dry bread, and then, with the money saved, added to our three sixpences, we will get what we can.’ At first I thought it rather hard upon the children, but my husband and I talked it over together, and we concluded, as it was their own proposal, to let them do it. We thought it might be teaching them, ma’am, to have love, as one may say, stronger than appetite, and work their little self-denial up with their love, and industry, and ingenuity. Poor people, such as we, cannot do what rich people can, for the education of their children. But there are some things we can do, which rich people can’t—our poor circumstances help us. When our children want to do a kindness, as in this matter of the baby-house, they can’t run to father and mother, and get money to do it with; they are obliged to think it out, and work it out, as one may say: and I believe it is the great end of education, ma’am, to make mind, heart, and hand work.”
Again I looked at the baby-house, and with real respect for the people who had furnished it. The figures on the carpet, the gay curtains, tables, chairs, &c., were all very pretty, and very suitably and neatly arranged, but they were something more,—outward forms, into which Charles, Sarah, and Lucy had breathed, a soul instinct with love, kindheartedness, diligence, and self-denial.
Now, I ask my young friends to compare the gifts of the poor carpenter’s children to those of the empress. Hers cost a single order, and a great deal of money,—theirs, much labour and forethought. If the happiness produced in the two cases, to both giver and receiver, were calculated, which would be the greatest amount? And which, in reality, were the richest—the rich empress’s grandchildren, or the poor carpenter’s little family?
FIDELITY AND OBEDIENCE.
“Isabelle: Isabelle! where are you?” but no Isabelle answered; and Mrs. Howard, her mother, was just going to send some of the servants after her, when Bruno, a large Newfoundland dog, rushed into the hall, and caught hold of her dress in his mouth. He was wet, and seemed very anxious for her to follow him; accordingly, Mrs. Howard called the gardener, and followed Bruno, who seemed delighted.
There was a large pond at the foot of the garden, and it was towards this that the dog ran; and as they were proceeding along, a suspicion entered the mother’s mind, which caused her to hurry forward; need I say that it was of her child she thought—her darling Isabelle? Soon they reached the pond, and there, on the bank, lay her daughter; but her eyes were closed, and her cheeks so white that she seemed dead. Mrs. Howard uttered a shriek of mingled joy and anguish—joy, that she was out of the pond, and fear that she might not live.
She sprang forward and raised her from the ground—she put her hand on her child’s heart—and, oh! happiness! she felt it beat. Isabelle was immediately carried home, and a physician was sent for, and he said that she was not hurt in any way,—that fright, only, had caused her to faint.
Bruno, the faithful Bruno, was given to Isabelle for her playmate and protector; and often might the two be seen bounding over the lawn, and through the meadows; and when the little girl was tired, Bruno would seat himself under the shade of some tree, while Isabelle would make him her pillow, and when she was rested, away they would run again. But this was on holidays; for Isabelle was a studious little girl, and did not spend all her time in play.
I suppose my little readers are all this time wondering why I do not tell them how Isabelle came to fall into the pond: I must beg pardon for my neglect, and repair the error by telling them. Well, Isabelle had leave to play in the garden with Bruno, and, as she was rambling by the pond, she saw a beautiful tuft of blue violets; and as she knew her mother was very fond of violets, she wished very much to get them for her; and though she had been told never to walk near the edge of the banks, she thought she should be able to get the flowers without danger; but in reaching for them, her foot slipped, and she fell over into the water.
Bruno immediately plunged in, and brought her safe to the bank, as we have seen; but Isabelle learnt a good lesson, which she never forgot, and that was, obedience to her parents; for with obedience to their commands, they will be always more pleased and happy, than with the most lovely flowers in the field.
BESSIE LEE.
In an old school-house in one of our rural villages, one beautiful summer’s day, a group of merry children were assembled. Some were hurrying with their lessons, while others were turning listlessly from their books to gaze with anxious faces upon the clock, which ticked loudly (and very slowly on this particular day) in the corner. An afternoon holiday had been promised, and an excursion to a not far distant wood, for the purpose of gathering berries. No wonder, then, all looked pleased and happy.
At length, the long-wished-for hour arrived. A waggon appeared at the door to convey the younger children and the basket to the entrance of the wood, and the elder scholars tripped gaily on—each one with a well-filled basket in hand to contribute to the repast “under the greenwood tree.” It was not long ere they reached the wood.
“Oh, how cool!” one exclaimed, as the breeze sighed through the trees and rustled the green leaves; “and how shady!” another cried, as she walked beneath the spreading branches.
Near the entrance of the wood, meandered a clear stream, and the soft, rich grass sloped gently to the bank, while the branches of an old elm tree fell partly on the water, and formed a fairy-like nook; and here the children stopped,—’twas the very spot for their feast, before they gathered their berries. The baskets were quickly opened, and the contents spread upon the mossy bank. But who was to do the honours of the table? Their choice quickly fell upon a beautiful girl, the daughter of the minister. Bessie Lee was indeed beautiful; her golden hair clustered round her face, and her eyes, of the colour of the noonday sky, shaded by their dark lashes, gave an unusually lovely expression to her countenance;
“And her laugh, full of life, without any control,
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul.”
No wonder, then, she was loved by all—rich and poor, young and old. A wreath of wild flowers was twined by the happy subjects, and the lovely queen was crowned. And then they separated to gather the berries, going in different directions, but intending to meet by the spring ere they returned home.
Bessie hurried eagerly on towards the interior of the woods, but she went not alone; her cousin, Harry Morton, about her own age, accompanied her to help to fill her basket. Hand in hand they wandered, ever and anon stopping to gather the clustering berries, or the bright flowers, that grew in their path. They heard the voices of their companions, but soon the sound died away in the distance. Yet they pressed on, conversing gaily;—but the baskets were filled, and should they not return, asked Harry of his cousin. She looked up,—the sun was shedding his declining rays through the trees, and the woods were flooded with golden light.
“I did not know it was so late,” exclaimed Bessie: “we shall be missed, and our schoolmates will be waiting by the spring; we shall have to walk fast.”
They turned to retrace their steps and hastened on. “Surely,” said Henry, “this is not the way we came; the trees are closer together, and I do not see the big chestnut we said we would have for a landmark.” “Oh,” cried Bessie, “that is farther on; it was just where the two roads met;—we shall soon be there—don’t you think so?” The poor boy did not answer; he felt that they had lost their way, and he feared to tell his cousin, for timid as a fawn she had always been.
“Are you tired, Bessie?” He looked into her face; the flush of hope had disappeared, and her faltering steps could scarce support her. He placed his arm around her slender waist; “Lean upon me, cousin; you are fatigued.”
“Oh, Henry!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears; “we are lost; and my poor mother, how will she feel? We shall never see her again; we shall have to stay in this dark place all night—and the bears and lions—oh, what shall we do?”
“Do not cry, dear cousin; there are no wild animals here now; there is nothing to hurt us here. The woods in this part are free; and don’t you know what we read this morning,—there were no lions in this country?”
And so he tried to comfort her, and poor Bessie dried her eyes and tried to smile. “We are like the ‘Babes in the Wood,’ Harry; only I am afraid there are no pretty robins who will cover us up with leaves, and watch over us.”
The last rays of the sun faded away, and the golden-fringed clouds melted into blue. The full moon rose high in the heavens, and the bright stars shone calmly down on the lost ones. Exhausted, the cousins sank upon the grass, under an old tree, whose friendly branches stretched far and wide to shelter them.
“I can go no farther,” cried Bessie; “my head aches, and I feel so tired. Oh, if I could only see mother,—she will be so frightened. Do you think any one will come to find us?”
“Do not feel so bad,” said Henry; “nothing will hurt us. God will take care of us, and it will soon be morning, and then we can easily find our way out of the woods. Your father will send some one for us, or he may come himself, who knows?”
“Hark!” cried Bessie, springing to her feet; “did you not hear a noise? Something rustled in the grass; I am sure it was a snake.” She clung closer and closer to Harry, and it was with difficulty he could soothe her. He told her how groundless were her fears; that a protecting Providence watched over them, and they would not be harmed.
He wrapped her shawl closer around her, for the night air was chilly to her tender frame. “The soft grass shall be your bed, Bessie, and I will watch over you; but first let us say our evening prayer, just as if we were at home.” Together the cousins knelt down and offered their humble petition to the Most High, and then they lay down on their mossy bed to sleep,—Bessie, with her head pillowed on the breast of Harry; his arm supported her, and so they slept. Sweet visions of home haunted their dreams, and their parents’ loved faces smiled upon and blessed them.
It was morning; the sun was just rising, and a faint light was diffused through the trees, and the birds were carolling forth their matin songs. Bessie still slept—the innocent sleep of childhood. Henry lay in the same position, for he would not disturb her. For hours he had lain listening to every sound.
At length Bessie awoke; she looked around,—“Where am I?” were the first words that escaped her lips. She looked at Henry. “Oh! I remember now; we have been here all night. Do you think we shall get home to-day?”
“Oh, yes;” said her cousin, gaily. “I am so glad you have rested so well. We will soon set out, and perhaps we shall get home to breakfast. But eat some of the berries, Bessie, and then we will try to find our way out of the wood.”
She tasted the berries, but pushed them aside. “I cannot eat; I feel, Harry, if we do not soon get home, I shall never eat again.”
“Oh! do not grieve so, dear, dear Bessie. Look, the sun is shining brightly through the trees; so that is east, and you know the woods lie west of the school-house; so we will walk towards the sun, and then we will soon see dear home.” He placed his arm carefully around her, and they set out, her steps still faltering.
Mile after mile they thus walked, for they had wandered far the preceding night. At times the trees grew thinner, and they would congratulate themselves they were almost home; but then again they could hardly find their way through the overgrown path.
“I cannot go much farther, Harry; for my head throbs almost to bursting, and I am so dizzy, I can hardly see.” Bessie stopped and leaned for support against a tree; her hat fell back and revealed her face deadly pale. Poor Harry gazed upon her in despair. What if she should die there in the wood, away from all that loved her? The thought was agony,—the scalding tears started to his eyes. He took hold of her hand; “Bessie, speak to me; lean upon me—we will soon be home, only think so.”
At that instant, a plunge was heard in a neighbouring bush. Bessie, too, heard it; it recalled her fleeting senses. She looked up,—a beautiful dog came bounding towards her. She stretched out her arms; “’Tis Carlo; dear, dear Carlo!” The dog crouched at her feet. She stooped to embrace the animal—the tear-drops glistened in her eyes and fell warm upon the faithful creature. “Oh, Harry! he has come to save us; we shall see home once more.”
But she was too weak to walk, and how was he to bear her home? Delicately formed himself, and worn out with fatigue and watching nearly the whole night, he could scarce bear his own weight. Carlo bounded gaily on, inviting them to follow. A voice was heard in the distance, calling on their names,—“Bessie! Harry!” He tried to answer, but his voice was low and feeble. “Bessie, let me help you; I hear voices; let us try to meet them; I will support you.” He raised her from the ground and tried to bear her on. The voices approached nearer and nearer; again he essayed to answer,—this time he was heard. They saw some one coming rapidly towards them, and recognised Bessie’s father. He hurried on, and received the almost insensible form of his child in his arms. He was accompanied by some of his neighbours, who supported Harry home. Scarce half an hour elapsed, ere Bessie was laid in her mother’s arms. Carlo, half maddened with joy, frisked and gambolled round them. In vain poor Bessie tried to tell her story, but tears and sobs choked her voice.
They had wandered very far into the woods. On the return of their schoolmates without them, the anxious father, accompanied by some kind neighbours, had spent the night in search of them; but had been unable to trace them, and returned wearied and alone. Another party had immediately formed, and the bereaved father had insisted on again accompanying them. Carlo, Bessie’s little favourite, had followed, and it was the instinct of the faithful animal that led the father to his children. And now they were safe in their own loved home; and many a fervent prayer of thanksgiving for the recovery of the lost ones ascended that night to heaven, from the humble dwelling of Pastor Lee.
THE STARS.—ORION.
“O Father,” said Rollo, looking up; “look at the sky; see how full of stars it is.”
The sky was indeed very full of stars. The galaxy, or the milky way, as it is sometimes called, was very bright. Rollo looked at the stars a moment, and then he got into the sleigh. His father advised him to take a seat with him, behind; but Rollo said he wanted to sit with Jonas, and see the pond, when they came to it.
“I am afraid you will be cold,” said his father.
“No, sir,” said Rollo; “I don’t think it is cold.”
So Rollo took his place, by the side of Jonas, on the front seat, and they rode along. After going at a brisk pace for a few miles, they came to the top of a hill, where the pond first appeared in sight. It looked like a great level field covered with snow. They could see a dark line winding along in a gently-serpentine direction across the surface of it. Jonas said that this was the road they were to take in crossing the pond.
The horse went rapidly down the hill, and before long they were upon the pond. There was not much wind, but a light breeze blew keenly towards Rollo’s face, and made his nose and cheeks cold. So he said he meant to turn round towards his father.
His father proposed to him to come and sit upon the back seat; but he said he should be warm upon the front seat, if he only turned round. So he put his feet over the seat, and enveloped them in the buffalo skins which were down in front of the back seat, and the buffalo skin which had been before him, he threw over his shoulders, so that now he had a very good place indeed. He could see, all around him, the shores of the pond, with the lights in the farm houses on the land, and all the constellations which were spread out before him in that quarter of the heavens at which he was looking.
“O father,” said Rollo, “I see three stars all in a row. I wish I knew the names of them. Could you look round and see, father?”
“Why, not very well,” said his father. “I cannot look round, I am so muffled up.”
Rollo, being seated on the front seat, with his back to the horse, of course was looking at that part of the sky which was behind the sleigh, so that his father could not see the constellation in that quarter of the heavens.
“Let me see,” said his father; “we must be going nearly west, so that that part of the sky is the eastern part. Orion must be rising about this time. Perhaps the stars which you see are the stars in the belt of Orion.”
“In the belt of Orion?” repeated Rollo.
“Yes,” said his father. “The most beautiful constellation in the sky is Orion; and early in the winter it rises in the evening. Orion was a hunter, and he has a belt: and in his belt are three beautiful stars, all in a row.”
“Well, father,” said Rollo, “tell me some other stars that ought to be near, if it is really the belt of Orion that I see, and then I will tell you if they are there.”
“Very well,” said his father. “If they are the three stars in the belt of Orion, they lie in a line one above the other, not one by the side of the other. I mean by that, that, if there was a line drawn through them, and continued each way, it would be a line running up and down in the sky, not a line extending from one side to the other.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rollo; “this row of stars is in a line up and down.”
“And off on each side of the little row of stars are two other bright stars, on each side.”
“How far off, sir?” said Rollo.
“About twice as far, I should think, as the little row of stars.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rollo; “I see one of them. Yes, I see them both. One is on one side, and the other is on the other side.”
“Yes: then I have no doubt it is Orion that you see. One of the stars that you last found is in his foot, and the other is in his shoulder.”
“I wish I could see his shape,” said Rollo, “all drawn out in the sky.”
“It would be very convenient, I have no doubt,” replied his father. “Pretty near the lowest of the three stars in the row, there is a faint cluster of stars, towards the south.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rollo; “I see them.”
“They are in Orion’s sword,” said his father.
“I see them,” said Rollo.
“Now, look at all the stars in the constellation again, and notice how they lie in respect to each other, so that you will know the constellation when you see it again.”
THE APPLE.
Little Anna bent over a quiet brook, and smiled with pleasure at what she saw there. A beautiful living picture was reflected from the clear water. There, bright clouds seemed to sail slowly along, through the clear blue sky, and the leaves of the trees seemed to flutter in the soft summer air. In the midst of these pleasant appearances stood the image of a beautiful little girl, with laughing blue eyes and brown curled hair, which hung down over her white frock, as she stooped forward, as if to look back upon Anna, with a good-natured smile.
While Anna was looking and wondering at the beauty of this picture, an apple fell with a rush into the water, and spattered her face with small water-drops.
“What is that?” said she, wiping her eye-lashes with her little hand. “Oh, it is an apple, covered with bright red cheeks. It is swimming off down the brook, but I will see whether I cannot stop it.” She broke off a blue iris, with a long stem, and after trying many times, she at length drew the apple to the shore, and taking it up with a smile, she turned it round and round, to look at its red streaks.
“Little apple!” said she, with a soft voice, “little red striped apple. I should never have dared to break you from the tree, because the tree does not belong to my father, but to good neighbour Ackerman; but a kind wind has blown you down, into the brook, and now that I have drawn you out with the flag blossom, would it not be best for me to try whether you are as good as you are pretty?”
She sat down on the grass, under the tree, and after she had wiped the apple, she ate it with a very good relish.
Before she had finished, another apple fell directly into her lap. She wondered very much at this last wind-fall, but was much pleased, and thought it still more beautiful than the first. Soon after, a twig fell into her lap, with three apples upon it. Much astonished, she looked up to the tree, and among the thick boughs she saw little Fritz looking down upon her with roguish eyes. He was a bright boy, but he loved mischief better than work or study. He had gone to the garden of neighbour Ackerman a little before Anna, not to look into the brook, but to climb the tree where the sweet red apples grew. He saw Anna looking into the brook, and mischievously threw an apple to disturb the water. He was very much amused to observe Anna’s surprise, and her innocent belief that the wind had broken off the apple, although it was a calm summer day, and no air was stirring.
When Anna saw Fritz in the tree, she understood what made the apples fall. She grew almost as red as the apples, and cast down her eyes.
Fritz longed to talk with her, but did not know how to begin. At length he said,—
“Was it good, Anna?”
Then he slid down the smooth stem of the tree and stood close beside her, but he did not know how to begin a conversation there, any better than he did in the tree.
Suddenly, farmer Ackerman appeared from behind a clump of bushes, and looked earnestly at them. He was an old man, and was much loved and respected by all his neighbours.
Anna and Fritz coloured and looked frightened. They would have slipped away, but he called to them,—
“What disturbs you so, my little ones? What must I understand from those eyes, which turn away from mine, the sudden colour of your cheeks, and these unquiet doubtful looks? Did you come under my apple tree to enjoy the cool shade, or were you enticed by the apples?
“I am not surprised to see Fritz here, but you, Anna, whom I have always considered so innocent, how could you encourage this little rogue to rob my tree, and receive the apples after he had stole them?”
Anna made no answer, but the tears rolled down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled with grief. Fritz could not bear the sight of her distress.
“She has done nothing wrong,” said he; “I am the only one to blame.”
He then told the farmer how it had all happened, and confessed his dishonest intentions in climbing the tree. The farmer kindly said, “A fault confessed is half amended.” He then wiped little Anna’s eyes, with the corner of her apron, and gave her the handsomest apple he could find on his tree. Anna thanked him, with a sobbing voice and said, “If I see another apple in the brook, or in the road, I will not touch it till I know whose it is, and how it came there!”
THE NEW SINGING SCHOOL.
Do re mi fa sol la si do,
Do si la sol fa mi re do.
Come, begin and follow me,
’Tis down upon the board, you see;
Young ladies turn your heads this way,
Look on the board, the board, I say!
PUPILS.
Do mi re fa sol si la do,—
MASTER.
Stop! now is that the way you’d go?
Where are your eyes and ears to-night?
Cannot you sing two notes aright?
A SWALLOW ON THE EAVES.
What is the matter down below?
What dreadful clatter, do you know?
SWALLOW’S MATE.
It is a singing school, my dear,
There’s do re mi, pray don’t you hear?
SWALLOW.
Is that the way folks learn to sing?
I ne’er imagined such a thing.
Ah me! why what a time they make!
They really make my ear-drums ache;
Why, what a dreadful noise they keep—
They waked me from a nice sound sleep.
MASTER.
Beat! beat your time, and mind the board,
Was such a discord ever heard?
Put up your chestnuts, boys, and beat,—
You did not come to school to eat.
Come, if you can’t sing do re mi,
Follow as I sing one, two, three.
BOYS.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,—
He! he! he!—eight, nine, ten, ’leven.
MASTER.
Boys! mind your manners, or go home,
And learn them ere again you come.
PUPILS.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
MASTER.
Why, really, now you’ve sung it straight;
Now answer, if you can, and tell,
What is the first note in the scale?
FIRST BOY.
Don’t know,—b’lieve ’tis h or i.
MASTER.
Shame! I should think the seats would cry,
“Shame on you!”
FIRST BOY.
Well, I know that I
Was, am, and will be, number one;
And ’tis by that the scale’s begun.
MASTER.
And now the third?
SECOND BOY.
FIRST BOY.
It is not me then,—He! he! he!—
’Tis you, not me, I’m third to none,
I’ll be always number one.
MASTER.
Take care, boy, how you jest with me;
Again, what note is number three?
Now do the best that you can do.
FIRST BOY.
I rather think ’tis w.
MASTER.
Sirrah! you know, and know full well,
There’s no such letter in the scale.
The third note is the letter e,
And, mind, the syllable is mi.
FIRST BOY.
Me, is it? Oh, if that be true,
Then, I am sure ’tis double you.
PUPILS.
MASTER.
Oh, Apollo, pity me!—
Young Miss, I’ve not yet heard you sing,
Have you a cold, or anything?
“Don’t know?” Oh, you feel bashful; boys!
Look on your notes, and stop that noise.
Do mi sol do, do sol mi do.
PUPILS.
Do mi sol do, do sol mi do.
MASTER.
Out of tune is the way we go;
I’ll sing, and in Apollo’s name,
Now try if you can do the same.
SWALLOW.
Oh, were it day, and I on wing,
I would teach them how to sing;
But this is shocking; even twitter,
Twit, twit, twit, were surely better.
CHORUS OF YOUNG SWALLOWS.
Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit!
Boys and girls have little wit.
SWALLOW.
Do hear our young ones, how they sing!
They find it quite an easy thing.
They ne’er beat down, up, hither, thither,
And never saw the blackboard, neither.
MASTER.
And now you have sung one, two, three,
Perhaps you’ll say your a b c;
Come, say it,—c d e f g,—
BOYS.
H i j k l m n.—
SWALLOWS.
Oh, defend us! what a din?
How hard they try to learn to sing
’Tis really an amusing thing.
MASTER.
Enough! enough! you may sing now
“Old Hundred” once, then you may go.
CHORUS OF SWALLOWS.
That’s pretty well, but might be better;
Not so good as twitter! twitter!
Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit!
Boys and girls have little wit.
THE BALLOON.
“Oh! brother, what is that?” exclaimed little Mary to her brother James.
“What do you mean, sister?”
“Why, that thing, away up in the sky,—what is it?” And Mary pulled her brother by the arm as she looked up at the strange-looking object.
“Oh, that thing so far up in the sky; well, it is an odd looking creature. I wonder if it is a bird; let us ask John the gardener; perhaps he knows.”
“John! John!” cried both children at once, “what is that wonderful-looking object, up there?”
John looked up very wise, shook his head, and looked again,—“Oh! it is a balloon.”
“Well, pray, sir, will you tell us what a balloon is made of,” said James, “and how it enables one to go up into the air so great a distance?”
“The balloon is made of oiled silk, or of silk prepared with a solution of India-rubber, made perfectly air tight, and is filled with air, lighter than the common air we breathe.”
“But where can this air be obtained?” said James.
“There are many ways of obtaining it, but the easiest is to go to the gaslight company, and purchase as many gallons as may be wanted to make the balloon rise.”
“This is, indeed, curious,” said Mary; “I never thought air was bought and sold.”
“What is the use of a balloon?” asked James, who was very fond of asking questions about everything.
“I don’t know that it is of any use, at present,” replied John, “but it may possibly be made of use at some future time.”
“I should like to go up in it,” said James; “it must be so beautiful to sail through the air, and look down on the cities and villages, and green fields, and woods.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Mary; “I should not like to go;—only think, we might fall out.”
“Well, sister, I don’t think there is much chance of our ever trying it, though I should not be afraid. But let us go and inquire further about the matter, for it is certainly a very wonderful affair. I dare say father will be able to tell us a great deal more than John can, and we may meet with some one who has been above the clouds in one of these ærial cars or baskets.”
CURIOUS LITTLE PAINTERS.
The next afternoon, when Catherine found her mother at leisure, she came and stood close by her, and looked in her face for some time.
“What are you looking at me for, so steadily?” said Mrs. Nelson.
“I am trying to see the pictures in your eyes, mother; and don’t you remember, that you said you would tell me more about these curious little painters, as you call them? Is it only that small dark spot in the middle of your eye that sees?”
“That little place, my dear, is a sort of window, which lets in the light that makes the picture upon the back part of the eye. It is called the pupil, and it is what is meant by ‘the apple,’ which you recollect being puzzled with in the Psalm that you read for your Sunday lesson. Do you remember it?” After a while, Catherine said, “Oh, yes;” and repeated this verse, “Keep me under the apple of thine eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings.”
“By this little round window the light enters the eye, and passes through to the back part of it, and represents there, upon what is called the retina, everything that we see. So you perceive that if anything happens to the pupil of the eye, no light can enter it, and we should see nothing of all this beautiful and glorious world around us; we should be in perpetual darkness.”—“And now, mother, I understand the Psalm; for it is necessary that these two little windows should be kept very safe, as safe as we pray that God would keep us. But is that a little hole in the eye, mother?”
“No, my dear, this precious part of the eye has a covering over it like the chrystal of a watch; this is properly called the cornea, a Latin word that means like horn, because it resembles thin horn that the light can shine through,—as you may ascertain by asking the cook to show you a fish’s eye, and looking at this part.”
“And is the eye all hollow, mother? or what is between the pupil and the place on the back part of the eye where the picture is painted, that you called—I forget what you called it, mother?”
“The retina, my dear, from a Latin word that means anything by which another thing is held or retained, as this part of the eye holds or retains the picture of things. You ask me what is between the pupil and the retina. There are in the eye three different substances, called humours, all transparent. A transparent substance means anything that can be seen through. The first one, directly back of the pupil, is called the acqueous, from a Latin word, that means watery: it is a thin liquid, like water. The second, behind that, is called the crystalline humour, from its clearness and brightness. It is formed like the glasses they use in telescopes, and is fastened at the edge by the delicate transparent substance that covers it, called a membrane. The one beyond this, and next the retina, is called the vitreous humour, from its resemblance to glass. All these substances assist in forming the images of objects on the back of the eye; but you are not old enough to understand how, at present, my child.”
“Then, mother,” said Catherine, “our eyes are as curious as grandfather’s telescope, or as the camera obscura, that he gave us to see pictures with.”
“They are far more curious my dear; and it is by imitating the eye that they can make them so well. I remember, Catherine, when your grandfather sent that camera obscura to you the other day, and your father showed you the pictures in it, that you and Lucy and James capered about the room with joy, saying, ‘Oh, how good grandfather is to give us such a beautiful thing!’—and now, my dear, when you go into a garden and dance with joy at the sight of the flowers; when you look up with so much wonder and delight at the beautiful moon sailing through the clouds, and at the bright twinkling stars; when, after having been even one day away from your father and mother, you feel so happy at looking in our faces, and reading in them our love for you,—of whose goodness ought you to think? Who has given you eyes to see all these delightful things? Whom should you then love? Of whom then should you speak, and say, ‘Oh, how good He is?’”
Catherine felt and understood what her mother said, and answered her, that it was God.
“I have yet much more, my dear,” said her mother, “to tell you about the eyes, that is very wonderful. This beautiful little round window grows larger and smaller as you want more or less light. When there is a great light, it contracts so as to take in but little; and when the light is faint, it becomes nearly twice as large, so as to take in more.”
“Why, mother,” said Catherine, “how can that be?”
“Shut the shutter,” said Mrs. Nelson, “and then look in my eye.” She did so; and she saw the pupil of her mother’s eye grow larger and larger. “Now open it,” said her mother. She did so, and it gradually became smaller. “Oh, it is very curious,” said Catherine. “But, mother, is not that pretty rim round the pupil of any use?”
“That is what it called the iris,” answered her mother, “which is the latin name for rainbow, I suppose from some fancied resemblance to it. It is thought that by means of it the pupil of the eye is enlarged or contracted. If you remember, my child, the pain you feel in your eyes when you come from the dark suddenly into the light, you will understand the use of this, and see what a beautiful contrivance it is. In the dark your pupils become very large, so as to catch all the light they can. When the light comes before they have time to grow smaller, they take in more light than they can bear without pain.
“There is another thing that you never thought of. You know that if your eyes were fixed fast, as your ears and nose are, you could only see straight forward, or you would have to keep your head twirling about continually. But the eye is set loose in the head, and surrounded with little muscles, things with which we can turn it up, or down, or in any way, just as we wish. You know how long it takes grandfather to fix his telescope; but our eyes are ready, quicker than we think.
“You perceive, my dear, that this beautiful and curious thing, the eye, is very delicate, and easily injured, and if anything destroys our sight, it is a great calamity, and that the eye ought to be carefully protected. And so you will find that it is. It is placed in a deep socket, surrounded by bone, and lined with something very soft. It shelves over on the upper part, so as to form the eye-bow, which is a great protection to it. It is important that it should be kept clear and bright, and there is a little vessel close to it, full of salt water, called tears, to wash it clean, whenever we open or shut the eye; and there is a little hole in the bone of the nose to carry off the water after it has washed the eye. Then it has a nice cover, which we call the eyelid, with a beautiful fringe on the edge of it to shut the eye up tight, away from the dust and air when we do not want to use it: and which, moves so quick, that it shuts up in an instant if anything touches or alarms the eye. Indeed, it seems to be always employed in watching over and protecting this precious instrument of knowledge.
“There is still another thing, my dear, to be remembered about the eye. It is so made that sight is pleasant to it. The blue sky, the green grass, the flowers, the rainbow, all give it pleasure.
“A baby, you know, loves to look about, though it knows nothing. Our Father in Heaven has made it a great happiness to us merely to open our eyes upon the beautiful world he has made.”
After a short silence, Catherine said to her mother, “You told me that these curious painters, as you call them, drew the pictures of everything in that wonderful book that you described. How is that done, mother?”
“All we know,” answered Mrs. Nelson, “is, that the back part of the eye, where the pictures are painted is connected with the brain, and that by this means we become acquainted with the appearance of things.”
Well Spent Hour.
THE UPAS, OR POISON TREE.
This curious and wonderful tree is found in the forests of Java; the gum which it yields is a rank poison, and, indeed, so strong and powerful is the poison of this tree, that the effluvia from it prevents any tree, plant, or shrub, from growing within ten or twelve miles of it. The country is perfectly barren; not a living thing, or even a blade of grass, is to be seen. The chiefs and grandees of the country poison the points of their arrows and daggers with the poison of this tree; but as it is certain death to approach the tree, the task of collecting the gum is given to people who have committed some very wicked act, and are condemned to suffer death. After sentence of death has been passed on them, they are allowed to choose whether they will be executed, or go to the upas tree for a quantity of the gum.
“If they were to ask me, mamma, I would go to the tree.”
“Many of them do go, Henry; but I believe not more than two out of twenty escape death. Before the criminals commence their journey, they are furnished with a box for the gum, a pair of very thick leather gloves, and a kind of leather cap, which is drawn over the face and reaches down to the waist. They wear this cap to prevent them as much as possible from inhaling the air, which, as I mentioned before, is poisonous for some miles round the tree; there are two glasses fixed in the cap, to enable them to see without removing it; they are usually accompanied by a priest for the first three miles of their journey, who, when he takes leave of them, blesses them, and informs them in which direction they are to travel, and also advises them to proceed as speedily as they can, as that is the only chance they have of saving their lives.”
“I should think, mamma, it would be much better to do without poison, as it is only used to kill people.”
“You are mistaken, Henry, in imagining that poisons are only used for so bad a purpose. Some of our most valuable medicines are poisons; but mixed with other drugs, and properly administered, they cure many painful diseases. Many poisonous herbs are also used in dying different colours. There is another poison tree, which grows in this country; it is found in damp, marshy places, and resembles the ash. It never grows very large. The wood of this tree is poisonous, if you either touch or smell it, but it is not fatal; the effects of the poison go off in a day or two. If a piece of the wood is put into the fire, the smell of it will poison some persons, and cause them to swell and itch all over, whilst others are not in the least affected by it, and can even taste the wood without being hurt by it. It is as cold as ice to the feel, so that if you take up a piece with a handful of other sticks, you would discover it immediately. Little children should be very careful never to pick or eat the berries of any tree. I have often heard of little boys being very ill, and even dying, from having eaten the berries of trees growing in the hedges, mistaking them for fruit.”
DISOBEDIENCE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
“I want you to come over to our house, after dinner, and play with me,” said Alfred Barlow, one Saturday morning, to a little fellow, named Wilson Green. “Father has just put us up a swing. It is made with two ropes tied to a limb of the great oak tree, and has a basket at the bottom, big enough to hold two. And then we have got a good many other things to play with. Won’t you ask your father to let you come?”
“Oh, yes! And I’ll come right away after dinner,” said Wilson, full of delight at the thought of spending an afternoon with Alfred.
When Wilson went home, he asked his father to let him go over to Mr. Barlow’s, and play with Alfred. But his father told him that he did not wish him to go there.
This was a sore disappointment to the little boy. He did not ask his reason why he refused to let him go; for this he knew would be of no use. But he was so very desirous of going, that he soon began to think about disobedience.
“He’ll never know it,” he said to himself, as he saw his father leave the house. “He never comes home from the mill until night, and I can be back long before that time.”
Something whispered to Wilson that to disobey his father would be to do a very wicked thing; but he quickly turned from the warning thought, and in a little while determined that he would run over to Alfred Barlow’s for a short time.
Wrong as this was, Wilson so far forgot his duty to his parents, as actually to go over to Mr. Barlow’s very soon after his father had gone away. Instead, however, of spending the delightful afternoon as he had anticipated, he found all the family in much alarm for Alfred’s little sister, who had been taken very ill since morning. Of course, all thoughts of play were banished from the mind of Alfred, who loved little Anna very much, and could not be persuaded to leave her bed-side a moment.
As soon as Mrs. Barlow found Wilson in the chamber of her sick child, she told him that he had better run home, as the doctor feared that Anna had the scarlet fever, and she did not wish any of her neighbours’ children to be exposed to the danger of taking it.
Slowly did Wilson Green leave the house in which he promised himself so much delight, and turn his steps homeward with no very happy feelings. He had disobeyed his father, deliberately, and got nothing for that disobedience but an exposure to a terrible disease, of which he might die.
When his father came home at night, he felt almost afraid to look at him in the face. It seemed as if he must know all about what he had done.
“Wilson, come here, my son;” he said, in a serious voice.
And Wilson went up to him with a sinking heart.
“When I told you, at dinner time, that I did not wish you to go and see Alfred Barlow,” the father began, “I neglected to say, as a reason for denying your request, that Doctor Ayres had mentioned to me that little Anna was very sick, with all the symptoms of a dangerous attack of scarlet fever. This dreadful disease is thought by many contagious, and it was for this reason that I denied your request.”
Wilson said nothing, but he was very unhappy. A frank confession of his fault arose to his tongue; but, before he could make it, his heart failed him. Not that he dreaded his father’s displeasure so much as the distress his act of disobedience would give him.
For more than an hour that night, did the unhappy boy lie awake, after he had retired to bed, vainly regretting his act of wickedness and folly. It is said, “of wickedness,” for deliberate acts of disobedience to parents are wicked. He was likewise troubled, lest he, too, should be attacked with scarlet fever, and die—and all because he had not obeyed his father.
On the next day, when he learned that the doctor had declared Anna Barlow’s disease to be really the scarlet fever, and her case a very bad one, Wilson was more troubled than ever. How often did he wish that he had been an obedient boy. But no sorrow could recall the act.
It was several days afterwards, when the boy’s fears had nearly all subsided, that he awoke one morning with a violent headache, a sore throat, and a general uneasiness, with considerable fever. The day afterwards, his skin became dry and burning, and his throat so sore that he could swallow only with great difficulty. On the third day the physician pronounced the case one of decided scarletina, or scarlet fever, accompanied by some very alarming symptoms.
From that time for nearly two weeks the sick boy was conscious of little more than great bodily distress. When the fever at last gave way, he was just upon the brink of the grave. The slightest neglect on the part of those who attended him with more than the care that a new-born infant requires, would have proved fatal. But the skill of his medical attendant, and the unwearying care of his parents, were the means of saving his life.
About a week after the crisis of the disease had passed, when Wilson could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, as his father sat by him, he said, in a penitent voice, while the tears came into his eyes:
“I have been a very wicked boy, father; and that is the reason why I have been so sick.”
“How so, my child?” asked Mr. Green, in surprise.
“You remember having told me that I could not go over to see Alfred Barlow, one day when I asked you. Well, I wanted to go so bad, that I disobeyed you. I found little Anna Barlow very sick—so sick that Alfred could not play with me. As soon as his mother saw me by Anna’s bed, she told me to go right away home at once. And so I did, without having had any of the pleasure, to gain which, I had done what you had told me not to do. It was the scarlet fever that Anna had, and no doubt I took it from her. But I have been severely punished for what I did.”
“Severely, indeed, my dear boy!” Mr. Green said, wiping a tear that came to his eye. “But not too severely, if it prove the means of restraining you from ever doing so wrong an act in future. To disobey your parents, is to do yourself one of the worst of injuries. For if, in early years, you are not obedient to your parents, you will not be truly obedient to just laws when you grow up to be a man; nor, above all, obedient to God. And if not obedient to Him, you never can be happy. It is not from any selfish desire to command your obedience, that I forbid your doing certain things at times. I have only your good at heart. I know, much better than you can possibly know, the evil that you ought to shun—and much better than you can know, the good effects which will be produced in your mind by obedience. But I need not, I trust, say more now. You have had a practical lesson that you can never forget, and which will, I am sure, have upon you a most salutary influence.”
“Indeed, father, I can never forget it,” Wilson replied, with much feeling. “No one knows how much I have suffered, in mind as well as body, for my faults. From the hour I disobeyed you until this moment, I have been unhappy. And I believe, until I had told you all, I should never again have been happy.”
“Repentance and confession are the only means of obtaining peace after a wrong act,” the father said.
THE GAME OF WEATHERCOCKS.
The company arrange themselves, and give to the four corners of the room, or the part of the park where they are playing, the names of the four cardinal points. To avoid disputes, it is best to place the words east, west, north, south, in writing, at the points agreed upon. One of the players, and it should be a lively, gay person accustomed to the game, takes the part of Eolus. All the other players arrange themselves in one or more rows. When it is possible, a lady should have a gentleman on each side, and a gentleman, a lady. After having ordered silence, Eolus points to one of the corners designated by name, it is no matter which, and from which he means to have the wind blow. When the god of the winds points one way, the company must all turn in the opposite direction.
It is a party of weathercocks, and consequently each one must turn his back upon the wind, to show which way it blows. When Eolus cries south, everybody faces north, and in the same way at all the points. When he says tempest, everybody must whirl round three times, and come back to the same place. At the word variable, they must balance them, first on one foot, then on the other, until the god of the winds names one of the four points. If he says variable west, then they vacillate towards the east, but not rapidly, as most of the motions of the game are made, for the wind is changeable, and often, as soon as they have got round to a certain point, Eolus gives a shout which sends them all round to another.
When the capricious deity is pleased to name a point directly opposite to the one where the company is placed, they must all remain motionless.
It may easily be imagined that this opposition of order and motion, the variety, the multiplicity of movements, must give occasion for forfeits to be paid whenever a mistake is made. The game affords a great deal of sport.
