ON GIVING HIM HIS FIRST SPELLING-BOOK.
Poor Tom, they’re heathen Greek to you—
Those curiously-formed letters;
But you must learn them all, my boy,
And break the dunce’s fetters.
Ay, there they stand, from A to Z,
Like prophets sent on mission,
To point the way in Wisdom’s path
With accurate precision.
Or rather, they are like old nurse,
Aiding the first gradation,
The Alpha-Bet and leading-strings
To better education.
And having totter’d, step by step,
Till stronger grown in knowledge,
Why, then, my boy, you’ll run alone
Through this, your infant’s college.
Ay, puzzle on—that’s A, this B;
Ne’er mind a few erratics:
The big round O, and upright I,
Will lead to mathematics.
Your little book is just like life
In its progressive stages;
You’ll find the spelling harder grow,
As you turn o’er the pages.
Two letters—three—and then comes four
Then syllables united,
Till six or seven in columns stand,
To render you affrighted.
But, having conn’d your lesson o’er,
With true pronunciation,
The task’s performed, and you will gain
A parent’s approbation.
Just so in life our troubles rise,
Getting from rough to rougher,
For man is like the grammar verbs,
To be, or do, or suffer.
SECOND STORY OF THE SEA.
The tea-table was cleared away, the shutters were closed, a bright wood fire blazed on the hearth, and Captain Albert, with his family, were seated round it.
“Now, father,” said Edward, “tell us another story of the sea, if you please. How did you get your ship out of the ice?”
“It was brought out without much exertion of mine,” said his father. “If you had been there, my son, you would have felt that all the power of man could have done little to relieve us. The ice gathered around us thicker and closer, the wind died away, and it was a dead, freezing calm. The ship did not move an inch, and the thoughts of my mind troubled me by continually bringing up an account I had read in my youth, of a vessel which had been caught in the ice near the south pole and all the crew frozen, where they stood on duty—
“To the cordage glued the sailor,
And the steersman to the helm!
“I began to feel as if we had little prospect of escaping a similar fate, and looked about to see what part of the ship could be spared for fuel, in case of necessity. I also examined the provisions and water, and calculated how long they would last. My faithful crew were sensible of the danger we were in, but uttered no complaint. The whales appeared to understand our helpless condition, and came around us, as if in mockery, dashing about the ice with their powerful flooks, and exulting as it were, in showing us how much more they could do for themselves than we could. One of them even ventured to rub his monstrous sides against our ship.
“In this melancholy situation, Robert (spoken of in our first story) was a valuable addition to our ship’s company. He was a young man of bright natural talents, and possessed a good share of wit and power of imitation. Besides which, he had received an education much superior to that of sailors generally. He was a fine singer, and had a great share of good songs, so that he became the life of the whole ship. We had very little to do, and the men were very fond of sitting down on the berth-deck, among the hammocks, with a lantern in the centre, to hear Robert give an account of himself, and relate the wonderful adventures he had met with.
“After we had been some time in the helpless situation I have described, one morning, about day-break, I was awakened from a troubled sleep by the sound of a rushing wind, and rushing up, I went on deck. A violent rain was falling, and the wind was rising at the same time, which is a very uncommon circumstance. It blew in a direction to favour our escape; and think, my dear ones, what was my joy and thankfulness, when I saw the ice dividing before us, and leaving a broad, clear path, as far as the eye could reach. The rain loosened the ice from the sails, and it fell on the deck in thin sheets; the sails filled, and we began to move rapidly toward home. Did I not tell you right, when I said Divine Providence helped us out without much aid from us?
“We had prepared to tow the schooner (to which Robert belonged) behind us, but considering that she would check the speed of our ship, and feeling the necessity of making all possible haste to escape from the regions of ice, I put three of our most capable hands into her, with Robert, and directed them to follow my ship as near as they could. When we were in the open sea, it was a pleasure to look back and see the little craft clipping along through the waves, following on like a greyhound in the chase, leaving ice and icebergs far behind.
“Our voyage home was prosperous and pleasant. The remembrance of dangers and sufferings, made every blessing more thankfully acceptable, and I hope we all returned better and wiser men.”
THE CHILD AT PRAYER.
As the Lady of Lindorf entered the chapel, she beheld a little girl, of about eight years old, alone, and dressed entirely in black, kneeling upon the steps of the altar. The child prayed so fervently, that she paid no attention to what was passing by her. Tears were streaming down her blooming cheeks, and her beautiful and innocent countenance had an expression of melancholy resignation and pious fervor beyond description.
The lady felt the sincerest pity and greatest good-will towards the praying child. She would not disturb her in her devotions; and only when the little girl arose did the lady approach her:—“You are very sorrowful, dear child,” she said softly; “why do you thus cry?”
“Alas!” answered the child, and tears flowed afresh down her cheeks; “a year ago this very day I lost my father, and this day last week they buried my mother.”
“And for what have you prayed to God?” asked the lady.
“That he would take pity upon me,” answered the child; “I have no refuge but Him. True, I am still with the people with whom my parents lodged, but I cannot stay there; the master has told me again that I must go to-morrow. I have a few relatives in the town, and wish very much that one or the other would take charge of me. The good priest, also, who often visited my mother in her illness, and showed her a deal of kindness, told them plainly that it was their duty to do so, but they cannot agree among themselves which of them is to take the care of bringing me up: nor can I complain, for they have many children, and nothing but what they earn by their daily labour.”
“Poor child! it is no wonder that you are sorrowful.”
“I came here very sorrowful,” replied the child; “but God has suddenly removed all grief from my heart. I now feel comforted. I have no further anxiety than to live ever after His will, so that He may take pleasure in me.”
The words of that innocent child, and the sincerity that appeared through her tearful eyes, went to the heart of the noble lady. She looked at her with the tenderness of a mother, and said “I think that God has heard your prayer, dear little one; keep to your resolution—remain ever pious and good, and be comforted, and you will find help. Come with me.”
The good child looked at the lady with astonishment:—“But where?” asked she. “I must not; I must go home.”
“I know the good priest who you said had been so kind to your mother,” said the lady. “We will go to him, and I will arrange with him how to help you.”
Saying this, she took the child by the hand, who went joyfully with her.
The excellent curate, a man rather advanced in years, and of a venerable aspect, rose from his writing-table on the approach of the lady. She told him how she had just become acquainted with the child; and then desired the little one to leave her with the curate, and amuse herself in the garden awhile, as she wished to speak to him privately.
“My dear sir,” said she, “I have a great desire to take this child, and supply to her the place of a mother. My own children all died at a tender age, and my heart tells me that I can love this little one. Still, I wished to know whether you, who knew the parents well, would advise me to do so. What do you say to it? I wish to mark my short course on earth by some benevolent action. Do you think that the benefits I mean to bestow on that child will be well conferred?”
The good man lifted his eyes to heaven, and tears of joy were glistening in them, as, folding his hands, he said, “The holy providence of God be ever praised! You could not, lady, do a greater act of mercy; neither could you easily find a more pious, well-behaved, and intelligent child, than the little Sophy. Both her parents were honest people, and true Christians. They begun to give this, their only one, a good education, but, alas! they did not live to finish it. I shall never forget with what grief the dying mother looked upon this dearly beloved child, who was sobbing upon her death-bed; with what confidence, nevertheless, she looked towards heaven, and said; ‘Thou Father in heaven wilt also be a father on earth, and wilt give my daughter another mother: I know this, and die comforted.’ The words of the good parent are now come to pass, and it is obvious that the Divine Providence has selected you, gracious and worthy lady, to be this child’s second mother: for this you were called to this town—for this, God put it in your mind to visit His temple before your departure. It is evidently his work; let his holy providence be gratefully acknowledged!”
The worthy curate now called in the poor orphan, and said, “See, Sophy, this kind and devout lady wishes to be thy mother:—this is a great happiness that God bestows upon thee. Wilt thou go with her, and be to her a good daughter?”
“Yes,” answered Sophy gladly, and tears of joy prevented her saying more. She thanked her benefactress with her looks, and kissed her hand in silence.
“See, my child,” continued the curate, “how God cares for thee: when thy late mother was lying on her death-bed He had already conducted thy second mother here, unknown to us, nor has He allowed her to depart without having first found thee, and adopted thee. Know, in this, His fatherly care;—love with all thy heart the good and merciful God, who so evidently takes care of thee—trust in him, and keep his commandments. Be as good and obedient a child towards this thy new mother, which He has given thee, as thou wast towards thy mother which is now dead, and then this kind lady will rejoice in thee, and thou shalt prosper. One thing remember especially,—in thy future life, sorrow and misfortune cannot be kept entirely aloof; but when it does come, pray with the same child-like trust with which thou hast been taught; and as God has helped thee now, he will help thee again.”
The child’s relatives were now summoned, and made no sort of objection to the arrangement; on the contrary, they were well pleased. Their satisfaction was still more increased by the Lady of Lindorf’s declaring she would take Sophy as she was, and leave her mother’s little legacy, together with her own clothes, to them and to their children. Sophy only wished for a few religious books as a remembrance of her mother, and these were willingly granted to her.
Early the next morning the Lady of Lindorf departed for her castle, accompanied by Sophy.
THE CHILD ANGEL.
“Come, come,” said the bright angel,
In a whisper sweet and low,
“To yonder stream so lonely
Together let us go.”
And the child made haste to follow
The guide she could not see,
For she said, “A sweet child angel
Is whispering to me.”
The morning sun shone brightly
Through the branches overhead,
And summer leaves upon the ground
Their dancing shadows spread.
And still, upon the cool, green earth
The trembling dew-drops lay,
And fell in showers, beneath her touch,
From every leaf and spray.
Yet onward, onward went the child
Without a thought of fear,
For the voice of the sweet angel
Still sounded in her ear.
And now the path is hidden
By branches bending low,
And, pausing there, she listens
To hear the waters flow;
And from the opening blossoms,
That smile beside her feet,
She twines, with ready fingers,
A wreath, for angel meet.
The deep and waveless river
Spread out before her lies,
And she sees the fair child angel
Look fondly in her eyes.
One cry of joy she utters,
Her arms extending wide
To clasp the lovely phantom
Beneath that treacherous tide.
Weep not, thou childless mother,
Above that beauteous clay,
For the voice of blessed angels
Has called the soul away.
Think, when thy lips are pressing
That pure and marble brow,
In heaven thy own child angel
Is living for thee now.
THE STORM.
You have heard of Switzerland, my dear young readers. You have heard of its high mountains—its lovely streams—its pretty flowers—and bright sunshine in summer. You have heard, too, of its deep snows in winter—its frozen waters—and its fearful storms;—its beautiful lakes—one moment calm, soft and bright—the next changed into furious commotion, throwing its angry waters high into the air. There, many a little boat, that had gone out upon its smooth waters, confident that there could be no danger, has been lost, after struggling long and fearlessly with the waves, and sunk to rise no more.
One night I stood alone upon a high rock, which projected over the Lake of Lucerne, and saw what I have imperfectly described to you.
I had been on the mountains all day—a bright, beautiful day. I had climbed the hills, where nothing was to be seen but grey stone; I had passed on to others, and found them covered with lovely flowers—growing in every spot where they could find any soil—and some large trees, that, spreading wide their branches, allowed me often to sit down in the cool shade to watch the gay butterflies around me, and to contemplate that glorious and almighty Parent—the Creator of all that is beautiful and good, and the Author of all good feelings and affections, and who enables us to enjoy all which He has made.
The sun was setting, and there was a bright red glow over the lake, that lay like a large sheet of glass, smooth and bright; and that was only stirred when the trout leaped high in the air—as if to look once more upon the sun before it went to rest; and then sinking down, they left a bright round ring on the lake, that soon passed away, leaving all smooth again.
In a little time the waters began to move, and there was a low sound of wind, that soon rose into a storm; and then the waves dashed furiously against the cliffs, as I have before described; when a boat, with a man and a child, which I had been watching for some time before, sailing gently on the water, was now high on the crested wave—now cast suddenly down; and each time I feared it was lost. All I could do was, to pray to Him, who could say to the wind, and the storm, “Be still!” But their time had come, and God saw it best to take this father and child to Himself. I watched the boat till it came very near,—so near that I could see every stroke of the oar—every look of the poor man, who seemed to use all his force—but in vain.
The little child, who was seated in the bottom of the boat, looked up into his father’s face, as if to learn there, what hope was left; but he neither moved, nor uttered one cry of fear. At last, when every chance of saving their lives was past—when each moment brought them nearer and nearer the fatal rock, on which it must be dashed to pieces, the oars dropped from the father’s hand; and throwing his arms around his child, in one moment they were gone below the wave—and I saw them no more. They went down into the deep waters together—and together they will rise, I doubt not, to live in heaven with their Saviour, and our Saviour for ever; for the man had lived, as I afterwards learned, the life of a true Christian, and was now removed, with his child, to a state of existence where the “wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”
SOMETHING ABOUT DOGS.
“Come, little boys and girls, and let us have some talk about that kind and useful creature, the Dog.
“The Shepherd’s Dog takes care of the sheep as they graze on the hills and plains; at night he drives them safely into the fold; and if a sheep or a lamb were lost, he would not rest till he had found it, and brought it back to the flock.
“The Esquimaux sits in his sledge, wrapped from head to foot in warm fur, and his dogs draw him swiftly along many miles over the ice and snow.
“The Hound is used to hunt the sly fox, that steals our chickens.
“The Newfoundland Dogs are so fond of water, and are so large and strong, that they have saved many people from being drowned. If one of them were to see a child fall into the water, he would immediately jump in after it, and quickly bring it to land.
“Then we must not forget the pretty Spaniel:—he has silky ears, and a curly tail;—or Little Shock, whose long bushy hair nearly covers his eyes. These are great favourites with children, and play almost as many pranks as their young masters.
“Dogs are so fond of those who are kind to them, that they would do anything to protect them from harm.
“Sometimes they will not leave their master even after he is dead, but will sit by the body as long as they can, and moan very sadly, and at last lie down on the grave and die too.”
Old Oak Chest.
THE MORNING WALK.
“Come, George! come, my little son,” said Mrs. Hope to her sleeping boy, one bright morning in June, laying her hand upon him, and endeavouring to awake him.
George roused up for a moment, and then fell off again to sleep. He felt heavy and dull.
“Come, George!” urged his mother, again disturbing him. “Emily is up and dressed for a walk. And the sun is up, too.”
This time the little boy opened his eyes, rubbed them, stretched himself, half arose from his pillow and then sunk down again and went to sleep.
“A little more sleep and a little more slumber,” said Mrs. Hope, smiling. “Ah, George! I’m afraid you will be a sad sluggard. Come! come! this will never do!” and she shook him harder than before.
“Don’t you see, George, that your sister is all dressed, and that the sun is streaming in at the window?” she continued, as her boy started up quickly. “Come, be quick now, or every bright dew-drop will be kissed from the leaves and blossoms before we can get into the fields.”
“I don’t care about going, mother,” replied George, sinking back upon his pillow. “You and Emily can go this time. To-morrow morning I will go with you.”
“And to-morrow morning you will feel just as dull and sluggish as you do now. No, no, George; now is the time. So, come, rouse yourself up, and don’t keep us waiting for you any longer.”
As the mother said this, she lifted her little boy from his bed, and, seating him on her lap, first of all washed his face in a basin of cool, clean water. This made him as bright as a new shilling. In a little while he was all ready for the walk; and then mother, George, and Emily, accompanied with gay little Fido, who went barking before them, started off for their morning walk.
“An’t you glad, now, that you got up to go with us, George?” asked Emily, as they tripped along, and drank in the pure morning air.
“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t be in that warm bed, feeling as dull as I did, for anything. I’m so glad that mother made me get up.”
“It was because I knew what was best for you, my son, that I made you get up. I knew that the fresh morning air would not only be good for you, but that when you once breathed it, and exercised in it, you would feel like a new person.”
“Oh, see that beautiful butterfly!” Emily exclaimed, pausing near a sweet-briar bush, upon one of the delicate blossoms of which reposed a large butterfly, with wings glowing in colours the richest and most varied, gently fanning the pure air.
“Shall I catch it, mother?” eagerly asked George, taking off his cap, and beginning to move stealthily towards the sweet-briar bush.
“No, my child,” said Mrs. Hope, laying her hand gently on the boy’s arm, and detaining him.
“But, mother, it is such a beautiful one, I should like to take it home and shew it to father.”
“And what do you think your father would say, if you were to take him that gay insect?”
“He would call it very pretty, I am sure, and say I was a good boy for bringing it to him.”
“No, George,” replied his mother. “He would more probably say,—‘George, my dear boy, I am grieved that you have crushed, and soiled, and hurt this pretty creature. See, how the beautiful colours have already faded from its wings! See, how it droops in my hand, unable to fly as it did a little while ago from flower to flower, a gay and happy thing. You were wrong, my dear boy, to have touched so delicate a creature, born only for the sunshine and the flowers, and too fragile to be handled by anything ruder than a summer breeze.’”
“But I won’t hurt it, mother.”
“You could not possibly touch it, my dear, without hurting the delicate thing. Your little fingers, that to my hands are soft and smooth, would be so rough to the wings of a butterfly, as to rasp off the rich painting that adorns them, and even to crush their delicate frame-work. And I am sure my boy would not wish to hurt any of God’s creatures.”
“Oh, no, mother! I wouldn’t hurt that butterfly for the world. But see, it has risen up from the flower, and now away it goes, floating along like a pretty blossom with wings. And there goes Fido, barking after it. Foolish dog! You can’t catch the pretty butterfly.”
“See, mother, here is a bee, right in the middle of this large flower,” said George, looking up into his mother’s face with a glow of pleasure upon his own. “He is getting honey, is he not?”
“Yes, dear. The bee is a very industrious little creature, and when the blossoms are out he is up with the sun, and works all through the day, busily engaged in procuring honey for his winter’s store. You never find him asleep after the sun is risen, as my little boy was this morning.”
“But then, mother,” said George, as they all walked on, and left the bee and the sweet-briar bush, “I don’t have to gather honey as the bee does. I am a little boy, and don’t have to work to lay up bread in the winter.”
“Can’t you teach your brother a better lesson than that, Emily?” said Mrs. Hope, turning to her little girl. “Don’t you remember the talk we had yesterday about the use of learning, and how necessary it was for us, like the bee in spring and summer, to lay up a store of knowledge in our minds, against the winter of old age?”
“O, yes, mother, I remember that I said, just as George did just now, that it wasn’t as necessary for me to work as the bee, for I had kind parents who provided everything for me. And then you told me that I had been made very different from the bee; that the bee had not a mind as I had; and, therefore, that it only required food to supply the natural wants of its body, which food it industriously obtained and stored up in the season when it could be found. You then told me that I had a spiritual body as well as a natural body, and that my spiritual body required food as well as my natural body; that to learn about everything that my parents and teachers wished me to learn about, was the way to store up food for this spiritual body, which would require more and more food, the older I grew; and that, at last, when I became very old—when the winter of life came, I would not be able to store up food as in early life, but would have to live upon that already laid by.”
By this time the mother and her children had extended their morning walk as far as was intended, and then they turned their steps towards home. In passing the sweet-briar bush, the bee and the butterfly were recalled to the minds of the children; and George said, that whenever he passed that bush he should remember that his fingers were too rough for a butterfly’s wings; and that, like the bee, he must diligently store up food for the mind, in early years, that he might have a full supply when the winter of old age should come upon him.
At the breakfast table they met their father, and George told him all about what they had seen, and what their mother had said to them, and how determined he was to be like the diligent bee.
THE OSTRICH
There are many large and respectable birds;—the long-legged stork, the crane, the bustard, the heron, the eagle, the vulture, the cassowary; but all these are mere dwarfs compared with the ostrich. This bird is often nine or ten feet in height, and is as remarkable for its great strength and swiftness, as for its size. Neither the swiftest horse nor fleetest hound can compete with the ostrich in speed; but, fleet as the whirlwind, he sweeps over the sandy wastes of Africa. And this is indeed fortunate for him, since, although a bird, he is unable to fly. He has feathers only upon his wings and tail, the rest of his body being covered with hair. The ostrich has eyelashes upon the upper lid, and can, like quadrupeds, see a thing with both eyes at once; although other birds look sideways, and use but one eye at a time. His bare, plump feet are furnished with only two toes or claws; and his stomach can digest the hardest substances,—wood, stone, leather, metals, and glass.
It was imagined that the ostrich was a very stupid bird, because, when pursued, it thrusts its head into the nearest hole, apparently imagining that when he sees nobody, he cannot himself be seen. The fact, however, is, that when quite exhausted by a long pursuit, it shields its head, because it is the most tender and weakest part, and surrenders the rest of the body to its pursuers. Had the ostrich been in any way as stupid as the goose, the race would long ago have been extirpated, as it has many enemies both among men and animals. It is, on the contrary, a very prudent bird, and in a clear field extremely difficult to catch, for it takes flight the moment its quick sight threatens it with the slightest danger; and as it lives in the deserts of Arabia and Africa a few minutes is sufficient to carry it beyond the sight of its pursuers.
As the ostrich belongs to the same species as fowls, it leads, as they do, a domestic life. Every ostrich family consists of one male bird and five females, who keep constantly together. These birds have a common nest, which consists merely of a hole in the sand, protected by a wall of sand. Every egg stands upon its pointed end, in order to take as little room as possible. When there are from ten to twelve eggs in the nest, they begin to sit upon them alternately, the female by day and the male by night; as, from his superior strength, he is better able to guard the nest from the attack of the wild-cats, which are allured by the eggs; and that he understands how to protect it, is proved by the dead bodies of these animals being found in the neighbourhood of the nests. During the brooding, the female continues to lay until the nest is full; and it generally contains about thirty eggs. They also lay eggs on the outside of the nest, with which to feed the young ostriches, which, as soon as hatched, are as large as full-grown fowls; and, like fowls, immediately begin to eat greedily. The parent birds break one egg after another, until the young are strong enough to find their own food. The size of the egg is in proportion to the size of the bird; it is as large as a child’s head, and yields as much nourishment as four-and-twenty hen’s eggs. Four hungry men may make a good meal on one. The shell is so extremely hard and close, that it remains fresh for a considerable time; and in the desert countries is a real treasure.
THE VIOLET.—MODESTY.
The fragrance of the violet is noticed when the flower itself is not seen—just as benevolent persons’ actions are sometimes known and felt, while the actors remain out of sight.
Four hundred years ago, some gentlemen of rank, who were very fond of poetry, were walking at Toulouse; one of them remarking the beauty of the violet, all agreed to write some verses on it, as a sort of trial of skill. At the end of the week, the poets met, and each read the verses he had written, and the umpire decided which of the poems was the best. Wishing to extend a love of poetry, those gentlemen, with some others, drew up a circular letter in rhyme, and addressed it to all the poets of Languedoc, inviting them to come to Toulouse on the first of May, and read their verses, promising a golden violet to him who should compose the best poem. This society continued until the middle of the last century, when it became more celebrated from an incident connected with Marmontel, the French poet. He was the child of very poor parents, but being very fond of study, he gave his life up to it. After contending with great difficulties, he obtained admittance into a college, and hearing of this annual challenge, resolved to enter the list of the Toulousian writers. He was very fond of his mother, and, for her sake, more than anything else, he determined to obtain the prize of the golden violet.
The hall was filled with the gentry, and the young students of the university were present. When the successful candidate was announced, the hall resounded with the sounds of music and the shouts of the audience.
Marmontel had been kept in great suspense during the time of the decision by the judges. It was first announced that the prize for the ode had been withheld; and as he had offered an ode to the academy, and had been the author of an unsuccessful idyll, everybody pitied the youth for his disappointment. But when the poem which gained the prize was proclaimed, Marmontel stood up and received it. Some were glad of this, and said, “Poor fellow, he missed twice—but he did not fail a third time; he has more than one string or arrow to his bow.” He retired to his seat, but only to be called up the second time for the second prize; again he retired, and again returned to receive the other prize, amid the redoubled and enthusiastic applause of the multitude. But, in the midst of this applause, the young poet looked around among the vast multitude, and there he beheld two arms stretched out to receive him; they were those of his tutor. Close beside stood his mother, shedding tears of joy. He rushed forward through the crowd,—“My father!” said he, “my mother!—take them all,—they are yours;” and so saying, he threw all the prizes, together with himself, into the arms extended to receive him.
“Ah! my children;” said he, when he became an old man, “that which interests the heart is always sweet. I care nothing for the golden violet now. But the feelings of love which burned in my heart for my mother and good old tutor, are as fresh as ever, and survive the blight of other things, as the fragrance of the violet survives its withered leaf.”
THE ELEPHANT.
The elephant is by far the largest and strongest quadruped in the world. He is capable of carrying a burden of several thousand pounds’ weight; and when tamed, one of the most sagacious and teachable of all animals. He is of great service to Eastern nations, particularly in time of war. A sort of turret is fastened on his back, in which are men with their fire-arms. His amazing strength renders him a fearful enemy.
It is related, that, by some accident, a large cannon had fallen into a ravine, where it stuck fast. An elephant was taken to the spot to draw it out; but he shook his head and gave evident signs that he thought it beyond his strength. His keeper, however, fastened him to the cannon, and he tried, but in vain, to pull it up, and was sent away. But, as there appeared no other way of getting the cannon out, the elephant was again fastened to it; he showed symptoms of displeasure at being required to do what was beyond his power, but when urged forward by his keeper, he strained with all his might, and pulled the cannon out of the ravine and dropped down dead.
FINIS.
H. G. Collins, Paternoster Row, London.