OR, JUNE AND NOVEMBER.
"How happy I am to-night! I love you so much I want to be with you all the time," said Willie to his mother, as he followed her from the dining-room to the nursery, one stormy evening.
What made Willie so happy? It was not because the day had been pleasant, and he had been permitted to enjoy himself out of doors, for a chilling snow had been falling, and Willie had been obliged to remain in the house. It was not because he was well, for many hours of the day he had been lying on the bed too ill to sit up all the time. It was not because he had received a handsome present, for none had been given him.
There had been nothing unusual to make him so happy, excepting a thought hidden in the secret recesses of his heart. Shall I tell you what that thought was, that made his face so bright and sunny, that made his eyes sparkle, and wreathed his lips with smiles? I will tell you in his own words, and I hope you will treasure it in your heart. If you do, your face, too, will be cheerful and smiling, and your friends will love to look upon you.
When Willie told his mother how happy he was, she put her arm around him, and drew him lovingly to her side. "What makes you so happy?" she inquired.
"I suppose it is because I have been trying to be good," he answered.
"That always makes people happy," his mother replied.
Willie is generally a good boy, but he sometimes does wrong, and wrong-doing always makes him sad. It was a great pleasure to him that he had tried to be good, and had been enabled to overcome temptation.
All children are sometimes tempted to do wrong, and it often requires a severe struggle to decide to do right. But every child who overcomes evil feels a conscious happiness and self-respect in so doing. I hope you will "try to be good." If you do, and look to Christ for strength, he will aid you, and through his grace you will be able to become conqueror over the sins that "so easily beset you."
Henry Maxwell lives in the same town with Willie, and is of the same age. These boys often play together. I regret to be obliged to say that Henry is not so good a child as Willie. He does not so promptly obey his mother, and of course he cannot be so happy. Sometimes he pouts out his lips, when his mother wishes him to do something which he does not exactly like.
I one day heard his mother talking to him about his teeth. She wished him to brush them again, as he had not done it thoroughly the first time. It was astonishing to see how that fair, round face was disfigured by that ugly pout, and it was sad to hear his dissatisfied "I don't want to." When his mother insisted on obedience, Henry reluctantly complied with her wishes, closing the door behind him with great violence.
His face was not sunny and bright like Willie's, when he had tried to be good, but was dark and shady, like a clouded sky. It was not pleasant to look upon, and it made the heart of his mother heavy and sad to see it. I hope Henry will learn to be cheerful and prompt in his obedience to his mother, for, if he should not, the expression of his face will grow more and more disagreeable, till, when he is a man, it will look more like a chilly day in November, than a sweet, gladsome day in June.
I do not wish you should tell me, but I should like to have you ask yourself, when you have read about these two boys, which of them you are most like. Is your face sunny, or shady?
"IT ISN'T FAIR. I PEEPED."
Willie and Eddie were playing Hide the Button. After they had played some time, and it was Willie's turn to find it, he came into the nursery with his face flushed, and evidently much excited. "It isn't fair," said he, and the tears gathered in his eyes, and his lips quivered with emotion, "I peeped. Eddie must hide it again;" and he went out of the room, for Eddie to put the button in another place.
Willie had been overcome by temptation. He had done a dishonourable act, but his conscience was quick to reprove him, and he had listened to its admonitions. There had been a short but severe struggle in his mind, and truth and honour had conquered. He was brave enough to confess his fault, and to do what he could to make amends for it.
Mrs. Dudley was not at home, but a friend who had charge of the children told her the circumstance. It rejoiced her greatly that her dear boy should have had the manliness to acknowledge his error; and it encouraged her to hope that he would never be guilty of a similar fault again. Willie is a conscientious boy. He sometimes does wrong, as in this instance, but when he reflects, he is always sorry.
Mrs. Dudley did not say any thing to Willie about the occurrence; but a few evenings afterwards as she was sitting at the tea-table alone, the others having all left, he came to her and stood by her side, leaning his elbow upon the table, and resting his head upon his hand. She knew by his manner and his serious look that he had something in particular to say to her. She put her arm around him and drew him close to her.
"Mother," said he, "the other day, when you were gone, I peeped while Eddie hid the button;" and then went on and told her all about it. Mrs. Dudley talked with him a short time, and said he had done right in confessing his fault, and in refusing to profit by his wrong act. She knew he was much happier than he could have been if he had done otherwise. "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy." Willie found the happiness of an approving conscience; and I doubt not that Jesus looked down with love upon him, as he does upon all true penitents. "There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth."
If Willie had not confessed his fault, and been sorry for it, his conscience would have been hardened and he would probably have "peeped" another time, when the children played the same game. But now, if he should be tempted in this way again, he would remember how much he suffered in consequence of having once yielded to a similar temptation, and would not allow himself to commit the wrong.
It is very important that children should early learn to confess their faults, and not form the habit of endeavouring to hide them from others. If they have injured any individual, they should apologize to that individual. Sometimes it is only necessary to confess to God, but we should not be satisfied with doing it in a general manner. Each wrong act, so far as we remember it, should be mentioned.
If we really love our heavenly Father, we shall wish to tell him all about ourselves. We shall have no desire to conceal any thing from him, and it will be a pleasure to us to think that he knows every thought and feeling of our hearts.
Willie had no wish to conceal from his mother the wrong he had done; he preferred to tell her about it; and I have no doubt he had previously told his Father in heaven.
"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
THE CHRYSALIS.
"O mother, look here! What is this?" exclaimed Eddie, as he was in the garden with his mother and Mary and Willie. He was standing by a tall pole, around which a Lima bean-vine had wound itself. He had been gathering the great dry pods in a basket to preserve them for winter, when his grandmother would come to Clover-Hill to see her dear grandchildren. His attention had been attracted by something peculiar, and he immediately called his mother to come and see it. Mary and Willie ran to look. Mrs. Dudley found it was a beautiful green chrysalis, suspended by its silken cords to the vine. The colour was soft and delicate, and it was ornamented with a black line, and with bright golden spots.
"Isn't it pretty, mother?" "How did it get here?" and many more questions were rapidly asked, while the little folks carefully examined it.
Mrs. Dudley told them what it was, and that if they preserved it, they would in a few days see a butterfly escape from it. Eddie looked up astonished. She also told them that it was once a worm, crawling about upon the earth; that it had climbed up, and suspended itself under the shelter of the leaves, to await its change into a new and more attractive form of being.
Mrs. Dudley took the chrysalis from the vine and carried it to the house, and put it on the mantle in her room. Every day the children looked at it to ascertain if there was any change. Soon the colour began to fade, and the delicate pea-green became an ashen white. Then it opened slightly, where there had from the first seemed to be lines of division, and they could peep in at the imprisoned insect. The opening became wider and wider, and one day, when Eddie came into the room and went as usual to look at the chrysalis, the shell was empty! The butterfly had escaped. He uttered an exclamation of mingled surprise and disappointment. As he turned his head, he saw, on the little cotton muff of Mary's doll, the butterfly for which he had so patiently watched.
"Here it is, mother!" he shouted in the most joyous tones, and his eyes sparkled with delight.
Eddie and his mother observed it for some time. Its long, slender legs rested on the muff, and ever and anon it would open and close its brilliant wings, as if to try their power, or to dry the miniature feathers which adorned them. Its colour was a rich orange, shaded from the lighter tints to the deeper, and variegated with stripes of black. The children examined it with a microscope, which made it appear even more beautiful and wonderful than before.
It remained on the muff several hours, and then flew to the window, and alighted on the curtain. At evening, it was found on the cushion of a spool-stand, and there it passed the night. The next day it disappeared, and the children saw it no more. It probably flew away through the open window, to enjoy its brief life under the smiling sun.
The children talked much about the transformations which had taken place in the life of that caterpillar. Their mother told them that the butterfly was sometimes considered a type of immortality. In this world we are, like the worm, in an inferior state of existence. Our bodies are laid in the grave, but we are not dead, any more than the unmoving chrysalis—which remained so long on the mantel just where it was placed—was dead. The spirit still lives, and, after it has freed itself from the imprisoning flesh, is more beautiful than before, and is susceptible of more perfect enjoyment in the pure atmosphere of heaven.
CHRISTMAS AT THE COTTAGE.
Mrs. Dudley's children look forward to Christmas with many anticipations of pleasure, for several weeks before it comes. They are quite busy in preparing for it. Their mother is the repository of their secrets, and assists them by her advice in making their arrangements. Many important deliberations take place about mats, pin-cushions, and bookmarks.
As the day approached, the children often expressed the wish that it was here. A few days was a long time for them to wait. But time did not hasten. The hours were just sixty minutes, and the minutes just sixty seconds. The clock ticked on as usual. It was unmoved by all the excitement, and never, for an instant, quickened its pace.
When Saturday came, their mother proposed that the presents should be distributed that evening. She did not like to have the children wish the Sabbath past, and on Monday morning there would be but little time to make their arrangements before the hour for school. She knew they would be quiet and happy if they had some new books to read, and would be perfectly willing to lay aside other gifts till Monday.
Mary wished to decorate the parlour with evergreens. Mrs. Dudley sent a man to get some for her. She and Willie arranged them in bunches and wreaths. Eddie helped all he could, and was as happy as any of them. In the afternoon their mother assisted them. She put the bunches made of the delicate, feathery hemlock, and the dark glossy laurel, over the windows, and suspended the wreaths where the bay-windows projected from the room. Small branches of cedar and spruce were tastefully arranged in vases, relieved by the rich, green leaves of the ivy, and the bright, lively twigs of box.
The children wished for a Christmas tree, but the evergreens they had were all too small for that purpose Mrs. Dudley suggested that the hat-stand might be substituted. They were delighted, and immediately busied themselves in adorning it with garlands. It proved quite ornamental, and the pegs served a very useful purpose. Mary arranged on some strips of white paper the words, "A merry Christmas." The letters were made of the small leaves of the box, and were fastened on with gum-arabic. These were placed amid the wreaths on the transformed hat-stand.
When all these arrangements were completed to their satisfaction, they left the room. Mrs. Dudley remained some time longer. When she left, the door was locked.
Mr. Dudley returned from the city, where he had been spending the day, bringing some friends with him. Tea was speedily despatched, and then all the family were summoned. The parlour door was unlocked. There were various toys, baskets, and reticules suspended on the hat-stand. There was a nice little felt hat for one of Mary's dolls, and a looking-glass for the baby-house, and an embroidered cushion, which Willie's industrious fingers had made for Minnie Dudley, as the doll is called—a far better employment for him, I think, than throwing it about and treating it roughly, as I have sometimes heard of boys doing. There were humming-tops, which reminded me, by their music, of the great spinning-wheel that whirred away in my mother's kitchen when I was a child. There were graces, and battle-doors, and jack-straws for the amusement of the children when it was too cold or stormy to play out of doors.
On a table was an array of slippers, which Mary and her mother had wrought for father and the boys. There was merry capering when they were transferred to the feet of their owners. I shall not tell you whether Mr. Dudley so far forgot his dignity as to partake of the excitement, but I am quite sure he was much gratified by the present Mary had made for him with her own hands, and that he kissed his thanks with great fondness.
Most valuable of all to the little folks, and most gladly welcomed, were the books. How eagerly they looked them over.
There was a present to Mrs. Dudley from her children, which I must not forget to tell you about. It was a plain gold pin, in which, neatly plaited, were six bunches of hair. One of them was dark, streaked with gray—the others were auburn, flaxen, and brown. She knew whence the treasures came to unite in that beautiful mosaic, and the tears were ready to start from her eyes as she received that precious token of family love.
When I was a child, I heard little about Christmas. It came and went without my knowledge. But I enjoy the return of it very much now, and sympathize with children in the interest with which they regard it. I like to think they are treasuring up such cheerful memories to make their early home attractive to their age.
The little Dudley's will always like to look back to this pleasant evening, and wherever they are, their hearts will warm more fondly on account of it to their father's cottage, nestled in the valley, and they will be in less danger of forgetting the lessons of love and kindness they have learned there.
I WILL CONQUER MYSELF.
In one of the oldest towns of New-England there lived, many years ago, a little girl, whom I shall call Helen Earle. Her father had been engaged in the East Indian trade, and had accumulated great wealth. Her mother was a sweet, gentle woman, who most tenderly loved her children, and endeavoured to correct their faults, and develop their excellencies. In Helen's home there was every comfort and every luxury that heart could desire, but she was not always happy. She had one fault, which often made herself and her friends very unhappy. It was the indulgence of a violent temper. She would allow herself to become exceedingly angry, and her usually beautiful face was then disfigured by passion. Her mother was greatly grieved and distressed by these outbreaks of ill temper, and did all in her power to restrain them. She talked with her daughter earnestly in regard to the sin of such a temper. Helen would weep bitter tears, and express much regret for the past, but she could not quite make up her mind to determine to overcome temptation. The task seemed too difficult, and she shrunk from the attempt.
Mrs. Earle shed many tears in secret over this sad failing in her beloved child, and most fervently pleaded for help from Him who had given her the care of this immortal spirit to educate for eternity. She knew that God alone could change Helen's heart, and give her power to overcome sin, even though assaulted by the fiercest temptation.
One day, when Helen was very angry at something which had occurred, her mother led her up stairs to her own room and left her alone. For a time she cried violently, then she grew calm and quiet, and her mother could hear her walking back and forth across the room, talking to herself. She listened. How her heart rejoiced when she heard her repeating, again and again, "I will conquer myself! I will conquer myself!"
And Helen did conquer herself. She had come to the determination, not that she would try to conquer, but that she would conquer, and, by the gracious help which is always given to those who ask,—she nobly succeeded. From that hour she was able to overcome the temptation, and was not overcome by it. She grew up to womanhood remarkable for the evenness and gentleness of her temper. None, who had not known her in childhood, would have suspected that she was not always thus mild and lovely.
Helen did for herself what no earthly friend could do for her. By the power of her will she controlled her impulses, and this triumph was of far more value to her than all the wealth of her father. It made her a blessing to her friends, strengthened all her good purposes, and enabled her to perform the duties of life without the friction which a bad temper always occasions. It gave her that true self-respect which elevates the character, and which none can feel who are not conscious of the power to rule their own spirits.
No child is blamed for having a quick temper, but he is blamed if he allows himself to be overpowered by it. If he really determines, as Helen did, to conquer himself, he will succeed. The old proverb, "Where there is a will, there is a way," will never fail in such a case as this. "God helps those who help themselves," and he is ever ready to assist us in subduing what is wrong in our own spirits.
The Bible contains many passages which condemn anger: "He that is soon angry, dealeth foolishly." "Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry, for anger resteth in the bosom of fools." "Make no friendship with an angry man, and with a furious man thou shalt not go." "He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding, but he that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly." "Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God."
All habits grow stronger by indulgence. If you allow yourself to become angry to-day, you will more easily become so to-morrow. If you control your temper to-day, it will be less difficult to control it to-morrow. Helen's victory was obtained by decision. To form the determination to conquer herself required more effort of will and more strength of character than any subsequent struggle with her besetting sin could possibly require.
If you have any fault which you wish to correct, you must fully make up your mind to succeed. You must resolve that you will conquer. If you should occasionally be overcome, yield not to despair, but with renewed courage try again.
"On yourself and God relying, Try, keep trying."
SELFISH ELLA.
Ella Russell is a little girl with soft, flaxen hair, bright eyes, and a complexion fair and clear. She is neat and orderly in her habits, and is very gentle and mild in her manners. Her musical laugh sometimes rings through the house like a sweet melody. It is so contagious that you would laugh yourself to hear it.
Ella is obedient, and needs as little care as any child I ever knew. Her father is living, but she has no mother, and Ella lives with a Mrs. Lindsley, who has three daughters, two of them older and one younger than Ella. She is much attached to this lady, and feels perfectly at home in her house.
Ella's mother was in feeble health several years before her death. Ella was her constant companion, and nothing gave her more pleasure than to wait upon her and do all in her power to relieve her sufferings and make her more comfortable. Mrs. Russell said her daughter was an excellent nurse, although she was not more than seven or eight years old. It shows how much even small children can do for the comfort of their invalid friends, if they really try. It is very gratifying to a mother to have a child so careful and thoughtful, and Ella and her mother loved each other more and more every day. Mrs. Russell's disease was consumption, and she could not be restored to health. Poor Ella, how lonely she felt when her mother died! She was young to know so much sorrow.
Ella's home is not far from the city. Her father often goes there, and frequently sends her some delicacy which he knows she would relish—a box of early strawberries, or a basket of plums or peaches, or whatever fruit may be in season. Mr. Russell is exceedingly generous, and he expects his little daughter to divide the fruit with the family where she has found so excellent a home.
Ella, good child as she is in most respects, has one sad fault. She is selfish. When she receives any rarity she would prefer to eat it herself, just as the chickens do when they have found a nice tit-bit. It is really a trial to her that she cannot eat a whole basket of peaches before they would spoil! Indeed, one day, after receiving such a present, she said to a person in the family, "I wish my father would not send so many. I like it better when I have only a small basket, and can keep it in my own room."
At one time Mr. Russell sent a basket of peaches to Mrs. Lindsley. Ella was not at home. She had gone out to make a call on some of her friends. She heard this basket had been sent, and hastened back as soon as she could. "I hope they haven't eaten up all my peaches!" was her first exclamation. She was quite indignant to find the basket had been opened.
Mrs. Lindsley gave her all she considered it safe for her to eat; but Ella was not happy. She felt as if they all ought to be hers, and she really cried about it. A day or two after Ella saw her father, and he told her the peaches were designed for the family. Ella was somewhat mortified, and afterward told Mrs. Lindsley what her father said about the basket of fruit.
It seems very strange that Ella should be so selfish, for her father is not at all so, and I know it must grieve him to have a child of his so forgetful of the enjoyment of others. This selfishness does not make her happy. It occasions her much trouble, and it always will.
I know a little boy, six years old, who is very fond of fruit, and who is much delighted when his father brings him an apple; yet I have seen him, when he had but one, divide it between his brothers and sisters, and reserve no part of it for himself. He seemed entirely happy in doing so.
One day he heard his mother say, "I have not even a penny in my purse." He went up-stairs to his money-box, and brought down a handful of pennies, and gave them to her. His mother kissed his plump, brown cheek, and thanked him for his gift.
His mother kissed his plump, brown cheek.
Which should you prefer to be like—selfish Ella, or this generous little boy?
The selfish person is always willing to receive favours, but to the generous "it is more blessed to give than to receive."
"OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN."
"Father is coming, father is coming!" shout a merry group of children, as Mr. Wilmot appears around a little knoll, on his return from his business.
"Let us run and meet him,"—and away they scamper over the lawn to see which will get to him first. They are laughing gaily, and their feet trip lightly, as hatless and bonnetless they hasten to him. Mary's brown curls are streaming in the wind, and it is a beautiful sight to look upon these children, so full of life and joy and love.
Mr. Wilmot greets them with a smile, and stoops to kiss each of them, as they put up their arms to give him a loving welcome to his home. One of them takes his basket, and another his cane, and then the unoccupied hands are claimed by the tiny ones who love to walk by his side.
Why do these children hasten so eagerly to meet their father? It is just because he is their father. He has provided them with a home, and with food and clothing, and has given them many pleasant things to enjoy. He loves them, and his love and approbation are very precious to them. They obey his wishes, and strive to please him, and this is one source of the happiness which fills their hearts.
I think most of you, dear children, have kind parents, to whom you are warmly attached, and that you do not hear the name of father without emotions of pleasure. Some of you have no earthly father, but you all have one in another and better world.
Most of you, in your infancy, have learned to repeat the Lord's Prayer. How beautiful and expressive are the words with which it commences, "Our Father who art in heaven." God, then, is your father, and you may go to him as his children. You may tell him all your wants, all your sorrows, and all your joys. You may pour out your heart to him with perfect freedom. You need not fear to do this as you would to a stranger, for he is your Father, and knows all about you. He knows every time you suffer, and he sees every thought of your heart. God loves you more than any earthly friends can, and he has enabled them to bestow upon you all the comforts which surround you.
When you kneel down to pray, will you not remember that it is to a father you are speaking, and will you not love him as truly and warmly as you do the dear father who takes you on his knee, and speaks so kindly and affectionately to you. Your father in heaven has given you this earthly parent, and you should surely love him for all he has done for you.
Do not let the precious words, "Our Father who art in heaven," be unmeaning ones to you; but strive to realize the great goodness and condescension of God in permitting you to call him by so sweet a name, and give him the only thing you can in return,—your young and grateful hearts.
HATTIE AND HERBERT.
"Was there ever so good a mother as you are?" said Hattie Atherton, throwing her arms around her mother's neck, and kissing her with great affection.
"Oh yes!" answered little Herbert, in a solemn tone, "there is one a great deal better."
"Why, Herbert! what do you mean?" exclaimed Hattie, who knew Herbert loved his mother as dearly as she did.
"I mean God. He is better than mother."
"But God is a Father. He is our Father in heaven," continued Hattie.
Herbert was quite satisfied with Hattie's correction, and was then ready to agree with her, that his mother was the best mother in the world.
Herbert was a very little boy, but he had been taught that God was more worthy of love than even his father or mother could be. He was too young to understand much about the being of God, and when he called him a mother a great deal better than his own mother, it was an expression of his love and reverence.
Do you, dear children, when you realize something about the love which your mother feels for you, and which enables her cheerfully to do so much for your comfort, remember that God loves you even more than she does, and that He is far more deserving your strongest affections?
"He that loveth father or mother more than me," the Saviour said, "is not worthy of me." God should occupy the first place in your heart, and next to Him you should love your parents.
Happy is that child who is so willing to be governed by her mother's wishes that she is at all times ready to exclaim, "Was there ever so good a mother as my mother!"
THE TWO WILLS.
When a man of wealth dies, there is always much interest felt in regard to the disposition he has made of his property by will. Sometimes large bequests are made to benevolent societies, and the donor is generally considered a very generous man. Many bless his memory, and his name is cherished with grateful respect. It is right that it should be so. God loves the cheerful giver.
I have just read the last "will and testament" of a little boy nine years old, who lived in Ohio. Not very long ago he was taken ill with fever. The disease was violent, and he suffered much. At length it became evident that he must die.
A few hours before his death, he looked up to his mother and said:
"Do you remember my gold dollar?"
"Yes, my son; but we had better not think of that now."
"But mother," said George, "I want you to give it to the missionaries, and my shillings too, and all the pennies. Give it all to the missionaries."
George died, and I trust has gone to heaven. His desire to do good was no doubt acceptable and pleasing to God. He could not receive here the reward God has promised to those who give to the poor, but in another world his heavenly Father can most richly recompense him. The sum contributed by the dying child was not large, but it was all he had.
In the same town lived a little girl, whose father was a clergyman. One after another of his dear ones were taken from him. A precious babe of seventeen months, a sweet prattler of three years, and another of five, were called to leave this world and grow up with the angels in heaven. Then this child of eleven must go too—the fourth out of that family circle within one short month! She had been a follower of the Saviour for three years, and had thought much of the condition of the heathen, who have no knowledge of the way of salvation through Christ. She hoped, if she lived, to become a missionary herself, and teach them about the true God and his son Jesus Christ.
She was ill nearly three weeks, but she was not unhappy. She did not fear to die. The Saviour, whom she loved, was near her, to walk with her through the valley of the shadow of death, and his rod and staff—they comforted her. She knew that her beloved parents would soon join her in the heavenly world, when they all together should enjoy the immediate presence of their Lord. She looked forward cheerfully and joyfully, to the glorious immortality upon which she was so soon to enter. When dying, she exclaimed, "It is all dark here, but I shall soon be where it is light. I shall be with my heavenly Father, and the blessed Saviour, and all the good people."
One of this child's last requests was, that her dollar—the only money she possessed—should be sent to a missionary society to buy Testaments for heathen children.
These children's offerings, small though they are, are yet precious gifts cast into the treasury of our Lord. Their influence will never cease. Many souls may be converted through the truth these "two mites" may be the means of teaching.
"BLESS GOD FOR THIS DOLL."
When Mary Wilson was about five years old, her aunt Ann came from a distant place to make her mother a visit. She was fond of children, and often talked and played with her little niece, and assisted her in making dresses for her doll. This gratified Mary, and made her love her more and more, as we always love those who are kind to us.
Mary's doll was not pretty, but she liked it very much, and took good care of it. She always undressed it at night, before she went to bed, and put on a nice white night-gown her mother had made for it; and in the morning she would dress it again for the day. She named it Louisa, but her younger brother always called it Quesa, and, after a time, all the family spoke of it by that name.
Mary often wished she could wash Quesa's face, as her own was washed; but she had tried it once, and found it would not answer, for the colour came off its cheeks, and it looked more than ever as if it needed a good rubbing with a sponge.
Sometimes, when passing the shop-windows, and seeing the new dolls so temptingly displayed, Mary would ask if she might stop and look at them, and would, perhaps, say, "I should like that doll." Mrs. Wilson would gladly have purchased one of them for her, but she was obliged to be economical, and could not gratify all her wishes. Mary had early to learn many lessons of self-denial, and I must do her the justice to say she was always satisfied with her mother's decision.
Mary would occasionally go to walk with her aunt Ann, who observed with what delight she looked at the porcelain dolls, so bright and fresh, and she thought she could not make her a more acceptable present than one of them.
One day, when Mary was not with her, she bought a doll with rosy lips and cheeks, blue eyes, and short curling hair, and dressed it in clothes which could be taken off and put on easily, as all little girls like to have them. It was indeed very pretty, and its face could be washed without injury as often as Mary pleased to do it.
Mary knew nothing about the present she was to receive, till all this was done; and then her aunt, going into the nursery, put it in her arms as she was sitting in her low chair playing with Quesa. Mary looked at the new doll, and then at her aunt, and then at the doll again, as if to say, "What does all this mean?" Aunt Ann answered the look by saying, "The doll is for you, Mary."
It was just what she had long wanted, and her heart was full of happiness and gratitude. After holding it a moment, she laid it carefully in her chair, and kneeling down, put her little hands together and closing her eyes, said, "Bless God for this doll." Mary had been taught that God was the giver of every good gift, and she felt, that although aunt Ann gave her the doll, her heavenly Father had put it into her heart to do so, and she wanted to thank him for making her so happy.
Perhaps you think that God is too great a being to care about your little wants, and that he does not put the thought into any body's heart to buy dolls for children, as Mary Wilson did. Nothing which concerns the happiness of the creatures he has made, is too small for his attention. Nothing escapes his notice. "The very hairs of your head are all numbered." So small a bird as a sparrow, the Bible tells us, cannot fall to the ground without his knowledge. If he cares for the birds, he certainly does for children, and wishes them all to be good and happy.
God has given you all many gifts, for which you ought to thank him. If I should look into your play-rooms, how many things I should see which add to your enjoyment! In one there is a pasteboard house, with windows and doors, and partitions to divide it into rooms. It is furnished with tables and chairs, and the dolls can sit in them. In another, are blocks with which to build houses, castles, and railways, or any thing the fancy of the young architect may dictate; and here is Noah's ark, in miniature, containing himself and family, and many animals. Countless other toys are distributed among my young friends, which make their bright eyes sparkle, and wreathe their lips with smiles.
Other treasures, more valuable than these, are not wanting. How many books I see! and as I open them, one after another, at the fly-leaf, I read your own names and the names of those friends and relatives who have given them to you.
Have you ever thanked your heavenly Father, as Mary Wilson did, for these pleasant things which make you so happy, and for all the blessings he confers upon you?
Your parents provide you with food and clothes, and many other comforts which you need; but it is God who enables them to do so, and who fills their hearts with such love for you as to make it a pleasure to watch over and care for you. You should be grateful to them for all their kindness, but you should never forget that to your Father in heaven you owe your gratitude for such loving friends.
God himself has taught you to ask him, day by day, for your daily bread. That prayer shows who provides for your wants, and whom you should thank for the pleasant things you enjoy.
There is one gift of exceeding great value which the Lord has bestowed upon us—greater than all others—but I will tell you about it another time.
BESSIE HARTWELL.
Children who are called obedient children are often not so prompt in their obedience as they should be. Instead of doing directly as they are bidden, they stop to ask "Why?" and seem to wish some other reason for compliance with a command than the word of a parent. It is often proper to tell children why they should do or should not do certain things; but children should be careful to remember that they must obey, whether they know the reason of the requirement or not.
Bessie Hartwell is about eleven years old. She is generally a good child, but, like all others whom I have known, she has some faults. Although she always intends to obey, she does not always obey instantly. I will tell you a sad accident which befell her in consequence of this tardiness, and you will see it would have been much better for her if she had learned to be prompt.
She was travelling with an aunt on a steamboat. She was very happy, for she was going to visit her grandfather and grandmother, and she knew she should enjoy herself on the fine farm, scampering about over the fields, raking the new-mown hay, and riding on the top of the load.
Bessie always liked to go to the country. Her home was in the city, where she had only a small yard, not much larger than her grandmother's capacious kitchen, to play in, and that was surrounded by a high, close fence, so that she could see only the tiny patch of grass beneath and the beautiful blue sky above.
Children in the country do not know how to prize their freedom. If they could be penned up in the city for a few months, as Bessie was for the greater part of the year, they would learn to appreciate it, and they would look upon every tree and every blade of grass as a friend. The chirping of the crickets, the singing of the frogs, and the warbling of the birds would be thrice welcome music to them. No wonder Bessie was so happy when she thought of the wide lawn studded with trees, the orchard rich in apples and pears, the hills down which she and her sisters could run, and up whose steep sides they must scramble when the horn sounds for dinner. The country is rich in its treasures of happiness, and they are bestowed freely and profusely upon every one "who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible forms."
It was in the gray twilight of the morning that the steamboat arrived at the wharf. When they went home, Bessie was awakened, and was soon ready, with her travelling-bag on her arm, to leave the boat. Her aunt took her by the hand, to lead her across the gangway. They had but just stepped upon it, when she started forward to reach her uncle, who, with an infant in his arms, had just preceded her. Her aunt called to her to stop. She paid no attention, but passed rapidly on. A car, laden with baggage, was drawn across the gangway. It frightened her. She stepped quickly aside, and fell into the water.
Oh! the agony of that moment! Her uncle and aunt could not aid her. He besought the people near him to take the infant from his arms, that he might leap into the water to attempt the rescue of the child; but they would not do it. They held him back, that he might not expose himself to the danger of immediate death; for he could not swim, and of course he could not render the assistance which was needed. He and her aunt were both obliged to stand and look on, in unutterable anguish, while strangers attempted to save her.
Bessie fell in such a way that she did not sink under the water. Her clothes spread out, and buoyed her up like a life-preserver. A man let himself down as soon as possible; but the rope was not long enough for him to reach Bessie. He could only touch her with his foot. She took hold of it, and he slowly raised her till he grasped her bonnet. In this way they were both pulled up, and Bessie once more stood by the side of her aunt. How freely they all breathed once more, when the terrible suspense was ended, and she was safe!
Bessie seemed scarcely aware of the danger she had been in. She had been perfectly calm, and did not lose her presence of mind; and it was owing to this, probably, that she was so easily rescued. She tried to save her travelling-bag, but, as she told her aunt, she could not hold it any longer than she did.
It was wonderful that Bessie was not drowned. If she had not been supported by her clothes, she would have sunk beneath the water, and when she arose would very probably have come up under the boat, so that it would have been impossible to save her.
If Bessie had been in the habit of obeying so soon as she was spoken to, she would not have met with this fearful accident, and her uncle and aunt would have been spared the mental suffering they endured. I should think she never again would forget to obey at the first word from those who have the care of her.
I hope, dear children, you will profit as much by Bessie's accident as I trust she will; and that you will aim not only to be obedient, but promptly obedient. You may not suffer the same mishap that she did, even if you allow yourself to form the same habit; but it may lead you into as great danger, and even greater, for it may peril the purity and peace of your soul, and that is of far more consequence than the safety of your body.
"MARY'S GREAT TREASURE"
More than twenty years ago, there was a little blue-eyed, curly-haired child playing about one of the pleasant homes in the West. She was happy and kind, and every one loved her. She was only six years old, yet she had a great treasure in her possession—greater than many of the kings and queens of the earth can claim.
What do you suppose this treasure was? Was it a valuable diamond? Was it an immense amount of silver and gold? Something better than diamonds or silver and gold, was in this little girl's keeping—something which will be safe when these have all perished.
I will tell you what this treasure was, because I want you to be as rich as Mary, and, through the great goodness of God, you may all have just such a precious gift. It was a new heart—a heart that loved her heavenly Father, that loved to pray to him and ask him to keep her from sin.
Mary often talked with her companions about Jesus, and before she was ten years old several of them had been brought to love and obey him, and had, like Mary, a new heart. How happy they were together! How much the Saviour loved them!
Mary is now dead, and has gone to heaven. Do you suppose she is sorry she so early went to Christ and asked him for a new heart?
How pleasant it must have been to her to be able to say, as she looked back over her past life, that she could not remember the time when she did not love the Saviour; and she surely does not now regret, that when she was a little child—less than most of you who are reading about her—she went to Jesus and asked him for a heart to love him.
Our heavenly Father will give you a new heart, if you really wish to have it and feel your great need of it. Jesus died that you might be saved from sin, and he loves little children. Will you not go to him, as did Mary, and ask him for a new heart? If you are sorry for your sins, tell him so; and if you are not, ask him to help you to feel how wicked sin is, that you may have the "great treasure."
"SUSAN WILL BE HAPPIER IF I GO WITH HER."
Mary Wilson is a little girl only nine years old. She loves her mother very dearly, and she is always happy to be with her.
Mrs. Wilson lives in the country, not far from a pretty village, to which she occasionally goes to make a few purchases or call on a friend. She sometimes takes Mary with her, who always enjoys such a walk. She trips along by her mother's side, sometimes taking her hand, and sometimes stooping down to gather a wild-flower which blossoms by the roadside; and then perhaps she runs on and watches the brook that trickles down the hill, on its way to the river. Her smiling face and sparkling eyes show she is happy.
One day when she was all ready, with her white sack and blue sun-bonnet on, to accompany her mother along the bank of the river to the village, Susan Grafton called for her to go with her in another direction, on an errand for Mrs. Grafton. Mary was greatly tried. She wished very much to go with her mother, but Susan did not like to go alone. What to do she did not know. Tears were in her eyes, as she told her mother her trouble and asked her what she should do. Mrs. Wilson left the decision entirely to Mary. After a short struggle she smiled through her tears, and said, "I should rather go with you, mother, but Susan will be happier if I go with her. I think I had better go with her."
Mrs. Wilson kissed the quivering lip of her daughter, and told her she had done right in thinking of Susan's happiness. Her heart ascended in prayer to God for his blessing on her dear child, that she might ever be unselfish and self-sacrificing.
Would not most children be happier than they now are, if, like Mary, they tried to make others happy, and were willing to deny themselves for the sake of their companions?
Although Mary was so much grieved to lose her walk with her mother, she was far happier that afternoon than she would have been without an approving conscience.
Will you not pray, dear children, for a kind, unselfish heart?
