It was not till I had been some time with my little master that I could fully appreciate his amiable character: nor do I, indeed, think that I was ever acquainted with the whole extent of his goodness; but so many admirable traits fell under my immediate notice, that I became daily more attached to him. He was extremely kind to me, procuring me every comfort and indulgence in his power, and giving me liberty whenever he was at home. I might frequently have taken advantage of his confidence in me, had I wished to escape; but I loved him too well to think of leaving him, and had also experienced such vicissitudes, that I had no desire to go in quest of new adventures. Here I had every thing I could wish for, and I felt happy under the protection of a master whom I could at once admire and esteem.
Henry was by no means insensible of my regard. “Dear mamma,” he would frequently say, “I am sure my bird knows me, and loves me too, for he is always so much rejoiced when I return home, if I have been absent ever so short a time.”
His dear mother always seized the occasion, when he made these observations, to inculcate some amiable impression, or draw some useful inference. “You see, my dear boy,” she would observe, “what pleasure there is in pleasing. You are kind to your little bird, he is, in return, affectionate and grateful; his caresses, though of no real value, are delightful to you. In them you experience what I have so often represented to you, that trifling acts of kindness and gratitude, though in themselves unimportant, are of inestimable value to the receiver. You in some measure resemble your little bird, when you display affection and gratitude towards your parents, and I trust that the pleasure you now feel from his acknowledgement of your kindness, is but an earnest of that you will enjoy when you are able to be useful to your fellow-creatures. I have to add, though, that you are not always to expect gratitude for your kindness; that is not the reward I would wish you to seek, but rather that recompence of which no one can deprive you—the approbation of your own heart.”
Perhaps my young readers will not admire this long digression, but I cannot forbear repeating, occasionally, some of the excellent advice I so frequently heard; and I hope there are some children whose hearts will (as Henry’s did on similar occasions) expand with a noble emulation to approve themselves every thing their parents’ most sanguine hopes can anticipate. Henry’s father was no less sensible than his mother, nor was he less indulgent. His time was much occupied in a professional employment, but he still found leisure to improve, and frequently to amuse, his little boy. Henry’s favourite amusement was riding. Hitherto he had ridden only a donkey, but his kind papa had promised to purchase a poney for him the ensuing spring, provided he profited by his brother’s instructions.
The little boy was usually diligent and attentive, but on this occasion he displayed so much assiduity, and so entirely satisfied his papa, that the promised reward was already earned; and Henry, in idea, mounted his poney and rode beside his dear papa, though the winter had yet to elapse before his idea could be realized.
The season was peculiarly severe, and I had great reason to rejoice that I was not exposed to its inclemency; for I frequently observed from the windows multitudes of little birds flying in every direction, in search of that sustenance the snow-covered earth refused them. I pitied them very much, and would gladly have shared my food with them, but as I could not express my benevolent wishes, they were, of course, fruitless, and compassion was all I could bestow. Happily, however, Henry observed their distress, and soon found means to relieve them. He obtained his mamma’s permission to have the window-sash taken out from a small empty room, and there he put abundance of food every evening, but never went in during the day. The plan succeeded according to his wish, for the birds meeting with no interruption, came there every day to feed, and the dear boy had frequently the pleasure of seeing his numerous little pensioners busily employed about the window of his aviary.
The snow continued very long on the ground, but as Henry was a robust boy, that did not prevent his walking out. One morning he came home, and ran hastily into the room where his mamma was sitting.
“How now, my Henry,” said she, “why you have been up to your knees in the snow. That is not like your usual obedience.”
“Dear mamma,” said Henry, “I am sure you will excuse me when you know the cause. Look at this poor little fellow,” added he, producing a redbreast of the preceding spring; “he flew a few paces before me on the path where I was walking, and then stopped, as if unable to proceed: when I advanced he made another effort, and reached the foot of a tree, where he sat quite still for some time, and I, fearing that he was dying, ventured across the snow and brought him home. I think we may, perhaps, recover him, mamma.”