THE GOOD LADY.
"Seeing is believing. I never will believe any one, until I know her distress is real. But I never will turn any one from my door, without trying to find out the truth of the story." So said a lady; and, putting on her bonnet, she went to seek the abode of want. Down this dirty lane, and through that miry alley, and up a dark passage, and across a muddy court, and into such a filthy hovel, and up such crazy stairs. Her limbs were quite tired, and her spirits quite worn out; but her heart was as warm and fresh as ever, and her wishes as kind. "Never, never let us stop short in the course of duty, in the efforts of pity." Such were her thoughts as she paced forwards towards the scene of distress. She was there at last; and what a scene! Six children and their starving mother, without food, without fire, almost without clothing, so thin, so pale, so haggard. "And, I was eating a hearty breakfast, when this beggar came to my door. Oh! if I had sent her away without hope, and left her without help!" The lady's heart beat fast, as these thoughts passed through it; and she heaved a heavy sigh, and wiped away a few bitter tears. But then, rousing herself, she felt there was much to be done. Two babies, twins, were in the woman's arms, as she rose from her only chair to welcome the lady. The eldest girl was seated on the only stool, holding a cup of cold water to a sickly infant on her knee; a boy was mounted on a piece of wood, trying to find something to eat on the shelf; and a younger girl was running to hide herself in the ragged bed, having only a scanty garment thrown about her chilled body.
The woman had no need to beg for pity; her state besought it, claimed it. "Were you at my house this morning?"—"Ah! no, madam, I could not crawl so far; besides, how could I leave my little ones? It was a kind neighbour that spoke for me, Heaven bless her!"—"Thus the poor can help the poor," said the lady; "and thus it is that real distress is found in holes and corners, unknown and modest." This lady was not rich, but yet she placed this sad group in a state of comfort. She had old clothes to give, and she could contrive cheap broth, and she could spare a little money. I think one never misses what one gives to the poor and needy.
POOR HANNAH.
Fanny and her brother Horace were walking in the fields near their house, when they saw a little girl crying very much. She was all in rags and tatters, and looked very pale and half starved. "What is the matter, poor child?" asked Horace. "Oh! I am a wretched creature," said she. "Where do you come from?" asked Fanny. "From the village of Moswood," said the child. "From that village beyond the forest?" said Horace, pointing to the place he meant. "Yes, Sir."—"Bless me!" cried Fanny, holding out her hand with surprise; for Moswood was the village whence they had just come, after spending a pleasant week at their Uncle's, who lived there. "Do tell us your story," said Horace. The girl, between her sobs, told her little tale of woe, in words like these:—"I am a poor orphan; but a rich farmer took me into his service, where I lived content, and healthy. I used to weed the garden, pick up stones, gather wood, and do a hundred other jobs: I was not idle; so they gave me clothes and food. But a week ago, they scolded me, and beat me, and turned me out of the house, and since then, I have lived on turnips, and berries, and water, and I am dying of hunger; for now I have no friend in the wide world, and have lost my all,—my good name!"—"And how did you lose your good name?"—"I do not know, miss; they were all so angry and so rough, I only heard some words about a silver thimble and some scissors; and then they called me a thief; and I cried out, 'I am no thief;' and then they beat me, and called me a liar; but oh! I am no liar!"—"Tell me your name,—quick, quick," said Fanny. "Hannah," said the child. Fanny turned pale; and her brother said, "Surely, this is not the girl that our Uncle's Bailiff, Andrew—" "Yes, yes, I am that poor, poor girl."—"And it was I who lost the thimble; and it was I who said, in a careless way, that I dared say the young weeder had got it," cried out Fanny, bursting into tears. "And you found the thimble again?"—"Yes, in my workbox, up stairs."—"And you said nothing of having found it?"—"No, I did not; I did not think I had done any harm. Dear Horace, do not look so angry! I see I have been very cruel, and very wicked! With my careless words, I have been the ruin of this friendless girl! But let us go home, and explain all, and save her from farther hurt; and oh! never, never let us speak ill of the poor and the friendless, unless we are quite, quite sure they are to blame."
FEARFUL FANCIES.
Old Matthew and his young neighbour Joe were coming home from the fair, one night, loaded with some things which they had bought. It was a lovely moonlight night, and the air was soft, and the dew was cool upon the turf on which they paced. They walked on stoutly, speeding the time with droll stories and merry chat, till they came in sight of a house that had long stood empty and was half in ruins. All at once, Matthew became grave, and Joe silent, and they passed the house as quickly as they could. When they had quite passed it, "I wonder why you are so grave, all of a sudden, Matthew!" said Joe. "And I wonder why, all at once, you are so silent, Joe!" said Matthew; and both made believe to laugh and be merry, but both cast a look behind at the house, and both began to walk quickly, and almost to run. A sort of crackling noise was heard: "Dear me," cried Joe, "what a horrid sound!" Soon after, a kind of twitter was sounded: "Mercy upon us," cried Matthew, "what dreadful notes!" Cold, trembling, aghast, afraid of they knew not what, these two stout men, who would have braved the cannon's mouth, quaked, and tried to run away. Just at this moment, the clouds lightly floating away, the moon shone in a flood of glory, and all around was clear as in a sunny noon. The panting men stopped to take breath, and threw a fearful glance behind. Matthew beheld a scathed oak, the dry and leafless boughs of which swung and crackled in the breeze. "Ha! ha!" he said, and laughed; "your brittle sprays, Mr. Oak, have made this fine brave fellow shake and tremble thus!" and he jeered poor Joe. Matthew's loud laugh scared a bird from its secret bower, and as it flitted past them, it sounded again its soft low notes. "Ho! ho!" cried Joe, "it is your strains, Mrs. Bird, that have frighted this gallant hero, this merry Matthew!" The friends now both laughed, and owned the folly of their fancies. "What a sad thing is fear!" said Matthew; "when once we let it come over us, how quickly it masters us! Fear made a tender oakspray seem to crackle with horrid sound! Fear made a timid bird seem to utter dreadful notes! Well, we shall be wiser the next time: and think, and look, and feel, before we yield ourselves to fear, and on such a glorious night too!"
SPEAK THE TRUTH.
"It is my doll, and he wants it," cried Susan, running to her papa and mamma, all in tears and anger. "I only wanted to look at it, you cross girl!" said Edmund, running after her, and trying to snatch the doll from her. "Hello, young man!" said his father, "do you use your strength only to oppress the weak? Fie! I thought it was the first duty of a man to protect a woman, not abuse her."—"Yes, papa, but Susan is such a pet, and such a peevish little girl."—"No, Sir," said Susan, "it is you who are a tyrant, and a rude, rude boy."—"I am no tyrant, miss."—"Yes, Sir, you are."—"Silence, if you please, both of you," cried their father; and their mother, drawing Susan towards her, asked her how the fray began. Now Susan was a girl of truth, and when she began to think over the matter, she found she had been cross, as her brother said; and, like a noble child, she would not change the truth to hide her fault; so she blushed, and was silent, and cast down her eyes. Edmund, therefore, came forward to speak, and he did say a few words bold enough at first, as thus: "Papa, now I will tell you all about it; I wanted to see Susan's doll, and so I—I," here he began to stammer. "Speak on," said his father; "you wished to see Susan's doll, and you asked her to let you look at it." Edmund was now quite silent, he too blushed and cast down his eyes, whilst Susan peeped at him slyly through a corner of her eye, and smiled upon him, with a pretty saucy smile. He felt willing to smile also; but he tried to look grave. "As Edmund does not go on to tell us all about it," said his father archly, "suppose, my little Sue, you begin the story where he left off." So Susan said, in a kind of whisper, "I would not have kept it, if he,"—then she stopped, and added, "I believe I was cross."—"No, no," cried Edmund loudly, "you were not cross, till I was rude. Papa," said he, firmly, "I wanted to snatch the doll from her, and that's the truth of the matter." His father shook hands with him, and said, "That's my fine fellow! Always speak the truth, even when it shews your faults." Susan held up her little mouth to her brother, and he kissed her, and called her his pretty little Sue; and their mother said, "There is nothing like speaking the truth for ending quarrels, and making us all live in peace."