shoes or boots, nor needles for sewing their garments. This want, however, they soon supplied by means of the pieces of iron they had occasionally collected. Out of these they made both, and by their industry even brought them to a certain degree of perfection. The making eyes to their needles gave them indeed no little trouble, but this they also performed with the assistance of their knife; for, having ground it to a very sharp point, and heated red-hot a kind of wire forged for that purpose, they pierced a hole through one end; and by whetting and smoothing it on stones, brought the other to a point, and thus gave the whole needle a very tolerable form. Scissors to cut out the skin were what they next had occasion for; but having none, their place they supplied with the knife; and, though there was neither shoemaker nor tailor amongst them, yet they had contrived to cut out the leather and furs well enough for their purpose. The sinews of the bears and the reindeer—which, as I mentioned before, they had found means to split—served them for thread; and thus, provided with the necessary implements, they proceeded to make their new clothes."
"These," said Mr Barlow, "are the extracts which I have made from this very extraordinary story; and they are sufficient to show both the many accidents to which men are exposed, and the wonderful expedients which may be found out, even in the most dismal circumstances." "It is very true, indeed," answered Tommy; "but pray what became of these poor men at last?" "After they had lived more than six years upon this dreary and inhospitable
coast," answered Mr Barlow, "a ship arrived there by accident, which took three of them on board, and carried them in safety to their own country." "And what became of the fourth?" said Tommy. "He," said Mr Barlow, "was seized with a dangerous disease, called the scurvy; and, being of an indolent temper, and therefore not using the exercise which was necessary to preserve his life, after having lingered some time, died, and was buried in the snow by his companions."
CHAPTER III.
Harry's Chicken—Tommy tries kindness on the Pig—Account of the Elephant—Story of the Elephant and the Tailor—Story of the Elephant and the Child—Stories of the Good Natured Boy and the Ill Natured Boy—The Boys determine to Build a House—Story of the Grateful Turk—The Boys' House blown down—They rebuild it stronger—The Roof lets in the Rain—At last is made Water-tight.
Here little Harry came in from his father's house, and brought with him the chicken, which, it had been mentioned, he had saved from the claws of the kite. The little animal was now perfectly recovered of the hurt it had received, and showed so great a degree of affection to its protector, that it would run after him like a dog, hop upon his shoulder, nestle in his bosom, and eat crumbs out of his hand. Tommy was extremely surprised and pleased to remark its tameness and docility, and asked by what means it had been made so gentle. Harry told him he had taken no particular pains about it; but that, as the poor little creature had been sadly hurt, he
had fed it every day till it was well; and that, in consequence of that kindness, it had conceived a great degree of affection towards him.
"Indeed," said Tommy, "that is very surprising; for I thought all birds had flown away whenever a man came near them, and that even the fowls which are kept at home would never let you touch them." Mr B.—And what do you imagine is the reason of that? T.—Because they are wild. Mr B.—And what is a fowl's being wild? T.—When he will not let you come near him. Mr B.—Then a fowl is wild because he will not let you come near him. This is saying nothing more than that when a fowl is wild he will not let you approach him. But I want to know what is the reason of his being wild. T.—Indeed, sir, I cannot tell, unless it is because they are naturally so. Mr B.—But if they were naturally so, this fowl could not be fond of
Harry. T.—That is because he is so good to it. Mr B.—Very likely. Then it is not natural for an animal to run away from a person that is good to him? T.—No, sir; I believe not. Mr B.—But when a person is not good to him, or endeavours to hurt him, it is natural for an animal to run away from him, is it not? T.—Yes. Mr B.—And then you say he is wild, do you not? T.—Yes, sir. Mr B.—Why, then, it is probable that animals are only wild because they are afraid of being hurt, and that they only run away from the fear of danger. I believe you would do the same from a lion or a tiger. T.—Indeed I would, sir. Mr B.—And yet you do not call yourself a wild animal? Tommy laughed heartily at this, and said No. "Therefore," said