Poor Peter in the agony of his dream made a great outcry, but it was like the squealing of a pig; the fairy heard it, however, and came at the call. “What is the matter?”—said she. “Let me out! let me out!” said Peter in his frenzy. “I can’t let you out,” said the fairy: “you weigh at least fifteen score, and beside, you are a pig, now; for you must know that if a human being adopts swinish habits and keeps swinish company, he gradually becomes assimilated to the brute he imitates. But there is one difference: the pig, though he enjoys indolence, is able to do so, only because of his ignorance. He has no mind which paints higher and nobler enjoyments; no desire of long life; no looking forward to the future; no sense of right and wrong; no conscience to disturb him. It is otherwise with you. You have a mind, and though you may abuse it, you cannot annihilate it. It is a lamp—it may become dim for a time, but you cannot put it out. It will burn forever, and will forever show you, and make you feel the degradation you have reached, and the happiness you have lost.” Thus saying, the fairy departed.
It is not possible to tell the agony of the dreamer; he now saw his folly, and bitterly lamented it. But at last, in his vision, the morning came. He heard the hot, hissing water poured into the tub, to scald off his hair; he heard a lively whetting of knives, and at last saw the goggling eyes of the butcher, taking a look over the edge of the pig-stye. His agony was beyond bounds; he uttered a piercing shriek, and in the paroxysm of his distress, he awoke. It was, however, a lucky dream, for the youth took warning by it, and conquering his indolence, he became industrious, and grew up a prosperous and happy man.
Reader, if thou art given to indolence, take heed by Peter’s dream; and like him, turn from the error of thy ways. Deem not that indolence is bliss—but believe me—the ways of industry are ways of pleasantness, and her paths lead to peace.
What’s in a name?—“My name is Norval!” said a runaway youth, who was playing that character in a small theatre at Annapolis, some years since. “That’s a whapper!” said an officer in the crowd—“your name is Bill Brown, and you owes Mrs. Knipper three dollars and a half for board, washing and lodging—and here’s a writ, so come along, my darling!”
The Five-Dollar Bill.
The following story has been published in many of the newspapers, but it is so good, that we give it a place in our columns. It not only shows how proper and necessary it is to pay small accounts, but it shows the use of money. What a wonderful thing, that little pieces of paper may perform such important offices in society, as we see that they do, by the story of the “Five-Dollar Bill.”
“Sir, if you please, boss would like you to pay this bill to-day,” said, for the tenth time, a half-grown boy in a dirty jacket, to a lawyer named Peter Chancery, and whose office was in Philadelphia.