I suppose my young friends all know how pleasant it is to take off the covering of the feet, in a warm summer day, and run about on the smooth grass. How light one feels—how swift one can run with his foot free as that of the mountain deer!
Now it happened that James had been forbidden by his mother to take off his stockings and shoes, for she was afraid that he would take cold. But he was now at a distance from home, and he thought he would do as he liked. So he took off his stockings and shoes.
Oh, how he did scamper about for a time; but, by and by, as he was skipping along, he stepped upon a thorn, which entered the bottom of his foot, and inflicted a severe wound. As it gave him great pain, he sat down and tried to pull out the thorn; but, alas! it had entered quite deep, and had then broken off in such a manner, that he could not get hold of it. There he sat for some time, not knowing what to do—but at last he was obliged to hobble home as well as he could.
James told his mother what had happened, for how could he help it? “Ah—ah—my son!” said she, “this comes of your disobedience. When will children learn that parents know what is best for them?” However, the good woman set to work to try to get out the naughty thorn, but she could not succeed.
By this time James was in great pain; so his mother put on a poultice, hoping that would cure it. But the poor fellow didn’t sleep any all night, he was in such distress, and in the morning his foot was sadly swollen. The doctor was then sent for, and at last he succeeded in getting out the thorn; but poor James had a sad time of it. It was at least three weeks before he got quite well. But the event was a good lesson to him. Whenever, in after life, he was tempted to disobey his mother, he said to himself—“Mother knows best—remember the thorn!” Whenever he was tempted to seize upon any forbidden pleasure, he would always say—“Remember the thorn!”
The Old Man in the Corner; or, the Pedler’s Pack.
Not long since, an old man—a very old man—came into the office of Merry’s Museum, and sat down in a corner of the room. He looked a little like old Peter Parley—but it can’t be that it was he, for some say Peter is dead—and, at any rate, he is not to be seen about these days.
After the old man had sat for some time,—saying nothing to anybody, and only looking about with a kind of mournful countenance,—he got up, and slowly marched away. When he was gone, one of the boys found a little parcel on the bench where the old man sat, addressed to “Mr. Robert Merry; care of Bradbury & Soden, 10 School street, Boston.”
On opening the paper, we found an old greasy book within, written full of tales, fables, sketches, &c.; some of them very good indeed, and some very queer. The title of the little book was the “Pedler’s Pack,” and it had the following motto: