THE GOOD SISTER.
"Come, Charles, and I will tell you all the tales I can think of: so be
still, and hear me."
Janet was left an orphan, very young; and she had a little brother
and a little sister to share her sad fate. It was a pretty sight to
see her and them; she, working at a table, with a basketful of work
upon it; little Paul trying to read; and little Jessy standing by
him, helping him to spell, and find out the hard words. Janet, when
she found herself alone in the world, was very sad, but she had no
time for sorrow, she had to take care of her dear little ones, teach
them, work for them, play with them; she hired a small neat room in
which they all lived; and the smiles and kisses of Paul and Jessy were
her sweetest comfort and reward. She used to rise early; and, whilst
they yet slept, she was busy. Jessy was very proud, when she could do
anything to help her dear sister; and Paul was all joy, when he had a
job to do for her, or an errand to run on. The neighbours were very
kind to the orphans; for when people behave well and help themselves,
every body is willing to help them. What a seemingly small service is
welcome to the poor and friendless! a basket of fruit, a half worn
garment, even a few kind words. But Janet was not idle, nor wholly
leaning on her friends for food and raiment. No, she earned a little
money by her needle, and she made the best of all that was given her;
and an old uncle used to send her a crown every Monday. How much good
did this crown produce! Part of it paid the rent; and the rest was
spent in bread and milk, fuel, soap, and candles. Ah! how many things
we want, before we deem ourselves in comfort. Janet was thankful to
procure those most needed, and without a sigh gave up all else. "If I
can but keep myself in health to work for my two dear ones, and if I
can but see them well and merry, I shall be content." So said Janet;
and, when the weather was fine, she would send the children out to play
in the fields, and sometimes go with them herself, as a treat. I think,
we must call this story, "The Good Sister."
THE HAPPY FAMILY.
I once knew two charming little girls, and a smiling boy, who were so
happy, so happy! They loved each other fondly, and what was the joy of
one was the joy of all. I can fancy I see them now, seated all three at
a table, their heads closely meeting, as they all read the same book,
or looked at the same pictures. Their parents were rich, and could
afford them many fine things, but their chief good arose from love, and
concord.
If one was in trouble, the others would unite to help him out of it;
and, if one was sick, he was sure of at least two good nurses. Had one
a toy or a cake, it was worth nothing till shared with the other two;
and if you pleased one, you were sure to please all. No noise, no
murmurs were heard, where they dwelt. There was much laughing, indeed,
and some singing; much chatting, and much dancing. If one played a
tune on the piano, the other two would stand by, and sing to the merry
music. All three could dance in a reel; so a reel was the chosen dance;
and for the tune, all sang it as they danced. Was a letter to be
written; one would write, and the others help to spell the words, and
think what was best to say. Was a lesson to be learnt; there was such
hearing, and prompting, and helping, that the lesson was soon learnt
by all. With the early lark, they sprang from their beds, to meet each
other; and not till the glow-worm was shining on the dark turf did they
part, with many tender "Good-nights:" always at peace with each other,
they were so with all the world. No harsh words passed their lips;
no dark frowns gloomed their brows. They were not pretty; but people
thought them lovely, because their looks were so sweet and gentle. They
were not very clever; but people called them very clever, because their
manners were so mild, and frank, and pleasing. By their conduct, these
three dear children caused their own bliss, and gained the love and
esteem of all around them. I should think, to copy them would be very
easy and very pleasant suppose, Charles, you try!
THE OLD GRANDFATHER.
Once upon a time, as the story book says, there lived an old man, in
a snug little cottage. There was only one room, and one door, and
one window, and a small garden on the side. Old as the poor man was,
he used to go out to work in the fields; and he would come home at
night so tired and so weak, with his tools on his shoulder, and his
hard-earned loaf tied up in his bag. And who do you think used to meet
him at his cottage door? Two children, the little ones of his son, a
boy and a girl. They were too young to work, except to weed the garden,
or fetch water from the brook, or pick up stones in the meadows. For
such little jobs, the farmers would pay them with a few old clothes;
and the bread the aged grandsire earned, with what fruits and things
grew in the garden, just kept them from starving. In winter, when it
was cold, they had no lamp, and very little fire; so they used to
huddle close to each other for warmth, the girl on one knee, the boy
on the other, and listen to the old man. Sometimes, he would tell
them droll tales; sometimes, he would teach them a prayer or a hymn;
sometimes, he would talk to them of their father, who was at sea, and
of their mother, who was in the grave. And then they would nestle in
the old man's bosom, and so, lying down on their straw pallet, they
would all fall into sweet slumber.
[Illustration:
_page 66._
_The Old Grandfather._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
Each year, the old man grew weaker; but then his children, each year,
grew stronger: as he ceased to labour, they began to toil. Oh! what joy
to work for him, who had so long worked for them! Things were mending
each day at the cottage; for four young hands could do more than two
old ones; but yet they were badly off.
One stormy night, a stranger knocked at the cottage door. It was the
sailor, the long absent son and father. He had saved a little money,
and was come to live and die in his native cot. What joy! What comfort!
The old man worked no more. His son and grandson worked for him; his
girl nursed him; and all loved him: so his life was calm and blest, and
his death was holy and peaceful.
THE KIND FATHER.
In one moment, joy may be changed into mourning; but let us never
forget that, in one moment, also, mourning may be turned into joy! I
will tell you a story to the point.
A woodman, called Wilfred, had an only son, named Maurice. Maurice
was the comfort of his father, and the delight of all his friends. He
was humane, active, cheerful; where he worked, labour was soothed by
mirth; where he was present, leisure was cheered by sport. He always
hoped the best, and was ready for the worst; gay, yet prudent; careful,
yet generous.
One stormy winter's night, all on a sudden, he was missing. No friend,
no neighbour, knew what was become of him; his father sought for him
in each hamlet and village around. No tidings of him could be anywhere
gained, except that a cotter's boy thought he had seen him, on that
fearful night, on the top of the cliff that hangs over the sea. It was
enough; all now believed that he had fallen from the awful height, and
was lost in the wild waves below. His father pined and became ill; his
friends mourned. "Ye should not thus mourn, as those without hope,"
said the worthy pastor of the parish; "he may be yet alive."--"That
is not possible," cried the weeping parent. "All things are possible,"
was the pious answer of the curate. Sick, weak, and hopeless, Wilfred
took to his bed, and was thought to be dying. The doctors said so; his
nurse said so. "Perhaps, he may revive," said the curate. "That is not
possible," cried the nurse and the doctor. "All things are possible,"
was again the reply of the good pastor. One calm night, in spring, the
curate was called to pray with the dying man. His friends were weeping
around him; he himself thought he had not an hour to live; but the
curate did not think so. Some one knocks; the latch is quickly raised;
the door opens; in an instant, Maurice is in the arms of his father.
Oh, joy! Oh, bliss! How can this be? Maurice, it seems, had fallen
into the hands of smugglers, who kept him at sea with them, till, by a
lucky chance, he made his escape from them. The sight of him was as if
life had been poured into the veins of his father. Did he die? No he
lived to prove, and to own, that in one moment our sorrow may be turned
into joy.
THE POOR WIDOWER.
When poor Mary died, her husband was wild with grief, for she was
young, and tender, and good, and he looked forward to many years of
happy life. He would not hear the voice of pity, nor listen to the
words of comfort. At first, his friends did not blame his grief, for
they knew how much he had lost; but when, against reason, and against
duty, he would indulge his regrets, they ceased to pity, and began to
reprove. This made him worse, till at last he sank under the struggle
of his feelings, and became very, very ill. His was a sickness no
doctors could cure, no nurse assuage; yet he had a good nurse, and a
good doctor, who did all they could for him. But what can be done for
one, who would take no advice, and profit by no kindness? The mind and
the body depend much on each other; when the one droops, the other
soon sinks. The senses of the mourner became weak and clouded, and his
reason seemed shaken. He had one child, but he would never see her; he
said, the sight of her would kill him, she was so like her dear mother.
Thus he shut himself out from all the comforts yet left him, and then
said he had no comforts. This was all very weak, and very wicked.
One morning, when his doctor was sitting with him, trying, in vain, to
reason him out of his folly, and his nurse was coaxing him to swallow
some broth, his little girl, by chance passed by the room. The door
was a little open, so she came in, and took the bason of broth from
the table, and, holding it to her father, she lisped the words she
heard the nurse saying. "Do take some, pray do, for the sake of your
poor child." She did not know who he was, but she saw he was pale and
weak, and she knew the nurse well, and she thought to please and help
nurse. The sick man started at hearing the soft low voice of the little
creature, and the tears came into his eyes, as he looked upon her tiny
figure and smiling face. He caught her in his arms and kissed her, and
felt all the folly of which he had been guilty, in shutting his eyes to
the comfort his Mary had left him, in not having done his duty to the
child given to him. He soon began to revive, and to repent of his past
weakness. He soon felt that all blessings were not lost in one; that
all duty is not comprised in that of mourning for the dead.
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."
FIRST TRY GENTLE MEASURES.
Willie and his cousin Grace were coming from church, one fine Sunday
morning, when, in crossing the meadow, they heard and saw strange
things. Three idle boys were playing at marbles, and swearing at each
other in a most dreadful manner. Willie drew his cousin's arm closer
into his, and led her as quickly as he could from the horrid scene.
But it took some minutes to get out of sight of them, and still more
time to get out of the way of hearing them. Grace saw they were dirty
and in rags, and she heard words which made her shudder with horror
and with pity. "Poor creatures! they do not know what they say," cried
she, as she moved past them. "I dare say, they have no friends to teach
them better."--"They ought to be soundly thrashed," said Willie; "I
dare say, that would do them good. I know them; they are sad rascals,
Grace, my dear, and do not deserve your pity."--"Do not say so, Willie;
perhaps a little pity and kindness would be of more use to them than
all your thrashings."--"Perhaps it would, my sweet Grace, if you were
the speaker," said Willie; "for I know, when I am in a rage, your
gentle voice softens me down in a moment; and all my master's frowns
do not touch my heart half so much as one of your little angry shakes
of the head." Grace smiled, and said, "If you find gentle means are
best for yourself, why do you not try it for others?"--"Because I am
a man, Grace."--"But you might be a _gentle_-man," said Grace, with
an arch look. Willie laughed, and they talked on, and it was agreed
between them that the word _gentle_-man came from _gentle_, to be mild,
and humane, and kind, and not from _genteel_, to be polite, civil,
graceful. When this was settled, which took them all the time they were
crossing the meadows, and going down the hawthorn lane, they began to
speak again of the poor boys; and by the time they reached their home
they had also settled, that they would try all manner of gentle means
of curing these wicked idlers of their bad habits. Grace was to ask her
papa to speak kindly to them and to send them to school; and Willie was
to stop and reason mildly with them; and both Grace and Willie were
to give them little presents of good books, and decent clothes to go
to church in. "Well, Grace, dear," said Willie, drawing himself up,
and looking like a man, "we must see what can be done for these poor
children; at all events, there is no harm in trying to help and reclaim
them."
SMALL FAULTS OFTEN END IN GREATER.
Eve used to laugh when her mother told her, that if she desired to grow
up in goodness, she must avoid the smallest faults; "for, my dear Eve,
people do not become bad all at once. No, they begin with thoughts of
evil, and making excuses for evil, and doing little things that are not
quite right, and so go on in error, till all their virtue is fled."
In time, Eve found out the justness of her mother's remarks, and the
goodness of her advice. Eve was very fond of fruit, but, for all that,
she would not have touched a pear or a plum that did not belong to her,
for all the world; and as for lying and stealing, she thought they
were crimes it was not _possible_ she could ever commit. But we shall
see. Eve very often asked for more fruit than her mamma chose to give
her. "There is plenty, mamma, why may I not have more?"--"My dear Eve,
learn to restrain your wishes even when you can indulge them. Learn
to see things you like, without wanting them, that you may be able to
govern your desires. Thus, when you grow older, you will find it easy
to exert self-control when needful." Eve felt the good sense of this
speech, but she did not allow it to guide her. She used to indulge each
whim that came into her head; would eat all the sweet things she could
obtain, and buy all the toys she could afford. Soon, she had no thought
to deny herself any fancy. From eating all the fruit she could buy, or
slyly coax out of friends, she went on to pick a peach here, and an
apple there. "I will tell, if they ask me," thought she; and thus she
cheated herself to do what she knew was wrong. No one asked her, and
she went on picking and eating, till she had got the habit of helping
herself to all she liked, whether she had a right to it or not. It was
soon noted that fruit did not remain safe on the sideboard, or in the
open closet, so her mamma and the servants ceased to leave it about.
Eve had got such a habit of eating fruit, that she felt as if she could
not now do without it; so at last she stole the key of the store-room,
and went in there to eat apples. She ate in such haste and horror that
they almost choaked her; her eyes were starting; her heart beating; her
limbs trembling. Poor wretched creature! Could she call this pleasure;
her mind all the time full of that divine command, "Thou shalt not
steal!"
[Illustration:
_page 91._
_Small Faults end in Greater._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
GEORGE THE HERO.
When George and his sisters were going to school, they all cried as if
their hearts would break. Their mother tried to console them. "I know
this parting of friends is one of the cruel sorrows of life," said she;
"but do not forget, my dear children, that this pain brings us our
sweetest pleasure."--"Oh! mother, what is that?"--"The joy of meeting."
George wiped his eyes, and looked as cheerful and as manly as he could
to calm his sisters. For he was a dear boy, and always tried to be
kind to all, and to do good to all. When his mother left the room, he
took her place, and went on with her efforts to soothe and comfort the
weeping girls. Emma and Lucy could not hear his cheering words, could
not look on his rosy face, with a tear in his eye and a smile on his
lips, and not be soothed. "We are so happy at home!" said Emma. "And it
is such pain to part!" cried Lucy. "I know all that very well," said
George, with the air of a sage, and the firmness of a hero: "I know all
that very well, my dear girls; but I also know that our home will seem
dearer after this absence; and then the sweets of return will make up
for these moments of anguish." The girls smiled upon him, and thought
him a very fine fellow; so, to finish their regrets, he added, "Winter
is not pleasant, but its rigours make us enjoy with double relish the
charms of spring." All the party laughed at this sage speech, and
George owned that he had learnt it from papa. They went to school; they
were so busy there, and had so many playfellows, that time passed
swiftly. Easter soon came, and George called to take his sisters home
with him. The chaise rolled quickly along; soon they were at the
well-known gates; soon George ran up stairs after his sisters; soon
sprang after them into the dear room. Mamma was there and dear papa.
The girls were in a moment hugging their mamma, whilst the sage and the
hero, master George, stood one instant at the open door to exclaim,
"Did I not tell you, girls, that the joys of meeting would repay the
pangs of parting?" This was all he had time to say; for he, too, wanted
to be in mother's arms, and prest to mother's heart. He, too, wanted to
feel father's clasping hand, and hear father's dear "Welcome home!"
THE FAIRING.
Bridget had been a very good girl, and her mamma wished to reward her;
so she gave her some money to buy herself what she liked at the fair.
This was a double pleasure for Bridget, that she had pleased mamma,
and that she could please herself. We shall soon see how she added a
third pleasure to her list. It was a fine day, and crowds of people
were seen, in their best attire, passing along the lanes and meadows
to the fair. Bridget went there with her mother, and saw much to amuse
her; besides, she found it a cheering sight, to look upon so many merry
happy faces. Friends were meeting friends; some giving presents, some
telling the news, some shaking hands; all were gay and blithesome, and
a bright sun beamed on many a joyous face. Bridget's mamma led her to
a stall, where toys and books were sold, and left her to buy what she
chose, whilst she herself passed on to chat with a friend she saw in
the crowd. Bridget had a pretty baby sister, and her first purpose was
to find some toy for her. When she had bought a book full of pictures
for the little Alice, she began to think what she should like best
herself: after much thinking and looking, she settled to have either a
workbox, or a lovely dressed droll. As she looked at the charming doll,
which the woman held in her hand, she heard a plaintive voice behind
her; and, turning round, she saw a very very old man. He was trembling
with age and weakness, and held out a ragged hat, saying, "I am poor,
and old, and needy!" Poor Bridget felt her heart fill with pity, and
she turned from the tempting stall; when, thinking she had given the
woman at the stall much trouble, she began to reflect whether she ought
to leave it without buying something. So she said to the woman, "I have
only bought this book from you, and I have given you some trouble, but
I want to let this poor old man have my money."--"Do so, dear child,"
said the woman kindly; "he wants it more than I do." Bridget with joy
gave all the money she had left to the beggar, and he said, "God bless
you!" in a tone that came warm from his heart, and went warm to hers.
How often did she recal that fervent "God bless you!" By night and by
day it was with her, blessing her, cheering her, making her gladsome.
What toy could have given her half so many pleasant thoughts! half so
many real joys! half so many mirthful feelings!
MISTRUST YOURSELF.
The bells were ringing gaily for church, and the village was pouring
out its tenants; all were bound to the holy fane, whose lofty spire
was to be seen peeping from amidst the trees. Constance and Basil
tripped lightly on the green sward, each with a book under the arm,
and beguiling the time with blameless chat. As they moved forwards,
Alfred, a worthless youth, passed them; instead of a book, he bore a
hoop in his hand: his dress was shabby, and his look mean. "Basil,"
said Constance, "do not notice that idler; he may do you some harm,
but he will not let you do him any good,"--"Nonsense, my girl," cried
Basil, "he cannot, shall not lead me astray."--"Do not be too
sure," said Constance. "You shall see," was the answer. "Good morrow,
Alfred."--"The good day to you," said Alfred. "Whither so fast, this
fine May morning? To church, I warrant! And my pretty Constance too!"
Constance turned away, and walked off to a short distance, then stopped
to wait for Basil. But Basil was deep in converse with the new comer,
trying, as she thought, to coax him to the church; but, at the end of
a few minutes, Alfred drew him from the path, and led him off to join
some sports. Poor Constance wept, and went alone to church; and, when
there, prayed for her dear Basil. At night he came home, with a broken
head, and an empty purse. "Ah! Basil, dear, where have you been?"--"To
no good, Constance, you may be sure, when Alfred led the way. My dear
girl, what a fool I was to rely on my own strength, and put myself in
the power of the artful and the wicked!" And Basil was very wretched,
and blamed his own folly and conceit. Constance sought to console him,
and spoke kindly to him thus: "Basil, the past is gone for ever; we
cannot call it back; but, we can take care, that it shall not happen
again. You must never more depend too much upon yourself; for, you see,
you can be tempted to do wrong, even when you know it is wrong; now,
if, in future, you avoid Alfred, and mistrust yourself, you will be all
the better for what you have felt to-day. Thus good can be drawn from
evil." Basil kissed her, and told her that her advice was very good,
and he would follow it; "and your smile, Constance, shall draw me to
virtue and to peace."
[Illustration:
_page 100._
_Mistrust Yourself._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
THE EVENING DUTY.
"How happy we have been all this day!" cried Edith to Clare; "so
healthy, so busy, so merry! How hungry we were for our nice breakfast
of milk and bread, and for all our meals! What a charming walk we had
with uncle! And, to-night, what merry tales he told us! How happy we
have been to-day!" Now Clare was the eldest, and was a very nice girl;
and when her sister was silent, she began her account of the day. "We
have indeed been two merry damsels since rising morn to latest eve! Our
lessons passed the time charmingly; and that new song I learnt is, I
think, the sweetest I ever heard: and how you were pleased with that
pretty drawing which mamma said you did so well. But, Edith, I think
our greatest pleasure, to-day, was taking the broth, and clothes, to
that poor widow."--"Yes, that to be sure was one of our best jobs,
and I had not forgot it; nor, dearest Clare, have I forgot the little
girl, who gave her only sixpence to the widow's sickly baby." Clare
blushed, for it was she who had given the sixpence. "I am thinking,"
said she, "for people who have been so lucky all the day as we have
been, there is one duty above all others to perform." "I know what you
mean, Clare," said Edith; "we ought to offer our thanks to the great
God, who has blessed us through the day; and we will do so, my dear
sister."--"Yes, Edith," said Clare, "and we will make a rule, that
during the time we are in our chamber, curling our hair, and taking
off our clothes, we will always talk of the pleasures of the past
day, so that our hearts may be full of thankful feelings."--"True,
dear girl, and we will not only talk of the good we have had, but of
the evil we have been saved from. This day we have been free from all
pain of body or of mind. This day we have tasted many delights." Their
little bosoms glowing with grateful feelings, the two fond sisters
knelt down by their bedside, and poured out their hearts in praise and
prayer. It was a touching sight to behold them thus kneeling, and in
low accents breathing forth their artless praises, their hands clasped,
their cheeks flushed, their eyes turned to heaven. All was still around
them; and it was cheering to think that the low murmurs of these feeble
children were wafted to our Father in heaven.
[Illustration:
_page 103._
_The Evening Duty._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
THE JOYS OF SELF-WILL.
"There is no joy in life, but in doing just what one pleases," said
Conrad. "I don't think so," was the wise answer of his friend Albert.
"We shall see," said Conrad. "Now, here is a bitter cold morning; so,
as I do not like to be cold, I shall not stir out of the house, but
have a fine roaring fire all day, and some clever witty book to amuse
me." Saying this, Conrad slipt on a loose but warm dressing gown, poked
up the fire, and hung his hat and stick upon the peg behind him. "No
cold walking in the mire, no plague of dressing, for me! Here I am
snug, and sure of being well and free from aches and ailments." Albert
laughed to see him so selfish, and so foolish, and left him. Young
Albert was active, and willing to serve and oblige; so, when he quitted
his churlish friend, he walked to see his sick uncle, and to carry him
some game he had killed very early in the morning. His uncle was much
cheered by his visit and his chat; and whilst he was with him, he wrote
some letters for him, and did many other odd jobs. They dined upon the
game, and his uncle said, the pheasant Albert brought was the first
meat he had tasted for a long while. After dinner, Albert, leaving his
uncle better for his visit, went to his father's farm, to give some
orders, and took home good accounts of all that was going on there. He
then went into his own chamber, and had two hours of close reading, of
a book his father wished him to study. By this time, tea was ready, and
his mother and the little ones were always glad when Albert joined
the tea table, he was so merry, and so handy, and so funny. When tea
was over, he took a lesson upon the flute, and, with the help of his
master, they had some good music. At nine at night, Albert jumped up
and said, "I will just run down the street and peep at my _happy_
friend, Conrad." When he reached his room, the door was locked; so he
peeped in at the key hole, and there he saw the _happy_ Conrad in a fit
of rage and shame. His book had been dashed on the floor, and there it
lay; a cup and a bottle, as of physic, stood on the table near him, and
he was holding his head, as if it ached very much. The servants said
Conrad had been cold all day for want of exercise, and he had been sick
for want of air. "Poor fellow!" cried Albert. "So much for the joys of
the selfish and the idle!"
THE WINTER EVENING.
The night was dark and stormy, the wind howled among the trees, and
the rain beat on the casements. Phœbe and Mabel were alone; their
parents had been called to a sick friend at the next town, and they
did not expect to return till morning. At first, the poor girls felt
sad and lonely, and looked upon each other with mournful eyes; both
sighed, and both were silent. At length, after a long pause, Phœbe
roused herself, and said to her sister, "Really, Mabel, you and I are a
couple of silly girls. Here we are in a warm room, with a blazing fire,
and a cheerful light, and yet we are mournful. What for, I wonder?
Because we are idle: come sister, come to the table and the candle
and let us employ ourselves." As Phœbe spoke these words, she drew
her sister to the table; and Mabel was glad to follow her, and to find
something to do. It was not long before both were busy: Phœbe was
netting a purse, and Mabel had a drawing to finish, and both chatted
away all the time, so blithely! They talked of what they had seen and
heard, of what they had done, and what they would do; of what they had
read of in books, and of what they had met with in their walks. "This
chat makes us recal many thoughts," said Mabel. "Indeed it does," said
Phœbe; "and papa says there is no better way of fixing knowledge
in the mind, than by talking about it to a dear friend such as you
are to me, Mabel."--"And mamma tells me," added Mabel, "that it is
no bad plan, when one is alone, as when one is in bed for instance,
to think over any knowledge one has gained during the day."--"That I
know is true," said Phœbe; "for, last night, I thought over the
names of the English kings, from the Conquest to the present time; and
it was quite a pleasant puzzle for my mind, to arrange them in their
proper places."--"And now," said Mabel, "just now that we talked of the
meaning of some hard words, as _Island, land with water all around it_,
and other such terms, how our chat fixed the sense in our minds!"
As thus they prattled, the clock struck nine, and the girls owned that
the time had passed very quickly, and that they had been merry though
the storm raged and the rain fell; so they went to bed, in peace with
themselves, and in good humour with all around them.