FAITHFUL FIDO.
Frank and his little dog Fido were the admiration of all the hamlet.
Wherever Frank was seen, Fido was sure to be found by his side; and
wherever Fido appeared, Frank was sure to follow.
They took long walks together, over moor and mountain, through woods
and lanes; and each was considered the guardian of the other.
Now Frank was a very little fellow; delicate and tender, but brave, and
fond of rambling. When he was absent from home, his parents, however,
never feared for his safety, if Fido was known to be with him. One
fine day, the two friends had wandered farther than usual--they had
chosen the fine sands on the sea-shore, and went on, and on, and on;
Frank picking up shells and weeds, or flinging pebbles into the foamy
waves.
[Illustration:
_page 112._
_Faithful Fido._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
At last, Frank was tired; and, no doubt, Fido was tired too; so,
both sat down amid the rocks, and both fell asleep. They slept long,
forgetful of times and tides, till the waves began rapidly to close
around them.
It was pretty to see these young slumberers. Frank with his red cheek
on Fido's nose, and his little arm round Fido's neck--and no one was
near--no noise was heard but that of the approaching waves.
They came nearer, nearer, threatening to overflow the sleepers; and
all help far distant! Mother making dumplings for Frank's dinner, and
Sister Fanny watching the hour of his return! Alas! would either see
him again? The water is close upon them; it meets the extended feet
of Fido.--Happy chance!--The cold water awakens the dog--he starts
up--barks--and his little master is at once on his feet. I said,
Frank was a brave boy--his heart did not fail him. He shouted aloud
and sent his voice up the cliff. His gentle voice was outsounded by
the rushing sea; but Fido, imitating his master, or understanding his
peril, barked at the utmost pitch of his voice. Shrill, and prolonged,
and repeated--the bark was heard--men saw them from the cliffs--men
hastened to their aid,--and little Frank was saved, and saved by Fido.
ETHEL AND PATTY.
Ethel and Patty were neatly dressed, to take their morning walk; but,
hearing their Aunt had called to say, she would let them go with her,
in her coach, to see grandpapa, they ran down stairs in such a hurry,
that they fell, and both tore their frocks.
What a sad disaster! Their Aunt kindly said, she would wait a
little; but the poor girls were in sad distress. They went slowly
and sorrowfully up stairs, to mend their tattered dresses. "To
have no other frocks clean, this day of all the year," cried Ethel
sullenly.--"But, sister, see how easily the rents can be mended," said
Patty, setting herself to work.--"A pretty business, to be sure, after
stitching all the morning; just when all the nasty work was done, to
have more to do," said Ethel.--"Oh! so very little! Look, Ethel, it
is a mere trifle," exclaimed Patty.--"Yours may be; but mine--" said
Ethel. "Yours is less than mine; only measure, sister."
"I shall do no such thing."--"Then stitch away, as I am stitching,"
cried Patty, smiling, and working with all her might. Ethel slowly
stretched out the rent. "It is nonsense to begin," said she; "this
horrid hole could never be finished."--"Certainly not, if never begun,
sister."--"Do not be pert, Patty. I do not believe even your skilful
ladyship will be ready; for I hear some one coming up stairs. I dare
say Aunt is sending for us."--"I shall stitch on to the very last
moment," said Patty; "and though moments do make themselves wings, and
fly away, just when we want them most to stay, mine shall carry some
stitches with them, I am determined;" and she worked perseveringly.
The step passed the door. "A reprieve," cried Patty. Ethel began
looking for needle, thread and thimble; then listened to hear if any
one was coming to them--then looked out of the window, to see if her
Aunt's carriage were still there--then thought it was too late to
begin--and then began. Patty's busy, unstopping fingers had finished
her task. "And now, Ethel, I am ready to help you."--"Two cannot work
at once."--"Then let me work." Patty's kindness could not avail. Mamma
came up, and sent down the one who was ready. Ethel blamed her fortune.
Silly child! She had better have blamed herself!
THE LITTLE BEGGAR.
"Mamma, do pray be so very good as to give me a pair of fine,
open-worked, silk stockings."--"A modest request, Julia, for a little
girl not higher than the table. And might I presume to ask for what
use you want these showy articles?"--"Use! For wearing, to be sure,
Mamma."--"Wearing! For you, Julia! For such a minikin as you!"--"All
my playfellows have them, Mamma."--"A notable reason, certainly, why
you should have them."--"Yes! Miss Montague, Lady Jane Hill, and Miss
Carter."--"All the children of richer parents than yours."--"That
makes no difference."--"Your pardon, little girl; that makes all the
difference."--"How, Mamma!"--"Because, my love, all things should be
done in character. If you wear fine stockings, you must have fine
shoes; and then a carriage is indispensable."--"Now, Mamma, you are
laughing at me. I, who am so stout, and can walk so well."--"In
thin stockings and thin shoes, Julia?"--Julia pondered--her mother
continued: "With these smart shoes and stockings, a smart frock is
necessary, and a sash, and a rich lace, and ear-rings, and a fan,
and----"--"Oh! stop, stop, dear Mamma!" exclaimed Julia, laughing, "I
see, I understand. What a very silly child I am!"--"No, my dear Julia,
you _are_ not silly, you only _was_ so. Young creatures, like you, must
often form foolish wishes, and make absurd requests; however, you shew
your sense, in being convinced of your error."--"Thank you, Mamma, for
excusing me." Julia said this very soberly, and seemed thinking. "And
what are you so grave about?" asked her mother.--"Why, I had another
begging favour--but now--"--"Speak fearlessly, my child."--"I did so
want a little money for poor old sick Kitty!"--"Take it, my dear girl.
It is to give you and myself the means of bestowing money in charity,
that I am loth to spend it in dress."--"Oh! Mamma, Mamma, how I thank
you! Oh! this is better than a thousand stockings! Lucky beggar that I
am!"
THE YOUNG FRIENDS.
Clare and Constance were born in the same village, and brought up
together. Their parents were near neighbours, and they went to the
same school. In summer, they sat beneath the same tree, conning
their lessons; and in winter, they sat on the same bench, working or
knitting. Constance preferred using Clare's scissors, and Clare had a
secret pleasure in taking thread from the cotton-box of Constance.
[Illustration:
_page 121._
_The Young Friends._
_Pub^d May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
I gave Clare a charming spring nosegay, and her little fingers were
instantly busy in making two nosegays of it, and the best of every
flower was in Constance's share.
My wife picked a basket of cherries for Constance. Constance smiled
and curtsied, and was thankful, but did not eat the fruit. "Why is
this, Constance?" said my wife, "the cherries are not sour."--"Perhaps
not," said I, "but Constance would think them sweeter if shared with
her friend;" and away sprang the little maiden to seek Clare, and eat
with her the hoarded cherries.
It was a bleak stormy autumn day, Clare could not be found--Constance
too was missing--Where could they be?
We searched the gardens, the village lanes, the fields; nothing could
be discovered of them. They were not used to wander. Every body became
anxious. I joined in the search, and bent my way towards a neighbouring
wood. The villagers were sure the little girls were not there. "Well,"
said I, "no matter; having tried all probable places, it is wise to
try the improbable." I hastened on; the evening was closing, the wind
blowing, and the rain beginning to fall. I could scarcely discern
objects. At last, I saw something white: it approached, and, behold,
the two lost girls, Clare carrying Constance.
"How is this," cried I. "Ah!" said the panting Clare, "how glad I am to
see you, Sir. Poor Constance fell, and hurt her ankle;--sprained it,
I believe;--and so we could move but slowly."--"You could have come
more quickly."--"How! And left Constance?"--"Child! you might have both
perished."--"We should have been together," answered Clare with a quiet
smile.
THE LITTLE DAUGHTER.
The snow had fallen very deep. In the valleys, it had drifted into vast
heaps; and one poor little cottage was so covered, that it looked more
like a mound than a dwelling; nor door, nor window, nor even wall,
could be seen,--all was one pile of cold, shining, white snow.
A sick widow and her little girl lived in this cot; far away from
neighbour or hamlet: but they lived there because it was cheap, and the
poor widow had no money but what her feeble hands earned.
Jessy was too young to work, yet she was a marvellous help to her
mother; and the pale faced woman said, she did not believe she could
live at all but for her child's services. She was so quick, and neat,
and handy; and then she was always merry, and her gay voice sounded
like music; and then she was always dutiful, doing instantly whatever
she was bid: and tender, often running up to kiss her mother, stroke
her cheek, and press her hand. The poor woman was quite sure, Jessy
kept her alive.
[Illustration:
_page 124._
_Cottage in the Snow._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Y^d._]
When the snow fell around so thick, of course no daylight could enter
the cottage; and Jessy wondered much at the strangely continued
darkness. Her mother guessed what had happened, and knew not what to
do. Her feeble hands could not remove the heavy snow. What little she
could remove, seemed not to benefit them, for no light was let in, and
no path made out.
Two, three, many days passed; the small hoard of bread and potatoes
was consumed, and the candles too. Happily, there was a tolerable
provision of wood, and they contrived to keep up fire for warmth and
light, but it was a melancholy light, fitful and uncertain.
"I would not care, were it not for you, my child!" said the widow, with
tears in her eyes. "Ah! mamma! I am sure I should not care but for
you," said Jessy, smiling, and kissing her mother.
A sportsman, going that way to shoot woodcocks, was surprised to see
a tiny curl of smoke issue from the mound of snow. He was not one to
wonder and pass by; he stopped and considered. The fact darted on his
mind. "Alas! there must be human beings here, perhaps perishing."
His strong arms soon made a way into the cottage. What a sight did
he see on his entrance! Little Jessy nestled into the bosom of her
mother, and both looking as if asleep! It would have been the sleep of
death, but for this providential rescue. The sportsman had food and
wine in his wallet; and Jessy was soon laughing,--and her mother soon
weeping,--safe and alive in his arms!
MONEY.
"What can I do with all this money?" said little Andrew, looking at a
shilling his papa had given him. "I never had so much before: it will
buy such lots of good things;" and the apparitions of apples, nuts, and
gingerbread, flitted before him. No, all these were unworthy the mighty
sum;--he must decide on some more important purchase:--so, putting the
glittering coin into his pocket, he sallied forth, proud and happy.
Andrew was a very little fellow, but he could reflect and judge; and,
scorning all indulgence of appetite, he resolved to buy some handsome
useful article. A knife, or a whip.--Lost in consideration of the
great question of which of these he should make himself master, he was
pacing soberly along, when his eyes were drawn to a little squabble in
the street. A rude cross boy was teazing a pale sickly girl; she was
carrying a dish full of fine rosy apples, and he was trying to get one
from her.
Andrew called out to him to let the child alone. The boy continued his
struggles; and, big as the boy was, little Andrew would have attacked
him; but, just as he reached the spot, the boy ran away, having first
contrived to knock the dish out of the poor girl's hands.
Andrew held up his little threatening fist to the great rude coward,
and then hastened to help to pick up the apples. This was soon done;
but the dish--it was broken into a hundred pieces!
The poor child cried: "My mammy! Oh my mammy!"--"She will beat you?"
said Andrew. "No, no, she never beats me--never; but the dish--it was
dame Carter's--she lent it us, for me to carry these apples to our
good Curate's--and now it is broken! What shall I do?--What shall I
do?"--"Do not cry so, I don't like it," said Andrew, wiping his eyes.
"These apples were all we had this year in our garden," said the
sobbing child; "and the Curate liked them: and he was so good to
father, before he died, that poor mammy was quite happy to send them
to him; and now--what will she say? What will she do?"--"Come, come, do
not cry; but let us see what can be done. This dish cost a great deal
of money."--"Oh! yes, Sir, a great deal,--we never had such an one of
our own; for we are poor, very poor!"
Andrew thought for a minute, and then said--"Come along!" He walked
briskly forward; the girl followed, with the apples in her apron. They
passed a shop window full of whips and knives. Andrew smiled proudly
and passed on. They came to a shop where dishes were sold. One hung at
the window, the very picture of the one broken. Andrew feared the price
would be beyond his means. It was marked a shilling. Without saying one
word, he gave his shilling to the shopkeeper, the dish to the little
girl, and ran off.
A GOOD RESOLUTION.
"I am resolved to be happy this day," said young Matthew. "It is a
holiday. My lessons for to-morrow are all ready; so I have nothing
to do but please myself; and happy I will be."--"Who can be happy
such a day as this?" replied Frederick. "What is the matter with the
day?"--"You stupid fellow! Can't you see? It is going to rain."--"I see
clouds; but clouds are not certain signs of rain; so, till the drops
begin to fall, I shall to the field, and fly my kite."
Away went Matthew and his kite. Frederick staid in the house; but,
after an hour's sullen murmuring, he followed his brother into the
field. Matthew had had a long and joyous sport; and his kite was up,
almost out of sight.
Frederick, vexed at the time he had lost, began impatiently to prepare
for sport. In his hurry, he entangled the line: fretted at the delay,
he cut and slashed away all impediments with his knife. The string, in
pieces was disentangled--the kite rose, but had not length of cord to
rise high. Frederick fastened on fresh pieces: one of the knots gave
way; and the wind bore away the kite, never to return. Frederick abused
kites, strings, and weather; and was recalled to patience by a cooling
shower.
"Ah!" cried he exultingly, "I told you it would rain."--"But I have had
two hours' good fun before it came," said Matthew, drawing in his kite.
The boys ran home. "Now for home amusement!" exclaimed Matthew. "Fred,
will you play at chess with me?"--"No, I hate chess."--"Draughts
then?"--"Worse and worse--I detest draughts."--"What say you to
shuttlecock?"--"You are sure to name something I dislike."--"Well,
then, as I like every thing--I mean almost every thing--choose for
yourself."-"Oh! I like cards."--"In the morning?"--"Ha, ha! master
boaster! Just now, you said, you liked every thing!"--"So I do--I
like cards very well: but, you know, mamma does not approve of our
playing cards, especially in the morning."--"I know you are precise,
Master Matthew."--"Oh! I'll play cards."--"For how much?"--"For money,
brother?"--"To be sure; who cares for cards else?"--"Well, have your
way." Frederick played and lost--threw the cards into the fire, and
vowed there was no fair dealing.
Matthew only said, "I played fair, and that's all I have to do with
the affair." The rain continued; so he took up a book. After it became
dark, he amused himself with his flute. More than that, he amused with
it his little sister. She liked the merry tunes; and she sang, and
danced, and was so gay! "You are a precious blockhead," said Frederick,
"playing to please that silly baby."--"I please myself in pleasing
her," said Matthew; and the smiling child put up her little mouth to
"kiss thanks," as she expressed it.
THE FLOWER GIRL.
"Flowers! Fine flowers!" cried Barbara. "Who will buy my beautiful
flowers?"--"What sorts have you got in your basket?" demanded
Caroline. "Violets, Miss--sweet-scented purple violets--and primroses,
fresh and fragrant primroses--and wood sorrel--see, Miss, what lovely
leaves!--and anemones--and--"--"Pshaw! all nasty wild flowers!"
exclaimed Caroline, tossing her head with disdain. The flower girl was
astonished; and, instead of going on with her speech, put aside a bunch
of charming cowslips she was about to exhibit.
[Illustration:
_page 134._
_The Flower Girls._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]
"Wild flowers! I love wild flowers!" said a rosy girl, eagerly
approaching Barbara: "and these violets! Ah! the dew is yet upon
them."--"What can you see to admire in these wild blossoms?"
inquired Caroline with a look of ineffable disdain. "Why, my
dear Carry, what can be more beautiful?"--"Garden flowers, to be
sure. Is there any thing here equal to our sweet graceful snowy
lily of the valley?"--"Some people prefer violets; I own I love
the lily. But Carry, dear, the lily is wild, you know, in some
countries."--"Nonsense, nonsense! Wild, indeed! that tender and
delicate flower? You are wild to say so."--"My dear child! all I
know is, that when we were travelling on the banks of the Rhine, our
servants used to gather us such large and lovely nosegays of lilies
from the rocks and hedges." Caroline was silenced.--Her chattering
friend continued. "In fact, Carry, dear, all flowers must grow wild,
that is, naturally, somewhere, or how should we obtain them? There were
not hot-houses and gardeners always, you know;" and she smiled archly.
"But art produces varieties, endless varieties."--"True, my dear; but
the change is not always for the better. Now, the large lovely wild
lily of the Rhine is as superior to our delicate cultivated flower--"
"Oh! my dear, don't make me sick, about these nasty flowers."
Caroline was not a person to be convinced; so her friend turned to
the flower girl. "You sell these flowers?"--"Yes, my good young lady,
because we are a large family, and every little helps, you know;
and I am not old enough to work."--"And what will you do with the
money?"--"Give it all to mammy, to be sure."--"Then come to this house,
and my mammy will buy them," said the young girl, laughing.
THE OLD WOODCUTTER.
Old Jarvis was very fond of his youngest grandson Hubert; and the
villagers said he was quite, out and out, spoiling the boy.
"By making him love me?" said Jarvis.
"What will his love do for you?" inquired they. "It will do me no harm,
at least," answered Jarvis; "and, at eighty, it is something to be
loved, even by a grandson."
Neighbours laughed,--Jarvis did not change his course, and truly did
he say Hubert loved him. The old man's goodness and cheerfulness and
affection worked upon his young heart, and, next to his parents, the
grateful child loved his aged grandfather.
The old man, though grey headed and feeble, continued to work at his
old avocation as a woodcutter, and Hubert generally accompanied him to
the forest, and played about him as he worked. He was but six years
old; too young to labour himself.
One fine summer morning, grandfather and grandson went, as usual, to
cut faggots; and the time passed charmingly. Hubert collected the
sticks to form the faggots, and thought himself mighty useful in doing
so.
Suddenly, the clouds gathered, the thunder growled, and the rain fell.
The old man knew the danger of being amidst trees during lightning;
therefore, calling his grandson to him, he hastened to quit the wood.
They walked as quickly as they could, when they were stopped by a
strange sight: a whole noble tree in flames! The lightning had struck
it, and, burning rapidly, it cracked and fell. Jarvis saw it was about
to fall, and, turning aside, sought to save the child.
The child was saved, but the old man was struck down by one of the
flaming branches. Poor Hubert! he knew not what to do; but the blazing
brand still lay upon the poor old man.
At the price of burning both hands, the brave boy dragged aside the
burning bough. His aged grandfather arose but little hurt by the shock.
"My bold little fellow!" said he; "you have burnt your hands very
badly, I am afraid."--"Never mind that, grandfather,--never do you mind
that: I have--thank God for it--saved your head!"
THE DISAPPOINTMENT.
"What a mortification! What a vexation! Nobody, surely, in the whole
world is so plagued as I am!"--"My dear sister, my dear Bell, what has
happened?"--"My white satin shoes are not come,--it is six o'clock, and
I must begin presently to dress for the ball." Annie could not resist
smiling at the smallness of the mighty calamity; but, never happy
when her sister was otherwise, she hastened to soften matters. "You
only suffer neighbours' fare, Bell; for I am also disappointed of my
dashing shoes."--"Oh! but you don't care for these things."--"I don't
care to make myself miserable for such trifles, certainly."--"Trifles!
No trifles, I think--one can't dance without shoes."--"But you have
others, sister,--your black satin."--"One can't be always wearing
black satin shoes."--"Then those lovely grey slippers, which mamma
gave you."--"Quite out of fashion, child--obsolete--old as my
grandmother."--"Ha! ha! Then grandmamma is a very young old woman;
for, if I recollect rightly, those slippers were given you three weeks
ago."--"You are a most accurate person, Annie."--"Nay, I cannot fail
to remember the day; it was your birthday, dearest Isabel."--"And a
miserable day it was."--"Oh! sister!" exclaimed Annie. "Yes, miserable!
the dance went off very badly; and the supper was a shame to be
seen."--"And poor mamma took such trouble about it! I thought nothing
could be better."--"You! Oh! you are contented with any thing."--"And
is not that wise, Isabel?"--"Yes; but persons of feeling, of
sensibility, are more alive to what is disagreeable."--"The greater
feeling must make one also more alive to what is agreeable."
The sight of the shoes stopped the conversation: but there was only one
pair. "Not mine, I am sure; I am never so lucky!" said Bell. But they
were hers; and Annie pronounced them the sweetest pair that ever were
seen.--"Yours are not come, Miss," said the maid.--"Never mind, never
mind," cried Annie; "my black shoes will do very well."
The sisters went to the ball: Annie all mirth and good humour; Isabel
with the stately dignity of a young lady who expects to be considered
the best dressed damsel at the ball: but there were a hundred others
thought the same, and had as good a right to think so. Isabel was not
exclusive, was not immensely distinguished, and she pronounced the
ball detestable. "I do believe these nasty shoes spoilt my dancing. New
shoes are always so uncomfortable; and my partners were always admiring
your shoes, Annie; always teazing me to be introduced to the charming
girl in black shoes."
GIFTS.
Caleb received the present of a handsome gun from his wealthy
godfather. "How happy rich people are!" said his young friend Edward.
"Many and many a time, dear Caleb, have I wished to give you a gun,
knowing how much you longed for one. But, poor dog as I am, I had not
the means."--"And was your wishing to do it, and the motive of your
wish, worth nothing?" said Caleb, kindly: "Why, my dear fellow, you are
a poor accountant, if you cannot discover, that the love which urges
to a gift, is, at least, worth the gift itself."--"But it is pleasant
to have the power of evincing our affection."--"Very pleasant; and I
should think your case hard indeed, if rich gifts were the only mode by
which love could be shewn," replied Caleb. "Name some other mode," said
Edward. "That will I, and easily," answered Caleb: "can you give me any
present more valuable than your time, your advice, your assistance?
When I was ill, how many days and nights did you not bestow on my sick
chamber! When I was in disgrace with my father, how much did not your
counsel and aid promote my restoration to favour! Dear Ned, do not fall
into the too common error, that money constitutes the sole wealth of
mortals."
[Illustration:
_page 144._
_Gifts; or the New & Old Guns._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Y^d._]
The friends went out with their dogs and their guns.--The new piece
was to be proved.--It looked in excellent order.--Caleb waited for a
capital shot, to try its merits.--The game was scarce; and the dogs
were long in raising it. Over stubble, and through wood, and brook, and
brier, the party passed. Edward, something in advance, had the first
chance of a shot. He fired his old double-barrelled gun, and brought
down a couple of fine young birds.
"The next chance be yours," cried he, gaily stepping behind Caleb.
Caleb prepared to perform wonders. "My worthy godfather must have _all_
my first shot brings down," said he, proudly; as if his first shot must
certainly bring down half a dozen birds at least.
There was a pause.--The dogs pointed--a ring pheasant rose
majestically--Caleb fired--the gun had some internal defect, and burst
in the firing. A moment of delay in the discharge--a delay that shewed
something was wrong, sufficed for the wary and quick eye of friendship.
Edward, with an instant powerful thrust, forced the piece from his
friend before it burst, and the gun was shattered as it lay on the
ground. "See, Edward," said Caleb triumphantly, "the single touch of
your hand has saved a life, which this splendid gift had endangered."
CHARITABLE INDUSTRY.
It was a winter's night--but the fire blazed cheerfully in the Rectory
parlour. Four little girls were seated, round a table, working with
their mother spinning at their side.
"The hum of that wheel is quite musical this evening!" exclaimed Emily,
one of the merry little party. "And to me," said Mary, "it seems as if
the fire burnt more bright than usual."--"I was just going to say,"
cried Helen, "that our candles were certainly superior to those we
had last night."--"I suppose it is all these pleasant circumstances
together," interposed Lucy, "that makes me feel more comfortable than
I ever before felt." The attentive mother smiled; and, stopping her
busy wheel, said: "My dear children, I readily believe you all feel
more than usually happy this evening. But, begging pardon of all your
wise heads, I do not think the excellence of the fire, the goodness
of the candles, the charm of my humming wheel, or even the united
merits of all these, produce your present content."--"What then, dear
mother?"--"Your employment, my children."
The whole party paused, and reflected. The table was covered with
shreds and patches--silk--ribbons--calico--muslin. The girls were
making bags, pincushions, needle-cases, and other trifles. Their worthy
old neighbour, Dolly, was too ill to work; and they were too poor to
give her as much money as she needed: so they employed their leisure
in making such articles as she could readily sell in the village. The
things were so neatly made, and so cheaply rated, that old Dolly sold
them as fast as she obtained them.
After a short silence, the whole party assented to the truth of their
mother's remark "Yes!" cried they, "it is very true! Our employment
gives a charm to all about us; for we think we are doing good."--"And
thus it is, my dear children," said the tender mother, "that we
ourselves are the sources of our own content, and, in many cases, of
our own happiness."
[Illustration:
_page 151._
_The Lottery Ticket._
_Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard._]