am still more surprised when I find a child that is not willing. A
dog learns for the benefit of his master, a child learns for his own
benefit. I knew a dog who was taught to go to market. His master would
put the money and a memorandum of the things that were to be bought in
the basket, and the dog would then carry the basket to market by the
handle, which he held in his mouth. Then the market-man would take out
the money and the memorandum, and would put in the things that were
wanted, and the dog would carry them home. Now this was of no advantage
to the dog, except from the honorable satisfaction which he derived
from it in the thought that he was usefully employed, and that he was
considered worthy to sustain important trusts and responsibilities.
So far as his own ease and comfort was concerned, it would have been
better for him never to have learned such an art, and then, instead
of carrying a heavy basket to and fro along the street, he could have
spent his time in basking in the sun, or playing about with other
dogs. There is no necessity for a dog to learn any thing for his own
advantage. Nature teaches him every thing that he requires for himself.
He has to study and learn only for the benefit of his master.
It is very different from this with a child. When a child is in
his earliest infancy, he is the most ignorant and helpless being
imaginable. He can not speak; he can not walk; he can not stand; he
can not even creep along the floor. Then, besides, he _knows_ nothing.
He does not know any of the persons around him; he does not know the
light; he is bewildered, and filled with a stupid kind of wonder when
he looks at it; he does not know how to open and shut his hand, or to
take hold of any thing; and long after this, when he begins to learn
how to take hold of things, he is so ignorant and foolish, that he is
as ready to take hold of a burning candle as any thing else.
[Sidenote: Children learn for their own benefit.]
Of course, to fit such a child to perform the duties of a man in such a
busy world as this, he has a great many things to learn. And what is to
be particularly noticed is, that he must learn every thing himself. His
parents can not learn for him. His parents can _teach_ him--that is,
they can show him how to learn--but they can not learn for him. When
they show him how to learn, if he will not learn, and if they can not
contrive any means to make him, there is an end of it. They can do no
more. He must remain ignorant.
[Illustration: The little child willing to learn to walk.]
Here is a picture of a child that is willing to learn. His name is
Josey. His parents are teaching him to walk. He is just old enough to
learn to walk, and you see by his countenance, although it is turned
somewhat away from us, that he is pleased with the opportunity. He is
glad that he is going to learn to walk, and that his parents are going
to teach him. I do not suppose that he feels _grateful_ to his father
and mother for being willing to take so much pains to teach him, for he
is not old enough for that. But he is _glad_, at any rate, and he is
willing to try.
His mother is helping him to begin, and his father is encouraging him
to step along--holding out his hand, so that Josey may take hold of it
as soon as he gets near enough, and thus save himself from falling.
Since Josey is willing to learn, it gives his father and mother great
pleasure to teach him. Thus all three are happy together.
[Sidenote: Some children unwilling to learn.]
Sometimes a child, when his father and mother wish to teach him to
walk, is _not_ willing to learn. He will not try. He sits down at once
upon the ground, and will not make any effort, like the dog who does
not wish to learn to draw. So far as learning to walk is concerned,
this is of no great consequence, for, as his strength increases, he
will at last learn to walk himself, without any particular teaching.
There are a great many things, however, which it is very important for
children to know, that they never would learn of themselves. These they
must be taught, and taught very patiently and carefully. Reading is one
of those things, and writing is another. Then there is arithmetic, and
all the other studies taught in schools. Some children are sensible
enough to see how important it is that they should learn all these
things, and are not only willing, but are glad to be taught them. Like
Josey, they are pleased, and they try to learn. Others are unwilling to
learn. They are sullen and ill-humored about it. They will not make any
cordial and earnest efforts. The consequence is, that they learn very
little. But then, when they grow up, and find out how much more other
people know and can do than they, they bitterly regret their folly.
[Sidenote: Some are willing.]
Some children, instead of being unwilling to learn what their parents
desire to teach them, are so eager to learn, that they ingeniously
contrive ways and means to teach themselves. I once knew a boy, whose
parents were poor, so that they could not afford to send him to school,
and he went as an apprentice to learn the trade of shoemaking. He knew
how important it was to study arithmetic, but he had no one to teach
him, and, besides that, he had no book, and no slate and pencil. He,
however, contrived to borrow an arithmetic book, and then he procured
a large _shingle_[6] and a piece of chalk, to serve for slate and
pencil. Thus provided, he went to work by himself in the evenings,
ciphering in the chimney-corner by the light of the kitchen fire.
Of course he met with great difficulties, but he persevered, and by
industry and patience, and by such occasional help as he could obtain
from the persons around him, he succeeded, and went regularly through
the book. That boy afterward, when he grew up, became a senator.
[6] A shingle is a broad and thin piece of wood, formed like a
slate, and used for covering roofs. The word is explained here,
because, in some places where this book will go, shingles are
not used.
[Sidenote: Things difficult to learn.]
Some things are very difficult to learn, and children are very often
displeased because their parents and teachers insist on teaching them
such difficult things. But the reason is, that the things that are most
difficult to learn are usually those that are most valuable to know.
[Sidenote: The lawyer and the wood-sawyer.]
Once I was in the country, and I had occasion to go into a lawyer’s
office to get the lawyer to make a writing for me about the sale of
a piece of land. It took the lawyer about half an hour to make the
writing. When it was finished, and I asked him how much I was to pay,
he said one dollar. I expected that it would have been much more than
that. It was worth a great deal more than that to me. So I paid him the
dollar, and went out.
At the door was a laborer sawing wood. He had been sawing there all the
time that I had been in the lawyer’s office. I asked him how long he
had to saw wood to earn a dollar.
“All day,” said he. “I get just a dollar a day.”
[Sidenote: Difference of pay, and reason for it.]
Now some persons might think it strange, that while the lawyer,
sitting quietly in his office by a pleasant fire, and doing such easy
work as writing, could earn a dollar in half an hour, that the laborer
should have to work all day to earn the same sum. But the explanation
of it is, that while the lawyer’s work is very easy to do after you
have learned how to do it, it is very _difficult_ to _learn_. It takes
a great many years of long and patient study to become a good lawyer,
so as to make writings correctly. On the other hand, it is very easy to
learn to saw wood. Any body that has strength enough to saw wood can
learn to do it very well in two or three days. Thus the things that are
the most difficult to learn are, of course, best paid for when they are
learned; and parents wish to provide for their children the means of
living easily and comfortably in future life, by teaching them, while
they are young, a great many difficult things. The foolish children,
however, are often ill-humored and sullen, and will not learn them.
They would rather go and play.
It is very excusable in a dog to evince this reluctance to be taught,
but it is wholly inexcusable in a child.
PANSITA.
This is a true story of a dog named Pansita. They commonly called her
Pannie.
Pansita was a prairie-dog. These prairie-dogs are wild. They live in
Mexico. They burrow in the ground, and it is extremely difficult to
catch them. They are small, but very beautiful.
Pansita belonged to an Indian girl on the western coast of Mexico.
An American, who came into that country from Lima, which is a city in
Peru, saw Pansita.
“What a pretty dog!” said he. “How I should like her for a present to
the American minister’s wife in Lima.”
So he went to the Indian girl, and tried to buy the dog, but the girl
would not sell her. She liked her dog better than any money that he
could give her.
[Sidenote: Pansita bought with gold.]
Then the gentleman took some gold pieces out of his pocket, and showed
them to the mother of the girl.
“See,” said he; “I will give you all these gold pieces if you will sell
me Pansita.”
The Indian woman counted over the gold as the gentleman held it in his
hand, and found that it made eighteen dollars. She said that the girl
should sell Pansita for that money. So she took the dog out of the
girl’s arms, and gave it to the gentleman. The poor girl burst into a
loud cry of grief and alarm at the thought of losing her dog. She threw
the pieces of gold which her mother had put into her hand down upon the
ground, and screamed to the stranger to bring back her dog.
But he would not hear. He put the dog in his pocket, and ran away as
fast as he could run, till he got to his boat, and the sailors rowed
him away.
[Sidenote: She is taken off in a ship. Lima.]
He took the dog in a ship, and carried her to Peru. When he landed,
he wished to send her up to Lima. So he put her in a box. He had made
openings in the box, so that little Pannie might breathe on the way. He
gave the box to a friend of his who was going to Lima, and asked him to
deliver it to the American minister.
[Sidenote: A pretended chronometer.]
He was afraid that the gentleman would not take good care of the box if
he knew that there was only a dog inside, so he pretended that it was a
chronometer, and he marked it, “_This side up, with care_.”
A chronometer is a sort of large watch used at sea. It is a very exact
and a very costly instrument.
He gave the box to his friend, and said, “Will you be kind enough, sir,
to take this chronometer in your lap, and carry it to Lima, and give it
to the American minister there?”
The gentleman said that he would, and he took the box in his lap, and
carried it with great care.
Before long, however, Pansita, not having quite air enough to breathe
inside the box, put her nose out through one of the openings.
“Ah!” said the gentleman, “this is something strange. I never knew a
ship’s chronometer to have a nose before.”
Thus he discovered that it was a dog, and not a chronometer that he was
carrying.
He, however, continued to carry the box very carefully, and when
he arrived at Lima he delivered it safely to the minister, and the
minister gave it to his wife.
[Sidenote: The beauty of the dog. The lady is much pleased.]
The lady was very much pleased to see such a beautiful dog. Its form
was graceful, its eyes full of meaning, and its fur was like brown
silk, very soft, and smooth, and glossy.
[Sidenote: The American flag hoisted.]
By-and-by a revolution broke out in Lima, and there was great confusion
and violence in the streets. The Americans that were there flocked
to the house of the minister for protection. The house was a sort of
castle. It had a court, in the centre, and great iron gates across the
passage-way that formed the entrance. The minister brought soldiers
from the ships to guard his castle, and shut the gates to keep the
people that were fighting in the streets from getting in. He hoisted
the American flag, too, on the corner of the battlements. The Americans
that had fled there for safety were all within the walls, greatly
alarmed.[7]
[7] Such a minister as this is a high public officer of
government, who resides at a foreign capital for the purpose
of attending to the business of his own country there, and of
protecting the citizens in case of danger.
[Sidenote: Danger.]
Pansita, wondering what all the noise and confusion in the streets
could mean, concluded that she would go out and see. So, watching her
opportunity, she slipped through among the soldiers to the passage-way,
and thence out between the bars of the great iron gates. The lady, when
she found that Pansita had gone out, was greatly alarmed.
“She will be killed!” said she. “She will be killed! What can I do to
save her? She will certainly be killed!”
But nothing could be done to save Pansita; for if they had opened the
gates to go out and find her, the people that were fighting in the
streets would have perhaps rushed in, and then they would all have been
killed.
[Sidenote: Pansita is recovered.]
So they had to wait till the fighting was over, and then they went out
to look for Pansita. To their great joy, they found her safe in a house
round the corner.
After a time, the minister and his wife returned to America, and
they brought Pansita with them. They had a house on the North River,
and Pansita lived with them there many years in great splendor and
happiness.
[Sidenote: Pannie’s bed.]
The lady made a bed for Pannie in a basket, with nice and well-made
bed-clothes to cover her when she was asleep. Pannie would get into
this bed at night, but she would always scratch upon it with her claws
before she lay down. This was her instinct.
She was accustomed in her youth, when she was burrowing in the ground
in the prairies in Mexico, to make the place soft where she was going
to lie down by scratching up the earth with her paws, and she continued
the practice now, though, of course, this was not a proper way to beat
up a bed of feathers.
Pannie was a great favorite with all who knew her. She was affectionate
in her disposition, and mild and gentle in her demeanor; and, as is
usually the case with those who possess such a character, she made a
great many friends and no enemies.
[Sidenote: Mistakes.]
By-and-by Pannie grew old and infirm. She became deaf and blind, and
sometimes, when the time came for her to go to bed at night, she would
make a mistake, and get into the wrong basket--a basket that belonged
to another dog. This would make Looly, the dog that the basket belonged
to, very angry. Looly would run about the basket, and whine and moan
until Pansita was taken out and put into her own place.
[Sidenote: Pannie’s death and burial.]
At last Pansita died. They put her body in a little leaden coffin, and
buried it in a very pleasant place between two trees.
This is a true story.
THE DOG’S PETITION.
[Sidenote: Letter-day.]
One day, about the middle of the quarter, in a certain school, what the
boys called Letter-day came. Letter-day was a day in which all the boys
in the school were employed in writing letters.
Each boy, on these occasions, selected some absent friend or
acquaintance, and wrote a letter to him. The letters were written
first on a slate, and then, after being carefully corrected, were
copied neatly on sheets of paper and sent. The writing of these letters
was thus made a regular exercise of the school. It was, in fact, an
exercise in composition.
[Sidenote: Erskine’s conversation with his teacher.]
A boy named Erskine, after taking out his slate, and writing the date
upon the top of it, asked the teacher whom he thought it would be best
for him to write to.
“How would you like to write to your aunt?” asked the teacher.
“Why, _pretty_ well,” said Erskine, rather doubtfully.
“I think it would be doing good to write to her,” said the teacher. “It
will please her very much to have a letter from you.”
“Then I will,” said Erskine. “On the whole, I should like to write to
her very much.”
So Erskine wrote the letter, and, when it had been corrected and
copied, it was sent.
This is the letter. It gives an account of a petition offered by a
dog to his master, begging to be allowed to accompany the boys of the
school on an excursion:
[Sidenote: Erskine’s letter.]
August 2, 1853.
DEAR AUNT,--I hope you have been well since I have heard from
you.
We took an excursion up to Orange Pond, and stayed all day. In
the morning it was very misty, but in about an hour it cleared
up, and the sun came out. Charles and Stephen went over to Mr.
Wingate’s to get a stage, and a lumber-wagon, and a carriage.
There were two horses in the stage, and an old gray one in the
lumber-wagon. Wright and I went down to get William Harmer, a
new scholar, to come up here before we started. At last we all
were ready, Crusoe and all. The teacher bought a little dog in
the vacation, and named him Crusoe. One of the boys wrote a
letter, and tied it about Crusoe’s neck, and this was it:
[Sidenote: The dog’s petition.]
MY VERY DEAR MASTER,--Can I go with the boys to-day on
the excursion? I will be very good, and not bark or
bite. I wish to go very much indeed, and I hope you
will let me.
From your affectionate dog,
Bow-wow-wow.
[Sidenote: Account of an excursion. Diving off the row-boats.
The hot rock. Coming home.]
Soon we started. It was very cool when we left home, but when
we got out on the hills it was very hot. The teacher let us
get out once and get some berries. After a ride of about nine
miles, we got out, and found it a very cool place. The public
house was very near to the pond, and we ran down there as
soon as we got our fishing-poles. Some of the boys got into
an old boat, and got a fish as soon as they cast their poles
out. The man said some of us should go out on an old rock
that was there, and the rest of us in a boat. We had a fine
time fishing, and caught about thirty small fish. Mr. Wingate
went out in another boat, and caught a very large perch and
pickerel, and a few other fish. After we had caught a few
more fish, we became tired, and wanted to go to the shore; so
the teacher took two or three of us at a time, and we went to
the shore. After we had played around a little, we had a nice
dinner, and then we went in swimming. The man said we might
dive off the small row-boats. We had fine fun pulling the boats
along while we were wading in the water, for it was nice and
sandy on the bottom. We found we could wade out to the rock
before named. We all waded out on it; but no sooner had we got
on the top, than we jumped off in all directions, for it was so
hot that one could roast an egg on it. We all ran back to the
shore as fast as we could go, laughing heartily. As soon as we
got up and were dressed, we went up to the house. Mr. Wingate
harnessed up the horses, and we were soon trotting home. We
went around by a different way from the one we came by, through
some woods, and had a fine ride home. That is the end of our
excursion to Orange Pond.
From your affectionate friend,
ERSKINE.
Erskine’s aunt was very much gratified at receiving this letter. She
read it with great interest, and answered it very soon.
THE STORM ON THE LAKE.
[Sidenote: The philosophy of mountains, springs, brooks, and lakes.]
Mountains make storms, storms make rain fall, and the rain that falls
makes springs, brooks, and lakes; thus mountains, storms, brooks, and
lakes go together.
Mountains make storms, and cause the rain to fall by chilling the air
around their summits, and condensing the vapor into rain and into snow.
Around the lower parts of the mountains, where it is pretty warm, the
vapor falls in rain. Around the higher parts, where it is cold, it
falls in snow.
[Sidenote: Formation of rivers.]
Part of the water from the rain soaks into the ground, on the
declivities of the mountains, and comes out again, lower down, in
springs. Another portion flows down the ravines in brooks and torrents,
and these, uniting together, form larger and larger streams, until, at
length, they become great rivers, that flow across wide continents. If
you were to follow up almost any river in the world, you would come to
mountains at last.
It does not always rain among the mountains, but the springs and
streams always flow. The reason of this is, that before the water which
falls in one storm or shower has had time to drain out from the ground
and flow away, another storm comes and renews the supply. If it were to
cease to rain altogether among the mountains, the water that is now in
them would soon be all drained off, and the springs and streams would
all be dry.
But how is it in regard to lakes? How are the lakes formed?
[Sidenote: How lakes are formed.]
This is the way.
When the water, in flowing down in the brooks and streams, comes to a
valley from which it can not run out, it continues to run in and fill
up the valley, until it reaches the level of some place where it _can_
run out. As soon as it reaches that level, the surplus water runs out
at the opening as fast as it comes in from the springs and streams, and
then the lake never rises any higher.
A lake, then, is nothing but a valley full of water.
Of course, there are more valleys among mountains than any where else,
and there, too, there are more streams and springs to fill them. Thus,
among mountains, we generally find a great many lakes.
[Sidenote: Outlets; feeders.]
Since lakes are formed in this way, you would expect, in going around
one, that you would find some streams flowing into it, and _one_ stream
flowing out. This is the case with almost all lakes. The place where
the water flows out of the lake is called the outlet. The streams which
flow into the lake are sometimes called the _feeders_. They feed the
lake, as it were, with water.
[Sidenote: Ponds without outlets.]
Sometimes a lake or pond has no outlet. This is the case when there are
so few streams running into it that all the water that comes can dry up
from the surface of the lake, or soak away into the ground.
Sometimes you will find, among hilly pastures, a small pond, lying in a
hollow, which has not any outlet, or any feeders either. Such a pond as
this is fed either by secret springs beneath the ground, or else by the
water which falls on the slopes around it when it is actually raining.
If you were to take an umbrella, and go to visit such a pond in the
midst of a shower, and were to look down among the grass, you would see
a great many little streams of water flowing down into the pond.
[Sidenote: The way to note the rise and fall of water in a lake.]
Then if, after the shower was over, you were to put up a measure in
the water, and leave it there a few days, or a week, and then visit
it again, you would find that the surface of the water would have
subsided--that is, gone down. As soon as the rain ceases, so that all
fresh supplies of water are cut off, the water already in the pond
begins at once to soak away slowly into the ground, and to evaporate
into the air. Once I knew a boy who was of an inquiring turn of mind,
and who concluded to ascertain precisely what the changes were which
took place in the level of a small pond, which lay in a hollow behind
his father’s garden. So he measured off the inches on a smooth stick,
and marked them, and then he set up the stick in the water of the pond.
Thus he could note exactly how the water should rise or fall. There
came a great shower very soon after he set up his measure, and it
caused the water in the pond to rise three inches. After that it was
dry weather for a long time, and the level of the pond fell four inches
lower than it was when he first put up the measure.
Lakes among the mountains are often very large, and the waves which
rise upon them in sudden tempests of wind and rain sometimes run very
high.
[Sidenote: The storm on the Lake of Gennesaret. Jesus in the ship.]
The Lake of Gennesaret, so often mentioned in the New Testament, was
such a lake, and violent storms of wind and rain rose sometimes very
suddenly upon it. One evening, Jesus and his disciples undertook to
cross this lake in a small vessel. It was very pleasant when they
commenced the voyage, but in the night a sudden storm came on, and the
waves rose so high that they beat into the ship. This was the time that
the disciples came and awoke Jesus, who was asleep in the stern of the
ship when the storm came on, and called upon him to save them. He arose
immediately, and came forward, and rebuked the winds and the sea, and
immediately they became calm.
[Illustration]