servants, of having spoken injuriously of Tiberius, and was condemned
by that emperor to be exposed in chains before the palace gate. The
weather was very hot, and Agrippa became excessively thirsty. Seeing
Thaumastus, a servant of Caligula, pass by him with a pitcher of
water, he called to him, and entreated leave to drink. The servant
presented the pitcher with much courtesy; and Agrippa, having allayed
his thirst, said to him,--
"Assure thyself, Thaumastus, that if I get out of this captivity, I
will one day pay thee well for this draught of water."
Tiberius dying, his successor, Caligula, soon after not only set
Agrippa at liberty, but made him king of Judea. In this high situation
Agrippa was not unmindful of the glass of water given to him when a
captive.
He immediately sent for Thaumastus, and made him controller of his
household.
[Illustration: {People gathering hay}]
A DREAM OF SUMMER.
West wind and sunshine
Braided together,
What is the one sign
But pleasant weather?
Birds in the cherry-trees,
Bees in the clover;
Who half so gay as these
All the world over?
Violets among the grass,
Roses regretting
How soon the summer 'll pass,--
Next year forgetting.
Buds sighing in their sleep,
"Summer, pray grant us
Youth, that its bloom will keep
Fragrance to haunt us!"
Rivulets that shine and sing,
Sunbeams abetting,--
No more remembering
Their frozen fretting.
Sweet music in the wind,
Sun in the showers;
All these we're sure to find
In summer hours.
MARY N. PRESCOTT.
[Illustration: SUMMER FLOWERS.]
EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING.
"Please, Mr. Mate has _that_ cloud a silver lining?"
The question was asked by little Kate Vale, the daughter of an
emigrant, who, with her mother, was following her father, who had gone
before to New York. Katie was a quiet, gentle little child, who gave
trouble to no one. She had borne the suffering of seasickness at the
beginning of the voyage so patiently, and now took the rough sea-fare
so thankfully, that she had made a fast friend of Tom Bolton, the
mate. Bolton had a warm, kindly heart, and one of the children whom he
had left in England was just the age of Katie; this inclined him all
the more to show her kindness. Katie often had a piece of Bolton's
sea-biscuit; he told her tales which he called "long yarns," and
sometimes in rough weather he would wrap his thick jacket around her,
to keep the chill from her thinly-clad form. Katie was not at all
afraid of Bolton, or "Mr. Mate," as she called him, and she took hold
of his hard brown hand as she asked the question,--
"Has that cloud a silver lining?"
Bolton glanced up at a very black, lowering cloud, which seemed to
blot the sun quite out of that part of the sky.
"Why do you ask me, Kate?" said the sailor.
"Because mother often says that every cloud has a silver lining, and
that one looks as if it had none."
Tom Bolton gave a short laugh.
"None that we can see," he replied; "for the cloud is right atween us
and the sun. If we could look at the upper part, where the bright
beams fall, we should see yon black cloud like a great mass of silvery
mother-o'-pearl, just like those that you yesterday called shining
mountains of snow."
Katie turned round, and raising her eyes, watched for some minutes
the gloomy cloud. It was slowly moving towards the west, and as it did
so, the sun behind it began to edge all its dark outline with
brightness.
"See, see!" exclaimed Katie; "it is turning out the edge of its silver
lining. If I were up there in the sky, I suppose that all would look
beautiful then. But I don't know why mother should take comfort from
talking of the clouds and their linings."
The mother, Mrs. Vale, who was standing near, leaning against the
bulwarks, heard the last words of her child, and made reply,--
"Because we have many clouds of sorrow here to darken our lives, and
our hearts would often fail us but for the thought, 'There is a bright
side to every trial sent to the humble believer.'"
And Mrs. Vale repeated the beautiful lines,--
"Yon clouds, a mass of sable shade
To mortals gazing from below,
By angels from above surveyed,
With universal brightness glow."
Katie did not quite understand the verse, but she knew how patiently
and meekly her mother had borne sudden poverty, the sale of her goods,
and the bitter parting from her beloved husband. Bolton also had been
struck by the pious courage of one who had had a large share of
earthly trials.
"_Your_ clouds at least seem to be edged with silver," he observed,
with a smile; and as he spoke, the glorious beams of the sun burst
from behind the black mass of cloud, making widening streams of light
up the sky, which, as Katie remarked, looked like paths up to heaven.
The vessel arrived at New York, after rather a rough voyage, and Mrs.
Vale, to her great delight, found her husband ready at the port to
receive her. He brought her good tidings also. A fortnight before her
landing he had procured a good situation, and he was now able to take
her and their child to a comfortable home. Past sorrows now seemed to
be almost forgotten.
[Illustration: {Katie and Bolton on the deck of the ship}]
Bolton, who, during a trying voyage, had shown much kindness to Mrs.
Vale as well as to Katie, was invited during his stay at New York to
make their house his home. He had much business to do as long as he
remained in the great city, so saw little of the Vales except in the
evenings, when he shared their cheerful supper, and then knelt down
with them at family prayers. The mate learned much of the peace and
happiness which piety brings while he dwelt under the emigrant's roof.
But ere long the day arrived when Bolton's vessel, the Albion, was to
start for England. She was to weigh anchor at one o'clock, and at
midday the mate bade good by to his emigrant friends.
"A pleasant journey to you, and a speedy return; we'll be glad to see
you back here," said Henry Vale, as he shook the mate by the hand.
Bolton's journey was to be much shorter, and his return much more
speedy than he wished, or his friends expected. He was hastening down
to the pier to join his vessel, when he saw hanging up in a shop
window a curious basket, made of some of the various nuts of the
country prettily strung together.
"That's just the thing to take my Mary's fancy," said the mate to
himself. "I've a present for every one at home but for her; it won't
take two minutes to buy that basket."
Great events often hang upon very small hooks. If Bolton had not
turned back to buy the basket, he would not have been passing a house
on which masons were working at the very moment when a ladder,
carelessly placed against it, happened to fall with a crash. The
ladder struck Bolton, and he fell on the pavement so much stunned by
the shock, that he had to be carried in a senseless state into the
shop of an apothecary.
Happily no bones were broken, but it was nearly an hour before the
mate recovered the use of his senses. He then opened his eyes, raised
his head, and stared wildly around him, as if wondering to find
himself in a strange place, and trying to think how he came to be
there. Bolton pressed his aching forehead, seeking to recall to his
memory what had happened, for he felt like one in a dream. Soon his
glance fell on the clock in the apothecary's shop, and at the same
instant the clock struck _one_! Bolton started to his feet, as if the
chime of the little bell had been the roar of a cannon.
"The Albion sails at one!" cried the mate; and without so much as
stopping to look for his oilskin cap, with bandaged brow and
bareheaded, Bolton rushed forth into the street, and, dizzy as he
felt, staggered on towards the pier from which the vessel was to sail.
It was not to be expected that the sailor's course should be a very
straight one, or that with all his haste he should manage to make good
speed. The streets of New York seemed to be more full of traffic than
usual, and twice the mate narrowly escaped being knocked down again by
some vehicle rapidly driven along the road. At last, breathless and
faint, and scarcely able to keep his feet, poor Bolton arrived at the
wharf to which his ship had been moored but an hour before. But the
Albion was there no longer--the vessel had started without the
mate--he could see her white sails in the distance; she was already
on her way back to Old England, and she had left him behind!
This was a greater shock to poor Bolton than the blow from the falling
ladder had been. He stood for several minutes gazing after the ship
with a look of despair, then slowly the sailor returned to the house
of the Vales.
"Nothing more unlucky could possibly have happened," muttered the mate
to himself. "Here's a pretty scrape that I shall get into with my
employers; the mate of their vessel absent just at the time when he
ought to have been at his post! Then I've nothing with me--nothing,
save the clothes that I stand in! All my luggage is now on the waves,
and a precious long time it will be before I shall see it again. But I
don't care so much for the luggage; what I can't bear to think of is
my wife and my children looking out eagerly for the arrival of the
good ship Albion, and then, when she reaches port, finding that no Tom
Bolton is in her! I wish that that stupid basket had been at the
bottom of the sea before ever I set eyes on it!"
Pale, haggard, and looking--as he was--greatly troubled, Bolton
entered the house of the Vales, which he so lately had quitted. The
family were just finishing their dinner; and not a little astonished
were they to see one whom they had believed to be on the wide sea.
"Here I am again, like a bad half-penny," said the sailor; and sitting
down wearily on a chair which Katie placed for him directly, Bolton
gave a short account of what he called the most unlucky mischance that
had ever happened to him in the course of his life.
The Vales felt much for his trouble, and begged him to remain with
them until he could get a passage in some other vessel bound for
England.
[Illustration: THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.]
"And don't take your accident so much to heart," softly whispered
little Katie; "you know mother's favorite proverb--'Every cloud has a
silver lining.'"
"Sometimes, even in this life, we can see the silver edge round the
border," observed Mrs. Vale.
Bolton had too brave a heart and too sensible a mind to give way long
to fretting, though he did not see how so black a cloud as that which
hung over his sky could possibly have anything to brighten its gloom.
He tried to make the best of that which he could not prevent, and
retired to rest that night with a tolerably cheerful face, though with
a violent headache, and a heartache which troubled him more.
Bolton slept very little that night, nor indeed did any one else in
the house; for with the close of day there came on a violent storm
which raged fiercely until the morning. Katie trembled in her little
cot to hear how the gale roared and shrieked in the chimneys, and
rattled the window-frames, and threatened to burst open the doors. The
child raised her head from the pillow, and thanked the Lord that her
sailor friend was not tossing then on the waves.
But far more thankful was Katie when tidings reached New York of what
the storm had done on that terrible night. Bolton was sitting at
breakfast with his friends on the third day after the tempest, when
Vale, who was reading the newspaper, turned to the part headed
"Shipping Intelligence."
"Any news?" inquired Tom Bolton, struck by the expression on the face
of his friend.
Instead of replying, Vale exclaimed, "How little we can tell in this
life what is really for our evil or our good! You called that accident
which prevented your sailing in the Albion an 'unlucky mischance.'"
"Of course I did. My wife and children are impatient to see me--"
"Had you sailed in that ship," interrupted Vale, "they would never
have seen you again. The Albion went down in that storm!"
What was the regret of Tom Bolton on hearing of the disaster, and what
was his thankfulness for his own preservation, I leave the reader to
guess. Often in after days did the little American basket remind him
in his own home of what others might have called the chance that led
him to turn back on his way to the ship, and so caused the accident
which vexed him so much at the time.
GOOD-HUMOR.
I am a first-rate fairy--
"Good-Humor" is my name;
I use my wand where'er I go,
And make the rough ways plain;
And make the ugly faces shine,
The shrillest voices sweet,
The coarsest ore a golden mine,
The poorest lives complete.
[Illustration: {A boy sits reading in an armchair}]
BOOKS AND READING.
I really am in doubt whether or not the young folks ought to be
congratulated in consequence of the great number of juvenile books
which are being placed before them about this time. An excellent book
is certainly excellent company; but there is a limit to all things;
and so we may have too many books, taking it for granted that all are
good ones.
You all know, that, as a general rule, people in America read too
much, and think too little. Reading is a benefit to us only when it
leads to reflection. It is useless when it leaves no lasting
impression on the mind; it is _worse_ than useless if the lesson it
conveys be not a really good one.
Suppose you sit down to a well-furnished table at a hotel to eat your
dinner. The waiter hands you a bill of fare, upon which is printed a
long list of good and wholesome dishes, and then quietly waits until
you order what you wish. You are not expected to eat of every one,
however attractive they may be, but rather to select what you like
best,--enough to make a modest meal,--and let that suffice.
But the selection is not all. If you expect to gain health and
strength by your dinner, you must eat it in a proper manner; that is,
slowly. Otherwise nature's work will be imperfectly done, and your
food become a source of bodily harm, instead of a benefit.
Now, it is precisely so with the food of the mind, which comes to you
through books. You are not expected to read everything which comes
within your reach. You should rather select the best, and, having done
so, read them slowly and carefully. You may read too much as well as
eat too much; and while the one will injure your body, the other will
as certainly harm your mind.
One of the worst evils which too much reading leads to is a habit of
_reading to forget_. You know what a bad habit is, how it clings to
us, when once contracted, and how hard it is to be shaken off. Some
boys and girls read a book entirely through in a single evening, and
the next day are eagerly at work on another, to be as quickly
mastered. No mind, however strong, can stand such a strain. You see at
once that it would be absolutely impossible for them to remember what
they read. And so they read for a momentary enjoyment, and gradually
fall into the habit I have spoken of--reading to forget. I need not
tell you that such a habit is fatal to any very high position in life.
How often we hear parents boast that their children are "great
readers," just as if their intelligence should, in their opinion, be
measured by the number of books and papers which they had read! Need I
say, that, on the contrary, they are objects of pity?
But how much may we read with profit? That is a question not always
easy to answer. Some can read a great deal more than others. Yet, if
young people read slowly, and think a great deal about the subject,
there is very little danger of their reading too much, provided they
select only good books; because good books are very scarce--much more
so in proportion to the number printed than they were twenty years
ago; and there are very few young persons who have too great a supply
of good works placed within their reach.
I have mentioned one evil which results from too much reading, and
will only briefly allude to another equally important. Children who
attend school have no time to devote to worthless books. Their studies
consume many hours. If, aside from the time which should be devoted to
play, to their meals, and the various duties of home, they will read a
useless book every day or two, their health is sure to suffer. The
evil consequences may not be at once apparent, but in later years the
penalty will certainly have to be paid. This reflection alone, if
there were no other reason, should induce the young to discard all
useless books, and read only such as shall have a tendency to make
them wiser and better.
THE CORAL-WORKERS.
The little coral-workers,
By their slow but constant motion,
Have built those pretty islands
In the distant dark-blue ocean;
And the noblest undertakings
Man's wisdom hath conceived
By oft-repeated efforts
Have been patiently achieved.
[Illustration: {Lion carries a baby's basket down some stairs}]
LION THE FIRE DOG.
Lion, who was a cross between a Great St. Bernard and a Newfoundland
dog, came into the possession of the superintendent of the London fire
brigade when he was but twelve months old. His first retreat was in
the engine-house, where, on some old hose and sacking, he made himself
as comfortable as he could, and coiled himself up, like the tubing on
which he lay. Considering that he was thus placed in charge of the
engine-house, he resented the first occasion on which a fire occurred
at night. The fire bell rang, and the firemen crowded to the spot,
prepared to draw forth the engine, when a decided opposition was made
on the part of Lion, who showed a determination to fasten himself on
the first fireman who dared to enter the house. In this way the
faithful dog kept them all at bay until the arrival of his master,
whom he instantly recognized and obeyed. As soon as the horses were
harnessed, and the engine was in motion, Lion bounded along in
company, and was present at his first fire. After that time, he
attended no less than three hundred and thirty-two fires, and not
only attended, but assisted at them, always useful, and sometimes
doing work and saving life, which, but for him, would have been lost.
His chief friends, the firemen, say it would take a long while to tell
all his acts of daring and sagacity; but we must, in justice to his
memory, record some of the most notable.
Whenever the fire bell rang, Lion was immediately on the alert,
barking loudly, as if to spread the dire alarm. Then, as soon as his
master had taken his place on the engine, and before the horses were
off, he led the way, clearing the road and warning every one of the
approach of the engine, and spreading the news of the fire by his loud
voice.
On one occasion, when the horses were tearing along the streets as
fire engine horses alone can, a little child was seen just in front of
the engine. To stop the horses in time was impossible, though the
driver did his best. The brave hearts of the firemen sank within them
as they felt they must drive over the little body. Bystanders raised
their arms and shrieked as they witnessed an impending catastrophe
which they could do nothing to avert. No human help could avail, and
it must needs be that the engine of mercy, on its way to save life,
must sacrifice the life of an innocent, helpless child!
But stay! Human eyes were not the only ones that took in that sad
scene, and that saw the impending doom of the little one. Brave,
sagacious, and fleet, Lion saw at a glance the danger that threatened
the child, and springing forward, he knocked him down; then seizing
him firmly in his jaws, he made for the pavement obliquely, and gently
deposited his charge in the gutter just as the engine went tearing by.
But this was only an incident by the way; Lion's real work began when
the scene of the fire was reached. As soon as the door was opened, or
dashing through the window if there was a delay in opening the door,
the noble animal would run all over the burning house, barking, so as
to arouse the inmates if they were unaware of the danger; and never
would he leave the fire until he had either aroused them or had drawn
the attention of the firemen to them.
Once the firemen could not account for his conduct. Darting into the
burning house,--the ceilings of which had given way,--and then out
again to the firemen, he howled and yelled most loudly. It was
believed that no one was in the house, but Lion's conduct made his
master feel uneasy.
Still nothing could be done by way of entering the house, as the fire
was raging fiercely, and the house would soon fall in. Finding that
his entreaties were not regarded, and suffering from burns and
injuries, the noble animal discontinued his efforts, but ran uneasily
round the engine, howling in a piteous manner; nor would he leave the
spot after the fire was put out until search was made, when beneath
the still smouldering embers, the firemen discovered the charred body
of an old man, whom he had done his utmost to save.
Lion's noble efforts, however, were often crowned with success; and
many a one has to bless the wondrous qualities with which God had
endowed him.
At one fire, after the inmates had made their escape, a cry was raised
that "the baby had been left behind in the cradle up stairs," though
no one seemed to be able to indicate the room. The fire had so far got
hold of the dwelling, such dense volumes of flame and smoke were
issuing from every opening, that it was impossible for any fireman to
enter, and the crowd stood horror-stricken at the thought of the
perishing babe.
The crisis was a terrible one; an effort was made, an entry was
effected, and some of the men ventured some distance within the
burning pile, only to retrace their steps.
At this emergency, Lion dashed past the men, disappeared amid the
flames, but returned in a minute into the street with the empty cradle
in his powerful jaws. The consequence of this almost incredible
feat--which was witnessed by many--may be better imagined than
described.
The fact that Lion did not re-enter the house--which, though badly
burned, he would doubtless have done had he left the child behind--was
sufficient to convince the dullest intellect that the child was
secure; and it was very soon ascertained that the object of search was
safe in a neighboring house.
No wonder, then, that this noble animal endeared himself to all who
knew him; and those who knew him best loved him the most. For fourteen
years Lion continued his noble and useful career as public benefactor,
as friend and companion to the firemen, and as mourner at their
graves; for he attended the funerals of no less than eleven of them.
Death came to him at length; for last year he died from injuries
received in the discharge of his self-imposed duties.
There are few of our readers who would not have liked to pat that
brave old dog; there are fewer still who may not learn useful and
valuable lessons from the speaking testimony of that dumb animal.
BENJAMIN CLARKE.
TO THE CARDINAL FLOWER.
O, my princely flower, shall I never win
To your moated citadel within,
To your guarded thought?
The pansies are proud; but they show to me
Their purple velvets from over the sea,
With gold inwrought.
And they gently smile wherever we meet;
They seem to me like proud ladies sweet
From a foreign shore.
Wild primrose buds in my very hand
Their odorous evening stars expand,
And all their lore.
But your strange eyes gleam as they pass me by,
And seem to dream of a warmer sky,
Far over the sea.
M. R. W.
[Illustration: {A woman, an elderly man and two children watch
butterflies in a garden}]
THE SONG OF THE ROSE.
I come not when the earth is brown, and gray
The skies; I am no flower of a day,
No crocus I, to bloom and pass away;
No cowslip bright, or hyacinth that clings
Close to the earth, from whence it springs;
Nor tulip, gay as song birds' wings.
I am the royal rose, and all things fair
Grow fairer for my sake; the earth, the air,
Proclaim the coming of the flower most rare.
Green is the earth, and beautiful the sky,
And soft the breeze, that loves to linger nigh;
I am the rose, and who with me shall vie?
The earth is full of gladness, all in tune
With songs of birds; and now I come, O June,
To crown thee, month of beauty, with my bloom.
T. E. D.
RICH AND POOR.