Your cheeks are ruddy and warm;
But out in the cold of the winter
Is many a shivering form.
There are mothers that wander for shelter,
And babes that are pining for bread;
Oh, thank the dear Lord, little children,
From whose tender hand you are fed.
Come look in my eyes, little children,
And tell me, through all the long day,
Have you thought of the Father above us,
Who guarded from evil our way?
He heareth the cry of the sparrow,
And careth for great and for small;
In life and in death, little children,
His love is the truest of all.
Now come to your rest, little children,
And over your innocent sleep,
Unseen by your vision, the angels
Their watch through the darkness shall keep;
Then pray that the Shepherd who guideth
The lambs that He loveth so well
May lead you, in life's rosy morning,
Beside the still waters to dwell.
[Illustration: BED-TIME.]
[Illustration: {A dog breaks a hole through ice to get a drink}]
REASON AND INSTINCT.
Are dogs endowed with reason? As you grow up, you will spend many
happy hours in the contemplation of this interesting question. It does
sometimes seem as if there could be no possible doubt that dogs, as
well as horses, elephants, and some other of the higher animals, are
gifted with the dawn of reason, so extraordinary are some of their
acts.
It is but a few days since a dog in Vermont saved a house from
burning, and possibly the inmates. The dog discovered the fire in the
kitchen, flew to his master's apartment, leaped upon his bed, and so
aroused the people to a sense of their danger.
"As I was walking out one frosty morning with a large Newfoundland
dog," says the Rev. J. C. Atkinson, "I observed the animal's repeated
disappointment on putting his head down to drink at sundry ice-covered
pools. After one of these disappointments, I broke the ice with my
foot for my thirsty companion. The next time Tiger was thirsty, he did
not wait for me to 'break the ice,' but with his foot, or, if too
strong, by jumping upon it, he obtained water for himself."
Here seems to be the manifestation of a desire to _learn from
observation_.
After the battle of Fredericksburg, it fell to my duty to search a
given district for any dead or wounded soldiers there might be left,
and to bring relief. Near an old brick dwelling I discovered a soldier
in gray who seemed to be dead. Lying by his side was a noble dog, with
his head flat upon his master's neck. As I approached, the dog raised
his eyes to me good-naturedly, and began wagging his tail; but he did
not change his position. The fact that the animal did not growl, that
he did not move, but, more than all, the intelligent, joyful
expression of his face, convinced me that the man was only wounded,
which proved to be the case. A bullet had pierced his throat, and
faint from the loss of blood, he had fallen down where he lay. His dog
had _actually stopped the bleeding from the wound by laying his head
across it_. Whether this was casual or not, I cannot say. But the
shaggy coat of the faithful creature was completely matted with his
master's blood.
Strange as these facts may appear, we should not confound INSTINCT
with intelligence which comes from REASON. There is a wide difference
between them. Before long I propose to discuss this matter to some
extent, in an article which I have already begun.
TOUCH NOT.
Touch not the tempting cup, my boy,
Though urged by friend or foe;
Dare, when the tempter urges most,
Dare nobly say, No--no!
The joyous angel from on high
Shall tell your soul the reason why.
Touch not the tempting cup, my boy;
In righteousness be brave;
Take not the first, a single step,
Towards a drunkard's grave;
The widow's groan, the orphan's sigh,
Shall tell your soul the reason why.
[Illustration: {Two girls, their arms full of flowers and foliage}]
CHILDREN.
What could we without them,
Those flowers of life?
How bear all the sorrows
With which it is rife?
As long as they blossom,
Whilst brightly they bloom,
Our own griefs are nothing,
Forgotten our gloom.
We joy in the sunshine--
It sheds on them light;
We welcome the shower--
It makes them more bright;
On our pathway of thorns
They are thrown from above,
And they twine round about us,
And bless us with love.
Bright, beautiful flowers,
So fresh and so pure!
How could we without them
Life's troubles endure?
So guileless and holy,
Such soothers of strife,
What could we without them,
Sweet flowers of life?
THE WHITE BUTTERFLY.
A TALE FOR CHILDREN.
Very slowly and wearily over road and hedge flew a white butterfly one
calm May evening; its wings had been torn and battered in its flight
from eager pursuers, who little cared that their pleasure was
another's pain. On, on, went the fugitive, until it came to a little
garden so sweet and quiet that it rested from its flight and said,
"Here, at least, I shall find peace; these gentle flowers will give me
shelter." Then, with eager swiftness, it flew to a stately peony. "Oh,
give me shelter, thou beautiful flower!" it murmured as it rested for
a second upon its crimson head--a second only, for, with a jerk and an
exclamation of disgust, the peony cast the butterfly to the ground.
With a low sigh it turned to the pansy near. Well, the pansy _wished_
to be kind, but the butterfly was really very tattered and dirty; and
then velvet soils so easily that she must beg to be excused. The
wall-flower, naturally frank and good-natured, had been so tormented
all day by those troublesome bees that she solemnly vowed she would do
nothing more for anybody.
The tulips were asleep; and the other flowers, trying to emulate fair
Lady Rose, held their heads so very high that they, of course, did not
hear the low, soft cry, "Oh, will no one give me shelter?" At last
there came an answer, "I will, gladly," in a shy and trembling tone,
as though fearing to be presumptuous, from a thick thorny bush which
helped to protect the more dainty beauties from the rough blasts of a
sometimes too boisterous wind; in consideration of which service the
flowers considered the briar as a good, useful sort of thing,
respectable enough in its common way, but not as an equal or
associate, you understand. With gratitude the forlorn butterfly rested
all night in the bosom of one of its simple white blossoms.
When night had gone and the bright sun came gliding up from the east,
calling on Nature to awake, the flowers raised their heads in all the
pride of renewed beauty and saluted one another. Where was the forlorn
butterfly? Ah! where? They saw it no more; but over the white blossom
where it had rested there hovered a tiny fairy in shining, changing
sheen, her wand sparkling with dewdrops. She looked down on the
flowers with gentle, reproachful eye, while they bent low in wonder
and admiration.
"Who is it?" they asked. "How beautiful! how lovely!"
The fairy heard them with a smile, and said, "Fair flowers, I _was_ a
shabby butterfly; what I _am_, you see. I came to you poor and weary;
and because I was poor and weary you shut me out from your hearts."
The pansy and the wall-flower bent their heads in sorrow, and Lady
Rose blushed with shame.
"If I had only known!" muttered the peony; "but who would have thought
it?"
"Who indeed?" laughed the fairy; "but learn, proud peony, that he who
thinks always of self loses much of life's sweetness--far more than he
ever suspects; for goodness is as the dew of the heart, and yieldeth
refreshment and happiness, even if it win no other recompense. But it
is meet that it should be rewarded. Behold, all of you!" and the fairy
touched with her wand the white blossom on which she had rested,
saying, "For thy sweetness be thou loved for ever!" At these words a
thrill of happiness stirred the sap of the rough, neglected briar, and
a soft, lovely blush suffused the petals of its flowers, and from its
green leaves came forth an exquisite odor, perfuming the whole garden
and eclipsing the other flowers in their pride.
Then the fairy rose in the air, and hovering over her resting-place
for a moment ere she vanished said, "Such is the reward of goodness.
Fare thee well, sweet briar!"
[Illustration: {Tom and Pearson on the deck of the ship in the snow}]
WORKING IS BETTER THAN WISHING.
"Now then, Tom, lad, what's up? in trouble again?" asked a
good-natured sailor of his messmate, one snowy day on the wide
Atlantic.
The boy was leaning moodily against the bulwarks of the vessel--a
pleasant, ruddy young fellow of fourteen, but with a cloud on his face
which looked very like discontent.
Snow was falling heavily, but he did not heed it; he looked up,
however, at the approach of his friend, and answered,--
"I'm all right, Pearson; it isn't that. I was only wishing and
wondering why I can't get what I want; it seems a shame, it does!" and
Tom paused abruptly, half choked by a sob.
"What is it, Tom?" asked Pearson; "have the other lads been plaguing?
Such a big, hearty fellow as you ought not to fret for that."
"I don't," said Tom, sharply; "it's not that; but they've found out
that my little brother is in the workhouse at home, and they throw it
at me. I'd do anything to get him out, too, for he oughtn't to be
there: we come of a better sort, Pearson," he said, proudly; "but
father and mother dying of that fever put us all wrong. Uncle got me
to sea, and then, I suppose, he thought he'd done enough; so there was
only the workhouse left for Willy. He's the jolliest little chap,
Pearson, you ever saw, and I'd work day and night to get him out, if I
could; but where's the use? A poor boy like me can do nothing; so I
just get in a rage, or don't care about anything, and fight the other
lads; or I'm had up for neglect of duty, or something."
"And so you lose all chance of getting on, and being able in time to
help your little brother," said Pearson, as if musing; "but what's
that you have in your hand, Tom--a picture?"
"It's Willy," said the boy; "yes, you may look, Pearson. Mother had it
taken just before she fell ill; he's only four, but he's the prettiest
little chap, with yellow hair all in curls. I dare say they've cut
them off, though," he added, bitterly. "There's a bit of a sickly
child on board, belonging to the tall lady in black, that reminds me a
little of him, only he isn't near as pretty as Willy."
"Yes, he is a pretty little lad," said Pearson, returning the
photograph; "and now, Tom, mind my word: I am an old fellow compared
to you, and I'll give you a bit of advice. The little lad is safe, at
any rate, in the workhouse; he's got food and clothes, and you
couldn't give him that; so be content, and try to do your own duty. If
you get a good character, instead of being always had up for sulking
or fighting, that's the best chance for you, and, after you, for
Willy. As for the lads' teasing, why, be a bit hard of hearing, and
before many years, I warrant, you'll be having Willy aboard ship as
boy, when you're an able-bodied seaman."
Tom laughed. "Thank you, Pearson. Well, I'll try; but I do get wishing
and bothering of nights."
"Ah, that wishing's a poor trick," said Pearson; "give it up, Tom, and
work instead."
People don't often take advice, but this time it was followed. A great
deal of rough weather came on; every one had as much as he could do,
and Tom worked with the best of them, and to his great joy was noticed
by the ship's officers as a willing lad.
One bright morning brought all the passengers on deck,--the ship was
bound for Rio,--and among them came the tall lady in black, with her
little boy in her arms. Tom's duties took him near her, and he could
not but steal a glance at the little face like Willy's; but, O, so
pale and pinched now! The child had suffered dreadfully in the rough
weather; it was doubtful whether he would see land again, he was so
weakened. Tom felt sorry for the little fellow, but his work engrossed
him, and he had nearly forgotten the white-faced child, when, to his
great surprise, the captain called him. The lady in black was a
relative of the captain, and it seemed that while Tom had been
glancing at the sick child, the child had been watching him, and had
taken a fancy to his clear round face, and active movements.
"Let me see what sort of a head-nurse you can make," said the captain
to Tom; "this little fellow will have you carry him, he says, and
teach him to climb the rigging."
Tom smiled, but instantly checked himself, as hardly respectful to the
captain.
They dressed Carlo up in a suit of sailor clothes. To be sure they
were rather large for him, but then it was such fun to be a real
little sailor. Under Tom's care his face soon grew round and fat, and
his merry laugh rang out on the air. And now he would live to see his
father and his birthplace again, for he was born in South America, and
had only left his Portuguese father for a few months, to accompany his
English mother on a visit to her relatives.
The day before they sighted land, Tom was sent for into the captain's
cabin, and there a wonderful proposal was made to him--that he should
give up sea life, and go to Bella Sierra as little Carlo's attendant.
Carlo's parents were rich people; little Carlo had taken a great fancy
to him, and he would have good wages.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE SAILOR.]
It sounded very pleasant; but little Willy! he should never see
him--it would not do. Tom hesitatingly explained this to Carlo's
mother, drawing the little photograph out of his pocket the while.
Then came the last and best proposition,--that Willy should come out
on the _Flying Star's_ next voyage, and live, too, at Bella Sierra.
Mrs. Costello--the lady in black--promised to pay all expenses, and
put him in charge of the stewardess. Carlo, her only child, had grown
so fond of Tom, that she would do anything to keep him.
"Such an active, willing boy," she explained to the captain. "I have
often watched him at work, and admired the way in which he did it."
"Well, lad," said Pearson, when Tom came to tell him the news, "wasn't
I right when I told you that the best way you could work for Willy
was by doing your own duty? If you had gone on in that half-and-half,
discontented way, no rich lady would have cared to have you about her
house--would she?"
Tom looked thoughtful. "Yes, you were right, Pearson; you've done it
all; and now I want you to do one thing more. Please look after Willy
a bit when he comes out; he's such a daring little chap, he'll always
be running away from the stewardess."
"Ah, you want me to be nurse now--do you?" said Pearson; "all right,
lad, and as the song says, 'Don't forget me in the land you're going
to.' And you can still stick to my old motto, that 'Working is better
than Wishing.'"
KIND TO EVERYTHING.
Softly, softly, little sister,
Touch those gayly-painted wings;
Butterflies and moths, remember,
Are such very tender things.
Softly, softly, little sister,
Twirl your limber hazel twig;
Little hands may harm a nestling
Thoughtlessly, as well as big.
Gently stroke the purring pussy,
Kindly pat the friendly dog;
Let your unmolesting mercy
Even spare the toad or frog.
Wide is God's great world around you:
Let the harmless creatures live;
Do not mar their brief enjoyment,
Take not what you cannot give.
Let your heart be warm and tender--
For the mute and helpless plead;
Pitying leads to prompt relieving,
Kindly thought to kindly deed.
[Illustration: SOFTLY, SOFTLY, LITTLE SISTER.]
[Illustration: {The farmer and the calf}]
THAT CALF!
To the yard, by the barn, came the farmer one morn,
And, calling the cattle, he said,
While they trembled with fright, "Now, which of you, last night,
Shut the barn door, while I was abed?"
Each one of them all shook his head.
Now the little calf Spot, she was down in the lot;
And the way the rest talked was a shame;
For no one, night before, saw her shut up the door;
But they said that she did,--all the same,--
For they always made her take the blame.
Said the horse (dapple gray), "I was not up that way
Last night, as I now recollect;"
And the bull, passing by, tossed his horns very high,
And said, "Let who may here object,
I say 'tis that calf I suspect!"
Then out spoke the cow, "It is terrible, now,
To accuse honest folks of such tricks."
Said the cock in the tree, "I'm sure 'twasn't me;"
And the sheep all cried, "Bah!" (There were six.)
"Now that calf's got herself in a fix!"
"Why, of course, we all knew 'twas the wrong thing to do."
Said the chickens. "Of course," said the cat;
"I suppose," cried the mule, "some folks think me a fool;
But I'm not quite so simple as that;
The poor calf never knows what she's at!"
Just that moment, the calf, who was always the laugh
And the jest of the yard, came in sight.
"Did you shut my barn door?" asked the farmer once more.
"I did, sir; I closed it last night,"
Said the calf; "and I thought that was right."
Then each one shook his head. "She will catch it," they said;
"Serve her right for her meddlesome way!"
Said the farmer, "Come here, little bossy, my dear!
You have done what I cannot repay,
And your fortune is made from to-day.
"For a wonder, last night, I forgot the door, quite;
And if you had not shut it so neat,
All my colts had slipped in, and gone right to the bin,
And got what they ought not to eat--
They'd have foundered themselves upon wheat."
Then each hoof of them all began loudly to bawl;
The very mule smiled; the cock crew;
"Little Spotty, my dear, you're a favorite here,"
They cried. "We all said it was you,
We were so glad to give you your due."
And the calf answered, knowingly, "Boo!"
PHOEBE CARY.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: HELPING MOTHER.]
LITTLE HELPERS.
Planting the corn and potatoes,
Helping to scatter the seeds,
Feeding the hens and the chickens,
Freeing the garden from weeds,
Driving the cows to the pasture,
Feeding the horse in the stall,--
We little children are busy;
Sure, there is work for us all.
Spreading the hay in the sunshine,
Raking it up when it's dry,
Picking the apples and peaches
Down in the orchard hard by,
Picking the grapes in the vineyard,
Gathering nuts in the fall,--
We little children are busy;
Yes, there is work for us all.
Sweeping, and washing the dishes,
Bringing the wood from the shed,
Ironing, sewing and knitting,
Helping to make up the beds,
Taking good care of the baby,
Watching her lest she should fall,--
We little children are busy;
Oh, there is work for us all.
Work makes us cheerful and happy,
Makes us both active and strong;
Play we enjoy all the better
When we have labored so long.
Gladly we help our kind parents,
Quickly we come to their call;
Children should love to be busy;
There is much work for us all.
[Illustration: THE PUZZLED PUPPIES.]
THE ANIMAL IN ARMOR.
This picture of three curious little puppies looking at a tortoise
reminds me of a story told of a countryman who saw some land-tortoises
for the first time at a fair held in a market-place of his native
village. Very much surprised at their queer look, he asked the man who
was selling them how much they were.
"Eighteenpence a pair," was the answer.
"Eighteenpence!" said the man; "that is a great deal for a thing like
a frog. What will you take for one _without the box_?"
Little folks would not make such a stupid mistake as this; they would
know that this strange-looking animal between its two shells was a
tortoise. There are different sorts--some that live on land, and some
in water. Those that live in the sea are called turtles, and their
shells are not so hard as that of the land-tortoise. It is easy to see
why this is: a turtle would not be able to swim with so thick a shell;
it would be much as if a man in armor were to try. Their shells are
not all in one, but joined together by a sort of gristle, which
enables them to move with greater ease and not so stiffly.
Directly any one hears the name of tortoise, he begins to think of
tortoise-shell. This ought really to be called turtle-shell, as it is
made from the shell of the hawk's-bill turtle. Tortoise-shell is made
by soaking the plates of the shell in warm water until they are soft;
then they are pressed into the shapes wanted in warm iron moulds, and
taken out and polished.
Some of the sea-turtles are very fierce; and although they have no
teeth, their jaws are so strong that they can bite a walking-stick in
half. Land-tortoises are quite harmless; they only attack the insects
they feed upon. They go to sleep, like the dormouse, in the winter,
but they do not make a burrow; they cover themselves with earth by
scraping it up and throwing it over their bodies. In doing this they
would find their heads and tails very much in the way if it were not
that they are able to draw them in between their shells. No one, of
course, knows how they find their way out again in the spring; but it
is supposed that they scratch the earth away and throw it underneath
them, at the same time pushing their way up.
Tortoises live to a very great age. One was given to the Zoological
Gardens in 1833 which had already lived seventy years in Port Louis,
in the island of Mauritius. Its shell, from the head to the tail,
measured four feet four inches and a half, and it weighed two hundred
and eighty-five pounds.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: {A Chinese man fishing with birds}]
THE IRON RING.
Chang Wang was a Chinaman, and was reputed to be one of the shrewdest
dealers in the Flowery Land. If making money fast be the test of
cleverness, there was not a merchant in the province of Kwang Tung who
had earned a better right to be called clever. Who owned so many
fields of the tea-plant, who shipped so many bales of its leaves to
the little island in the west, as did Chang Wang? It was whispered,
indeed, that many of the bales contained green tea made by chopping up
spoiled black tea leaves, and coloring them with copper--a process
likely to turn them into a mild kind of poison; but if the unwholesome
trash found purchasers, Chang Wang never troubled himself with the
thought whether any one might suffer in health from drinking his tea.
So long as the dealer made money, he was content; and plenty of money
he made.
But knowing how to make money is quite a different thing from knowing
how to enjoy it. With all his ill-gotten gains, Chang Wang was a
miserable man; for he had no heart to spend his silver pieces, even on
his own comfort. The rich dealer lived in a hut which one of his own
laborers might have despised; he dressed as a poor Tartar shepherd
might have dressed when driving his flock. Chang Wang grudged himself
even a hat to keep off the rays of the sun. Men laughed, and said that
he would have cut off his own pigtail of plaited hair, if he could
have sold it for the price of a dinner!
Chang Wang was, in fact, a miser, and was rather proud than ashamed of
the hateful vice of avarice.
Chang Wang had to make a journey to Macao, down the great River
Yang-se-kiang, for purposes of trade. The question with the Chinaman
now was, in what way he should travel.
"Shall I hire a palanquin?" thought Chang Wang, stroking his thin
mustaches; "no, a palanquin would cost too much money. Shall I take my
passage in a trading vessel?"
The rich trader shook his head, and the pigtail behind it--such a
passage would have to be paid for.
"I know what I'll do," said the miser to himself; "I'll ask my uncle
Fing Fang to take me in his fishing-boat down the great river. It is
true that it will make my journey a long one; but then I shall make it
for nothing. I'll go to the fisherman Fing Fang, and settle the matter
at once."
The business was soon arranged, for Fing Fang would not refuse his
rich nephew a seat in his boat. But he, like every one else, was
disgusted at Chang Wang's meanness; and as soon as the dealer had left
his hovel, thus spoke Fing Fang to his sons, Ko and Jung:--
"Here's a fellow who has scraped up money enough to build a second
Porcelain Tower, and he comes here to beg a free passage in a
fishing-boat from an uncle whom he has never so much as asked to share
a dish of his birds'-nests soup!"
"Birds'-nests soup, indeed!" exclaimed Ko; "why, Chang Wang never
indulges in luxuries such as that. If dogs' flesh were not so cheap,
he'd grudge himself the paw of a roasted puppy!"
"And what will Chang Wang make of all his money at last?" said Fing
Fang, more gravely; "he cannot carry it away with him when he dies."
"O, he's gathering it up for some one who will know how to spend it!"
laughed Jung. "Chang Wang is merely fishing for others; what he
gathers, they will enjoy."