CHAPTER VI.

GOING ABROAD.

It was on a bright, warm, breezy morning in early June, that our

friends at Honeysuckleville decided that the home education of their

children had been attended with such success as to encourage the hope

that they would "come out" creditably to themselves, and their

parents. Arrangements were accordingly made, and I assure you there

was much talking and no little excitement and bustle upon the

occasion. It was proposed to spend some weeks in travelling, that the

young people might enjoy themselves, and acquire much useful

information, which could be obtained no other way.

The weather was delightful. A few light, fleecy clouds were floating

in the blue sky, continually changing from one form of beauty to

another. The sun shone forth in his splendour, cheering the tender

grass and the up-springing seeds, and drawing them nearer and nearer

to his bosom. They stretched toward him their feeble blades and

diminutive leaves, as if they would gladly be clasped in his arms; but

their growing roots were striking deeper and deeper into mother earth,

and binding them closer and closer to her.

The gentle, cooling zephyrs were playing among the leaves, and

winning sweet music from the tiny voices, which responded in glee to

their salutations. Often they lifted the soft hair from the brows of

the children, and frolicked amid their curls, and fanned their

sun-burnt cheeks. It was a morning which all nature enjoyed. There

could not have been a finer day to start upon a journey. As birds do

not need a change of dress, there was no trunk to pack, and no

travelling-bag to be laden with comforts. All the preparation

necessary was the usual attention to the toilet, and the instruction

and advice which the exigency required.

The hearts of the young adventurers fluttered with excitement. There

was a mingling of curiosity to visit the great world of which they had

heard such glowing descriptions, and of fears to trust themselves to

the power of their wings to bear them from their pleasant, happy home,

and keep them out of harm's way. They had seen Pussy, as she walked

about in her white and black robe, and though she seemed so gentle,

they had been warned against her as one of their most deadly enemies.

They knew she was often prowling about, with stealthy tread, to prey

upon the unwary. They feared that, instead of flying to the

walnut-tree, as was the plan, they should fall upon the grass, where

she could pounce upon them and destroy them, notwithstanding the

screams and agonizing entreaties of their parents. Puss is a full

believer in the doctrine that "might makes right;" and she is as

unmoved by the cries and appeals of her victims as if they had no

hearts to suffer, and were made merely for her own use.

Many words of encouragement were addressed to them by their parents.

They told them how they themselves had suffered from similar fears;

how difficult it was for them to trust implicitly in the wisdom of

their own father and mother; and how they stood, tremulous and

fearful, on the top of the nest, wishing they had sufficient

resolution to obey, and yet fearing to venture; but how easy and

pleasant they found it to spread their wings in the air, and be borne

up by it, when they fully determined to make the attempt.

Our little birdlings still hesitated, just as I have seen children

hesitate and quiver with terror when for the first time they go into

the water to learn to swim. They know their father tells them the

truth, for he has never deceived them. He has bound a life-preserver

beneath their arms, and has promised to remain near, to catch them, if

they begin to sink; yet they are afraid, and draw back. They lack

faith. When at last they timidly push from the shore, and find

themselves buoyed up on the water, their delight is almost unbounded,

and they are as unwilling to leave as they were reluctant to enter it.

The old robins stood on one of the branches of the walnut-tree, and

endeavoured to persuade their timid brood to come to them. They were

not stern and severe, for they had not forgotten their own youth, and

they sympathized deeply with these children; but the father found he

must be decided, so he told them, (as it seemed,) authoritatively,

that they must hesitate no longer. He would count one--two--three; and

when he said three, they must spread their wings and do as well as

they could. The mother smiled lovingly upon them, and they determined

to obey, whatever effort it might cost. "One--two--three," counted the

robin, in his full, musical tones. The birdlings fluttered their

wings, and strained every nerve to alight by the side of their

parents. With what joy they felt their feet clinging round the branch!

How elated they were with their success! They chirped continually, and

merry and brisk was the conversation. "What is this?" one asked, and

"What is that?" said another, till it seemed as if the old birds would

be weary of their questions; but they never lost their patience; they

thought the little folks remarkably intelligent.

When they were rested, away flew the birds to the elm, and called to

their young. Grown courageous by success, they quickly followed, and,

through the whole day, they were flying about from tree to tree,

enjoying themselves highly.

At sunset, I saw them on the locust-tree, near the cottage, inhaling

its delicious perfume, with their faces toward the west, wondering,

perhaps, what occasioned all that glorious beauty, as the sun escaped

from their view.

Presently they flew to a great cherry-tree, and, from the chirping and

calling, we concluded they spent the night in its shelter. How strange

it must have been to them, this first night of their perching! The sky

was clear, the stars twinkled, and the half-moon shed her silvery

light on the earth, and gleamed through the cherry-leaves, as it had

done through the honeysuckles; but it was not home, that cherry-tree,

and they sighed as they thought of their birthplace. They sat close to

their mother's side, and felt that, after all, where she was, was the

best place for them. They curled up one foot into the soft down, and

turned back their heads till their bills were beneath their wings. The

lids slowly closed over their eyes, and they slept quietly and

sweetly, till wakened in the morning by the warbling of songsters who

welcomed the rosy dawn.

A new sense of responsibility filled their hearts. They were no longer

mere children, their every want supplied by others; but they were

youth, and must begin to provide for themselves, and depend upon their

own energies. We frequently hear the young robins among the trees, but

we seldom see them. We really miss them, and think of them as

pleasant visitors who have been spending a few days with us.

We hope that Honeysuckleville will not be forsaken; but that every

year the birds will return, and rear their young beneath its fragrant

shade, making hearts of the little Dudleys glad, and teaching them to

love.

"All things, both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us,

Hath made and loveth all."

[Illustration]

"MAY I POP SOME CORN?"

"May I pop some corn?" asked Eddie.

"Yes," answered his mother; and laying down her work, she went to the

closet and got for him several small ears--some red and some

white--the kernels of which where not half so large as those of common

corn.

Eddie took a white bowl and sat down on the carpet by his mother with

the tiny ears in his apron. He worked away for some time, shelling

first one ear and then another, till every little kernel was in the

bowl, and nothing but cobs left. These he thought would help to build

a "log-house," so he put them in his play-box, with those he had

treasured before, and took his bowl to the kitchen.

Kate, the cook, was a coloured woman, and she loved children. When he

said to her, "Mother told me I might pop some corn," she cheerfully

placed the iron pan on the stove, and when it was hot enough, told him

he might put in the corn. Pretty soon it went Pop! pop! pop! till the

pan was filled with snow-white kernels. Eddie always wondered how they

could turn inside out and suddenly grow so large. He did not

understand that it was because of the expansion or swelling of the air

within the hard case, which then burst open to find more room.

[Illustration: Eddie popping corn.]

Eddie was very busy for some time in the kitchen attending to his

corn. When it was all done, he separated that which was popped from

that which was only parched, and put it in different dishes. He gave

his dog Philo some of the brown kernels, and he seemed to like them as

well as Eddie himself. Eddie enjoyed hearing him crack them with his

sharp teeth, and would stroke his great head, and say kindly, "Poor

Philo! you are a good Philo;" and the dog would wag his tail as much

as to say, "Dear Eddie! you are a good Eddie."

After giving Philo his share, and Kate hers, Eddie carried up a large

dishful to his mother and the children. He did not wish to eat it all

himself for he was a generous boy and always liked to have others

partake of his pleasures, whatever they might be. He reserved some of

the nicest of it in a tumbler, which he placed on his mother's

work-table. Mrs. Dudley took a little, saying to him,

"If you miss your corn, Eddie, you will know what has become of it."

He looked up from his play quite soberly, and said slowly, "Mother, if

_you_ wish to eat more you may, but _I_ am not going to."

"Why not, my child?"

"I am going to save it for father."

Mrs. Dudley was pleased to see Eddie willing to deny himself to give

to others, so she said to him, "That is right." When his father came

home from his business, Eddie placed the tumbler beside his plate on

the tea-table. After the blessing was asked, Mr. Dudley, looking at

the children, inquired, "Where did this come from?" "I popped it,"

answered Eddie. And his father thanked him with a kind and loving

smile.

Eddie was much happier than if he had eaten all the corn himself, for

he had made others happy by his generosity. "It is more blessed to

give than to receive," the Bible tells us; and Eddie had been learning

this truth in the great pleasure he felt in dividing his popped corn

with others. I hope you who read this story know how to sympathize

with him. If you do not, will you try the experiment, and see if you

are not far happier to share your corn, or your candy, or whatever

else you may have, with your brothers and sisters, and those around

you, than you are to devour it yourself? I have seen little chickens

seize their favourite morsel and run away and hide where they could

eat it all alone; but I should be sorry to think that any child would

do so.

"WHICH WOULD YOU RATHER I SHOULD DO?"

"Which would you rather I should do?" asked Eddie of his mother, his

large blue eyes filling with tears.

"I should rather you would stay with me," was the answer.

"Then I will, mother!" and the tears remained where they were, and did

not chase each other down his plump cheeks. A trembling smile played

around his mouth; for he had conquered himself, and had readily

yielded to his mother's wishes. There had been a struggle, severe, but

short, in his mind, and when he said, "Then I will, mother," he meant

he could be happy to stay at home, and would not ask again for

permission to go with the other children. Mrs. Dudley could not resist

the impulse to clasp him to her heart, and tell him he was a good boy;

and this made him still happier. He saw he had pleased her, and her

approving smile was worth more to him than any enjoyment could be

without it.

Eddie, you know, is a little boy, five years old. He has brothers and

sisters older than himself, and they have fine sport in sliding and

skating. Their teacher takes them every day to enjoy it, and they come

home in high spirits, swinging their skates by their sides, and

talking loud and fast about it.

Eddie has watched them many days from the nursery window, and has

longed to be with them; but his careful mother has feared he would get

hurt among so many skaters, or perhaps be lost in one of those

"air-holes" which are often found in the most solid ice; so when Eddie

asked her if he might go to the river, she hesitated, for she did not

like to deny him. "Which would you _rather_ I would do?" then inquired

the dear boy; and when his mother told him, he did not tease her, but

resumed his place at the window.

Mrs. Dudley resolved to go herself with her little son to the river,

when the children went again. She did not tell him so, however; but

the next day, when the merry skaters were in the midst of their

enjoyment, she put on her hood, and her warm blanket-shawl, and thick

gloves, and calling Eddie to her, wrapped him in his wadded coat and

woollen tippet, and placing on his head his "liberty-cap,"--knit of

red and black worsted, with a tassel dangling from the point--and

pulling it well down over his ears, and covering his fat hands with

warm mittens, they started out on the white snow. The snow was frozen

sufficiently to bear them, and they had a pleasant walk above the

hidden grass and stones.

Eddie was in great glee. His mother enjoyed it almost as much as he

did, for it was an exhilarating sight. Some of the boys were sliding,

some skating, and others pushing sleds before them, on which a mother

or sister were sitting. It reminded one of the pictures we often see

of skating in Holland; and, to make the resemblance more perfect, a

Dutchman was there with his pipe, defiling the pure, fresh air with

its foul odour.

Mrs. Dudley was invited to take a ride, and, leaving Eddie in the care

of another, she was soon seated on one of the sleds, and speeding away

before a rapid skater. She found it far more swift and agreeable than

riding in the usual way. Eddie, too, had a ride, and his little heart

was brimfull of happiness. He walked about on the ice quite carefully

and fearlessly.

The river, on which these children were, rises and falls with the

tide. Eddie saw other boys sliding off towards an icy meadow bordering

on it, and he thought he would go too. The ice formed an inclined

plane; his feet slipped on its smooth surface, and down he went; he

jumped up, but the blood from his nose, flowing over his face and

coat, and staining the snow, frightened him, and he uttered a loud

cry. The skaters were with him before his mother, though she was but a

few steps away, for she could not move as quickly as they. It was

pleasant to see their sympathy, and hear their kind inquiries. His

mother soon comforted him; for he had not been cut by the ice as they

feared. The blood from his nose testified to a pretty hard bump. He

soon forgot the pain, and was as happy as ever. He will long remember

his first sled ride on the river.

Why do you think, dear children, I have told you this story about a

child whom you have never seen? I wanted to ask you, or rather have

you ask yourselves, if you are willing, as Eddie was, to do as your

mother thinks best? Much as he wanted to go on the river, he felt

satisfied to do as his mother wished. I hope, when you know what your

mother prefers, you will make up your minds to give up your own plans,

and be happy in doing so.

I am not one of those who imagine children have no trials. I know

their lives are not all bright and sunny. I have not forgotten being a

child myself. Many a hard battle has to be fought with wrong feelings

and wrong wishes; but never fear; resolve to conquer yourselves, and

subdue every thing that is sinful. Every victory will make you

stronger, and render it easier for you to do right. Will you try?

"If at first you don't succeed,

Try, try again."

THE BIRDS AND THE SNOW-STORM.

The weather is warm and sunny. The snow of winter has disappeared. The

grass is green, and growing finely. The early spring-flowers have

opened their blossoms, and we all think summer is so near, that the

cold weather must be over. The birds have thought so, too; for they

are flying from tree to tree, singing most beautiful melodies, and

peeping about, here and there, making arrangements for summer, and

selecting places where to build their pretty nests.

But the wind blows chill again. The sky is clouded, and people begin

to say, "I think we shall have another snow-storm." It is not long

before the feathery flakes begin to descend. The earth is so warm that

they scarce touch it before they are melted and absorbed. The snow

continues to fall, the earth grows colder and colder, and soon it

cannot melt the snow, but is itself chilled, and accepts it as a

mantle. For three days the storm rages. The ground is as white as in

mid-winter.

What is to become of the birds? They can find neither food nor

shelter. It is painful to see them flying distractedly through the

storm, not knowing where to go; but too cold and too hungry to remain

in the trees, and too fearful to seek comfort in the many warm houses,

that would have opened their windows, if they would have entered under

their protecting roof.

Mrs. Dudley's children are all watching them from the windows, and

throwing out hominy and bread-crumbs for them to eat. How cold the

little sparrows look, as they pick up their food! Children's hearts

are generally tender, and always so unless they have been hardened by

the practice of cruelty, and Mrs. Dudley's were full of sympathy for

the little sufferers. "Oh! mother!" said Eddie, the youngest, "if the

birds knew how we loved them, they would come into the house;" but the

birds did not know, and they stayed out in the snow, and many of them

perished.

The children were sadly grieved, when, after the storm, they found

many of their feathered friends dead. How much they regretted they

could not have saved their lives! If the birds had only known, as

Eddie said, how much the children loved them, they would have flown

into the house, and been warmed and fed.

There are many dear children who do not know how much Jesus loves

them; how much he wishes them to enter the "ark of safety," and escape

the dangers there are in the world. There are many who have not even

heard of him; and many of those who have, do not know he is their best

friend.

Do _you_ know how much he loves you, and have you sought his

protection amid all the dangers that surround you? If you have not

found refuge in that "high tower," of which David speaks in the

Psalms, you are no safer than were the birds flying through the cold

snow, and you surely will be lost if you do not fly to that kind

Saviour, who has prepared a way of escape for you.

[Illustration]

THE FIRST STRAWBERRY.

How bright and red it looked, half-concealed as it was by the green

leaves! It was the first strawberry of the season. Mary gathered it

with delight, and ran with it to her mother.

"Here is something for you, mother," she said, holding up the rosy

treasure.

"Thank you, my dear!" said Mrs. Dudley, smiling upon her daughter. She

ate it with a double relish. She was very fond of the fruit, and she

was gratified by this expression of the thoughtful, unselfish love of

her dear child.

How much more Mary enjoyed that look of love, and that approving

smile, than she would have enjoyed eating that luscious strawberry

herself!

Every day, Mary, Willie, and Eddie search for the fruit as it ripens,

and almost every evening their father and mother find a saucer of

berries, with sugar and cream, beside their plates at the tea-table.

How pleasant it is to see children think so much of their parents! I

hope they will continue obedient and attentive, for there is no more

beautiful sight than an affectionate, united family.

God will bless those who honour their parents.

"I PRAYED ALL DAY FOR HELP."

It was a beautiful evening early in June. The air was cool and

pleasant. The trees and shrubs were covered with luxuriant foliage,

and the roses were in their opening beauty. The frogs were croaking in

the pond, and the birds singing on the trees. The sun had just sunk

beneath the horizon. The clouds which lingered around his pathway

received his parting rays, and were most gorgeously decorated with the

richest of his colouring.

Willie walked about the lawn, his face lighted up with a smile, and

his dark gray eye bright with happiness. His heart was attuned to

harmony with all nature around him, and he would frequently look up to

his mother, who sat by the open window, enjoying the delightful

evening. Presently Willie came, and stood by her side.

"How happy I am this evening!" he said to her. She put her arm around

him, and drew him towards her.

"What makes you so happy?" she inquired.

"Because I have been trying to control my temper, I suppose"--was his

answer.

"You have not been angry to-day, have you?"

"No, mother."

"Did you pray about it, Willie?"

"Yes, mother. I prayed all day for help."

"How did you pray?"

"I said, Forgive my sins, and give me a new heart."

"God heard your prayers, and he has helped you to control your temper.

God always hears prayer, and helps those who ask his aid. I hope you

will never forget to pray for what you need," said his mother. Willie

smiled, and kissed her, and went out of doors again to enjoy the

evening--

"So cool, so calm, so bright."

Willie is generally a good boy, but he has a quick temper. When three

or four years old, he would sometimes get very angry. I have even

known him to throw things at children with whom he was playing, if

they did any thing to offend him. He did so one day when his mother

was from home. She was much grieved when she heard it, and talked

seriously with him. It made a deep impression on his mind. He speaks

of it now with great solemnity, and asks his mother if she remembers

it. He feels that he committed a great sin. He knows it is wrong to

let his temper govern his reason, and he is struggling to control

himself. I think he will succeed.

I knew his grandfather when I was a little girl, and I remember

hearing him say that he was naturally quick-tempered; but, although I

lived in the same house with him, and saw him under a great variety

of circumstances, I never heard him speak a hasty word. I hope Willie

will obtain as perfect control over himself, and, if he lives to

manhood, that his friends will be able to say of him what I can say of

his grandfather.

Willie was, at one time, playing with some children, and found he was

growing angry. He immediately left them, and sat down on the stairs

alone. Pretty soon they followed him. He did not feel entirely

good-natured, so he again left them, and went into the library. He

shut the door and prayed to his Father in heaven for strength to

conquer himself. He remained there alone till he felt he had obtained

the victory.

Willie is not the only little boy who has a quick temper, and I tell

this story about him for the sake of the dear children who sometimes

get angry. I hope, like Willie, they will learn to go to God for help,

and then, like his, their countenances will be radiant with gladness;

and they, too, can say, "How happy I am!"

"An angry man stirreth up strife, and a furious man aboundeth in

transgression."

"He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that

ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city."

"He that hath no rule over his own spirit, is like a city that is

broken down, and without walls."

"EVER SO MANY BEAUTIFUL THINGS."

"There are ever so many beautiful things up in the sky, mother!" said

little Eddie, as he sat in his mother's lap, leaning his head upon her

encircling arm.

The clouds had gathered about the horizon, and assumed many beautiful

and fantastic shapes. Some of them were gorgeously coloured with the

rays of the departing sun, and were shaded from the most delicate rose

to the darkest, richest crimson. As the sun receded farther and

farther behind the green hills, they grew darker and darker, and the

imaginative boy had seen fancied ships with their sails spread;

steam-vessels with clouds of smoke rolling from their chimneys;

mountains piled upon mountains; trees, birds, and many other wondrous

things which filled his infant mind with admiration.

Soon the stars twinkled forth, and they awoke a new interest. At first

they appeared one by one, as if timidly venturing to look down upon

our beautiful planet, and when fully assured that the king of day had

disappeared, they came forth faster and more numerously, till the

whole heavens were bespangled with their glittering brightness. Then

their companion, the moon, came slowly up, shining with a soft and

mellow light, a new beauty in the "blue wilderness of interminable

air."

Eddie had long gazed silently before he uttered the exclamation,

"There are ever so many beautiful things up in the sky!" and I suppose

he had many thoughts which it would have been pleasant for his mother

to know. He did not often sit up so late that he could see the stars.

Eddie is not the only one who has been charmed with the glowing

sunset, the gray twilight, or the starry firmament. David loved to

look upon the works of God. In one of his psalms, he says, "When I

consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars

which thou hast ordained, what is man, that thou art mindful of him,

and the son of man, that thou visitest him!" It was astonishing to

David, that God, who was so infinitely superior to man, and who had

given such proofs of his power and greatness in the creation of the

heavens, should condescend to notice him, to provide for his minutest

wants, and to protect him from danger. I suppose this psalm was

written in the night, when the sweet singer of Israel had been looking

at just such a sky as drew from Eddie his exclamation of admiration.

I often think, as I look abroad, how wonderful it is that God has made

every thing so beautiful. We need never be weary in studying his

works. The more we learn of them, the more we realize his greatness

and perfection. "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the

firmament showeth his handiwork."

When you look at the clear blue sky, do you remember who has spread it

out, and who has created the innumerable worlds which we see, when

darkness covers our earth? "There are," indeed, "ever so many

beautiful things up in the sky," and it was a Father's hand that

placed them there. They are for us to enjoy, and many a lesson of love

and confidence have they taught God's children. Dear little Eddie! I

hope he will always love nature, and early learn to "look through

nature up to nature's God."

I shall never forget a drive with my father, when I was a child so

small that I sat on a little footstool in the carriage, between him

and my mother. We were returning from a visit to Aunt Harriet, at

whose house we had been spending the day. It was a fine evening. The

air was balmy and pleasant. I remember how the frogs sung in the low

ground, and how we listened to their quaint music. We had not ridden

far before the moon rose, and the stars, one by one, appeared. My

father had a true love for nature, and for whatever was beautiful or

grand. We drove on without speaking for a time, each enjoying the

evening. My father broke the silence by repeating that beautiful hymn

of Addison's, commencing with these lines--

"The spacious firmament on high,

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim."

I was awed by the reverence of his manner, and I felt myself in the

presence of my Maker,--a mere speck amid his vast creations. An

ineffaceable impression was made on my mind, young as I was. My father

died many years ago, while I was still a child, but the lesson of that

hour has not been forgotten.

[Illustration]

LILY AND HER DUCKLINGS.

The white duck, Lily, made a nest on the ground, in a small enclosure,

from which some tame rabbits had been removed. She gathered the

scattered straw into one corner, and made a much neater nest than the

other ducks did, who laid their eggs under the wood-pile among the

small chips.

She laid several large, smooth, white eggs, and when she had as many

as she could conveniently take care of, she began to sit on them to

keep them warm, till the little ducks should be ready to peck their

way out. She plucked the soft white down from her breast, to line the

nest, and to make it of a more even temperature for the eggs; and,

whenever she left to procure food, or to take a short swim on the

pond, she carefully covered them.

The duck cannot spread her wings as wide as the hen, so she has to be

much more particular about her nest. She makes it deeper and warmer

than Biddy. It is wonderful with what skill all animals rear their

young. It shows the great goodness and kindness of God, that he should

thus fit the creatures he has made for the duties they must perform.

His care is continual, not only over us, but over them all. He hears

the young ravens when they cry, and the ducks and the chickens are not

forgotten by him. To the duck he has not given the brooding wings of

the hen-mother; but he has given her a coat of down, from which she

can make a warm bed for her cherished eggs.

It was a very pretty sight to see Lily on her nest, almost covered by

the straw, her head turned back, and her broad yellow bill partially

hidden beneath her wing. The down lay scattered about like

snow-flakes. She looked patient and hopeful, as she opened her eyes to

see who had intruded on her solitude.

When a sitting-duck goes in search of food, she acts so queerly that

you would surely laugh to see her, if you are not accustomed to her

odd ways. She bends her head back, and draws it close to her body, and

waddles about in the greatest haste, quacking all the time.

Lily waited four weeks before the ducklings appeared. Some of the

brood were of a straw-colour, and some were marked with spots of

black. They were all pretty. When I first saw them, they were partly

hidden beneath their mother. Their glossy bills and bright eyes were

visible, but they were afraid to venture from their shelter. They were

provided with water and food in the old rabbit-house, because, if they

followed their mother to the pond, the musk-rats would probably devour

some of them.

While the little ones remained with their mother, they were safe, but

when they became discontented, and wandered from home, they were

sometimes lost. The rats were their principal enemies, and those from

which they had most to fear. They were constantly lurking about to

catch the ducklings, and sometimes the defenseless little ones ran

directly into their deep holes, from which there was no possibility of

escape. Quite a number of Lily's family came to an untimely end in

this way.

When I saw them roving about in the high grass, seeking in vain to

find their way to their mother's presence, and hearing their calls for

help, and her answering cry of distress, I could but think of the dear

children who forget their mother's counsel, and leave her protection

before they are old enough to take care of themselves.

The ducklings, I observed, did not know who were their friends; for,

one day, when the prettiest of the brood had found a way out of the

rabbit-house, I thought I would catch it, and give it back to its

mother. It was much alarmed, and Lily was in equal trouble. It ran

away from me, thinking, perhaps that I was a greater enemy than the

rats, against which it had probably been warned. Just as I was going

to put my hand on it, it hid itself in a rat-hole, from which there

was no escape. I could not rescue it, neither could its mother. The

next morning, when I went to look at the ducks, and give them their

breakfast, there lay the poor duckling, close by the fatal hole. The

rat had brought it out, and partly devoured it.

Children often think they know what is best for them quite as well, if

not better, than their parents, and when told not to do this or that,

they are not satisfied to obey quietly, but ask, "Why not?" I think

children may often be told why they are bidden to do this, or

forbidden to do that; but they should obey their parents promptly,

whether they know their reasons or not.

Sometimes there are reasons which children cannot understand,

sometimes there are reasons which it would not be wise to tell them,

and sometimes it is not convenient to give the why and the wherefore.

Children are commanded to obey their parents,--not the reasons their

parents may give them. The young ducks could not understand why their

mother did not wish them to go out of that enclosure. They could not

comprehend the dangers which surrounded them. They saw the birds

flying about in the air, and heard the hum of the bees as they were

going abroad for honey, or returning loaded to the hive, and they

could not understand why they might not wander about too. The red

clover looked very beautiful, and the white clover was so fragrant,

they longed to ramble in it. They thought their mother unnecessarily

strict, because she wished to keep them with her, instead of

permitting them to see all the pretty things of which they could now

and then catch a glimpse, as they peeped through the cracks of the

rabbit-house.

Children sometimes feel unpleasantly because they are not permitted to

play in the street. Ah! they are as ignorant of danger as the poor

ducklings and they are too young to understand the peril to which they

are exposed. Even if their mother should explain it to them, they

could realize but little about it. It is by far the better way for

children to feel that their mother knows best, and to be satisfied

that her reasons are good and sufficient even if they do not know what

they are.

I once heard a distinguished clergyman say he had always observed that

those persons who had learned to obey their parents promptly, most

readily yielded to the claims of God, and became converted, while

those who had always liked their own way had generally a long, severe

struggle, before they were willing to give up their sins, and

oftentimes could not make up their minds to do so, and, though deeply

convicted, remained impenitent.

It is a fearful thought that, if you form a habit of disobedience to

your parents, it may cost you the salvation of your soul.

PRAYING FOR RAIN.

It was the first of July. There had been no rain for several weeks.

Every one feared there would be a drought. The farmer looked anxiously

upon his fields of corn, whose deep green leaves had not yet begun to

turn yellow, and upon the potatoes, whose blossoms were still

unwithered. They could not long remain thus beautiful and thriving, if

the refreshing rain was withheld. The ground was so dry that, in

hoeing the garden, no moisture could be observed.

Mrs. Dudley talked with her children about the need of rain, and the

propriety of praying to our heavenly Father to water the earth, that

it might "bring forth and bud," and "give seed to the sower, and bread

to the eater." She told them how Elijah prayed for rain, after there

had been none in the land of Canaan for three years and six months,

and how God heard his prayer, "and the heaven gave rain, and the earth

brought forth her fruit."

This great drought was a judgment upon the people of Israel for their

sin in departing from God, and worshipping idols. There had been, in

consequence of this want of rain, a "sore famine." We read in the

book of Kings of one poor woman, who had only a handful of meal in a

barrel, and a little oil in a cruse. When Elijah met her, and asked

her for water, and a morsel of bread, she told him this was all she

had, and that she was gathering two sticks, that she might bake it for

herself and her son, that they might eat and die! She know not where

to find any more food for herself or her child, and expected to "pine

away, stricken through for want of the fruits of the field," and to

die with hunger.

Elijah bid her not to fear, but go and do what she had said. He asked

her to make him a little cake first, and bring it to him, and

afterwards make one for herself and son. "For thus saith the Lord God

of Israel, the barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse

of oil fail, until the day that the Lord sendeth rain upon the earth."

It would not have been strange, if this widow of Zarephath had been

unwilling to divide her handful of meal with Elijah, or if she had

doubted the promise which was made to her, but she did not. She baked

the little cake for the stranger, and afterwards one for herself and

her boy, and there was plenty of meal and of oil left for another

repast. "She, and he, and her house, did eat of it many days." The

barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, till the

Lord sent rain upon the earth, and her wants could be supplied in the

usual way. She did not lose the reward promised to those who give a

cup of cold water to the friends of God.

God does not willingly afflict the creatures he has made. He is a

gracious God, merciful, and of great kindness, and has compassion even

on the beasts of the field. When Jonah complained that he spared

Nineveh, because its inhabitants humbled themselves before him, and

turned from their evil way, after having sent him to prophesy to them

that in forty days it should be overthrown, he said to Jonah, "Should

I not spare Nineveh, that great city, wherein are more than six-score

thousand persons that cannot discern between their right hand and

their left; and also much cattle?"

In this long drought in the land of Canaan, the cattle must have

suffered greatly, and many of them probably perished. Indeed, we read

that Ahab, the king of Israel, and Obadiah, the governor of his house,

searched the land for the fountains and brooks, to find grass to save,

the horses and mules alive, that they might not be all lost.

God is a Father, and, like a tender, loving father, he removes his

chastisements so soon as they have produced the effect designed. He

was "grieved for the misery of Israel." He told Elijah he would send

rain. The prophet went to Ahab, who, when he saw him, asked, "Art thou

he that troubleth Israel?" Elijah answered, it was Ahab, and his

father's house, who troubled Israel, because they had forsaken the

commandments of the Lord, and worshipped Baalim.

Elijah went up to the top of Mount Carmel, and earnestly prayed for

rain. God had promised that he would send it, and Elijah no doubt

pleaded this promise, as he interceded with him. He directed his

servant to go where he could look towards the sea. He went and looked,

and said, "There is nothing." Elijah was not discouraged. He knew God

would remember his promise, and he sent him seven times more. The

seventh time the servant returned, and said, "Behold, there ariseth a

little cloud out of the sea, like a man's hand." It grew rapidly

larger and larger, till the sky was black with clouds and wind, and

there was a great rain.

James, in his Epistle, says, "The effectual fervent prayer of the

righteous man availeth much," and he mentions this instance of

prevailing prayer in Elijah, as an encouragement to all Christians to

ask for needed blessings. "Elijah was a man subject to like passions

as we are," he tells us, and if he prevailed with God, so may others.

God is the "same yesterday, to-day, and forever." He does not change.

He is always a hearer of prayer.

Mrs. Dudley also told her children that God hears the cry of all who

are in distress. She referred to one of the psalms of David, where he

describes a storm at sea, and the great terror of the sailors. "Then

they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he delivers them out of

their distresses."

God does not forget any creature he has made. He provides the springs

and the streams to give drink to the beasts of the field, and to the

birds which sing among the branches. He causes the grass to grow for

the cattle, and herb for the service of man. He feeds the fowls, and

clothes the flowers with beauty. He has taught us to ask for our daily

bread, and as this must depend upon fruitful seasons it is proper we

should ask for rain, whenever it is needed.

The children were quite interested in what their mother had told them.

They knew that she earnestly desired rain, and that she often asked

God to send it, before vegetation perished for want of it. They

watched the sky with great anxiety, and when it became cloudy, and

continued so from day to day, they thought surely a storm was near.

After several days, there was a slight shower, but not enough to

refresh the plants. Mary was greatly disappointed "I thought," (she

said to her mother,) "it was going to rain in answer to your prayer."

"I thank God for that little rain," said Eddy, as he talked about it.

Mrs. Dudley told him that was right, but they ought to pray for more,

it was so much needed.

The next Sunday Mrs. Dudley was not well, and could not attend

church. When her children returned she asked Mary if they prayed for

rain. "No, mother!" she answered; "but I did."

The sky continued cloudy for some time, and then the rain gently fell

for a day and a night, and all nature was refreshed and cheered.

Soon afterwards I left Mrs. Dudley's family. When I had been absent

about a fortnight, I received a letter from Mary. She told me about

the bantams, and the flowers, and many other things in which I was

interested. She wrote that it had "rained on Sunday, and all day

Monday. I cannot help thinking," she continued, "how good God is to

send us rain when we most need it, and what cause we have for

thanksgiving."

I hope Mrs. Dudley's children will never forget that God is the giver

of every good gift, and that he likes to have people ask him for what

they need. Children should think of God as their best friend, and

should go to him in prayer, feeling as sure he can and does hear them,

as they are that their mother does. In a season of drought they should

ask him for rain, and when he sends it to make vegetation grow, they

should thank him for that evidence of his loving-kindness.

THE GRAPE-CLUSTERS.

Very beautiful were the grape-clusters as they hung on the graceful

vine, and very tempting to the hand that was near enough to pluck

them.

Two little boys came on an errand to the lady who lived in the house

which the grape-vine shaded. It was reviving to come out of the city's

heat and dust, and enter that pleasant parlour, screened from the

fiercer rays of the summer's sun by its green curtain of leaves. The

hot pavement and the glaring walls of the city seemed far distant, for

the charm of the country was spread over that retired room. All city

sights were shut out, and peace and quiet reigned within.

The lady was sitting at her desk, writing, when the boys entered. She

spoke to them kindly, for they were objects of her kind care, although

they did not live with her. They handed her a note which required an

answer. She gave them permission to play in the yard, while she should

write it. They were very happy, for it was an unusual pleasure for

them. They examined the flowers which grew in the narrow bed by the

high, close fence, and then they began to look wistfully at the

rich bunches of grapes, which were within their reach. The lady had

not told them that they might gather any, and they felt that they

ought not to do so. But the tempter was near, and they listened to his

suggestions.

[Illustration: The lady was sitting at her desk writing, when the boys

entered.]

Looking towards the house to see if they were observed, they

cautiously went up to the vine, and each gathered a bunch of grapes.

They ate them secretly, that they might avoid detection; but although

they knew it not, there was an eye in the house that saw them, and

there was another eye from which their act was not hid--the eye of the

all-seeing God.

When the note was written, the boys were recalled to the parlour, and

pleasantly dismissed. I think they must have felt somewhat ashamed,

that they had abused the confidence reposed in them, and had been

guilty of stealing from their kind friend.

After they left, the lady was informed what they had done. When she

visited "the home," where they lived, she mentioned the fact to their

teacher, although she did not allude to it to them.

The teacher took occasion to talk with her scholars about being honest

and trustworthy, and asked them what they should think of children

who, when sent on errands and permitted to go into the yard to enjoy

themselves, should stealthily take the fruit which grew there. They,

of course, condemned such conduct. She gave them the instruction they

needed, and endeavoured to impress its importance upon their minds.

Soon after the close of the school, the two boys who had taken the

grapes went to her and told her what they had done. She talked with

them kindly. They seemed truly penitent. She asked them if they would

like to go to the lady and acknowledge their fault. They said they

should, and immediately they put on their straw hats, and their clean

sacks, and went cheerfully to make all the reparation in their power

for the fault they had committed. Confession is always pleasant to the

truly penitent.

Again they stood in that shaded parlour. They were affectionately

welcomed as before. They confessed freely and fully, what they had

done on their previous visit, and asked forgiveness, which was readily

granted. Just as they were leaving, they turned and inquired, "Can you

ever trust us again?" The lady assured them that she could, and they

went away happy and strengthened in their good purposes.

From that time there has been a marked change in the children. Their

characters have much improved and they have been, in all respects,

more conscientious and trustworthy. One of the boys has, I think,

found a Christian home, and the other is waiting for one.

"IT ALMOST MAKES ME CRY."

"It almost makes me cry to think of the heathen," said Willie Dudley,

as he was standing by his mother's work-table, with his elbow leaning

upon it, and his head resting upon his hand. "I don't wonder

missionaries go to them." His face was thoughtful and sad, and the

tears stood in his eyes.

He had just been looking at two hideous idols, which had been brought

from Africa, and his mother had been telling him that the heathen

thought they were gods, and prayed to them.

Little Eddie wondered that any people could think these stone images

were God. His large, blue eyes looked larger and rounder than ever,

they were so filled with amazement at what he heard. He could only

say, "Oh, mother! oh, mother!" in tones which indicated surprise,

pity, and horror.

Mrs. Dudley told her children that the heathen had not been taught, as

we have, that God is a spirit, and that they had never learned the

commandment, "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any

likeness of any thing that is in the heaven above, or that is in the

earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; thou shalt

not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them; for I, the Lord thy

God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the

children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me;

and showing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my

commandments."

"I don't wonder that the missionaries go to them," was the sentiment

on the mind of Willie, as he thought of the ignorance and degradation

of the heathen. He loved, himself, to hear about God, and our blessed

Saviour, and he knew that God required a pure and spiritual worship.

He knew God was the Creator of the world, and that his power and glory

could not well be represented or conceived by man. He had often heard

of the heathen, and had read about their idols, but to see and handle

a stone head which had been actually an object of religious worship,

made it seem much more real to him than ever before, that there are

many people who have never learned to worship the true God.

Willie has always had a great reverence for his heavenly Father.

Several years ago, he was reading a description of one of the idols of

the Hindoos. The picture was disgustingly repulsive. He went to Mrs.

Dudley with his book, saying, "Mother, I don't like to call g-o-d God

here; I want to call it d-o-g, for I don't think it is right to call

such a thing by that great name."

Perhaps Willie will some day be a missionary, and preach the glad

tidings of salvation to those who are now sitting in darkness, and in

the shadow of death. But if he is not a missionary himself, I trust he

will never forget to do what he can for those who, far from their

homes and their friends, are fulfilling Christ's last command, to "go

into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature."

All Christians cannot be missionaries, but they can all do something

to spread a knowledge of true religion throughout the world. They can

contribute of their property to this noble purpose. Our heavenly

Father accepts the smallest gift, offered in love. We, surely, who

live in comfortable homes, and are surrounded by so much that is

pleasant, should never forget those who, in foreign lands, are

preaching the "unsearchable riches of Christ."

If our Saviour were now upon the earth, I suppose dear children, you

think it would be a great pleasure to minister to his wants, and

provide him with food or clothing, or any thing he might need. It is

delightful to know that what we do for those who love him, he accepts

as done to himself. In his Holy Word he says, "Inasmuch as ye have

done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it

unto me."

THE BOY WHO STEALS.

Mrs. Dudley was sitting at her dining-table. The dessert was before

her. There were fine, red water-melons, rich and juicy, with glossy

black seeds peeping out from their hiding-places, and musk-melons,

fragrant and luscious, which grew in her own garden. They had been

gathered early in the morning, by George and Willie, and placed in the

cellar, that they might be cool and refreshing. The boys had assisted

in planting them in the spring, and with their little hoes they had

worked about them during the summer, and subdued the weeds. They had

watched their growth, and every day they examined the vines to find

those that were ripe. They carefully gathered them, and sometimes

there were so many that their wheelbarrow was quite full. Then they

had the pleasure of carrying some to their neighbours. Mrs. Dudley did

not consider good ripe fruit injurious, but much more healthy, in

summer, than meat, puddings, and pastries, so that melons formed quite

an important part of the family dinner. The children enjoyed them

particularly, because they had raised them, in part, by their own

industry.

George asked to be excused from the table. Not long after he left,

Mrs. Dudley heard a cry, as if some child was in trouble. She looked

around. Mary, and Willie, and Eddie were there. The sounds of distress

could not come from George, for he never cried in that way. Mr. and

Mrs. Dudley immediately arose and went out upon the lawn. The children

followed. They looked here and there, and soon saw a boy near the

house. He had a small bundle in his hand, and a little tin pail. I

should think he was ten or eleven years old. He was crying, and

calling to a boy who stood at the gate. Mr. Dudley inquired of him,

"What is the matter?"

"John won't let me go home."

"How does he prevent you? What does he do to you?" asked Mrs. Dudley.

"He won't let me alone."

"Does he try to make you fight?" she again inquired,--for she had

frequently seen that large boys often love to tease and torment

smaller ones, and she thought perhaps this little fellow was abused by

a tyrannical companion. She thought of going to speak to the boy at

the gate, but Mr. Dudley made further inquiries, and the child's

answers were not very satisfactory.

Mary Dudley now came near her mother, and, speaking in a low voice,

said to her, "That is the boy who steals."

While they were talking with him a larger boy came up, and said his

teacher had sent him and the boy at the gate to take Jimmy back to

school.

"Why, what has he done?" asked one of the group which surrounded him.

"He has been stealing the children's dinners. He stole yesterday, and

he has been stealing to-day."

This was a sad account to hear. Jimmy begged to be permitted to go

home, but Mr. Dudley told him he had better return to the school. He

then very reluctantly walked down to the gate with the largest boy,

and I suppose was led back to his teacher.

Mrs. Dudley had never heard of this child before, but Mr. Dudley said

he had known him as a very bad boy. She asked Mary how she happened to

know any thing about him. Mary told her that he attended

Sunday-school, and that, a few Sundays before, one of the children

could not find his cap. A thorough search was made for it, but it

could not be found. The superintendent thought some one must have

taken it. He suspected Jimmy, because his reputation was so bad, and

followed him on his way home. Jimmy had it on his head, and his own

cap was hidden under his sack!

The superintendent of the school talked with Jimmy, who said he would

never steal again; but, alas! he soon forgot his good resolution.

Although he carried a dinner for himself in his tin pail, he took

whatever he liked from the baskets of his companions.

Mrs. Dudley has seen this boy several times since she heard him crying

on the lawn. She says it always makes her feel sad to meet him, for

she cannot avoid thinking,--"that is the boy who steals." She has

learned that he has no father or mother, but lives with his

grandparents. I fear he "will bring down their gray hairs with sorrow

to the grave." He has allowed himself to steal small things, and as he

grows older he will probably take articles of more value. He may

become a housebreaker or a murderer.

It is dangerous to indulge in the least sin. It hardens the heart, and

stifles the whisper of that still, small voice, which so often tells

children, when they are tempted to do wrong, "That is not right; you

should not do that."

In some Catechism the question is asked, "What is my duty to my

neighbour?" and a part of the answer is, "To keep my hands from

picking and stealing." I suppose "picking" must mean, secretly taking

little pieces of cake, or sugar, or any thing of the kind, of small

value. I presume Jimmy was in the habit of "picking," at his

grandmother's before he ventured to steal at school.

I could tell you several very sad stories of people who have stolen

when they were children, and who have grown more and more wicked, as

they have advanced in years, till they became a curse to society and

themselves. "The way of transgressors is hard." These people have no

true enjoyment. There is always a fearful looking forward to the

future.

It is not pleasant to me to write about bad children, and I should not

do it if it were not to warn the dear children I so much love against

the formation of wrong and sinful habits.

How much better it would be for Jimmy if he had learned to "touch not,

taste not, handle not," that which does not belong to him!

[Illustration]

LOOK AT THE BIRDS!

October, with its golden and crimson hues, its "gentle wind," and its

"fair sunny noon," has passed away. November has come. The sun shines

brightly, and the sky is almost clear of clouds; but the chill wind

blows roughly, and the leaves are rudely torn from the trees where

they have gladdened us through the spring and the summer by their

refreshing shade, their modest beauty, and their sweet music, as they

sung to the gentle breeze which played amid the branches. They lie

now, most of them, beneath the trees, wrinkled and faded, or scattered

here and there, far from their fellows, wherever the cold blast has

wafted them.

The birds have been taught by their unfailing instinct that summer has

departed, and winter is near. They no more warble their rich melodies,

or flit in and out of the bowery recesses of the honeysuckles or peep

with knowing look under the eaves, or into the arbour. Other purposes

prompt to other acts, and they are taking their farewell of the

pleasant summer haunts, where they have built their nests and reared

their young.

This morning, soon after sunrise, Willie was standing on the lawn,

contemplating the beauties of nature, and thinking, I suppose, of the

changes of the seasons, when all at once I heard him shout, "Look at

the birds! Look at the birds!" We threw open the window, and there

were thousands and thousands of them almost over our heads. Their

wings made a noise like the rushing of a steam-engine as it cleaves

the air in its speed. They were calling to each other with a short,

quick sound. It seemed as if they were giving and receiving orders. We

watched them till they disappeared over the tree-tops.

"There are more! There are more!" shouted Mary. We again looked

towards the rising sun, and up over the eastern hills came another

immense flock, calling to each other as the first, and they too

disappeared behind the western hills.

"There is another flock!" and so indeed there was. Up from the meadows

and over the hills they came, swaying up and down in their flight, and

so near that we could see each bird distinctly. Almost simultaneously

they alighted on Clover Hill to rest for a moment. I can never forget

their motion so full of grace and beauty, waving and undulating like

the gentle swell of the ocean. Soon, another company followed in the

same direction, and when they were over Clover Hill, up flew the

others, and away they went with them beyond our sight. Flock after

flock appeared, each taking the same general direction, and some of

them so large that they stretched from the hills which bounded our

view on one side, as far as our eye could see on the other. They

looked, as Willie said, like bees swarming, only they were much

larger. Occasionally a few stragglers could be seen, hurrying on to

join their party, which was in advance of them. Perhaps they had

delayed to take a last farewell of their pleasant summer homes, or,

may be, they were dilatory in their habits, and did not make their

morning toilet in season. I hope they will be more prompt in future,

for it is a bad habit to be late, and occasions, often, much vexation

and inconvenience.

I never before saw so many birds together, although I have frequently

been startled by the peculiar sound made by large numbers flying in

company, and have looked at them with wonder and admiration.

The migration of birds is one of the most remarkable phenomena in

natural history. "The stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times,

and the turtle, and the crane, and the swallow, observe the time of

their coming," and so do all birds of passage. Their Creator has

endowed them with a wonderful instinct, which, in some way, unknown to

us, teaches them to guard against the severity of the season by

seeking a warmer climate, and when "winter is past," and "the flowers

appear on the earth," and "the vines, with the tender grape, give a

good smell," then "the time of the singing of birds is come," and

their voice is heard in our land. Some of them return, not only to the

same country, but to the same place, where they have previously built

their nests, and, year after year, raise their broods in the same

friendly tree.

It is said that, to enable birds to fly with ease, and to continue

long on the wing, they must fly against the wind. I observed, this

morning, that there was a brisk wind from the west, while the birds

were flying a little south of west. Perhaps they had been waiting

several days for a favourable wind, and that may have been the reason

of the great number of flocks we saw.

"Behold the fowls of the air," said our Saviour, in his sermon on the

mount; "for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns,

yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than

they?" At another time, when he was talking with his disciples about

the persecutions they should endure for his sake, he said to them,

"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not

fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your

head are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore; ye are of more value

than many sparrows."

Not one of that immense number of birds, which we saw flying to a

warmer country, can perish without God's knowledge. He sees every one

of them. During the summer, he has fed them on the meadows near the

sea-shore, and now that winter is approaching, he has taught them to

seek other localities, where their appropriate food can be found.

Whenever God's children are tempted to yield to despondency, and to

fear that they shall suffer from want, let them remember that they are

of more value than many sparrows, and that if they trust their

heavenly Father, their bread shall be given them, and their water

shall be sure. He who feeds the birds will feed them. May he

"Fill" our souls "with trust unshaken

In that Being who has taken

Care for every living thing,

In Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring."

[Illustration]

THE LOST CHILD.

It was a Sabbath morning in November, clear, bright and frosty. Mrs.

Dudley's family were preparing for church. They heard Carlo bark

violently, and knew a stranger must be near. Carlo is a faithful

watch-dog, but his habit of barking at visitors is so disagreeable,

that he is usually kept chained in the day-time. On Sunday, as no

company is expected, he is permitted to go at large. When Mr. Dudley

heard Carlo, he immediately threw open the window, and spoke to him.

He saw a gentleman, who was evidently much alarmed. None of the family

knew him. The stranger soon made known the occasion of his call, by

inquiring,

"Have you seen any thing of a stray child?"

"No, we have not; whose child is lost?"

"Mr. McPherson's."

"How old is the child?"

"About six years old. His mother sent him from home, yesterday, about

two o'clock, and she has heard nothing from him since. He had a small

tin pail with him to get some yeast."

It is sad to hear that a child is lost, and all the family sympathized

with the anxious parents. "How badly you would feel if I was lost!"

said Eddie, and he looked sober and grieved, as he thought of the

little boy about his own age, who had wandered from home, no one knew

where. There was much fear that he had fallen into the river, as he

had been seen on the dock.

At ten o'clock the family started for church. They met people who were

searching for the child, and who asked them, as the gentleman had done

at the house, "Have you seen any thing of a stray child?"

Notice was given in the churches that a boy was lost, and many a

mother's heart beat quicker as she thought of her own dear little

ones, and imagined one of them sleeping, perhaps, through that cold

November night on the ground, or (fearful thought!) buried deep in the

chill water.

After church, you could hear one and another inquiring anxiously, "Has

the child been found?" But no favourable answer was received. In the

afternoon, however, many hearts were gladdened by learning that he was

safe. He had gone to the village, and got his pennyworth of yeast, and

then, instead of returning immediately, he stopped to play with some

boys. He had gone with them to a part of the village with which he was

not acquainted and when he wished to go home, he did not know what

direction to take. He chose a road leading him from home, and wandered

at least five miles. Just before dark an old gentleman and his

grandson were walking on the road, and they observed this little boy

crying.

"What do you suppose he is crying about?" said the child to his

grandfather.

"I don't know. Perhaps he has been sent to the grocery, and does not

like to go."

They watched him and found he did not stop, but passed on with his tin

pail, crying grievously. They waited for him to come up to them, and

asked him,

"What are you crying about?"

"I want to go home!"

"Where is your home?"

The boy could not tell.

"What is your name?"

"William Hudson." He did not say, as he should have done, William

Hudson McPherson.

The old gentleman kindly took him by the hand, and led him to his own

home. William's tears were soon dried, and he became quite contented.

It was too late to attempt to find his parents that night, as he could

not tell where they lived, and the name of Hudson was not familiar to

the good people who had given him shelter.

When Sabbath morning came, William was questioned again and again,

till at length some clue was obtained of his father's place of

residence. The horse was harnessed, and William, with lame and

blistered feet, was placed in the wagon. About noon he safely reached

home, and was clasped once more to his mother's heart. The father had

not returned from his search, and he afterwards said, it had seemed to

him that he never could go home without his child, on account of the

terrible and almost frantic distress of the mother. As he approached

his house, borne down with grief, he saw a wagon at the door. His

heart leaped with joy, for he thought the lost one was found. He

opened the door hopefully, and there, indeed, was William gathered

once more with his brothers and sisters around the great

cooking-stove, tears of joy flowing down the grateful mother's cheeks.

All this great grief which William's father and mother endured--all

the anxiety felt throughout the town--and all the sufferings of the

boy himself, were occasioned by William's stopping to play, when he

ought to have gone directly home!

Children often think they are quite as capable of judging for

themselves, as their parents are for them. Sooner or later this

opinion will lead them into trouble. William thought it was safe to

stop and see the boys play marbles, but he found, to his sorrow, that

it would have been far better to have resisted temptation and denied

himself the short pleasure he enjoyed.

Every human heart is grieved when a child like William strays from

home. We do not wonder that his mother should be fearfully anxious in

regard to his fate. But, oh! how much more bitter tears a loving

mother sheds, when her dear ones stray from the path of virtue, and

become disobedient and wicked! I hope none of the children who read

about William will go astray from the right path, but will ever choose

that which is pure and lovely and of good report, and which, through

the grace of God in Christ Jesus, will safely lead them home to

heaven.

[Illustration]

THE UNPLEASANT NEIGHBOUR.

Eddie's father has a disagreeable neighbour. In one way or another he

is a constant source of annoyance. Sometimes his pigs will creep

through the fence, and root up the smooth green lawn. His part of the

fence he will not keep in repair, and the hungry cows, in search of

food, will break into the garden, and make sad havoc among the

cabbages and other vegetables. His fine bay horse, whom he knows will

jump over any ordinary fence, is permitted to run in a pasture, where

he can eke out his scanty meal by a hearty lunch among Mr. Dudley's

corn. All these aggressions, and many more, have been borne with the

greatest patience.

Mr. Dudley has often been advised to resort to the law as a means of

defence, yet he has been reluctant to do so. The children have

sometimes felt very indignant when they have been obliged to chase the

pigs or the cows out of the yard or field, but their parents have

endeavoured to teach them Christian forbearance.

At one time Eddie had been thinking about Mr. Morrison,--for by that

name I shall call the unpleasant neighbour,--and he said very

seriously to his mother,

"Mother, can Mr. Morrison go to heaven if he dies."

She hesitated a moment how to answer him, for, she had taught him that

it is wicked to lie and to swear, and that if a person loves God he

will not be in the habit of committing such sins; so she told him,

that unless Mr. Morrison repented he could not go to heaven.

At another time Eddie and his mother were talking about God's love for

the beings he has made. She told him that God loves every one.

"Does he love Mr. Morrison?" he inquired.

"Yes, God loves Mr. Morrison. He is grieved and offended by his

wickedness, but he loves him. You know I love you, when you have done

wrong, although I am sorry that you have been naughty. I do not cease

to love you. The Bible tells us that while we were sinners, God so

loved us as to send his Son to die for us. He loves all, and wishes

all to repent and believe in Christ, and be happy. He has provided a

way for all who believe to be saved, and it is only because people

love sin more than they love holiness, that they are lost."

Nothing can give us a higher idea of God's love, than the thought that

he loves every one--even his enemies. "God is love." What a blessed,

glorious thought! How it encourages us to trust him at all times!

God does not willingly afflict, nor grieve, nor punish any one. All

that he does, he does from the truest love.

The knowledge that God loves us should lead us to love him. We are

naturally disposed to love those who love us, and always do, unless

there is something repulsive about them. There can be nothing

repulsive about God, for he is love, and we who love him, love him

because he first loved us.

One night, after little Eddie had repeated the Lord's Prayer and his

usual evening petitions, he raised his head, and said to his mother,

"Shan't I pray for Mr. Morrison, now?"

"Yes, dear, if you wish to," she answered.

He bowed his head again, and uttered a simple prayer for the man who

was the occasion of so much trouble and perplexity to his father's

family. He prayed that God would forgive his sins for Jesus' sake, and

make him a good man. It was very pleasant to hear Eddie pray thus, and

to witness his kind and forgiving spirit.

Mr. and Mrs. Dudley have often regretted that the children should have

their early memories saddened by such a neighbour, but perhaps their

heavenly Father wishes to teach them a lesson of forbearance and love

for those who injure them, which they could not so well learn in any

other way.

Our Saviour, when dying on the cross, taught us practically the duty

of forgiveness. He prayed even for those who put him to death.

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Do you not

suppose he was pleased to hear Eddie ask his Father in heaven to

forgive Mr. Morrison and make him a good man?

[Illustration]

THE BOY WHO KEPT HIS PURPOSE.

"I would not be so mean," said George Ward to a boy who stood by,

while he put the candy he had just bought in his pocket.

[Illustration: "I wouldn't be so mean."]

"You have no right to call me mean," replied Reuben Porter, "because I

don't spend my money for candy."

"You never spend it for any thing," continued George, tauntingly.

It was true. Reuben did not spend his money. Do you suppose it was

because he loved it more than other boys do?

Reuben turned slowly away, meditating upon what had occurred.

"I will not care for what George thinks," he at length said to

himself; "I have four dollars now, and when I have sold my cabbages, I

shall have another dollar. _I shall soon have enough_," and his heart

bounded joyfully, his step recovered its elasticity and his pace

quickened, as the pleasant thought removed the sting which the

accusation of meanness had inflicted on his sensitive spirit.

Enough did not mean the same with Reuben as it means with grown

people. It had a limit. He hastened cheerfully home, or to the place

he called home. He had no father or mother there, but kind and loving

friends in their stead. His father had died two years before, leaving

a wife and four children without property to sustain them. Reuben was

the eldest, and as he was old enough to assist in the labours of a

farm, it was thought best he should leave his mother. Mr. Johnson, a

neighbour took him into his family, where he soon became a great

favourite.

There was one thing about the child, however, which good Mrs. Johnson

regarded as a great fault. It was what she called "a spirit of

hoarding." She said she never gave him an orange, or an apple, that he

did not carry it to his room, instead of eating it. Perhaps his

sisters at home, or dear little brother Benny, could tell what became

of them.

Mrs. Johnson had noticed, too, in his drawer, a box, which was quite

heavy with money. She did not believe he had bought so much as a

fish-hook, since he had been in their family. If he should go on in

this way he will grow up to be a miser. Mr. Johnson smiled at his

wife's earnestness, and remarked that with such an example of

generosity as Reuben had constantly before him, he could not believe

the child was in much danger from the fault she feared. "It must be

remembered," he said, "that Reuben has his own way to make in life.

He must early learn to save, or he will always be poor. There are his

mother and sisters, too, who need his aid."

In various ways Reuben added to his store. When the snow came, he made

nice broad paths about the house, which so attracted the notice of a

neighbour, that she asked if he might be allowed to make paths for

her. He rose early that he might have time for this extra work, and

was well paid for his efforts. The box grew heavier from week to week.

_Reuben had almost enough._

One day there was a barrel of flour left at Mrs. Porter's. She thought

there must be a mistake about it; but the man said he was directed at

the store to take it to that house. Mrs. Porter went immediately to

learn about it, and what was her surprise on finding her son had been

the purchaser. How could he pay for a whole barrel of flour? "The

money," said the merchant; "he brought in a box. It was in small bits,

which took me some time to count, but there was enough."

The mother called, with a full heart, at Mrs. Johnson's, and related

what had occurred. Reuben wondered why his mother should cry so. He

thought she would be happy. He was sure he was happy. He had been

thinking two years of that barrel of flour, and now he felt more like

laughing than crying.

Those tears, noble boy, are not tears of sorrow, but of the deepest,

fullest joy. You are more than repaid for your self-denial. You have

persevered in your determination. You have resisted every temptation

to deviate from the course which you marked out as right. You have

borne meekly the charge of meanness so galling to your generous

spirit, and now you receive your reward. You are happy, and so is your

mother, and so are your kind friends, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.

That night, Mr. Johnson remarked to his wife, as they sat together

before the cheerful fire, that he had some idea of keeping the little

_miser_ and educating him. "A boy who could form such a purpose, and

keep it, will, in all probability, make a useful man." After-years

proved the correctness of this conclusion. Reuben is now a man of

intelligence and wealth. He is one whom the world delights to honour;

but among his pleasantest memories, I doubt not, is that of the barrel

of flour he bought for his beloved mother.

"Filial love will never go unrewarded."

[Illustration]

MARY'S STORY.

Mary and Eddie had retired to their little beds. Their mother had said

"good night," and had given them both a kiss. She was just leaving the

room, when Eddie said to his sister,

"Now you can tell me about Jesus."

This simple remark revealed to Mrs. Dudley the subject of their

conversation after she left them for the night. It gave her great

pleasure, for she desires nothing so much as that her children may

love the Saviour, and she knows the more they think about him, and the

more they learn of his life, the more they will find him worthy of

love. Mrs. Dudley offered up a silent prayer to her heavenly Father

that the Holy Spirit would teach them and guide them into all truth.

She did not remain with the children to hear them as they talked

together, but a few days afterwards she asked Eddie what Mary told him

about Jesus. He repeated the history of his birth, of the cruel

persecution of Herod, of his blameless life, and his death upon the

cross.

Eddie is too young to realize much about the great love of Christ,

and how much he has done for us that we may be happy, but he is not

too young to love him.

I hope he will never forget the sweet story Mary told him. Jesus loves

little children. He is their best friend, always ready to forgive them

when they are sorry for doing wrong, and to help them when they try to

do what is right.

Even now, as I am writing, I hear children singing

"There is a happy land

Far far away."

The sound grows fainter and fainter--eyelids are drooping--sleep is

near--the voices are hushed--the little ones are slumbering. May "holy

angels guard their bed."

[Illustration]

THE SUNNY FACE, AND THE SHADY FACE;

OR, JUNE AND NOVEMBER.

"How happy I am to-night! I love you so much I want to be with you all

the time," said Willie to his mother, as he followed her from the

dining-room to the nursery, one stormy evening.

What made Willie so happy? It was not because the day had been

pleasant, and he had been permitted to enjoy himself out of doors, for

a chilling snow had been falling, and Willie had been obliged to

remain in the house. It was not because he was well, for many hours of

the day he had been lying on the bed too ill to sit up all the time.

It was not because he had received a handsome present, for none had

been given him.

There had been nothing unusual to make him so happy, excepting a

thought hidden in the secret recesses of his heart. Shall I tell you

what that thought was, that made his face so bright and sunny, that

made his eyes sparkle, and wreathed his lips with smiles? I will tell

you in his own words, and I hope you will treasure it in your heart.

If you do, your face, too, will be cheerful and smiling, and your

friends will love to look upon you.

When Willie told his mother how happy he was, she put her arm around

him, and drew him lovingly to her side. "What makes you so happy?" she

inquired.

"I suppose it is because I have been trying to be good," he answered.

"That always makes people happy," his mother replied.

Willie is generally a good boy, but he sometimes does wrong, and

wrong-doing always makes him sad. It was a great pleasure to him that

he had tried to be good, and had been enabled to overcome temptation.

All children are sometimes tempted to do wrong, and it often requires

a severe struggle to decide to do right. But every child who overcomes

evil feels a conscious happiness and self-respect in so doing. I hope

you will "try to be good." If you do, and look to Christ for strength,

he will aid you, and through his grace you will be able to become

conqueror over the sins that "so easily beset you."

Henry Maxwell lives in the same town with Willie, and is of the same

age. These boys often play together. I regret to be obliged to say

that Henry is not so good a child as Willie. He does not so promptly

obey his mother, and of course he cannot be so happy. Sometimes he

pouts out his lips, when his mother wishes him to do something which

he does not exactly like.

I one day heard his mother talking to him about his teeth. She wished

him to brush them again, as he had not done it thoroughly the first

time. It was astonishing to see how that fair, round face was

disfigured by that ugly pout, and it was sad to hear his dissatisfied

"I don't want to." When his mother insisted on obedience, Henry

reluctantly complied with her wishes, closing the door behind him with

great violence.

His face was not sunny and bright like Willie's, when he had tried to

be good, but was dark and shady, like a clouded sky. It was not

pleasant to look upon, and it made the heart of his mother heavy and

sad to see it. I hope Henry will learn to be cheerful and prompt in

his obedience to his mother, for, if he should not, the expression of

his face will grow more and more disagreeable, till, when he is a man,

it will look more like a chilly day in November, than a sweet,

gladsome day in June.

I do not wish you should tell me, but I should like to have you ask

yourself, when you have read about these two boys, which of them you

are most like. Is your face sunny, or shady?

"IT ISN'T FAIR. I PEEPED."

Willie and Eddie were playing Hide the Button. After they had played

some time, and it was Willie's turn to find it, he came into the

nursery with his face flushed, and evidently much excited. "It isn't

fair," said he, and the tears gathered in his eyes, and his lips

quivered with emotion, "I peeped. Eddie must hide it again;" and he

went out of the room, for Eddie to put the button in another place.

Willie had been overcome by temptation. He had done a dishonourable

act, but his conscience was quick to reprove him, and he had listened

to its admonitions. There had been a short but severe struggle in his

mind, and truth and honour had conquered. He was brave enough to

confess his fault, and to do what he could to make amends for it.

Mrs. Dudley was not at home, but a friend who had charge of the

children told her the circumstance. It rejoiced her greatly that her

dear boy should have had the manliness to acknowledge his error; and

it encouraged her to hope that he would never be guilty of a similar

fault again. Willie is a conscientious boy. He sometimes does wrong,

as in this instance, but when he reflects, he is always sorry.

Mrs. Dudley did not say any thing to Willie about the occurrence; but

a few evenings afterwards as she was sitting at the tea-table alone,

the others having all left, he came to her and stood by her side,

leaning his elbow upon the table, and resting his head upon his hand.

She knew by his manner and his serious look that he had something in

particular to say to her. She put her arm around him and drew him

close to her.

"Mother," said he, "the other day, when you were gone, I peeped while

Eddie hid the button;" and then went on and told her all about it.

Mrs. Dudley talked with him a short time, and said he had done right

in confessing his fault, and in refusing to profit by his wrong act.

She knew he was much happier than he could have been if he had done

otherwise. "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso

confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy." Willie found the

happiness of an approving conscience; and I doubt not that Jesus

looked down with love upon him, as he does upon all true penitents.

"There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth."

If Willie had not confessed his fault, and been sorry for it, his

conscience would have been hardened and he would probably have

"peeped" another time, when the children played the same game. But

now, if he should be tempted in this way again, he would remember how

much he suffered in consequence of having once yielded to a similar

temptation, and would not allow himself to commit the wrong.

It is very important that children should early learn to confess their

faults, and not form the habit of endeavouring to hide them from

others. If they have injured any individual, they should apologize to

that individual. Sometimes it is only necessary to confess to God, but

we should not be satisfied with doing it in a general manner. Each

wrong act, so far as we remember it, should be mentioned.

If we really love our heavenly Father, we shall wish to tell him all

about ourselves. We shall have no desire to conceal any thing from

him, and it will be a pleasure to us to think that he knows every

thought and feeling of our hearts.

Willie had no wish to conceal from his mother the wrong he had done;

he preferred to tell her about it; and I have no doubt he had

previously told his Father in heaven.

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our

sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

THE CHRYSALIS.

"O mother, look here! What is this?" exclaimed Eddie, as he was in the

garden with his mother and Mary and Willie. He was standing by a tall

pole, around which a Lima bean-vine had wound itself. He had been

gathering the great dry pods in a basket to preserve them for winter,

when his grandmother would come to Clover-Hill to see her dear

grandchildren. His attention had been attracted by something peculiar,

and he immediately called his mother to come and see it. Mary and

Willie ran to look. Mrs. Dudley found it was a beautiful green

chrysalis, suspended by its silken cords to the vine. The colour was

soft and delicate, and it was ornamented with a black line, and with

bright golden spots.

"Isn't it pretty, mother?" "How did it get here?" and many more

questions were rapidly asked, while the little folks carefully

examined it.

Mrs. Dudley told them what it was, and that if they preserved it, they

would in a few days see a butterfly escape from it. Eddie looked up

astonished. She also told them that it was once a worm, crawling

about upon the earth; that it had climbed up, and suspended itself

under the shelter of the leaves, to await its change into a new and

more attractive form of being.

Mrs. Dudley took the chrysalis from the vine and carried it to the

house, and put it on the mantle in her room. Every day the children

looked at it to ascertain if there was any change. Soon the colour

began to fade, and the delicate pea-green became an ashen white. Then

it opened slightly, where there had from the first seemed to be lines

of division, and they could peep in at the imprisoned insect. The

opening became wider and wider, and one day, when Eddie came into the

room and went as usual to look at the chrysalis, the shell was empty!

The butterfly had escaped. He uttered an exclamation of mingled

surprise and disappointment. As he turned his head, he saw, on the

little cotton muff of Mary's doll, the butterfly for which he had so

patiently watched.

"Here it is, mother!" he shouted in the most joyous tones, and his

eyes sparkled with delight.

Eddie and his mother observed it for some time. Its long, slender legs

rested on the muff, and ever and anon it would open and close its

brilliant wings, as if to try their power, or to dry the miniature

feathers which adorned them. Its colour was a rich orange, shaded from

the lighter tints to the deeper, and variegated with stripes of black.

The children examined it with a microscope, which made it appear even

more beautiful and wonderful than before.

It remained on the muff several hours, and then flew to the window,

and alighted on the curtain. At evening, it was found on the cushion

of a spool-stand, and there it passed the night. The next day it

disappeared, and the children saw it no more. It probably flew away

through the open window, to enjoy its brief life under the smiling

sun.

The children talked much about the transformations which had taken

place in the life of that caterpillar. Their mother told them that the

butterfly was sometimes considered a type of immortality. In this

world we are, like the worm, in an inferior state of existence. Our

bodies are laid in the grave, but _we_ are not dead, any more than the

unmoving chrysalis--which remained so long on the mantel just where it

was placed--was dead. The spirit still lives, and, after it has freed

itself from the imprisoning flesh, is more beautiful than before, and

is susceptible of more perfect enjoyment in the pure atmosphere of

heaven.

CHRISTMAS AT THE COTTAGE.

Mrs. Dudley's children look forward to Christmas with many

anticipations of pleasure, for several weeks before it comes. They are

quite busy in preparing for it. Their mother is the repository of

their secrets, and assists them by her advice in making their

arrangements. Many important deliberations take place about mats,

pin-cushions, and bookmarks.

As the day approached, the children often expressed the wish that it

was here. A few days was a long time for them to wait. But time did

not hasten. The hours were just sixty minutes, and the minutes just

sixty seconds. The clock ticked on as usual. It was unmoved by all the

excitement, and never, for an instant, quickened its pace.

When Saturday came, their mother proposed that the presents should be

distributed that evening. She did not like to have the children wish

the Sabbath past, and on Monday morning there would be but little time

to make their arrangements before the hour for school. She knew they

would be quiet and happy if they had some new books to read, and

would be perfectly willing to lay aside other gifts till Monday.

Mary wished to decorate the parlour with evergreens. Mrs. Dudley sent

a man to get some for her. She and Willie arranged them in bunches and

wreaths. Eddie helped all he could, and was as happy as any of them.

In the afternoon their mother assisted them. She put the bunches made

of the delicate, feathery hemlock, and the dark glossy laurel, over

the windows, and suspended the wreaths where the bay-windows projected

from the room. Small branches of cedar and spruce were tastefully

arranged in vases, relieved by the rich, green leaves of the ivy, and

the bright, lively twigs of box.

The children wished for a Christmas tree, but the evergreens they had

were all too small for that purpose Mrs. Dudley suggested that the

hat-stand might be substituted. They were delighted, and immediately

busied themselves in adorning it with garlands. It proved quite

ornamental, and the pegs served a very useful purpose. Mary arranged

on some strips of white paper the words, "A merry Christmas." The

letters were made of the small leaves of the box, and were fastened on

with gum-arabic. These were placed amid the wreaths on the transformed

hat-stand.

When all these arrangements were completed to their satisfaction,

they left the room. Mrs. Dudley remained some time longer. When she

left, the door was locked.

Mr. Dudley returned from the city, where he had been spending the day,

bringing some friends with him. Tea was speedily despatched, and then

all the family were summoned. The parlour door was unlocked. There

were various toys, baskets, and reticules suspended on the hat-stand.

There was a nice little felt hat for one of Mary's dolls, and a

looking-glass for the baby-house, and an embroidered cushion, which

Willie's industrious fingers had made for Minnie Dudley, as the doll

is called--a far better employment for him, I think, than throwing it

about and treating it roughly, as I have sometimes heard of boys

doing. There were humming-tops, which reminded me, by their music, of

the great spinning-wheel that whirred away in my mother's kitchen when

I was a child. There were graces, and battle-doors, and jack-straws

for the amusement of the children when it was too cold or stormy to

play out of doors.

On a table was an array of slippers, which Mary and her mother had

wrought for father and the boys. There was merry capering when they

were transferred to the feet of their owners. I shall not tell you

whether Mr. Dudley so far forgot his dignity as to partake of the

excitement, but I am quite sure he was much gratified by the present

Mary had made for him with her own hands, and that he kissed his

thanks with great fondness.

Most valuable of all to the little folks, and most gladly welcomed,

were the books. How eagerly they looked them over.

There was a present to Mrs. Dudley from her children, which I must not

forget to tell you about. It was a plain gold pin, in which, neatly

plaited, were six bunches of hair. One of them was dark, streaked with

gray--the others were auburn, flaxen, and brown. She knew whence the

treasures came to unite in that beautiful mosaic, and the tears were

ready to start from her eyes as she received that precious token of

family love.

When I was a child, I heard little about Christmas. It came and went

without my knowledge. But I enjoy the return of it very much now, and

sympathize with children in the interest with which they regard it. I

like to think they are treasuring up such cheerful memories to make

their early home attractive to their age.

The little Dudley's will always like to look back to this pleasant

evening, and wherever they are, their hearts will warm more fondly on

account of it to their father's cottage, nestled in the valley, and

they will be in less danger of forgetting the lessons of love and

kindness they have learned there.

I WILL CONQUER MYSELF.

In one of the oldest towns of New-England there lived, many years ago,

a little girl, whom I shall call Helen Earle. Her father had been

engaged in the East Indian trade, and had accumulated great wealth.

Her mother was a sweet, gentle woman, who most tenderly loved her

children, and endeavoured to correct their faults, and develop their

excellencies. In Helen's home there was every comfort and every luxury

that heart could desire, but she was not always happy. She had one

fault, which often made herself and her friends very unhappy. It was

the indulgence of a violent temper. She would allow herself to become

exceedingly angry, and her usually beautiful face was then disfigured

by passion. Her mother was greatly grieved and distressed by these

outbreaks of ill temper, and did all in her power to restrain them.

She talked with her daughter earnestly in regard to the sin of such a

temper. Helen would weep bitter tears, and express much regret for the

past, but she could not quite make up her mind to determine to

overcome temptation. The task seemed too difficult, and she shrunk

from the attempt.

Mrs. Earle shed many tears in secret over this sad failing in her

beloved child, and most fervently pleaded for help from Him who had

given her the care of this immortal spirit to educate for eternity.

She knew that God alone could change Helen's heart, and give her power

to overcome sin, even though assaulted by the fiercest temptation.

One day, when Helen was very angry at something which had occurred,

her mother led her up stairs to her own room and left her alone. For a

time she cried violently, then she grew calm and quiet, and her mother

could hear her walking back and forth across the room, talking to

herself. She listened. How her heart rejoiced when she heard her

repeating, again and again, "I WILL CONQUER MYSELF! I WILL CONQUER

MYSELF!"

And Helen did conquer herself. She had come to the determination, not

that she would try to conquer, but that she would conquer, and, by the

gracious help which is always given to those who ask,--she nobly

succeeded. From that hour she was able to overcome the temptation, and

was not overcome by it. She grew up to womanhood remarkable for the

evenness and gentleness of her temper. None, who had not known her in

childhood, would have suspected that she was not always thus mild and

lovely.

Helen did for herself what no earthly friend could do for her. By the

power of her will she controlled her impulses, and this triumph was

of far more value to her than all the wealth of her father. It made

her a blessing to her friends, strengthened all her good purposes, and

enabled her to perform the duties of life without the friction which a

bad temper always occasions. It gave her that true self-respect which

elevates the character, and which none can feel who are not conscious

of the power to rule their own spirits.

No child is blamed for having a quick temper, but he is blamed if he

allows himself to be overpowered by it. If he really determines, as

Helen did, to conquer himself, he will succeed. The old proverb,

"Where there is a will, there is a way," will never fail in such a

case as this. "God helps those who help themselves," and he is ever

ready to assist us in subduing what is wrong in our own spirits.

The Bible contains many passages which condemn anger: "He that is soon

angry, dealeth foolishly." "Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry,

for anger resteth in the bosom of fools." "Make no friendship with an

angry man, and with a furious man thou shalt not go." "He that is slow

to wrath is of great understanding, but he that is hasty of spirit

exalteth folly." "Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow

to wrath; for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God."

All habits grow stronger by indulgence. If you allow yourself to

become angry to-day, you will more easily become so to-morrow. If you

control your temper to-day, it will be less difficult to control it

to-morrow. Helen's victory was obtained by decision. To form the

determination to conquer herself required more effort of will and more

strength of character than any subsequent struggle with her besetting

sin could possibly require.