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Chapter headings in the table of Contents and in the main body
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THE
LOOKING-GLASS
FOR
THE MIND;
OR
INTELLECTUAL MIRROR;
BEING AN ELEGANT COLLECTION
OF
The most delightful Little Stories
AND INTERESTING TALES:
CHIEFLY TRANSLATED FROM THAT MUCH ADMIRED WORK
L'AMI DES ENFANS.
WITH SEVENTY-FOUR CUTS,
DESIGNED AND ENGRAVED ON WOOD, BY
I. BEWICK
THE SIXTEENTH EDITION.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR JOHN HARRIS, G. WHITTAKER, HARVEY
AND CO., LONGMAN AND CO., J. AND C. RIVINGTON,
T. CADELL, H. S. KIRBY, BALDWIN AND CO., HAMILTON
AND CO., J. SOUTER, SIMPKIN AND CO., AND J. NUNN.
1825
Printed by S. and R. Bentley,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street, London.
PREFACE.
The following pages may be considered rather as a Collection of the
BEAUTIES of M. BERQUIN, than as a literally abridged translation of that
work, several original thoughts and observations being occasionally
introduced into different parts of them.
The stories here collected are of a most interesting kind, since virtue
is constantly represented as the fountain of happiness, and vice as the
source of every evil. Nothing extravagant or romantic will be found in
these tales: neither enchanted castles, nor supernatural agents, but
such scenes are exhibited as come within the reach of the observations
of young people in common life; the whole being made familiar by an
innocent turn of thought and expression, and applied to describe their
amusements, their pursuits, and their necessities.
As a useful and instructive _Pocket Looking-Glass_, we recommend it for
the instruction of every youth, whether miss or master; it is a _mirror_
that will not flatter them, nor lead them into error; it displays the
follies and improper pursuits of youthful breasts, points out the
dangerous paths they sometimes tread, and clears the way to the _Temple
of Honour and Fame_.
CONTENTS.
Little Adolphus 1
Anabella's Journey to Market 8
The Absurdity of young People's Wishes exposed 16
Louisa's Tenderness to the little Birds in Winter 21
The Story of Bertrand, a poor Labourer, and his
little Family 31
Nancy and her Canary-bird, poor Cherry 38
The Birds, the Thorn-bushes, and the Sheep 48
Poor Crazy Samuel, and the mischievous Boys 54
Bella and Marian 60
Little Jack 75
Leonora and Adolphus 91
Flora and her little Lamb 97
The fruitful Vine 102
Sir John Denham and his worthy Tenant 107
Alfred and Dorinda 118
Rosina; or, the froward Girl reformed 122
Little Anthony 128
History of Jonathan the Gardener 132
The Sparrow's Nest 138
William and Thomas; or, the Contrast between
Industry and Indolence 145
Mischief its own Punishment 150
Antony and Augustus; or, Rational Education preferable
to Riches 158
The destructive Consequences of Dissipation & Luxury 167
William and Amelia 175
The Rival Dogs 187
Cleopatra; or, the Reformed little Tyrant 193
The Passionate Boy 197
Caroline; or, a Lesson to cure Vanity 201
Arthur and Adrian; or, Two Heads better than One 213
Madam D'Allone and her Four Pupils 217
The Bird's Egg 224
The Covetous Boy 234
Dissipation the certain Road to Ruin 242
Calumny and Scandal great Enemies to Society 247
Clarissa; Or, the Grateful Orphan 252
Returning Good for Evil, the noblest Revenge 257
Grey Hairs made Happy 263
THE
LOOKING GLASS.
LITTLE ADOLPHUS.
[Illustration]
In one of the villages in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, lived
little Adolphus, who had the misfortune to lose his mother before he had
reached his eighth year. Notwithstanding his early age, this loss made a
strong impression on his mind, and evidently affected the natural gaiety
of his disposition. His aunt, the good Mrs. Clarkson, soon took him home
to her house, in order to remove him from the scene of his affliction,
and to prevent his grief adding to the inconsolable sorrows of his
father.
After the usual time, they left off their mourning; but though little
Adolphus affected cheerfulness, yet his tender heart still felt for the
loss of his mother. His father, whom he sometimes visited, could not
avoid observing how little Adolphus endeavoured to conceal his grief;
and this consideration made him feel the more for the loss of a wife,
who had given birth to so promising a child. This made such an
impression on his mind, that every one foresaw it would bring on his
final dissolution.
Poor Adolphus had not been to see his dear father for some time; for,
whenever he proposed it to his aunt, she constantly found some excuse to
put it off. The reason was, that Mr. Clarkson being so ill, she feared
that seeing him in that condition would increase the grief of Adolphus
too much, and lay on his heart a load too heavy for him to support. In
short, the loss of his wife, and his uneasiness for his son, put an end
to Mr. Clarkson's life on the day before he reached the fiftieth year of
his age.
The next morning, little Adolphus thus addressed his aunt: "This is my
dear father's birth-day, I will go and see him, and wish him joy." She
endeavoured to persuade him from it; but, when she found that all her
endeavours were in vain, she consented, and then burst into a flood of
tears. The little youth was alarmed, and almost afraid to ask any
questions. At last, "I fear," said he, "my dear papa is either ill or
dead. Tell me, my dear aunt, for I must and will know: I will sleep no
more till I see my dear father, who so tenderly loves me."
Mrs. Clarkson was unable to speak; but when Adolphus saw his aunt take
out his mourning clothes, he was too well satisfied of what had
happened. "My dear papa is dead!" cried he; "O my papa! my mamma! both
dead! What will become of poor Adolphus!" and then fainted, when Mrs.
Clarkson found it difficult to bring him to his senses.
As soon as he was a little come to himself, "Do not afflict yourself, my
dear child," said his aunt, "your parents are both living in heaven, and
will intercede with God to take care of you while on earth. While he
yesterday was dying, his last prayer was for you, and his prayer will
be heard."
"What! did my dear father die yesterday, while I was thinking of the
pleasure I should this day have on seeing him? Oh! let me go and see
him, since I cannot now disturb him, or make him unhappy on my account.
Pray, my dear aunt, let me go."
Mrs. Clarkson could not resist his importunities, and, engaged to go
along with him, provided he would promise to keep himself composed. "You
see my sorrow," said she, "and how much I am grieved for the loss of a
brother, who was good, charitable, and humane, and from whose bounty I
received the greater part of the means of my livelihood. Though I am now
left poor and helpless, yet I trust in Providence, and you shall see me
cry no more. Let me entreat you, my dear child, to do the same." Poor
Adolphus promised he would do as she would wish him; when Mrs. Clarkson
took him by the hand, and led him to the melancholy scene.
As soon as they were come to the house, Adolphus slipped from his aunt,
and rushed into the room where his father lay in his coffin, surrounded
by his weeping neighbours: he threw himself on the breathless body of
his dear papa. After lying some little time in that state, without being
able to speak, he at last raised his little head, and cried out, "See
how your poor Adolphus cries for having lost you. When mamma died, you
comforted me, though you wept yourself; but now, to whom am I to look
for comfort? O my dear papa, my good papa!"
By this time his aunt got into the room, and, with the assistance of the
neighbours, forced him from the coffin, and carried him to a friend's
house, in order to keep him there till his father should be buried; for
his aunt dreaded the thoughts of letting him follow the funeral.
The solemn scene was now preparing, and the bell began to toll, which
Adolphus heard, and every stroke of it pierced his little innocent
heart. The woman to whose care he had been left, having stept into
another room, he took that opportunity to regain his liberty, got out of
doors, and ran towards the churchyard. On his arrival there, he found
the funeral service finished, and the grave filling up, when on a
sudden, a cry was heard, "Let me be buried with my dear papa." He then
jumped into the grave.
Such a scene must naturally affect every one who saw it. They pulled him
out of the grave, and carried him home pale and speechless. For several
days he refused almost every kind of sustenance, being at intervals
subject to fainting fits. After some time, however, the consolations and
advice of his good aunt appeared to have some weight with him, and the
tempest in his little heart began to abate.
The affectionate conduct of Adolphus was the conversation for miles
round their habitation, and at last reached the ears of a wealthy
merchant, who had formerly been a little acquainted with the deceased
Mr. Clarkson. He accordingly went to see the good Adolphus, and feeling
for his distresses, took him home with him, and treated him as his son.
Adolphus soon gained the highest opinion of the merchant, and as he grew
up, grew more and more in his favour. At the age of twenty, he conducted
himself with so much ability and integrity, that the merchant took him
into partnership, and married him to his only daughter.
Adolphus had always too great a soul to be ungenerous: for even during
his younger days he denied himself every kind of extravagance, in order
to support his aunt; and when he came into possession of a wife and
fortune, he placed her in a comfortable station for the remainder of her
life. As for himself, he every year, on his father's birth-day, passed
it in a retired room alone, sometimes indulging a tear, and sometimes
lifting up his heart to heaven, from whence he had received so much.
My little readers, if you have the happiness still to have parents
living, be thankful to God, and be sensible of the blessing you enjoy.
Be cautious how you do any thing to offend them; and should you offend
them undesignedly, rest neither night nor day till you have obtained
their forgiveness. Reflect on, and enjoy the happiness that you are not,
like poor little Adolphus, bereft of your fathers and mothers, and left
in the hands, though of a good, yet poor aunt.
[Illustration]
ANABELLA'S JOURNEY TO MARKET.
[Illustration]
Nothing can be more natural and pleasing than to see young children fond
of their parents. The birds of the air, and even the wild inhabitants of
the forest, love and are beloved by their young progeny.
Little Anabella was six years old, very fond of her mamma, and delighted
in following her every where. Her mother, being one day obliged to go to
market, wished to leave her little daughter at home, thinking it would
be too fatiguing for Anabella, and troublesome to herself; but the
child's entreaties to go were so earnest and pressing, that her mother
could not withstand them, and at last consented to her request.
The cloak and bonnet were soon on, and the little maid set off with her
mamma, in high spirits. Such was the badness of the paths in some
places, that it was impossible for them to walk hand-in-hand, so that
Anabella was sometimes obliged to trudge on by herself behind her mamma;
but these were such kind of hardships as her little spirit was above
complaining of.
The town now appeared in sight, and the nearer they approached it, the
more the paths were thronged with people. Anabella was often separated
from her mamma; but this did not at present much disturb her, as by
skipping over a rut, or slipping between the people as they passed, she
soon got up again to her mother. However, the nearer they approached the
market, the crowd of course increased, which kept her eyes in full
employment, to spy which way her mother went; but a little chaise drawn
by six dogs having attracted her attention, she stopped to look at them,
and by that means lost sight of her mother, which soon became the cause
of much uneasiness to her.
Here, my little readers, let me pause for a moment, to give you this
necessary advice. When you walk abroad with your parents or servants,
never look much about you, unless you have hold of their hand, or some
part of their apparel. And I hope it will not be deemed impertinent to
give similar advice to parents and servants, to take care that children
do not wander from them, since, from such neglect, many fatal accidents
have happened. But to proceed.--
Little Anabella had not gazed on this object of novelty for more than a
minute, before she recollected her mamma, and turned about to look for
her; but no mamma was there, and now the afflictions of her heart began.
She called aloud, "Mamma, mamma;" but no mamma answered. She then
crawled up a bank, which afforded her a view all around; but no mamma
was to be seen. She now burst into a flood of tears, and sat herself
down at the foot of the bank, by which people were passing and repassing
in great numbers.
Almost every body that passed said something or other to her, but none
offered to help her to find her mother. "What is the matter with you, my
little dear," said one, "that you cry so sadly?" "I have lost my
mamma;" said Anabella, as well as the grief of her heart would permit
her to speak. Another told her never to mind it, she would find her
again by and by. Some said, "Do not cry so, child, there is nobody that
will run away with you." Some pitied her, and others laughed at her; but
not one offered to give her any assistance.
Such, my little pupils, is the conduct of most people. When any
misfortune brings you into trouble, you will find enough ready to pity
you, but few who will give you any material assistance. They will tell
you what you then know yourselves, that you should not have done so and
so; they will be sorry for you, and then take their leave of you.
Little Anabella, however, was soon relieved from her present terrible
anxieties. A poor old woman, with eggs and butter in a basket, happened
to be that day going to the same market, whither Anabella's mother was
gone before her.
Seeing Anabella in so much distress, still crying as if her little heart
would break, she went up to her, and asked her what was the cause of
those tears that fell from her little cheeks: She told her she had lost
her mamma. "And to what place, my dear," cried the old woman, "was your
mamma going when you lost her?" "She was going to the market," replied
Anabella. "Well, my sweet girl," continued the old woman, "I am going to
the market too, and, if you will go along with me, I make no doubt but
we shall find your mother there. However, I will take care of you till
you do find her." She then took Anabella by the hand, and led her along
the road.
The good old woman put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a piece of
nice plum-cake, which she gave to Anabella, who thankfully accepted of
it; but her little heart was too full to permit her to think of eating
at that time. She therefore put it into her pocket, saying that she
would eat it by and by, when she had found her mamma, which she hoped
would be soon.
As they walked along, the good old woman endeavoured to amuse Anabella
by telling her pretty stories, and enquiring of her what books she read.
"I very well know," said the old woman, "that you young children are too
apt to be fond of histories of haunted houses, of witches, ghosts, and
apparitions, which tend only to fill you with idle fears and
apprehensions, and make you afraid even of your own shadows." But when
Anabella told her that her books were all bought at the corner of St.
Paul's Church-yard, she seemed perfectly satisfied.
They had hardly entered the market, when the little rambling eyes of
Anabella caught sight of her mamma. She shrieked with joy, and, like an
arrow out of a bow, darted from the old woman, and flew to her parent,
who clasped her pretty dear in her arms, and, after tenderly embracing
her, "How came you," said she, "my sweet angel, to wander from me? I
have been so frightened as to be hardly able to contain myself."
Anabella threw her arms round the neck of her mamma, and fixing her lips
to her cheeks, kept kissing her, till a torrent of tears gave ease to
her heart. As soon as she was able to speak, "My dear mamma," said she,
"I stopped to look at a pretty little chaise drawn by six dogs, and in
the mean time I lost you. I looked for you, and called for you, but I
could neither see nor hear you. I sat down crying by the side of a bank;
some as they passed pitied me, and others joked me; but none attempted
to take care of me, till this good old woman led me by the hand, and
brought me here."
Anabella's mother was very thankful to the good old woman for her
tenderness and humanity to her daughter; and not only bought of her what
eggs and butter she had left, but even made her a small present besides,
which she a long time declined accepting of, saying she had done no more
than what every good Christian ought to do.
Anabella kissed the good old woman over and over again, and all her way
home talked of nothing but her kindness. Nor did she afterwards forget
it, as she would frequently go and pay her a visit, when she always took
with her some tea and sugar, and a loaf of bread. Anabella's mother
constantly bought all the eggs and butter the good old woman had to
spare, and paid her a better price for them than she could have got at
market, saving her, at the same time, the trouble of going thither.
Thus you see, my young friends, what are the consequences of good nature
and humanity. You must accustom yourselves early, not only to feel for
the misfortunes of others, but to do every thing that lies in your power
to assist them. Whatever may be your condition in life at present, and
however improbable it may be, that you may ever want, yet there are
strange vicissitudes in this world, in which nothing can be said to be
really certain and permanent. Should any of my readers, like Anabella,
lose themselves, would they not be happy to meet with so good an old
woman as she did? Though your stations in life may place you above
receiving any pecuniary reward for a generous action, yet the pleasing
sensations of a good heart, on relieving a distressed fellow-creature,
are inexpressible.
[Illustration]
THE ABSURDITY OF YOUNG PEOPLE'S
WISHES EXPOSED.
[Illustration]
The present moment of enjoyment is all young people think of. So long as
master Tommy partook of the pleasure of sliding on the ice, and making
snow up in various shapes, he wished it always to be winter, totally
regardless of either spring, summer, or autumn. His father hearing him
one day make that wish, desired him to write it down in the first leaf
of his pocket-book; which Tommy accordingly did, though his hand
shivered with cold.
The winter glided away imperceptibly, and the spring followed in due
time. Tommy now walked in the garden with his father, and with
admiration beheld the rising beauty of the various spring flowers. Their
perfume afforded him the highest delight, and their brilliant appearance
attracted all his attention. "Oh!" said master Tommy, "that it were
always spring!" His father desired him to write that wish also in his
pocket-book.
The trees, which lately were only budding, were now grown into full
leaf, the sure sign that spring was departing, and summer hastening on
apace. Tommy one day, accompanied by his parents, and two or three of
his select acquaintance, went on a visit to a neighbouring village.
Their walk was delightful, afforded them a prospect sometimes of corn,
yet green, waving smoothly, like a sea unruffled with the breeze, and
sometimes of meadows enamelled with a profusion of various flowers. The
innocent lambs skipped and danced about, and the colts and fillies
pranced around their dams. But what was still more pleasing, this season
produced for Tommy and his companions a delicious feast of cherries,
strawberries, and a variety of other fruits. So pleasant a day afforded
them the summit of delight, and their little hearts danced in their
bosoms with joy.
"Do you not think, Tommy," said his father to him, "that summer has its
delights as well as winter and spring?" Tommy replied, he wished it
might be summer all the year; when his father desired him to enter that
wish in his pocket-book also.
The autumn at length arrived, and all the family went into the country
to view the harvest. It happened to be one of those days that are free
from clouds, and yet a gentle westerly wind kept the air cool and
refreshing. The gardens and orchards were loaded with fruits, and the
fine plums, pears, and apples, which hung on the trees almost to the
ground, furnished the little visitors with no small amusement and
delight. There were also plenty of grapes, apricots, and peaches, which
were the sweeter, as they had the pleasure of gathering them. "This
season of rich abundance, Tommy," said his father to him, "will soon
pass away, and stern and cold winter will succeed it." Tommy again
wished that the present happy season would always continue, and that the
winter would not be too hasty in its approaches, but leave him in
possession of autumn.
Tommy's father desired him to write this in his book also, and, ordering
him to read what he had written, soon convinced him how contradictory
his wishes had been. In the winter, he wished it to be always winter; in
the spring, he wished for a continuance of that season; in the summer,
he wished it never to depart; and when autumn came, it afforded him too
many delicious fruits to permit him to have a single wish for the
approach of winter.
"My dear Tommy," said his father to him, "I am not displeased with you
for enjoying the present moment, and thinking it the best that can
happen to you; but you see how necessary it is that our wishes should
not always be complied with. God knows how to govern this world much
better than any human being can pretend to. Had you last winter been
indulged in your wish, we should have had neither spring, summer, nor
autumn; the earth would have been perpetually covered with snow. The
beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, would either have been
starved or frozen to death; and even the pleasures of sliding, or
making images of snow, would have soon become tiresome to you. It is a
happiness that we have it not in our power to regulate the course of
nature: the wise and unerring designs of Providence, in favour of
mankind, would then, most probably, be perverted to their own inevitable
ruin."
[Illustration]
LOUISA'S TENDERNESS TO THE
LITTLE BIRDS IN WINTER.
[Illustration]
However long the winter may appear, the spring will naturally succeed
it. A gentle breeze began to warm the air, the snow gradually vanished,
the fields put on their enamelled livery, the flowers shot forth their
buds, and the birds began to send forth their harmony from every bough.
Little Louisa and her father left the city, to partake of the pleasures
of the country.--Scarcely had the blackbird and the thrush begun their
early whistle to welcome Louisa, than the weather changed all on a
sudden; the north wind roared horribly in the grove, and the snow fell
in such abundance, that every thing appeared in a silver-white mantle.
Though the little maid went to bed shivering with cold, and much
disappointed in her expectations, yet she thanked God for having given
her so comfortable a shelter from the inclemency of the elements.
Such a quantity of snow had fallen during the night, that the roads were
almost impassable in the morning, which was a matter of great affliction
to poor Louisa; but she observed, that the birds were as dull as herself
upon the occasion. Every tree and hedge being so covered with snow, that
the poor birds could get nothing to eat; not so much as a grain of corn
or worm to be found.
The feathered inhabitants now forsook the woods and groves, and fled
into the neighbourhood of inhabited towns and villages, to seek that
relief from man, which nature alone would not then afford them.
Incredibly numerous were the flight of sparrows, robins, and other
birds, that were seen in the streets and courtyards, where their little
beaks and claws were employed in turning over whatever they thought
could afford them a single grain.
A large company of these feathered refugees alighted in the yard
belonging to the house in which little Louisa and her father then were.
The distress of the poor birds seemed to afflict the tender-hearted maid
very much, which her father perceived as soon as she entered his
chamber. "What is it makes you look so pensive now," said her father,
"since it is but a few minutes ago when you were so remarkably
cheerful?"--"O my dear papa!" said Louisa, "all those sweet birds, that
sung so charmingly but a day or two ago, are now come into the yard
starving with hunger. Do, pray, let me give them a little corn!"
Her papa very readily granted her so reasonable a request, and away she
ran, accompanied by her governess, to the barn on the other side of the
yard, which had that morning been cleanly swept. Here she got a handful
or two of corn, which she immediately scattered in different parts of
the yard. The poor little birds fluttered around her, and soon picked
up what the bounty of her generous hand had bestowed on them.
It is impossible to describe the pleasure and satisfaction expressed in
the countenance of Louisa, on seeing herself the cause of giving so much
joy to those little animals. As soon as the birds had picked up all the
grains, they flew to the house-top, and seemed to look down on Louisa as
if they would say, "Cannot you give us a little more?" She understood
their meaning, and away she flew again to the barn, and down they all
came to partake of her new bounty; while Louisa called to her papa and
mamma to come and enjoy with her the pleasing sight.
In the mean time, a little boy came into the yard, whose heart was not
of so tender a nature as Louisa's. He held in his hand a cage full of
birds, but carried it so carelessly, that it was evident he cared very
little for his poor prisoners. Louisa, who could not bear to see the
pretty little creatures used so roughly, asked the boy what he was going
to do with those birds. The boy replied, that he would sell them if he
could; but, if he could not, his cat should have a dainty meal of them,
and they would not be the first she had munched alive.
"O fie," said Louisa, "give them to your cat! What, suffer such innocent
things as those to be killed by the merciless talons of a cat?"--"Even
so," said the boy, and giving the cage a careless swing, that tumbled
the poor birds one over another, off he was setting, when Louisa called
him back, and asked him what he would have for his birds. "I will sell
them," said he, "three for a penny, and there are eighteen of them."
Louisa struck the bargain, and ran to beg the money of her papa, who not
only cheerfully gave her the money, but allowed her an empty room for
the reception of her little captives.
The boy, having thus found so good a market for his birds, told all his
companions of it; so that, in a few hours, Louisa's yard was so filled
with little bird-merchants, that you would have supposed it to be a
bird-market. However, the pretty maiden purchased all they brought, and
had them turned into the same room, with those of her former purchase.
When night came, Louisa went to bed with more pleasure than she had
felt for a long time. "What a pleasing reflection it is," said she to
herself, "to be thus capable of preserving the lives of so many innocent
birds, and save them from famine and merciless cats!--When summer comes,
and I go into the woods and groves, these pretty birds will fly round
me, and sing their sweetest notes, in gratitude for my kind attention to
them."--These thoughts at last lulled her to sleep, but they accompanied
her even in her dreams; for she fancied herself in one of the most
delightful groves she had ever seen, where all the little birds were
busied, either in feeding their young, or in singing, and in hopping
from bough to bough.
The first thing Louisa did, after she had got up in the morning, was to
go and feed her little family in the room, and also those that came into
the yard. Though the seed to feed them cost her nothing, yet she
recollected that the many purchases she had lately made of birds must
have almost exhausted her purse; "and if the frost should continue,"
said she to herself, "what will become of those poor birds that I shall
not be able to purchase! Those naughty boys will either give them to
their cats, or suffer them to die with hunger."
While she was giving way to these sorrowful reflections, her hand was
moving gently into her pocket, in order to bring out her exhausted
purse; but, judge what must be her surprise and astonishment, when,
instead of pulling out an empty purse, she found it brimful of money!
She ran immediately to her papa, to tell him of this strange
circumstance, when he snatched her up in his arms, tenderly embraced
her, and shed tears of joy on her blooming cheeks.
"My dear child," said her papa to her, "you cannot conceive how happy
you now make me! Let these little birds continue to be the objects of
your relief, and, be assured, your purse shall never be reduced to
emptiness." This pleasing news gladdened the little heart of Louisa, and
she ran immediately to fill her apron with seed, and then hastened to
feed her feathered guests. The birds came fluttering round her, and
seemed conscious of her bounty and generosity.
After feeding these happy prisoners, she went down into the yard, and
there distributed a plentiful meal to the starving wanderers without.
What an important trust had she now taken on herself!--nothing less
than the support of a hundred dependants within doors, and a still
greater number without! No wonder that her dolls and other playthings
should be now totally forgotten.
As Louisa was putting her hand into the seed-bag, to take out of it the
afternoon food for her birds, she found a paper, on which were written
these words: "The inhabitants of the air fly towards thee, O Lord! and
thou givest them their food; thou openest thy hand, and fillest all
things living with plenteousness."
As she saw her papa behind her, she turned round and said, "I am
therefore now imitating God."--"Yes, my sweet Louisa," said her father,
"in every good action we imitate our Maker. When you shall be grown to
maturity, you will then assist the necessitous part of the human race,
as you now do the birds; and the more good you do, the nearer you will
approach the perfections of God."
Louisa continued her attention to feed her hungry birds for more than a
week, when the snow began to melt, and the fields by degrees recovered
their former verdure. The birds who had lately been afraid to quit the
warm shelter of the houses, now returned to the woods and groves. The
birds in our little Louisa's aviary were confined, and therefore could
not get away; but they showed their inclination to depart, by flying
against the windows, and pecking the glass with their bills. These
birds, perhaps, were industrious, and wished not to be troublesome to
Louisa, since they could not procure their own living.
Louisa, not being able to comprehend what could make them so uneasy,
asked her papa if he could tell the cause of it "I know not, my dear,"
said her papa; "but it is possible these little birds may have left some
companions in the fields, which they now wish to see."--"You are very
right, papa," replied Louisa, "and they shall have their liberty
immediately." She accordingly opened the window, and all the birds flew
out of it.
These little feathered animals had no sooner obtained their liberty,
than some were seen hopping on the ground, others darting into the air,
or sporting in the trees, from twig to twig, and some flying about the
windows, chirping, as though out of gratitude to their benefactor.
Louisa hardly ever went into the fields, but she fancied that some of
her little family seemed to welcome her approach, either by hopping
before her, or entertaining her with their melodious notes, which
afforded her a source of inexhaustible pleasure.
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF BERTRAND, A POOR
LABOURER, AND HIS LITTLE FAMILY.
[Illustration]
Think yourselves happy, my little readers, since none of you perhaps
know what it is to endure hunger day after day, without being able to
enjoy one plentiful meal. Confident I am, that the following relation
will not fail to make an impression on your tender years.
Bertrand was a poor labourer, who had six young children, whom he
maintained with the utmost difficulty. To add to his distresses, an
unfavourable season much increased the price of bread. This honest
labourer worked day and night to procure subsistence for his family, and
though their food was composed of the coarsest kind, yet even of that
he could not procure a sufficiency.
Finding himself reduced to extremity, he one day called his little
family together, and with tears in his eyes, and a heart overflowing
with grief, "My sweet children," said he to them, "bread is now so
extravagantly dear, that I find all my efforts to support you
ineffectual. My whole day's labour is barely sufficient to purchase this
piece of bread which you see in my hand; it must therefore be divided
among you, and you must be contented with the little my labour can
procure you. Though it will not afford each of you a plentiful meal, yet
it will be sufficient to keep you from perishing with hunger." Sorrow
and tears interrupted his words, and he could say no more, but lifted up
his hands and eyes to heaven.
His children wept in silence, and, young as they were, their little
hearts seemed to feel more for their father than for themselves.
Bertrand then divided the small portion of bread into seven equal
shares, one of which he kept for himself, and gave to the rest each
their lot. But one of them, named Harry, refused his share, telling his
father he could not eat, pretending to be sick. "What is the matter with
you, my dear child?" said his father, taking him up in his arms. "I am
very sick," replied Harry, "very sick indeed, and should be glad to go
to sleep." Bertrand then carried him to bed, and gave him a tender kiss,
wishing him a good night.
The next morning the honest labourer, overwhelmed with sorrow, went to a
neighbouring physician, and begged of him, as a charity, to come and see
his poor boy. Though the physician was sure of never being paid for his
visit, yet such were his humanity and feelings, that he instantly went
to the labourer's house.
On his arrival there, he found no particular symptoms of illness, though
the boy was evidently in a very low and languishing state. The doctor
told him he would send him a cordial draught; but Harry begged he would
forbear sending him any thing, as he could do him no good. The doctor
was a little angry at this behaviour, and insisted on knowing what his
disorder was, threatening him, if he did not tell him immediately, he
would go and acquaint his father with his obstinacy.
Poor Harry begged the doctor would say nothing about it to his father,
which still more increased the doctor's wish to get at the bottom of
this mystery. At last poor Harry, finding the doctor resolute, desired
his brothers and sisters might leave the room, and he would acquaint him
with every particular.
As soon as the physician had sent the children out of the room, "Alas!
Sir," said little Harry, "in this season of scarcity, my poor dear
father cannot earn bread enough to feed us. What little quantity he can
get, he divides equally among us, reserving to himself the smallest
part. To see my dear brothers and sisters suffer hunger is more than I
can bear; and, as I am the eldest, and stronger than they, I have
therefore not eaten any myself, but have divided my share among them. It
is on this account that I pretended to be sick and unable to eat; I
beseech you, however, to keep this a secret from my father."
The physician, wiping away a tear which started involuntarily from his
eye, asked poor Harry if he were not then hungry. He acknowledged indeed
that he was hungry; but said that did not give him so much affliction as
to see the distresses of his family. "But my good lad," said the doctor,
"if you do not take some nourishment, you will die."--"I am indifferent
about that," replied Harry, "since my father will have then one mouth
less to feed, and I shall go to heaven, where I will pray to God to
assist my dear father, and my little sisters and brothers."
What heart but must melt with pity and admiration at the relation of
such facts? The generous physician, taking up Harry in his arms, and
clasping him to his bosom, "No, my dear little boy," said he, "thou
shalt not die. God and I will take care of thy little family; and return
thanks to God for having sent me hither. I must leave you for the
present, but I will soon return."
The good physician hastened home, and ordered one of his servants to
load himself with refreshments of every kind. He then hastened to the
relief of poor Harry and his starving brothers and sisters. He made them
all sit down at the table, and eat till they were perfectly satisfied.
What could be a more pleasing scene, than that which the good physician
then beheld, six pretty little innocent creatures smiling over the
bounty of their generous and humane friend?
The doctor, on his departure, desired Harry to be under no uneasiness,
as he should take care to secure them a supply of whatever might be
wanting. He faithfully performed his promise, and they had daily cause
of rejoicing at his bounty and benevolence. The doctor's generosity was
imitated by every good person, to whom he related the affecting scene.
From some they received provisions, from some money, and from others
clothes and linen. So that, in a short time, this little family, which
was but lately in want of every thing, became possessed of plenty.
Bertrand's landlord, who was a gentleman of considerable fortune, was so
struck with the tender generosity of little Harry that he sent for his
father, and paying him many compliments on his happiness of having such
a son, he offered to take Harry under his own inspection, and bring him
up in his own house. This matter being agreed on, Bertrand's landlord
settled an annuity on him, promising, at the same time, to provide for
his other children as they grew up. Bertrand, transported with joy,
returned to his house, and falling on his knees, offered up his most
grateful thanks to that good God, who had graciously condescended to
bestow on him such a son!
Hence you may learn, my young readers, how much you have it in your
power to prove a blessing to your parents, and a comfort to yourselves.
It is not necessary, that, in order to do so, you should be reduced to
the same necessity that poor Harry was: for, however exalted your
station may be, you will always find opportunities enough to give proofs
of your duty to your parents, your affection for your brothers and
sisters, and your humanity and benevolence to the poor and needy. Happy
indeed are those poor children, who have found a friend and protector
when they were needful and helpless; but much happier those who, without
ever feeling the griping hand of penury and want themselves, have
received the inexpressible delight that never fails to arise from the
pleasing reflection of having raised honest poverty to happiness and
plenty.
[Illustration]
NANCY AND HER CANARY BIRD,
POOR CHERRY.
[Illustration]
As Nancy was one day looking out of her window, a man happened to come
by, crying, "Canary-birds; come, buy my Canary-birds." The man had a
large cage upon his head, in which the birds hopped about from perch to
perch, and made Nancy quite in love with them. "Will you buy a pretty
bird or two, Miss?" said the man. "I have no objection," replied the
little maid, "provided my papa will give me leave. If you will stop a
little while, I will soon let you know." So away ran Nancy down stairs
to her papa, while the birdman put down his cage at the door.
Nancy ran into her papa's chamber quite out of breath, crying, "O dear
papa, only come here! here is a man in the street that has a large cage
on his head, with, I dare say, a hundred Canary-birds in it."--"Well,
and what of all that?" replied her papa; "why does that seem to rejoice
you so much?" Nancy answering, that she should be happy to buy one of
them; her papa reminded her, that the bird must be fed, and should it be
neglected, even only for a day, it would certainly die.
Nancy promised that she would never eat her own breakfast till she had
given her bird his; but her papa reminded her that she was a giddy girl,
and that he feared she had promised too much. However, there was no
getting over her coaxings and wheedlings, so that her papa was at last
obliged to consent that she should buy one.
He then took Nancy by the hand, and led her to the door, where the man
was waiting with his birds. He chose the prettiest Canary-bird in it:
it was a male, of a fine lively yellow colour, with a little black tuft
upon his head. Nancy was now quite cheerful and happy, and pulling out
her purse, gave it to her father to pay for the bird. But what was to be
done with the bird without a cage, and Nancy had not money enough?
However, upon her promising that she would take great care to feed her
bird, her papa bought her a fine new cage, of which he made her a
present.
As soon as Nancy had given her Canary-bird possession of his new palace,
she ran about the house, calling her mamma, her brothers and sisters,
and all the servants, to come and see her pretty Canary-bird, to which
she gave the name of Poor Cherry. When any of her little friends came to
see her, the first thing she told them was, that she had one of the
prettiest Canary-birds in the world. "He is as yellow as gold," said
she, "and he has a little black crest, like the plumes of my mamma's
hat. Come, you must go and see him! His name is Cherry."
Cherry was as happy as any bird need wish to be, under the care of
Nancy. Her first business every morning was to feed Cherry: and whenever
there was any cake at table, Cherry was sure to come in for a share of
it. There were always some bits of sugar in store for him, and his cage
was constantly decorated with the most lively herbage.
Her pretty bird was not ungrateful, but did all in his power to make
Nancy sensible how much he was obliged to her. He soon learned to
distinguish her, and the moment he heard her step into the room, he
would flutter his wings, and keep up an incessant chirping. It is no
wonder, therefore, if Cherry and Nancy became very fond of each other.
At the expiration of a week he began to open his little throat, and sung
the most delightful songs. He would sometimes raise his notes to so
great a height, that you would almost think he must kill himself with
such vast exertions. Then, after stopping a little, he would begin
again, with a tone so sweet and powerful, that he was heard in every
part of the house.
Nancy would often sit for whole hours by his cage, listening to his
melody. Sometimes so attentively would she gaze at him, that she would
insensibly let her work fall out of her hands; and after he had
entertained her with his melodious notes, she would regale him with a
tune on her bird organ, which he would endeavour to imitate.
In length of time, however, these pleasures began to grow familiar to
his friend Nancy. Her papa, one day, presented her with a book of
prints, with which she was so much delighted, that Cherry began to lose
at least one half of her attention. As usual, he would chirp the moment
he saw her, let her be at what distance she would; but Nancy began to
take no notice of him, and almost a week had passed, without his
receiving either a bit of biscuit, or a fresh supply of chick-weed. He
repeated the sweetest and most harmonious notes that Nancy had taught
him, but to no purpose.
It now appeared too clearly, that new objects began to attract Nancy's
attention. Her birth-day arrived, and her godfather gave her a large
jointed doll, which she named Columbine: and this said Columbine proved
a sad rival to Cherry; for, from morning to night, the dressing and
undressing of Miss Columbine engrossed the whole of her time. What with
this and her carrying her doll up and down stairs, and into every room
in the house, it was happy for poor Cherry if he got fed by the
evening, and sometimes it happened that he went a whole day without
feeding.
One day, however, when Nancy's papa was at table, accidentally casting
his eyes upon the cage, he saw poor Cherry lying upon his breast, and
panting, as it were, for life. The poor bird's feathers appeared all
rough, and it seemed contracted into a mere lump. Nancy's papa went up
close to it; but it was unable even to chirp, and the poor little
creature had hardly strength enough to breathe. He called to him his
little Nancy, and asked her what was the matter with her bird. Nancy
blushed, saying, in a low voice, "Why, papa, I--somehow, I forgot;" and
ran to fetch the seed-box.
Her papa, in the mean time, took down the cage, and found that poor
Cherry had not a single seed left, nor a drop of water. "Alas! poor
bird," said he, "you have got into careless hands. Had I foreseen this,
I would never have bought you." All the company joined in pity for the
poor bird; and Nancy ran away into her chamber to ease her heart in
tears. However, her papa, with some difficulty, brought pretty Cherry to
himself again.
Her father, the next day, ordered Cherry to be made a present of to a
young gentleman in the neighbourhood, who, he said, would take much
better care of it than his little thoughtless daughter; but poor Nancy
could not bear the idea of parting with her bird, and most faithfully
promised never more to neglect him.
Her papa, at last, gave way to her entreaties; and permitted her to keep
little Cherry, but not without a severe reprimand, and a strict
injunction to be more careful for the future. "This poor little
creature," said her papa, "is confined in a prison, and is therefore
totally unable to provide for its own wants. Whenever you want any
thing, you know how to get it; but this little bird can neither help
himself, nor make his wants known to others. If ever you let him want
seed or water again, look to it."
Nancy burst out into a flood of tears, took her papa by the hand, and
kissed it; but her heart was so full, that she could not utter a
syllable. Cherry and Nancy were now again good friends, and he for some
time wanted for nothing.
About a month afterwards, her father and mother were obliged to go a
little way into the country on some particular business; but, before
they set out, he gave Nancy strict charge to take care of poor Cherry.
No sooner were her parents gone, than she ran to the cage, and gave
Cherry plenty of seed and water.
Little Nancy now finding herself alone and at liberty, sent for some of
her companions to come and spend the day with her. The former part of
the day they passed in the garden, and the latter in playing at
blindman's buff and four corners. She went to bed very much fatigued;
but, as soon as she awoke in the morning, she began to think of new
pleasures.
She went abroad that day, while poor Cherry was obliged to stay at home
and fast. The second and third day passed in the same playful manner as
before; but no poor Cherry was thought of. On the fourth day, her father
and mother came home, and, as soon as they had kissed her, her father
enquired after poor Cherry. "He is very well," said Nancy, a little
confused, and then ran to fetch him some seed and water. Alas! poor
little Cherry was no more; he was lying upon his back, with his wings
spread, and his beak open. Nancy screamed out, and wrung her hands,
when all the family ran to her, and were witnesses of the melancholy
scene.
"Alas! poor bird," said her papa, "what a melancholy end thou hast come
to! If I had twisted thy head off the day I went into the country, it
would have caused you but a moment's pain; but now you have endured all
the pangs of hunger and thirst, and expired in extreme agony. However,
poor Cherry! you are happy in being out of the hands of so merciless a
guardian."