given all her little treasure, and even all her playthings, to have
brought Cherry to life; but it was now too late. Her papa had the bird
stuffed, and hung up to the ceiling, in memory of Nancy's carelessness.
She dared not even to lift her eyes up to look at it, for, whenever she
did, it was sure to make her cry. At last she prevailed on her papa to
have it removed, but not till after many earnest entreaties and repeated
acknowledgments of the fault she had been guilty of. Whenever Nancy was
guilty of inattention, or giddiness, the bird was hung up again in its
place, and every one would say in her hearing, "Alas, poor Cherry! what
a cruel death you suffered!"
Thus you see, my little friends, what are the sad consequences of
inattention, giddiness, and too great a fondness for pleasure, which
always make us forgetful of what we ought carefully to attend to.
[Illustration]
THE BIRDS, THE THORN-BUSHES,
AND THE SHEEP.
[Illustration]
Mr. Stanhope and his son Gregory were one evening, in the month of May,
sitting at the foot of a delightful hill, and surveying the beautiful
works of nature that surrounded them. The declining sun, now sinking
into the west, seemed to clothe every thing with a purple robe. The
cheerful song of a shepherd called off their attention from their
meditations on those delightful prospects. This shepherd was driving
home his flocks from the adjacent fields.
Thorn-bushes grew on each side of the road, and every sheep that
approached the thorns was sure to be robbed of some part of its wool,
which a good deal displeased little Gregory. "Only see, papa," said he,
"how the sheep are deprived of their wool by those bushes! You have
often told me, that God makes nothing in vain; but these briars seem
only made for mischief; people should therefore join to destroy them
root and branch. Were the poor sheep to come often this way, they would
be robbed of all their clothing. But that shall not be the case, for I
will rise with the sun to-morrow morning, and with my little bill-hook
and snip-snap, I will level all these briars with the ground. You may
come with me, papa, if you please, and bring with you an axe. Before
breakfast, we shall be able to destroy them all."
Mr. Stanhope replied, "We must not go about this business in too great a
hurry, but take a little time to consider of it; perhaps, there may not
be so much cause for being angry with these bushes, as you at present
seem to imagine. Have you not seen the shepherds about Lammas, with
great shears in their hands, take from the trembling sheep all their
wool, not being contented with a few locks only."
Gregory allowed that was true; but they did it in order to make clothes,
whereas the hedges robbed the sheep without having the least occasion
for their wool, and evidently for no useful purpose. "If it be usual,"
said he, "for sheep to lose their clothing at a certain time of the
year, then it is much better to take it for our own advantage, than to
suffer the hedges to pull it off for no end whatever."
Mr. Stanhope allowed the arguments of little Gregory to be just; for
Nature has given to every beast a clothing, and we are obliged from them
to borrow our own, otherwise we should be forced to go naked, and
exposed to the inclemency of the elements.
"Very well, papa," said Gregory, "though we want clothing, yet these
bushes want none: they rob us of what we have need, and therefore down
they shall all come with to-morrow morning's rising sun. And I dare say,
papa, you will come along with me, and assist me."
Mr. Stanhope could not but consent; and little Gregory thought himself
nothing less than Alexander, merely from the expectation of destroying
at once this formidable band of robbers. He could hardly sleep, being
so much taken up with the idea of his victories, to which the next
morning's sun was to be witness.
The cheerful lark had hardly begun to proclaim the approach of morning,
when Gregory got up, and ran to awaken his papa. Mr. Stanhope, though he
was very indifferent concerning the fate of the thorn-bushes, yet he was
not displeased with having the opportunity of showing to his little
Gregory the beauties of the rising sun. They both dressed themselves
immediately, took the necessary instruments, and set out on this
important expedition. Young Gregory marched forwards with such hasty
steps, that Mr. Stanhope was obliged to exert himself, to avoid being
left behind.
When they came near the bushes, they observed a multitude of little
birds flying in and out of them, and fluttering their wings from branch
to branch. On seeing this, Mr. Stanhope stopped his son, and desired him
to suspend his vengeance a little time, that they might not disturb
those innocent birds. With this view, they retired to the foot of the
hill where they had sat the preceding evening, and from thence examined
more particularly what had occasioned this apparent bustle among the
birds. From hence they plainly saw, that they were employed in carrying
away those bits of wool in their beaks, which the bushes had torn from
the sheep the evening before. There came a multitude of different sorts
of birds, who loaded themselves with the plunder.
Gregory was quite astonished at this sight, and asked his papa what
could be the meaning of it. "You by this plainly see," replied Mr.
Stanhope, "that Providence provides for creatures of every class, and
furnishes them with all things necessary for their convenience and
preservation. Here, you see, the poor birds find what is necessary for
their habitations, wherein they are to nurse and rear their young, and
with this they make a comfortable bed for themselves and their little
progeny. The innocent thorn-bush, against which you yesterday so loudly
exclaimed, is of infinite service to the inhabitants of the air; it
takes from those that are rich only what they can very well spare, in
order to satisfy the wants of the poor. Have you now any wish to cut
those bushes down, which you will perhaps no longer consider as
robbers?"
Gregory shook his head, and said he would not cut the bushes down for
the world. Mr. Stanhope applauded his son for so saying; and, after
enjoying the sweets of the morning, they retired home to breakfast,
leaving the bushes to flourish in peace, since they made so generous a
use of their conquests.
My young friends will hence be convinced of the impropriety of
cherishing too hastily prejudices against any persons or things, since,
however forbidding or useless they may at first sight appear, a more
familiar acquaintance with them may discover those accomplishments or
perfections which prejudice at first obscured from their observation.
[Illustration]
POOR CRAZY SAMUEL, AND THE MISCHIEVOUS
BOYS.
[Illustration]
In the city of Bristol lived a crazy person, whose name was Samuel.
Whenever he went out he always put four or five wigs on his head at
once, and as many muffs upon each of his arms. Though he had
unfortunately lost his senses, yet he was not mischievous, unless wicked
boys played tricks with him, and put him in a passion.
Whenever he appeared in the streets, all the idle boys would surround
him, crying, "Samuel! Samuel! how do you sell your wigs and your muffs?"
Some idle boys were of such mischievous dispositions as to throw dirt
and stones at him. Though the unfortunate man generally bore all this
treatment very quietly, yet he would sometimes turn about in his own
defence, and throw among the rabble that followed him any thing that
came in his way.
A contest of this nature happened one day near the house of Mr. Denton,
who, hearing a noise in the street, went to the window, and, with much
regret, saw his son Joseph concerned in the fray. Displeased at the
sight, he shut down the sash, and went into another room.
When they were at dinner, Mr. Denton asked his son who the man was, with
whom he and other boys in the street seemed to be so pleasingly engaged.
Joseph said it was the crazy man, whom they called Samuel. On his father
asking him what had occasioned that misfortune, he replied, that it was
said to be in consequence of the loss of a law-suit, which deprived him
of a large estate.
"Had this man been known to you," said Mr. Denton, "at the time when he
was cheated of his estate; and had he told you that he had just lost a
large inheritance, which he had long peaceably enjoyed; that all his
property was expended in supporting the cause, and that he had now
neither country nor town-house, in short, nothing upon earth left; would
you then have laughed at this poor man?"
Joseph, with some confusion, replied he certainly should not be guilty
of so wicked an action as to laugh at the misfortunes of any man; but
should rather endeavour to comfort him.
"This man," said Mr. Denton, "is more to be pitied now than he was then,
since to the loss of his fortune is added that of his senses also; and
yet you have this day been throwing stones at this poor man, and
otherwise insulting him, who never gave you any cause." Joseph seemed
very sorry for what he had done, asked his papa's pardon, and promised
not only never to do the like again, but to prevent others, as much as
lay in his power, committing the same crime.
His father told him, that as to his forgiveness, he freely had it, but
that there was another besides him, whose forgiveness was more
necessary. Little Joseph thought that his father meant poor Samuel; but
Mr. Denton explained the matter to him. "Had Samuel retained his
senses," said he, "it would be certainly just that you should ask his
pardon; but as his disordered mind will not permit him to receive any
apologies, it would be idle to attempt to make any. It is not Samuel,
but God, whom you have offended. You have not shown compassion to poor
Samuel, but, by your unmerited insults, have added to his misfortunes.
Can you think that God will be pleased with such conduct?"
Joseph now plainly perceived whom he had offended, and therefore
promised that night to ask pardon of God in his prayers. He kept his
word, and not only forbore troubling Samuel for several weeks
afterwards, but endeavoured to dissuade all his companions from doing
the like.
The resolutions of young people, however, are not always to be depended
on. So it happened with little Joseph, who, forgetting the promises he
had made, one day happened to mix with the rabble of boys who were
following and hooting, and playing many naughty tricks with the
unfortunate Samuel.
The more he mixed among them, the more he forgot himself, and at last
became as bad as the worst of them. Samuel's patience, however, being at
length tired out by the rude behaviour of the wicked boys that pursued
him, he suddenly turned about, and picking up a large stone, threw it at
little Joseph with such violence, that it grazed his cheek, and almost
cut off part of his ear.
Poor Joseph, on feeling the smart occasioned by the blow, and finding
the blood trickling down his cheek at a great rate, ran home roaring
most terribly. Mr. Denton, however, showed him no pity, telling him it
was the just judgment of God for his wickedness.
Joseph attempted to justify himself by saying, that he was not the only
one who was guilty, and therefore ought not to be the only one that was
punished. His father replied, that, as he knew better than the other
boys, his crime was the greater. It is indeed but justice that a child,
who knows the commands of God and his parents, should be doubly
punished, whenever he so far forgets his duty as to run headlong into
wickedness.
Remember this, my young readers; and instead of adding to the
afflictions of others, do whatever you can to alleviate them, and God
will then undoubtedly have compassion on you, whenever your wants and
distresses shall require his assistance.
[Illustration]
BELLA AND MARIAN.
[Illustration]
The sun was just peeping above the eastern edge of the horizon, to
enliven with his golden rays one of the most beautiful mornings of the
spring, when Bella went down into the garden to taste with more
pleasure, as she rambled through those enchanting walks, the delicacies
of a rich cake, of which she intended to make her first meal.
Her heart swelled with delight, on surveying the beauties of the rising
sun, in listening to the enlivening notes of the lark, and on breathing
the pleasing fragrance which the surrounding shrubs afforded.
Bella was so charmed with this complication of delights, that her sweet
eyes were bedewed with a moisture, which rested on her eyelids without
dropping in tears. Her heart felt a gentle sensation, and her mind was
possessed with emotions of benevolence and tenderness.
The sound of steps in the walk, however, all on a sudden interrupted
these happy feelings, and a little girl came tripping towards the same
walk, eating a piece of coarse brown bread with the keenest appetite. As
she was also rambling about the garden for amusement, her eyes wandered
here and there unfixed; so that she came up close to Bella unexpectedly.
As soon as the little girl saw it was Miss Bella, she stopped short,
seemed confused, and, turning about, ran away as fast as she could; but
Bella called to her, and asked her why she ran away. This made the
little girl run the faster, and Bella endeavoured to pursue her; but,
not being so much used to exercise, she was soon left behind. Luckily,
as it happened, the little stranger had turned up a path leading into
that in which Bella was. Here they suddenly met, and Bella caught her by
the arm, saying, "Come, I have you fast now; you are my prisoner, and
cannot get away from me."
The poor girl was now more frightened than ever, and struggled hard for
her liberty; but, after some time, the sweet accents of Bella, and her
assurance that she meant only to be her friend, having rather allayed
her fears, she became a little more tractable, and quietly followed her
into one of the summer-houses.
Miss Bella, having made the stranger sit down by her, asked her if she
had a father living, and what was his profession. The girl told her,
that, thank God, her father was living, and that he did any thing for an
honest livelihood. She said he was then at work in the garden, and had
brought her with him that morning.
Bella then observing that the young stranger had got a piece of brown
bread in her hand, desired she would let her taste it; but she said it
so scratched her throat on swallowing a bit of it, that she could eat no
more; and asked the little girl, why her father did not get better bread
for her. "Because," replied the stranger, "he does not get so much money
as your papa; and, besides that, there are four more of us, and we all
eat heartily. Sometimes one wants a frock, another a jacket, and all he
can get is barely sufficient for us, without laying out hardly any thing
upon himself, though he never misses a day's work while he has it to
do."
Upon Bella's asking her if she ever ate any plum-cake, she said she did
not even know what it was; but she had no sooner put a bit into her
mouth, which Miss Bella gave her, than she said, she had never in her
life tasted any thing so nice. She then asked her what was her name,
when the girl, rising, and making her a low curtsey, said it was Marian.
"Well then, my good Marian," said Bella, "stop here a moment; I will go
and ask my governess for something for you, and will come back directly:
but be sure you do not go away." Marian replied, that she was now noways
afraid of her, and that she should certainly wait her coming back.
Bella ran directly to her governess, and begged she would give her some
currant jelly for a little girl, who had nothing but dry bread for
breakfast. The governess, being highly pleased with the good-nature of
her amiable pupil, gave her some in a cup, and a small roll also. Bella
instantly ran away with it, and coming to Marian, said she hoped she had
not made her wait, but begged her to put down her brown bread till
another time, and eat what she had brought her.
Marian, after tasting the jelly, and smacking her lips, said it was very
nice indeed; and asked Bella if she ate such every day. Miss replied,
that she ate those things frequently, and if she would come now and
then, she would always give her some.
They now became very familiar together, and Miss Bella asked Marian a
number of questions, such as, whether she never was sick, seeing her now
look so hearty, and in what manner she employed her time.
Marian replied, she did not know what it was to be sick; and, as to her
employments, in winter she went to get straw for the cow, and dry sticks
to make the pot boil; in summer she went to weed the corn; and, in
harvest-time, to glean and pull hops. In short, they were never at a
loss for work; and she said her mother would make a sad noise, if any of
her little ones should take it into their heads to be lazy.
Miss Bella, observing that her little visitor went barefooted, which
much surprised her, was induced to ask the reason of it; when Marian
replied, that it would be too expensive for their father to think of
finding shoes and stockings for them all, and therefore none of them had
any; but they found no inconvenience from it, since time had so hardened
the bottoms of their feet, as to make shoes unnecessary.
The time having slipped away in this kind of chit-chat, Marian told Miss
Bella that she must be going, in order to gather some greens for her
cow, who would want her breakfast by eight o'clock. This little girl did
not eat up all her roll and jelly, but saved some part of it to carry
home to her youngest sister, who, she said, she was sure would be very
fond of it. Bella was vastly pleased to find Marian was so tender of her
sister, and desired she would not fail to come again at the same hour
the next morning. So, after a mutual good b'ye, they separated for the
present.
Miss Bella had now, for the first time, tasted the pleasure of doing
good. She walked a little longer in the garden, enjoying the pleasing
reflection how happy she had made Marian, how grateful that little girl
had showed herself, and how pleased her sister would be to taste currant
jelly, which she had never seen before.
Miss Bella was enjoying the idea of the pleasure she should receive from
her future bounties to her new acquaintance, when she recollected that
she had some ribands and a necklace, which her mamma had given her a
little time before, but of which she now began to grow tired. Besides
these, she had some other old things to give her, which, though of no
use to herself, would make Marian quite fine.
The next morning Marian came into the garden again, and Miss Bella was
ready to receive her, with a tolerable good portion of gingerbread.
Indeed, this interview was continued every morning; and Miss Bella
always carried some dainties along with her. When her pocket failed
her, she would beg her mamma to supply her with something out of the
pantry, which was always cheerfully complied with.
One day, however, it happened that Bella received an answer which gave
her some uneasiness. She had been begging her mamma to advance her
something on her weekly allowance, in order to buy shoes and stockings
for Marian; to which her mamma gave her a flat denial, telling her, that
she wished she would be a little more sparing to her favourite, for
which she would give her a reason at dinner-time. Bella was a little
surprised at this answer, and every hour appeared an age till
dinner-time arrived.
At length they sat down to table, and dinner was half over before her
mamma said a word about Marian; but a dish of shrimps being then served
up, gave her mamma an opportunity of beginning the conversation. "I
think, Bella," said the lady, "this is your favourite dish." Bella
replied it was, and could not help observing, how happy she supposed
poor Marian would be to taste them, who she imagined had never so much
as seen any. With her mamma's leave, she begged two of the smallest, to
give to that little girl.
Mrs. Adams, for such was her mamma's name, seemed unwilling to grant her
request, urging, that she was afraid she would do her favourite more
mischief than good. "At present," said her mamma, "she eats her dry
brown bread with an appetite, and walks barefooted on the gravel without
complaining. Should you continue to feed her with dainties, and accustom
her to wear shoes and stockings, what would she do, should she by any
means lose your favour, and with it all those indulgences? She will then
lament that she had ever experienced your bounty."
Miss Bella hastily replied, that she meant to be a friend to her all her
life, and only wished that her mamma, in order to enable her to do so,
would add a little to her weekly allowance, and she would manage it with
all the frugality possible.
Mrs. Adams then asked her daughter, if she did not know of any other
children in distress; to which Bella replied, that she knew several
besides, and particularly two in a neighbouring village, who had neither
father nor mother, and who, without doubt, stood much in need of
assistance. Her mamma then reminded her, that it was somewhat
uncharitable to feed Marian with sweetmeats and dainties, while other
poor children were starving with hunger. To this Bella replied, that she
hoped she should have something to spare for them likewise: but, at all
events, she loved Marian best.
However, her mamma advised her to give her sweet things seldomer, and
instead thereof something that would be of more use to her, such as an
apron or a gown. Miss Bella immediately proposed to give her one of her
frocks; but her mamma soon made her sensible of the impropriety of
dressing up a village girl, without shoes or stockings, in a muslin
slip. "Were I in your place," said her mamma, "I would be sparing in my
amusements for some time, and when I had saved a little money, I would
lay it out in buying whatever was most necessary for her. The stuffs
that poor children wear are not very expensive." Bella followed mamma's
advice. Marian was not, indeed, so punctual in her morning visits; but
Bella made her presents that were far more useful than sweetmeats.
Miss Bella, besides frequently giving Marian an apron, a petticoat, or
such like, paid a certain sum every month to the schoolmaster of the
village, to improve her in reading. Marian was so sensible of these
kindnesses, that she grew every day more tenderly fond of her kind
benefactress. She frequently paid her a visit, and was never so happy as
when she could do any little matters to oblige her.
Marian came one day to the garden gate to wait for Bella's coming down
to her; but she did not come, and she was obliged to go back again
without seeing her. She returned two days successively, but no Bella
appeared, which was a great affliction to her little heart, and she
began to fear she had inadvertently offended her. "I have, perhaps,"
said she to herself, "done something to vex her: I am sure, if I knew I
had, I would ask her a thousand pardons, for I cannot live without
loving her."
While she was thus reflecting, one of Mrs. Adams's maids came out of the
house; when poor Marian stopped her, and asked her where Miss Bella was.
"Miss Bella!" replied the woman, "she is ill of the small-pox; so ill,
indeed, that there are no hopes of her recovery!" Poor Marian was all
distraction, and, without considering what she did, flew up stairs and
burst into Mrs. Adams's room, imploring, on her knees, that she might be
permitted to see her dear Miss Bella.
Mrs. Adams would have stopped Marian; but the door being half open, she
flew to her bedside like an arrow out of a bow. Poor Bella was in a
violent fever, alone, and very low spirited; for all her little
companions had forsaken her. Marian, drowned in tears, seized hold of
Bella's hand, squeezed it in hers, and kissed it. "Ah! my dear Miss,"
said she "is it in this condition I find you! but you must not die; what
would then become of me? I will watch over you, and serve you: shall I,
my dear Miss Bella?"
Miss Bella, squeezing Marian's hand, signified to her, that staying with
her would do her a great favour. And the little maid, with Mrs. Adams's
consent, became Bella's nurse, which she performed the part of to
admiration. She had a small bed made up for her, close beside her little
sick friend, whom she never left for a moment. If the slightest sigh
escaped Bella, Marian was up in an instant to know what she wanted, and
gave her, with her own hands, all her medicines.