It was not till I had been some time with my little master that I could
fully appreciate his amiable character: nor do I, indeed, think that I
was ever acquainted with the whole extent of his goodness; but so many
admirable traits fell under my immediate notice, that I became daily
more attached to him. He was extremely kind to me, procuring me every
comfort and indulgence in his power, and giving me liberty whenever he
was at home. I might frequently have taken advantage of his confidence
in me, had I wished to escape; but I loved him too well to think of
leaving him, and had also experienced such vicissitudes, that I had no
desire to go in quest of new adventures. Here I had every thing I could
wish for, and I felt happy under the protection of a master whom I
could at once admire and esteem.
Henry was by no means insensible of my regard. “Dear mamma,” he would
frequently say, “I am sure my bird knows me, and loves me too, for he
is always so much rejoiced when I return home, if I have been absent
ever so short a time.”
His dear mother always seized the occasion, when he made these
observations, to inculcate some amiable impression, or draw some useful
inference. “You see, my dear boy,” she would observe, “what pleasure
there is in pleasing. You are kind to your little bird, he is, in
return, affectionate and grateful; his caresses, though of no real
value, are delightful to you. In them you experience what I have so
often represented to you, that trifling acts of kindness and gratitude,
though in themselves unimportant, are of inestimable value to the
receiver. You in some measure resemble your little bird, when you
display affection and gratitude towards your parents, and I trust that
the pleasure you now feel from his acknowledgement of your kindness, is
but an earnest of that you will enjoy when you are able to be useful
to your fellow-creatures. I have to add, though, that you are not
always to expect gratitude for your kindness; that is not the reward I
would wish you to seek, but rather that recompence of which no one can
deprive you—the approbation of your own heart.”
Perhaps my young readers will not admire this long digression, but
I cannot forbear repeating, occasionally, some of the excellent
advice I so frequently heard; and I hope there are some children
whose hearts will (as Henry’s did on similar occasions) expand with a
noble emulation to approve themselves every thing their parents’ most
sanguine hopes can anticipate. Henry’s father was no less sensible than
his mother, nor was he less indulgent. His time was much occupied in a
professional employment, but he still found leisure to improve, and
frequently to amuse, his little boy. Henry’s favourite amusement was
riding. Hitherto he had ridden only a donkey, but his kind papa had
promised to purchase a poney for him the ensuing spring, provided he
profited by his brother’s instructions.
The little boy was usually diligent and attentive, but on this occasion
he displayed so much assiduity, and so entirely satisfied his papa,
that the promised reward was already earned; and Henry, in idea,
mounted his poney and rode beside his dear papa, though the winter had
yet to elapse before his idea could be realized.
The season was peculiarly severe, and I had great reason to rejoice
that I was not exposed to its inclemency; for I frequently observed
from the windows multitudes of little birds flying in every direction,
in search of that sustenance the snow-covered earth refused them. I
pitied them very much, and would gladly have shared my food with them,
but as I could not express my benevolent wishes, they were, of course,
fruitless, and compassion was all I could bestow. Happily, however,
Henry observed their distress, and soon found means to relieve them. He
obtained his mamma’s permission to have the window-sash taken out from
a small empty room, and there he put abundance of food every evening,
but never went in during the day. The plan succeeded according to his
wish, for the birds meeting with no interruption, came there every day
to feed, and the dear boy had frequently the pleasure of seeing his
numerous little pensioners busily employed about the window of his
aviary.
The snow continued very long on the ground, but as Henry was a robust
boy, that did not prevent his walking out. One morning he came home,
and ran hastily into the room where his mamma was sitting.
“How now, my Henry,” said she, “why you have been up to your knees in
the snow. That is not like your usual obedience.”
“Dear mamma,” said Henry, “I am sure you will excuse me when you know
the cause. Look at this poor little fellow,” added he, producing a
redbreast of the preceding spring; “he flew a few paces before me
on the path where I was walking, and then stopped, as if unable to
proceed: when I advanced he made another effort, and reached the foot
of a tree, where he sat quite still for some time, and I, fearing that
he was dying, ventured across the snow and brought him home. I think we
may, perhaps, recover him, mamma.”
“We will hope so, at least, my dear,” said his mother; “but do not
bring him near the fire, rather place him on the window-frame, the
warmth of the sun through the glass will be sufficient for him at
first.”
Henry, in pursuance of his mother’s advice, placed his little
nurseling on the window-frame, where, finding some comfort from the
warmth, he fell asleep. Henry was delighted at the idea of having saved
the bird’s life, but I, who understood the nature of birds better than
he could, saw only the torpor of approaching death in his apparently
tranquil slumber, and pitied my poor little master, for I knew what his
tender heart would feel when he was undeceived.
My fears were not groundless, for the poor little bird appearing very
uneasy soon after, Henry took him in his hand, and begged his mamma to
get something to feed him. She complied, and was preparing some of my
food to give him, when he expired in that hand which had been vainly
extended to save him. Poor Henry, who seldom wept, now burst into
tears, and his mamma had some difficulty in consoling him.
“My dear boy,” said she, “your grief will not recal the poor little
fellow to life: he is released from pain, and placed beyond the
possibility of future suffering. I am sorry for your disappointment,
but you must be consoled with the reflection of having intended to
do good, though you have not succeeded. One advantage, however,
may be derived from this circumstance, that of learning to bear a
disappointment with fortitude. Remember how much you admired the
conduct of Porus when brought before Alexander, and that of Caractacus
when led in triumph through Rome, and endeavour to imitate the firmness
with which they sustained misfortune.”
I did not understand the whole of this speech, being unacquainted
with the persons alluded to; however, I dare say my young readers are
better informed on the subject. Henry seemed so deeply impressed with
it, that he immediately dried his tears, and endeavoured to resume his
accustomed cheerfulness.