proceeded to London, still accompanied by his attached Leverous.
Appearing at King Edward’s court, he saw the daughter of Sir Anthony
Brown at a ball, and afterwards marrying this lady, her family procured
the restitution of a part of his estates from the king, who also knighted
him. Under Mary he was restored to all the titles and honors of his
house, all which, and the prosperity of his middle life, was witnessed
by the happy Leverous, who died at a good old age under the roof of his
grateful pupil, by whom he was ever honored as a father. The Earl himself
lived till far into the reign of Elizabeth, closing his life peacefully
in the year 1585.
FAITHFUL FIDO.
[Illustration]
“What shall I do,” said a very little dog one day to his mother, “to show
my gratitude to our good master? I cannot draw, or carry burthens for him
like the horse; nor give him milk like the cow; nor lend him my covering
for his clothing, like the sheep; nor produce him eggs like the poultry;
nor catch rats and mice as well as the cat.
“I cannot divert him with singing like the linnets and canaries; nor can
I defend him against robbers like the great dog Towzer. I should not
be fit to be eaten, even if I were dead, as the hogs are. I am a poor
insignificant creature, not worth the cost of keeping; I don’t see that I
can do a single thing to entitle me to my master’s regard.” So saying the
poor little dog hung down his head.
“My dear child,” replied his mother, “though your abilities are but
small, your good will entitles you to regard. Love your master dearly,
and show him that you love him, and you will not fail to please him.”
The little dog was comforted, and the next time he saw his master, ran
to him, licked his feet, gamboled before him, and every now and then
stopped, wagging his tail, and looking at him in the most affectionate
manner. The master observed him.
“Ha! little Fido,” said he, “you are an honest, good-natured little
fellow!”—and stooped down to pat his head. Poor Fido was ready to go out
of his wits with joy.
Fido was now his master’s companion in his walks, playing and skipping
round him, and amusing him by a thousand sportive tricks. He took care
not to be troublesome by leaping on him with dirty paws, nor would he
follow him into the parlor unless invited. He also attempted to make
himself useful by a number of little services. He would drive away the
sparrows, as they were stealing the chickens’ meat; and would run and
bark with the utmost fury at the strange pigs, and other animals, which
offered to come into the yard.
He kept the poultry and pigs from straying, and particularly from doing
mischief in the garden. If his master pulled off his coat in the field to
help his work-men, Fido always sat by it, and would not suffer either man
or beast to touch it; for this faithful care of his master’s property, he
was esteemed very much.
He was soon able to render a more important service. One hot day after
dinner, his master was sleeping in a summer house, with Fido by his side;
the building was old, and the watchful dog perceived the walls shake, and
the pieces of mortar fall from the ceiling.
He saw the danger, and began barking, to awake his master; this was not
sufficient, so he jumped up and bit his finger. The master upon this
started up, and had just time to get out of the door, before the whole
building fell.
Fido, who was behind, got hurt by some rubbish which fell upon him; on
which his master had him taken care of, with the utmost tenderness, and
ever after acknowledged the little animal as the preserver of his life.
Thus his love and fidelity had their reward.
GENEROSITY REWARDED.
Mrs. Clifford being particularly satisfied with the attention that her
three children, Alfred, Robert, and Helen, had for some time past paid to
their lessons, and to the instructions of their masters, told them that
she would treat them with a charming walk in the wood, on the opposite
side of the river; and that if they would carry some bread or biscuit
with them, she thought they would have no difficulty in finding a house
where they might procure some milk. So instead of returning home to drink
tea, she would spend the whole afternoon and evening in rambling about
with them.
This was charming news for the young folks, who took care not to give her
the trouble of waiting for them, for they were all three ready at least
half an hour before the time she had appointed for their departure. The
moment Mrs. Clifford joined them in the hall, away they all went, with
joyful hearts and cheerful faces, through the field and down the long
lane, which led to the ferry.
[Illustration]
“This is very pleasant, mother,” said Alfred: “I think I should never be
tired of walking in the fields and woods; yet, I must own, I do long for
winter, that we may purchase the magic lantern we are to have. I think,
with the money grandpapa has given each of us, and what we had before in
our purses, we shall be able to have a very large one.”
“O dear!” exclaimed Helen, “how delightful it will be to see it as often
as we please, and to show it to our friends; and, mother, do you know
that Robert is to be the person to show it; for, he says, he can talk
just like the man who came to our house last year?”
“So I can,” answered Robert, “and I wish it were bought, that you might
hear what a long story I shall tell you about the sun and the moon; and
the King of Prussia and his huzzars; and the cat and the cook! I would
rather have a magic lantern, than any thing in the whole world!”
Chatting in this manner, and amusing themselves by looking at different
objects as they passed along, they found themselves at the ferry before
they expected it. The boat being just ready to put off, they stepped into
it, and seated themselves with several others, who were going over to the
other side of the river.
Their attention was very soon drawn to a poor woman, who, with an infant
on her knee, and a little boy and girl by her side, whom she frequently
kissed and pressed to her bosom, wept as if her heart would break. As
soon as they landed, Mrs. Clifford, stopping the woman, kindly inquired
into the cause of her distress; and was informed by her, that she had
lately lost her husband, who having been long in a state of ill health
and unable to work, had left her incumbered with several debts, which
she had not the means of paying; and that though she labored very hard,
and had discharged some of the small debts, a hard-hearted man, to whom
she owed six dollars, declaring he would not wait a day longer, had that
morning seized upon her furniture, and all her little property. He was
determined, he said, to have his money before six o’clock, or to turn her
and her children out to sleep in the high road, or where they thought fit.
She had been, she told Mrs. Clifford, to an uncle of her husband who
lived at the market town, begging him to take pity upon her and her
innocent children; “but madam,” added she, “he was deaf to my entreaties,
and turned me from his door; and I am now going home to see all my things
taken from me; and what will become of us this night, God alone can tell!”
Mrs. Clifford was extremely affected by this melancholy tale, and
walked with the poor woman to her cottage, where they really found two
ill-looking men taking down the bed, and packing up the furniture. The
woman began to wring her hands and cry bitterly; and the children, though
they did not understand what the men were going to do, clung to their
mother and would not move from her side.
Alfred, Robert, and Helen, were however old enough to understand
perfectly well the distress of the poor woman, and the misery and
wretchedness to which she and her helpless children were exposed; and
fortunately for her, their tender and compassionate hearts immediately
prompted them to endeavor to relieve her. The pleasure they had promised
themselves in purchasing a magic lantern, and in being in possession
of such an amusement for the long evenings of the approaching winter,
appeared to them very trifling, in comparison to the delight of snatching
this poor family out of the hands of the unfeeling people they had to
deal with; and leading their mamma into the little garden, they earnestly
entreated her to take the three dollars their grandpapa had given them,
as well as the contents of their purses, and employ the whole to relieve
the poor woman; and farther, they begged her, in the most pressing
manner, to make up the deficiency.
Mrs. Clifford was delighted with the idea, expressing the greatest
satisfaction at the resolution they had taken. She assured them that she
would make up the sum with the greatest pleasure, and that the proof they
now gave of their feeling and humanity made them dearer to her than ever;
adding, that she was certain twenty-four hours would not pass before they
were rewarded for their goodness.
The men were immediately stopped, the debt was discharged, and the
furniture replaced in proper order. The poor woman knew not how to
express her joy and gratitude. She scarcely knew what she was doing,
but, at length recollecting herself, she entreated Mrs. Clifford and her
children to be seated, and accept of such refreshment as she had to offer
them. Her little table was soon covered with a cloth as white as snow;
and fresh milk, eggs, butter, and a nice brown loaf were set before them,
of which they partook with great satisfaction.
[Illustration]
They did not quit this little family till a late hour, and could talk of
nothing on their way home but the pleasure they felt in the reflection
of having left them so happy; of how they had been delighted, when they
saw the two hard-hearted men walk out of the cottage, and how differently
the poor woman and her children would pass the night, to what they might
have expected. Alfred said, the good action they had done that afternoon,
would be the pleasantest thing they could have to talk of in the winter
evenings; and Robert was of opinion, that a visit now and then to the
cottage would afford prettier stories for him to repeat, than any thing
he could tell of the King of Prussia and his hussars. As for Helen, she
declared that her heart was so light, and she felt herself so happy and
joyful, that she could almost jump over the moon.
They retired to rest in this pleasant disposition; and they told their
mamma, the next morning, that they had never been so happy in their
lives; that they went to bed, thinking on the good they had done, and,
after thanking God, who had given them the means of doing it, they had
immediately fallen into a sweet sleep; that the moment they awoke, they
had found themselves in the same happy humor, pleased with themselves,
and with every body they saw. They were very well convinced that the
magic lantern could never have procured them one quarter of the pleasure
which they now felt, and which would be renewed every time they visited
the poor woman at the cottage, and whenever they recollected her story.
“I told you, my children,” said Mrs Clifford, “that four-and-twenty
hours would not pass before you would be rewarded; and you must now,
I am certain, be well convinced, that the heart-felt pleasure arising
from the reflection upon such an act of kindness and benevolence to a
fellow-creature in distress, is the greatest and most solid reward that
could possibly have been bestowed on you; far superior to, and more
lasting than any satisfaction you could have procured by laying out your
money in any other way.”
DANGER OF COQUETRY.
[Illustration]
It is no less strange than true, that, however intimate friends of the
same sex may be, there is ever a disposition to assume a certain air, as
it were, of patronage on one or the other part; and without any serious
intention of committing malicious injury, great mischief may ensue, from
the foolish belief of one that he or she could (if they would) alter the
fate of the other in peace or war, love or hate, business or idleness.
Christina Smith had, from her earliest youth, entertained a warm
affection for her old playmate and schoolmate, Katharine Wing. Both were
“lovely in their lives,” though very little resemblant in their separate
attractions. Christina was slender, moderately tall, with regular
features, but with a pallor of complexion, that, while it indicated
great delicacy and sensibility, intimated also to the beholder of her
charms, that she held them with but a slight tenure. Katharine, on the
contrary, was ruddy-cheeked, plump, and looked altogether like one that
could laugh the world to scorn—laugh at every body and every thing, and
being possessed of excellent health, ought to have an imperturbable good
temper. All this she, in reality, possessed, but in addition—as Nature
has ordained that perfection shall never centre in an individual—she had
a spirit of coquetry—innocent coquetry she imagined it to be—which cast a
shadow over her otherwise fair character and accomplishments.
Christina was, as every young lady of eighteen imagines herself to be,
in love and beloved. Alas! that time should tell us how cruelly deceived
and deceiving we are! Her lover was a young Irishman, “ardent as the
sun”—importunate with billet-doux, anxious for reunions—waiting with
eager impatience for the happy time when, his diploma and his majority
obtained, he might offer himself, body and soul, to his true love, who
equally doted on him.
As a matter of course, Katharine was well advised of all this most
momentous history—gave her opinion on every separate step of its
progress—was understood to be the confidante of her friend as it
advanced, and the bridesmaid when completed. Who would not have
anticipated a hearty co-operation from the playmate of infancy, the
companion of youth? Alas! the wild ambition of patronage is stronger than
friendship, the spirit of coquetry is superior to love!
“The course of true love never does run smooth.”
So sayeth Shakspeare, and so have all found it who have indulged in the
seducing, uncertain passion. A slight expostulation with the young man as
to his habits, which were somewhat irregular—as the habits of students in
this and in most countries generally are—produced a lovers’ quarrel, and
they parted with strong protestations _of the lips_ that they should meet
no more. No sooner had separation taken place, than cool reflection came
to both. Each most bitterly regretted what had been said in haste, but
neither was willing to be the first to say _peccavi_. In this emergency
Christina bethought her to call on her dear friend, consult her, and
derive what consolation she could from her advice and good wishes.
Accustomed to enter unhesitatingly into the house in which Katharine
lived with her aunt, she passed up stairs to her boudoir without alarming
any of the inmates or attendants, and sat down waiting for her approach.
Half an hour had elapsed, when her attention was arrested by the noise of
voices in earnest conversation on the stairs. Satisfied that one party
was her quondam lover, she hastily concealed herself behind the curtain
which veiled the balcony, and she had no sooner done so than she beheld
her dear friend Kate and her beloved John enter. Entertaining a sincere
esteem for, and having unlimited confidence in, her old companion, she
at first believed that, having heard of the dispute between them, she
had sent for her lover, and would eventually do so for herself, that she
might interpose her kind offices between them. But what was her horror
and dismay when she distinctly heard words of love on the one hand and
of encouragement on the other, interchanged between them! Grieved to the
heart, smitten as a “bruised reed” did she remain—motionless, though not
tearless, behind that curtain—till after having become the involuntary
witness of many endearments, sweet to the false-hearted, but bitter to
her, her former lover took his leave.
Pale as death, yet calm and steady in her gait, did Christina emerge from
behind the friendly shade, and appear before the astonished gaze of her
whom she had always called _friend_. One short moment they stood with
their eyes fixed on each other—the next, Katharine, stung by remorse,
and bowed down by shame, was at the feet of her whom she had so cruelly
deceived. “Forgive me, oh forgive me!” she most piteously exclaimed,
“indeed I meant no harm by what I said to him and allowed him to protest
to me—I merely meant to show you that I could wean the affections of any
young man from yourself or any other, without the slightest intention
of appropriating them to myself. I really believe that he yet sincerely
loves you—allow me to be the happy instrument to bring about such a
blessed result.”
“Never, no—no—never!” replied Christina. “You I can forgive—I thank God
for it!—but I can never forget. How could I ever wed with one who had, by
reason of a slight quarrel, declared his love to another, with vows and
endearments, though unwittingly to him, in my very presence? It may not,
cannot be—farewell, dear Kate! May you and he be happy! I pray God to
bless you both—I bear to neither of you any ill-will—farewell!”
Crushed to the dust, deeply, though too late, repentant, Katharine
long remained, till roused by the re-entrance of him for whom (in the
thoughtless, but dangerous spirit of coquetry) she had sacrificed her
dearest friend. Mutual criminations and recriminations took place, and
they parted with a hearty dislike for each other.
Christina, in the following year, engaged another of her friends to be
her bridesmaid, and now, with a young Kentuckian husband, resides in
the far west, blessed with a cheerful home, and with “two young babes,”
as she expressed herself in a letter to a female friend of ours, “so
exquisitely beautiful, that all Kentucky cannot show the like—little
angels in fact.”
Katharine still lives, changeable, discontented, coquettish, angry with
herself, and at times repentant, yet without any real change. She is
still beautiful, though an air of chagrin and peevishness has somewhat
marred the expression of her formerly laughing visage. There is no
apparent hope for her.
He, the fickle one, whom Christina so luckily avoided marrying, is now
a worthless drunkard, degraded in his own opinion and in the opinion of
others—utterly irreclaimable.
W. V. H.
PUSSY-HOOD.
Pussy with the large gray eyes,
In whose orb, a cunning lies
Deep as the blue in yonder skies;
Thou whose back outshines the sun,
Sable hairs all smoothed in one,
As if by loving hands ’twere done.
Wetting thy reluctant feet,
To gain a dainty piece of meat,
Knowing that stolen food is sweet.
Gazing with ensnaring glance,
On the pigeon’s swift advance,
Which by thy look thou dost entrance.
Oh, why pause with indecision,
When the young bird before thy vision
Beckons thee on to meals Elysian?
Hearest thou sounds beneath the floor?
Say, knowest thou those sounds of yore,
And mouse than pigeon lovest thou more?
Oh thou cat with many hairs,
And many lives, each life has snares,
Care[1] and dogs come unawares.
Bear thou many a sharpen’d claw,
Often dog, with strongest paw,
From thy clutch would fain withdraw.
Oh, those claws like pins shall steal,
Making wounds that will not heal—
Alas for those their power that feel.
And oh, those claws of thine oft dart
Into the most tender part,
For a treacherous thing thou art.
P.
[1] Care killed a cat.
HARRY AND HIS RABBITS.
[Illustration: _Little Harry feeding his Rabbits._
NEW-YORK
D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.]
The care with which a doe rabbit provides for its young is very
remarkable. She not only makes a nest of the softest hay, from which she
carefully munches out all the harder portions, but she actually strips
the fur or down off her own breast, to spread over the hay. At first she
covers up her young ones with the same materials, in order to keep them
warm, uncovering them only for the purpose of giving them suck. She is
also extremely careful in proportioning this covering to the severity of
the weather, and the tenderness or strength of her offspring, gradually
diminishing it as they grow more robust.
If rabbits are kept and raised apart from their mother, it is then
necessary that proper attention should be paid to them by the person who
undertakes to raise them. That is the reason why you see little Harry
feeding his rabbits. Little Harry is the only son of a poor woman who
lives in a small cottage at the end of a lane on a large farm in this
state belonging to a wealthy and thriving farmer. Although the farmer
is very kind to Harry’s mother, allowing her to have the use of the
cottage and an acre of ground free of rent, still the old woman has hard
work to live comfortably. Knowing the advantages to be derived from the
possession of a good education, she deprives herself of many comforts to
enable her to send her only child, Harry, to school. Many of my little
readers who peruse this, go to excellent schools, and never imagine that
there are many who are deprived of that great advantage. When they think
of this, and the opportunities they enjoy for improving themselves, they
should exert themselves to the utmost to do so.
Harry being anxious to learn every thing he could, so that he might one
day become a smart man, and be able to support his mother, never spent a
cent for himself, but carried all he got to his mother. Perhaps you may
think a poor little boy like him did not get many cents; but in this you
are mistaken, for Harry was up bright and early every morning, and would
often do little jobs for the farmers before he went to school. Then he
had rabbit houses at the end of his mother’s cottage, where he kept a
number of rabbits, which often had young ones; these he would take to
market and sell for a good price. He raised a good many poultry, which
brought in a good deal of money for the eggs and chickens. With these
and other little matters that he raised on their acre of ground, he was
enabled to collect enough money to pay for his schooling, and give his
mother many comforts.
I hope all my readers will join with me in wishing Harry’s efforts may
be successful, and that they may reap that reward which industry and
kindness to parents deserve.
W. P.
THE SHIPWRECKED ON AN UNINHABITED ISLAND.
In the year 1805, a large ship, on the voyage homeward from the East
Indies, was wrecked in a violent storm in the South Pacific Ocean,
about 500 miles from the Cape of Good Hope. The ship went to pieces in
the night, having struck on the rocky coast of an unknown island. When
daylight appeared, 37 persons only remained out of about 200, who had
been in the ship. These had been, for the most part, saved by seizing
hold of spars or pieces of wood when the ship’s timbers separated. A
woman and her two children got safe to shore on a hen-coop; indeed they
were wrecked so near the shore, that the fowls in the hen-coop were
found to be little worse for having been thrown into the sea. Part of a
regiment, which had been some time in India, was returning to England
in the ship, and some of the soldiers and their wives and children were
among those who were saved. The ship’s cook and the carpenter were also
saved, and some of the common sailors, but none of the officers of the
ship, or those belonging to the regiment, were among the survivors. Only
one of the many passengers had the good fortune to get to shore; and he
had saved his life by being a strong swimmer. His name and station were
unknown to the crew, but he had gained among them, during the voyage, the
name of _the Philosopher_.
[Illustration]
The first day which this small remainder of the ship’s crew passed on
the island, on which Providence had thrown them, was melancholy enough.
Most of them sat on the rocks or on the ground, and kept looking on the
sea from which they had so lately escaped. Some were bewailing the loss
of their relatives, some that of their money, and others that of their
ship’s provisions; they were cold, and wet, and comfortless, and yet
disposed to do nothing to better their condition.