Do mothers ever peep into the Post-office Box? The Postmistress feels
sure they do, and so she tells this little story as much for them as for
their children. Perhaps some loving mother will gather her boys closer
to her and pet them more tenderly when she reads about this dear little
fellow, who was taken from a charitable institution to be "bound out" to
a farmer in New Jersey. The agent noticed that the boy kept placing his
right hand inside of his jacket on the left side, and occasionally would
peep within with a tender look. At last he said,
"What have you got in there, my little friend?"
"Oh, nothing, sir," he replied, "only a bit of my mother's dress, which
I've sewed in my coat; it was the dress she had on when she died, and
now it kind o' comforts me to touch it."
* * * * *
I am glad to print this composition of a school-girl of thirteen, first,
because it does her credit, and next, because it may give some people an
idea which will be useful, especially if they have careless children or
servants to vex them:
THE "POUND" AS A MEANS OF EDUCATION.--Neatness and order are two of the
most praiseworthy and necessary habits to be formed. Without them we can
not be good-natured or happy; for if we are continually fretting and
fuming about something that we are "sure we put on the table yesterday,
and now it has disappeared, and who has taken it?" etc., etc., we can
not be as contented and pleasant as though each thing were in its proper
place, and we could go right there and get it without any trouble.
Our mother had discovered this. Her family was growing up with
disorderly habits, which grew worse every day, and she now determined to
put a stop to it. A school in the neighborhood had had a great deal of
trouble on account of the disorder in which the recitation-rooms were
left by the pupils after dismissal in the afternoon.
Since the lady principal has had a "pound"--which, I can assure you, was
filled to overflowing each day--the pupils recognized the fact that it
was, to use their own words, a "cure."
So, one Saturday morning, mother decided to set up a "pound" in our last
summer's picnicking basket. At breakfast she declared to father that her
patience with us had "given out," and that she resorted to this as the
last hope of reforming her careless young people.
Accordingly, after father had gone down town, mother told us to ransack
every nook and cranny in the house, and gather together all our things
that were not in their proper places.
Jack's umbrella, which had evidently seen better days, was soon hauled
from the depths of the wood-box, where "it just fell in--hadn't time to
pull out--sorry," as he explained. The remains of a pair of Harry's
arctics and my skates, besides countless numbers of mufflers, fur gloves
with no mates, torn books, jackknives, marbles, and--what do you
think?--Bridget's switch, that, "begorra, she'd missed sence the new
gurrul came." That finished the wood-box, which we left for Harry's
closet.
Dozens and dozens of half-worn shoes, foot-balls, several packs of
cards, and last year's school-books in fragments, with several of his
new neck-ties, and his best white kids, all "sort of thrown together,
you know," with a quart or so of Excelsior taffy, which we had
manufactured on Halloween. As one would imagine, it took an hour or two
to dig through this mixture; but as "perseverance will conquer," it was
accomplished by dinner-time.
But do not think this was the last of the wonders of neatness we routed
out that day. Little Julie too was thoroughly "up" in the art of
disorder. Even her tiny play-house was nothing short of a show. Why,
Timothy Todkins, her paterfamilias, had lost both his legs and an eye,
and the poor fellow's nose was in a shockingly damaged condition. And
Mrs. Zenobia Franklin Todkins! Well, she was altogether unmentionable.
To see mother's face when we piled all the things in a heap before her?
She did not say a word, but just placed them in the basket, and put it
on a shelf in the library closet.
I think that Harry did look a little bit glum while mother sat there;
but don't tell me it was his conscience pricking him. More likely 'twas
because he wouldn't be able to wear his white kids at Puss Pringle's
party on Wednesday. Jack and I went out, but we met father in the hall,
with little Julie hanging on his arm, and begging him to "det Dulie's
Toddie for her; poor Toddie was pounded all up from Dulie." Mother
showed to our astonished papa the contents of that pound, and after
having a hearty roar over them, he closed operations by administering a
sound scolding to us, of which this was the moral:
Little girls and little boys
Should aspire to be neat,
And not destroy their pretty toys,
But them in order keep.