in the chickens; however, they all went to look at it, and Miss Anne
praised it very highly. She said the flowers looked beautifully.
“And now, Miss Anne,” said Lucy, “whenever I want any flowers, I can
come out here and gather them out of my garden.”
“Yes,” said Miss Anne, “as long as they last.”
“O, they will last all the time,” said Lucy.
“Will they?” said Miss Anne, rather doubtfully.
“Yes,” said Lucy; “I am going to water them.”
“That will help,” replied Miss Anne, “I have no doubt.”
“I can keep them fresh as long as I want to, in that way,” said Lucy.
“Royal said so.”
“Did you, Royal?” asked Miss Anne.
“No,” said Royal. “I said that they would keep fresh as long as she
watered them.”
“That wasn’t quite honest, was it, Royal? for they won’t keep fresh
more than two days.”
“Well,” said Royal, “and she won’t have patience to water them more
than _one_ day.”
“That’s equivocation,” said Miss Anne.
“Equivocation?” repeated Royal; “what do you mean by that?”
“It is when anything you say has two senses, and it is true in one
sense, and not true in another; and you mean to have any person
understand it in the sense in which it is _not_ true.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Lucy.
“Why, I will give you an example. Once there was a boy who told his
brother William, that there was a black dog up in the garret, and
William ran up to see. His brother came up behind him, and, when they
opened the garret door, he pointed to an old andiron, such as are
called dogs, and said, ‘See! there he is, standing on three legs.’”
Royal laughed very heartily at this story. He was much more amused at
the waggery of such a case of equivocation, than impressed with the
dishonesty of it.
“Miss Anne,” said he, “I don’t see that there was any great harm in
that.”
“Equivocation is not wrong always,” said Miss Anne. “Riddles are often
equivocations.”
“Tell us one,” said Royal.
“Why, there is your old riddle of the carpenter cutting the door. He
cut it, and cut it, and cut it, and cut it too little; then he cut it
again, and it fitted.”
“Is that an equivocation?” said Royal.
“Yes,” said Miss Anne; “the equivocation is in the word _little_. It
may mean that he cut too little, or that he cut until the door was too
little. Now, when you give out that riddle, you mean that the person
whom you are talking with, should understand it in the last sense; that
is, that he cut until the _door_ was too little, and then that he cut
it more, and it was just right. But it cannot be true in that sense.
It is true only in the other sense; that is, that he did not cut it
enough, and then, when he cut it more, he made it fit. So that he cut
it too little, has two senses. The words are true in one sense; but you
mean to have them understood in the other sense, in which they cannot
be true. And that is an _equivocation_.
“But, then,” continued Miss Anne, “equivocations in riddles are
certainly not wrong; but equivocations in our _dealings_ with one
another certainly are.”
“I don’t think that the boy that said there was a dog up garret did any
thing wrong,” said Royal.
“I do,” said Lucy, putting down her little foot with great emphasis. “I
think he did very wrong indeed.”
“O no, Lucy,” said Miss Anne, “not very wrong indeed. Perhaps it was
not quite right. But it is certainly wrong to gain any advantage from
any person in your dealings with them, by equivocation.”
“Did I?” said Royal.
“Yes, I think you did, a little. You told Lucy that the flowers
would keep fresh as long as she would water them. You meant her to
understand it absolutely; but it is true only in another sense.”
“In what sense?” said Royal.
“Why, as long as she _would be likely_ to water them; which is a very
different thing. Perhaps she would not have been willing to make the
bargain with you, if she had understood that she could not keep them
fresh by watering them, more than a day or two.”
While they had been talking thus, they had gradually been walking
towards the house, and they had now reached the door. Miss Anne went
in, and Lucy and Royal went to the hen-coop to see the hen and chickens.
Lucy went to get some corn, but Joanna told her that crumbs of bread
would be better, and then the old hen could break them up into small
pieces, and feed her chickens with them. She accordingly gave her some
small pieces of bread, which Lucy carried back; and she and Royal
amused themselves for a long time, by throwing crumbs in through the
spaces between the sticks.
While they were talking about them, Royal happened to speak of them as
_his_ hen and chickens, and Lucy said that she thought he ought not to
have them all. She wanted some herself,--at least some of the chickens.
“O no,” said Royal; “they are altogether mine; it is my coop.”
“No,” replied Lucy; “I helped you make the coop, and I mean to have
some of the chickens.”
“Yes, but, Lucy, you promised me that I should have the coop and the
hens, if I would make you a garden.”
“Yes, but not the chickens,” said Lucy; “I did not say a word about the
chickens.”
“O Lucy, that was because we did not expect to have any chickens; but
it is all the same thing.”
“What is all the same thing?” said Lucy.
“Why, hens and chickens,” said Royal.
“O Royal,” said Lucy, “they are very different indeed.” Lucy looked
through the bars of the hen-coop, at the hen and chickens, and was
quite surprised that Royal could say that they were all the same thing.
“In a bargain, Lucy, I mean; in a bargain, I mean. If you make a
bargain about hens, you mean all the chickens too.”
“_I_ didn’t, I am sure,” said Lucy; “I never thought of such a thing as
the chickens; and besides, you did not make me such a garden as you
promised me.”
“Why, yes I did,” said Royal.
“No,” said Lucy, “you told me an equivocation.”
Royal laughed.
“You did, Royal; you know you did; and Miss Anne said so.
“_I_ think it was a falsehood, myself,” continued Lucy, “or almost a
falsehood.”
“O no, Lucy; I don’t think you would water them more than one day, and
I knew that they would keep fresh as long as that.”
Lucy was silent. She did not know exactly how to reply to Royal’s
reasoning; but she thought it was very hard, that out of the whole
thirteen chickens, Royal would not let her have any to call hers.
She told Royal that she only wanted two; if he would let her have two,
she should be satisfied;--but Royal said that he wanted them all; that
she had the garden, and he must have the hen and chickens.
Lucy might very probably have said something further on the subject;
but at that moment she spied a little chicken, with black and yellow
feathers, just creeping through between the bars of the coop. A moment
more, and he was fairly out upon the grass outside.
“O Royal!” exclaimed Lucy, “one is out! one is out! I can catch him.”
“No,” said Royal, “let me catch him. You will hurt him.”
They both started up, and ran after the chicken; while he, frightened
at their pursuit, and at his strange situation in the grass, ran off
farther and farther, _peeping_ with great earnestness and noise. Royal
caught at him, but did not catch him. He darted off towards where Lucy
was, and at that instant Lucy clapped her hand over him, and held him a
prisoner.
The poor hen was much alarmed at the cries of the lost chicken; and she
pushed her head through the bars of the cage, trying to get out, and
apparently in great distress.
“Give him to me,” said Royal, “and I’ll put him back again.”
“No,” said Lucy, “I am going to carry him in, and show him to Joanna.”
“O, well,” said Royal, “only give him to me, and let me carry him. You
will hurt him.”
“No, I won’t hurt him,” said Lucy; “I will be very careful indeed.”
So she put the tender little animal very gently in one of her hands,
and covered him with the other.
[Illustration: “Give him to me,” said Royal, “and I’ll put him back
again.”--_Page_ 114.]
“O, what soft feathers!” said Lucy.
“Yes,” said Royal; “and see his little bill sticking out between your
fingers!”
Thus they went into the house,--first to Joanna, and afterwards to
Miss Anne; and the hen, when the lost chicken was out of hearing, soon
regained her composure. She had a dozen chickens left, and as she could
not count, she did not know but that there were thirteen.
[Illustration]
CONVERSATION X.
JOHNNY.
Miss Anne was very much pleased to see the little chicken. She sent
Royal out after a small, square piece of board. While he was gone, she
got a small flake of cotton batting, and also an old work-basket, from
the upper shelf of her closet. Then, when Royal came in with the board,
she put the cotton upon it, shaping it in the form of a nest. She put
the chicken upon this nest, and then turned the basket down over it,
which formed a sort of cage, to keep the little prisoner from getting
away. Royal and Lucy could look through the open-work of the basket,
and see him.
But Miss Anne, though pleased with the chicken, was very sorry to
find that Royal had so monopolizing a spirit. A monopolizing spirit
is an eager desire to get for ourselves, alone, that which others
ought to have a share of. Royal wanted to own the hen and chickens
himself, and to exclude, or shut out, Lucy from all share of them.
He wished to monopolize them. Too eager a desire to get what others
have, is sometimes called _covetousness_. Miss Anne resolved to have a
conversation with Royal about his monopolizing and covetous disposition.
She did not, however, have a very good opportunity until several days
after this; but then a circumstance occurred which naturally introduced
the subject.
The circumstance was this.
The children were taking a walk with Miss Anne. They went to a
considerable distance from the house, by a path through the woods, and
came at length to the banks of a mill stream. The water tumbled over
the rocks which filled the bed of the stream. There was a narrow road
along the bank, and Miss Anne turned into this road, and walked along
up towards the mill, which was only a short distance above.
They saw, before them, at a little distance, a boy about as large as
Royal, cutting off the end of a long, slender pole.
“O, see what a beautiful fishing-pole that boy has got!” said Royal.
“Is that a fishing-pole?” said Lucy.
Just then the boy called out, as if he was speaking to somebody in the
bushes.
“Come, George; ain’t you most ready?”
“Yes,” answered George, “I have got mine just ready; but I want to get
a little one for Johnny.”
“O, never mind Johnny,” said the other boy; “he can’t fish.”
By this time, the children had advanced so far that they could see
George and Johnny, in a little open place among the bushes. George was
about as large as the other boy; and he was just finishing the trimming
up of another pole, very much like the one which the children had seen
first. There was a very small boy standing by him, who, as the children
supposed, was Johnny. He was looking on, while George finished his pole.
“_I_ would not get Johnny one,” said the boy in the road. “He can’t do
any thing with it.”
“No,” said George, “but he will like to have one, so that he can make
believe fish; shouldn’t you, Johnny?”
“Yes,” said Johnny; or rather he said something that meant _yes_; for
he could not speak very plain.
“Well,” said the boy in the road, “I am not going to wait any longer.”
He accordingly shut up his knife, put it into his pocket, and walked
along.
George scrambled back into the bushes, and began to look about for a
pole for Johnny. Miss Anne and the children were now opposite to them.
“Johnny,” said Miss Anne, “do you expect that you can catch fishes?”
Johnny did not answer, but stood motionless, gazing upon the strangers
in silent wonder.
Miss Anne smiled, and walked on, and the children followed her.
Presently George and Johnny came up behind them,--George walking
fast, and Johnny trotting along by his side. When they had got before
them a little way, they turned out of the road into a path which led
down towards the stream, which here was at a little distance from the
road. The path led in among trees and bushes; and so Miss Anne and the
children soon lost sight of them entirely.
“George seems to be a strange sort of a boy,” said Miss Anne.
“Why?” asked Royal.
“Why, he cannot be contented to have a fishing-pole himself, unless
little Johnny has one too.”
“Is that very strange?” asked Royal.
“I thought it was rather unusual,” said Miss Anne. “Boys generally
want to get things for themselves; but I did not know that they were
usually so desirous to have their brothers gratified too.”
“I do,” said Royal; “that is, I should, if I had a brother big enough.”
“You have a sister,” said Miss Anne.
“Well,” said Royal, “if I was going a fishing, and Lucy was going too,
I should want to have her have a fishing-pole as well as I.”
“It is not always so with boys, at any rate,” said Miss Anne. “And that
makes me think of a curious thing that happened once. A little boy,
whom I knew, had a beautiful picture-book spoiled by a little gray dog,
in a very singular way.”
“How was it?” said Royal.
“Tell us, Miss Anne,” said Lucy; “tell us all about it.”
“Well, this boy’s father bought him a very beautiful picture-book, with
colored pictures in it, and brought it home, and gave it to him. And
the next day the little gray dog spoiled it entirely.”
“How?” said Lucy.
“Guess.”
“Why, he bit it, and tore it to pieces with his teeth, I suppose,” said
Lucy.
“No,” said Miss Anne.
“Then he must have trampled on it with his muddy feet,” said Royal.
“No,” said Miss Anne, “it could not be in any such way, for it was not
a _live_ dog.”
“Not a _live_ dog!” said Lucy.
“No, it was a little glass dog,--gray glass; only he had black ears and
tail.”
“I don’t see how he could spoil a book,” said Royal.
“He did,” answered Miss Anne.
“The book gave Joseph a great deal of pleasure before the dog came, and
after that, it was good for nothing to him.”
“Joseph?” said Royal; “who was he?”
“Why, he was the little boy that had the book. Didn’t I tell you his
name before?”
“No,” said Royal; “but tell us how the dog spoiled the book.”
“Why, you must understand,” said Miss Anne, “that Joseph had a little
sister at home, named Mary; and when their father brought home the
book to Joseph, he had nothing for Mary. But the next day, he was in
a toy-shop, and he saw this little glass dog, and he thought that it
would be a very pretty little present for Mary. So he bought it, and
carried it home to her.”
“Well, Miss Anne, tell on,” said Lucy, when she found that Miss Anne
paused, as if she was not going to say anything more.
“Why, that is about all,” said Miss Anne, “only that he gave the dog to
Mary.”
“But you said that the dog spoiled Joseph’s book.”
“So it did. You see, when Joseph came to see the dog, he wanted it
himself, so much that he threw his book down upon the floor, and came
begging for the dog; and he could not take any pleasure at all in the
book after that.”
“Is that all?” said Royal; “I supposed it was going to be something
different from that.”
“Then you don’t think it is much of a story!”
“No,” said Royal.
“Nor I,” said Lucy.
“Well, now, _I_ thought,” said Miss Anne, “that that was rather a
singular way for a dog to spoil a picture-book.”
There was a moment’s pause after Miss Anne had said these words; and
then, an instant afterwards, the whole party came suddenly out of the
woods; and the mill, with a bridge near it, crossing the stream, came
into view.
“O, there is a bridge,” said Lucy; “let us go over that bridge.”
“Well,” said Royal, “so we will.”
They walked on towards the bridge; but, just before they got to it,
Royal observed that there were ledges of rocks below the bridge,
running out into the water; and he said that he should rather go down
upon those rocks.
Miss Anne said that she should like to go down there too, very much,
if she thought it was safe; and she concluded to go down, slowly and
carefully, and see. They found that, by exercising great caution,
they could advance farther than they had supposed. Sometimes Royal,
who was pretty strong, helped Miss Anne and Lucy down a steep place;
and sometimes they had to step over a narrow portion of the torrent.
They found themselves at last all seated safely upon the margin of a
rocky island, in the middle of the stream, with the water foaming, and
roaring, and shooting swiftly by, all around them.
“There,” said Royal, “isn’t this a good place?”
“Yes,” said Lucy; “I never saw the water run so much before.”
“Children,” said Miss Anne, “look down there!”
“Where?” said Royal.
“There, upon the bank, under the trees, down on that side of the
stream,--a little below that large, white rock.”
“Some boys,” said Royal. “They’re fishing.”
“I see ’em,” said Lucy.
“Yes,” said Royal, “they are the same boys we saw in the road.”
“Yes,” said Miss Anne; “and don’t you see Johnny running about with his
pole?”
“Where?” said Lucy; “which is Johnny?”
“That’s he,” said Royal, “running about. Now he’s gone down to a sandy
place upon the shore. See, he’s reaching out with his pole, as far as
he can, upon the water; he is trying to reach a little piece of board
that is floating by. There, he has got it, and is pulling it in.”
“I am glad George got him a pole,” said Miss Anne.
“So am I,” said Royal.
“And so am I,” said Lucy.
“It seems George is happier himself, if Johnny has something to make
him happy too; but the other boy isn’t.”
“How do you know that he isn’t?” asked Lucy.
“Why, he did not want George to stop. He had got a pole himself, and he
did not care any thing about Johnny’s having one.”
“Yes,” said Royal, “so I think.”
“Some children,” said Miss Anne, “when they have anything that they
like, always want their brothers and sisters to have something too; and
George seems to be one of them.
“And that makes me think,” continued Miss Anne, “of the story of the
_horse_ and the picture-book.”
“What _is_ the story?” said Royal.
“Why, it is a story of a little wooden horse, which, instead of
spoiling a picture-book, as the dog did, made it much more valuable.”
“Tell us all about it,” said Lucy.
“Very well, I will,” said Miss Anne. “There was once a boy named David.
His uncle sent him, one new year’s day, a picture-book. There was a
picture on every page, and two on the cover. He liked his picture-book
very much indeed; but one thing diminished the pleasure he took in
looking at it.”
“What do you mean by _diminished_?” asked Lucy.
“Why, made it smaller,” said Royal.
“Yes,” said Miss Anne; “and the circumstance which made his pleasure
in the picture-book less than it otherwise would have been, was, that
his little brother Georgie had no new book or plaything. David showed
Georgie his book, and sometimes let him have it by himself; but he
would have liked it better, if Georgie had had a present of his own.”
“And now about the horse?” said Royal.
“Well,--that evening, when these boys’ father came home to supper, he
brought something tied up in a paper, which, he said, was for Georgie.
David took it, and ran to find Georgie,--hoping that it was some
present for him. Georgie opened it, and found that it was a handsome
wooden horse, on wheels,--with a long red cord for a bridle, to draw
him about by. David was very much pleased at this; and now he could go
and sit down upon his cricket, and look at his book, with a great deal
more pleasure; for Georgie had a present too. So, you see, the horse
made the picture-book more valuable.”
The children sat still a short time, thinking of what Miss Anne had
said; and at length Royal said,
“Are these stories which you have been telling us _true_, Miss Anne?”
“No,” said Miss Anne, quietly.
“Then you made them up.”
“Yes,” said Miss Anne.
“What for?” said Lucy.
“Why, to show you and Royal,” said Miss Anne, “the difference between
a monopolizing and covetous spirit, and one of generosity and
benevolence, which leads us to wish to have others possess and enjoy,
as well as ourselves.”
Royal, pretty soon after this, proposed that he and Lucy should find
some sticks upon the little island, where they were sitting, and throw
them upon the water, and see them sail down; and they did accordingly
amuse themselves in this way for some time. Lucy was very much amused
to see the sticks shoot along the rapids, and dive down the little
cascades among the rocks. Miss Anne helped them throw in one piece of
plank, which had drifted down from the mill, and which was too large
and heavy for them to lift alone. They watched this for some time, as
it floated away far down the stream.
At last, it was time to go home; and they all went back, very
carefully, over the stones, until they got back to the shore; and then
they walked home by a new way, over a hill, where they had a beautiful
prospect.
That night, just before sundown, when Royal and Lucy went out to see
their chickens, Royal told Lucy that she might have the little black
chicken and two others for her own.
“Well,” said Lucy, clapping her hands, “and will you let me keep them
in your coop?”
“Yes,” replied Royal; “or I will let you own the coop with me;--you
shall have a share in the coop, in proportion to your share of the
chickens.”
“In proportion?” said Lucy; “what does that mean?”
“Why, just as much of the coop as you have of the chickens,” said Royal.
“Well,” said Lucy, “how much of the coop will it be, for three
chickens?”
“O, I don’t know,” said Royal.
“So much?” said Lucy, putting her hand upon the side of the coop, so as
to mark off a small portion of it.
“O, I don’t mean,” said Royal, “to divide it. We will own it all
together, in partnership; only you shall have a small share, just in
proportion to your chickens.”
Lucy did not understand this very well, but she thought more about the
chickens than about the coop; and she began to look at them, one by
one, carefully, to consider which she should have for hers. She chose
two, besides the black one; and she said that she meant to get Miss
Anne to name them for her.
Royal took a great deal of pleasure, after this, every time that he
came out to see his chickens, in observing how much interest Lucy took,
every day, in coming to see _her_ chickens, and how much enjoyment it
afforded her to be admitted thus to a share in the property.
[Illustration]
CONVERSATION XI.
GETTING LOST.
One afternoon, a short time after dinner, Lucy was sitting upon a seat
under a trellis, near the door which led towards the garden, when her
mother came out.
“Lucy,” said she, “I have got some rather bad news for you.”
“What is it?” said Lucy.
“I am rather afraid to tell you, for fear it will make you cry.”
“O no, mother; I shall not cry,” said Lucy.
“Well,” said her mother, “we shall see. The news is, that we are all
going away this afternoon, and are going to leave you at home.”
“What, all alone?” said Lucy.
“Not quite alone; for Joanna will be here,” said her mother.
“Where are you going?” said Lucy.
“We are going away, to ride.”
“Why can’t I go too?” said Lucy.
“I can explain the reason better when we come back,” answered her
mother.
Lucy did not cry; though she found it very hard to refrain. Her father
and mother, and Miss Anne and Royal, were all going, and she had to
remain at home. They were going, too, in a kind of barouche; and when
it drove up to the door, Lucy thought there would be plenty of room
for her. She found it hard to submit; but submission was made somewhat
easier by her mother’s not giving her any reasons. When a mother gives
a girl reasons why she cannot have something which she is very strongly
interested in, they seldom satisfy her, for she is not in a state of
mind to consider them impartially. It only sets her to attempting to
answer the reasons, and thus to agitate and disturb her mind more than
is necessary. It is therefore generally best not to explain the reasons
until afterwards, when the mind of the child is in a better condition
to feel their force.
After the barouche drove away, Lucy went out into the kitchen to see
Joanna; and she asked Joanna what she should do. Joanna advised her to
go out and play in the yard until she had got her work done, and then
to come in and sit with her. Lucy did so. She played about in the
grass until Joanna called from the window, and told her that she was
ready.
Then Lucy came in. She found the kitchen all arranged in good order,
and Joanna was just sitting down before a little table, at the window,
to sew. Lucy got her basket of blocks, and began to build houses in the
middle of the floor.
“Joanna,” said she, after a little while, “I wish you would tell me
something more about when you were a farmer’s daughter.”
“Why, I am a farmer’s daughter now,” said Joanna.