Edgar, who had repented of his rude words and unkind manner _The power of kindness and other stories A book for the example and encouragement of the young

[Illustration]

THE POWER OF KINDNESS.

And Other Stories.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: THE FIRST INTERVIEW]

[Illustration: A TIMELY RESCUE

_page 105_]

The POWER OF

KINDNESS

& OTHER STORIES.

_T. NELSON & SONS_

[Illustration]

THE

POWER OF KINDNESS.

And Other Stories.

A BOOK FOR THE EXAMPLE AND ENCOURAGEMENT OF

THE YOUNG.

_By T. S. ARTHUR._

LONDON:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

1877.

Contents.

THE POWER OF KINDNESS, 7

ADA AND HER PET FAWN, 18

HOW TO AVOID A QUARREL, 26

THE BROKEN DOLL, 34

HARSH WORDS AND KIND WORDS, 42

A NOBLE ACT, 46

EMMA LEE AND HER SIXPENCE, 53

THE TIMELY AID, 59

THE DOUBLE FAULT, 69

A STORY ABOUT A DOG, 74

THE DISCONTENTED SHEPHERD, 81

THE SHILLING, 86

THE WOUNDED BIRD, 90

THE HOLIDAY, 99

ROVER AND HIS LITTLE MASTER, 104

JAMES AND HENRY, 108

THE USE OF FLOWERS, 116

[Illustration]

The Power of Kindness.

“I hate him!”

Thus, in a loud, angry voice, spoke a lad named Charles Freeman. His

face was red, and his fair white brow disfigured by passion.

“Yes, I hate him! and he had better keep his distance from me, or I--”

“What would you do, Charles?” asked the lad’s companion, seeing that he

paused.

“I don’t know what I might not be tempted to do. I would trample upon

him as I would upon a snake.”

For a boy fourteen years of age, this was a dreadful state of mind to

be in. The individual who had offended him was a fellow-student, named

William Aiken. The cause of offence we will relate.

* * * * *

Charles Freeman was a self-willed, passionate boy, who hesitated not

to break any rule of the institution at which he was receiving his

education, provided, in doing so, he felt quite sure of not being found

out and punished. On a certain occasion, he, with two or three others,

who were planning some act of insubordination, called into the room of

William Aiken and asked him to join them.

“It will be such grand sport,” said Freeman.

“But will it be right?” asked the more conscientious lad.

“Right or wrong, we are going to do it. Who cares for the president

and all the faculty put together? They are a set of hypocrites and

oppressors: make the best you can of them.”

“They don’t ask us to do anything but what is required by the rules of

the institution; and then, I think, we ought to obey.”

“You are wonderfully inclined to obedience!” said Charles Freeman, in

a sneering voice. “Come, boys! We have mistaken Master Aiken. I did not

know before that he was such a milksop. Come!”

The other lads retired with Freeman, but they did not insult Aiken, for

they knew him to be kind-hearted and honourable, and felt more disposed

to respect him for his objections than to speak harshly to him for

entertaining them. Aiken made no reply to the insulting language of

the hot-headed, thoughtless Charles Freeman, although his words roused

within him an instant feeling of indignation, that almost forced his

tongue to utter some strong, retaliating expressions. But he controlled

himself, and was very glad, as soon as his visitors had left him, that

he had been able to do so.

On the next morning, before daylight, some persons, unknown to the

faculty, brought from a neighbouring field a spiteful ram, and tied

him, with a strong cord, to a post near the door of the president’s

dwelling. The president, who was very near-sighted, always read prayers

in the chapel at five o’clock in the morning. At the usual hour he

descended from his chamber, and came out at his front door to go to

the chapel, which was distant some fifty yards. It was a little after

break of day. In the dim morning twilight, the president could see but

indistinctly even objects that were very near to him.

The ram, which had, after his fierce struggles with those who had

reduced him to a state of captivity, lain down quietly, roused himself

up at the sound of the opening door, and stood ready to give the

president a rather warm reception the moment he came within reach

of him. Unconscious of the danger that menaced him, the president

descended from the door with slow and cautious steps, and received in

his side a terrible blow from the animal’s head, that threw him, some

feet from where he was standing, prostrate upon the ground. Fortunately

the ram had reached within a few inches of the length of his tether

when the blow was given, and could not, therefore, repeat it, as the

object of his wrath was beyond his reach.

The president was rather severely hurt; so much so that he was unable

to go to the chapel and read morning prayers, and was confined to

his chamber for some days. No investigation into the matter was made

until after he was able to be about again. Then he assembled all the

students together and stated to them what had occurred, and the pain he

had endured in consequence, and asked to have the individuals who had

been guilty of this outrage designated. All were silent. One student

looked at another, and then at the assembled faculty, but no one gave

the desired information, although many of those present knew the

parties who were engaged in the act. Finding that no one would divulge

the names of those who had been guilty of the outrage against him, the

president said,--

“Let all who know nothing of this matter rise to their feet.”

Charles Freeman was the first to spring up, and one after another

followed him, until all had risen except William Aiken. The president

paused for some moments, and then ordered the young men to take their

seats.

“William Aiken will please to come forward,” said the president. As the

lad rose from his seat, several of the faculty, who had their eyes

upon Freeman, and who had reason for suspecting that he knew about as

much of the matter as any one, noticed that he cast a look of anger

towards Aiken.

“It seems, then, that you know something about this matter,” said the

president.

“All I know about it,” replied Aiken, “is, that I was applied to by

some of my fellow-students to join them in doing what has been done,

and that I declined participating in it.”

“For what reason, sir?”

“Because I thought it wrong.”

“Who were the students that applied to you?”

“I would rather not answer that question, sir.”

“But I insist upon it.”

“Then I must decline doing so.”

“You will be suspended, sir.”

“I should regret that,” was the lad’s manly reply. “But as I have

broken no rule of the institution, such a suspension would be no

disgrace to me.”

The president was perplexed. At this point one of the professors

whispered something in his ear, and his eye turned immediately upon

Freeman.

“Let Charles Freeman come forward,” he said.

With a fluctuating countenance the guilty youth left his seat and

approached the faculty.

“Is this one of them?” said the president.

Aiken made no reply.

“Silence is assent,” the president remarked; “you can take your seat,

young man.”

As Aiken moved away, the president, who had rather unjustly fixed upon

him the burden of having given information, tacitly, against Freeman,

said, addressing the latter:--

“And now, sir, who were your associates in this thing?”

“_I_ am no common informer, sir. You had better ask William Aiken. No

doubt _he_ will tell you,” replied the lad.

The president stood thoughtful for a moment, and then said,--

“Gentlemen, you can all retire.”

It was as the students were retiring from the room where this

proceeding had been conducted that Freeman made the bitter remarks

about Aiken with which our story opens. It happened that the subject

of them was so close to him as to hear all he said. About ten minutes

after this, against the persuasion of a fellow-student, Freeman went to

the room of Aiken for the satisfaction of telling him, as he said, “a

piece of his mind.” Aiken was sitting by a table, with his head resting

upon his hand, as Freeman came in. He looked up, when his door opened,

and, seeing who it was, rose quickly to his feet, and advanced towards

him a few steps, saying, with a smile, as he did so:--

“I am glad you have come, Charles. I had just made up my mind to go

to your room. Sit down now, and let us talk this matter over with

as little hard feelings as possible. I am sure it need not make us

enemies. If I have been at any point in the least to blame, I will

freely acknowledge it, and do all in my power to repair any injury that

I may have done to you. Can I do more?”

“Of course not,” replied Charles, completely subdued by the unexpected

manner and words of Aiken.

“I heard you say, a little while ago, that you hated me,” resumed

William. “Of course there must be some cause for this feeling. Tell me

what it is, Charles.”

The kind manner in which Aiken spoke, and the mildness of his voice,

completely subdued the lion in the heart of Freeman. He was astonished

at himself, and the wonderful revulsion that had taken place, so

suddenly, in his feelings.

“I spoke hastily,” he said. “But I was blind with anger at being

discovered through you.”

“But I did not discover you, remember that, Charles.”

“If you had risen with the rest--”

“I would not, in word or act, tell a lie, Charles, for my right hand,”

said Aiken, in an earnest voice, interrupting him. “You must not blame

me for this.”

“Perhaps I ought not, but--”

Freeman left the sentence unfinished, and rising to his feet, commenced

walking the floor of Aiken’s room, hurriedly. This was continued for

some minutes, when he stopped suddenly, and extending his hand, said,--

“I have thought it all over, William, and I believe I have no cause of

complaint against you; but I acknowledge that you have against me. I

have insulted you and hated you without a cause. I wish I could act, in

all things, from the high principles that govern you.”

“Try, Charles, try!” said Aiken with warmth, as he grasped the hand of

his fellow-student.

“It will be no use for me to try,” returned Freeman, sadly. “I shall

be expelled from the institution; my father will be angry; and I shall

perhaps be driven, by my hot and hasty spirit, to say something to him

that will estrange us, for he is a man of a stern temper.”

“Don’t fear such consequences,” said Aiken kindly. “Leave it to me. I

think I can make such representations to the president as will induce

him to let the matter drop where it is.”

“If you can do so, it may save me from ruin,” replied Freeman, with

much feeling.

William Aiken was not deceived in his expectations. He represented to

the kind-hearted but rather impetuous president the repentant state of

Freeman’s mind, and the consequences likely to arise if he should be

expelled from college. The president made no promises; but nothing

more was heard of the subject. From that time the two students were

warm friends; and Freeman was not only led to see the beauty and

excellence of truth and integrity of character, but to act from the

same high principles that governed his noble-minded friend.

* * * * *

There is not one of our young readers who cannot see what sad

consequences might have arisen, if William Aiken had not kept down his

indignant feelings, and been governed by kindness instead of anger.

[Illustration]

Ada and her Pet Fawn.

There was once a dear child named Ada, who was of so sweet a temper

that she only knew how to love; and the consequence was, that everybody

and everything that could know her, loved the sweet little girl in

return. I do not believe that a servant in her father’s family ever

spoke unkindly to Ada, she was so good. There are but few of my young

readers, I am afraid, that can say so of themselves. Cook scolds, the

chambermaid is so cross, and nurse is out of temper, whenever you come

near them. Yes, you know all that; but, my young friends, I am afraid

it is all your own fault. Now, examine closely your own feelings and

conduct, and see if you do not make this trouble for yourselves. Do

you always speak kindly to those around you; and do you always try to

give them as little trouble as possible?

As for Ada, everybody loved her; and the reason, as I have already

stated, was plain: she didn’t know any feeling toward others except

that of love. Even the dumb animals would come to her side when she

appeared. The cat would rub against her, and purr as she sat in her

little chair; and when she went out to play among the flowers, would

run after her just as you have seen a favourite dog run after his

master. She never passed Lion, the watch-dog, that he didn’t wag his

great tail, or turn his head to look after her; and if she stopped and

spoke to or put her hand upon him, his old limbs would quiver with

delight, and his face would actually laugh like a human face. And

why was this? It was because love prompted Ada to kind acts towards

everything. Love beamed from her innocent countenance, and gave a music

to her voice that all ears, even those of dumb animals, were glad to

hear. Yes, everything loved Ada, because she was good.

The father of gentle, loving Ada was a rich English lord--a certain

class of wealthy and distinguished men in England, as most young

readers know, are called lords--and he had a great estate some miles

from London, in which were many animals; among them, herds of deer.

When Ada was three or four years old, her father went to live on this

estate. Around the fine old mansion into which they removed were

stately trees, green lawns, and beautiful gardens; and a short distance

away, and concealed from view by a thick grove, was the park where

roamed the graceful deer.

Under the shade of those old trees, upon the smoothly-shaven lawn, or

amid the sweet flowers in the garden, Ada spent many hours every day,

one of the happiest of beings alive.

One morning--it was a few weeks after Ada had come to live in this

fair and beautiful place--she strayed off a short distance from the

house, being lured away by the bright wild flowers that grew thickly

all around, and with which she was filling her apron. At last, when her

tiny apron would not hold a blossom more without pushing off some other

flower, Ada looked up from the ground, and discovered that she was out

of sight of her house, and among trees which stood so thickly together

that the sky could scarcely be seen overhead, nor the light beyond,

when she endeavoured to look between the leafy branches. But Ada did

not feel afraid, for she knew no cause for fear. She loved everything,

and she felt that everything loved her. There was not any room in her

heart for fear.

Still Ada felt too much alone, and she turned and sought to find her

way out of the woods and get back again. While yet among the trees,

she heard a noise of feet approaching; and turning, she saw an animal

that was unlike any she had seen before. It came up close to her, and

neither of them felt afraid. It was a fawn, only a few months old.

The fawn looked into Ada’s face with its dark bright eyes, and when

she spoke to it, and laid her hand upon its head, the young creature

pressed lovingly against the child.

When Ada found her way out of the woods, and came again upon the green

lawn, the young deer was close by her side. As soon as Lion saw the

fawn, he gave a loud bark, and came dashing toward the timid creature.

But Ada put her arm around its neck, and said,--

“Don’t be afraid. Lion won’t hurt you. Lion is a good dog.”

And Lion seemed to understand the act of Ada, for he stopped short

before he reached them, wagged his tail, and looked curiously at the

new companion which Ada had found. First he walked round and round, as

if the whole matter was not clear to him. He had chased deer in his

time, and did not seem to understand why he was not to sink his great

teeth into the tender flank of the gentle creature that had followed

his young mistress from the woods. But he soon appeared to get light on

this difficult subject, for he came up to be patted by Ada, and did not

even growl at the fawn, nor show any disposition to hurt it.

The fawn would not stay in the park after this. Ada’s father had it

taken back once or twice, but before the day was gone it managed to

escape, and came to see its newly-found friend. After this it was

permitted to remain; and every day little Ada fed it with her own

hand. When others of the family approached, the timid creature would

start away; but when Ada appeared, it came with confidence to her side.

Ada had a brother two years older than she was. He was different from

his sister in not having her innocent mind and loving heart. Sometimes

he indulged in a cruel disposition, and often he was ill-tempered. When

William saw the fawn he was delighted, and tried to make friends with

the gentle animal. But the fawn was afraid of him, and when he tried

to come near would run away, or come up to Ada. Then, if William put

his hand on it to caress it, the fawn would shrink closer to Ada, and

tremble. William did not like it because the fawn would not be friends

with him, and wondered why it should be afraid of him, and not of Ada.

He did not think that it was because Ada was so good, while he let evil

tempers come into his heart.

“But how could the fawn know this?” ask my young readers. “The fawn

couldn’t see what was in William’s heart.”

No; for if it could have done so, it would have been wiser than a

human being. But all good affections, let it be remembered, as well

as all evil affections, represent themselves in the face, and picture

themselves in the eyes; and there is, besides, a sphere of what is good

or evil about every one, according to the heart’s affections--just

as the sphere of a rose is around the flower in its odour, showing

its quality. Animals, as well as human beings, can read, by a kind of

instinct, the good or evil of any one in his face, and perceive, by a

mysterious sense, the sphere of good or evil that surrounds him.

You do not clearly understand this, my young reader; nevertheless it

is so. If you are good, others will know it at a glance, and _feel_ it

when you come near them. And the same will be the case if your hearts

are evil.

Ada’s pet fawn stayed with her many months, and nothing harmed it.

The horns began to push forth, like little knobs, from its head; and

afterwards it grew up to be a stately deer, and was sent back to the

park. Ada often went to see her favourite, which now had a pair of

beautiful branching antlers. It always knew her, and would come up to

her side and lick her hand when she held it forth.

Such power has love over even a brute animal.

[Illustration]

How to Avoid a Quarrel.

“Here! lend me your knife, Bill; I’ve left mine in the house,” said

Edgar Harris to his younger brother. He spoke in a rude voice, and his

manner was imperative.

“No, I won’t! Go and get your own knife,” replied William, in a tone

quite as ungracious as that in which the request, or rather command,

had been made.

“I don’t wish to go into the house. Give me your knife, I say. I only

want it for a minute.”

“I never lend my knife, nor give it, either,” returned William. “Get

your own.”

“You are the most disobliging fellow I ever saw,” retorted Edgar

angrily, rising up and going into the house to get his own knife.

“Don’t ever ask me for a favour, for I’ll never grant it.”

This very unbrotherly conversation took place just beneath the window

near which Mr. Harris, the father of the lads, was seated. He overheard

it all, and was grieved, as may be supposed, that his sons should treat

each other so unkindly. But he said nothing to them then, nor did he

let them know that he heard the language that had passed between them.

In a little while Edgar returned, and as he sat down in the place where

he had been seated before, he said,--

“No thanks to you for your old knife! Keep it to yourself, and welcome.

I wouldn’t use it now if you were to give it to me.”

“I’m glad you are so independent,” retorted William. “I hope you will

always be so.”

And the boys fretted each other for some time.

On the next day, Edgar was building a house with sticks, and William

was rolling a hoop. By accident the hoop was turned from its right

course, and broke down a part of Edgar’s house. William was just going

to say how sorry he was for the accident, and to offer to repair the

damage that was done, when his brother, with his face red with passion,

cried out,--

“Just see what you have done! If you don’t get away with your hoop,

I’ll call father. You did it on purpose.”

“Do go and call him! I’ll go with you,” said William, in a sneering,

tantalizing tone. “Come, come along now.”

For a little while the boys stood and growled at each other like two

ill-natured dogs, and then Edgar commenced repairing his house, and

William went on rolling his hoop again. The latter was strongly tempted

to repeat, in earnest, what he had done at first by accident, by way of

retaliation upon his brother for his spiteful manner toward him; but,

being naturally of a good disposition, and forgiving in his temper, he

soon forgot his bad feelings, and enjoyed his play as much as he had

done before.

This little circumstance Mr. Harris had also observed.

A day or two afterwards, Edgar came to his father with a complaint

against his brother.

“I never saw such a boy,” he said. “He will not do the least thing to

oblige me. If I ask him to lend me his knife, or ball, or anything he

has, he snaps me up short with a refusal.”

“Perhaps you don’t ask him right,” suggested the father. “Perhaps you

don’t speak kindly to him. I hardly think that William is ill-disposed

and disobliging naturally. There must be some fault on your part, I am

sure.”

“I don’t know how I can be in fault, father,” said Edgar.

“William refused to let you have his knife, the other day, although he

was not using it himself, did he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember how you asked him for it?”

“No, sir, not now, particularly.”

“Well, as I happened to overhear you, I can repeat your words, though

I hardly think I can get your very tone and manner. Your words were,

‘Here, lend me your knife, Bill!’ and your voice and manner were

exceedingly offensive. I did not at all wonder that William refused

your request. If you had spoken to him in a kind manner, I am sure

he would have handed you his knife instantly. But no one likes to be

ordered, in a domineering way, to do anything at all. I know you would

resent it in William, as quickly as he resents it in you. Correct your

own fault, my son, and in a little while you will have no complaint to

make of William.”

Edgar felt rebuked. What his father said he saw to be true.

“Whenever you want William to do anything for you,” continued the

father, “use kind words instead of harsh ones, and you will find him

as obliging as you could wish. I have observed you both a good deal,

and I notice that you rarely ever speak to William in a proper manner,

but you are rude and overbearing. Correct this evil in yourself, and

all will be right with him. Kind words are far more powerful than harsh

words, and their effect a hundred-fold greater.”

On the next day, as Edgar was at work in the garden, and William

standing at the gate looking on, Edgar wanted a rake that was in the

summer-house. He was just going to say, “Go and get me that rake,

Bill!” but he checked himself, and made his request in a different

form, and in a better tone than those words would have been uttered in.

“Will you get me the small rake that lies in the summer-house,

William?” he said. The words and tone involved a request, not a

command, and William instantly replied,--

“Certainly;” and bounded away to get the rake for his brother.

“Thank you,” said Edgar, as he received the rake.

“Don’t you want the watering-pot?” asked William.

“Yes, I do; and you may bring it full of water, if you please,” was the

reply.

Off William went for the watering-pot, and soon returned with it full

of water. As he stood near one of Edgar’s flower-beds, he forgot

himself, and stepped back with his foot upon a bed of pansies.

“There! just look at you!” exclaimed Edgar, thrown off his guard.

William, who had felt drawn towards his brother on account of his kind

manner, was hurt at this sudden change in his words and tone. He was

tempted to retort harshly, and even to set his foot more roughly upon

the pansies. But he checked himself, and, turning away, walked slowly

from the garden.

Edgar, who had repented of his rude words and unkind manner the moment

he had time to think, was very sorry that he had been thrown off his

guard, and resolved to be more careful in the future. And he was more

careful. The next time he spoke to his brother, it was in a kind and

gentle manner, and he saw its effect. Since then, he has been watchful

over himself, and now he finds that William is one of the most obliging

boys anywhere to be found.

“So much for kind words, my son,” said his father, on noticing the

great change that had taken place. “Never forget, throughout your whole

life, that kind words are far more potent than harsh ones. I have

found them so, and you have already proved the truth of what I say.”

And so will every one who tries them. Make the experiment, young

friends, and you will find it to succeed in every case.

[Illustration]

The Broken Doll.

Nearly all the unhappiness that exists in the world has its origin in

the want of a proper control over the desires and passions. This is

as true in childhood as in more advanced age. Children are unhappy

because they do not possess many things they see; and too often, in

endeavouring to obtain what they have no right to, they make themselves

still more unhappy. A spirit of covetousness is as bad a spirit as can

come into the heart; and whoever has this spirit for a guest, cannot

but be, most of his time, very miserable.

Albert Hawkins, I am sorry to say, had given place in his heart to this

evil spirit of covetousness. Almost everything he saw he desired to

possess. Had it not been for this, Albert would have been a very good

boy. He learned his lessons well, was obedient and attentive at school

and at home, and did not take delight in hurting or annoying dumb

animals and insects, as too many boys do. But his restless desire to

have whatever he saw marred all this, and produced much unhappiness in

his own mind, as well as in the minds of his parents.

One day, on coming home from school, he found his sister Ellen playing

with a large new doll that her father had bought for her.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get it? Let me

have it to look at.”

And Albert caught hold of the doll and almost forced it out of the

hands of Ellen, who resigned it with great reluctance. He then sat down

and held it in his lap, while Ellen stood by, half in tears. She had

only had it about an hour, and she could not bear to let it go from

her. Albert, in his selfish desire to hold in his hands the beautiful

doll, did not think of how much pleasure he was depriving his sister,

who patiently waited minute after minute to have it restored to her. At

last, seeing that her brother still kept possession of the doll, she

said, gently and kindly,--

“Won’t you give it to me now?” and she put out her hand to take it as

she spoke.

But Albert pushed her hand quickly away, and said,--

“No, no; I’ve not done with it yet.”

Ellen looked disappointed. But she waited still longer.

“Now, brother, give me my doll, won’t you?” she said.

“Don’t be so selfish about your doll,” answered Albert, rudely. “You

shall have it after a while, when I’ve done with it.”

Ellen now felt so vexed that she could not keep from crying. As soon

as Albert saw the tears falling over her face, and heard her sob, he

became angry, and throwing the doll upon the floor, exclaimed in a

harsh voice,--

“There! Take your ugly old doll, if you are so selfish about it!”

As the beautiful figure struck the floor, one of its delicate hands

broke off from the wrist. But even a sight of the injury he had done

did not soften the heart of Albert, who left the room feeling very

angry towards his sister. He was trying to amuse himself in the yard,

about half an hour afterwards, when his mother, who had been out,

called to him from the door. He went up to her, and she said,--

“Albert, how came the hand of Ellen’s new doll broken? Do you know? I

have asked her about it; but the only answer I can get from her is in

tears.”

Albert’s eyes fell immediately to the ground, while his face became red.

“I hope you did not break it!” the mother said, pained to see this

confusion manifested by her boy.

Now Albert, although of a covetous disposition, never told a lie. He

was a truthful boy, and that was much in his favour. To lie is most

wicked and despicable. There is no meaner character than a liar.

“Yes, ma’am, I broke it,” he replied, without any equivocation.

“How did you do that, Albert?” asked his mother.

“Ellen would not let me hold it, and I got angry and threw it upon the

floor. I didn’t mean to break it.”

At this confession, Albert’s mother was very much grieved.

“But what right had you to Ellen’s doll?” she asked.

“I wanted to hold it.”

“But it was your sister’s, not yours; and if she did not wish you to

have it, that was no reason why you should get angry and break it.”

“But, indeed, mother, I didn’t mean to break it.”

“I don’t suppose you did. I should be very sorry to think you were so

wicked. Still, you have been guilty of a great wrong to your sister;

and to this you have no doubt been led by indulging in that covetous

spirit of which I have so often talked to you, and which, if not

overcome, may lead you into some great evil when you become a man. But

tell me just how it happened.”

And Albert truthfully related what had passed.

“I cannot tell you how much all this grieves me,” his mother said.

“Ellen never interferes with your pleasures, and never covets your

playthings nor books, but you give her no peace with anything she has.

If your father brings each of you home a book, yours is thrown aside

in a few moments, and you want to look at hers. It is this covetous

spirit--this desiring to have what belongs to another--that leads to

stealing; and unless you put it away from your heart, you will be in

great danger of more temptations than now assail you. Poor Ellen! Her

heart is almost broken about her doll.”

“I am very sorry, mother,” replied Albert in a penitent voice. “I wish

I hadn’t touched her doll. Don’t you think it can be mended? Can’t I

buy her a new hand for it? I will take the money out of my box.”

“We will see about that, my dear. If you can restore the hand, I think

it is your duty to do so. It will be nothing but simple justice, and we

should all be just one towards another in little as well as in great

things. But your first duty is to go to Ellen and try to comfort her in

her affliction, for it is a great grief for her to have her beautiful

doll broken. I found her just now crying bitterly.”

All Albert’s better feelings came back into his heart. He felt very

sorry for Ellen, and went in immediately to the room where she was. He

found her with her head leaning down upon a table, weeping.

“Sister Ellen!” he said, speaking earnestly, “I am so sorry I broke

your doll’s hand. Don’t cry, and I will take money out of my box, and

buy you a new hand for it.”

Albert’s voice was so kind, and so full of sympathy, that Ellen felt

better in a moment. She lifted her head from the table and looked round

into her brother’s face.

“You will forgive me, won’t you, sister?” he said. “I was angry and

wicked, but I am very sorry, and will try and never trouble you any

more. After dinner we will go out, and see if we can’t find another

hand, and I will buy it for you out of my own money.”

Ellen’s tears all dried up; and she said in a kind, gentle way, that

she forgave her brother. After dinner they went out together, and

Albert found a new hand, and bought it for his sister. The doll is now

as good as it was before; and what is better, Albert has learned to

restrain his covetous spirit, and to leave Ellen happy in the enjoyment

of what is her own.

[Illustration]

Harsh Words and Kind Words.

William Baker, and his brother Thomas, and sister Ellen, were playing

on the green lawn in front of their mother’s door, when a lad named

Henry Green came along the road, and seeing the children enjoying

themselves, opened the gate and came in. He was rather an ill-natured

boy, and generally took more pleasure in teasing and annoying others

than in being happy with them. When William saw him coming in through

the gate, he called to him and said, in a harsh way,--

“You may just keep out, Henry Green, and go about your business! We

don’t want you here.”

But Henry did not in the least regard what William said. He came

directly forward, and joined in the sport as freely as if he had been

invited instead of repulsed. In a little while he began to pull Ellen

about rudely, and to push Thomas so as nearly to throw them down upon

the grass.

“Go home, Henry Green! Nobody sent for you! Nobody wants you here!”

said William Baker, in an angry tone.

It was of no use, however. William might as well have spoken to the

wind. His words were unheeded by Henry, whose conduct became ruder and

more offensive.

Mrs. Baker, who sat at the window, saw and heard all that was passing.

As soon as she could catch the eye of her excited son, she beckoned him

to come to her, which he promptly did.

“Try kind words on him,” she said; “you will find them more powerful

than harsh words. You spoke very harshly to Henry when he came in, and

I was sorry to hear it.”

“It won’t do any good, mother. He’s a rude, bad boy, and I wish he

would stay at home. Won’t you make him go home?”

“First go and speak to him in a gentler way than you did just now. Try

to subdue him with kindness.”

William felt that he had been wrong in letting his angry feelings

express themselves in angry words. So he left his mother and went down

upon the lawn, where Henry was amusing himself by trying to trip up the

children with a long stick, as they ran about on the green.

“Henry,” he said, cheerfully and pleasantly, “if you were fishing in

the river, and I were to come and throw stones in where your line fell,

and scare away all the fish, would you like it?”

“No, I should not,” replied the lad.

“It wouldn’t be kind in me?”

“No, of course it wouldn’t.”

“Well, now, Henry”--William tried to smile and to speak very

pleasantly--“we are playing here and trying to enjoy ourselves. Is it

right for you to come and interrupt us by tripping up our feet, pulling

us about, and pushing us down? I am sure you will not think so if you

reflect a moment. So don’t do it any more, Henry.”

“No, I will not,” replied Henry promptly. “I am sorry that I disturbed

you. I didn’t think what I was doing. And now I remember, father told

me not to stay, and I must run home.”

So Henry Green went quickly away, and the children were left to enjoy

themselves.

“Didn’t I tell you that kind words were more powerful than harsh

words, William?” said his mother, after Henry had gone away. “When

we speak harshly to our fellows, we arouse their angry feelings, and

then evil spirits have power over them; but when we speak kindly, we

affect them with gentleness, and good spirits flow into this latter

state, and excite in them better thoughts and intentions. How quickly

Henry changed, when you changed your manner and the character of your

language. Do not forget this, my son. Do not forget that kind words

have double the power of harsh ones.”

[Illustration]

A Noble Act.

“What have you there, boys?” asked Captain Bland.

“A ship,” replied one of the lads who were passing the captain’s neat

cottage.

“A ship! Let me see;” and the captain took the little vessel, and

examined it with as much fondness as a child does a pretty toy. “Very

fair indeed; who made it?”

“I did,” replied one of the boys.

“You, indeed! Do you mean to be a sailor, Harry?”

“I don’t know. I want father to get me into the navy.”

“As a midshipman?”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Bland shook his head.

“Better be a farmer, a physician, or a merchant.”

“Why so, captain?” asked Harry.

“All these are engaged in the doing of things directly useful to

society.”

“But I am sure, captain, that those who defend us against our enemies,

and protect all who are engaged in commerce from wicked pirates, are

doing what is useful to society.”

“Their use, my lad,” replied Captain Bland, “is certainly a most

important one; but we may call it rather negative than positive. The

civilian is engaged in building up and sustaining society in doing

good, through his active employment, to his fellow-men. But military

and naval officers do not produce anything; they only protect and

defend.”

“But if they did not protect and defend, captain, evil men would

destroy society. It would be of no use for the civilian to endeavour to

build up, if there were none to fight against the enemies of the state.”

“Very true, my lad. The brave defender of his country cannot be

dispensed with, and we give him all honour. Still, the use of defence

and protection is not so high as the use of building up and sustaining.

The thorn that wounds the hand stretched forth to pluck the flower is

not so much esteemed, nor of so much worth, as the blossom it was meant

to guard. Still, the thorn performs a great use. Precisely a similar

use does the soldier or naval officer perform to society; and it will

be for you, my lad, to decide as to which position you would rather

fill.”

“I never thought of that, captain,” said one of the lads. “But I can

see clearly how it is. And yet I think those men who risk their lives

for us in war, deserve great honour. They leave their homes, and remain

away, sometimes for years, deprived of all the comforts and blessings

that civilians enjoy, suffering frequently great hardships, and risking

their lives to defend their country from her enemies.”

“It is all as you say,” replied Captain Bland; “and they do, indeed,

deserve great honour. Their calling is one that exposes them to

imminent peril, and requires them to make many sacrifices; and they

encounter not this peril and sacrifice for their own good, but for the

good of others. Their lives do not pass so evenly as do the lives of

men who spend their days in the peaceful pursuits of business, art, or

literature; and we could hardly wonder if they lost some of the gentler

attributes of the human heart. In some cases this is so; but, in very

many cases, the reverse is true. We find the man who goes fearlessly

into battle, and there, in defence of his country, deals death and

destruction unsparingly upon her enemies, acting, when occasion offers,

from the most humane sentiments, and jeopardizing his life to save

the life of a single individual. Let me relate to you a true story in

illustration of what I say.

* * * * *

“When the unhappy war that was waged by the American troops in

Mexico broke out, a lieutenant in the navy, who had a quiet berth at

Washington, felt it to be his duty to go to the scene of strife, and

therefore asked to be ordered to the Gulf of Mexico. His request was

complied with, and he received orders to go on board the steamer

_Mississippi_, Commodore Perry, then about to sail from Norfolk to Vera

Cruz.

“Soon after the _Mississippi_ arrived out, and before the city and

castle were taken, a terrible ‘norther’ sprung up, and destroyed

much shipping in the harbour. One vessel, on which were a number of

passengers, was thrown high upon a reef; and when morning broke, the

heavy sea was making a clear breach through her. She lay about a mile

from the _Mississippi_, and it soon became known on board the steamer

that a mother and her infant were in the wreck, and that, unless

succour came speedily, they would perish. The lieutenant of whom I

speak immediately ordered out a boat’s crew, and although the sea was

rolling tremendously, and the ‘norther’ still blowing a hurricane,

started to the rescue. Right in the teeth of the wind were the men

compelled to pull their boat, and so slowly did they proceed that it

took more than two hours to gain the wreck.

“At one time they actually gave up, and the oars lay inactive in their

hands. At this crisis, the brave but humane officer, pointing with

one hand to the fortress of San Juan de Ulloa, upon which a fire had

already commenced, and with the other to the wreck, exclaimed, with

noble enthusiasm,--

“‘Pull away, men! I would rather save the life of that woman and her

child, than have the honour of taking the castle!’

“Struck by the noble, unselfish, and truly humane feelings of their

officer, the crew bent with new vigour to their oars. In a little while

the wreck was gained, and the brave lieutenant had the pleasure of

receiving into his arms the almost inanimate form of the woman, who had

been lashed to the deck, and over whom the waves had been beating, at

intervals, all night.

“In writing home to his friends, after the excitement of the adventure

was over, the officer spoke of the moment when he rescued that mother

and child from the wreck as the proudest of his life.

“Afterwards he took part in the bombardment of Vera Cruz, and had

command, in turn, of the naval battery, where he faithfully and

energetically performed his duty as an officer in the service of his

country. He was among the first of those who entered the captured city;

but pain, not pleasure, filled his mind, as he looked around and saw

death and destruction on every hand. The arms of his country had been

successful; the officer had bravely contributed his part in the work;

but he frankly owns that he experienced far more delight in saving the

woman he had borne from the wreck, than he could have felt had he been

the commander of the army that reduced the city.

* * * * *

“Wherever duty calls, my lads,” concluded the captain, “you will find

that brave officer. He will never shrink from the post of danger, if

his country have need of him, nor will he ever be deaf to the appeal of

humanity; but so long as he is a true man, just so long will he delight