weapons that will prevail. Try to forget the fault of William; try to
excuse him; think of his good qualities; and assure yourself of what I
know to be true--that he never meant to offend you. If the angry wolf
growl in your bosom, thrust bravely at him, as you would, were you,
weapon in hand, defending a sheepfold; and he will and must retire, or
die at your feet. Then innocent lambs will again be seen, and their
sports delight your heart. Then you will feel no more anger towards
your young friend, but love instead.”
“I don’t think I am angry with William, mother,” Alfred said.
“But you were just now.”
“Yes; but the wolf is no longer in my heart,” the boy replied smiling.
“He has been driven out.”
“And innocent creatures can now sport there unharmed. I am glad of it.
Do not again, Alfred, do not any of you, my children, permit ravenous
beasts to prey upon the lambs of your flocks. Fly from them in as much
terror as you would fly from the presence of a wolf, a tiger, or a
lion, were one to meet you in a forest. They are equally hurtful--one
injures the body, the other the soul.”
“Tell us now, mother, about the wolf that had nearly killed uncle
Harper when he was a little boy no bigger than me,” spoke up Charley,
the youngest of Mrs. Maylie’s treasures.
“Oh yes, mother, tell us all about it,” said Alfred.
“I’ve told you that very often,” the mother returned.
“But we want to hear it again. Tell it to us; won’t you, mother?”
“Oh, certainly. Many years ago, when I was a little girl not bigger
than Emily, we lived at the foot of a high mountain, in a wild,
unsettled country. There were but few neighbours, and they were at
great distances from us. At that time bears, wolves, and panthers were
in the region where we lived, and often destroyed the sheep of the
settlers, and otherwise annoyed them. The men used frequently to go out
and hunt them, and kill off these their forest enemies in great numbers.
“One day, when your uncle Harper was about five years old, our father
took us in his waggon to visit a neighbour about six miles up among the
mountains. This neighbour had a little boy just Harper’s age, and they
were together in the garden and about the house all the morning. After
dinner, they were dressed up nicely, and again went out to play.
“‘Come,’ said Harper’s companion, ‘let us go and see brother Allen’s
bird-trap. He caught three pheasants yesterday. Maybe we’ll find one in
it to-day.’
“Harper was very willing to go. And so they started right into the
woods; for the forest came up close to the house, and went off quite
out of sight. They had not been gone long before a neighbour, who lived
about a mile off, came over to say that a very large wolf had been seen
a few hours before.
“‘Where is Harper?’ my mother asked quickly, going to the door and
looking out.
“‘I saw him a little while ago, playing about here with Johnny,’ some
one replied.
“‘But where is he now?’ and our mother went out of doors, looking all
around the house and in the garden.
“‘They’ve gone off to my bird-trap, without doubt,’ said Allen, a stout
boy about sixteen years of age. ‘Johnny has been there several times
within a day or two.’
“‘Do run and see,’ urged our mother. Allen took up his gun and started
off quickly towards the place where he had set his bird-trap. Two or
three took other directions; for, now that it was known a wolf had
been seen, all were alarmed at the absence of the children. In about
five minutes after Allen had left the house, we were startled by the
sharp crack of a rifle in the direction he had taken. For the next
five minutes we waited in dreadful suspense; then we were gladdened
by the sight of Allen, bringing home the two children. But when we
heard all that had occurred, we trembled from head to foot. Allen had
gone quickly towards the place where he expected to find the little
truants. When he came in sight of the trap, he saw them on the ground
close to it, and was just going to call out to them to take care or
they would spring it, when the dark body of a large wolf came quickly
in between him and the children. There was not a moment to be lost; if
the cruel beast reached them, destruction would be inevitable. Quickly
presenting his rifle, he took a steady aim and fired. A fierce howl
answered the report: as the smoke arose from before his eyes, he saw
the ‘gaunt gray robber’ of the wilderness rolling upon the ground. The
bullet had sped with unerring certainty.
“How thankful we were,” added Mrs. Maylie, “when, knowing how great had
been the danger, we saw the children safe from all harm!”
“Does uncle Harper remember it?” asked Charley.
“Yes; he says he can just remember something about it; but he was a
very little boy then.”
“That was a _real_ wolf,” remarked Emily; “but the wolves, and tigers,
and lambs you have been telling us about are not real, are they? Real
animals can’t live in us.”
“If there was nothing real about them, could they hurt you, dear?”
“No.”
“But the wolves I spoke about do hurt you. Must they not be real then?”
“Not real like the big hairy wolf I saw at the show?”
“Oh no; not real like that; not clothed in flesh; but still real, so
far as power to harm you is concerned: and surely that is reality
enough. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, real that way. But still,” Alfred said, “I can’t understand how a
real wolf can be in me; for a wolf is much bigger than I am.”
“But I don’t mean a flesh and blood wolf, but something in you that
partakes of the wolf’s cruel nature, and, like the wolf, seeks to
destroy all in you that is good, and harmless, and innocent. There may
be in you something that corresponds to the fierce nature of the wolf,
and something that corresponds to the gentle nature of the lamb. Both
of these cannot be active at the same time. If you let the wolf rule,
your gentle lambs, as I before told you, will be destroyed.”
The children now understood their mother better, though they could not
clearly comprehend all that was meant by the wild beasts and innocent
creatures of the human heart.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Double Fault.
“Why, Arthur,” exclaimed Mrs. Mason, on coming into the room where she
had left her two boys playing, and finding one of them there with a
bunch of flowers in his hand; “how came you to pull my flowers? Haven’t
I positively forbidden you to do so?”
“I did not do it, mother. I did not do it. It was John.”
“Where is John?”
“He’s in the yard.”
“Call him in,” said Mrs. Mason.
While Arthur was at the window calling to his brother, Mr. Mason, the
father, came into the room.
“John has been pulling my flowers. Isn’t it too bad that a boy as big
as he is should have so little consideration? They were coming out into
bloom beautifully.”
Just then John entered, with a bunch of flowers also in his hand.
“John, how came you to pull my flowers?” said Mrs. Mason. “You knew it
was wrong.”
“I did not think, when I pulled off a rosebud and two or three
larkspurs,” replied John.
“Two or three larkspurs and a rosebud! Why, your hand is full of
flowers.”
“Oh, but William Jones gave me all but the larkspurs and the rosebud.
Indeed, mother, I didn’t touch any more; and I am sorry I took them;
but I forgot that it was wrong when I did so.”
“But Arthur says you pulled that large bunch in his hand.”
“Arthur knows I didn’t. He knows he pulled them himself, and that I
told him he’d better not do it; but he said he’d as much right to the
flowers as I had.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mason both looked at Arthur in surprise and displeasure.
His countenance showed that he had been guilty of wrongly accusing his
brother.
“Is it true that you did pull the flowers, Arthur?” asked his mother.
But Arthur was silent.
“Speak, sir!” said the father sternly. “Did you pull the flowers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then falsely accused your brother of the wrong you had done.
That my boy should be guilty of an evil act like this! I could not
have believed it. It is a wicked thing to tell a lie to hide a fault,
simply; but falsely to accuse another of what we have ourselves done,
is still more wicked. Can it be possible that a son of mine has fallen
so low? It grieves me to the heart.”
Mr. Mason spoke as he felt. He was deeply grieved. Nothing had occurred
for a long time that so hurt him. He loved honesty and truth; but how
opposite to both had been the conduct of his boy!
“Go up to your chamber, and stay there until I see you or send for
you,” he said; and Arthur retired in shame from the presence of his
parents, and the brother he had so meanly attempted to injure. Of
course he felt very unhappy. How could he feel otherwise? The rebuking
words of his father fell like heavy blows upon his heart, and the pain
they occasioned was for a long time severely felt.
What punishment the parents thought it right to inflict upon Arthur
we do not know; but, no doubt, he was punished in some way, as he
deserved. And besides this, he had the still severer punishment which
always follows that meanest fault of which any one can be guilty--that
of accusing another and innocent person of what we have ourselves done.
Bad as this fault is, it is, alas! too common. But no manly,
honest-minded, truthful boy will be betrayed into it. To the better
impulses of our young readers who have been so wicked as to fall into
this sin, either from sudden impulse or deliberate purpose, we would
earnestly appeal, and beg of them to think more wisely and act more
justly in the future. No cause is ever made better, but always worse,
by a falsehood. Even where detection does not follow, suspicion is
almost always created; for it is impossible for a boy to tell a lie
without betraying it in the face or voice, and causing a doubt to pass
through the minds of his parents, and set them to making inquiry into
the truth or falsehood of what he has stated.
Truth--the open, bold, honest truth--is always the best, always the
wisest, always the safest for every one, in any and all circumstances.
Let no boy deviate from it, even though he have been guilty of a fault.
Better--a thousand times better--is it to own to the wrong, and keep a
clear conscience.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A Story about a Dog.
“Tell us a story, father, before we go to bed,” said a little boy, who
spoke for two brothers as well as for himself.
“What shall it be about?” asked Mr. Melville, their father.
“Oh, about a dog. I love to hear stories about dogs.”
“Oh yes! let it be about a dog.”
“Yes, papa, let it be about a dog,” ran through the circle of children.
“Wouldn’t you rather hear a story about the innocent lamb; the pure,
snow-white lamb that sports in the green meadows?” said the father.
“Dogs are evil animals.”
“Oh no, father! dogs are not evil animals. You don’t call our Carlo an
evil animal? He’s a good, kind, generous dog. Didn’t he save the life
of Mr. Graham’s little Harry, when he fell into the river? And doesn’t
he love us, and go with us everywhere? And didn’t he jump on Mr.
Parker’s Nero and beat him, when he flew out at us as we were passing,
and was going to bite us? I am sure Carlo is a good dog. He watches our
house at night, and keeps all the robbers away.”
“Carlo is one of the better class of dogs,” said Mr. Melville. “Many
of these animals have generous qualities, and can be taught by man to
perform many good acts; but I hardly think the dog can be called a good
animal, like the noble horse or the useful cow and sheep. These serve
man in a great variety of ways, and do not, even in their wild state,
prey upon other animals, or attack and injure man as the dog will.
The only use of the dog is for a protection against evil; and he is
able to do this from something in him that is cruel and destructive.
But I own that in some dogs there are to be found many noble and
generous qualities; but these they derive from long association with
man, and from being employed by him from one generation to another
in doing useful things. The dogs of St. Bernard, of which you have
so often read, are noble specimens of this improved race. So are the
Newfoundland dogs. But still they are not good and innocent,--like
sheep, for instance, or cows, or like the gentle dove. Those are truly
innocent animals, and correspond in nature to certain good affections
in our minds.”
But the children still thought that Carlo must be a good animal, and
insisted that it was so, and upon having a story about a dog instead of
a lamb.
“Very well,” said Mr. Melville: “I will tell you a story about a dog,
and a very interesting one it is too. I heard it or read about it
somewhere recently, but I cannot now tell where.”
“Tell it, father, do tell it,” urged the children.
Mr. Melville then told the following story:--
“There was a boy,--we will call his name Thomas,--whose father bought
him a fine horse, upon which he used to ride out almost every day,
accompanied by a large Newfoundland dog named Bruno. One day Thomas
had his horse brought out for a ride, and after he had mounted the
animal, he whistled for Bruno, who was lying on a mat in front of the
house. But Bruno only wagged his tail. He did not even lift his head
from between his fore paws, although his dark bright eyes were fixed
upon his young master. ‘Come, Bruno, come!’ called Thomas. But the dog
only wagged his tail more quickly. ‘You are a lazy fellow, Bruno,’ said
Thomas, in a half-chiding, disappointed tone. ‘I shan’t half enjoy my
ride unless you come.’ And he whistled loud for Bruno, as he gave his
horse the rein and trotted off. Although he looked back and called for
Bruno many times, as he rode away, the dog evinced no disposition to
follow him.
“It was near sunset, and the father and mother of Thomas were sitting
in front of their door, enjoying the cool refreshing air. Bruno still
lay upon the mat, and seemed to be sleeping.
“‘I wonder why that dog didn’t go with Thomas?’ said the father,
looking at Bruno.
“‘He’s lazy to-day,’ replied the mother. ‘Thomas called him, and tried
his best to get him off with him, as usual, but Bruno never stirred.’
“On hearing his name, the dog rose up, and came and rubbed himself
against his master, who patted him kindly upon the head. While standing
thus by his master’s side, Bruno all at once pricked up his ears and
rose, and seemed all attention. Almost at the same instant the father
of Thomas heard the distant clattering of a horse’s hoofs, which drew
nearer every moment. He arose quickly; as he did so, Bruno gave a
short, uneasy bark, and went a few steps towards the road, holding his
head very high, and looking first in one direction and then in another.
This suspense did not continue long. In less than a minute from the
time the first distant sound was heard, they saw the horse of Thomas
come dashing down the road at a fearful speed, with his little rider
clinging to his neck. The house stood nearly a hundred yards from the
road, and the horse approaching at such a rapid rate, that, although
the father sprang forward to catch him, if possible, at the moment of
passing, yet he was instantly conscious that before he could possibly
reach the road the frightened animal would be beyond his reach. Just
as his mind felt this painful certainty, Bruno went past him like an
arrow, cleared the fence at a bound, and at the moment the horse was
passing the gate caught him by the bridle. To this he held on, checking
the animal’s speed so much that his master found it easy to come up
with and stop him.”
“Oh, what a noble dog!” cried the children. “How Thomas must have loved
him!”
“But how,” said one, “did Bruno know that the horse was going to run
away?”
“He did not know it,” said Mr. Melville.
“Then why didn’t he go with Thomas? He must have known it, father.”
“Oh no; that doesn’t follow, my son, at all. But the Lord, in his
omnipotence and providence, knew what would take place, and provided
just the means that were needed to save Thomas from being killed.”
“Then he made Bruno stay at home that he might be ready to save his
young master’s life?” said one of the children.
“The Lord’s protecting Spirit is everywhere,” replied Mr. Melville,
“and governs in all circumstances by which we are preserved from harm.
Without doubt, it was an influence from Heaven that produced in the dog
an indisposition to go with Thomas.”
“How good the Lord is!” said the child who had last spoken, in a
thoughtful tone.
“Yes, my dear,” returned Mr. Melville; “the Lord is good to all, and
kind even to the unthankful. He maketh his sun to shine upon the evil
and the good, and sendeth his rain upon the just and the unjust.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Discontented Shepherd.
In a quiet valley there once dwelt a shepherd, who led a peaceful,
happy life. He had large flocks, from whose fleecy backs the wool was
regularly shorn, and sold to the merchants; and the merchants paid him
money, with which he bought all things needful for health and bodily
comfort.
One day the shepherd drove his flocks to the sea-side, and as he looked
abroad upon the great expanse of water, and saw the ships moving over
its surface, he felt, for the first time, discontented with his lot. A
desire to see the world took possession of his mind.
“I will no longer shut myself up in this narrow valley,” he said. “I
will become a merchant. I will pass over the wide sea, and go among the
people of many lands.”
So the shepherd sold his flocks, and with the money bought merchandise,
which he placed in a ship, and started for a distant country. During
the first day after leaving the land, he could do little else but
admire the wonderful ocean upon whose surface he was sailing, and think
how happy he was at having escaped the dull life of a shepherd in an
unknown vale. But on the second day after leaving the land, the motion
of the ship made him very sick. He could no longer enjoy the great
expanse of ocean and sky spread out above and around him, but had to
remain in the cabin, unable even to lift his head from his pillow. As
he lay sick in the dark, narrow cabin, filled with polluted air, he
thought of the green shady places, cool refreshing streams, and pure
air of his native valley, and, for the first time, he repented of what
he had done.
It was more than a week before the shepherd could go upon deck, and
feel pleasure in the sky and ocean as he had done at first.
At last the vessel arrived at its destined place: the shepherd landed
his goods and offered them for sale. He soon found a merchant willing
to buy them. The price was agreed upon, the merchandise delivered, and
the money demanded. But it happened, as it almost always happens when
men get dissatisfied with the business or calling with which they are
perfectly familiar, and enter into one they know nothing about, the
shepherd fell into dishonest hands. The merchant refused to pay him his
money.
In order to get this wrong redressed, the shepherd called upon a
magistrate of the country, who promised to see that justice was done
to him. But the merchant knew the magistrate to be as unfitted for his
calling as he was for his, and so he offered him a bribe, which the
wicked magistrate accepted. In vain did the shepherd seek for justice
at his hands; no justice could he get. His importunities at last became
so great, that the magistrate threatened to have him put into prison if
he troubled him any more.
In his own peaceful valley there was no wrong and oppression like
this. The merchants who came for his fleece were good and true men,
and paid the prices agreed upon. The ignorant shepherd had not dreamed
that there were such wicked men in the world as this merchant and this
magistrate, into whose hands he had fallen.
In a strange land, among strange people, thousands of miles away from
his home, and all his money and property gone, the poor shepherd was
about giving up in despair. But he bethought him that he would go to
the king of the country, and ask justice at his hands.
The king, when he heard the shepherd’s story, was very angry at the
wrong that had been done in his kingdom. He sent immediately, and had
the magistrate and the merchant brought before him and confronted with
their accuser. On seeing the shepherd, their hearts became filled with
alarm, and their faces betrayed what was in their hearts. When accused
they could answer nothing. So the king caused the merchant to pay the
shepherd for his goods; and besides, imposed upon him a heavy fine.
From the magistrate he took away his office, and had him cast into
prison.
As soon as the shepherd had received his money, he returned in the
first ship that sailed for his native country, and buying more flocks,
was ever after contented to follow them in the peaceful valley where no
wrong, oppression, or dishonesty had yet come.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Shilling.
George Hanson’s uncle had given him a shilling; and George, like most
boys, felt very anxious to spend it. But, among his many wants, he
found it a hard matter to decide upon which to gratify. If it had been
a half-crown instead of a shilling, the difficulty would have been
lessened, for then George could have supplied at least half a dozen
wants. But it was only a shilling.
He stood at the window, looking out upon the passengers who were going
quickly by, the frosty air of December giving lightness to many a step
that, in a milder day, would have been less hurriedly taken. While
standing here, his mind half made up to gratify his love of cakes and
oranges by a whole shilling’s worth, a man went by with some pretty
little glass toys in a box, which he held up to the window, and asked
if he did not want to buy some.
George beckoned to the man to stop, and then ran to the front door. The
man was a glass-blower, and had manufactured some handsome birds, and
sheep, and deer, from white glass, which looked, certainly, curious and
beautiful.
“How much is this?” asked George, pointing to a bird of paradise.
“Eighteen-pence.”
“But I’ve only got a shilling,” returned George.
“Well, here’s a robin redbreast for a shilling; and here’s a deer, and
a sheep. All these on this side are a shilling.”
But George liked the bird of paradise best of all, and couldn’t think
of taking anything else.
While the man stood trying to persuade him to buy one of the birds that
were sold for a shilling, George looked up and saw going by a poor
old man, who was bent with age. He led a little girl by the hand, who
appeared to shrink in the cold. The old man looked sick and feeble, and
very poor.
“They shall have my shilling!” exclaimed George, speaking from a sudden
impulse; and he stepped forward, and placing the coin in the old man’s
hand, said, as he did so,--
“I was just going to spend this for a little glass toy that would be
broken in a day. But I want it put to a better use. Take it, and buy
something for your little girl.”
The poor old man stopped, and said, with a look of surprise and
pleasure as he received the coin,--
“Thank you, my young master! This will give my little Alice a nice bowl
of bread and milk for her supper and breakfast. She will think of you
with a grateful heart while she eats them.”
“Well done, my good boy!” said the glass-blower, as the old man went on
his way. “That poor little girl’s bread and milk will taste sweet to
her to-night. And as a reward for your generous self-denial, here is
the bird of paradise that has pleased you so much: take it.”
But George drew back, and said he hardly thought that would be right.
“Why not, I wonder?” returned the man. “Am I to be outdone in
generosity by a boy? Take it, and whenever you look upon it let it
teach you this lesson--that it is more blessed to give than to receive;
for I am sure the thought of the good done to the old man and the
little girl will be more pleasant to you than the thought of possessing
this pretty toy.”
And so it was. The toy pleased for a short time only, but the thought
of the little girl who had been made happy by his shilling never passed
through his mind without giving him pleasure.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Wounded Bird.
“Father,” said Henry Thompson, a boy just eleven years old, “won’t you
buy me a gun?”
“A gun! Oh no; I can’t buy you a gun,” Mr. Thompson replied in a
decided voice.
Henry turned away disappointed, and went out of his father’s warehouse,
into which he had come specially to ask for a gun. He was not pleased
at the refusal he had met with, and felt much inclined, as are too
many children, to indulge hard thoughts against his kind father for
not gratifying his wish. As he walked along, he met Alfred Lyon, a lad
about his own age, whose father had given him a gun, and who then had
it on his shoulder.
“Come, Henry,” said Alfred, “I’m going out a-shooting. Won’t you go
with me?”