him that he might go out and spend the morning as he liked, only that
he must not go into danger, nor harm anything. So he did not hesitate
to go with Alfred. He had seen the little boy the day before, and then
learned that he had received from his father the present of a gun, and
this was what had made him desire to have one also.
The two little boys then took their way to the woods. It was a bright
day in early summer. The trees were all covered with tender foliage,
the fields bright and green, and the singing birds made the air thrill
with delicious melody. To mar this scene of innocence, beauty, and
peace, came these two thoughtless boys. They saw the woods mantled in
their dark, rich drapery, that moved gracefully in the light breeze;
but all their majestic beauty was lost to their eyes. They thought
only whether the thick, green masses of leaves contained a robin
or harmless red-bird, as a victim to their murderous gun. The green
fields, too, were pleasant to their eyes only so far as they might
conceal, in their blossoming hedgerows, a victim wren or sparrow. And
the sweet trilling of the lovely songsters, as it floated from wood
and field, though it gladdened their ears, affected them not with a
pure and innocent pleasure. I grieve to make such a record of these two
lads, but it is, alas! too true. Both together, were they to labour
over their task from this hour of their boyhood until threescore and
ten years had been numbered to them, could not make even a little
yellow bird,--nay, not so much as a feather like one shed from its
downy wing; and yet they were eager to destroy the lovely creature made
by God’s own hand, and all from an idle love of sport.
Well, Alfred and Henry soon arrived at the woods.
“Hark!” said Alfred, “there is a robin singing in that maple! Be still,
and I will shoot him.”
Henry stood very still, while Alfred moved stealthily along, with
his gun in his hand, until he stood nearly under the maple-tree. The
robin, all unconscious of danger, was singing his song of gladness--a
tribute of praise to Him who had fashioned him curiously, and with
inconceivable wisdom and skill--when the boy raised his gun, took a
deadly aim, and fired. The breast of the robin was still heaving, and
his throat trembling with the song, when the swift-winged shot entered
his side, and pierced his little heart. He fell at the feet of his
murderer. One would have thought, that when Alfred and Henry saw the
bleeding bird, lying dead on the ground, their hearts would have been
filled with sorrow. But not so. A shout of joy followed this cruel
exploit. The bird was picked up, and a string tied about its neck, and
borne along with them, as the triumphant evidence of Alfred’s skill
with his weapon.
Next an oriole was discovered, flying from a bush near them, and
alighting upon the branch of a tree, high up in the air.
“Now, let me shoot,” said Henry; and Alfred suffered his companion
to take the gun. He proved to be not quite so good a marksman as
Alfred. But he struck the oriole, and wounded him. The bird fluttered
to another tree, upon a limb of which he alighted. Here he clung, with
his tiny feet, until these cruel boys had again loaded their gun. Then
Henry took a truer aim, and brought him to the ground. But he was
not dead. Henry seized the trembling creature, that tried in vain to
escape, and held him fast in his hands.
“Wring off his neck,” said Alfred; “that’s the way.”
“No, no,” returned Henry; “I’ll take him home just as he is: perhaps
he’ll get well, and then I’ll put him in a cage, and keep him.”
And so Henry kept the bird, that must have been suffering great pain,
carefully in his hand, while Alfred loaded his gun once more. But we
will not follow these boys further in their cruel employment, which
was continued for several hours, when they grew tired, and returned
home. It was past the dinner hour when Henry got back, with four birds
for his share of the morning’s sport. One of these was the oriole,
still alive. Another was a sparrow, another a robin, and the fourth a
blue-bird. These last three were all dead.
“Just see, mother, what I’ve got; and I killed them all myself,” cried
Henry, as he came in and displayed his birds. “Won’t you ask father to
buy me a gun? Alfred Lyon has got one, and I think I ought to have one
too. I asked father to-day to buy me one, but he said _No_. Won’t you
ask him to buy me a gun, mother? for I can shoot; I shot all these with
Alfred’s gun, myself.”
Henry’s mother listened to her son with surprise and pain. “Poor bird!”
said she, taking from Henry the wounded oriole, and handling it with
great tenderness. “Can it be possible that my son has done this?--that
his hand has committed so cruel a deed?” and the tears dimmed her eyes.
The words, tone, and manner of his mother touched the heart of Henry in
an instant. New thoughts were awakened, and with these thoughts came
new feelings. His mind had a glimpse of the truth, that it was wrong to
sport with the life of any creature.
“Can you make a pretty bird like this?” his mother asked, pointing to
the drooping bird in her hand. Her son was silent.
“Then why seek, wantonly, to take its life?” she continued. “Were you
envious of its happiness? Like an evil spirit, did a sight of innocent
delights inflame you with a desire to destroy it? Can you restore
health to its wounded body? No! Can you ever assuage its present
agonies? No--you cannot. Cruel boy! what could you have been dreaming
about? Think, how terrible it would be, if there were a race of beings
stronger than we are, who, with the power, had the will to destroy us
for mere sport. Some day I might be walking out, and become the victim
of one of these, and then my children would have no mother. Perhaps
Henry might leave me, and while on his way to school might be shot at,
as he shot at the birds, and be killed like this pretty blue-bird, or
fatally wounded like this oriole. Would you think such sport innocent?
I think not. Poor bird! See how it trembles! See how it flutters its
wings in pain! See how it gasps! Now it has fallen over upon its
side--and now it is dead! Alas, that my son should have done this
cruel deed--that my son should have caused all this pain!”
The words of Henry’s mother touched him deeply. They caused him to see
how cruel he had indeed been. They made him conscious that it was most
wicked to hurt or kill any one of God’s creatures in mere sport. So
moved was he, that he could not refrain from bursting into tears and
sobbing bitterly.
“O mother!” he said, after he had gained some little command over his
feelings, “I never thought how wicked and cruel it was to take pleasure
in hunting the pretty birds. I don’t want a gun. I wouldn’t have a gun
now, if father would buy me the handsomest one in town.”
Henry’s mother was glad to hear him say this, for it showed that he
felt all she wished him to feel--sorrow at having indulged in a cruel
sport. It showed, also, that he had determined in his own mind, from
seeing how wicked it was, never to do so again. From this determination
Henry never swerved. He was never known afterwards to hurt any animal
in sport. And more than this, by talking to his little friend Alfred,
he caused him to see how wrong it was to shoot the birds; and Alfred
gave his gun back to his father, who sold it for him, and with the
money bought him a number of good and useful books.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Holiday.
“How are you going to spend your holiday?” asked Edgar Williams of
Charles Manly.
“I don’t know; how are you going to spend yours?”
“I’m going a-fishing; won’t you go with me?”
“No, I think not,” replied Manly.
“Why? It will be fine sport.”
But Manly shook his head, and replied,--
“I don’t think it such fine sport to hunt the little fishes. I’m sure I
shouldn’t like a sharp hook in my mouth. Ugh! To think of being lifted
up by a hook fastened in your tongue, or in the roof of your mouth!”
“You’re very tender-hearted all at once,” replied Edgar Williams. “I’ve
seen you fishing, many a time.”
“No doubt of it. But I hardly think I shall go again. Father says it is
cruel sport; and so it is. Suppose you don’t go, Edgar.”
“Oh yes, but I will. It’s delightful. I’m fond of it above everything.”
“I’ll tell you what I should like to do, if you would go with me,” said
Charles Manly.
“Well?”
“I should like to go out into the woods and fields, to look for
specimens for my cabinet.”
“A fig for specimens!” returned Williams. “No, indeed! I’m going
a-fishing.”
The two lads had each some money given to him by his parents to spend.
With his money, Edgar Williams bought a fishing-line, a rod, and some
bait; and taking his dinner in a basket, started off alone to spend
his day in fishing from the river-bank. During the morning the fish
would not bite. Hour after hour he threw his line in vain. He did not
get so much as a nibble. About mid-day, tired and disappointed, Edgar
threw his rod upon the grass, and now beginning to feel hungry, he
opened his lunch-basket and took therefrom his dinner, the eating of
which he enjoyed much more than he had enjoyed his fishing. After this,
he lay down under the shade of a tree and slept for an hour. When he
awoke, he felt dull and heavy, and wished himself at home. But he had
caught nothing, and did not want to go back with so poor an account
of his doings. So he took up his rod and line, and again sought to
take the life, for mere sport, of some fish, tempted, in the hope of
obtaining food, to seize upon the murderous hook. But his red cork lay,
as before, immovable upon the smooth surface of the river for a very
long time. At last it suddenly disappeared, and Edgar gave his line a
quick jerk, which brought up a bright little sunfish, that had hoped to
get a good dinner, but was, alas! sadly disappointed. It was not more
than three inches long, and beautiful to look upon as a fish could be,
so thin, so delicately made, and so purely golden in its hue. Edgar
caught the fluttering little creature in his hand, and tore the cruel
hook from its bleeding mouth. Just at that moment he thought of what
Charles Manly had said, about having a sharp hook in his tongue or
tearing into the roof of his mouth, and for the first time in his life
he felt pity for a fish. The quivering little animal was still in his
hand, and he held it up and looked at its torn mouth, with the blood
oozing therefrom, and sorrow for the pain he had occasioned touched his
heart.
“It is cruel sport, as Charles said, sure enough,” he murmured to
himself. “This little fish never did me any harm. And even if I were
in want of food, which I am not, it is too small to eat. So I have
no excuse for doing it this sad injury. Go, little fish!” he added,
throwing it back again into the river. “I will not rob you of life,
though I have seriously injured you.”
But the fish, instead of diving down out of sight into the deep water,
turned upon its side and swam about unevenly upon the surface of the
water. Edgar felt grieved when he saw this.
“Poor little sunfish,” he said; “I hope you will not die.”
Just then he observed a sudden rippling motion of the water, a short
distance from where the sunfish was swimming about, and in an instant
afterwards the little sufferer was seized by some larger fish and
devoured.
“I’ll never fish again for sport!” said Edgar, throwing his rod and
line into the water, and turning sadly away from the river-side.
It was nearly night when he arrived at home, tired and altogether
dissatisfied with himself. More than an hour elapsed after he went
to bed before he could close his eyes in sleep. The image of that
beautiful little sunfish, with its torn and bleeding mouth, was too
vividly present to his mind. During the night, he dreamed that he fell
into the river, and was seized by some monster, as he had seen the
sunfish seized. He awoke in terror, with the perspiration starting from
every pore, and it was a long time before sleep visited his eyes again.
Sweeter far, and more peaceful, were the dreams of Charles Manly, who
had gone with his sister to the museum, and spent his holiday there,
examining the many curious and wonderful things in art and nature that
it contained. His enjoyment had been innocent, and it had left his mind
tranquil and peaceful.
[Illustration]
Rover and his Little Master.
“Come, Rover!” said Harry, as he passed a fine old Newfoundland dog
that lay on a mat at the door; “come, Rover! I am going down to the
river to sail my boat, and I want you to go with me.”
Rover opened his large eyes, and looked lazily at his little master.
“Come, Rover!--Rover!”
But the dog didn’t care to move, and so Harry went off to the
river-side alone. He had not been gone a great while, before a thought
of her boy came suddenly into the mother’s mind. Remembering that he
had a little vessel, and that the river was near, it occurred to her
that he might have gone there.
Instantly her heart began to throb with alarm.
“Is Harry with you?” she called up to Harry’s father, who was in his
study. But Harry’s father said he was not there.
“I’m afraid he’s gone to the river with his boat,” said the mother.
“To the river!” And Mr. Lee dropped his pen, and came quickly down.
Taking up his hat, he went hurriedly from the house. Rover was still
lying upon the mat, with his head upon his paws and his eyes shut.
“Rover!” said his master, in a quick, excited voice, “where is Harry?
Has he gone to the river? Away and see! quick!”
The dog must have understood every word, for he sprang eagerly to his
feet, and rushed toward the river. Mr. Lee followed as fast as he could
run. When he reached the river-bank, he saw his little boy in the
water, with Rover dragging him towards the shore. He was just in time
to receive the half-drowned child in his arms, and carry him home to
his mother.
Harry, who remained insensible, was placed in a warm bed. He soon,
however, revived, and in an hour or two was running about again. But
after this, Rover would never leave the side of his little master, when
he wandered beyond the garden gate. Wherever you found Harry, there
Rover was sure to be--sometimes walking by his side, and sometimes
lying on the grass, with his big eyes watching every movement.
Once Harry found his little vessel, which had been hidden away since
he went with it to the river, and, without his mother seeing him, he
started again for the water. Rover, as usual, was with him. On his way
to the river he saw some flowers, and, in order to gather them, put his
boat down upon the grass. Instantly Rover picked it up in his mouth,
and walked back towards the house with it. After going a little way,
he stopped, looked round, and waited until Harry had got his hand full
of flowers. The child then saw that Rover had his boat, and tried to
get it from him; but Rover played round him, always keeping out of his
reach, and retreating towards the house, until he got back within the
gate. Then he bounded into the house, and laid the boat at the feet of
Harry’s mother.
Harry was a little angry with the good old dog, at first; but when his
mother explained to him what Rover meant, he hugged him round the neck,
and said he would never go down to the river any more.
Harry is a man now, and Rover has long since been dead; but he often
thinks of the dear old dog that saved him from drowning when he was a
child; and it gives him great pleasure to remember that he never beat
Rover, as some boys beat their dogs, when they are angry, and was never
unkind to him. Had it been otherwise, the thought would have given him
great pain.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
James and Henry; OR, “TWO WRONGS NEVER MAKE A RIGHT.”
A mother, who loved her children very much, sat reading a good book
one day, while her two little boys were playing in the next room. All
at once loud cries and angry words fell upon her ears, and gave her
great pain. She rose up quickly, and went in to the children, and
there she saw a sad sight indeed. James, her eldest boy, whose eighth
birthday had just been passed, was standing over his younger brother,
Henry, with his hand raised, and his face red with anger; and Henry had
doubled his little fist, and was ready to strike again.
“James! Henry!” cried their mother, as soon as her eyes fell upon them.
“Mother! mother! Henry knocked over my house, and he did it on
purpose,” said the eldest boy, a blush of shame covering his face, and
hiding the red anger that was on it an instant before.
“No, mother, I didn’t do it on purpose,” spoke up little Henry. “It was
an accident; and he struck me.”
“And then what did you do?” asked the mother, taking the little boy by
the hand, and looking him in the face.
Henry held down his head, and replied, “I struck him again.”
“Oh, how wrong that was!”
“But I didn’t mean to knock over his house.”
“How was it, James?” the mother asked, appealing to the eldest boy.
“He did knock over my house.”
“But, do you believe it was done on purpose?”
“He kept pushing his foot against it all the while, and I told him not
to do it,” said James.
“Why, Henry?”
Henry again hung down his head, and was silent.
“And so you did it on purpose, Henry?”
“Oh no, no, mother, I didn’t do it on purpose,” cried Henry, bursting
into tears and burying his face in his mother’s lap. “It was an
accident. I did put my foot against the house, _just to plague him_;
but I didn’t mean to push it over. _Something made my foot go hard
against it._ But I am sorry.”
And Henry sobbed aloud.
“Henry is sorry for what he has done, James; he did not do it on
purpose. But you were angry and struck him on purpose. Are you not
sorry?”
“But he was trying to plague me; and he is always trying to plague me.”
“That was wrong, James. But, you know that I have often said to
you--_two wrongs never make a right_. Do you feel any happier now,
because you struck your brother?”
James was silent.
“Tell me, my son, do you think you are happier for what you have done?”
The little boy said, “No.”
“But you feel very unhappy?”
“Yes, mother.”
“That is a sign that you have done wrong. When we do right it makes us
happy. Are you not always sorry after you have done wrong?”
“Yes, mother.”
“You are sorry that you struck Henry?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Henry is sorry for having tried to plague you; ain’t you, Henry?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then give James your hand, my son. He is sorry for having struck you.”
The little boys took hold of each other’s hands, and looked into each
other’s faces. But tears were in both their eyes, and on their cheeks.
“Now kiss each other with the kiss of forgiveness.”
The children put their arms round each other’s necks, and kissed each
other with a warm kiss of love and forgiveness.
“Now bring me that little book lying on the table, James,” said the
mother.
James brought the book, and the mother opened it, and read:--
“‘Whatever brawls disturb the street,
There should be peace at home;
Where sisters dwell, and brothers meet,
Quarrels should never come.
“‘Birds in their little nests agree,
And ’tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out, and chide, and fight.
“‘Hard names at first, and angry words,
Which are but noisy breath,
May come to clubs and naked swords,
To murder and to death.’
“Think of that, my dear children! ‘To murder and to death!’ If you
quarrel with each other now, instead of growing up and loving each
other, you may grow up to hate each other. I remember two brothers that
were once no older than you are. They were always quarrelling with each
other, and they kept on quarrelling as they grew up. One day, after
they had become men, they got into a dispute about something, when one
of them struck the other a dreadful blow with a stick and killed him.
Was not that a terrible thing? And who knows but that you, if you keep
on quarrelling as you do now, may grow up to hate one another.”
“Henry, do you know why it is that you so often try to tease your
brother James?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why is it, my son?”
“I let evil spirits come into me, and do what they wish me to do.”
“Yes, that is the reason. But can’t you keep them out.”
“Yes, ma’am, if I try.”
“Do you like to have evil spirits in you, instead of good angels.”
“Oh no. I love the good angels, and I hate the wicked spirits that make
me do wrong.”
“How can you keep the wicked spirits out?”
“By not doing the wrong things they want me to do, and then the good
angels will drive them all away.”
“I hope, my dear children, as you know so well what is right, that
you will never again let wicked spirits from hell have anything to do
with you. When they again tempt you to plague your brother, Henry, you
must not do it, and then they will go away; and you, James, if Henry
should again be so weak and foolish as to let the evil spirits come
into him, must not let them come into you at the same time. If, instead
of letting them tempt you to strike him, you permit the good angels to
govern you, you will speak kindly to him, and say, ‘Don’t, brother,
please.’ I am sure he will do so no longer. By doing this, you will
help him to cast out the evil spirits who are seeking to destroy him.”
“How destroy him, mother?”
“All evil spirits seek to destroy children by making them wicked like
themselves, so that they may be cast into hell. They hate children so
much, that, if they were not restrained by the Lord, they would do them
all manner of harm--would utterly destroy them; for they burn with
hatred towards little children.”
“But the Lord won’t let them hurt us.”
“Not if we will keep them out of our hearts. But if we let them come
in, he cannot save us. And, whenever you are angry with each other,
they come into your little hearts. Oh! my dear children, keep out these
dreadful enemies, or they will utterly destroy you.”
The children burst into tears, kissed each other and their mother
again and again, and promised that they would try and never speak or
act unkindly to one another as long as they lived. We hope they will
not; and that all our little readers will try, like them, to keep evil
spirits far away, that good angels may be round about them and dwell in
their young hearts.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Use of Flowers.
“Just one moment longer, cousin Mary; I want to put this flower in your
hair. Now doesn’t it look sweet, sister Aggy?”
“Oh yes! very sweet. And here is the dearest little bud I ever saw. I
took it from the sweet-brier bush in the lane. Put that, too, in cousin
Mary’s hair.”
Little Florence, seeing what was going on, was soon also at work upon
Mary’s hair, which, in a little while, was covered with buds and
blossoms.
“Now she is our May Queen,” said the children, as they hung fondly
around their cousin, who had come into the country to enjoy a few
weeks of rural quiet, in the season of fruits and flowers.
“And our May Queen must sing us a song,” said Agnes, who was sitting at
the feet of her cousin. “Sing us something about flowers.”
“Oh yes!” spoke up Grace; “sing us that beautiful piece by Mrs. Howitt,
about the use of flowers. You sang it for us, you remember, the last
time you were here.”
Cousin Mary sang as desired. After she had concluded, she said,--
“Flowers, according to these beautiful verses, are only useful as
objects to delight our senses. They are only beautiful forms in
nature--their highest use, their beauty and fragrance.”
“I think that is what Mrs. Howitt means,” replied Grace. “So I have
always understood her. And I cannot see any other use that flowers
have. Do you know of any other use, cousin?”
“Oh yes. Flowers have a more important use than merely giving delight
to the senses. Without them, plants could not produce fruit and seed.
You notice that the flower always comes before the fruit?”
“Oh yes. But why is a flower needed? Why does not the fruit push itself
directly out from the stem of a plant?” asked Agnes.