THE
BOYS AND GIRLS
LIBRARY
BY PETER PARLEY
[Illustration]
LONDON.
Published by H. G. Collins.
THE
BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY;
CONTAINING
A VARIETY OF USEFUL AND INSTRUCTIVE
READING, SELECTED FROM EMINENT
WRITERS FOR YOUTH,
BY PETER PARLEY.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
H. G. COLLINS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCLI.
CONTENTS.
Childhood 7
The Old Year and the New Year 9
The Story of Edward Lyon;
or, Confessing a Fault 10
To my good Angel 16
Self-Denial 17
Henry and his Sister 24
Anna and her Kitten 26
Faithfulness 28
The Great Man 41
Philosophy in Common things.--The
Air Thermometer 43
The Rabbit 52
" Sleigh Ride 55
Story of a Greyhound 61
The Truant 63
A Summer morning Ramble 67
The Hottentots 71
" Whispering Figure 76
A Story of the Sea 79
The Old Slate 85
Children, a poem 90
Lizzy; a Fairy Tale 91
Ellen. A true story 109
Philosophy in common things.--Corking
the kettle spout up 111
The Lost Children 114
Forgiveness 123
The two Nosegays 124
Camgno; or, the tame Roe 127
The Secret 131
Science of the Human Frame.--The Skin 136
Voices from Nature 142
King Alfred 145
Grace Middleton 148
Shells 153
Emulation.--A conversation between
Harry and his father 155
A Nurse's Song 160
The Shepherd and the Fairy 161
Simple Pleasures 165
The Robin's "Good Bye" to little Araminta 171
The Baby House 174
Fidelity and Obedience 183
Bessie Lee 186
The Stars.--Orion 200
" Apple 204
" New Singing School 208
The Balloon 215
Curious Little Painters 217
The Upas; or, Poison Tree 225
Disobedience, and its consequences 227
The Game of Weathercocks 233
James Cartier.--An early traveller
in America 235
Anselmo's Escape; or, the Dog St. Bernard 239
To my Boy Tom, on giving him
his first Spelling-Book 245
Second Story of the Sea 247
The Child at Prayer 251
" Child Angel 257
" Storm 259
Something about Dogs 262
The Morning Walk 265
" Ostrich 271
" Violet.--Modesty 274
" Elephant 277
THE
BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY.
CHILDHOOD.
"Heaven lies about us in our infancy."
WORDSWORTH.
"My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So let it be when I grow old,
Or let me die."
IBID.
The angel that takes care of the tender lambs and sprinkles dew upon the
flowers, in the still night, takes care of thee, dear little one, and
lets no evil come to thy tender years.
Fair child! when I gaze into thy soft, dark eyes, _my_ childhood
returns, like a bright vision, and I think of the time when every sight
and every sound in nature gave to me such sweet delight, and all seemed
_so_ fair. I almost fancy I hear thy gentle voice breathing forth thy
joy in sweet and happy words, such as little children are wont to use
when they first begin to look up into the blue sky, to gaze upon the
rainbow, or the bright clouds that float over the moon.
The bright sun, the moon and stars, the murmuring rivulet, the broad
ocean heaving to and fro in the sunlight, the thunder and the storm, the
quiet glen where I listened to the busy hum of the insects, the joyous
song of the birds, as they flew from spray to spray, the odour of fresh
flowers--all filled my breast with heavenly love and peace; and when I
look into _thy_ face, dear Sophia, I feel my soul return to join you,
and I forget the present, and live only in the past.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW YEAR
BY RUFUS DAWES.
An old man, wrinkled with many woes,
Went trudging along through the wintry snows;
'Twas the thirty-first of December, at night,
He had travelled far and was worn out quite.
The clock was just on the click of twelve,
When the old man stopp'd and began to delve:
And he made a grave in the broad highway,
To be trampled upon on the coming day.
Then in he crept, and had hardly strength,
To stretch himself out at his utmost length,
When the clock struck _twelve!_--at the solemn tone,
The old man died without a groan.
Just then a youth came tripping by,
With a holiday look and a merry eye;
His back was loaded with books and toys,
Which he toss'd about to the girls and boys.
He gave one glance at the dead old man.
Then laughed aloud, and away he ran.
But when he comes back, let him laugh, if he dare,
At the following lines which are written there.
"Beneath the stone which here you view,
Lies EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-TWO.
His grandfathers blundered so sadly, that he
Inherited only their penury,
With a few little play-things he's left for his heir,
Who will frolic awhile, and then die of care.
He lived, a wretched life, we're told.
And died at last, _just twelve months old_!"
THE STORY OF EDWARD LYON;
OR,
CONFESSING A FAULT.
"I don't like James Parker, and I'll never play with him again as long
as I live," said a little boy, warmly, whose name was Edward Lyon.
His father, hearing the words of his son, called him, and said,
"Edward, my son, what has happened to cause you to speak so unkindly of
your little playmate? I thought you liked James very much."
"So I did, father; but I don't like him now."
"Why not?"
"Because he got angry with me to-day, and struck me."
"Struck you, my son!"
"Yes, indeed! he did so,--but I struck him back for it!"
When Edward's father heard this, he was very much grieved. Taking his
boy upon his knee, he asked him to tell him all about his difficulty
with James Parker, and why James had struck him.
"Why, you see, father," began Edward, "he was building a house with the
blocks you told us we might have from the building, and had got it up
very high, when I told him, in fun, that I would knock it down, and
threw a great stone at it, just by way of make believe. Somehow or
other, the stone slipped in my hand, and struck his house, and knocked
it all to pieces. But I didn't mean to do it. And then he came up to me,
with his face as red as blood, and struck me with all his might."
"And then you struck him back again?"
"Yes, sir."
"And then what did he do?"
"He doubled up his fist, as if he was going to hit me again."
"But didn't do it?"
"No. He stopped a minute, and then began to cry, and went off home."
"Suppose he had struck you again--what would you have done?"
"I should have hit him back."
"Like a wicked boy, as you were, then."
"But he was wicked, too, father."
"Not so wicked as you, I think. In the first place, it was wrong in you
even to pretend that you were going to knock his house down. Wrong in
two ways. First, you told an untruth in saying that you meant to knock
it down, when you did not intend to do so. And then you took pleasure in
seeing him troubled, lest his house, the building of which gratified him
so much, should be wantonly destroyed. Both the feeling and act here
were evil. And my son, in indulging the one and doing the other, was not
under good influences. And then, can you wonder that James, after what
you had said, should have believed that you knocked his house down on
purpose? You said that you meant to do it, and then did do it. What
better evidence could he have had of your unjustifiable trespass upon
his rights? Pleased with his house, its destruction could only arouse
within him feelings of indignation against the one who had wantonly
thrown it down. Put yourself in his place, and think whether you would
not have felt as angry as he did; perhaps much more so. Carried away by
this feeling, he struck you. This was wrong, but not half so much as the
fact of your returning the blow. You knew that you had given him cause
to feel incensed at your conduct, and you ought to have borne his blow
as a just punishment for what you had done. But, instead of this, you
made the matter ten times worse by striking him back. The fact, that he
did not return your blow, but resisted the impulse he felt to strike you
again, shows that he is a much better boy than you are, Edward; for you
have declared, that if he had struck you again, you would have returned
the blow, and have fought with him, I doubt not, until the one or the
other of you had been beaten."
"I am sorry I knocked his house down," Edward said, as soon as his
father ceased speaking, and he hung his head and looked ashamed and
troubled. "And I was sorry the moment I saw that I had done it."
"Then why did you not tell him so at once?"
"I would, if he had given me time. But he doubled up his fist and hit me
before I could speak."
"Still, knowing that you had provoked him to do so, you ought to have
forgiven the blow."
"And so I would, if I had only had time to think. But it came so
suddenly"--
"You have had time to think since, my son, and yet you have declared
that you do not like James, and never intend playing with him again."
"I didn't feel right when I said that, father. I was angry at him. But I
don't suppose he will ever play with me again after what has happened."
"Why not?"
"Of course he is very angry with me."
"More angry with himself for having struck you, I expect."
"Oh, if I thought so, I would go at once and ask him to forgive me for
knocking his house down, and for having struck him," Edward said, his
eyes filling with tears.
"That ought not to be your reason for asking his forgiveness, Edward."
"Why not, father?"
"You should go to him and ask his forgiveness because you are conscious
of having injured him. You ought not to think anything about what he may
think or feel, but go to him and confess your wrong, simply because you
have acted wrong."
"But how do I know that he will take it kindly?"
"That you must not think of, my boy. Think only of the fact you have
injured James, and that simple justice requires of you to repair that
injury in the best way you can. Surely, the least you can now do is to
go to him, and tell him that you are sorry for what you have done."
For a time, pride and shame struggled in the breast of Edward, but at
length he made up his mind to do as his father had proposed. He not only
saw clearly that he had been wrong, but he also felt that he had been
wrong. James Parker lived only a little way from his father's house, and
thither he at length turned his steps, though with reluctance, for he
did not know how James would receive him.
As he came into the yard of the house where James' father lived, he saw
his little playmate seated quietly in the door, with his face turned
away, so that he did not notice him, nor seem to hear the sound of his
footsteps, until he was close to him. Then he turned quickly, and
Edward saw that he had been weeping.
"James," he said, holding out his hand, "I am sorry that I knocked your
house down--but I didn't mean to do it. And I am more sorry still that I
struck you."
"And I have been so sorry that I struck you, that I have cried ever
since," James said, taking the offered hand of his young friend. "I
might have known that you did not mean to knock my house down when you
threw the stone,--that it was an accident. But I was so angry that I
didn't know what I was doing. I'm so glad you have come. I wanted to see
you so bad, and tell you how sorry I was; but was afraid you would not
forgive me for having struck you."
From that day Edward and James were firmer friends than ever. Each
forgave the other heartily, and each blamed himself to the full extent
of his error. And besides, each learned to guard against the sudden
impulse of angry feelings, that so often sever friends, both young and
old.
TO MY GOOD ANGEL.
Hail, protecting spirit, hail!
Guardian of my being here;
Though my faltering footsteps fail,
And I sink in doubt and fear,
Still to cheer me
Thou art near me,
All unseen by mortal eye,--
All unheard by mortal ear;
Thou, a spirit of the sky,
Dost protect and guide me here.
Hail, immortal spirit, hail!
When the storm is in my breast,
And the foes of peace assail,
Thou canst calm my soul to rest.
Then to cheer me
Still be near me--
Guardian angel, to me given,
Guide me still till life be o'er,
Then to that long looked-for heaven,
Let my happy spirit soar.
SELF-DENIAL.
There were two little boys, named James and William. One day, as they
were about starting for school, their father gave them two or three
pennies a-piece, to spend for themselves. The little boys were very much
pleased at this, and went off as merry as crickets.
"What are you going to buy, William?" James asked, after they had walked
on a little way.
"I don't know," William replied. "I have not thought yet. What are you
going to buy with your pennies?"
"Why, I'll tell you what I believe I'll do. You know ma' is sick. Now, I
think I will buy her a nice orange. I am sure it will taste good to
her."
"You may, if you choose, James. But I'm going to buy some candy with my
money. Pa' gave it to me to spend for myself. If ma' wants an orange,
she can send for it. You know she's got money, and Hannah gets her
everything she wants."
"I know that," James said. "But then, it would make me feel so happy to
see her eating an orange that I bought for her with my own money. She is
always doing something for us, or getting us some nice thing, and I
should like to let her see that I don't forget it."
"You can do as you please," was William's reply to this. "For my part, I
don't often get money to spend for myself. And now I think of it, I
don't believe pa' would like it if we were to take the pennies he gave
us for ourselves, and give them away,--or, what is the same thing, give
away what we bought with them. Indeed, I'm sure he would not."
"I don't think so, William," urged James. "I think it would please
him very much. You know that he often talks to us of the evil of
selfishness. Don't you remember how pleased he was one day, when a poor
chimney-sweeper asked me for a piece of cake that I was eating, and I
gave him nearly the whole of it? If that gave him pleasure, surely my
denying myself for the sake of ma', who is sick, would please him a
great deal more."
William did not reply to this, for he could not, very well. Still, he
wanted to spend his pennies for his own gratification so badly, that he
was not at all influenced by what his brother said.
In a little while, the two little boys came to a confectioner's shop,
and both went into it to spend their money.
"Well, my little man, what will you have?" asked the shop-keeper,
looking at William, as he came up to the counter.
"Give me three pennies' worth of cream candy," William said.
The cream candy was weighed out, and then the man asked James what he
should get for him.
"I want a nice sweet orange, for a penny," said James.
"Our best oranges are twopence," was the reply.
"But I have only a penny, and I want a nice orange for my mother, who is
sick."
"Do you buy it with your own money, my little man?" asked the
confectioner.
"Yes, sir," was the low answer.
"Then take one of the best, for your penny, and here is some candy into
the bargain. I love to see little boys thoughtful of their mothers." And
the man patted James upon the head, and seemed much pleased.
William felt bad when he heard what the man said, and began to think how
very much pleased his mother would be when James took her the orange
after school.
"I wish I had bought an orange too," he said, as he went along, eating
his candy, which did not taste half so good as he had expected it would
taste.
Do you know why it did not taste so good? I will tell you. His mind was
not at ease. When our thoughts trouble us, we take little or no pleasure
in anything. To make this still plainer, I will just mention the case of
a boy, who thought it would be so pleasant if he could play all the
time, instead of going to school. So much did he think about this, that
one morning, he resolved that he would not go to school when sent, but
would go out into the woods, and play all day, and be so happy.
So, when he started off, with his dinner in a little basket, instead of
going to the school-room, he went to the woods.
"Oh, this is so pleasant!" he said, on first arriving at the woods--"No
books nor lessons--no sitting still all day. Oh, I shall be so happy!"
As he said this, the thought of his parents, and of their grief and
displeasure, if they should find out that he had played truant, came
into his mind, and made him feel very unhappy. But he endeavoured
to forget this, and began to frisk about, and to try his best to
be delighted with his new-found freedom. But it was of no use. His
thoughts would go back to his parents, and to a consciousness of his
disobedience; and these thoughts destroyed all the pleasantness of being
freed from school. At last, he grew weary of everything around him, and
began to wish that he was again at school. But he was afraid to go now,
it had become so late; and so he had to stay in the woods all day. It
seemed to him the longest day he had ever spent, for the thoughts of his
disobedience, and the fear of his parents' displeasure, if they were to
find out what he had done, prevented him from taking any enjoyment. Oh,
how glad he was, when the sun began to go down towards the west! But it
seemed to him that it never would get to be five o'clock. Every man he
saw with a watch he asked the time of day, and every answer he received
disappointed him, for he was sure it must be later.
At last the time came for him to go home. As he drew near, he began to
tremble, lest his parents should have made the discovery that he had not
been to school. They did not know it, however, until the little boy, to
ease his troubled mind, confessed his fault.
Now this little boy could not enjoy himself in the woods because his
mind was not at ease. He was not satisfied with himself. He could not
approve of his own conduct.
So it was with William. He felt that he had been selfish, and that this
selfishness would appear when his brother carried home the orange for
their sick mother. It was for this reason that his candy did not taste
so good to him as he had expected that it would. But James ate his with
much satisfaction.
"I wish I had bought ma' an orange with my pennies," William said, as
they were going home from school.
"I wish you had, too," replied his unselfish brother, "for then we
should have two to give her, instead of one."
"See, ma', what a nice sweet orange I have bought you," he said, as he
arrived at home, and went into his mother's sick chamber.
"It is, indeed, very nice, my son, and it will taste good to me. I have
wanted an orange all the morning. Where did you get it?"
"Pa' gave me a penny, this morning, and I bought it with this. I thought
you would like to have one."
"You are very good, my son, to think of your sick mother. And you
wouldn't spend your penny for cake or candy; but denied yourself, that
you might get an orange for me? Mother loves you for this manifestation
of your _self-denial_ and love for your parent." And she kissed him.
William heard all this, and it made him feel very bad indeed. Oh, how he
did wish that he had bought something for his mother with the pennies
his father had given him! But it was too late now.
The pain he felt, however, was useful to him. It taught him to know that
we may often obtain far greater happiness by denying ourselves for the
sake of others, than in seeking alone the gratification of our own
appetite; and he seriously resolved he would _try_ in future to do
better.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HENRY AND HIS SISTER.
Said Henry, one day,
As from school he came in,
"Don't you think, sister dear,
A good boy I have been,
Such a beautiful book to have gained?
"Just look at these pictures,
The bird on the tree,
These lambs in the meadow,
This flower, and this bee,
With its honey from blossoms obtained.
"And here is a story,
And here is a song;
Let me read the story,
It won't take me long;"
And so the nice story he read.
"Oh, what a nice story!"
And little Jane's smile
Played on her face,
Like a sunbeam, awhile--
"I'm so glad you were good!" then she said.
[Illustration]
ANNA AND HER KITTEN.
Little Anna has a very pretty grey kitten; and she loves the kitty very
much; and the kitty loves her. Sometimes when Anna is playing with her
doll and nine-pins, kitty puts out her paw and rolls all the playthings
about the room, but Anna does not mind that; she knows the little pussy
does it all for play.
One day, when Anna was alone with the kitty, in the parlour, she made
scratches on the window; and that was a very naughty trick. When her
nurse came into the room, she asked Anna, "Who made these scratches on
the window?" Little Anna felt ashamed of the mischief she had done; and
she did not speak a word.
The kitten was asleep in the chair; and the nurse said, "I suppose this
naughty puss did it;" and she took the kitten out of the chair, and told
her she must box her ears, for scratching the window; but little Anna
began to cry; and she ran up to her nurse, saying, "Oh, don't whip
little kitty; she did not scratch the window. I did it."
And so the nurse did not strike poor puss; and Anna took the kitty in
her arms, and smoothed her soft grey fur, and made her very happy.
Anna's father and mother and her grandmother loved their little girl
very much, because she told the _truth_, and was so kind to her good
little kitten.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
FAITHFULNESS;
OR,
THE STORY OF THE BIRD'S NEST.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.
One fine spring morning a poor boy sat under a tree, watching a flock of
sheep which were feeding in a meadow, between a clear, dancing,
trout-brook, and an old oak wood.
He held a book in his hand, and was so much engaged with it, that he
scarcely looked up, excepting that from time to time he cast a quick
glance toward the sheep, to make himself sure they were all safe, and
within bounds.
Once, as he looked up from his book, he saw standing near him a boy, not
much larger than himself, dressed in the richest and most graceful
manner. It was the prince--the eldest son of the king, and heir to the
throne.
The shepherd-boy did not know him, but supposed him to be the son of the
forester, who often came on business to the fine old hunting-tower,
which stood near by.
"Good morning, Mr. Forester," said the shepherd-boy, taking off his
straw hat, which, however, he instantly replaced; "can I do anything for
you?"
"Tell me, are there any birds' nests in these woods?" said the prince.
"That is a droll question for a young forest man," said the boy. "Don't
you hear the birds singing all around? To be sure there are birds' nests
enough here. Every bird has its own nest."
"Then, do you know where there is a pretty one to be seen?" said the
prince.
"Oh, yes; I know a wonderful fine one," said the boy. "It is the
prettiest nest I ever saw in my life. It is made of yellow straw, and is
as smooth and neat inside, as if it had been turned in a lathe; and it
is covered all over the outside with fine curled moss, so that you would
hardly know there was a nest there. And then, there are five eggs in
it. Oh, they are so pretty! They are almost as blue as the bright sky,
which shines through those oak leaves over head."
"That is fine!" said the prince; "come, show me this same nest. I long
to see it."
"That I can easily believe," said the boy, "but I cannot show you the
nest."
"I do not wish you to do it for nothing," said the prince, "I will
reward you well for it."
"That may be," said the boy. "But I cannot show it to you."
The prince's tutor now stepped up to them. He was a dignified,
kind-looking man, in a plain dark suit of clothes. The little shepherd
had not before observed him.
"Be not disobliging, my lad," said he. "The young gentleman here has
never seen a bird's nest, although he has often read of them, and he
wishes very much to see one. Pray, do him the kindness to lead him to
the one you have mentioned, and let him see it. He will not take it away
from you. He only wishes to look at it. He will not even touch it."
The shepherd-boy stood up respectfully, but said, "I must stick to what
I have said. I cannot show the nest."
"That is very unfriendly," said the tutor. "It should give you great
pleasure to be able to do anything to oblige our beloved prince
Frederick."
"Is this young gentleman the prince?" cried the young shepherd, and
again took off his hat; but this time he did not put it on again. "I am
very much pleased to see the prince, but _that_ bird's nest I cannot
show any one, no not even the king himself."
"Such a stiff-necked, obstinate boy I never saw in my life," said the
prince, pettishly. "But we can easily find means to compel him to do
what we wish."
"Leave it to me, if you please, my dear prince," said the tutor; "there
must be some cause for this strange conduct." Then, turning to the boy,
he said, "Pray tell us what is the reason you will not show us that
nest, and then we will go away and leave you in peace. Your behaviour
seems very rude and strange; but if you have any good reason for it, do
let us know it."
"Hum!" said the boy; "that I can easily do. Michel tends goats there
over the mountains. He first showed me the nest, and I promised him that
I never would tell anybody where it was."
"This is quite another thing," said the tutor. He was much pleased with
the honesty of the boy; but wished to put it to further proof. He took a
piece of gold from his purse, and said--
"See here! this piece of gold shall be yours, if you will show us the
way to the nest. You need not tell Michel that you have done it, and
then he will know nothing about it."
"Eh! thank you all the same," said the boy. "Then I should be a false
rogue, and that will I not be. Michel might know it or not. What would
it help me, if the whole world knew nothing about it, if God in heaven
and myself knew that I was a base, lying fellow? Fie!"
"Perhaps you do not know how much this piece of gold is worth," said the
tutor. "If you should change it into coppers, you could not put them all
into your straw hat, even if you should heap them up."
"Is that true?" said the boy, as he looked anxiously at the piece of
gold. "Oh, how glad my poor old father would be, if I could earn so
much!" He looked thoughtful a moment, and then cried out, "No--take it
away!" Then, lowering his voice, he said, "The gentleman must forgive.
He makes me think of the bad spirit in the wilderness, when he said,
'all this will I give thee.' Short and good, I gave Michel my hand on
it, that I would not show the nest to any one. A promise is a promise,
and herewith fare well."
He turned, and would have gone away, but the prince's huntsman, who
stood near and listened to what passed, came up, and clapped him on the
shoulder, said, in a deep bass voice, "Ill-mannered booby! is this the
way you treat the prince, who is to be our king? Do you show more
respect to the rude goat-herd over the mountains, than to him? Show the
bird's nest, quick, or I will hew a wing out of your body." As he said
this he drew his hanger.
The poor boy turned pale, and with a trembling voice cried out, "Oh,
pardon! I pray for pardon!"
"Show the nest, booby," cried the hunter, "or I will hew!"
The boy held both hands before him, and looked with quivering eyes on
the bright blade, but still he cried, in an agitated voice, "Oh, I
cannot! I must not! I dare not do it!"
"Enough! enough!" cried the tutor. "Put up your sword and step back, Mr.
Hunter. Be quiet, my brave boy. No harm shall be done you. You have well
resisted temptation. You are a noble soul! Go, ask the permission of
your young friend, and then come and show us the nest. You shall share
the piece of gold between you!"
"Good! good!" said the boy, "this evening I will have an answer for
you!"
The prince and tutor went back to the castle, to which they had come the
day before, to enjoy the season of spring.
"The nobleness of that boy surprises me," said the tutor, as they went
along. "He is a jewel which cannot be too much prized. He has in him the
elements of a great character. So we may often find, under the thatched
roof, truth and virtues which the palace does not often present to
view."
After they returned, the tutor inquired of the steward if he knew
anything about the shepherd-boy.
"He is a fine boy," said the steward. "His name is George. His father is
poor, but is known all around for an honest, upright, sensible man."
After the prince's studies were ended for the day, he went to the
window, and immediately said, "Aha, the little George is waiting for us.
He tends his small flock of sheep by the wood, and often looks toward
the castle."
"Then we will go and hear what answer he brings us," said the tutor.
They left the castle together and went to the place where George tended
his sheep.
When he saw them moving he ran to meet them, and called out joyfully,--"It
is all right with Michel; he called me a foolish boy, and scolded me for
not showing you the nest at first, but, it is better that I should have
asked his leave. I can now show it to you with pleasure. Come with me,
quick, Mr. Prince."
George led the way, on the run, to the oak wood, and the prince and
tutor followed more slowly.
"Do you see that yellow bird on the alder twig, that sings so joyfully?"
said George to the prince. "That is the manikin! the nest belongs to
him. Now we must go softly."
In a part of the woods where the oak trees were scattering, stood a
thicket of white thorns, with graceful, shining green leaves, thickly
ornamented with clusters of fragrant blossoms, which glittered like
snow in the rays of the setting sun.
Little George pointed with his finger into the thicket, and said,
softly, to the prince, "There! peep in once, Mr. Prince! the lady bird
is sitting on her eggs."
The prince looked, and had the satisfaction of seeing her on her nest.
They stood quite still, but the bird soon flew away, and the prince,
with the greatest pleasure, examined the neat, yellow straw nest, and
the smooth, blue eggs. The tutor made many excellent remarks, and gave
the prince some information in the meantime.
"Now come with us, and receive the money we promised you," said the
tutor to George. "But the gold piece will not be so good for you as
silver money."
He took out his purse and counted down on a stone, before the astonished
George, the worth of the gold piece in bright new shillings.
"Now divide fairly with Michel!" said the prince.
"On honour!" answered George; and sprang, with the money, out of their
sight.
The tutor afterwards inquired whether George had divided the money
equally with Michel, and found he had not given him a piece too little.
His own part, he carried to his father, and had not kept a penny to
himself.
Prince Frederick went every day to the bird's nest. At first, the birds
were a little afraid of him, but when they saw that he did not disturb
them, they lost their fear, and went and came freely, before him.
The prince's delight was full when he saw how the little birds crept
from their shells. How they all opened their yellow bills and piped
loud, when the parents brought their food. How the young nestlings grew,
were covered with soft down, and then with feathers; and at length, one
day, amid the loud rejoicings of the parents, they ventured their first
flight to the nearest twig of the thorn-tree, where the old birds fed
them tenderly.
The prince and his tutor often met little George as he tended his sheep,
while they strayed,--now here, now there. The tutor was much pleased to
observe that he always had his book with him, and spent all his spare
time in reading.
"You know how to amuse yourself in the best manner, George," said he to
the boy. "I should be pleased to hear you read a little from that book
which you love so well."
George read aloud, with great zeal, and although he now and then
miscalled a word, he did his best, and the tutor was pleased.
"That is very well," said he. "In what school did you learn to read?"
"I have never been in any school," said George, sadly. "The school is
too far off, and my father had no money to pay for it. Besides, I have
not any time to go to school. In summer I tend the sheep, and in winter
I spin at home. But my good friend, Michel, can read very well, and he
has promised to tell me all he knows. He taught me all the letters, and
the lines of spelling. This is the same book that Michel learnt from. He
gave it to me, and I have read it through three times. To be sure, it is
so worn out now, that you cannot see all the words, and it is not so
easy to read as it was."
The next time the prince came to the woods, he showed George a beautiful
book, bound, in gilded morocco.
"I will lend you this book, George," said the prince, "and as soon as
you can read a whole page without one mistake, it shall be yours."
Little George was much delighted, and took it with the ends of his
fingers, as carefully as if it had been made of a spider-web, and could
be as easily torn.
The next time they met, George gave the book to the prince, and said, "I
will try to read any page that you may please to choose from the first
six leaves." The prince chose a page, and George read it without making
a mistake. So the prince gave him the book for his own.
One morning the king came to the hunting castle on horseback, with only
one attendant. He wished to see, by himself, what progress his son was
making in his studies. At dinner, the prince gave him an account of the
bird's nest, and the noble conduct of the little shepherd.
"In truth," said the tutor, "that boy is a precious jewel. He would make
a most valuable servant for our beloved prince; and as God has endowed
him with rare qualities, it is much to be wished that he should be
educated. His father is too poor to do anything for him; but with all
his talents and nobleness of character, it would be a pity, indeed, that
he should be left here, to make nothing but a poor shepherd like his
father."
The king arose from table, and called the tutor to a recess of one of
the windows, where they talked long together. After it was ended, he
sent to call George to the castle.
Great was the surprise of the poor shepherd-boy, when he was shewn into
the rich saloon, and saw the dignified man, who stood there, with a
glittering star on his breast. The tutor told him who the stranger was,
and George bowed himself almost to the earth.
"My good boy," said the king in a friendly tone, "I hear you take great
pleasure in reading your book. Should you like to study?"
"Ah!" said George, "if nothing was wanting but my liking it, I should be
a student to-day. But my father has no money. That is what is wanting."
"Then we will try whether we can make a student of you," said the king.
"The prince's tutor here has a friend, an excellent country curate, who
takes well-disposed boys into his house to educate. To this curate I
will recommend you; and will be answerable for the expenses of your
education. How does the plan please you?"
The king expected that George would be very much delighted, and seize
his grace with both hands. And, indeed, he began to smile at first, with
much seeming pleasure, but immediately after, a troubled expression came
over his face, and he looked down in silence.
"What is the matter?" said the king; "you look more like crying than
being pleased with my offer, let us hear what it is?"
"Ah! sir," said George, "my father is so poor what I earn in summer by
tending sheep, and in winter by spinning, is the most that he has to
live on. To be sure it is little, but he cannot do without it."
"You are a good child," said the king, very kindly. "Your dutiful love
for your father is more precious than the finest pearl in my casket.
What your father loses by your changing the shepherd's crook and
spinning-wheel, for the book and pen, I will make up with him. Will that
do?"
George was almost out of his senses for joy. He kissed the king's hand,
and wet it with tears of gratitude, then darted out to carry the joyful
news to his father. Soon, father and son both returned, with their eyes
full of tears, for they could only express their thanks by weeping. When
George's education was completed, the king took him into his service,
and after the king's death, he became counsellor to the prince--his
successor.
His father's last days were easy and happy, by the comforts which the
integrity of the poor shepherd-boy had procured him.
Michel, the firm friend, and first teacher of the prince's favourite,
was appointed to the place of forester, and fulfilled all his duties
well and _faithfully_.
[Illustration]
THE GREAT MAN.
WRITTEN FOR VERY YOUNG READERS.
I will tell you a tale of a great man who loved _justice_.
He had two sons whom he also loved.
Now, he had himself made a law, that whoever sought to harm the peace of
the country where he lived, should die.
There was a sad cabal against the peace of the country soon after the
law was made:
And the great man's two dear sons were at the head of this wicked party.
Their names were in the list of bad men.
This great man loved justice more than he loved his two sons.
He, therefore, made firm his heart, and sat upon his rich throne, and
gave the word that his two sons should be brought before him;
And he passed sentence on them, as he would have done on strangers:
For, he thought, why should they not suffer for their faults?
We punish the poor and ignorant for their crimes:
So, it is just that we should punish the rich and those who know better,
too.
And this great man gave orders that his sons should be beaten with rods;
and that then their heads should be cut off.
And there he sat upon his seat, as judge,--pale and cold, but firm and
brave.
And when all was past--when both his sons were dead, and their warm
blood lay shed on the ground before him:
Then, when the _judge_ had done his _duty_, but not before, he gave way
to the love of the father.
He arose and left his seat;
He went to his own house, and there wept and mourned many days.
The name of this great man was Brutus.
Think upon his name, but think more of the true love of _justice_ and
judgment.
This little tale is a fact that happened at Rome.
You have heard of Rome, I dare say; and you will know more of it as you
grow up.
PHILOSOPHY AT HOME.
THE AIR THERMOMETER.
It is a very good amusement for ingenious boys at home, in the long
winter evenings, to construct such philosophical instruments, or perform
such experiments, as are practicable, with such materials and means as
are within their reach. It is true, that this may sometimes make parents
or an older sister some trouble, but with proper care on the part of the
young philosophers, this trouble will not be great, and parents will
generally be willing to submit to it for the sake of having their
children engaged in an entertaining and instructive employment. We
shall, therefore, give our readers such lessons in practical philosophy,
as we suppose may be of use. In this article we will show them how they
may, with few materials and ordinary ingenuity, construct an _Air
thermometer_.
The materials which will be wanted are these:--a glass phial,--one that
is broad at the base in proportion to its height, so as to stand firm,
is desirable,--a glass tube of small bore, six or eight inches long,--a
cork to fit the mouth of the phial,--a little sealing-wax, a lamp,
and a small pitcher of water. The work may be safely done upon the
parlour-table, provided that the materials are all placed upon a large
tea-tray, with an old newspaper, or a sheet of wrapping-paper spread
over it. The paper will then intercept any drops of hot sealing-wax
which may chance to fall, and which might otherwise injure the tray, and
the tray itself will receive whatever may be spilt.
The only article of the above materials in regard to which the reader
will have any difficulty, is the tube. Such a tube, however, can usually
be procured at an apothecary's, at a very trifling expense. One about
the dimensions of a pipe-stem will be best. In constructing the
instrument, this tube is to be passed down through the cord, which is to
be placed in the neck of the phial, the lower end to go below the
surface of a little water, which is to be put in the bottom of the
phial.
The appearance of the instrument, when completed and fitted with a
scale, as will be explained hereafter, is represented in the annexed
wood-cut. In constructing the instrument, the operations, or the
_manipulations_, as the philosophers call them, are,
First, to bore a hole through the cork, to receive the tube.
Second, to cement the tube into the cork.
Third, to cement the cork into the phial.
[Illustration]
1. The first thing is to bore a hole through the cork, and this must be
just large enough to admit the glass tube.--After turning in the gimlet
a little way, it should be drawn out straight, by which means the chips
will be drawn out, and then it should be put in again. For a gimlet will
not clear its own way in cork, as it will in wood. By drawing it out,
however, in the manner above described, taking care to operate gently,
so as not to split the cork, and to guide the gimlet straight through
the centre of the cork, the hole may be bored without much difficulty.
If the hole is not quite large enough, it may be widened by a penknife
which has a narrow blade, or it may be burnt out to a proper size with a
hot knitting-needle, or a piece of iron wire. And thus the hole is bored
through the cork.
2. The next thing is to cement the tube to the cork. In order to do
this, the water is first to be poured into the phial. About one quarter
or one fifth as much as the phial will contain, will be sufficient. When
this is done, the neck of the phial inside should be wiped dry, for the
cork is to be sealed into it, and unless the glass is dry, the
sealing-wax will not adhere. Then the tube is to be passed through the
cork, and the cork put into its place, and the tube slipped down until
the lower end reaches below the surface of the water, and nearly touches
the bottom of the phial. Observe, then, at what part of the tube the
cork comes, for this part is to be heated, and covered with sealing-wax,
in order to seal it into the cork. It may be marked with a touch of ink
from a pen, at a point just above where it issues from the cork. Then
take out the cork with the tube from the phial, and slip the cork along
down towards the lower end of the tube, so that you can put the wax upon
the glass.
In order to cover the part of the tube, which is to pass through the
cork, with sealing-wax, it must be heated; for sealing-wax will not
adhere to glass, or any other smooth or hard substance, if it is cold.
To heat glass requires some care. It must be heated gradually, and one
part must not be made very hot, while the adjoining parts remain cold;
for glass will not bear sudden changes of temperature, or a great
difference of temperature in contiguous parts. Therefore, in heating the
glass, you must proceed gradually. Hold the part over the flame of a
lamp, but not so as to touch the flame, and move it backward and
forward, so as to warm a portion of one or two inches in length,
equally. Then you can hold it more steadily, in such a manner as to
heat the central portion. As you do this, hold a stick of sealing-wax,
so as to touch the hottest part of the glass with it occasionally, that
is, the part immediately below the ink mark. When the glass is hot
enough to melt the sealing-wax, the glass will coat itself with the wax.
After holding it a moment over the flame, turning it round and round, so
as to melt all parts of the wax equally, the cork is to be slipped back
again over it into its place, where it will become firmly fixed, as the
work cools. Thus the tube will be cemented into the cork.
3. Nothing now remains but to cement the cork into the neck of the
phial. The cork ought to be of such a size, that it will go well down
into the neck of the phial, so as to have the top of it a little below
the upper part of the neck. For the whole of the upper part of the cork
ought to be covered with sealing wax, in order to make it air tight,
and this can be best done if the glass rises a little above the top of
the cork. If necessary, therefore, the upper part of the cork must be
carefully removed with a penknife, and then, when it is properly
fitted, the sides may be covered with sealing wax, by heating the wax
in the lamp and rubbing it on all around. When it is covered with a
thin coat of wax, it should be held over the lamp a moment, turning it
round and round, until it is melted in every part; and the neck of the
phial should be heated in the same gradual and cautious manner
recommended in the case of the tube. When both are of the proper
temperature, the cork must be pressed down into its place. Before the
wax cools, see that the bottom of the tube does not quite touch
the bottom of the phial, and observe also that the tube stands
perpendicular. If it does not, it may be gently pressed to one side or
the other, as may be required, and held so until the wax has cooled,
when it will retain its position. The top of the cork must then be
covered with sealing wax, and the surface smoothed by holding it over a
lamp until its inequalities run together. Thus the cork will be
cemented into the phial, and the air thermometer completed, with the
exception of the scale. And the following experiments can be performed
with it:--
Exp. 1. On examining the instrument, it will be observed that there is a
portion of air closely confined in the upper part of the phial. It
cannot escape up the tube, for the water covers the lower end of the
tube. If now the instrument is put into a warm place, so as to expand
this body of air within the phial, the force of the expansion will press
against the water, and cause a portion of it to rise in the tube. When
so much water has thus ascended as is necessary to allow such a degree
of additional space within, as will enable the expansive force of the
air within exactly to balance the pressure in the top of the tube from
without, the water will remain at rest. If now the air is warmed still
more, the expansion will cause the water to rise still higher, until the
two forces are again in equilibrium.
Exp. 2. When the water has been forced into the tube as high as it will
rise under the greatest heat to which it is safe to expose it, it may be
carried again into a cool place. The heat which was in the air and the
glass will now pass off, and the air within will lose some of its
expansive force, and will evince a tendency to return to its former
dimensions. This will be shown by the subsidence of the water in the
tube. Thus by carrying the instrument successively into warm and cold
places, the surface of the water in the tube will be found to rise and
fall, thus indicating, by the level at which it stands, the temperature
of the air around it, at its several places of exposure. A scale for
this thermometer may be formed of pasteboard, and fastened to the tube
by threads or slits in the pasteboard, or, in any other convenient
manner.
Exp. 3. When the instrument is cooled, the water in the tube does not
simply fall by its own weight. It is forced down by the pressure of the
outward atmosphere. For although the expansive force of the air within
is diminished by the cold, there is still force left, far more than
sufficient to counteract the weight of the water. So that the water
descends, not by its own weight, but by the pressure of the atmosphere
without, acting upon the surface of the water in the tube. This may be
proved in the following manner. Raise the water in the tube as high as
possible, by placing the instrument before the fire, and then stop the
upper end of the tube with the thumb, or a little hot sealing-wax. Now,
if the thermometer be taken to a cool place, it will be found that the
water will not fall. The pressure from above in the tube being taken off
the water is kept up by the expansive force which still remains in the
air within. When the stopper is removed from the tube, so as to allow
the external atmosphere to press upon the water again, it will
immediately subside.
Exp. 4. Whatever may have been the temperature of the room where the
thermometer was made, the water in the tube will be, when at that
temperature, just level with the water in the phial; and of course, when
it begins to rise, it will be some little time before it gets up above
the neck of the phial. Now as it can be seen better above the neck of
the phial than below, it is convenient to have the instrument so
adjusted, as to have the surface of the water in the tube always kept
above. This can be effected by forcing a little more air into the phial,
thus increasing the expansive force within. A few bubbles of air may be
blown in with the breath, by applying the mouth to the top of the tube.
This will add to the force within, so that, even when the thermometer is
cold, the water will stand in the tube above the neck of the phial, and
all the changes that take place will be above that level, where they can
be easily seen.