forgiveness, and how pleasant it is to forgive. See! he is dead, and I
trust you will never more put any such 'thimbles' into your bosom."
"Oh, mother," said Lizzy, smiling, as she dried her tears, "I have no
doubt it was beginning to be a pretty little bee when I put it in; but I
will be one myself now;" and she took her sewing work, and sat down; and
happening to look up from her work to the spot where the bat had fallen,
she was delighted to see, instead of the bat, a bee creeping along on
the floor. Presently he flew up, and crawled on her arm, while she
worked.
"Well," said Lizzy, the next morning, "I really did not know I was so
bad a girl. Only think of my causing the existence of such disagreeable
creatures, when I thought I should bring out such delightful ones. But I
will do better, certainly.--I wish I had some more of these eggs." And
she resolved to go again into the wood, and seek out the fairy. She had
been strolling about for some time, looking for the tree on which she
had seen the woodpecker, when she saw, on the ground before her, a brown
beetle, or May-bug, lying upon his back. She took him up, and turned him
over.
"That is a kind girl, Lizzy," said a small voice.
"Ah! the fairy!"
"How are you, this morning? I have not seen you since last evening, when
I was bobbing about in your room, striking my head against the ceiling,
and then falling bounce upon the floor. I was lying here on my back,
just to see if you would have the kindness to pick me up. And now, tell
me, what was the fate of the eggs? Have you got some pretty bird, bright
butterflies, and shining beetles, to show me?"
"Ah! I am ashamed of myself," said Lizzy; "all your pretty eggs were
wasted, but one."
"No wasted," said the fairy; "you know yourself better than you did
yesterday--do you not?"
"Indeed, I do; and therefore I think I shall succeed better to-day, if
you will give me some more eggs."
"Oh, yes," said the fairy; and taking the form of a squirrel, she ran up
the tree in which the eggs were concealed, and which was not far
distant, and presently returned with five of them in her cheeks, which
she gave to Lizzy, and then ran up the tree again, and sat chattering on
a high bough. As Lizzy walked on her way homewards, she passed by a low
meadow, where she saw a little girl gathering cowslips, or May-blobs for
greens. She had a peck-basket beside her, and Lizzy asked her if she
meant to fill that great basket with greens. The girl told her she
should have to fill it twice, and carry them into town to sell. A glad
thought leaped into Lizzy's heart. "I mean to try and help her to gather
them," said she to herself. When she offered to do it, the little girl
seemed quite pleased, and so Lizzy went to work very industriously, and
broke off the leaves and buds of the May-blobs, and the little girl's
basket began to fill very fast; and they talked together while they
picked, and the little girls soon became very well acquainted with each
other. The little girl told Lizzy how many brothers and sisters she had,
and how many hens and chickens, and what all their names were; and Lizzy
told the little girl how many brothers and sisters she had, and how many
rabbits and Canary birds, and what all their names were; and the little
girl told Lizzy how many funny things her hens and chickens did; and
Lizzy told the little girl many knowing things that her canaries did;
and Lizzy felt as happy while she picked the May-blobs, as the bright
yellow blossoms themselves looked. And now the basket is full, and the
little girl is glad her morning's task is done, before the sun is up so
high as to be too warm; she is not going to pick another basket till
towards night;--and now Lizzy feels the egg-shell crack in her bosom,
and she and the little girl laugh to see a full-grown yellow-bird fly
out, and, alighting upon Lizzy's shoulder, pour out his pleasant song.
"How he sings!" said the little girl.
"He is thanking me for his existence," said Lizzy; for she had told the
little girl all about the fairy eggs. "Come now, let me take your
basket, if you are going the same way that I am; for I know you are
tired, and I am not."
"That is where I live," said the little girl, pointing to a house about
an eighth of a mile distant.
"Ah!" said Lizzy, "that is not much out of my way; I think I shall be
home in good time." And she put another egg into her bosom, and taking
the basket, accompanied the little girl home, telling her she would
perhaps come and help her again at night; and just as the children were
saying good-bye, a hen yellow-bird flew out of Lizzy's bosom, and the
other one which had followed on, went gladly to meet her. "Ah! there is
a little yellow mate for him," cried Lizzy; and she held out her arm,
and the hen yellow-bird alighted upon it, and sat there while her mate
stood by her side and gave her his prettiest song. The little girl went
into the house, and Lizzy, first putting another egg into her bosom,
walked on, the two birds flying around her as she went, and the male now
and then stopping to trill his notes upon a shrub or tree. When Lizzy
reached home, she was met by Hero, her brother's dog, and not in the
most pleasant manner imaginable. He had just come out of a muddy ditch,
and with his wet, black paws, up he leaped upon her nice, clean apron.
"Be still, Hero; down, down, sir," said Lizzy; but Hero's expressions of
joy were not so easily quieted. Lizzy took up a stick and was going to
beat him, for she felt very angry; but she controlled herself, and
throwing down the stick, took hold of Hero's collar and held him down
till he became more quiet. When she went into the house the two
yellow-birds flew up and alighted upon a cherry tree, which was close by
her chamber window, and when she went into her chamber, how pleasant was
the song that met her ear! But why did not the other egg hatch! Lizzy
waited and waited, and towards night her patience became exhausted, and
she broke the shell. Oh, how glad she was it did not hatch! how glad she
was that she did not beat poor Hero, because he welcomed her rather too
rudely. A dead hornet was in the egg shell.
Lizzy's heart was full of gratitude and love when she laid herself down
to rest at night. She loved the little girl she had helped, and she felt
penitent and humble when she thought how angry she had been with Hero,
and grateful when she thought of the escape she had made; and she felt
very grateful and happy when she thought of the two yellow-birds she
should have to sing at her window. She took the two remaining eggs in
her hands and held them up against her bosom, and while she was going to
sleep, sweet thoughts of love and beauty floated about in her mind; and
when the song of her yellow-birds awoke her in the morning--Oh, what was
she pressing to her bosom? A pair of white doves! and they nestled and
cooed in her bosom, and when she arose she let them play around the
chamber. Unlike the dark, filmy wings of the bat, their white pinions
whistled as they flew, and Lizzy thought, "Oh, how sweet it will be to
have these to nestle in my bosom every night, and the yellow-birds to
awaken me in the morning!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ELLEN.
A TRUE STORY.
She looked into my eyes,
Her own were filled with tears;--
A loving and a thoughtful child,
Disturbed by dreamy fears.
She said--"Oh! mother dear!
I dread that I shall die
Too soon, and go to heaven alone,
And leave _you_ here to cry!"
"My darling! if you do,
You will be always blest;
The angels there will play with you,
And lull you, love, to rest!"
"Oh, no! it may be bright,
A pleasant place and fair;
But how can I be glad, and play?
_I'll have no mother there!_"
"My Ellen! if you stay
In this sad world of ours,
You'll often weep woe's bitter tears
Above its fairest flowers!"
"Dear mother! _yet_ I'd stay;
For oh! so much I love you,
I'd rather grieve with _you_, on earth,
Than joy, in heaven, above you!"
[Illustration]
PHILOSOPHY IN COMMON THINGS.
CORKING THE KETTLE SPOUT UP.
MR. W. Tom, have you brought the small cork I told you to bring?
TOM. Yes, father; here it is.
MR. W. Put it in the kettle spout.
TOM. Why, it blows it out again, as soon as it is in.
MR. W. You did not half press it in. Hold it fast--press with all your
strength.
TOM. See there--the lid is blown off!
MR. W. Blown off! How is this?--nobody has put gunpowder into the
kettle!
ELLA. I am sure there is nothing but clean water; I saw it put in.
MR. W. But, is it not very extraordinary that simple, clean water,
should blow the kettle lid off?
TOM. Not at all, father. When you told us about the expansion of cold
water below forty degrees, we wondered, because we could not think ice
was more bulky than water; but there seems no reason to doubt, that the
hotter water becomes, the more room it takes up.
MR. W. How does the heat of the fire do this?
TOM. By expanding it.
MR. W. We know that; but how?
TOM. By driving the particles of steam farther and farther asunder.
MR. W. Precisely. The moment the particles of a drop of water become
steam, they occupy eighteen hundred times as much room as they did
before.
TOM. And press the lid eighteen hundred times more forcibly than water?
MR. W. Its force is altogether irresistible. If this kettle were
composed of iron, an inch thick or more, if steam could not escape, it
would burst it with ease.
TOM. Is that the reason why steam boilers burst?
MR. W. It is one reason, but not the principal one. If the water in the
kettle were all boiled out, and it was full of steam, and we corked it
tightly up, and soldered the lid down, and still kept the fire blazing
fiercely about it, it would burst at the weakest part: perhaps the lid
would fly off, or the side burst: the steam would rush out, and, if we
were near, we might be scalded.
TOM. Then, when a boiler grows old and thin, if the pressure is very
great, it bursts in the weakest part?
MR. W. Just so; and ingenious men have made some portion of the boiler
of a weaker metal--so that, if it burst from the pressure of the steam,
it should hurt no one.
AMELIA. I cannot understand what you mean.
MR. W. You see this kettle on the fire:--if we cork up the spout, and
fasten the lid down, and let it boil, it will, probably, blow the cork
out, and hit some of you; but if, at the back part of the kettle that
touches the chimney, we have a part of it made of lead, or tin, it will
explode there.
AMELIA. Oh! I see now.
TOM. But, father, this cannot account for the tremendous explosions, by
which the boiler itself is thrown a great distance, and even factories
are blown down.
MR. W. I think not. I will try to make you understand this, to-morrow.
[Illustration]
THE LOST CHILDREN.
A TRUE STORY.
Philip and Jessie went to school every day through a pretty lane that
led to a small school-house in the country. It was not far from their
mother's house, and it did not take them many minutes to get there, when
they did not stop to play by the way. There were a great many flowers
growing in the field, on each side of the path, and they often started a
little earlier in the morning, to gather some of the freshest to carry
to their kind teacher.
Philip was only eight years old, but he felt like a man, when he thought
he was two whole years older than Jessie; and they had a little brother,
Willy, who was just three. Jessie was very fond of taking care of "the
baby" as Willy was still called. How fast the little fellow used to run
when he saw Philip and Jessie coming up the hill from school; and Philo,
Philip's dog, would bark, and run quite out of sight in a minute, and
then back again, and Jessie would put her basket in his mouth, and he
would walk along by her side, while she led Willy to the house.
Willy often asked to go to school with his brother and sister; but Mrs.
Morton, their mother, was not willing to let him go in, though his nurse
often took him to the door, and then brought him back, for fear he
should make a noise and disturb the children at their lessons.
One fine afternoon, it was Philip's birth-day, his mother said they
might take Willy with them to see "Aunt Ellen," as they used to call
their teacher. He promised to sit still by Jessie, and not speak one
loud word; and he kept his promise, too, though he whispered and laughed
so much, and looked so pretty, that the little girls did not do much
work that afternoon. However, Aunt Ellen dismissed the school half an
hour earlier than usual; and as they ran out, shouting and jumping, she
stooped and kissed Willy, and told Jessie to say, to his mother, that he
had been a very good boy in school, and that she hoped soon to have him
for a scholar.
Mrs. Morton had charged Philip to come straight from school, and not
stop by the way for anything, and he had promised her to do so;--but the
sun was so high, and shone so pleasantly, that they did not walk very
fast at first, for Willy would stop to pluck every flower he saw, to
carry home, he said, to mamma.
So they went along, and did not attend to the time, but began to gather
blackberries, and were delighted to see Willy eat them, and put them
into their basket. They were all so busily engaged, that they entirely
forgot what their mother had told them when they left home, and had
wandered a good way from the path, when Philip looked up, for it was
becoming quite dark. The sun had gone under a cloud, and it began to
rain; so Philip tied on Jessie's hat, and they both took Willy by the
hand, and ran, as they thought, towards home, but it was quite another
way. The rain came down, now, very fast, and it thundered at a distance,
which frightened them a little. Poor Jessie pulled Willy along, who
began to cry, for his shoe was coming off. She could not stop to tie it
on; and then they both fell over the stump of a tree, and Jessie spilt
all her blackberries over her dress and Willy's apron, which were
already wet with the rain. Then Jessie could not help crying too; but
Philip helped him up, and told him they would soon get home now.
As they were near the woods, that were very thick, Philip said they had
better stop a little while till the rain ceased, and then go on; but it
grew so dark, and kept on raining so fast, they could not see which way
to go. They sat down on a great stone under a thick grape-vine that kept
off the wet, and Jessie took "the baby" in her arms, and tied her
handkerchief around his neck.
"I want to go to mamma," he cried. "Take me home,--I want to go to
mamma!"
So did Jessie too, but she tried hard not to cry to keep Willy still.
"Do you think we are lost, Philip?" she said.
"I am afraid so," replied Philip. "But, Jessie, I have often read about
lost children, and that some good person came to take care of them."
"But if Willy should die like one of those babes in the wood, that nurse
Annie sings about, all stained with blackberries--Oh, Philip! we were so
naughty to pick blackberries!" and the tears came so fast she could not
speak.
The rain was now over, and the stars shone brightly, and Philip thought
perhaps they could hear him at home if he called; so he went out of the
wood a little way, and called out as loud as he could, "Father! Mother!
we are here!" He repeated it till he was quite hoarse, but he could not
make them hear. He saw an old shed not far off, and he told Jessie that
he thought they had better go there, and stay till some one found them.
They took their brother in their arms between them, and reached the
shed, where they found some hay, and Philip made a bed for Jessie and
Willy as well as he could, and put his coat over it. Jessie took off
Willy's apron and hung it up inside the shed to dry, and took off his
wet stockings and one shoe, for he had lost the other, and held his feet
in her lap, to keep them warm. As she sat down beside him on the ground,
she began singing him to sleep--
"Hush my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed,
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently fall upon thy head!"
She could not sing any more, for she thought of her mother, who sung
this hymn to them every night, and of the quiet little room where she
slept with Willy so warm and comfortable, and father and mother and
Philip near; and now they were all in the dark, and lost in the wood!
Philip was as sad as Jessie, but he did not cry, and he said,--
"Jessie, may be, if we pray to God, he will send some one to find us,
and take us home. Don't you remember how often aunt Ellen has told us
that God sees little children, and everybody, in the night as well as in
the day, and that good angels are around us, though we cannot see them?
I was a very naughty boy to stop when mother told me to bring Willy
straight home from school, and I will pray to God to forgive me, and
find you and me and the baby!"
So they both kneeled down, and took hold of each other's hands, and said
their prayers.
Willy was fast asleep now, and Jessie laid down beside him, and put her
arm around his neck--but she could not sleep, and hearing a noise close
by, she got up and went to Philip, and asked him what he thought it
could be.
"I will go and see," said Philip.
He went out, and soon coming back, told her it was only a horse quietly
feeding on the short grass that grew in the wood, and that he was tied
to the shed by a long rope, to keep him from running away.
"Philip," said Jessie, "don't you think some one may come in the morning
to get the horse, and find _us_?"
"Yes! to be sure they will," said Philip; "and I will tell them my name
is Philip Morton, and may be they may know my father, and then they can
show us the way home."
And so these little children found comfort in thinking they would not be
deserted, even though away from their parents, and lost in the thick
wood; for their Father in heaven was watching over them, and allowing
the good angels to put this thought into their head, to cheer them, so
that they were not afraid.
All this while their parents and friends were out looking for them
everywhere; for Mrs. Morton, seeing the dark cloud arise, and finding
that the children did not come home, was very uneasy. At first, she was
sure that they would be in directly, as Philip had always been so
obedient to her, and so careful of his brother and sister. But night
coming on, and seeing nothing of them, she became greatly alarmed. She
went out herself with nurse Annie, and looked and called in vain. When
Mr. Morton came home, he found her in the deepest distress, for all her
children were gone, she knew not whither, and it was dark and raining,
and there was a mill-race and pond not far off, where the children had
often walked with her and their father,--and oh! if they had lost their
way and fallen in there! Mr. Morton, and some gentlemen in the
neighbourhood, who kindly lent their assistance, took lanterns, and all
went out, some on foot and some on horseback, to search far and near for
them.
It was about two o'clock in the morning when the children thought they
heard some one calling them. They listened--no! they could not mistake
their father's voice calling, "Philip! Philip! Jessie!"
Oh! how their hearts beat! Philip ran farther into the wood and called
again, "Father! Father! here we are!"
But no answer was returned. Just then they saw a light through the
trees, at a distance, and Philip, running in the direction, saw his
father, and their old man Tom, and Philo. Presently Philo barked, and
Philip knew, by the sound, that they were all coming towards them.
"Don't leave me, Philip!" cried out little Jessie. "I will take the baby
up, if you will help me."
So Philip ran back to the shed, and called again. His father heard him
now, and came directly up to where they were. There he found Willy fast
asleep, and Jessy trying to put on his apron and shoe.
Old Tommy had a bundle of shawls, and some cakes for them, that their
mother had put up.--They were so glad to see their father, and to know
that they were found, that they did not care for the cakes; but Jessie
took a shawl for herself, and her father wrapped one around Willy, who
opened his eyes, and seeing his father had him, fell asleep again.
They were soon on their way home,--Philo running on before them, as if
to be the first to announce their coming; and Tommy, with Philip on one
side,--and Jessy, holding her little school-basket in her hand, on the
other; and Mr. Morton with the baby.
Mrs. Morton ran to meet them, and I cannot say who were the happier,--the
children, to be once more safe at home, or the mother to hold again her
darlings in her arms!
"Mother, I am afraid you will never trust Willy with me again," was the
first thing Philip said.--"But, indeed, I will never disobey you again.
I did not know what a terrible thing it is to be naughty!"
His mother could not speak--she wept; but it was with joy and gratitude
to God for restoring to her her children.
"Don't cry so; indeed I think God will make me a good boy, after this,
always," said Philip, looking up earnestly in his mother's face.
"May He indeed do so, my dear boy, and ever bless, and strengthen you!"
said his mother. "May you never forget to obey your father and mother,
now you are young, and I am sure you will be a good _man_."
Philip never forgot the night in the woods. He is now grown up, and what
his mother said was true. He is a good man, because he learned to be a
good boy.
[Illustration]
FORGIVENESS.
A very little child, one day,
Too young to know the harm it did,
Trampled, with his small naked foot,
The place in which a violet hid.
The violet sighed its life away,
Embalming, with its last faint breath,
The little foot, that thus, in play,
Had put its soft, blue flower to death.
Ah, was it not a tender flower,
To lavish all the wealth it had,
Its fragrance, in its dying hour,
Mild, meek, forgiving, mute, though sad.
My little girl, the lesson learn;
Be thou the violet--love _thou_ so;
Retort no wrong; but nobly turn,
And with thy heart's wealth bless thy foe.
SNOW DROP.
THE TWO NOSEGAYS.
One fine summer evening, as the mother of Virginia and Maria was
walking with them in the garden, she observed that, from time to time,
they went away by themselves, and whispered mysteriously together; and
whenever she went towards them, to inquire into the subject of their
conversation, they stopped, and began to play about.
This conduct disturbed her very much; for she knew that when girls have
anything which they wish to conceal from their mothers, there must be
something wrong about it.
This case, however, was an exception to the general rule, Virginia and
Maria had nothing improper in their minds; but the next day was their
mother's birth-day, and they wished to think of something which would be
a suitable present for them to make her.
Virginia was two years older than Maria, and the two sisters were very
different. Virginia was lively, quick, and graceful; Maria was quiet,
modest, and loving.
"Let us make mamma some present which will prove which of us possesses
the finest taste," said Virginia. "In our garden and the meadow the
flowers are all striving to see which will excel in beauty. Let us
choose, from among them, the flowers we like best, and make a nosegay,
each by ourselves; and then see which our mother will prefer."
Maria agreed to her sister's proposal, and, early on the next morning,
they went, by different paths, through the meadow and garden, to make
their choice. All the flowers smiled upon them, and seemed to invite
attention: but they flew, like butterflies, from one to the other,
uncertain where to choose. At length the early morning was gone, and it
was time for them to return to breakfast.--They both knew that a want of
_punctuality_ would displease their mother, more than any nosegays could
give her pleasure. So they broke off their flowers hastily, and carried
them to the house, without even suffering each other to see what they
had.
Soon after breakfast, Virginia approached her mother with a smile of
satisfaction, and very gracefully presented her a bunch of fresh
moss-roses, in a little basket curiously woven of the green leaves of
the bush.
"Dear mother!" said she, "see how, from this little basket of leaves,
this full-blown moss-rose lifts up its head in the centre, with a colour
so lively and so soft. This beautiful rose is you, mother, and this
little bud beneath its shadow is your Virginia."
Maria approached with a timid step, and spoke in a low, hesitating
voice:
"Mother, here is my nosegay. It is not so beautiful nor ingenious as
Virginia's rose-basket.--It is only a bunch of honeysuckle blossoms,
from the vine which twined around the nut-tree, as I would rest on you."
When Maria said this, she threw her arms around her mother's neck, and
wet her cheeks with tears of quiet love.