happy mother, but Maria's present touched her heart; and tears filled
her eyes, as she returned the embrace of her affectionate child.
"My dear children," said she, "your gifts are like yourselves, and you
shall both be precious to me."
As she said this, she took the rose-bud from the basket, and twining it
with the honeysuckles, put them both into her bosom.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CAMGNO; OR, THE TAME ROE.
A TRUE STORY.
And now, little girls, I am going to tell you of the life and history of
a young roe-deer. It is quite a true story, as I have very good reason
to know.
When Fanny Grey was about seven years old, one day her father opened the
door of the room where she sat, and said, "Come here, Fanny, and look at
the beautiful present I have brought you."
So she got up in great haste, and followed her papa to the lawn, and
there, in a nice square box, was a young roe.
"It is for you, my child, as a reward for your attention to your
studies."
[Illustration]
I wish you could have seen Fanny's joy. She danced about, and clapped
her hands, and ran to the dairy to get some milk for the little
stranger. When she had taken it out of the box, she could see it much
better: she could see the white spots that make the coat of roe-deer,
when they are very young. She could see its pretty little graceful feet,
and its soft, black eyes; and Fanny was so happy, that she said she
should like it better than any of her pets. She had birds, and dogs, and
a beautiful grey horse, but this dear little roe was better than all.
She gave it the name of Camgno; and by this name it would come whenever
she called.--She made a velvet cushion for it to sleep upon, and every
day she thought it grew more pretty. After some time Camgno became quite
strong, and Fanny had a silver collar made for it; and the gamekeeper
made a "nice little house" for her favourite, where it could sleep every
night. Camgno would always come when Fanny called, and they loved each
other very much. But Camgno was taken sick, and it was necessary to
carry him to the pheasant-house, where the gamekeeper could take care of
him; for Fanny was not old enough to take all the care of her little
pet, when he was so sick, and so she consented to its being removed.
One day her father came home and told her a sad tale, that Camgno could
not live. Oh! how sorry she was!--the tears came into her eyes, and she
ran away, as fast as she could, to see her poor roe. When she came to
the pheasant-house, Camgno was lying on the ground, and looked quite
dead.
"Oh, my poor Camgno!" she cried.
Camgno opened its black eyes at the sound of her voice; and Fanny sat
down by the roe, and raised its little head, and laid it upon her
knee.--She staid a long time beside her dear little pet, till her father
said he was afraid she would catch cold, and she must now go home.
The next morning she got up very early, and went to the gamekeeper; but
just before she reached the house, she met James, who said, "It is of no
use; Camgno is dead; but if I live till another spring, I will get you
another roe."
"Thank you James," said Fanny; "but I shall never want another roe; it
might die too; and it makes me very sorry: but I will thank you to dig a
grave for my _pet_, and help me to bury it."
So Fanny covered the grave with flowers, and resolved that she would try
and not love anything so much again that could be taken away from her;
but she was always kind to all animals, and every living thing,--and,
after this, she was led to think of and love such things as could not be
taken away from her: and that made her truly happy.
[Illustration]
THE SECRET.
"Come, Fanny," said George Lewis, "put on your hat, and go out with me
among the trees and bushes. It is a bright, glorious morning, and I have
a secret to reveal to you, sister, when we get where nobody will
overhear us."
"Oh, that's grand," cried Fanny, with her face kindling up with joy, and
her curiosity, like herself, all on tiptoe. "I love to find out
secrets."
She took her brother's hand, and away they hied, running and leaping,
over the field, past the new hayricks, across the rivulet, and into the
flowery border of a thicket. Here was a little silvery fountain, gushing
from a mossy rock, and flashing to the light over its pebbly basin; and
there a green, arching bough, hung with clusters of wild berries, and
trembling from the weight and motion of their light-winged gatherer;
while the air was filled with sweet perfume, and the songs of the
feathered warblers sounded from shrub and tree on every side.
"But what _is_ it--what _can_ it be that you have to tell me, George?"
said Fanny; "I'm out of breath to know the secret."
"Be patient, and you shall know it in the right time," replied her
brother.
"Oh! how can you be so cruel as not to tell me _now_?" said Fanny. "How
long have you known the secret without letting me know it, too? I shan't
be able to go much farther, if you keep it from me. My heart is all in a
flutter."
"I don't want to tell you, with your heart all in a _flutter_. You
should be calm, so as to hear what I say, and to enjoy the sight I have
to show you," said the young philosopher.
"I am calm, now, and I have been patient," said Fanny. "Come, dear
Georgie, do tell me."
Georgie kept silence, and proceeded a few paces, when he paused; and
lifting a long, leafy branch, disclosed to the eye of the delighted girl
a beautiful nest, full of young birds, so closely snuggled in their
little round cell, that they looked as if, from below the neck, they
grew together.
In momentary surprise at the sudden flood of light that poured upon
them, the nestlings put up their heads, as if to ask what was meant by
it, and who it was that had unroofed them. They had never received
anything but what came from care and kindness; they were innocent, and
therefore they knew no fear. Putting forth their open beaks at the
strange visitants, they cried, "Petweet-tweet, petweet-tweet," as if
their mother had hung over them with their morning gift of food.
Fanny was for a moment as much surprised as they. Then, in an ecstacy of
delight, she sprang forward, and would have dislodged the nest from its
place, to take the birds, and examine them with her fingers, as well as
her scrutinizing eye, had not her brother checked her motion, and stood
between her and his casket of living jewels.
"Oh! I want to touch them!" said she. "But how long have you known of
this nest?"
"Ever since it was begun to be built," said George.
"And didn't tell _m-e_!" said Fanny, in a whimpering tone.
"No," replied George, "but I will tell you the reason why I did not.
Had I told you then, Fanny, we should never have seen these little
birds here. You haven't the art of keeping a secret belonging to your
own concerns or another's, long enough for anything depending on its
being kept to come to pass. You will surely, in some way, let it slip
too soon. You would not tell it if you promised not to do so; but by
some air or act, or mysterious manner, you would show them that you
knew something that was unknown to others, and set them to watching
and studying for it. If I had told you of the nest, you would have
wanted to be running out every little while to see how it went on,
till the bird would have found herself watched, and forsaken it, to
build somewhere else. Or you would have wanted to break the blue
shells, to see if the insides of the eggs were growing into birds;
just as you dug up your flower-seeds, to know if they were sprouted;
and broke open the green rose-buds, to find out if the under leaves
were turning red. So your seeds never came up, and your roses didn't
bloom; all for your impatience and curiosity. If you had not done
this, your continual coming would have drawn the attention of some of
the boys or girls, to learn what was here, till they would have found
the nest, and robbed it. You have too much _curiosity_, Fanny. If you
choose, tell your own secrets, and take the consequences. But they who
cannot keep their own, are not very likely to be trusted with those of
others. And as to coming at them by prying, I should feel as if I was
'tiefing,' as the Frenchman told his little boy he had been doing,
when he cut the shoot from grandpapa's English walnut-tree, to make
him a _rattan_. If I discovered, by accident, what concerned another,
and was not designed for my knowledge, I should feel sorry, and that
I had no more right to tell or expose it, than I should have to
spend a piece of money that I saw another drop. This secret was the
_bird's_--and I should have caused her great distress by telling it.
It is the kind of curiosity which makes you want to know what others
are about, what they have, and so on, that gets you into your worst
troubles, sister. You saw John bring in a covered basket, and put
it on a shelf in the cellar closet. The next that was heard was the
basket, eggs and all, smash upon the brick floor; and sister Fanny
shouting lamentably and crying, 'Oh, dear, dear, they are all over my
feet!' So none of us had pudding that day. Then, when you saw your
mother wet her eyes with clear water from a phial, and thought you'd
try it too, you found the sal volatile not quite so cooling to yours,
as the rose-water to hers. No wonder that they wept!
"Now, Fanny, since I've played minister, and preached you such a sermon
on curiosity over this nest, I know you'll prove so good a hearer as not
to show that you know anything about the secret, till the birds are a
few days older, and can fly away.--Then they'll come and do the singing
part of the service, from the trees around our house."
Fanny looked thoughtful and solemn, and only replied, "I'm glad I didn't
break the bird's eggs. There never would have been any music nor pretty
birds come from these if I did break them. They would have been made
into a pudding; the pudding would have made me heavy and sleepy, so that
I should not have got my lesson so well, and I should have been
mortified at school."
SCIENCE OF THE HUMAN FRAME.
THE SKIN.
FATHER. It is pleasant and profitable, my children, to learn the uses of
various parts of the human body; for when we understand the uses of any
member of the body, and the manner in which it is composed, we shall be
better able to avoid all things which would interfere with those uses.
It seems to me that it would be useful for you to give your attention to
these subjects, and I will give you all the assistance that I am able.
ALBERT. I wish to learn the use of a great many parts of my body that I
do not now fully understand; for I have been told that the human form is
the most perfect of all material things; and it seems to me that we
ought to give much more attention to it than we have yet given.
CHARLES. It seems to me that it would be a good plan, if you are
willing, father, to spend a part of each evening in teaching us these
things. Albert and I can ask some questions, and you can answer them,
and give us any other information that you think may be useful to us.
FATHER. I think that this is a good plan; and as we are now together, we
will begin this evening. We will begin with the _skin_,--for though the
skin covers the whole body, and is so exposed to view, there are many
things concerning it with which you are not familiar.--The skin is that
thin covering which is spread over the whole surface of the body. It
serves to bind together and to protect from injury the more delicate
parts which are beneath it. Come, Albert, tell me some of the things
which you have observed respecting the skin.
ALBERT. The skin differs in its appearance in different animals, and in
different parts of the body. With young people and females it is soft,
smooth, and delicate; it is firmer and more resisting in middle age, and
with males; it appears loose and wrinkled in old age, and after some
diseases; it is puckered or disposed in folds in places where it would
otherwise interfere with the proper movements of the limbs, as over the
finger-joints, and in the palm of the hand.
FATHER. Very well, my son. Should you suppose, Charles, that the skin is
one sheet, or that it is composed of layers?
CHARLES. I have observed that a very thin coat of the skin has sometimes
risen in blisters, from being rubbed when I have been working, or from a
burn, or slight scald; and sometimes I have peeled it off, as I can the
outside bark of a birch tree; and from these things I suppose the skin
is composed of thin layers.
FATHER. It is so. The skin is composed of three membranes, or layers.
The outside layer is called the "cuticle," or "scarf-skin." There are
some other names for the three layers of the skin besides those that I
shall use; but if you remember those which I give, it will be sufficient
until you are old enough to understand more fully the good books which
have been written concerning the different parts of the body. The
cuticle has no blood-vessels. It is very thin. There is still some doubt
whether the scarf-skin has any nerves or not. Perhaps it has nerves
which are so unsusceptible to external impressions, that we do not
notice their effects.
ALBERT. If there were nerves in the scarf-skin as sensitive as those in
some parts of the body, we should be in constant pain; we could not take
a single step without extreme pain; for the scarf-skin is, I suppose, a
protection to the parts which are tender; and unless its nerves were
blunt, it would not answer this purpose. I never thought of this before;
but this, as well as the structure of every part of the body, shows us
the kindness and wisdom of our Creator.
CHARLES. And if there were blood-vessels in the scarf-skin, we should
continually be in danger of being covered with blood, since a slight
blow is sufficient to break this skin. I have also observed, father,
that those parts of the body which are the most exposed to pressure and
friction, such as the palms of the hands and soles of the feet, are
provided with a scarf-skin much thicker than that on other parts of the
body.
FATHER. Yes, my son. The difference in the thickness of the cuticle in
different parts of the body is apparent even at birth. But the farmer
and blacksmith, who are constantly engaged in manual labour, need a
thicker scarf-skin to protect their hands, than would be convenient for
a student or a merchant; and it has, for this reason, been so provided,
that the scarf-skin increases in thickness when it is much used, and
decreases when it is but little needed.
CHARLES. If we have got through with talking about the scarf-skin, I
should like to ask about the next layer, for you told us there are three
coats.
FATHER. Yes, there are three coats. Immediately beneath the scarf-skin,
is what is called the _mucous coat_. The mucous coat is chiefly
remarkable as the seat of the colouring matter of the skin.
ALBERT. Then I should think that persons of dark complexion must have
much thicker mucous coats than those of light complexion.
FATHER. They have. It can scarcely be seen with those who are of a very
light complexion, but in the negro it is thick. If the mucous coat were
the same in all persons, all would be of one colour. The mucous coat is
very bright in those fishes and other animals whose skins have
beautiful, variegated colours, and is the cause of their brilliant
appearance. The mucous coat, like the cuticle, is destitute of
blood-vessels, and of very active nerves.
ALBERT. As it is not yet late, let us talk about the third layer, and
then we shall have some idea of the composition of the skin.
FATHER. The third, or inmost layer, called the _true skin_, is much
thicker than either of the other layers of the skin. The true skin seems
to be a complete network of extremely small blood-vessels and nerves.
CHARLES. I can see that this is so; for I cannot prick entirely through
the skin, even with the point of the finest needle, without giving some
pain, and drawing some blood; and I suppose that the pain is caused by
piercing a nerve, and the bleeding by opening a blood-vessel.
FATHER. You are right, my son. There are so many nerves in the true
skin, that in amputating a limb, the principal pain is always in the
skin.
ALBERT. I suppose we should not be able to distinguish different things
by the touch, unless the true skin were furnished with nerves.
FATHER. One of the great uses of the skin is to remove from the body the
impure matter which is constantly collecting. You both have, when warm,
perceived drops of sweat, or perspiration, on your faces and other
parts of your bodies. Much impure matter is removed in that way, which,
if not removed, would be very injurious to the health.
CHARLES. It seems to me that but very little impure matter can be
conveyed away in the perspiration which falls from us.
FATHER. Even when we cannot perceive the perspiration, there is what is
called _insensible_ perspiration, by which, in a state of health, about
twenty ounces of waste matter are daily removed. When a person takes a
sudden cold, this perspiration is checked, and the waste matter
accumulates, and causes sickness. Perspiration takes place with much
more regularity when the body is kept perfectly clean, than when it is
allowed to remain dirty; and from this we can see how necessary it is to
bathe the body thoroughly and frequently, and also that we ought to
avoid exposing ourselves to take cold.
ALBERT. I thank you, father, for explaining these things, and will try
to remember them.
CHARLES. And so do I: and I hope that another evening we shall learn
much more.
[Illustration]
VOICES FROM NATURE.
CHILD.
"River, river, stay and tell me,
Whither going with such speed?"
RIVER.
"No, I cannot stop, for onward
I must go, the sea to feed.
I am one of many others,--
To the same great deep we go,
Pouring into it for ever,
Yet it doth not overflow."
CHILD.
"Little brook, stay still a moment,
Dancing neath the summer sun,
With such sweet and pleasant music,
Tell me, whither do you run?"
BROOK.
"I am hastening to the river,
And I cannot longer stay,
I am one of many others,
Who must feed it day by day."
CHILD.
"Little rill, which down the mountain,
Like a silver thread dost flow,
Tell me now before you leave me,
Why you are in haste to go?"
RILL.
"Downward, downward, little maiden,
Is a voice that bids me speed,
Where a little brook is waiting,
Which my limpid drops must feed.
I am one of many others,
And when Spring's first hours awake,
Into life and motion springing,
To the plains our course we take."
CHILD.
"Rain-drops, which so fast are falling,
Patter, patter, on the ground,
Much I love to stand and watch you,
Much I love your merry sound;
But I pray you stop and tell me,
On what mission you are bound?"
RAIN.
"Humble as our mission seemeth,
Maiden, to your thoughtful eye,
Yet for good, by God's appointment,
Drop by drop, I fall from high;
And, without me, mightiest rivers
Soon would leave their channels dry."
Musing, then, the little maiden,
Inward for a moral turned,
Where, to light the spirit temple,
Truth upon her altar burned.
"Rain," she said, "from heaven descending,
Feeds the little fountain rill:
Onward, onward, all are hastening,
Never for a moment still.
Rill, and brook, and mighty river,
All to the deep ocean go;
All the thirsty river swallows,--
Yet it doth not overflow."
Child, thou seekest from this a moral,
Ask of Truth, and thou shalt know.
[Illustration]
KING ALFRED.
Alfred was one of the early kings of England, distinguished for his
wisdom and virtue. In his childhood he was very much indulged by his
parents, and his education was neglected, but he engaged in study of his
own accord, and became an eminent scholar in his youth; although in
those days there were no printed books, and few means of instruction of
any kind.
When he became king, after the death of his father, his country
was suffering from the invasion of the Danes; and Alfred spent a
considerable part of his life in wars with them. These Danes came over
in swarms from the continent of Europe, under different leaders; and
they succeeded in defeating the armies sent out against them, one after
another, and in extending their ravages over so many parts of the
kingdom, that the people of the island were reduced to despair. The army
was dispersed, and Alfred had to fly and conceal himself, to save his
life. He finally went to service in the family of a herdsman,--a sort
of farmer, who had care of the cattle,--where he was once well scolded
by the herdsman's wife for letting some cakes burn. Hume, the historian,
relates the story in the following language:--
"The wife of the neat-herd was ignorant of the condition of our royal
guest, and observing him one day busy by the fireside, in trimming his
bow and arrows, she desired him to take care of some cakes which were
toasting, while she was employed elsewhere, in other domestic affairs.
But Alfred, whose thoughts were otherwise engaged, neglected his
injunction; and the good woman, on her return, finding her cakes all
burnt, rated the king very severely, and upbraided him, that he always
seemed very well pleased to eat her warm cakes, though he was thus
negligent in toasting them."
After this, Alfred contrived to collect some of his followers, and to
conceal himself with them in the centre of a vast tract of swampy land.
The piece of firm ground on which he established his company, contained
only about two acres. Here he remained a year, though he often went on
excursions against the enemy. Finally, his strength increased, so that
he was prepared to adopt still more decisive measures. He accordingly
formed a plan for a general mustering of the forces of the kingdom, in
order to make a combined and effectual attack upon the Danes. At this
time, another incident occurred, which has helped to make Alfred
famous. He concluded, before summoning the army together, that he would
go into the camp of the Danes, in disguise, in order to see what their
strength and condition were. So he procured a harp, and dressed himself
in the disguise of a harper. In those days, harpers were accustomed to
wander about towns and armies, playing for the amusement of those who
would pay them. Alfred seems to have acted his part very successfully.
He not only entertained the soldiers and officers with his harp, but he
amused them with tales and jokes, and finally he made his way into the
tent of Guthrum, the general. There, Alfred learned all he wished to
know, and then returned to his own camp. This was a very dangerous
experiment, for if anything had occurred even to arouse the suspicions
of the Danes, he would have been hung at once.
Immediately after this, Alfred sent messengers through the kingdom and
called his army together, and, after several battles, expelled the Danes
from the country. He then evinced great wisdom in the arrangements which
he made for reducing the kingdom to regular order. He founded the most
useful institutions, and restored the dominion of law and public
tranquillity. He has been always regarded as a great benefactor of the
English nation.
[Illustration]
GRACE MIDDLETON.
Grace was returning from a distant part of the country to her own loved
home; she had been living with a relation, and a long time had passed
since she had heard from, or listened to the gentle voice of her
parents; (there was no mail in that part of the country;) and as she
drew near to each loved haunt of her early childhood, her heart beat
quick with sweet anticipations of delight. She fancied her brother and
sister very much grown, but still as loving and happy as when she last
sported with them on the grass-plat by the cottage door. It was evening
when Grace descended the long, sloping hill, at the foot of which was an
extensive avenue of tall oak trees, leading directly to the cottage, and
the declining sun cast a melancholy shadow over the face of this
well-remembered spot, once resounding with the shouts of happy infancy.
The heart of Grace grew sad as she drew near the cottage, and she
wondered very much that no one was in sight. At length she hears the
well-known bark of old Carlo;--"but where are my parents, my brother and
sister! I thought to find them _all_ here; where are they?"