Far in the Highlands of Scotland, nestling amid their rugged mountains lay a beautiful farm. Here one of our boys lived with the good old farmer for two or three years, to be taught sheep-farming. Every summer he came to see us; and one year, as we were staying at a country house, he brought us a dear little pet lamb, which he had carried on his shoulder for many a mile across the country. It was a poor little orphan, its mother having died; but Willie had brought her up on warm new milk, which the farmer had given him. We at once named her Daisy, she was so white and fluffy, just like a snowball; and twice a day we used to feed her with warm milk out of a bottle. She very quickly got tame, roaming about and following us in our walks. She knew Sunday quite well, and never attempted to go to church with us but once; when we were half way there who should come panting after us but Daisy, so she had to be taken home, and very sulkily lay down beside Hero, the watch-dog, perhaps for a little sympathy. Of course she grew into a very big lamb, and as we had to go back to town for the winter a farmer offered to take Daisy and put her amongst his own flock of sheep. Next summer when we returned the first thing we did was to go and see Daisy. The flock was feeding in a meadow, and as we opened the gate a sheep darted from among them, came straight to us, and bleating out her welcome, trotted home with us. She went back to live with the farmer, and died at a good old age.
"Well, children, I'll let you go and have this picnic by yourselves if you'll give me your word that you'll behave just as you would do if I were with you. Will you promise?"
"Yes, Nurse, we do promise; and we'll keep our word," said Algy Parker, "won't we?" and he turned round to Charlie, Basil, and little Ivy, as if to ask them to confirm his words.
"Yes, we promise," they repeated eagerly, full of delight to think that they might actually picnic by themselves for a whole day.
"Don't leave the Home Fields, mind," said Nurse. "You can't come to much harm there, I should think; and I should be glad of a free day, so as to get the nurseries cleaned out before your mother comes to-morrow; so mind your promise, and take good care of little Miss Ivy."
In a very short time all was ready. Cook had packed a most tempting lunch of ham sandwiches, plum-cake, and gooseberry turnovers, and this was placed in a basket on Algy's mail-cart; and then off he started, and Charlie and Basil, with little Ivy between them, ran after him down the long avenue, laughing and singing as joyfully as young birds.
The Home Fields lay at the bottom of the avenue, and the children were no sooner in them than Ivy gave a scream of delight. "The roses, Algy! The wild roses are out; oh, do pick me some!"
Ivy always got her own way with her brothers; and Algy obediently stopped, threw off his hat, pulled out his clasp-knife, and gathered a good bunch of the delicate blossoms for the little queen.
Charlie did not care for roses; he was better amused with the duck-pond, and began building a little pier for himself with some stones that lay near, much to the disgust of a pair of respectable old ducks, who considered the pond their private property, and very much resented Charlie's operations.
"Just listen to old Mrs. Quack preaching to me," cried Charlie, smiling to himself as he stood some little way in the pond. As he spoke, however, one of the stones of the pier slipped, and Charlie stumbled right into the water!
What of that?—it is a fine sunny day, and his boots will soon dry again, and he will not be a jot the worse.
Yes, quite true; but Nurse strictly forbade wet boots, and Charlie well knew that had she been there he would at once be sent back to the house to change them, and might think himself lucky if he escaped being put to bed as a punishment. Such things had happened before now in the Parker nursery; and Charlie recollected also there was no mother at home to-day to beg him off, as she often had done. But for all that Charlie's mind was made up; he had given his word to behave as if Nurse were by, and so he must go home.
"Perhaps she'll put you to bed," sobbed little Ivy.
"I can't help it," said Charlie sorrowfully. "I must keep my word."
So the poor boy trudged manfully back to the house to find his worst fears realized. Nurse was very busy and consequently cross; and on hearing Charlie's tale and seeing his boots, she sent him off to bed. "He'd be dry enough there," she averred.
Charlie knew there was no help for it, Nurse would be obeyed; so slowly and sorrowfully he began undressing, the large tears rolling down his cheeks, when the door opened and Mother stood there! She had come back sooner than was expected; and before Charlie quite realized all that was happening, Nurse had buttoned on his dry boots, and Mother and he were walking quickly towards the Home Fields. How the children did scream with delight when they found that Mother herself was going to picnic with them.
"You must thank Charlie that I am here," said Mother. "If he had not kept his promise to Nurse I should not have known where to find you;" and Mother looked fondly at her honest little boy.
"You see, I was obliged to," said Charlie simply: "I had given my word."
Jack, the lock-keeper's son, does not idle away his time after his day's work is done. He is very fond of boat-making; and although he has only some rough pieces of wood and an old pocket-knife, he is quite clever in constructing tiny vessels. Perhaps, some day, he may become a master boat-builder. Perseverance and the wise employment of spare moments will work wonders.
It was indeed a treat for the four little Deverils when they received an invitation from old Nurse to spend the day at her cottage. She had lately married a gardener, and having no children of her own, she knew no greater pleasure than to entertain the little charges she had once nursed so faithfully. She always invited the children when the gooseberries were ripe, and each child had a special bush reserved for it by name; indeed, Nurse would have considered it "robbing the innocent" had any one else gathered so much as one berry off those bushes.
When they were tired of gooseberries, there was the swing under the apple-tree, and such a tea before they went home! The more buttered toast the children ate the better pleased was Nurse; and she brought plateful after plateful to the table, till even Sydney's appetite was appeased, and he felt the time had come for a little conversation.
"I'm going to be a sailor when I grow up, Nurse," he observed, "and I'll take you a-sail in my ship. Gerry says he'll be a schoolmaster; he wants to cane the boys, you know. Cyril has decided to be an omnibus conductor, and Baby," he concluded, pointing his finger at the only girl in the family, with a half-loving, half-contemptuous glance, "whatdoyou think Baby says she'll do?"
Baby was just about to take a substantial bite out of her round of toast; but at Sydney's words she stopped halfway and said promptly, "Baby's going to take care of the poor soldiers."
Gerry, at the other end of the table, put down his mug with a satisfied gasp, and then burst out laughing, whilst Cyril raised his head and said solemnly, "The soldiers might shoot you, Baby."
Baby went on unconcernedly with her tea; and Sydney said loftily, "It's all nonsense, of course! She'll know better by and by. Children can't take care of soldiers, can they, Nurse?"
"Bless her heart!" said Nurse, as she softly stroked the fair little head, and placed a fresh plate of toast on the table.
"But can they, now?" persisted Sydney.
Nurse paused, then said slowly, "I did hear a story from an old soldier, and he certainly said it was a child who saved his life. It was in the Crimean War, and there had been a great battle, and he lay on the field, after all was over, with no one but the wounded and dead near him. He was very cold, and suffering fearfully from thirst, as people always do after gun-shot wounds, and he thought he would die there alone and uncared-for, when, in the moonlight, he saw a little drummer-boy picking his way amongst all the dead and dying, and gathering all the old gun-stocks that were lying about. When the lad had got enough, he set to work to make a fire, and then he boiled some water, and made tea, and brought some round to all the wounded men he could find. That hot tea was the saving of a good many lives, the soldier said; and the little lad was so cheery that the poor men plucked up heart, and felt that God had not forgotten them, as before they had been almost tempted to think."
"That was a brave boy," said Sydney. "But still, you know, Nurse, Baby couldn't do that."
"Deary, no!" exclaimed Nurse. "But, you see, Master Sydney, if people are bent upon helping others, they'll find out ways for themselves, for there's plenty in need of help. I know a rough lad now who does his best to keep straight and please 'his lady,' as he calls his Sunday teacher. She writes to him sometimes, and he's as proud of those letters as if they came from the Queen."
"Yes, you might write letters, Baby," Sydney graciously allowed.
"And you can pray for the soldiers, dearie," said Nurse. "There's no knowing the good you may do them by that."
But the carriage now came for the children, and the visit to Nurse was over.
Little Ann was eating her breakfast in the nursery, so she did not know anything about the new rabbits. She had not been well, so nurse did not wake her, but let her sleep on till Rose and Lucy had gone into the garden.
She dipped a piece of toast into the milk in her cup, then she looked up and said, "Where Rosy and Lucy, nurse?"
And nurse said, "They have gone to see the rabbits."
"Me go too," said Ann, pushing away her cup.
But nurse said, "Not yet," for Ann was not well enough "to go out of doors."
Now, whilst nurse and Ann were talking, Rose and Lucy had gone as fast as they could to see some new rabbits their father had bought. They had talked to the gardener about them, and had said,—
"We will bring something for them to eat, and they like milk to drink; they don't drink water, do they?"
"Oh, yes, they do, miss; it is quite a mistake to suppose they don't drink water. It is very cruel to keep them without it; I always put a good saucer of water in the pen, and they can drink it or not as they like."
Then John went away to his work, and Rose and Lucy felt they could scarcely wait till the next day to see the rabbits.
The next morning Rose and Lucy went off quite early after breakfast.
They had taken their baskets with some crusts of bread and some parsley, for they thought they should like to feed them.
They found John waiting for them, and he opened the door of the hutch.
"Are not they beauties, miss?" he said.
"Oh, the loves!" said Rose; "may I have one of them to nurse, John? I would not hurt it; I would be very gentle with it."
"Well," said John, "I don't like rabbits being handled too much, but you may hold one of them just for a minute or two till I come back."
And he lifted out one of the rabbits and placed it on Rose's lap.
She stroked it gently, and the rabbit did not seem afraid, but nibbled at a piece of parsley that she held for it. When she had nursed it for a short time, Lucy said that she also must have a turn.
After that John returned, and put the rabbit back into the hutch, where the little girls placed crusts for them to eat.
Jimmie and Daisy, and Baby Dot were all staying for their holidays at pleasant Sandown, in the Isle of Wight, and a fine time they were having. The mornings were spent in building castles and digging wells on the broad, yellow sands, and, when nottoohot, the afternoons frequently passed in like manner; while in the cool sun-setting time after tea, their father always took them for a nice walk over the cliffs to Shanklin, or along the country lanes to Yaverland, or away to some lovely inland meadow where they could pick big white marguerites and golden buttercups as many as their hands could hold.
One morning Daisy was busily looking for nice pieces of seaweed and pretty little stones to ornament a grotto she and Jimmie had built, when she heard him calling, "Daisy! Daisy!Youdon't know whatI'vegot!"
Of course she ran to look, and found Jimmie on his knees, watching with great interest the movements of a tiny crab, who seemed to have come out for a walk without his mother, and lost his way.
"Poor little thing!" said tender-hearted Daisy. "It doesn't like the hot sun. Let's put it in some cool, shady place, where the sea will come up to it."
"I'm going to take it home with me," answered Jimmie.
"What for? You haven't got a 'quarium."
"To play with, of course."
"Oh, Jimmie, it won't like that!" cried Daisy, in real anxiety. "It wants to be in the water. You don't know how to feed it, or anything, and it'll die!"
"No, it won't. You're silly—you're only a girl, and you'refrightenedof it.Iknow!" said Jimmie scornfully.
"I'm not afraid of it one bit!" Daisy protested. "I'd pick it up with my fingers. But I'm sure it must be frightened of you. Oh, Jimmie,dolet me put it in the sea again, there's a dear, good boy!"
Jimmie, however, lest he should lose his prize, caught it up in a twinkling, and stuffed it in his pocket. "You go there!" he said. "And if you nip, I'll pay you!"
Daisy's distress was evident, and tears were gathering in her blue eyes; for she knew that everything which has life has feeling too, and she could not bear to have even a baby crab made uncomfortable. But Jimmie, I am sorry to say, was not so tender over her, nor enough of a man to give up his own way in a little thing to make his sister happy. So, in spite of her entreaties, poor wee crabbie was condemned to durance vile in the hot and stifling pocket of Jimmie's knickerbockers, and Daisy had a sorry spot in her heart for the rest of the morning.
When the children went indoors they found that their favorite uncle had arrived from London, and was proposing an early dinner, and a trip to Carisbrooke. In the pleasant excitement which this caused, everything else was forgotten. Even when Jimmie's suit was changed, he never gave one thought to the captive crab.
Their excursion to the old castle proved delightful. Jimmie, who had only got as far as Richard II. in his history-book, and was not very fond of learning, became quite eager to get on fast, and come to the place where it told about King Charles and his imprisonment, and how he tried to get out of the tiny window shown them by the guide. Somebody remarked that "Liberty is sweet," and Jimmie remembered writing the very same in his copy-book; but it did not occur to him to consider that it is just as sweet in its way, to a little, sea-loving crablet as to a king.
It must have been the unusual state of excitement in which Jimmie went to bed that night that caused the events of the day to become oddly mixed up in a horrible dream. He thoughthewas a prisoner, not in a castle, but in the sand grotto which he and Daisy had been making in the morning, and that his jailor was a giant crab! A tiny hole in the side of the grotto, about two inches square, was his only way of escape, and unless he could manage to squeeze himself through that, he would be crushed to death by a pair of great claws as thick as a man's body. Nearer and nearer they came, harder and harder he struggled, and gurgled and gasped. No wonder that at last his cries aroused his mother in the next room, and that she came running to see what was the matter!
"Oh, that awful crab! Save me, save me! Oh—oh—oh!" yelled Jimmie, only half awake. And then to his increased horror he found that his dream was at least partly real, and that his own escaped prisoner was crawling briskly over his pillow in the evident hope of finding the ocean somewhere down on the other side. Having the creature come upon him like that when he least expected it, and immediately after such a dream, Jimmie fairly screamed with fright, and wouldn't lie down in bed again until Daisy, who had been awakened by the commotion from a lovely dream about the dear Carisbrooke donkey who works at the well, came and fetched the wandering crustacean away, and put it among a lot of damp seaweed in her tin pail, where it seemed very glad to stay.
First thing in the morning, before breakfast, Jimmie carried the poor little creature down to the shore, and left it at the edge of the waves. Moreover, he could not help thinking it very sweet of Daisy that she never once said, "Served you right," and he privately made up his mind that another time if she very much wanted him not to do a thing, he wouldn't do it.
Who are these giants walking in the street? Only Hal and his friends, Tom Miller and James Little. They have made stilts from pieces of wood they bought at the lumber-yard. Hal and James can walk very well on their new toys, but Tom is not so successful. He must lean against the wall, and the other boys laugh at him.
A Song of the Wandering Wind.
Listen, Children! That's the breezeSpeaking to you as he flees."I have no home; I rove I roamHark! I'm passing through the trees""Oer the world from end to end,Light of wing, my way I wend.Where'er I pass, the trees, the grassBow their heads, and corn doth bend""Yet by land, or on the foam,I am still without a home;I hear through all the imperious call'Wander, wander, rove and roam.'"There he goes! His long sigh diesIn the boughs as on he flies,To rove, to roam, without a home,Underneath the starry skies.
F. W. Home.
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In the same barn dwelt two cats. One night they found the door of the neighboring pantry open and both walked in. They feasted on roast chicken and cream, but were not satisfied, and so they agreed to carry away a large piece of cheese. Their plan was executed, and they dragged the cheese to the barn. Next morning a dispute arose between them concerning the dividing of it. Each claimed it, and their voices awoke the cook, who, to her horror, found that she had been robbed during the night, and she declared that she would kill every cat in the neighborhood. Thus the innocent are often condemned because, in name or employment, they are associated with the bad. One is known by the company he keeps; hence, the society of the bad should be shunned.
The cats' quarrel in the barn was long and loud. Each one tried to argue his case in his own interest, and they thus drawled out their arguments.
"Know you the law?" said one, with a prolonged and emphatic howl at the word "law."
"I know the law!" howled the other, and then cried, "Neow, give me mine."
"'Tis mine!" howled the first.
"You lie!" drawled the other, and then asked in the same tone loud and emphatic:—
"Who made the law?" and the first replied in a prolonged undertone.
"Who broke the law?" he then asked, to which they both sharply replied, and clinched in a rough fight, screaming, "You an' I, you an' I! Spit! spit! Meow! meow!" and there was a roll and tumble, and scratch, and a howl, and the air was filled with dust and flying fur.
When their fight was over both were scratched and bruised and sore, and blood oozed from their wounded ears. Each felt ashamed of himself, and stole away and hid in the hay-mow, and spent the forenoon smoothing out his ruffled fur and dressing his aching wounds.
The next day they met again and decided to leave their case to Judge Jacko, a venerable monkey, who lived in the adjoining shed. Judge Jacko was an African by birth, but in early life he was stolen by a wicked sailor from the land of palms and cocoanuts and sold into slavery to a travelling showman, with whom he wandered over many countries and learned the manners and customs of the people. He was a careful observer of all he saw done, and hence he acquired a great amount of information. Those who would learn rapidly should be careful observers of all that goes on around them; knowledge obtained by observation is generally of more value than that obtained from books.
When Jacko had become advanced in years he was fortunate enough to have a permanent home with his master, who had also retired from the travelling show business. In his quiet home he had a chance to meditate on what he had learned, and he became so wise that everybody called him Judge Jacko.
When the cats presented their case, he put on his wig and spectacles as emblems of his judgeship, and procured the pantry scales in which to weigh the cheese. They sat quietly down before him and anxiously awaited his decision.
He broke the cheese in two parts and placed a lump in each end of the scale.
"This lump outweighs the other," said he, "justice must be done. I will bite off enough to make them equal," and so he took the lump out and nibbled at it a long time, and when he put it in the scale the opposite end was the heavier; and he took out that lump and bit off a large piece to make it equal to the other. Thus he continued to eat, first one and then the other, till the cats saw but little would be left for them, and they cried: "Hold, hold! Give us our shares and we will be satisfied."
"If you are satisfied, justice is not," replied Judge Jacko. "I must make this division equal," and he kept on nibbling at the cheese.
"Give us what is left!" cried one of the cats, jumping up quickly, and earnestly looking the judge in the face.
"What is left belongs to me," replied the judge. "I must be paid for my services in this difficult case."
He then devoured the last piece, and said:—
"Justice is satisfied, and the court is dismissed."
The hungry cats went back to the barn wiser than when they came.
They had learned that ill-gotten gains are unprofitable, and that they should never employ the dishonest to adjust their difficulties. They also learned another lesson:—
"The scales of the law are seldom poised till little or nothing remains in either."
PICTURES IN THE FIRE
Have you noticed, little children,When the fire is burning low,As the embers flash and darken,How the pictures come and go?Strange the shapes, and strange the fancies,As beyond the bars you gaze,Bringing back some olden mem'ries,Thoughts of half-forgotten days!There's the Church across the meadows,Shadow'd by the spreading yew;There's the quaintly-carven pulpit,And the olden oaken pew.Changed the scene, and on the oceanSails a ship amid the spray;'Tis the one you watch'd departing,When some lov'd-one went away!Yes! and there are faces plenty,Faces dear, both old and youngAnd they cause you to rememberWords their lips oft said or sung.Fancy even brings the voices,Tho' they may be far away;Only pictures, only fancies,Yes! but very sweet are they!Little Children, let me tell youTis yourselves who shape the scene!In your minds a memory lingers,And it peeps the bars between!If you doubt me, choose a subject,Any one you may desire,And you will, by dint of looking,Find its picture in the fire!
E. Oxenford.
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Charlie never could wait. It was no use telling him "more haste less speed," "slow and sure," or anything of that kind. You might as well talk to the winds. He scrambled up in the morning, scurried over the parts of his toilet that he was trusted to do for himself, hurried over his breakfast, rushed through his lessons, with many mistakes of course, and by his hasty, impatient behavior worried his quiet, gentle little sister Ethel nearly out of her wits, and almost drove patient Miss Smith, the governess, to despair. He burnt his mouth with hot food, because he couldn't wait for it to cool; fell down-stairs, racing down, times out of number; his toys were always getting broken because he couldn't stop to put them away; his canary flew away because he, fuming with impatience about something, neglected to fasten the cage door one day; and indeed space would fail to tell of all the troubles he brought upon himself by his perpetual, heedless haste.
There were some exceptions to this general state of things. He didn't hurry to begin his lessons,—nor to go to bed. Here he would wait as long as you liked to let him. One thing he was obliged to wait for, sorely against his will, and that was to grow up. It did take such a long time, and oh, the things he meant to do when once he was a man! Father hoped he would alter a great deal before that time came, for, as he told him, a hasty, impatient man makes other people unhappy and cannot be happy himself.
Charlie meant to have a balloon when he grew up, and a sweet-stuff shop, an elephant, a garden full of apples and plums, a tall black horse, and a donkey.
"You needn't wait so long for the donkey," Father said one day. "I have seen a boy with two nice donkeys in Pine-tree Walk; when you and Ethel have been good children at your lessons, Miss Smith shall let you ride them, and when you can ride nicely I will buy you each a donkey of your own."
Lessons certainly went better after this, and the rides were much enjoyed on every fine day, though timid little Ethel was always just a wee bit afraid at first starting. Miss Smith always safely mounted Ethel first.
"Wait a minute, Charlie!" she said one day, when he was pulling and tugging impatiently at Neddie's bridle, "we'll have you up directly."
But Charlie couldn't wait: he dragged the donkey into the road and scrambled upon its back.
"Charlie! Charlie! you mustn't start without us. Wait a minute!"
"I can ride by my own self now," he said; and jerking the bridle, off he went clattering down the road, the donkey-boy after him.
To mount a donkey is one thing, to manage him another, especially if you don't know how. On galloped Neddie, and after having knocked down a little girl and upset a barrow of fruit, he pitched Charlie over his head, and having thus got rid of his rider began to enjoy himself on the grass. Poor Charlie! He had such a bruised face that he was obliged to stay at home for days.
Miss Smith couldn't take him out like that. It hurt him very much, but it hurt him more when Father said that such a silly, impatient boy was not fit to be trusted to ride, and that he must wait a whole year before he could be allowed to mount a donkey again. "For your own sake, Charlie, and for other people's."
The little girl he had knocked down was more frightened than hurt; but Charlie was very sorry, for he was not at all an ill-natured boy; and when he was at home by himself, while Ethel went for her donkey-rides, he had plenty of time to think things over, and made a good use of it. At first he found it very hard to be patient, but after a little while he found it becoming much easier to wait, and every time he tried it became easier still.
Next summer, when Father gave him and Ethel the promised donkeys, he said, "I am proud to trust you now, Charlie, and hope that you will have some happy times with your Neddie."
And very happy times they had.
"There now, dear, run away, and make haste, or you'll be late to school, and that will never do."
Little Johnnie Strong obediently gathered his books together, and with an effort to keep back the tears that were filling his eyes, held up his face for a last kiss.
"Good-by, then, mother dear, and I'll try to be brave and remember what you've been saying. I'll just do the very best I can, and perhaps I shall be able to manage it after all."
"That's my brave little man, now; good-by, dearie." And Johnnie was gone.
Very often Mrs. Strong and Johnnie had little talks at breakfast-time about his troubles, and he used to say it helped him through the day to remember his mother's loving words. The conversation with which this story began was the end of one of these talks. It was getting near examination time, and Johnnie had been trying very hard to catch up with the other boys in his spelling and writing. Sums he could manage now pretty well, and he read very fairly; but it seemed to him he shouldneverbe able to spell properly. "Thousands of words," he would say, despairingly, "and no two spelt alike." However, he went off to school very bravely, and his determination to do the best he could was a wonderful help.
He got on very well that morning until the time came for "dictation," and then poor Johnnie's troubles began. He knew there were boys in his class very little better at spelling than he, who copied from their neighbors whenever a word was given out that they could not spell; but Johnnie was above doing that. It was cheating and deceiving, and he would rather every word of his exercise were wrong than be a cheat. But that morning he was sorely tempted. He thought there had never been such a hard piece of dictation; and when Jimmy Lane, who sat next to him, tried to help him by whispering the letters of one very hard word, it required some courage to ask him to stop.
At the end of the lesson the boys had to pass their books up to the teacher for inspection, and Johnnie's worst fears were realized when his book came back with ever so many words marked in blue pencil.
While the teacher was finishing marking the exercises, the master's bell sounded, and the boys were dismissed for a few minutes' run in the playground; but Johnnie was obliged to stay behind to learn to spell correctly the words he had blundered over. Poor Johnnie! It was very hard for him to have to stay there, trying to fix in his mind the fact that "Receive" is spelt with the E before the I, and "Believe" with the I before the E, while every other boy of the school was outside, enjoying the games in which he delighted as much as any of them.
Not quite every other boy though. There was one other prisoner besides himself—Will Maynard, and he had to stay behind because he couldn't always remember topay backwhen heborrowed! Not that he was by any means dishonest—it was only when he had a subtraction sum to do that he got into this difficulty!
Johnnie and he were not chums, but, somehow, when they had the whole school to themselves they couldn't sit on forms ten yards apart—it seemed so very unsociable and unfriendly. So Will brought his slate over to Johnnie, and they were soon busily discussing the difficulties of sums and spelling.
Although Will was a good deal the older, he was not nearly so clever at sums as Johnnie, and, moreover, he was not too proud to accept the help that Johnnie rather timidly offered. They soon settled the difference between the various rows of obstinate figures, and Will laid down his slate with a sigh of relief and a grateful "Thank you, Johnnie. Now," he continued, "let's have a go at your spelling."
By this time they began to feel quite warm friends—for it is wonderful how quickly a little mutual help creates feelings of friendship. Together they went over the mis-spelt words, and, with Will to help and encourage, Johnnie soon felt quite sure that the spelling of the particular words of that morning's exercise would never trouble him again.
They had scarcely finished their work when the big school-bell sounded, and the boys all came trooping in. Will had to go back to his place, but he left a very light-hearted little boy behind him, for Johnnie and he had vowed life-long friendship, and sums and spelling seemed to have lost all their terrors for both of them.
When Johnnie arrived home from school he could talk of nothing but Will Maynard, and Will, for his part, voted Johnnie "a jolly little chap." Many a time after that day did they help each other, and when it was reported after the examination that they had both passed, each declared he must have failed without the other's help.
They are firm friends still, and are likely to remain so; and whenever a difficulty occurs, in school or out, they always tackle it together; for, as Johnnie says, "A difficulty shared is only half a difficulty."
T'is not Fine Feathers that make Fine Birds
She was a lady with pins in her hairOn a funny old Japanese fan.He was a proud bit of Chinese wareIn the shape of a Mandarin man.She sighed, when she saw him appear on the shelf,For she thought of her shabby old frock.She said "Oh! I know he will scorn an old fan,As he comes of a very proud stock."The Mandarin sneered as he took a front place,But his pride had a fall when he found,That the fan was dispatched to a very grand show,For her beauty and age were renowned!So we'll leave him alone on his shelf while he thinks,With a large diminution of pride,"It is not the feathers that make the fine bird,But the worth of the bird that's inside!"
Horatia Browne.
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Elsie Hayden would have been a charming little maiden but for her besetting fault—talebearing. She was always running in to tell her mother or governess the faults of the others. All day long it was, "Mamma, Rex took some currants," "Mamma, Minnie blotted her copy this morning," "Mamma, the boys have been quarrelling," or some other complaint concerning her companions. Before long Elsie was to go to school, and her mother knew what troubles lay before her if she persisted in looking out for motes in the eyes of others, and forgetting all about the beams in her own. She got Elsie to work a text in silks, "Speak not evil one ofanother," and she told the child that if we feel it is our duty to complain of somebody else, we should be very careful to speak only thetruth, and inlove.
One day Elsie came to her mother in great distress.
"Mamma," she sobbed, "they won't play with me; the others have all sent me to Coventry. They whisper 'tell-tale-tit' when I go near them; please make them play with me, mamma. It is so horrid to be left all alone."
"But Elsie," said Mrs. Hayden, "you have brought this trouble on yourself. When you play with the others you seem always on the lookout to find fault with them; how can you suppose they will enjoy a game with a little tale-bearer? Miss Clifford and nurse and I have kept an account of the tales you have carried to us, complaining of the others, and our lists added together make 352 complaints in one week!"
"Oh, mamma—Ihaven'tbeen a tale-bearer 352 times in a week!"
"It is so indeed, my poor little Elsie. I am sadly afraid you will grow up a scandal-monger, one of those people who go from house to house spreading tales and making mischief. You must try hard, my darling, to cure this fault; remember yourownfailings, and let the faults of your playmates alone. Poor little Minnie came crying this morning to confess to me she had called you by an unkind name which I had forbidden; but she found you already complaining about her, and trying to get her punished. It was not kind or sisterly, Elsie! Letloverule that little tongue, and be silent when those impatient complaints come into your mind."
"I will try, mamma—I will indeed. Will you keep another list fornextweek, and see if I am any better?"
Mrs. Hayden promised to do so, and the result showed that Elsie had been a tale-bearer ten times only during the week. The child tried very hard to cure herself of fault-finding, and she was soon "out of Coventry," and as time went on nobody on seeing her sang the rhyme about "tell-tale-tit."
Winter.
When icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nailAnd Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owlTo-who;Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
"Shakespeare"
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Long ago I read a story of some boys who stole some cherries, and, try what they might, the cherry stones were always turning up and reminding them of their wickedness. It was a good thing for their consciences that they could not forget what they had done; it is a dreadful thing to do evil and then care nothing about it.
Do you know what is the best thing that can happen to you if you do wrong? To get found out. To conceal a sin is worse than you may suppose; confess to God and man, and pray for forgiveness. We get vexed with the little birds sometimes when they spoil our fruit; what do you think of Dick Raynor and Willie Abbot who robbed a poor widow's orchard, and took away the cherries that she would have sold to pay her rent? Day by day the little thieves had a feast in that orchard, and nobody guessed who stole the cherries; but there was One Who saw and knew all about the matter. The rent was not paid, and the widow was turned out of her cottage; Dick and Willie grew to be rich men by and by, and they could have paid her rent over and over again, but it was too late then—the aged woman had passed away.
MY SWEETHEART'S ILL TO-DAY.
My sweetheart's ill to-day,Her mates around her linger;She cannot go and play,A pin has pricked her finger!A little ache, my dear,But not a scrap of sorrow;At worst, perhaps, a tear,And all forgot to-morrow.
"Books, books, books! I think you will turn into a book yourself some day, Phil."
"Wait till I have finished this chapter, Maud, and then I will go out with you."
"That is always what you say," said Maud: "just a chapter, just a page, and the time goes."
Philip turned over another page.