Inside of a church.
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This curious and wonderful tree is found in the forests of Java; the gum which it yields is a rank poison, and, indeed, so strong and powerful is the poison of this tree, that the effluvia from it prevents any tree, plant, or shrub, from growing within ten or twelve miles of it. The country is perfectly barren; not a living thing, or even a blade of grass, is to be seen. The chiefs and grandees of the country poison the points of their arrows and daggers with the poison of this tree; but as it is certain death to approach the tree, the task of collecting the gum is given to people who have committed some very wicked act, and are condemned to suffer death. After sentence of death has been passed on them, they are allowed to choose whether they will be executed, or go to the upas tree for a quantity of the gum.
“If they were to ask me, mamma, I would go to the tree.”
“Many of them do go, Henry; but I believe not more than two out of twenty escape death. Before the criminals commence their journey, they are furnished with a box for the gum, a pair of very thick leather gloves, and a kind of leather cap, which is drawn over the face and reaches down to the waist. They wear this cap to prevent them as much as possible from inhaling the air, which, as I mentioned before, is poisonous for some miles round the tree; there are two glasses fixed in the cap, to enable them to see without removing it; they are usually accompanied by a priest for the first three miles of their journey, who, when he takes leave of them, blesses them, and informs them in which direction they are to travel, and also advises them to proceed as speedily as they can, as that is the only chance they have of saving their lives.”
“I should think, mamma, it would be much better to do without poison, as it is only used to kill people.”
“You are mistaken, Henry, in imagining that poisons are only used for so bad a purpose. Some of our most valuable medicines are poisons; but mixed with other drugs, and properly administered, they cure many painful diseases. Many poisonous herbs are also used in dying different colours. There is another poison tree, which grows in this country; it is found in damp, marshy places, and resembles the ash. It never grows very large. The wood of this tree is poisonous, if you either touch or smell it, but it is not fatal; the effects of the poison go off in a day or two. If a piece of the wood is put into the fire, the smell of it will poison some persons, and cause them to swell and itch all over, whilst others are not in the least affected by it, and can even taste the wood without being hurt by it. It is as cold as ice to the feel, so that if you take up a piece with a handful of other sticks, you would discover it immediately. Little children should be very careful never to pick or eat the berries of any tree. I have often heard of little boys being very ill, and even dying, from having eaten the berries of trees growing in the hedges, mistaking them for fruit.”
Boys playing.
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“I want you to come over to our house, after dinner, and play with me,” said Alfred Barlow, one Saturday morning, to a little fellow, named Wilson Green. “Father has just put us up a swing. It is made with two ropes tied to a limb of the great oak tree, and has a basket at the bottom, big enough to hold two. And then we have got a good many other things to play with. Won’t you ask your father to let you come?”
“Oh, yes! And I’ll come right away after dinner,” said Wilson, full of delight at the thought of spending an afternoon with Alfred.
When Wilson went home, he asked his father to let him go over to Mr. Barlow’s, and play with Alfred. But his father told him that he did not wish him to go there.
This was a sore disappointment to the little boy. He did not ask his reason why he refused to let him go; for this he knew would be of no use. But hewas so very desirous of going, that he soon began to think about disobedience.
“He’ll never know it,” he said to himself, as he saw his father leave the house. “He never comes home from the mill until night, and I can be back long before that time.”
Something whispered to Wilson that to disobey his father would be to do a very wicked thing; but he quickly turned from the warning thought, and in a little while determined that he would run over to Alfred Barlow’s for a short time.
Wrong as this was, Wilson so far forgot his duty to his parents, as actually to go over to Mr. Barlow’s very soon after his father had gone away. Instead, however, of spending the delightful afternoon as he had anticipated, he found all the family in much alarm for Alfred’s little sister, who had been taken very ill since morning. Of course, all thoughts of play were banished from the mind of Alfred, who loved little Anna very much, and could not be persuaded to leave her bed-side a moment.
As soon as Mrs. Barlow found Wilson in the chamber of her sick child, she told him that he had better run home, as the doctor feared that Anna had the scarlet fever, and she did not wish any of her neighbours’ children to be exposed to the danger of taking it.
Slowly did Wilson Green leave the house in which he promised himself so much delight, and turn his steps homeward with no very happy feelings.He had disobeyed his father, deliberately, and got nothing for that disobedience but an exposure to a terrible disease, of which he might die.
When his father came home at night, he felt almost afraid to look at him in the face. It seemed as if he must know all about what he had done.
“Wilson, come here, my son;” he said, in a serious voice.
And Wilson went up to him with a sinking heart.
“When I told you, at dinner time, that I did not wish you to go and see Alfred Barlow,” the father began, “I neglected to say, as a reason for denying your request, that Doctor Ayres had mentioned to me that little Anna was very sick, with all the symptoms of a dangerous attack of scarlet fever. This dreadful disease is thought by many contagious, and it was for this reason that I denied your request.”
Wilson said nothing, but he was very unhappy. A frank confession of his fault arose to his tongue; but, before he could make it, his heart failed him. Not that he dreaded his father’s displeasure so much as the distress his act of disobedience would give him.
For more than an hour that night, did the unhappy boy lie awake, after he had retired to bed, vainly regretting his act of wickedness and folly. It is said, “of wickedness,” for deliberate acts of disobedience to parents are wicked. He was likewisetroubled, lest he, too, should be attacked with scarlet fever, and die—and all because he had not obeyed his father.
On the next day, when he learned that the doctor had declared Anna Barlow’s disease to be really the scarlet fever, and her case a very bad one, Wilson was more troubled than ever. How often did he wish that he had been an obedient boy. But no sorrow could recall the act.
It was several days afterwards, when the boy’s fears had nearly all subsided, that he awoke one morning with a violent headache, a sore throat, and a general uneasiness, with considerable fever. The day afterwards, his skin became dry and burning, and his throat so sore that he could swallow only with great difficulty. On the third day the physician pronounced the case one of decided scarletina, or scarlet fever, accompanied by some very alarming symptoms.
From that time for nearly two weeks the sick boy was conscious of little more than great bodily distress. When the fever at last gave way, he was just upon the brink of the grave. The slightest neglect on the part of those who attended him with more than the care that a new-born infant requires, would have proved fatal. But the skill of his medical attendant, and the unwearying care of his parents, were the means of saving his life.
About a week after the crisis of the disease hadpassed, when Wilson could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, as his father sat by him, he said, in a penitent voice, while the tears came into his eyes:
“I have been a very wicked boy, father; and that is the reason why I have been so sick.”
“How so, my child?” asked Mr. Green, in surprise.
“You remember having told me that I could not go over to see Alfred Barlow, one day when I asked you. Well, I wanted to go so bad, that I disobeyed you. I found little Anna Barlow very sick—so sick that Alfred could not play with me. As soon as his mother saw me by Anna’s bed, she told me to go right away home at once. And so I did, without having had any of the pleasure, to gain which, I had done what you had told me not to do. It was the scarlet fever that Anna had, and no doubt I took it from her. But I have been severely punished for what I did.”
“Severely, indeed, my dear boy!” Mr. Green said, wiping a tear that came to his eye. “But not too severely, if it prove the means of restraining you from ever doing so wrong an act in future. To disobey your parents, is to do yourself one of the worst of injuries. For if, in early years, you are not obedient to your parents, you will not be truly obedient to just laws when you grow up to be a man; nor, above all, obedient toGod. And if not obedient to Him, you never can be happy. It is not from any selfish desire to command your obedience, that I forbid your doing certain things at times. I have only your good at heart. I know, much better than you can possibly know, the evil that you ought to shun—and much better than you can know, the good effects which will be produced in your mind by obedience. But I need not, I trust, say more now. You have had a practical lesson that you can never forget, and which will, I am sure, have upon you a most salutary influence.”
“Indeed, father, I can never forget it,” Wilson replied, with much feeling. “No one knows how much I have suffered, in mind as well as body, for my faults. From the hour I disobeyed you until this moment, I have been unhappy. And I believe, until I had told you all, I should never again have been happy.”
“Repentance and confession are the only means of obtaining peace after a wrong act,” the father said.
Boy playing.
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The company arrange themselves, and give to the four corners of the room, or the part of the park where they are playing, the names of the four cardinal points. To avoid disputes, it is best to place the words east, west, north, south, in writing, at the points agreed upon. One of the players, and it should be a lively, gay person accustomed to the game, takes the part ofEolus. All the other players arrange themselves in one or more rows. When it is possible, a lady should have a gentleman on each side, and a gentleman, a lady. After having ordered silence, Eolus points to one of the corners designated by name, it is no matter which, and from which he means to have the wind blow. When the god of the winds points one way, the company must all turn in the opposite direction.
It is a party ofweathercocks, and consequently each one must turn his back upon the wind, to show which way it blows. When Eolus criessouth, everybody faces north, and in the same way at all the points. When he saystempest, everybody must whirl round three times, and come back to the same place. At the wordvariable, they must balance them, first on one foot, then on the other, until the god of the winds names one of the four points. If he saysvariable west, then they vacillate towards the east, but not rapidly, as most of the motions of the game are made, for the wind is changeable, and often, as soon as they have got round to a certain point, Eolus gives a shout which sends them all round to another.
When the capricious deity is pleased to name a point directly opposite to the one where the company is placed, they must all remain motionless.
It may easily be imagined that this opposition of order and motion, the variety, the multiplicity of movements, must give occasion for forfeits to be paid whenever a mistake is made. The game affords a great deal of sport.
Eolus.
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James, or as he is commonly called, Jacques Cartier, was the first who explored the shores of Canada to any extent, and the first to discover the existence of that great river, communicating between the Atlantic Ocean and the great North American lakes, the St. Lawrence. The Indians called the river Hochelega, and told him that they had never heard of any one who had reached its source.
Cartier sailed up the river, and anchored his vessels near the island of Orleans, below the place where Quebec now stands. It was in the summer of 1535, when he sailed up the river, and he found Orleans island nearly covered with loaded grape-vines, from which circumstance, as well as from the beauty, variety, and luxuriance of its vegetation, he named itthe Island of Bacchus.
All the early navigators to this continent were in search of a north-west passage to India, by which they thought they might reach the East Indian islands by a shorter voyage than that in use. They were formerly obliged to sail along the coast of Africa, and around the Cape of Good Hope, when they had still another, the Indian Ocean, to cross before they reached China. This was a very long and a very dangerous voyage, and they wished for a shorter one; and the learned men of those days were of opinion that there existed a passage somewhere in North America, which joined the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans together.
When Henry Hudson discovered the bay which bears his name, he thought that he had found the desired object, and Cartier indulged the same hopes, when sailing up the noble river Hochelega, which he called the St. Lawrence, because he had discovered it on the day of the festival in honour of the saint of that name, the 10th day of August. On the 15th, he discovered the island now known by the name of Anticosti. At Bacchus island he was visited by the principal chief of the neighbouring tribes, whose name was Donnacona. The chief and his attendants were very hospitable to the navigators, and in a solemn assembly he welcomed them, in the name of five hundred of his warriors, to the shores of the Hochelega. Donnacona had his residence and chief town at Stadacona,which occupied part of the place where Quebec now stands.
Cartier had already made numerous and surprising discoveries; but the great object of his expedition had not been certainly attained, although he had strong hopes of ultimate success. Stadacona neither satisfied his curiosity, nor limited his progress. The Indians informed him that there was a town of much greater importance farther up the river; but when he intimated his intention of visiting it, they were displeased, and resorted to every artifice to divert him from his project. One of them was very curious. The savages were themselves superstitious, and imagined their visitors to be so likewise. They dressed up three men in black masks and white dog-skins, with their faces blackened and great horns on their heads. They were put into a canoe, with oars, in such a situation as to be carried near the ships by the flowing of the tide. Their appearance was awaited by the Indians, who lay concealed in the woods. When the canoe neared the ships, the white men were harangued by one of the three ugly creatures, who stood up in the boat; and as soon as they reached the land, they fell down, as if dead, and were carried off by the Indians into concealment. Some of the Indians immediately came on board to Cartier, and, feigning the greatest consternation, explained to him the meaning of what he had seen. Their god had sent these threeemissaries to signify that there was so much ice and snow, in the far country, that whoever ventured there would surely perish.
Notwithstanding their predictions, Cartier determined to explore the river farther, and, equipping two long-boats for the purpose, he commenced his voyage. He was delighted with the scenery on both sides of the river, and the natives cheerfully furnished him with what they could procure to supply his necessities. At Lake St. Peter, the French were much perplexed by the shallowness of the water, and their ignorance of the channel. On the 2nd of October, 1535, Cartier effected a landing, six miles from the town, below the rapids of St. Mary’s, which were becoming difficult and dangerous. Here they were met by more than a thousand of the natives, who received them with every demonstration of joy and hospitality, in return for which Cartier made them many simple presents.
The next day, having engaged three Indians as guides, Cartier, with a number of his own people, entered for the first time the Indian village of Hochelega, which stood on the site of the present city of Montreal. Cartier remained among these people for a short time, when the cold of a Canadian winter began to approach, and he returned in his boats to St. Croix, and afterwards to France. He came again to Canada, in the course of a few years, with Roberval, but did not stay long, and returned to France, where he soon after died.
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Riding the dog.
In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a rich farmer, named Pierre, with his wife Mary, and son Anselmo. When Pierre was very young, he had been found, almost dead, in the snow, by one of the monks of St. Bernard, and his dog; and he felt so grateful that, now he was rich, he had sent to the Convent of St. Bernard for one of those large dogs which are so famous for saving people that are lost in the snow; for Pierre was a good man, and he wanted to have one of the dogs himself, so as to be able to save any traveller who might have lost his way. So one of the monks who had taken care of him brought him a little puppy, and he trained it so well, that even in the first year he had brought home several travellers; but the first life he saved was Pierre’s own son, Anselmo.
The little fellow had been sent across the hill to a distant village; it was a clear, frosty day, and if he had minded what his mother had said, and come home quickly, he might have been home long before dark; but Anselmo did not think of this;—now he stopped to make snow-balls, and roll them before him, till they were larger and higher than himself; then he would push them over the rocks, and watch them, as they bounded from one part to another, breaking to a thousand pieces on their way; now he wandered from the path to follow the track of an Izard, that perhaps had passed hours before, and that he well knew would never allow him to come within sight of it. And so the time passed on, and when he ought to have been there, he was not even half-way. When he did reach the village, there were too many little boys ready to play with him, for Anselmo to leave it soon; so that it was already getting dark when he stood alone on the top of one of the highest hills between him and his home.
The wind had begun to blow, and the snow was drifting around him; he grew cold and frightened, and at last sat down and burst into tears. Now, for the first time, he thought of all his kind mother had told him, and remembered that in disobeying her, he had offended God. The longer little Anselmo sat in the snow the more cold he became, until at last he seemed to fall asleep—a sleep from which he would never more awake, had not God, from whom he had asked forgiveness for his disobedience, watched over him in the hour of danger.
Many hours before this, his mother had gone, again and again, to look for his return, and now when the wind began to blow, and the grey light of evening come on, she trembled to think that her child was alone on the hills, with snow on every side.
Pierre had been away from home two days; he was to return that night. And oh! how she feared it might be to find Anselmo gone, his little boy lost to him for ever; for she thought that if he should miss the path in the drifting snow, he would never find it again.
“Here, St. Bernard,” said she to the dog, “go and find Anselmo; go and seek for my child, my brave dog!” and she burst into tears, and threw her arms round his neck. Well did St. Bernard understand her words; he sprang from her hold,and darting through the door, was out of sight in a moment.
The poor woman smiled. “It will be a comfort to him,” she said, “to see his good dog, and will cheer his heart and give him strength for the rest of the way.” Poor Mary! little did she think that already her boy was stretched upon the snow, stiff and cold, and almost without life.
An hour had passed; but neither Pierre, Anselmo, or St. Bernard, had yet returned. Again and again she wandered round the house and looked down the path. At last a figure was seen, and as it came nearer, she saw it was Pierre, and that he had his child in his arms, and that St. Bernard was at his side. “Thank God! thank God!” she said; and she ran down the hill to meet them. Anselmo is tired with his long walk, thought she, and no wonder. Pierre must be tired too; I’ll carry the boy myself. But as she came near, she stopped; for a sudden fear seemed to have struck her, and she covered her face with her hands.
“He is not dead, Mary,” shouted Pierre; “he is better already; see, he looks up to you,” and the child tried to raise his hand, but it fell by his side.
Anselmo was laid in a warm bed—they rubbed his hands and feet; and soon he began to revive, and to look about him, and then to thank his father and mother, and to tell them that he felt better.
After Pierre and Mary had knelt by the bedside of their child, and thanked God for his mercy in restoring him to them, his mother for the first time asked how it had all happened, and where he had been found.
Anselmo turned his face away, and for a moment did not answer; then he said: “Mother had sent me to the village, and I staid too long there; I had played by the way too as I went. So it was getting dark, and I lost my way, and was cold long before I could reach home; so I sat down, meaning to rest a little, and began to cry, but I do not know anything after that. I think I remember feeling very sleepy, and I suppose I did fall asleep, but I do not know; my father can tell you best, mother, for he found me.”
“No,” said Pierre, “I did not find you, my dear boy; I was close to the foot of the hill, thinking that I should meet you all well, and at home, when I saw something moving on the snow; it stopped; and then I heard St. Bernard’s bark; it seemed wanting my help, and I hastened up the hill. He was coming to meet me, his head high in the air; his step through all the drifting snow was firm and sure, and I saw that he carried a child in his mouth; but when he laid the child at my feet, I saw it was Anselmo, my own son!”
“Then it was St. Bernard, good, kind, St. Bernard,” cried the boy, “who carried me all the way from the top of that high hill, for I am quite sure it was there I sat down.”
Whether this lesson cured the little boy ofloiteringon his way, I cannot tell. I hope and think it must have done so, but this I know, St. Bernard became more than ever a favourite,—more than ever loved and valued by the whole neighbourhood, and he continued showing his wonderful instinct and bravery, in many ways.
Boy reading to man.
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Poor Tom, they’re heathen Greek to you—Those curiously-formed letters;But you must learn them all, my boy,And break the dunce’s fetters.Ay, there they stand, from A to Z,Like prophets sent on mission,To point the way in Wisdom’s pathWith accurate precision.Or rather, they are like old nurse,Aiding the first gradation,The Alpha-Betand leading-stringsTo better education.And having totter’d, step by step,Till stronger grown in knowledge,Why, then, my boy, you’ll run aloneThrough this, your infant’s college.Ay, puzzle on—that’s A, this B;Ne’er mind a few erratics:The big round O, and upright I,Will lead to mathematics.Your little book is just like lifeIn its progressive stages;You’ll find the spelling harder grow,As you turn o’er the pages.Two letters—three—and then comes fourThen syllables united,Till six or seven in columns stand,To render you affrighted.But, having conn’d your lesson o’er,With true pronunciation,The task’s performed, and you will gainA parent’s approbation.Just so in life our troubles rise,Getting from rough to rougher,For man is like the grammar verbs,To be, or do, or suffer.
Poor Tom, they’re heathen Greek to you—Those curiously-formed letters;But you must learn them all, my boy,And break the dunce’s fetters.
Ay, there they stand, from A to Z,Like prophets sent on mission,To point the way in Wisdom’s pathWith accurate precision.
Or rather, they are like old nurse,Aiding the first gradation,The Alpha-Betand leading-stringsTo better education.
And having totter’d, step by step,Till stronger grown in knowledge,Why, then, my boy, you’ll run aloneThrough this, your infant’s college.
Ay, puzzle on—that’s A, this B;Ne’er mind a few erratics:The big round O, and upright I,Will lead to mathematics.
Your little book is just like lifeIn its progressive stages;You’ll find the spelling harder grow,As you turn o’er the pages.
Two letters—three—and then comes fourThen syllables united,Till six or seven in columns stand,To render you affrighted.
But, having conn’d your lesson o’er,With true pronunciation,The task’s performed, and you will gainA parent’s approbation.
Just so in life our troubles rise,Getting from rough to rougher,For man is like the grammar verbs,To be, or do, or suffer.
Dog.
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The tea-table was cleared away, the shutters were closed, a bright wood fire blazed on the hearth, and Captain Albert, with his family, were seated round it.
“Now, father,” said Edward, “tell us another story of the sea, if you please. How did you get your ship out of the ice?”
“It was brought out without much exertion of mine,” said his father. “If you had been there, my son, you would have felt that all the power of man could have done little to relieve us. The ice gathered around us thicker and closer, the wind died away, and it was a dead, freezing calm. The ship did not move an inch, and the thoughts of my mind troubled me by continually bringing up an account I had read in my youth, of a vessel which had been caught in the ice near the southpole and all the crew frozen, where they stood on duty—
“To the cordage glued the sailor,And the steersman to the helm!
“To the cordage glued the sailor,And the steersman to the helm!
“I began to feel as if we had little prospect of escaping a similar fate, and looked about to see what part of the ship could be spared for fuel, in case of necessity. I also examined the provisions and water, and calculated how long they would last. My faithful crew were sensible of the danger we were in, but uttered no complaint. The whales appeared to understand our helpless condition, and came around us, as if in mockery, dashing about the ice with their powerful flooks, and exulting as it were, in showing us how much more they could do for themselves than we could. One of them even ventured to rub his monstrous sides against our ship.
“In this melancholy situation, Robert (spoken of in our first story) was a valuable addition to our ship’s company. He was a young man of bright natural talents, and possessed a good share of wit and power of imitation. Besides which, he had received an education much superior to that of sailors generally. He was a fine singer, and had a great share of good songs, so that he became the life of the whole ship. We had very little to do, and the men were very fond of sitting down on the berth-deck,among the hammocks, with a lantern in the centre, to hear Robert give an account of himself, and relate the wonderful adventures he had met with.
“After we had been some time in the helpless situation I have described, one morning, about day-break, I was awakened from a troubled sleep by the sound of a rushing wind, and rushing up, I went on deck. A violent rain was falling, and the wind was rising at the same time, which is a very uncommon circumstance. It blew in a direction to favour our escape; and think, my dear ones, what was my joy and thankfulness, when I saw the ice dividing before us, and leaving a broad, clear path, as far as the eye could reach. The rain loosened the ice from the sails, and it fell on the deck in thin sheets; the sails filled, and we began to move rapidly toward home. Did I not tell you right, when I said Divine Providence helped us out without much aid from us?
“We had prepared to tow the schooner (to which Robert belonged) behind us, but considering that she would check the speed of our ship, and feeling the necessity of making all possible haste to escape from the regions of ice, I put three of our most capable hands into her, with Robert, and directed them to follow my ship as near as they could. When we were in the open sea, it was a pleasure to look back and see the little craft clipping along through the waves, following onlike a greyhound in the chase, leaving ice and icebergs far behind.
“Our voyage home was prosperous and pleasant. The remembrance of dangers and sufferings, made every blessing more thankfully acceptable, and I hope we all returned better and wiser men.”
Ships at sea.
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As the Lady of Lindorf entered the chapel, she beheld a little girl, of about eight years old, alone, and dressed entirely in black, kneeling upon the steps of the altar. The child prayed so fervently, that she paid no attention to what was passing by her. Tears were streaming down her blooming cheeks, and her beautiful and innocent countenance had an expression of melancholy resignation and pious fervor beyond description.
The lady felt the sincerest pity and greatest good-will towards the praying child. She would not disturb her in her devotions; and only when the little girl arose did the lady approach her:—“You are very sorrowful, dear child,” she said softly; “why do you thus cry?”
“Alas!” answered the child, and tears flowed afresh down her cheeks; “a year ago this very day I lost my father, and this day last week they buried my mother.”
“And for what have you prayed to God?” asked the lady.
“That he would take pity upon me,” answered the child; “I have no refuge but Him. True, I am still with the people with whom my parents lodged, but I cannot stay there; the master has told me again that I must go to-morrow. I have a few relatives in the town, and wish very much that one or the other would take charge of me. The good priest, also, who often visited my mother in her illness, and showed her a deal of kindness, told them plainly that it was their duty to do so, but they cannot agree among themselves which of them is to take the care of bringing me up: nor can I complain, for they have many children, and nothing but what they earn by their daily labour.”
“Poor child! it is no wonder that you are sorrowful.”
“I came here very sorrowful,” replied the child; “but God has suddenly removed all grief from my heart. I now feel comforted. I have no further anxiety than to live ever after His will, so that He may take pleasure in me.”
The words of that innocent child, and the sincerity that appeared through her tearful eyes, went to the heart of the noble lady. She looked at her with the tenderness of a mother, and said “I think that God has heard your prayer, dear little one; keep to your resolution—remain ever pious and good, and be comforted, and you will find help. Come with me.”
The good child looked at the lady with astonishment:—“But where?” asked she. “I must not; I must go home.”
“I know the good priest who you said had been so kind to your mother,” said the lady. “We will go to him, and I will arrange with him how to help you.”
Saying this, she took the child by the hand, who went joyfully with her.
The excellent curate, a man rather advanced in years, and of a venerable aspect, rose from his writing-table on the approach of the lady. She told him how she had just become acquainted with the child; and then desired the little one to leave her with the curate, and amuse herself in the garden awhile, as she wished to speak to him privately.
“My dear sir,” said she, “I have a great desire to take this child, and supply to her the place of a mother. My own children all died at a tender age, and my heart tells me that I can love this little one. Still, I wished to know whether you, who knew the parents well, would advise me to do so. What do you say to it? I wish to mark my short course on earth by some benevolent action. Do you think that the benefits I mean to bestow on that child will be well conferred?”
The good man lifted his eyes to heaven, and tears of joy were glistening in them, as, folding his hands, he said, “The holy providence of God be ever praised! You could not, lady, do a greater act of mercy; neither could you easily find a more pious, well-behaved, and intelligent child, than the little Sophy. Both her parents were honest people, and true Christians. They begun to give this, their only one, a good education, but, alas! they did not live to finish it. I shall never forget with what grief the dying mother looked upon this dearly beloved child, who was sobbing upon her death-bed; with what confidence, nevertheless, she looked towards heaven, and said; ‘Thou Father in heaven wilt also be a father on earth, and wilt give my daughter another mother: I know this, and die comforted.’ The words of the good parent are now come to pass, and it is obvious that the Divine Providence has selected you, gracious and worthy lady, to be this child’s second mother: for this you were called to this town—for this, God put it in your mind to visit His temple before your departure. It is evidently his work; let his holy providence be gratefully acknowledged!”
The worthy curate now called in the poor orphan, and said, “See, Sophy, this kind and devout lady wishes to be thy mother:—this is a great happiness that God bestows upon thee. Wilt thou go with her, and be to her a good daughter?”
“Yes,” answered Sophy gladly, and tears of joy prevented her saying more. She thanked herbenefactress with her looks, and kissed her hand in silence.
“See, my child,” continued the curate, “how God cares for thee: when thy late mother was lying on her death-bed He had already conducted thy second mother here, unknown to us, nor has He allowed her to depart without having first found thee, and adopted thee. Know, in this, His fatherly care;—love with all thy heart the good and merciful God, who so evidently takes care of thee—trust in him, and keep his commandments. Be as good and obedient a child towards this thy new mother, which He has given thee, as thou wast towards thy mother which is now dead, and then this kind lady will rejoice in thee, and thou shalt prosper. One thing remember especially,—in thy future life, sorrow and misfortune cannot be kept entirely aloof; but when it does come, pray with the same child-like trust with which thou hast been taught; and as God has helped thee now, he will help thee again.”
The child’s relatives were now summoned, and made no sort of objection to the arrangement; on the contrary, they were well pleased. Their satisfaction was still more increased by the Lady of Lindorf’s declaring she would take Sophy as she was, and leave her mother’s little legacy, together with her own clothes, to them and to their children. Sophy only wished for a few religious booksas a remembrance of her mother, and these were willingly granted to her.
Early the next morning the Lady of Lindorf departed for her castle, accompanied by Sophy.
Girl praying.
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“Come, come,” said the bright angel,In a whisper sweet and low,“To yonder stream so lonelyTogether let us go.”And the child made haste to followThe guide she could not see,For she said, “A sweet child angelIs whispering to me.”The morning sun shone brightlyThrough the branches overhead,And summer leaves upon the groundTheir dancing shadows spread.And still, upon the cool, green earthThe trembling dew-drops lay,And fell in showers, beneath her touch,From every leaf and spray.Yet onward, onward went the childWithout a thought of fear,For the voice of the sweet angelStill sounded in her ear.And now the path is hiddenBy branches bending low,And, pausing there, she listensTo hear the waters flow;And from the opening blossoms,That smile beside her feet,She twines, with ready fingers,A wreath, for angel meet.The deep and waveless riverSpread out before her lies,And she sees the fair child angelLook fondly in her eyes.One cry of joy she utters,Her arms extending wideTo clasp the lovely phantomBeneath that treacherous tide.Weep not, thou childless mother,Above that beauteous clay,For the voice of blessed angelsHas called the soul away.Think, when thy lips are pressingThat pure and marble brow,In heaven thy own child angelIs living for thee now.
“Come, come,” said the bright angel,In a whisper sweet and low,“To yonder stream so lonelyTogether let us go.”
And the child made haste to followThe guide she could not see,For she said, “A sweet child angelIs whispering to me.”
The morning sun shone brightlyThrough the branches overhead,And summer leaves upon the groundTheir dancing shadows spread.
And still, upon the cool, green earthThe trembling dew-drops lay,And fell in showers, beneath her touch,From every leaf and spray.
Yet onward, onward went the childWithout a thought of fear,For the voice of the sweet angelStill sounded in her ear.
And now the path is hiddenBy branches bending low,And, pausing there, she listensTo hear the waters flow;
And from the opening blossoms,That smile beside her feet,She twines, with ready fingers,A wreath, for angel meet.
The deep and waveless riverSpread out before her lies,And she sees the fair child angelLook fondly in her eyes.
One cry of joy she utters,Her arms extending wideTo clasp the lovely phantomBeneath that treacherous tide.
Weep not, thou childless mother,Above that beauteous clay,For the voice of blessed angelsHas called the soul away.
Think, when thy lips are pressingThat pure and marble brow,In heaven thy own child angelIs living for thee now.
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You have heard of Switzerland, my dear young readers. You have heard of its high mountains—its lovely streams—its pretty flowers—and bright sunshine in summer. You have heard, too, of its deep snows in winter—its frozen waters—and its fearful storms;—its beautiful lakes—one moment calm, soft and bright—the next changed into furious commotion, throwing its angry waters high into the air. There, many a little boat, that had gone out upon its smooth waters, confident that there could be no danger, has been lost, after struggling long and fearlessly with the waves, and sunk to rise no more.
One night I stood alone upon a high rock, which projected over the Lake of Lucerne, and saw what I have imperfectly described to you.
I had been on the mountains all day—a bright, beautiful day. I had climbed the hills, where nothing was to be seen but grey stone; I had passed on to others, and found them covered with lovelyflowers—growing in every spot where they could find any soil—and some large trees, that, spreading wide their branches, allowed me often to sit down in the cool shade to watch the gay butterflies around me, and to contemplate that glorious and almighty Parent—the Creator of all that is beautiful and good, and the Author of all good feelings and affections, and who enables us to enjoy all which He has made.
The sun was setting, and there was a bright red glow over the lake, that lay like a large sheet of glass, smooth and bright; and that was only stirred when the trout leaped high in the air—as if to look once more upon the sun before it went to rest; and then sinking down, they left a bright round ring on the lake, that soon passed away, leaving all smooth again.
In a little time the waters began to move, and there was a low sound of wind, that soon rose into a storm; and then the waves dashed furiously against the cliffs, as I have before described; when a boat, with a man and a child, which I had been watching for some time before, sailing gently on the water, was now high on the crested wave—now cast suddenly down; and each time I feared it was lost. All I could do was, to pray to Him, who could say to the wind, and the storm, “Be still!” But their time had come, and God saw it best to take this father and child to Himself. I watched the boat till it came very near,—so nearthat I could see every stroke of the oar—every look of the poor man, who seemed to use all his force—but in vain.
The little child, who was seated in the bottom of the boat, looked up into his father’s face, as if to learn there, what hope was left; but he neither moved, nor uttered one cry of fear. At last, when every chance of saving their lives was past—when each moment brought them nearer and nearer the fatal rock, on which it must be dashed to pieces, the oars dropped from the father’s hand; and throwing his arms around his child, in one moment they were gone below the wave—and I saw them no more. They went down into the deep waters together—and together they will rise, I doubt not, to live in heaven withtheirSaviour, and our Saviour for ever; for the man had lived, as I afterwards learned, the life of a true Christian, and was now removed, with his child, to a state of existence where the “wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”