MY PRETTY KITTEN.My Pretty Kitten.
Caroline had a kitten given her, by her uncle, when she had grown up to be quite a large girl. It was a beautiful creature. I think they called it a Maltese kitten. Nothing of the kind had been seen in the place where Caroline lived, before Tommy, as she called her new pet, was brought there. Well, of course she told all the little folks what a fine present her uncle had made to her, and they were invited to come over and see the "dear little creature." She talked about her kitten as if it were one of the wonders of the world, and as if she thought she was a young queen, with the wealth of Cleopatra or Elizabeth, and that half the inhabitants of the globe would certainly come and bow before her and her wonderful kitten.
When she met her young friends, she talked of nothing hardly but "my pretty Maltese kitten."
That is the way with selfish folks. They think and talk a great deal of what concernsthem, and you seldom hear them praise anything that belongs to their neighbors.
I shall never forget—if you will allow me to go a step or two out of my way for an illustration—I shall never forget how, when I was a little school-boy, Mother Budd, a rather selfish old lady, used to call us into her kitchen, to see the nice honey she had been taking out of her bee-hives. "Isn't that fine?" she would ask; "eh, isn't that fine honey, boys?" Of course it was fine, and we said so. "Well, you can go now," she would say, after that. As for letting us taste of her fine honey, that she never thought of doing.
I don't know but we should almost have served her right, if we had done something as a good old minister I have heard of, once did in very similar circumstances. He was making a call upon one of the ladies of his parish—upon Aunt Katy, who was noted all over the neighborhood for being close-fisted. Almost as soon as the good man had got into the house, she invited him to go into the buttery, and look at her nice cheeses. He went in, the old lady acting as a guide. "There," said she, pointing to a mammoth cheese which she had just made for the fair, and which she was particularly proud of, "there's a cheese for you." "Thank you, Aunt Katy," said the minister, "my wife was saying only this morning that we should have to get a new cheese pretty soon." And he took the cheese down from the shelf, carried it out to his wagon, bade the astonished lady of the house a good morning, and drove off to visit some of the rest of his flock.
Selfishness has the same face, look at it where you will. It made quite a scar in the features of Caroline's character. Without that, they would have been beautiful—with it, they were ugly enough.
But about that kitten. Clara Goodsell was as full of fun as a hickory nut is of meat. She heard of Caroline's kitten, and she, too, was invited to call and see it. She did not go, though, and, indeed, the girls very generally failed to comply with the invitation. They knew well enough that, if they went to see the kitten, they would not be allowed to take it, and that all they could do would be to stand a little way off, and look at it, and remark how beautiful it was.
One day, when the girls at school were required to write compositions, Clara thought she would write something which would make Carrie ashamed of her selfishness. The teacher read all the compositions aloud. When he came to Clara's, the girls had as much as they could do to keep from laughing, for they knew, before it was read, what it was about. The schoolmaster had to bite his lips to keep from smiling a little, too.
Clara did not call any names. But she wrote such a composition about "My Pretty Kitten" that anybody could see it was meant for Caroline. The selfish girl saw it, as well as the rest, and before school was out, she burst into tears, she felt so badly. But the composition did her good. She improved wonderfully after that.
How difficult it is for many people to say these words. They don't like to own that they are ignorant of anything. They want to make you think that they know everything. When you ask them a hard question, instead of saying right out, plumply and honestly, "I don't know," they will try to trump up some answer that will not expose their ignorance. And oh, what wretched work they sometimes make with their answers. They make perfect fools of themselves.
People never appear well, among those of good sense, who attempt to pass themselves off as knowing more than they do. It is not to be expected that any one person can know everything; and why should you, or anybody else, be ashamed to own that you can't tell all about this thing, or that thing? Why it is often one part of wisdom to see that you can't understand a particular subject, and another part of wisdom to confess that you can't understand it.
I think that the dog, who figures with a certain vain, self-conceited monkey, in the fable, showed a good deal of wisdom in his remarks.
The monkey, you must know, belonged to a very learned astronomer. The animal often watched his master, while he was looking through his telescope. "There must be something delightful in that," he thought, and one day, when the astronomer was absent, the monkey looked through the instrument for a long time. But he saw nothing strange or wonderful; and so he concluded that his master was a fool, and that the telescope was all nonsense. Not long after that, he met Rover, the family dog, and he told him what he thought of his master. "And what doyouthink of the matter, friend Rover?" he added.
"I don't know the use of the telescope," said the dog, "and I don't know how wise our master may be. But I am satisfied of two things."
"What are they?" the monkey asked.
"First," said the dog, "that telescopes were not made for monkeys to look through; and second, that monkeys were not made to look through telescopes."
THE LEARNED GEESE.The Learned Geese.
A company of geese used to meet together very often, to talk about the affairs of the nation, and to contrive ways and means to do the public good. They were full of learning; had read all the valuable books that ever were printed in the goose language; and had got the notion into their heads that when they died, wisdom would perish in the earth. They looked down upon the great mass of goosehood about them with feelings of pity—almost of contempt. At their public meetings—which were held pretty often, for they had much more public than private business to attend to—they occupied a great share of their time in discussing questions which were so deep and muddy, that nobody but they ever saw to the bottom of them. Indeed, many very sensible geese, who made few pretensions to learning, have doubted whether they saw very clearly into these questions themselves. I, too, have my doubts on the subject, as well as these sensible geese; and I go farther than they in my doubts. I doubt whether, in case any learned goose could see to the bottom of very many of these muddy subjects, his knowledge would be worth much to him. I will give you a specimen of some of the questions they used to debate upon, and leave you to judge of their value for yourselves. They were such as these:
"Howthickis the shadow of a goose in the moonlight?"
"How much would the shadow of a tolerably learned gander weigh, if it could be weighed?"
"How early do goslings begin to know a great many things, if not more?"
"When a fox starts off after a goose, is it because he loves himself, or because he loves his wife and the little foxes?"
"Whether geese ought not to be willing to die, for the sake of affording a good dinner to Christians on Christmas and Thanksgiving days?"
"Whether there would be such a thing as a good, pious goose, who was not willing to die for such a purpose?"
One day, our learned geese were holding a meeting in the barn yard, according to their custom, and were, if possible, more earnest and noisy than ever in their discussions. This time they were considering what it was best to do to prevent foxes from making such havoc in the neighborhood. The question was submitted, whether it would not be safer and better for geese to sleep with their heads up, instead of placing them under their wings, after the old fashion.
But right in the midst of the debate, while one of the speakers was astonishing himself as well as the rest of the company, with his reasoning and his eloquence, a fox, who had been slily listening to the debate, stepped into their ranks, and seized the orator, cutting short his neck and his speech at the same instant.
MORAL.
There are several things to be learned by this fable. But I shall content myself with simply pointing out one of them, presuming your good sense will discover the rest:Before you attempt to take care of others, learn to take care of yourselves.
Edward was rather a rude, headstrong boy. Like a great many young people of his age, he needed to be punished sometimes, and sometimes his parents did deal pretty sternly with him. Edward had a sister, older than himself, by some years. Fanny—for this was the name of the girl—tried one day, to tame little Eddy, when, according to her notion, he was inclined to be too wild. Fanny was grieved to see her brother act so rudely. They were visiting that day, at Aunt Sally's, and it was natural enough that Fanny should wish to have her brother behave as well as he could.
"Eddy," said she, in the hearing of her aunt and some of her cousins, "you act like a young colt."
"Well, what if I do?" said Eddy, rather tartly.
"Why, you will need breaking, if you go on so, that's all."
"And suppose I should need breaking, I'd like to know who'll break me."
"May be I'd try my hand at it, if there's nobody else to do it."
"I'd like to see you try it."
"Hush, Edward! I'm ashamed of you."
"You had better hush yourself, if you want me to hush."
At this point in the dispute between the brother and sister, Aunt Sally thought it was best to put a stop to it. She saw that Fanny could do no good to Edward, while he was in that mood, and so she said a word or two which turned the thoughts of both the brother and sister into another channel.
I suppose it can hardly be necessary to say to you, that, whatever may have been the right way to manage Edward, that which his sister tried at this time was certainly the wrong.
Edward still behaved rather rudely—still "acted like a young colt." "What a pity!" Fanny said to herself. "Mamma will be mortified, if she ever hears about it. Well, I must try again, and see what I can do with the little fellow this time."
So she called Eddy out into the yard in front of the house, and there, where nobody else but him could hear her, she said,
"Eddy, I want to tell you a little story."
"Well," said Edward, "I want to hear a little story."
"Once there was a little boy," the sister said, commencing her story, "that had a sister who was kind to him. His sister took good care of her brother. She tried to do so, at any rate. When this little boy was abroad, playing with his cousins, he was rude. He would not mind his sister. He was a good deal younger than she was, and one would suppose that he ought to have listened to her, when she talked to him. But he did not. He was just as rude as ever; and his sister was afraid that, when his mamma heard of his conduct, she would feel ashamed of her son. What do you think of that boy, Eddy?"
"Sister," said the little fellow, "I am a very naughty boy. But I am sorry I behaved so. I will try to do better, if you will forgive me."
And so, you see, the wild, rattle-headed boy, who was so full of fun, that he could hardly hold in, and who was so wild that Fanny thought it was best to check him with a curb bit, something as she would a young colt, was completely tamed by this soft, gentle language. My young friend, don't you think there's great power in such words? I do, and I advise you, when you are dealing with such a "young colt" as Eddy was, to try the plan that Fanny tried last, and see if it don't succeed better than anything else?
Use gentle words, for who can tellThe blessings they impart!How oft they fall as manna fell,On some nigh-fainting heart!"In lonely wilds by light-winged birdsRare seeds have oft been sown;And hope has sprung from gentle words,Where only grief had grown."
Use gentle words, for who can tellThe blessings they impart!How oft they fall as manna fell,On some nigh-fainting heart!
"In lonely wilds by light-winged birdsRare seeds have oft been sown;And hope has sprung from gentle words,Where only grief had grown."
A spruce young goat tried very hard to make himself appear like a sheep. He endeavored to talk and act like a sheep. Half his time was spent in putting on airs. He went so far as to cut off his beard, so that he might bear a more striking resemblance to the sheep family; and he was once heard to say that he would give anything if he could either get rid of his horns altogether, or have them twisted as the horns were worn by some of the old fathers whom he so much admired. The little simpleton, however, lost more than he gained by his singular manners. Instead of his being more respected and beloved, as he expected to be, he was despised by everybody.
THE GOAT AND HIS PUPIL.The Goat and his Pupil.
One day, after being ridiculed and abused by some of his young neighbors, he went to his schoolmaster with a great budget full of troubles. This schoolmaster was an old goat, with a long beard, and a long head, too, as it would seem from the character he had.
"O dear!" said the little simpleton, "everybody hates me. I wish I were dead. I'm sure I don't know what it means. The more I try to be good, the less they all like me."
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Longbeard, "I am sorry for you. But I can do nothing to help you. It will always be so, until you do better."
"Why, I do as well as I can now," replied the young goat.
"You ape the sheep too much."
"Well, the farmer thinks more of his sheep than he does of his goats—a great deal more."
"And what of it?"
"Why, if he likes the sheep best, he will like me best when I act as the sheep do."
"That's your mistake. He will not like you half as well."
"Why not?"
"For the same reason that nobody else likes you so well—because you don't act like yourself. Take my advice, now.Be yourself. Don't try to be anybody else. Depend upon it, if you ever come across a person that likes you, he will like you as a goat, and not as a sheep. A sheep you could never be, though you should practice all your life-time. Be a goat, then—be a goat, and nothing else."
This advice, I believe, proved of some service to the juvenile goat; and by the way, reader, perhaps it may be worth something to you.
It is an old saying—and there is a good deal of truth in it—that "barking dogs never bite." I say there is a good deal of truth in it. It is not strictly true. Scarcely any proverb will bear picking to pieces, and analyzing, as a botanist would pick to pieces and analyze a rose or a tulip. Almost all dogs bark a little, now and then. Still I believe those dogs bark the most that bite the least, and the dogs that make a practice of biting the hardest and the oftenest, make very little noise about it.
Have you never been passing by a house, and seen a little pocket edition of a cur run out of the front door yard, to meet you, with ever so much bravery and heroism, as if he intended to eat you at two or three mouthfuls? What a barking he set up. The meaning of hisbow, wow, wow, every time he repeated the words, was, "I'll bite you! I'll bite you!" But the very moment you turned round and faced him, he ran back into the yard, as if forty tigers were after him. You see he was all bark, and no bite.
Well, it is about the same with men and women, and boys and girls, as it is with dogs. Those who bark most bite least, the world over.
Show me a boy who talks about being as bold as a lion, and I will show you one with the heart of a young rabbit, just learning to eat cabbage. I do dislike to see boys and girls boasting of what they can do. It always gives me a low opinion of their merits.
There is Tom Thrasher. You don't know Tom, do you? Well, he is one of your barking dogs. He is all the time boasting of the great things he is able to do. Nobody ever saw him do any such things. Still he keeps on boasting, right in the midst of the young people who know him through and through, a great deal better than he knows himself. It is strange that he should brag at that rate where everybody knows him. But he has fallen into the habit of bragging, and I suppose he hardly thinks of the absurd and foolish language he is using. According to his account of himself, he can run a mile in a minute, jump over a fence ten rails high, shoot an arrow from his bow twenty rods, and hit an apple at that distance half a dozen times running.
I must tell you a story about this Tom Thrasher. Poor Tom! he got "come up with," not long ago, by some fun-loving boys that lived in his neighborhood. Tom had been boasting of his great feats in jumping. He could jump higher than any boy on Blue Hill. In fact, he had just jumped over the fence around Captain Corning's goat pasture, which, as everybody knows, was eight rails high, and verily believed he could have cleared it just as easily, if it had been two rails higher. That was the kind of language he used to this company of boys. They did not believe a word he said.
"Let's try Tom," one whispered to another, "let's try the fellow, and see how high he can jump."
"Say, Tom," said one of the boys, "will you go down to the captain's goat pasture with us, and try that thing over again?"
Tom did not seem to be very fierce for going. But all the boys urged him so hard, that he finally consented and went. When he got to the goat pasture, he measured the fence with his eye; and from the manner in which he shrugged his shoulders, it was pretty clear that he considered the fence a very high one indeed. He was not at all in a hurry about performing the feat. But the roguish boys would not let him off.
"Come, Tom," said one.
"Now for it," said another.
"No backing out," said a third.
"It's only eight rails high," said a fourth.
Still, somehow or other, Tom could not get his courage quite up to the point. The best thing he could have done, in my way of thinking, when he found himself so completely cornered was to have said, "Well, boys, there's no use in mincing the matter at all. I am a little dunce. I can no more jump over that fence than I can build a steamboat or catch a streak of lightning." But that was not his way of getting out of the scrape.
"Let me give the word now," said one of the lads. "I'll say 'one, two, three,' and when I come to 'three,' you shall run and jump."
"Go ahead," said Tom.
And the other boy began: "One—two—three"—
Tom started, and ran. I'm not sure but he had boasted so much about his jumping, that he had almost made himself believe he really could jump over that fence. At any rate, he tried it, and—failed, of course. His feet struck the fence about three quarters of the distance from the ground, and over he went, head foremost, into the goat pasture. It was fortunate for him that he did not break his neck. As it was, hisspiritwas broken, and that was about all. He went home a much humbler boy than he was when he came to the goat pasture; and a somewhat wiser one, too. After that unfortunate leap, if Tom ever boasted largely of what he could do and what he had done, it was a very common thing for his playmates to say, "Take care, Tom; remember that famous leap."
I. THE PEDDLER'S BOY, or I'll Be Somebody.II. THE DIVING BELL, or Pearls to be Sought ForIII. THE POOR ORGAN-GRINDER, and other stories.IV. LOSS AND GAIN, or Susy Lee's Motto.V. MIKE MARBLE; His Crotchets and Oddities.VI. THE WONDERFUL LETTER-BAG OF KIT CURIOUS.
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