"V^^""^ --VV.. %/ %,,^^ ,•0- ^<^^^ ■x^ .'^^rl^ -^^ X ■> V ^A >^^ ,%' ^^ ^'K .S" .s-,,,^/./--^^- ,y ^^^ -^^ ^. '^ .'\ .^^ -n.. ^ \ aO N^' A e^KynyC^ _^/:^ \ /{"-..^.^.^ 'lAir^,/^, py^^J THE GOLDEN YASE; GIFT FOR THE YOUNG HANNAH F. GOULD. BOSTON: BENJAMIN B. MUSSEY. 1843. 5 i7r? S" ^' i"^- A Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1842, by H. F. Gould, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. ^., t (s JVm. A. Hall ^ Co., Printers, 12 Water street. PREFACE. The many tokens of favor and affection, which I have long been receiving from the juvenile readers of my poems, have often inspired me with a wish to make some return for the kind regards of my friends of that class, by preparing a book designed expressly for their perusal ; in the hope that it might contribute alilve to their pleasure and profit. Such a work I now have the satisfaction to present, with my best wishes. The Author. INTRODUCTION. Before you all, my dear young friends, I place My new-formed offering of a Golden Vase Filled with fresh flowers, which I from far and near Sought out and plucked ; then culled., to set them here. They have, at least, the worth of being rare ; And may you find them fragrant, bright and fair. They come from meadow, hill, and woody wild ; But on them, when you each with joy have smiled, That will be sunshine, fresher bloom to give. Wherewith perennial they thrive and live. Among them, from my own small garden-spot, I place one little, sweet Forget-me-not. H. F, G. CONTENTS. The Prisoners set Free, 9 Jennie Lee, 27 Fanny Spy, 30 The Bat's Flight by Daylight 33 The Morning-Glory, 38 The two Cousins, 42 The old Cottager and his Cow, 66 The Good Doll, 68 Treatment of Horses, 71 The Broken Basket, 84 'J'he Firefly, 86 Blary and the Sparrow, 89 The Summer has Come, , 94 The Robin's Song, 97 Alvah, or the divided Apple, 99 The Little Flower-Garden, 118 The White Cottage of the Vale, 121 The Good Lady Mary, 125 Something to Fire off, 128 VIU CONTENTS. Escape of the Doves, 157 Helen's Birthday, 159 The Little Girls' Fair, 161 The Shoemaker, 168 Idle Jack, 170 Mother-Birds, 173 Poor old Paul, 179 The Mountain Minstrel, 181 The Stove and Grate Setter, 193 The Ladder Pie, 196 The Disobedient Skaters, 205 Garafilia, 207 The ChUd's Hymn to Spring, 218 Sabbath School Hymn, 221 My Little Book's New Year's Wish to its Readers, 223 THE GOLDEN VASE. THE PRISONERS SET FREE. " That was a dreadful-looking place, where the poor man was locked up, wasn't it?" said Henry Els worth to his little sisters, as they sat at breakfast, the morning following the afternoon when they had been out to walk with Mary, the nursery-maid, who had obtained leave to call on her return, and see her father, an honest but un- fortunate man, confined for debt within the cold and cheerless walls of a prison. " Yes," answered Georgiana, ^' it was a very dismal place ; and I felt as if I could weep, to see him look so sorrowful, and not be able to move a step beyond that great heavy iron door with his daughter, when she was coming away. And 1 10 THE GOLDEN VASE. then he was so pale ! and he had to stay in that gloomy room, where the sun does n't come in to brighten it, as it does ours ! O ! I thought I would freely give all the money in my savings- box, if it were enough, to pay them to let him out. I wonder how Mary can ever sing to us, and tell stories, and look cheerful, as she does sometimes, and keep about her work so steadily ! " " But Mary is n't always cheerful," said Lucy. " I have seen her when she sat sewing in her own room, where she thought nobody minded her, sob and cry as if her heart would break. And once I made out to ask her what was the matter, though I could hardly speak ; it grieved me so, to see Mary, who is so kind to us, seem in trouble, and I not be able to relieve her. But just as I thought she was going to tell me, mamma rang the bell to call her down ; and she dipped her hand into the basin, and putting some cold water to her eyes, wiped up her face, and ran below, as nimbly as if nothing had been on her mind, but her work. But now, since yesterday, I know what it was that made her look so sad, and weep — she was thinking about her father. " If papa was shut up in such a place, I 'm sure I could not sing, or play, or feel able to work as Mary does. I should weep all the time. But I hope that neither papa nor you, when you grow up THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 11 to be a man, will ever have to sleep on straw in a prison ! " " Georgiana," replied Henry, "you said, you wished that your money could get Mr. Allen out of jail. Now, perhaps he has done some crime ; and in that case, you know, mamma told us the other day, that neither the keeper nor any one else could let a prisoner out for money — that crimi- nals were confined, and some of them executed, not because any one wanted pay for what they had done, but to prevent their violating the rights, or endangering the lives and safety of others — and as a punishment for breaking the laws ; and to deter others from doing wrong, and making themselves and their friends miserable by their vices." " O ! no, Henry," cried Georglana, raising her voice and dropping her spoon, " Mr. Allen has done no such thing as a crime ! He is a good man, if he is poor. Mary told us all about it, when we went to bed. " She said that, when she was little, as we are, she had every thing she wanted, that was good for her, just as we do ; but her father was unfor- tunate. " He lost his ships at sea, and was deceived and defrauded by bad men, on shore. Then, those of whom he had purchased goods, or hired 12 THE GOLDEN VASE. money, in honest trade, grew impatient for their pay ; and, finally, took away all her father had — house, furniture, and every thing ! " And though her mother was then so ill, that she died very soon after this, of what the doctor called consumption, but Mary says, many others said that it was the heart-breaking. Yet they did n't mind this — they turned them all out of house and home. Mary had to get a place for her youngest sister in the Female Asylum ; and one for an older sister, to live out to wait upon a lady. For her father's health failed, and he could not provide for his children ; and Mary's brother, that I suppose she loved as well as we do you, Henry, had to go to sea, as a cabin-boy, among those gi'eat rolling, roaring waves that swallowed up her father's vessels ; and Mary does not know but he will be lost just as they were. Poor sailors ! What a hard time they must have, tossing about upon the shrouds, and handling those great ropes, in the storms ! But, the worst of all with Mary's father was, that when his cred- itors had done all they could b.esides, to trouble him, they put the poor man in prison ; as if they thought he had lost his property on purpose ; or could earn something, or get his ships up out of the sea, to pay them, by staying there ! "Instead of depriving Mr. Allen of liberty, THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 13 why did n't they put those dishonest men, who had defrauded him, into jail ; and not let them run off with money that was not their own, to spend it in folly or extravagance ; as Mary says some of them did, while her father and his family were left to suffer for their crimes ? would n't mamma say such things were crimes ? I should think the laws ought to take hold of them first." " So should I," said Lucy. " But you know, father and mother have both told us, that man is imperfect in himself, and that the wisest may not be altogether wise in what he does, however good his intentions may be. And, therefore, the laws of the country, being of men's making, are not all perfect, like God's law. So, many wicked and artful people contrive to wind about in their doings, in such a way as to slide by, and escape punishment from human laws ; while they greatly wrong others, and break the laws of God, by doing such things as his commands say, ' thou shalt not;' — yet, father said, you know, that such people must always carry about within them- selves, a continual ])unishment, in a guilty con- science, even if they are not found out so as to be ashamed among men. This is part of their punishment for breaking the law of God, which they have to endure alone, and without pity, while they live ; and then, when they die, if they 14 THE GOLDEN VASE. have not deeply repented, the worst is to come, after all ! " " Repented ! " said Henry ; " I should think any body would repent, that had such punishment as a guilty conscience to bear — and I suppose they must all the time feel as if people around them, as h were, half knew of their misdeeds, whether they do or not." " Why," said Lucy, " it is true, I suppose, that all guilty people are sorry that they are un- happy ; and that they have made themselves so ; but, it seems to me, that is something differ- ent from repentance for having done wickedly, because they still continue to do so ; when, if they were sincerely sorry for their guilt, as they ought to feel, to be called repentant^ they would leave it off. I think they feel what that pale, pleasant- looking gentleman from from 1 don't remember where, who preached to us the Sab- bath before last, called, ' remorse^'' when he was speaking about the duellist ; and said, that let him go where he would, he must always imagine the figure of a murdered man before him ; and fancy he hears the call of God to Cain — Where is thy brother 7 " " O ! Lucy, " said Georgiana, " pray don't get upon such horrible things as murder ! I was thinking of some other words in the Bible — THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 15 about, ' opening the prison doors ; ' and, ' doing to others, as we would have them do to us.' Now, do you think those who put Mr. Allen in prison, would wish to be put there themselves, if they should be so unfortunate as to be deceived and robbed of their property ; or lose it by storms, or by its being taken in war times, as Mr. Allen lost his ? " " Poh ! Georgy, " said Lucy, " now it 's my turn to say, do rCt. And so, do n't ask me to answer such a question as that — we know they would n't ; and it seems strange, when they read of such pity as Christ felt for those that were ' sick and in prison, ' that they can put any one there on account of his other misfortunes ; if they are Christians, it seems so like revenge, and spite ; and does not pay the debt, after all. In our little books we read about people, away off over the sea, who might, perhaps, do such cruel things, but they are called heathens, alid don't pretend to worship any thing but some earthly gods, or idols." " Why, Lucy, " cried Henry, " your thoughts seem to be flying all over the world ; when we were only talking about Mary's father." " Well, " replied Lucy, " I am sorry that poor Mr. Allen is in prison ; and sorry he 's in debt. I suppose it was such things as these, that mamma 16 THE GOLDEN VASE. was thinking of, last winter, when you hadn't quite money enough to buy your skates, and wanted to borrow nine-pence of Georgy to make it out. " You know, mamma said, she did not like the principle of getting in debt, by borrowing money to purchase what we had better do without, than to owe for it. For, it was just like any other wrong indulgence. It might begin in a very small way, but lead on farther and farther, to end in great trouble to ourselves and others, however sincere our intentions, and fair our prospects might be for paying. For, nobody wants to lend their money, to lose it, though it may be by mis- fortune ; and nobody wants to be shut in prison, either. " But, do n't you hope something will happen, to let Mary's father out } You know we heard papa read something in the papers last winter, about the people being engaged in making ' laws for the relief of poor debtors.' Was 'nt it such cases as Mr. Allen's, they meant } I 'm sure I should not want to be a debtor to any body, if it gives men with bad hearts such power over us, that they can take away our liberty, and " — Here our little group were cut short in their colloquy by Mrs. Elsworth, who, hearing their tongues going much faster than their spoons, but THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 17 without knowing the subject of their discussion, called to them from an adjacent room : " Come, children ! I fear by sitting so long over your own breakfast, you have forgotten that your birds and squirrel have had none." " Poor little things ! so we did," said Henry ; " and there they are, shut up so close they can- not go out to get any thing for themselves, to eat." " Henry," said Lucy, who had been several minutes looking very thoughtful, "don't you think the birds and the squirrel would like to be free, as well as Mr. Allen ? You know how the other robins and yellow-birds are flying about in the sweet open air, on this fine summer morning ; and singing their songs so merrily — and I sup- pose the squirrels in the fields and woods are jumping and running about wherever they please ; and have all got their own breakfasts long ago. " Now, you remember what mamma said, about beginning with little bad deeds — that the habit sometimes increased, till it amounted to great crimes. And you know she said, it would be just so in doing good things ; and one could as easily form a fixed habit of doing right, as of doing wrong. Suppose you should begin by letting your dear little squirrel have his liberty, and Georgy and I by opening the bird-cages ? " 18 -THE GOLDEN VASE» " Lucy," replied her brother, " I did not keep my little Bonny confined because I was angry with him, but because I loved him ; and I take great pleasure in seeing him appear happy, and shelling his nut, and capering about with his ears pricked up, so prettily. He looks on me so mildly, with his little bright eyes, as if he thanked me for all I do for him. But then, I 'm willing to let him out, if you will the birds. And I sup- pose neither of them have been here so long as to forget how to take care of themselves. For I suspect Bonny has not yet forgotten the long night he passed in the box-trap of the shaggy- headed country-boy, who looked wilder than the squirrel that he sold to me. I 'm sure I have n't forgotten how that boy stared at us, as we sat in the carriage ; and then at the half-dollar that papa gave him, as if he had never seen one before. And I should think all the clothes he had on, never had been worth as much. But when he ran into that pitiable hut, close by the road-side, where the little starved-looking children huddled together around him, and I heard him talking to his mother about buying something with it for • them to eat, he did not seem to look quite so much like a barbarian, to me. Now, I should be sorry to let Bonny get out and not find his old fields and companions, and get lost, so as to be taken THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 19 again, or caught by the dogs, or have to roam about, sohtary. So, as we are going to ride this afternoon, I '11 ask papa to drive that way, and there we will let my pretty Bonny go, if he wants to, if you will do so by the birds." " Yes," quickly answered Lucy, " I '11 let mine go, for I know he longs to get out, and that he would know what to do with his wings, for when the other birds come round, from the trees, as he hangs by the window, he seems to try to get amongst them, and to talk with them as if they were old acquaintances. You know he was full grown when we had him, and it will not be like letting out a poor little thing that was brought from another country, or hatched in the cage, and could not get its food, or take care of itself alone." " And my robin shall go, too," cried Georgiana ; " for its mother, or some of its relations, come round every day, and sing to it, or go, pip^ pop- pop^ till it seems as if it would fly in pieces to go through the wires, and get to them. It appears to have another nature then, and three times the life that it had before. But let's go and hear what mamma says about it." Then off they ran to make their intentions known to their mother, who told them she was very glad to find that their long delay over the 20 THE GOLDEN VASE. breakfast-table had produced so good a resolu- tion, for every living thing loved its liberty. " But, Henry," said she, " I think you might, with perfect safety to our garden, and to your pretty pet, Bonny, let the squirrel out when your sisters do their birds, without waiting till the afternoon, and carrying him away. Perhaps he would like better to stay about here, where he can see you, and you him, occasionally, than to go back where the boy caught him. You think he has fearful associations with the remembrance of the box-trap, and he might be caught and sold again, or live in terror, and think of the good things he has had here, if you should carry him back. If he has only kindness to remember from you, he may not incline wholly to forsake you, though he does love to be free to take his own way, either to linger near his kind young master, or to return to his burrow in the woods. And you may have the pleasure of seeing him, from time to time, which will be doubly pleasant when you know it is because he loves you, that he comes near, where you can now and then throw him a nut, or something else that he loves, and see him eat it with a look of gratitude and kindness towards you, as an old familiar friend. "Besides, my son, how do you know that your good intention is sure of being fulfilled, if THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 21 put off till the afternoon, to be executed. So many things may occur to prevent your taking the ride, that it is uncertain whether you can take Bonny out to his old haunts then, or have to wait till another day, perhaps another week. Then what if your own feelings should change, so that you would not be willing to do the good act another day or hour, that you would so cheer- fully do now ? We do not know our own hearts, my child ; and it is dangerous to put off the per- formance of what we know to be right, an hour after it can be done, lest we should change, even if life and every thing around us were not so un- certain as they are constantly showing them- selves to be. You know that while you and your sisters were deliberating about the time when you could all best agree to give up your other engagements, to go and carry the flowers and fruit, that you wished to take to the poor sick woman, she was gone beyond all human power to do her any good ; she had died, and you had lost the opportunity of ministering the com- fort, by thinking it could be as well done another day. " I should let Bonny out on the spot, so that all the little captives may escape together. Though they have not the gift of speech to make the feelings of their hearts known, I have no 22 THE GOLDEN VASE. doubt that they long for freedom, as much as a human being in captivity or bondage does. "You know the Fourth of July, which you and your playmates call Independence day, is a time of great rejoicing, and a day of gratitude, and of festivity throughout the whole country, because it is the anniversary of the day, when we were declared to be a free people," — " Who ? " asked Lucy, eagerly, breaking the thread of her mother's speech. " Who ? Is every body in the country free, except those in prison ? " " I was going," continued her mother, " to say, that as you grew older, you would better understand, and more highly estimate the true value of liberty. It was gained for us, you know, by those venerable and patriotic men whom you hear called ' revolutionary officers and soldiers ; ' and of whom the few that now remain are all very old and white-haired, like your grandpa, who is one of them. " Well, mother," said the persevering Lucy, " did not grandpa and the other good men mean that every body in the country should be free, if they behaved well ? And has not every one a right to be so ? " " You talking about right ! " said Henry ; " what do you know about it, Lucy ? " THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 23 ''I don't pretend to know any thing," said Lucy ; " and I want mamma to tell me, Henry." " How," said Henry, " do you think mamma can tell us why every body is n't free ? I think she M find it pretty difficult to explain such a thing as right to he free^ when it made such good men as grandpa and General Washington go to war about it, and fire ofi* cannons, and do such dangerous things, and suffer so much, as grandpa says they did, for it." " Ah ! and that 's the very thing that makes it easy enough for mamma to decide," said Lucy. " If such good men fought, and a great many others, such as General Warren, were killed, to prove this right, and get their liberty, and set every body free " — " Come, do n't preach any more, Lucy," said Henry. " Come, let 's go ! " His sisters, who had stood on tiptoe to be off* in the execution of what their little powers would enable them to do in the cause of liberty, readily joined him ; and away they all flew to the cages. They fed the pretty tenants well ; and then, as Bonny's prison-door sprung open, his young master gave him a farewell address, in words like these : 24 THE GOLDEN VASE. " Adieu, pretty squirrel ! go where you please, If you only will have the thought, When danger is near, to run up the trees, And never again be caught." Lucy's small white hand was, at the same moment, on the snap of her cage, and her parting charge to her gold-feathered jewel ran thus : " Sweet little yellow-bird, take to your wing; But you must not go far away j Come to the tree in the garden, and sing A song to me every day." Georgiana's cage was also opened, and her valedictory address was as follows : " Go, my dear robin ! go build your nest In the apple-boughs blossoming nigh; There pipe every morning, and show your red breast, And your bright little hazel eye." Shortly after this scene was closed, the chil- dren were on their way to school, where, as they met their little playmates, they stated what had taken place ; and told them, if they had any animal, that was capable of taking care of itself, shut up and deprived of liberty, they might de- pend on it, that, if they would only let it go free, they would experience more real satisfaction when it turned round to thank them for liberty. THE PRISONERS SET FREE. 25 and to look its farewell to the prison, than all they had known during its captivity. But the best of the story is yet to come. Not many days after the cages were put away in the garret, as useless things, Mary, having been out to see her father, came smiling home, with a light step, and a face as bright as if she had never had to cool her eyes in the water- basin ; and, running to find Mrs. Elsworth, told her that this was the happiest day of all her life, for her father was going to be liberated. News had been received of the recovery of some foreign claims, in which Mr. Allen would come in for a large share, for property that had been captured ; and which had, in part, been the cause of his present sufferings ; though the disas- ters by storms at sea, and fraud in others had, for a while, completed his ruin. A benevolent friend of Mr. Allen, wishing to see him at liberty, without waiting for the actual possession of the money soon to come, had stepped forward, and rendered himself sponsor for the debtor ; and they were now adjusting matters for his immediate liberation, which was the cause of Mary's joy. " 0, how often," said she, " has my dear parent cautioned me against distrusting the jus- 2 26 THE GOLDEN VASE. tice and kindness of the Creator towards his creatures ; and assured me that all things might fail but the love of God ! Had I kept those pre- cepts ever alive in my heart, it would have saved me, as it has my father, many an anxious hour. It is God alone who has thrown open the prison- door, and given liberty to him that was bound. Never, as long as I live, will I cease to praise and trust in him ! " JENNIE LEE. How blest is little Jennie Lee, In summer's balmy hom's, Beneath the broad old shady tree, Among the buds and flowers ! And not a floweret blooming there. Or budding forth to sight, Than Jennie is more sweet and fair. Or has a heart more light. Her cheek is fresh with rosy hue. Her forehead lily-white — Her eyes like dewy hare-bells blue — Her brown hair sunny bright. As smiles come round her cherry lip. Her dimple's play is such. It seems some angel's finger-tip Gave here and there a touch. 28 THE GOLDEN VASE. There in her cast-off, light straw hat, Lie rose and purple bell, Which she has dropped, to turn, and pat, And praise her kind Fidel. For he, good dog, her faithful friend. When she runs out to play, Will ever her light steps attend. And guard her by the way. And her pure heart is always glad, When gladness is with him ; But if he 's blamed, or sick, or sad, Her eye in tears will swim. She thinks her pet can understand And make her words a law ; And when she bids him give a hand. He forward puts a paw. She tells him not to scare the birds. Nor bark, to tease the geese. When, quick he takes her sign or words - Comes back, and keeps the peace. Then down beside her close he lies. Her fond caress to seek. And looks at her with wishful eyes. As if he next would speak. JENNIE LEE. 29 And O ! you must rejoice to see, Or hear another tell How happy with sweet Jennie Lee Is her good friend, Fidel. While thus her dog loves her so well, 'T is very sweet to see How rich with her own dear Fidel Is little Jennie Lee. FANNY SPY. Lucy ! Lucy ! come away, Never climb for things so high ! Do n't you know, the other day, What fell out with Fanny Spy ? Fanny spied a loaf of cake Wisely set above her reach ; Yet did Fanny think to make, In its tempting side, a breach. When she thought the family Out of sight and hearing too. Quickly to the closet she Forth a polished table drew. First, she stepped upon a chair ; Then, the table ; then, a shelf ; Thinking she securely there Might, unnoticed, help herself. FANNY SPY. Then she seized a heavy slice, Leaving in the loaf a cleft, Wider than a dozen mice. Feasted there all night, had left. Stepping backward, Fanny slid On the table's glossy face. Down she came, with dish and lid. Silver, glass, and china vase ! In from every room they rushed — Father, mother, servants, all ; Thinking half the closet crushed By the racket and the fall. Mid the uproar of the house Fanny, in her shame and fright. Wished herself indeed a mouse. But to run and hide from sight. Yet was she to learn how vain. Weak and worthless is a wish. Wishing could not ease her pain. Hide her shame, nor mend a dish ! There she lay, but could not speak ; For a tooth had made a pass Through her lip ; and to her cheek Clung a piece of shivered glass. 31 32 THE GOLDEN VASE. From her altered features gushed RoUing tears and streaming gore ; While, untasted still, and crushed, Lay her cake upon the floor. Then the doctor hurried in ; Fanny at his needle swooned. While he held her crimson chin. And together stitched the wound. Now her face a scar must wear Even to her dying day ! Questioned how it happened there, What can blushing Fanny say ? THE BAT'S FLIGHT BY DAYLIGHT. A FABLE. " O, wad some power the giflie gi'e us To see oursels, as ithers see us ; It wad frae mony a blunder free us, And foolish notion." Burns, A Bat one mora from his covert flew To show the world what a Bat could do, By soaring off on a lofty flight In the open day, by the sun's clear light. He quite forgot that his eyes were made For the twilight dusk, and evening shade ; Nor did he think that he had for wings But a pair of monstrous, plumeless things ; That, more than half like a fish's fin, With a warp of bone and a woof of skin, Were only fit in the dark to fly, In view of a bat's or an owlet's eye. He sallied forth from his hidden hole. And passed the door of his neighbor, Mole, 34 THE GOLDEN VASE. Who shrugged, and said, " Of the two so blind Thy wisest now remains behind ! " But he could not cope with glare of day : He lost his sight, and he missed his way ; He wheeled on his flapping wings, till, " bump ! " His head went, hard on a farm-yard pump. Then, stunned and posed, as he met the ground A stir and a shout in the yard went round ; For its tenants thought they had one come there, That seemed not of water, earth or air. The Hen, " Cut, cut, cut-dah-cut ! " cried, For all to cut at the thing she spied ; While the taunting Duck said " Quack ! quack ! quack ! " As her muddy mouth to the pool went back. For something denser than sound, to show Her sage disgust, at the quack to throw. The old Turk strutted, and gobbled aloud, Till he gathered about him a babbling crowd ; When each proud neck in the whole doomed group Was poked with a condescending stoop. And a pointing beak, at the prostrate Bat, That they eyed askance, as to ask, " What 's that ? " But none could tell ; and the poults moved off In their select circle to leer and scoff. THE bat's flight BY DAYLIGHT. 35 The goslings skulked ; but their wise mamma, She hissed and screamed till the Lambs cried, " Baa !" When up from his straw sprang the gaping calf. With a gawky leap and a clammy laugh ; He stared — retreated — and off he went The wondrous news in his voice to vent, That he had discovered a monster there — A lird four-footed^ and clothed with hair! And had dashed his heel at the sight so odd. It looked, he thought, like a heathen god ! The scuddling Chicks cried, "Peep, peep, peep ! For Boss looks high, but not very deep. It is not a fowl ! 't is the worst of things ; A low, mean beast, with the use of wings. So noiseless round on the air to skim. You know not when you are safe from him." There stood by some of the bristly tribe. Who felt so touched by the peeper's gibe. Their backs were up ; for they thought, at least, It aimed at them, the low^ mean least : And they challenged Chick to her tiny face, In their sharp, high notes, and their awful base. Then old Chanticleer to his mount withdrew. And gave from his rostrum a loud halloo. 36 THE GOLDEN VASE. He sounded his clarion strong and shrill, Till he turned all eyes to his height, the hill ; When he noised it round with loudest crow. That 't was none of the plumed ones brought so low. And, " Bow, wow, wow ! " went the sentry Cur; But he soon strolled off in a grave demur. When he saw on the wonder, hair like his, Two ears, and a kind of doubtful phiz ; And he deemed it prudent to pause, and hark In silence, for fear that the sight might bark ! At last came Puss, with the silent pat. To feel the pulse of the quivering Bat, That had not, under her tender paw, A limb to move nor a breath to draw ; Then she called her kit for a mother's gift. And stilled its mew with the racy lift. When Mole of the awful death was told, " Alas ! " cried she, " he had grown too bold — Too vain and proud ! Had he only kept. Like the humble Mole, in his nest and slept. Or worked under ground, where none could see. He still might have been alive like me ! " THE bat's flight BY DAYLIGHT. 37 While thus, so early, the poor Bat died, A cry, that it was but the fall of pride, And signs of mirth, or of scorn, were all He had from those who beheld his fall. They each could triumph, and each condemn, But no kind pity was shown by them. And now should we, as a mirror, place This story out for the world to face. How many, think you, would there perceive Likeness to children of Adam and Eve ? THE MORNING-GLORY. Come here, and set thee down by me ! I have a tale I '11 tell to thee ; And precious will the moral be, Though simple is the story. It is about an airy flower, With beauty scarce possessed of power Its opening to survive an hour — A brilliant Morning-Glory. 'T is common parlance names it thus, But 't was a gay convolvulus ; Yet we '11 not stop to here discuss Its species or its genus. We '11 just suppose a blooming vine. With many a leaf and bud to shine. And curling tendrils thrown to twine. And form a bower between us. And we '11 suppose a happy boy. With face lit up by hope and joy. Who thinks that nothing shall destroy His vine, his pride and pleasure. THE MORNING-GLORY. 39 Is Standing near, with kindling eye ; As if its very look would pry The cup apart, therein to spy The growing floral treasure. And now the petal twisted tight. Above the calyx, peers to sight. Its apex tipped with purple, bright As if the rainbow dyed it. While on the air it vacillates. Its owner's bosom palpitates To see it open, as he waits. Impatient, close beside it. Another rising sun has thrown Its beams upon the vine, and shown The splendid Morning-Glory blown ; As if some little fairy, When early from his couch he went. On some ethereal journey bent. Had there inverted left his tent Of purple, high and airy. And many a fair and shining flower. As bright as this, adorned the bower. Displayed like jewels, in an hour. Where'er the vine was clinging. 40 THE GOLDEN VASE. As each corolla lost its twist, The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed The little vase of amethyst, And round it birds were singing. And now the little boy comes out To see his vine. He gives a shout. And laughs, and sings, and jumps about. Like one two thirds demented. His little playmates, one, two, three, Come round, the beauteous vine to see, While each cries, " Give a flower to me, And I '11 go off contented ! " But, " No," the selfish owner cried. And pushed his comrades all aside, While walking round his bower with pride, " Not one of you shall sever A floweret from the stem so gay ; I own them, not to give away ! I '11 come to see them every day, And keep them mine forever ! " So, when at noon from school he came, To see his vine was first his aim ; But O, his feelings who can name, As mute he stood and eyed it ? THE MORNING-GLORY. 41 For not a flower could he behold, While each corolla, inward rolled, Appeared as shriveled, dead, and old, As if a fire had dried it. " Alas ! " the selfish owner said, " My glories — O, they all are dead ! And all my little friends have fled, Aggrieved, for I've abused them. They 'II keep away, and but deride My sorrow, when they hear my pride Is gone ; that quick the treasures died. Which rudely I refused them ! " THE TWO COUSINS, AND THE LAKE AND THE RIVER. " Here I come, Frank ! " said Edward Fenton, all life and spirits, when he had entered his un- cle Newland's house at an early hour, uncerimo- niously, and fresh as a morning breeze ; and running up to his cousin's chamber, announced himself before he had reached the door at the head of the stairs : — " Here I come." But open- ing the door abruptly, and finding no one there, where he had expected to see his cousin Frank- lin poring over his books, with a look of disap- pointment, and the animation of his bright face somewhat damped, he threw his eyes around the room, crying, " Frank, Frank, where are you?" " Je suis au lout de mon Latin ; " said a voice from within the closed door behind him, on the opposite side of the entry. He turned quickly ; and springing across the passage, snapped the latch, and burst in upon his cousin, who, with a pile of books on a chair beside him, and one open in his hand, sat near the only window in THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 43 a small back chamber devoted to the uses of a garret. Here was seen a paper, or a shingle with seeds spread out, and there, a bundle of herbs hung up, to dry. The only window, through which they received air and light, looked on the garden, back-door yard, wood -house, hen- coop, and other such appurtenances as belonged to the rear-ground of a neighbor's house that stood on the next street. " Halloo ! " cried he, " what brought you out of your own pleasant front room, into this cran- ny ? Did you come to be dried with the seeds ? or to emlalm yourself with herbs ? Let me see — here 's lalm for that use — here 's sage^ to make you more so — and mint — but not a mint of money, Frank. And I 'm afraid you 'II never find one ; if you 're always going to keep your- self shut up, silent and close, as the kernel in a nut-shell. But, what did you say to me, through the door, when I asked where you were } " " I said," replied Frankhn, " ' Je suis an hout de mon Latin.'' " " Come now, Mr. Polyglott," said Edward, ironically, interrupting him, "Why don't you speak plain English ; and not jabber French, as if your own language had n't words enough to tell where you are, when you are only out of your own room, and become king of the secret repository of 44 THE GOLDEN VASE. herbs and squash-seeds ? But tell me what you said." " I said, just what the French do in their prov- erb, when they are posed, or puzzled ; or, as we say, ' give up,' " said Franklin, " ' I am at the end of my Latin.' And so I am, or shall be soon, at this rate — with so many noises of all sorts and on all sides — I can 't study ; and the vacation is almost up. I shall have to go back to the acad- emy without knowing any more than I did when I came home. Every body in the street goes sounding along — some talking loud to one another about their own private affairs, as if they were criers publishing a sale ; and others tramp on the side walk, like elephants. Then comes the baker's gingling bells — then old Sowdy, blowing his fish-hprn ; then the hackman, the truckman and the teamster ; one cracking his whip, one with his clattering drays, and the oth- er crying, ' Gee — /mtf?,' and " — " Well, do n't you want bread, and flour, and wood ; and that the work of the world should go on, coz ? " said Edward. " Do n't you feel as if you could take a little of that fresh mackerel that Patty had on the gridiron, when I came in, if I do n't mistake odors, and with it a piece of warm roll, for breakfast ? Come, Franky, I want you to put by your books, and go with us for a good THE TAVO COUSINS, ETC. 45 sport and a picnic. It's a splendid day for it; the vacation is almost out, and this is our last chance. The other boys are all getting ready ; there's Harry Fletcher, and George Whiting, and Isaac Bowers, and a whole knot of 'em go- ing. We mean to have one good frolic in the woods and fields. We can fish in the brook just this side the woods ; and then, there 's the place for water-lilies — and O, we can do every thing — we can be Indians, or bears, or gipsies, or whatever we please. And there 's plenty of berries, and every thing that 's good and wild ! Come, Frank, will you go? You'll feel the better for a good rousing up. Don't stay moping here. I 'm for a good stir, and a frolic. I shall study hard enough at school, as well as you ; for I mean to have geography, and mathematics, and then study navigation ; so that I can go to sea, and be captain, and see the world. I do n't care about so many tongues, Frank. I should not like studying the roots of tongues, or botany, or herbs and seeds." "Why, Eddy," said Franklin, "you're talk- ing straight against yourself. If you go to sea, you can't know too many languages. And you '11 never have a better time in your life to study, than now. And then, sailors need to know something of botany. Don't you know 46 THE GOLDEN VASE. how a sailor, having learnt one thing about a plant, saved part of a ship's crew, once ? " " O, that 's a likely story, and as true now as ever it was," said Edward, laughing. " But how was it, Frank ? " "So it is as true now as ever ; for it was true at first,'" said Frank ; "and if you '11 be still laugh- ing, I '11 tell you about it, and let you see that you need not fear getting too much knowledge, even of so little things as herls. Every thing we learn about nature may come in use. Some plants, you know, are natives of dry soil, and some of wet ; some live partly in the water, and others wholly out of it " — " Come, do n't keep me waiting so long for the story ! " said Edward, impatiently. " Just tell me, at once, v/hat you mean by that marvellous work of a sailor's knowledge about an herb." " Well," said Frank, " if you are to be so very wise in geography, and to go to sea, you know, or it's time you did, where the English Channel is, and that a great and dangerous mass of rocks, or, a chalk-cliff ending a headland, is there, called Beachy Head. In a violent storm, in the autumn of 1831, a vessel was passing through this channel in the night. It was very dark, and the lightning flashed awfully. The wind and waves were furious, and the vessel THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 47 was dashed ashore, and wrecked on the rocks near this great bluff. All the crew were washed into the waters, and all lost but four, who were cast upon the rocks by the waves. " They climbed, as well as they could, amid the darkness. But as fast as they made their way up, the waves came furious after them, sending spray forward over their heads ; till, weary with their efforts, and thinking it in vain to climb, as it seemed as if the sea would soon cover the whole rock, they began to think it would be better to throw themselves into the water, and try to swim to a safer place, or trust to the mercy of the sea to cast them up on shore. But if it did not do this, it would only give them a speedy death, instead of a lingering one. Just as they were forming this resolution, one of them, in laying hold of another rocky point, fastened his grasp on a plant, which broke from the rock, and came up in his hand. When the next flash of lightning came, he saw it was a root of the rock-samphire ; in botanical language, (if you will allow my use of it, Eddy,) the crith- mum maritimum.'''' " A grand thing that, to hold on by, to save a man's life ! " cried Edward. " A plant that came up, root and all, at the first touch. A fine rope to hold by ! You are hoaxing me, Frank, 48 THE GOLDEN VASE. with your mwm, mums. What good did that weed do a company of drowning sailors ? " " Will you let me tell you, without breaking in again ? " said Frank ; and he continued. " The sailor knew that this plant, though always growing close to the sea, so, as you may say, as to live upon the sea-air, and often to have the water come up to its root, is yet 7iever entirely covered by it. He knew it was of such a nature as to be considered a sort of boundary-mark between decided land and sea, wherever it grows. This was like an olive-branch, says the book that I read it in, to the poor sailors. They now felt themselves so high as to be out of danger ; and waited till morning, when they were seen by people on a higher part of the cliff, and taken into safety." " Why, Frank, you do get something out of your books, do n't you ? " said Edward, while bent on his good time, and picnic, he continued to urge his suit. " Come, say you '11 go, coz." " I want to get through this, first," said Frank, taking several leaves of his open Latin book be- tween his thumb and finger. " I should have done it long ago, if I could shut and open my ears at pleasure, as I can my eyes. But I had no sooner left my room to escape from the street noise, and come in to this hiding-place, where I THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 49 hoped to be quiet, than, just as I opened the win- dow for air enough to breathe, out came Aunt Rushy, as they call her, from Mr. Gorham's back-door, driving about, ordering Peter this way, and Polly that ; calling the hens, chastising the dog, preaching to the cat, and lecturing the parrot for making noise, with her own shrill voice sounding from street to street." " Aunt Rushy ? " said Edward, " and who on earth is she ? " " She 's somebody that's been on it so long," replied Frank, " she appears as if she had as much right to command as Alexander ; and that her voice was to control the #orld. But she 's a little old woman under a great cap, with her face all puckered by the habit of indulging sour feel- ings ; and her gown tucked up under her apron- strings on each hip, as she goes trotting about, and fretting at somebody or something at every turn. She 's aunt, or great aunt to Mr. Gorham, and all his family. They all call her, Aunt Rushy, and let her take her own way ; for she 's so deaf she could n't hear if they should say any thing like asking her to let things be. She can 't hear her own voice, any more than a trumpet can its own ; but she seems to think her will and whims the law of the whole establishment She ''s factotum there." 50 THE GOLDEN VASE. " O," said Edward, " do n't have over any more totums, nor feel as if you must put some- thing foreign into every sentence. It sounds pedantic, Frank." " I should n't Hke to be thought a pedant, of all things," said Frank. " Pedantry is very dis- gusting to any one, who knows enough to detect it. But really, Ned, I have been so annoyed, that I spoke out in the readiest and shortest terms, and being engaged with French and Latin, they came first. That's the way, I sup- pose, that a great many who are studying, get the charge of being pedantic — using foreign words instead of their own, while they think nothing of how it sounds to others, in the habit of hearing only plain old English. I 'm glad of this hint, coz, and shall remember how it sounded to be called pedantic, in the herb-room.^ for the first time in my life. But now, about the nut-kernel, and the silkworm, that's another concern. If all the nuts were cracked, how would what is in one ever grow into a tree ? If the silkworm had not shut itself up, how could my cousin Edward Fenton have come out this morning, looking so spruce, with that nice ribbon at his collar, and in his shoes ? And as to the study of herbs, you did not think the doctor knew too much about THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 51 their qualities, when you were so sick, and needed tea, and a bath made of them." " Really, Mr. Philosopher ! you go quite pro- foundly into speculations. If you have so much gravity^ when I 'm captain, and go to sea, I shall want to ship you for ballast," said Edward, laughing, " if the wind and waves are not too noisy for you." " I '11 go," replied Frank, returning the laugh, " if you will promise not to be too often for making a hreeze^ or an artificial storm without the method of the Esj)!) system. But since you bring the silkworm and the sea so near together, did you ever hear about the Silkicorm uf the Sea 7 " " No," replied Edward. " What is it ? " " I will tell you, if you can keep quiet long enough to hear," replied Frank. " I will, Frank, if you will tell it without having any of your turns thrown in. But what is it } " said Edward. " The Pinna," said Frank, " is of a mollusca tribe, of two " — " What is mollusca 1 " asked Edward, ab- ruptly breaking Frank's speech. " The mollusca tribes," said Frank, " are those soft animals that have no frames, that is, no skeletons within, and no jointed covering outside. 52 THE GOLDEN VASE. But you '11 understand better, perhaps, if I read the description from this little book. I 've never known the curious animal before this morning, when I saw this picture ; look here. See how they are fishing it up. It looks like the back side of a head of hair coming up out of the water, does n't it ? " He then read from a new and beautiful little English volume,* the following scrap of natural history. THE SILKWORM OF THE SEA. With these creatures — the silkworms — must be associated one living beneath the surface of the sea, and of humble rank, yet, in various points of view, of great interest. The Pinna, one of the mollusca tribes, with two shells, is generally found at a small distance from the shore of the Mediterranean, Indian, American, Atlantic, and European oceans ; as well as in the Adriatic and Red seas, and seldom on bold and rocky coasts, exposed to the furious assaults of the tide. It has been elegantly termed, " The Silkworm of the Sea," from its spinning a fine silky beard, by which it firmly * As this book is not common, and may not be accessi- ble to many of my young readers, they will excuse me for making this large extract. THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 53 moors itself to the sand, gravel, roots of marine plants, or, in fact, to any other matter within its reach. The animal is provided with a kind of tubu- lar instrument, having a gland which secretes a glutinous substance ; and by means of slight pressure, a drop of it falls on the spot to which the byssus, as the beard is called, is to be at- tached. Its singular organ, however, which, in shape, resembles a tongue, and therefore fre- quently bears that name, answers different pur- poses ; for, whenever the creature wishes to change its place, it serves to drag the body for- ward, and may therefore be called a leg. For, being fixed to some solid body, and then, contract- ed in its length, the animal is necessarily drawn to the spot where it has fixed itself, and, repeat- ing the movement, arrives ultimately at its desti- nation. But its principal use is in spinning the threads of the byssus ; for it becomes cylindrical at the base or root, and has a canal running through its entire length, as a passage for the substance of which they are made, and also for moulding them into the proper form. Accordingly, when the first drop is placed on the chosen spot, this organ is retracted : thus a silken filament is drawn out, and the operation being continued some thou- 54 THE GOLDEN VASE. sands of times, a beautiful tuft of silky fibres is produced. The natural color is a rich golden- brown, which readily receives any tint. Paley, when describing the operations of the silkworm, justly compares them to the process of wire-drawing, — in which the substance required is produced by its being drawn through a plate of steel containing holes that have been made, that it may be reduced to its proper shape and size ; and, in a similar way, the pinna acts. One difference only appears. The wire is the metal unaltered, except in figure : whereas, in the form- ing of the thread, the nature as well as the form of the substance is somewhat changed ; for while in the animal, whether it be indeed an insect or a moUusk, it is merely a soft and clammy glue, yet it acquires firmness and tenacity on its exposure to the air. On the coasts of Sardinia and Corsica, the pin- nae are in great request for the sake of the bys- sus ; and are fished up with a curious instrument. It consists of two semicircular bars of iron fas- tened together at each end, but three inches dis- tant from each other at the centre ; having at one end, a hollow handle in which a pole is fixed ; and, at the other, a ring, to which a cord is fastened. On a pinna being discovered, the iron is let THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 55 down slowly over the shell, which is then twisted round and drawn out. Notwithstanding the ex- treme delicacy of the individual threads, they form frequently so compact a tuft, that considerable strength is required to separate the shells from the rocks to which they adhere. When a sufficient number have been caught, the silk is cut off, and after being soaked twice in tepid water, and once in soap and water, it is spread out to dry in some cool and shady place. It is again softly rubbed, and separated with the hand, while it is yet moist, and then spread out again. When quite free from moisture, it is drawn through a comb with the teeth wide apart, and afterwards through a similar instru- ment with finer and closer teeth. The silk in- tended for finer works, is afterwards drawn through closer iron combs or cards. When it is spun, two or three of the threads are mixed with one of real silk ; and the web, being of a beautiful yellow-brown, resembles, when steep- ed in lemon juice, and afterwards pressed with a warm iron, the burnished golden hue on the backs of some splendid flies and beetles. The threads of the pinna were wrought into gloves and other articles of dress, in very early times ; and a robe, presented by one of the Ro- man emperors to the satraps of Armenia, was 56 THE GOLDEN VASE. probably made of this material. Several beauti- ful things are also made of them at Palermo. The delicacy of the thread, however, is such, that a pair of stockings made of it may be con- tained in a snufF-box of ordinary size. Some stockings of this silk were presented, in 1754, to Pope Benedict XIV ; and, though so very jfine, protected the legs alike from cold and heat. In gouty and rheumatic cases, stockings and gloves of this material are still deemed useful ; but it is not seen in England, except in the cabinets of the curious. In reference to the productions of these crea- tures, it was well said by the earl of Shaftes- bury, — " How shining, strong, and lasting are the subtle threads spun from their artful mouths ! Who beside the All-wise, has taught them to com- pose the beautiful soft shells, in which, recluse and buried, yet still alive, they form those beau- tiful threads, when not destroyed by men, who clothe and adorn themselves with the labor of these sweet creatures, and are proud of wearing such inglorious spoils ? " Franklin stopped reading, and presenting the engraving to Edward, said again, " Look ! see how like the back of a child's head, just rising from the bath this appears." THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 57 "I see," replied Edward, "and it is a pretty stor}^ about the pinna ; but I do n't wonder at what the earl says. It is ' inglorious spoil.,'' when the poor little creatures are torn up and killed, for their threads, only to gratify such a foolish whim of vanity. When I 'm captain, Eddy, if I can rule over the sea, as you say aunt Rushy does over Mr. Gorham's kitchen concerns, there shan't a man go down to fish for such a harm- less, busy, needless, little creature, if the pope freezes his toes, and has the gout till he learns to teach more mercy, and less pride and vanity. But come, Frank, let 's go and get ready for the picnic." " Then," said Frank, " you would have the little creature left to itself in quiet? There — there comes aunt Jeriisha. She isn't so bad, after all — she 's very quiet now ; but I did feel vexed, though it's all over now. If I go with you, coz, I shall take my book of botany, and " — "Never mind about that; only have a good basket of eataiJes ; for we shall play till we shall want to eat like locusts," said Edward. " There '11 be green things enough for us, then," said Frank, whose ruffled feelings had become quite smoothed down by the silky story he had been reading ; and he began to think with 4 58 THE GOLDEN VASE. pleasure on the rural excursion. "I wonder," said he, " if papa is in the library." "Yes, he was when I come up," said Edward, " and sitting near the door ; so that he started me by saying, ' Good morning, sir,' close behind me, as I was on the first of these stairs. He was looking at some writings." Mr. Newland had indeed been in the library, and close to the open door, during the conver- sation of his son and nephew, and had heard the whole. The boys went down to see what he said of the excursion. He advised their going; and told Frank to go and consult his mother ; telling him, that he had been selecting a piece for him and Edward to speak at school ; and that if his mother consented to his going to the picnic, after breakfast, while the basket with his part of the treat was being put up, he would like to have them come back to the library, when his mother should be ready to hear, and try the piece. The cousins were quite delighted with this arrangement, and Edward staid to breakfast. After it was over, they withdrew to the library. " Franklin, my son," said Mr. Newland, " I am very glad of this intended excursion. It will do you good, I think, as to the health alike of body and mind. I perceive they are both somewhat THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 59 out of tune, and only want a little regulating and refreshment. Your close application to study has made you too sensitive, and impatient of the least sound or motion that others must unavoida- bly make in pursuing their own round of duties. Now, go and play hard as you please all day ; and get as many flowers, and fossils, with berries, and other curiosities that you find in the fields and wooded wild, as you can. When you get as great a load as you can bear to the roadside, perhaps you will have a lift given you to convey them home. Your uncle and aunt, and your mother and I think of a ride this afternoon. We shall, in returning, take the route that leads by the woods about the time when you will be homeward bound. We can take your gatherings and your baskets into the carriage ; and, thus re- lieved of them, you will be able to assist your friends in bringing theirs ; as we should not like to have you leave your company, to ride home yourselves, imless something more than feeling tired is the matter. It will do you good to have a true rural exercise in the sweet wood-land air. Get well tired, and to-night you will sleep as hard as you have played. Then, in the morning, you will rise in better humor to take up your studies ; and not have to catch up your books and fly out of your own room into another, be- 60 THE GOLDEN VASE. cause you cannot command silence in the street ; nor make the laborers, who are going forth in haste to their work, carrying implements, per- haps, manage their feet as if they were created for no better purpose than to figure lightly in the cotillon or quadrille. "The kind old lady, too, who treats you with cake and fruit, or nuts, when you go into Mr. Gorham's, Mrs. Dennison, whom, in a familiar way, they sometimes call by her given name, ' aunt Jerusha^'' she may be saved some phil- ipics " — " What is a philippic ? papa," said Frank, seiz- ing the first opportunity to turn the current of the lecture, which, though he knew it to be just, he felt coming rather hard upon him. " It is an acrimonious invective, a bitter sar- casm, a keen stroke of censure," said Mr. Newland ; " and it takes its name from the speeches of this nature, which Demosthenes, the famous Athenian orator and statesman, directed against Philip, king of Macedon, and father of the great commander, whose name I heard pro- nounced in a recent dialogue. It sounded unu- sually grand, issuing, as it did, from so small and retired a corner as the herb-room. I heard, as I could not avoid doing, unless I, too, had ears to open and shut at pleasure, or the misfortune to be THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 61 deaf, like poor Mrs. Dennison, the whole of your conversation with Edward, while sitting near that open door. And I listened with great pleasure to much good argument, and expression of cor- rect feeling and judgment. I also heard some things that surprised and grieved me. I was glad you evinced a desire for knowledge, and remembered what you had read, so as to pro- duce such interesting illustrations of its use. The story of the sailors is quite affecting, and shows what small means may be employed by an All-wise Providence for a great end. But I was grieved to hear your irreverence and sarcasm towards Mrs. Dennison. " Never, my son, make sport of age, or treat its marks and infirmities, be they of body or of mind, with levity. It is foolish, it is wicked, to do so. You may make the thoughtless laugh, by it ; but the best and most sensible people, and God himself will frown upon it. He has signal- ized the gift of length of days, as a peculiar mark of his favor, and the hoary head as a crown of glory. You know the story of the children at Bethel, who said, ' go up, thou bald head.' " Mrs. Dennison, I am told, has seen much trouble ; and nothing makes wrinkles in the face so soon as affliction and care. Thev furrow 62 THE GOLDEN VASE. deeper than age. Affliction, or its traces, should be looked on but with respectful tenderness and pity. It is not a small trial of temper and firm- ness to lose one's hearing. If you should live to see me, or your mother, old and wrinkled and deaf, how would you feel to see boys making sport of us.? Have you ever considered how long ago Mrs. Dennison was educated, and how different the ways of people were then from those of the present day ? Did you ever reflect on the deprivations which deaf people suffer continually, and of the value of the blessing of hearing continued to you ? " I was once sitting at the breakfast-table with a pious old gentleman, who, at the age of sixty years, had lost his hearing by a fall, and who had now reached that of eighty, without a murmur ever being heard from him on account of the affliction. But I realized how he must have felt it, when his face kindled up with a smile of happiness, and he looked full in mine, saying, ' I dreamed, last night, that my hearing came to me, and I heard the birds singing just as I did twenty years ago. It sounded delight- fully ! and I could hear people talking together.' " Mr. Newland looked at Frank, and saw a tear glistening in his eye, and a heaving at the chest, as he broke silence, saying, " I shan't do so any THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 63 more ! " The poem for rehearsal, before spoken of, was then produced ; and the two cousins had just time enough, while the picnic stores were in preparation, to stand up side by side, and speak it from the manuscript, which together they held before them ; and, as Mr. Newland thought, a little too high, on Frank's side, to give a fair view of the expression of his face. Frank, in haste to relieve his feelings by speaking, and not dreaming what his part con- tained, chose that of the quiet water, and began the piece. It was called THE LAKE AND THE RIVER. Lake. River, why dost thou go by, Sounding — rushing — sweeping ? River. Lake, why dost thou ever lie. Listless — idle — sleeping ? L. Naught before my power could stand, Should I spring to motion. R. I go blessing all the land From my source to ocean, L. I show sun, and stars, and moon, On my breast untroubled. R. Ay ! and wilt thou not as soon Make the storm-clouds doubled ? L. River, river, go in peace! I'll no more reprove thee, R. Lake, from pride and censure cease — May no earthquake move thee ! 64 THE GOLDEN VASE. L. la higher Power obey — Lying still, I 'm doing ! R. I for no allurement stay, My great end pursuing. L. Speed thee! speed thee, river bright j Let not earth oppose thee ! /?. Rest thee, lake, with all thy might, Where thy hills enclose thee. L, River, hence we 're done with strife^, Knowing each our duty. R. And in loud or silent life, Each may shine in beauty. Both. While we keep our places thus, Adam's sons and daughters. Ho ! behold and learn of us, Cluick and quiet waters ! The recitation was finished with a burst of laughter from the speakers, who clearly saw the import of the allegory, and they gave off the last verse a second time with greater spirit. All things being then prepared, they went forth to join their company for the picnic. At night, they returned as had been premeditated; and saying they had had a grand time, but were sat- isfied with it ; and so tired they should want no more " Indian play and powows " during this vacation. Franklin soon settled on his pillow, THE TWO COUSINS, ETC. 65 forgetting all about his books, and the noises that had so jarred his nerves in the morning ; and, in Edward's bed-chamber, the late sea-captain was transformed to the calm, slumbering child. But it had been a good and profitable day for the two cousins. Edward had been convinced that the study of nature is important, but not to be pursued with much success, without the aid of books made by others, who have gone before us in knowledge ; and that the offensive tu7ns and mums belong, often, to words of which there is no corresponding one in English to tell the meaning : it must take a sentence to do this. He felt that he should never forget the silkworm of the sea. Frank had learnt some passages in a most important lesson. He had been initiated into the secret, that all the languages and science in the world cannot make one good or happy, without the study of self, and the voice of love to God and man speaking in his own heart. He began, also, from that day, to realize that the world was not made for him alone ; and that fretting one's self because others must perform their own peculiar purposes and duties, each in his own way, is quite as profitable, though not so comfortable, as beating the wind. THE OLD COTTAGER AND HIS COW. My good old cow, I scarce know how Again we 've wintered over, With my scant fare, And thine so spare, No dainty dish, nor clover. We both were old. And keen the cold, While poorly housed we found us ; And by the blast, That whistling passed, The snows were sifted round us. When, many a day. Few locks of hay Were most thy crib presented, A patient cow. And kind wast thou. And with thy lot contented. THE OLD COTTAGER AND HIS COW. 67 But, though the storms Have chilled our forms, And we 've been pmched together, The dark, blue day Is passed away ; We 've reached the warm spring weather. The bounteous earth Is shooting forth Her grass and flowerets gaily ; And thou canst feed Along the mead. Where food is springing daily. The sweet, fresh breeze Through budding trees Now fans my temples hoary ; And these old eyes Find new supplies Of light from nature's glory. Though poor my cot, And low my lot, With thee, my richest treasure, I take my cup. And, looking up. Bless Him who gives my measure. THE GOOD DOLL. Come, sister clear, I '11 read you here The story of a DoUie, Who never strayed. Nor disobeyed Good rules, by guilt or folly. She never cried When put aside, In bed, or in the cradle ; When taken up. She broke no cup, Nor dropped a spoon, or ladle. She never told A fib, or rolled Her pretty lip in anger ; Nor if displeased, Felt cross, and teased. Or filled the house with clangor. TUJi; a'DOT) :i)OUi. THE GOOD DOLL. 69 She never soiled Her dress, or spoiled Her shoes, their use abusing ; Nor did she tear Her book, or wear Through leaves she was perusing. She did not pass Before the glass Too often, or too vainly, As if her worth Should be set forth In outward beauty, mainly. The whole, in short, Of Dollie's forte Was trust in those to train her, Who better knew Than she could do. Wherein she 'd be a gainer. A brother young Was found among Miss Dollie's near relations, Who could, like her, Some good infer From slightest intimations. 70 THE GOLDEN VASE. But, both were small ; So this is all Their story gives at present. It lets us see How each could be In aspect, always pleasant. TREATMENT OF HORSES. " The merciful man is merciful to his beast." All men have once been boys ; yet all boys may not live to be men. But those who are spared to grow up into mature manhood, then generally show what sort of boys they were, by being good or bad, wise or foolish, kind or cruel men. You may not always look in and see how they treat their families, or others whose happi- ness, peace, or interest is in their power. But you may judge pretty correctly of this by their more public show of character, especially their conduct towards the brute that is subject to them. As the straight or crooked sapling, or shoot, makes each a tree of like description, so the obe- dient and virtuous boy is the early state of the man, who will be good, beloved and valuable in his social relations, and kind to every living crea- ture under his control ; and the disobedient, vicious and cruel boy, is that of a man of similar character. The boy that is cruel to birds, squirrels, in- 72 THE GOLDEN VASE. sects or reptiles, will be seen in his manhood, abusing larger animals ; perhaps, his ox or his horse ; if not found guilty of crimes for which the law must condemn and punish him. There is no animal so commonly and constant- ly in the service of man, as the noble, generous horse. He is said, and justly, to be the most noble and useful of all the animals which God has subjected to man's dominion. The naturalist says of him, " The horse is a creature which renounces his being to exist only by the will of another, which he knows how to anticipate, and even express, and execute by the promptitude and exactness of his movements. He feels as much as we desire, does only what we wish, gives himself up without reserve, and refuses nothing ; makes use of all his strength, exerts himself beyond it, and even dies the better to obey us. " It is sad, to add to all these traits of goodness, that there is no dominion, which the Almighty has given man over the animal tribes, so abused as that exercised over the horse. None shows such cruel marks of servitude and unkind treat- ment. It is often painful to witness the hardships and severity inflicted on this beautiful and docile ani- mal, this faithful servant, even in the public TREATMENT OF HORSES. 73 Streets ; and the marks of abuse which they carry about them. Men, who are guilty of such inhuman treat- ment, little think how they are regarded by the good and the merciful, who behold ihem beating their horses to make them draor burdens which seem heavy enough to draw their bones and sinews apart ; or perhaps venting their angry passions, by the use of the whip-lash or handle, at the poor beast that has come under a new master, and does not understand his signs or his furious language ; when gentleness and kind leading would make him all that is reasonably desired. I write this to little boys ; and I hope they will all remember it, so as to be merciful and kind masters to the beasts that serve them, when they are men ; and to rebuke those who are not so. It is a lovely tribute to pay to the memory of any man, to say that he was gentle and kind towards the brute creature under him. I was at the house of the late Judge Tyng, a few months before his decease, when he came home to tea, from a walk in the business part of the town. " As I was coming up Green street, " said he, " r saw a truckman beating a poor starved-look- ing horse, because he could not start off with 5 74 THE GOLDEN VASE. what was a double load for any horse. ' How much have you for carrying that load ? ' said I. He named the price. I took as much from my pocket, and said, ' Here, take this, and set down half your load, till you can come back and make another of it ; for you have on your drays double what any horse should be compelled to carry.' The fellow took the money, and I was in hopes, by making him ashamed in this instance, to teach him to use more mercy in future." The story of the poor Arab at Saib, though com- mon, is yet good enough to be here repeated ; for it shows that the treatment, which we too often see towards horses, might shock a barbarian, and fill him with indignation. The whole wealth of a poor Arab of the des- ert consisted in a beautiful horse ; while his wife children, as well as himself, were in suffering want. The French consul, then at Saib, wished to purchase the horse for his king, and offered to give a high price for him ; even as much as the owner would name. The Arab soon arrived before the consul, cov- ered with tatters, and riding on his high-spirited animal. He dismounted. The money was counted down — his own price. He looked thoughtfully at the tempting prize ; then turning a mournful eye towards his horse, he heaved a TREATMENT OF HORSES. 75 sigh, and exclaimed : " To -whom am I going to yield thee up ? to Europeans, who will tie thee close ; who will beat thee ; who will render thee miserable ! Return with me, my beauty ! my darling ! my jewel ! and rejoice the hearts of my children ! " Then, springing on the back of his beloved animal, he was seen in an instant fleeing from the money, and galloping off towards his tent in the desert. In this, the poor Arab has left a good example of kindness towards the horse ; and one not less worthy to be remembered, of fleeing from temp, tation. He would be a good image, thus fleeing away, to have impressed on the mind to serve in case of temptation of any kind. Here is a little poem about a horse. A lady leading her little boy near a sad, worn-out-look- ing creature, felt such pity, that she stopped, and looking on him with compassion, spoke to him ; when she thought he seemed to answer her, at least by his looks, in the following strains. It may be called THE LAME HORSE. O ! I cannot bring to mind When I 've had a look so kind, Gentle lady, as thine eye Gives me, while I 'm limping by ; Then, thy little boy appears To regard me but with lears> '?6f THE GOLDEN VASE. Dost thou think he 'd like to know What has brought my state so low ? When not half so old as he, I was bounding, light and free, By my happy mother's side Ere my mouth the bit had tried ; Or my head had felt the rein Drawn, my spirits to restrain. But I 'ra now so worn and old, Half my sorrows can't be told. When my services began, How I loved my master, man ! I was pampered and caressed, Housed, and fed upon the best. Many looked with hearts elate At my graceful form and gait, At my smooth and glossy hair, Combed and brushed with daily care. Studded trappings then I wore, And with pride my master bore — Glad his kindness to repay In my free, bin silent way. Then was found no nimble steed That could equal me in speed; So untiring and so fleet Were these now old, aching feet. But my troubles soon drew nigh: Less of kindness marked his eye, When my strength began to fail, And he put me off at sale. TREATMENT OF HORSES. 77 Constant changes were my fate, Far too grievous to relate. Yet I Ve been, to say the least, Mid them all, a patient beast. Older, weaker, still I grew : Kind attentions all withdrew. Little food and less repose ; Greater burdens, heavier blows — These became my hapless lot, Till I sunk upon the spot ! This maimed limb beneath me bent "With the pain it underwent. Now I 'm useless, old and poor, They have made my sentence sure; And to-morrow is the day Set for me to limp away To some far, sequestered place. There at once to end my race. I stood by and heard their plot — Soon my woes will be forgot. Gentle lady, when I 'm dead By the blow upon my head, Proving thus my truest friend Him, who brings me to my end, Wilt thou bid them dig a grave For their faithful, patient slave ; Then, my mournful story trace. Asking mer " said Ellen. " Just have patience," said Horatio, impatient- ly, " and you shall hear. It spoils the best story in the world, to have the one you are telling it to, keep breaking in, by asking questions ; when, if they would only listen, and wait, they would have what they want to know explained in a proper place." " And without the explainer's being knocked over, or making a grand explosion ? " said the father, somewhat dryly, with a smile at Horatio, to whom he had been a silent listener ; and who well understood its meaning, while he continued. " The traveller went into the smelting-room ; and there he saw a poor old man, wretchedly clothed, with a haggard face, long beard, and thin silvery hair, sitting on a stone beside the furnace of coals, on which a pot of boiling water rested ; and with a dead crow on his lap, which he now and then dipped into the pot to loosen the feathers 148 THE GOLDEN VASE. that he would then strip off; and again dip the crow. This the poor old man was preparing to broil for his dinner, in that melancholy place ; and he had probably lived in this way, ever since his hairs, now so white, were black as the crow's feathers." " Poor man ! " exclaimed Ellen. " It 's very sorrowful to think of him, with his venerable head and aged limbs buried alive there. I wish I could go and carry him some better dinner than that crow." " We little think," said the father, " when we feel discontented, and complain, if we cannot have things just as we w^ish them to be, how many there are denied the common blessings which we enjoy ; and so constantly, that we are very apt to become insensible that they are bless- ings ; while thousands would feel most happy, only to share them in small proportion. A new bonnet, which caused Miss Ellen to hang her head like a bulrush, because she could not have it on the day she fancied it indispensable, would cost enough to procure temporary relief for many a hungry mouth. And the dinner-table, at which she gave a dissatisfied look, and said she had no appetite, because it did not offer her favorite dish, would be approached by many, even close around us, with sincere gratitude to Heaven ; as a SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 149 rich bounty of that Providence which so constantly supplies us with all things meet and convenient." The gentle, compassionate Ellen winced a little under this lecture ; and when she could bear it no longer, taking up the stitch dropped in the gun-story, she broke forth : " I guess nobody will ever find me entering into boys' sports, so as to take aim again ! " " And I," said Horatio, " shall take care in future, how I trust to a pan that has no priming in it." " I hope," said their father, " that you will both, my children, be thankful, as I am, to that protecting power who has thus preserved you from fatal or serious injury in this rash and dangerous experiment ; and let it teach you henceforth to trifle no more with instruments of destruction, which you are neither old enough, nor wise enough to wield, or to manage with safety to yourselves and others." As the father pronounced the last word, he stepped over the threshold, when Ellen, Horatio bearing the intractable gun, and Caper bringing up the rear, followed into the house, and the door was closed, shutting them all from the spectator without. " Is that the end of the story ? " said Ralph 150 THE GOLDEN VASE. Wilder, who had been a silent listener through the whole of it. " Yes," replied Mrs. Stanley, " and I have only time to tell you one more. And that is about Harry Hare-Brain, and goes in verse." " O ! " exclaimed Ralph, " that 's just what I like, stories in poetry. Can't you tell me a good many ? " " Not to-day," replied Mrs. Stanley, " though I may at some future time. When you have heard this, we shall have had enough of fire- works, till we go to see them from Mrs. Ward's balcony, this evening. The story runs thus, and is called, THE YOUNG SPORTSMAN. Harry had a dog and gun ; And he loved to set the one, Barking, out upon the run; While he held the other, Often charged so heavily, 'T was a dangerous thing, to be Near a wight, so young as he, Mindless of his mother. Earnestly she warned her child To forego a sport so wild ', While he, turning, frowned or smiledj Then away would sidle. For, to give him short and long, Harry had a head so strong. In the right, or in the wrong, It was hard to bridle. SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 151 On his sporting madly bent, Often, in his clothes, a rent Told the reckless way he went Over hedge and brambles. Homeward then did Harry slouch, With his gun and empty pouch, Looking like a scaramouch. Coming from his rambles. Sometimes, when he scaled a wall, Down he pitched, and with his fall. Rattling stones, and gun and all Then together tumbled ^ Tray would bark to tell the news Of his master with a bruise, Hatless, and with grated shoes, Lying flat and humbled. Harry, sure of hare or bird. Drew, and at a flash was heard Noise like little thunder. Running then his game to find, Finding he'd but shot the wind, Disappointment mazed his mind ; Dumb he stood with wonder ! Not so nimble as his dog, Over muddy pool and bog. When he walked a plank or log, There his balance losing, " Splash ! " and O, the rueful sight ! If his face before was bright, 'T was like morning turned to night, Much against his choosing. 152 THE GOLDEN VASE. Now, like many a hasty one, Whether quadruped or gun, Or a mother's wayward son, Given to disaster, Harry's gun was rather quick, And it had a naughty trick; It would snap itself, and kick Fiercely at its master. So, this snappish habit grew With a power for him to rue; Just as all bad habits do Grow, as age increases. When, one day, with sound and smoke. Overcharged, the barrel broke ; Harry's hand the mischief spoke — It was blown to pieces ! Saw the gore, and whined, and howled ; While his owner groaned and scowled, And the blood was running. With the horrors of his fate, And his anguish desperate, Then poor Harry owned, too late, He was sick of gunning. While his mother bent to mourn, As her froward child was borne, With a hand all burnt and torn, Pale and faint before her. Harry's pain must be endured. And the wound — it might be cured ; But, for fingers uninsured, There was no restorer. SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 153 " He might have expected it ! " exclaimed Ralph, with a burst of indignation, as Mrs. Stan- ley finished her recital of the poem. " He might have expected it for his disobedience and wilfulness." After tea Mrs. Stanley fulfilled her promise, and, in company with some other friends, took Ralph, and walked to Mrs. Ward's. They had seats in an elevated situation, where they could have a fair view of the whole show of fireworks. These were chiefly arranged on a high bank bordering one side of a beautiful, smooth sheet of water. On this stagings were erected, and the men and the fireworks stationed on them, so that the spectators on the opposite side could see them, as it were doubly ; in the air, and in the water, where they were reflected. There were also some parts of the show set afloat on the pond. One of these was an inven- tion called the bee-hive. Then, there were some blazing tar-barrels, glaring on the cool element ; just like a person raging in a fire of anger against one who is calm, and feels none of the fierce passion, while he knows that the other is only tending to self-injury. A knot of giddy-headed, reckless boys, think- ing to show themselves off* to wonderful advan- tage to the multitude, and determined to get 10 154 THE GOLDEN VASE. nearer than others to the bee-hive, and the blaz- ing barrels, procured an old boat, and huddling into it, took the oars, and pushed from the shore. When nearly in the centre of the pond, they began to unload their pockets of their freight, which consisted of powder done up in a variety of forms, such as rockets, squibs, serpents, and other equally desirable things, and began to " fire off." Forgetting what element they were on, and heedless of every thing but their play, they leaned, and scampered about, this way and that; when suddenly the boat dipped, capsized, and, in a moment, spilled all her crew out into the water ! And O, what a scene ensued ! what lamentable cries issued from the pond, and sounded all around on its borders ! The men with the fire- works sprang from the stage, tipping up the boards, knocking down their apparatus, and one another, as they rushed forth and leaped into the water ; women shrieked, and children cried ; while the pond was all in commotion with men splashing here and there, and flaming tar lighted the fearful scene with a horrible brightness, as the fiery bees played off, in seeming mockery of the whole performance. Fathers were hurrying this way and that for their boys. Mothers were SOMETHING TO FIRE OFF. 155 wringing their hands, and calling aloud for their sons. Doctors were run for, and came rushing through the crowd ; the boys of the boat were one after another fished up, and brought out to land, muddy and dripping, some nearly breath- less, and others, with feeling enough to be thoroughly mortified at the humbling termination of their bold exploit. Mrs. Stanley took Ralph Wilder by the hand, and finding him cold and tremulous, looked him in the face, and saw it pale, and his eyes swim- ming in tears. " What is the matter ? " said she ; " do you feel unwell ? " " Yes," said Ralph ; " I 'm tired — F m fright- ened — I shall think of this all night. I want to go home. I 've had independence enough, and don't want to see any more firing off"." Ralph's head had hardly touched the pillow that night, when he was sound asleep ; and seemed as if taking the lost slumber of the pre- vious night into the account. In the morning he looked well and happy. As he was sitting at the window, in the forenoon, he saw a group of boys, and among them, two or three who seemed to be there not so much by choice, as by being surrounded by the others, and with rather downcast looks. He soon dis- covered what was going on. 156 THE GOLDEN VASE. " How did you like your ducking, Sam ? " said one. " Where are your fins, Dick ? " said another. " If old Timmy, the lobster-monger, had been there," said a third, " he would have hauled you up, and thrown you into his kettle." The generous spirit in Ralph's bosom could no longer bear to witness these taunts of ignoble triumph. He sprang up, and rushing to the door, cried, at the height of his voice, "Let'em alone ! Do n't you think they feel badly enough, without being tormented in this way ? I tell you, let'em alone ! " " You tell us," said one pert little fellow, while half a dozen faces were silently turned towards the door where the young stranger stood. *' And who are you ? " " I 'm not ashamed to tell my name ; but who are you?" said Ralph. "Are you any body who never committed a fault? and if not, did you want to be teased, and hear about it forever, without having a fair opportunity to show that you were sorry, and should do better in time to come ? " And then, with the eyes of the whole troop, who stood in silence, turned upon him, as he stepped back, and was about to close the door, he added aloud, " My name 's Ralph Wilder," th:e ]E.^rAPT. ESCAPE OF THE DOVES. Come back, pretty doves ! O, come back from the tree, You bright little fugitive things ! We could not have thought you so ready and free In using your beautiful wings. We did not suppose, when we lifted the lid To see if you knew how to fly. You 'd all flutter ofl" in a moment, and bid The basket forever good-by. Come down, and we '11 feed you on insects and seeds ; You '11 find no occasion to roam ; We '11 give you all things, that a bird ever needs To make it contented at home. Then come, pretty doves, O return, for our sakes. And do n't keep away from us thus ; Or when your old slumbering master awakes, 'T will be a sad moment for us ! 158 THE GOLDEN VASE. " We can 't," thought the doves, " and the basket may stand A long time in waiting ; and now You find out too late, that a bird in the hand Is worth at least two on the bough. " And we, from our height looking down on you there, By experience taught to be sage. Find one pair of wings, that are free on the air, Is worth two or three in the cage. " But when our old master awakes, and shall find What work you have just been about, We hope, by the freedom we love, he '11 be kind, And spare you for letting us out. " We thank you for all the fine stories you tell, And all the good things you would give ; But think, since we 're out, we shall do very well Where nature designed us to live. " Whenever you think of the swift little wings, On which from your reach we have flown, No doubt you '11 beware how you meddle with things In future, that are not your own ! " HELEN'S BIRTHDAY. WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. Now Helen, dear, I hear thee say- That thou art six years old to-day ! So I will set my record here Of thy beginning seventh year ; That thou in after days may'st find The trace, which this has left behind. This morning we together strayed Mid fern, and brake, and forest-shade ; And with thy little hand in mine. We passed the rustling oak and pine ; Where last year's acorn, cup and cone Among its withered leaves were strown. The nimble squirrel, climbing high, Looked down on us with curious eye ; While birds amid the branches sung. Till through the wood their music rung; And in the boughs, the spicy breeze Made leafy air-harps of the trees. 160 THE GOLDEN VASE. Round, scarlet berries, ripe and sweet, Peeped out like gems beside our feet ; Ttie modest harebell bowed beneath The sweetbriar tall, her balm to breathe ; And many a little floweret wild Grew low, but looked to heaven and smiled. We ventured down the mossy steep. That edged the waters clear and deep, Where blooming laurels grew beside The Merrimac's broad silver tide ; And all was beauteous, fresh and fair, In nature's glory shining there. And may thy future days be bright, Thy heart be ever pure and light ; As when, a little gladsome child, I led thee through the flowery wild ; And by thy prattling tongue was told, " I am to-day just six years old ! In other days, when thou may'st see My face no more, remember me — Remember, that I asked to-day Heaven's smile upon thy future way ; That 'twas thy parent's early friend. And thine, who this memento penned. THE LITTLE GIRLS' FAIR. Passing from my door one day for a walk, I was met by two of the many little girls, whom I have the pleasure to count among my friends. They came up to me and paused ; when one of them, with a sweet smile playing about her mouth, said, " Will you write us a poem ? " It needs not to be told that her unexpected, in- formal greeting and request occasioned a respon- sive smile, a little hesitation, and a look somewhat inquisitive, on my part, before I opened my lips. A foreigner has said, " An American, especial- ly a Yankee, usually answers your question by asking one." Illustrating this remark by an ex- ample, I asked, " And for what do you wish a poem " For the Fair," was the laconic reply. " What is the Fair to be for ? " said I. " For the benefit of A D and M K ," said the young petitioner, with a sudden rush of earnest and tender expression increasing the animation of her beaming face, " We are 162 THE GOLDEN VASE. all " — and she named over a whole chain of her youthful companions, joined, as golden links, hand in hand in a good work of charity and love ; " We are all of us making up pretty things, and collecting what we can to sell at the Fair, we are going to have, to get something, as much money as we can, for poor A D and M K to assist them before the cold, hard winter comes on ; and we want a poem to sell to help us out." " Dear children ! " methought, " harder and colder than the winter must be the heart, that could remain untouched by such an appeal ; and not wish a blessing on your enterprise and move the hand to aid you in it ! " I knew the condition of the two individuals named, and that charity and love could hardly be directed, within the scope of my knowledge, to objects more wor- thy ; or be employed in a more holy cause than relieving their distress, and contributing to their comfort. A D is a young man, who, eleven years ago, was a bright, active, and good boy of fourteen years, in a merchant's store. He was sprightly, intelligent and faithful ; performing the part of clerk at the desk, and salesman at the counter; and promising to make an efficient, useful, and good man. But, during a long spell THE LITTLE GIRLS' FAIR. 163 of cold, rainy weather, he was seized, while in the store, with a violent rheumatic affection in his whole system, which nearly destroyed his life. This was spared, but with perpetual, ex- cruciating suffering, which drew one hand and arm out of shape, stopping the growth, and bend- ing the fingers back upon the wrist. The lower limb of the same side being in a similarly dis- torted and distressing state. His parents, re- spectable, and in comfortable circumstances from their industry, did not find it difficult to provide for his necessities and support, till his father, a mechanic, was a few years ago disabled from doing any thing, by paralysis ; and he is now laid by to be taken care of, helpless almost, and far more unable to do any thing useful than his son. He is confined in one room, and A in another across the entry ; while the poor wife and mother has them both to take care of, and to attend to and supply all their wants and necessi- ties. A is now a little past twenty-four. He sits up in his bed, where he has been nearly eleven years, unable to move from it or to reach for a book or any thing else that has slipped out of place, beyond the length of his arm, when it had been laid before him. His friends carry him books ; for he is very fond of reading, and 164 THE GOLDEN VASE. has a refined taste, and quick understanding. They also carry various materials, such as gilt paper, engravings, paste-board, colored paper, and such other little articles as he can with one hand, and the thumb alone of the other, make into small boxes ; which he sells to his visiters, to furnish such needful things for himself and his father, as the small profit of his labor will buy. All his materials, his scissors, knife, paint-brush, for he paints a little, his gum-cup and such other affairs as he uses, lay before him on the bed ; and there he sits bolstered up, and works, when not in too much pain. The flowers, his friends bring him, he has set on the window beside his bed, and for every other and more substantial and available gift, as well as for the simplest flower, he Is very grateful. He always seems happy and cheerful. It is a great pleasure, and a use- ful act to one's self, to visit him. M K was a young lady very similar- ly affected, by the same disorder that has made Allen a cripple for life. Her case was so nearly like his, that It need not be farther described, to show how praiseworthy was the object of the little girls, with whom I just now left myself standing talking In the street, to tell the story of the objects of their solicitude. " I have never felt a very lively Interest in THE LITTLE GIRLs' FAIR. 165 Fairs," said I, " but you shall have the poem, to help on this good work." I wrote the little poem, which I will append to this, in the hope that it would serve as a mite cast into the treasury of the Lord, and also em- body some ideas on the subject of pity and chari- ty, exemplified by works, which would not be lost on the young assembly into whose hands it was to be committed. The Fair succeeded admirably. A far great- er sum for each beneficiary was realized, than the most sanguine expectations anticipated. The little maidens had the satisfaction and the blessing of bestowing the sweet fruits of their labor, and of receiving thanks which words could not utter, but to which tears testified. But while they have the reflection of doing what they could to alleviate her pains of body and of mind, Martha, the female recipient of their good gift, has since left Allen behind on earth, and gone where, as a sweet little child of four years said to me a few days ago, when speaking of heaven, "there is no trouble — no pain — no darkness." THE FAIR. We learn from a Teacher, who taught long ago, What still, for his sake, to our neighbor we owe. We read what he spake in behalf of the poor, Whose precept is perfect — his word ever sure: 166 THE GOLDEN VASE. We know 't is of these that his saying will be, " What ye did unto them, ye have done unto me." Then come, and your mite, or your bounty prepare, As he giveth you, for his cause at the Fair. A band of young maidens combined in his name, Who pitied the needy, the sick and the lame, As bees we Ve been busy, with labor and skill, Some honey-drop pure from each flower to distil. To sweeten the cup of affliction, and chase The pale cast of sadness by smiles from her face. O come! our good work and its blessing to share, And hold up our hands and our hearts at the Fair. We ask not your gold or your silver for naught, But proffer for these what our fingers have wrought And would that your gift may return seven-fold, In riches more precious than silver or gold. Since bread we abroad on the waters have cast Returns to us, when many days may have past, If good or if not, with increase; let 's beware. And not our pure off 'ring withhold at the Fair. Now pity, we know, offered dry and alone, Were giving a child, that asked bread, but a stone. For what shall kind words without charily pass ? As tinkling of C3'mbals, and sounding of brass ! Without it, of prophecy worthless the gift. And faith from their places the mountains to lift ! If such were the truths that a Paul could declare, Let us do something worthy a Paul at the Fair. THE LITTLE GIRLs' FAIR. 167 Come, angel of charity, clothed in thy power, And o'er us preside, far to thee is ihe hour. O, melt every heart with thy beautiful eye, Whose soft-beaming light, from thy birthplace on high, With lustre so holy has brightened the tear It sheds for the woes thou art witnessing here! Then send thy sweet herald rejoicing to bear Glad tidings above of thy friends at the Fair. THE SHOEMAKER. " Act well your part, there all the honor lies." The shoemaker sat amid wax and leather, With lap-stone over his knee, Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather, Drawing his quarters and sole together : A happy old man was he ! This happy old man was so wise and knowing, The worth of his time he knew. He bristled his ends, and he kept them going, And felt to each moment a stitch was owing, Until he got round the shoe. Of every deed that his wax was sealing, The closing was firm and fast. The prick of his awl never caused a feeling Of pain to the toe ; and his skill in heeling Was perfect, and true to the last- THE SHOEMAKER. 169 Whenever you gave him a foot to measure, With gentle and skilful hand He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure, As if you were giving the costliest treasure, Or dubbing him lord of the land. And many a one did he save from getting A fever, or cold, or cough ; For many a foot did he save from wetting. When, whether in water or snow 't was setting, His shoeing would keep them off. When he had done with his making and mending, With hope and a peaceful breast. Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending. He passed from his bench, to the grave descending, As high as a king to rest. 11 IDLE JACK. See mischievous and idle Jack! How fast he flies, nor dares look back. He seized Horatio's pretty cart, And broke and threw it part from part ; The body here, and there the wheels ; And now, by taking to his heels. He proves the Scripture proverb true — The ivicked Jiee when none pursue. O, Jack 's a worthless, wicked boy. Who seems but evil to enjoy. He often racks his naughty brain, Inventing ways of giving pain. He loves to torture butterflies, To dust the kitten's tender eyes. To break the cricket's slender limb ; And pain to them is sport to him. IDLE JACK. 171 He sometimes to your garden comes, To crush the flowers, and steal the plums ; The melons tries, with thievish gripe, To find the one that 's nearest ripe ; His pockets fills with grapes or pears, No matter how their owner fares ; When, by its lawless, robber track, We trace the foot of idle Jack. Whenever Jack is sent to school, He, playing truant, plays the fool ; Or else he goes, with sloven looks. And hands unclean, to spoil the books, To spill the ink, or make a noise, Disturbing good and studious boys ; Till all who find what Jack 's about Within the school, must wish him out. If ever Jack at church appears. He knows not, cares not what he hears. While others to the word attend. He has a pencil-point to mend ; An apple or his nails to pare ; Or cracks a nut in time of prayer ; Till many wish that Jack would come A better boy, or stay at home. 172 THE GOLDEiN VASE. In short, he shows beyond a doubt, That if he does not turn about. And mend his morals and his ways, He yet must come to evil days ; And, of a life of wasted time. Of idleness, and vice, and crime, To meet, perhaps, a felon's end, With neither man, nor God, his friend. MCDTMIElEi BIIMDS MOTHER-BIRDS. Who loves to rob a bird of her young ? Who takes young birds from the nest, or in their first unsuccessful attempt at flight ? And can he, who does this, think the old bird feels no pain at the loss, no anguish, when she sees her heart's whole, cherished treasure borne off in her presence, or comes to her home, and finds it void ? How does he think his mother would feel, on returning to her home, to And she had no child left ; that all she had long and fondly nursed and cherished, her precious little ones, had been carried away in her absence, she knew not how or where ? Or, what does he suppose would be her distress at seeing him and his little brother or sister seized violently, and carried away by some hideous monster a hundred times as large as herself, to be killed, and their torn garments scattered about in her sight ; or shut up where she could never see them more, except in hope- less captivity ? 174 THE GOLDEN VASE. Is any one given to distressing old birds, by depriving them of their little ones, from a wanton love of cruel sport, not caring what he causes nature's sweetest and fondest affections to suffer ? I have nothing further to say to him, than this : he is a monster among his kind ; he has a human form, but the heart of a vulture, or a weasel, or none at all. But I would convince him of his error, who may separate mother-birds and their offspring, under the false impression, that in this he com- mits no cruelty, and causes no pain. Birds have strong maternal love, and they suffer bitter- ly when their nestlings are in peril. A few summers ago, several robins had built in the trees in our door-yard, and a neighbor's adjoining garden. Very early one fair, peaceful Sabbath morning, before the sun had heaved his golden beams above the rosy horizon, I was startled suddenly from a profound sleep, by the loud sounds of distress nearly under my open window in the third story. The cries were such that I could not tell whether they were from bird or beast ; and so rapid and confused, I was unable to decide whether there were one, two, or more voices. It seemed an unceasing chorus of piercing shrieks. Hastening to the window, just below it, within MOTHER-BIRDS. 175 the open door of the wood-house, and resting on its sill, I saw the hinder part of Madam Pussy ; and, farther on, her inhuman fore-paws grasping a poor little young robin, that had just been seized, with its tora-out feathers flying over its murderer's head. The victim was silent ; but the two old birds were fluttering and darting rapidly over it, this way and that, so low that their wings seemed to sweep the cat's back ; and if they had been gifted with hands, they might have rescued their child from their fearful ene- my's hold, while yet it lived. But they could do nothing to relieve it ; and it seemed as if they would tear their throats, and shake themselves to atoms with agitation and sharp cries of anguish. I never saw in nature such a picture of agonized aflection. I called to a person below to run and deliver the young bird. But the ear of a cat will hear the foot of a mouse. A step was perceived ap- proaching behind her, and puss, shifting her victim from her claws to her teeth, made off with her prey to the loft ; while the old birds retired into a tree, and, for a long time, kept up their piteous cries, which their little one had ceased to hear. Another specimen of the maternal care and ingenuity of a robin was exhibited, a few years 176 THE GOLDEN VASE. since, in the next street below me. The tree before a house had spread so far as to darken the windows, and the owner lopped off some of the boughs. The next day, when the sun was at its merid- ian height, he saw an old robin standing on the edge of her nest, which the lopped branch had left disclosed, with one wing lifted and spread, to form a screen for her unfeathered brood as they lay in the nest, exposed to the glare of the midday beams and scorching heat. When one wing was weary, she would rest it, by turning about and lifting the other. Then her mate would relieye her, and let her fly off. Thus were the nestlings protected by this touching invention to form a shade, till the sun had turned and would not trouble them. There is a little poem on this subject, in the third volume of Miss Gould's Poems. Here is one about a robin that missed her brood, and could not find them. It is called thus : THE LOST NESTLINGS. " Have you seen my darling nestlings? " A mother-robin cried. "I cannot, cannot find them, Though I Ve sought them far and wide. MOTHER-BIRDS. 177 " I left them well this morning, When I went to seek iheir food; But I found, upon returning, I 'd a nest without a brood. " O, have you naught to tell me," That will ease my aching breast, About my tender offspring, That I left within the nest? "I've called them in the bushes, And the rolling stream beside ; Yet they came not at my bidding; I 'm afraid they all have died ! " " I can tell you all about them," Said a little wanton boy, " For 't was I that had the pleasure, Your nestlings to destroy. " But I did not think their mother Her little ones would miss, Or ever come to hail me With a wailing sound like this. " I did not know your bosom Was formed to suffer wo, And to mourn your murdered children, Or I had not grieved you so. "I'm sorry that I 've taken The lives I can 't restore ; And this regret shall teach me To do the thing no more. 178 THE GOLDEN VASE. '•' I ever shall remember The plaintive sounds I 've heard. Nor kill another nestling, To pain a mother-bird." POOR OLD PAUL. Poor old Paul ! he has lost a foot, And see him go hobbling along, With the stump laced up in that clumsy boot, Before the gathering throng ! And now, as he has to pass so many, And suffer the gaze of all. If each would only bestow a penny, 'T were something to poor old Paul. His cheek is wan and his garb is thin. His eye is sunken and dim ; He looks as if the winter had been Making sad work with him. While he is trying to hide the tatter, Mark how his looks will fall ! Nobody needs to ask the matter With poor old, hungry Paul. 180 THE GOLDEN VASE. All that he has in his dingy sack Is morsels of bread and meat ; The leavings, to burden his aged back, Which others refused to eat. So, now I am sure you will all be willing To part with a sum so small As each will spare, who offers a shilling To comfort him — poor old Paul ! THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. Patience and Hope twin sisters are ; And when a prosperous course Ihey steer, Diligence is their firm-built car, » And Perseverance their charioteer. An odd, old-fashioned sort of verse this, where- with to begin a story, some, perhaps, will think. Yet, homely as it is, does it not speak truth ? When attended with steady industry and perse- verance, Hope feeds Patience, and Patience crowns Hope. Without these four assistants so necessary to the performance of any good or useful work, who does, or ever will do much for himself or others ? But who can calculate the good that may be done by a single individual having them in full exercise and well directed, for the benefit of mankind and the glory of God ? I have a little tale to relate of a Savoyard shepherd-boy., that will illustrate my meaning, by showing how much could be effected even by a child, actuated by a worthy motive, and exer- cising the virtues recommended in my opening 182 THE GOLDEN VASE. stanza ; my key-note, as the musician would say, to this piece. Some years ago, a traveller in Savoy arrived at the side of a mountain, just as evening was fall- ing on the wild and beautiful scenery around. Though delighted with the view, and filled with veneration by the grandeur of nature's work on every side, he began to feel some little disquiet- ude, from seeing no human habitation where he might seek accommodation for the night. The broad disk of the sun had sunk behind the western hills ; while, like a departing father's blessing to his children, his light was still given back in a golden flush that lingered on the moun- tain-tops. Then, from the opposite side of the horizon, the full-orbed moon soon gave token of her rising to take his place over the world ; pale and solemn as a widowed mother, when the charge of her fatherless children is left to her alone. The occasional tinkle of a distant sheep-bell, or the affectionate bleat of some fleecy dam, quickly returned by her little one, would now and then reach the ear of the traveller from among the bushes and behind the crags, and then die away. To these succeeded the social chat- tering of some parent bird to her young, in the thicket ; or the whirring of the homeward-bound THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 183 wing of some other airy wanderer : all reminding the stranger that the fold, the place of his repose, was far away. Every living thing in nature seemed nearer to its home than he to his. " But God," thought he, " is every where ! and where He, my Father is, I am secure." Pensively he mused, and wandered on. When suddenly the sweet sounds of a lute touched his ear. Making his way past a beetling rock, and through a clump of shrubbery, he came out close to a neat little cottage pleasantly situated on the acclivity, and partly over hung by the broad branches of several old trees, that looked like angel-wings spread out to adorn and protect it. On a small patch of green in front of the cottage, some sheep were quietly grazing, while others lay ruminating, and their lambs were skipping about them. Just without the door sat a venerable couple, an aged man, and his wife seemingly of his own age. At their feet their good dog. Carle, (as they soon called him) lay calm and lovingly, and near them was seated a young man of inter- esting appearance, playing a wild mountain air on a lute, to which he joined his voice, in words which the stranger perceived to be a sun-set hymn. He approached the group ; and receiv- ing signs of hospitality and welcome, entered 184 THE GOLDEN VASE. among them, and made known his wish to reach some inn, where he could pass the night. " There is none," said the good old man, in a mild voice, " there is none near enough for thee to reach it before darkness would overtake thee on the mountain, and the evils that lurk in dark- ness might beset thy way. The pass is but dif- ficult at best ; and it requires a foot well acquaint- ed with its ruggedness and windings to tread it safely, and to keep its route. But rest thee here, good sir, if the homely fare of our dwelling may compensate for the chance of finding better far- ther off*." " Yes, rest here " — said the mother, whose pure white mob-cap was brought close round a face of which the mild, benign expres- sion spoke a heart of equal purity ; while her whole figure, so simply respectable and com- manding, made the stranger think of the proph- etess, old Deborah, who " dwelt under the palm- tree," and some other female saints of the Bible- times, — " rest thee here, and take one evening's taste of the peace of our rural home. We are not so taught, as to let a way-farer, like thee, alone and without shelter in a strange region, pass from our door without offering the rest and com- fort our home may afibrd through the dark night hours. We would not have it said unto us, ' I was a stranger and he took me not in.' We w^ant the THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 185 blessing of doing some little good in the world, yet before we leave it ; and if T may serve thee by spreading our humble board before thee, come in and sup with us ; and then we will come out and sing together another evening song." The traveller, whom we will call by his first name, Ronaldo, gratefully accepted the hospitali- ty which seemed so much like that of the primi- tive Christians, and so in accordance with the pure spirit of the gospel. He joined this happy little family in their evening repast, which was refreshing, but simple and frugal, and, in part, made up of some of the fruits of their mountain. Supper being over, and thanks returned, the family and their guest resumed their places without the door, after the good matron had had a little time to remove the board, and adjust matters within. It has been justly remarked, that no one can feel unhappy while singing. It ii:iy be alike true, sometimes, if not alway^:', that those who mingle their voices together lu " psalms and hymns, and spiritual songs," in a social choir, though strangers to each other before, feel a kind of sympathy and harmony, and remembrance of associated devotional aspirations, which prevents their being strangers ever after ; and inspires a degree of kindred confidence and reliance in one another, which would else be unknown. 12 186 THE GOLDEN VASE. Ronaldo, though unacquainted with the words and air of the devotional song of the nnoun- taineers, had ear and tact enough to join and follow them in the words, while the young man bore him along in the tune by his exquisite touches on the lute. Conversation then ensued, and led to an inter- change of sentiment and a mutual confidence, of which the pure and single-hearted soon discover each other to be worthy. Stars were peeping out thick, and looking so near that they seemed ready to come down in a shower on the moun- tain-top ; while the moon shone clear, and the sound of the evening air in the rustling bushes and trees was heard with that of a gurgling fountain, spouting from a rock, and running down the steep in a playful stream. The young lutist made some remarks respecting what he had seen in certain distant cities, which led Ronaldo to ask if he had been abroad. Being answered in the affirmative, he felt his interest aroused, and his curiosity excited, and framed such questions and observations, that the youth made known something of his history, which follows in his words : " For a long time I led the life of a wandering minstrel. It was then that I acquired the art and THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 187 the habit of improvising^ or making little songs and ballads without premeditation ; and composing the words, to any subject given me, as I went along with the tune on my lute, which I accom- panied with my voice. " You may think it strange, sir, that I should leave my parents alone here, forsaken by their only child ; while I wandered away, pursuing the life of a vagrant among strange people, and in places wholly unlike my native region, so pure and healthy for the body and the soul, and en- tered into cities where vice prowls in the streets, and watches in its dens, seeking for victims ; like the mountain-wolves for the kid and the lamb. But when I have given you a brief sketch of my life, the cloud which has come over me in your mind will, I think, pass off, and let you behold me in a clearer and better light. You will knoyv me better. You have not yet even learnt my name. My parents, you perceive, call me only, ' my son,' or ' my child,' speaking to me ; and speaking of me, they do but change the my to our. " I will give my little story in verse, as it will at once show you my manner of extemporary composition, and let you see the outline of my course of life in fewer words than it could be given as a narrative." His fingers were already 188 THE GOLDEN VASE. on the strings of his lute, and he sang to it the following ballad : " On our mountain of Savoy, In the shadow of a rock, Once I sat, a shepherd- boy. Watching o'er my father's flock. " We 'd a happy cottage-home, Peaceful as the sparrow's nest, Where at evening we could come From our roamings to our rest. " I'd a minstrel's voice and ear; I could whistle, pipe and sing ; While I, roving, seemed to hear Music stir in every thing. " But misfortune, like a blast, Swift upon my father rushed ; From our dwelling we were cast — At a stroke our peace was crushed. " All we had was seized for debt. In the sudden overthrow Even my fond, fleecy pet. My white cosset, too, must go ! " Then I wandered sad and lone. Where I 'd once a flock to feed ; All the treasure now my own. Was my simple pipe of reed. THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 189 " But a noble, pitying friend, Who had seen me sadly stray, Made me to his lute attend ; And he taught me how to play. " Then his lute to me he gave j And abroad he bade me roam, Till the earnings I could save Would redeem our cottage-home. " Glad, his counsel straight I took — I received his gift with joy, All my former ways forsook, And became a minstrel-boy. " With my mountain airs to sing, Forward then I roamed afar, Sweeping still the tuneful string ; Making hope my leading-star. " In the hamlets where I 've gone, Groups would gather, music-bound. In the cities then I 've drawn Listeners, till my hopes were crowned. " Ever saving as I earned, I of one dear object dreamed ; Then I to my mount returned, And our cottage-home redeemed. " Time has wiped away our tears; Here we dwell together blest; All our troubles, griefs, and fears I have played and sung to rest. 190 THE GOLDEN VASE. " Now I have one object dear; Zara, of our men main -side, Soon to be a daughter here, Soon to be the minstrel's bride ! " Here my aged parents live Free from want, and toil, and cares; All the bliss that earth can give Deem they, in this home, is theirs. "Life's night-shades fast o'er them creep; They have all their wrongs forgiven ; Now they've but to fall asleep. In their cot to wake in heaven. "Gentle friend, dost thou inquire What 's the lineage whence I came ? Jesse is my shepherd-sire ; David Jesse is my name." The minstrers voice was huslied, and his fingers withdrawn from the strings of his lute. Ronaldo was too much affected to offer any re- mark. The evening had flown away, and the hour of retirement had come. Carle was bidden to his place of rest, and of guardianship, near the sheep-fold ; and the family, with their visiter, went into the cottage, where they all kneeled down, and the good old man, in mild, silvery tones of voice, commended each separately to the care of the great Shepherd of Israel, for the THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. 191 night, and for the rest of life. Ronaldo was then shown to a neat little apartment, divided off from David's by a thin partition ; and just wide enough for him to make his way to a narrow cot-bed, and find a place to deposit his hat, his staff, and the pieces of apparel, which he wished to lay aside. He laid himself down to rest; and, while the pure mountain air poured in, like the breath of health, with the clear light of the moon, through his small open window, before sleep settled on his senses, fell into a train of thought almost like a waking dream, inspired by the novelty of his situation, and the virtue and beauty of character which this little humble habitation contained, as the casket holds the diamonds. " And here," thought he, " are some who will be numbered among the most pure and precious, when God makes up his jewels. And in that day, how will the hospitality, the faith, hope, and charity, all the piety of thousands of splendid mansions be outshone by those of this simple cottage ! " O thou, who didst these mountains rear, And hang the stars above, Endow me, like thy children here. With lowliness and love ! 192 THE GOLDEN VASE. "And if they need one prayer of mine To rise for them to thee, Reward them with thy gifts divine For kindness shown to me ! " After this ejaculation, Ronaldo sunk into a refreshing sleep. When he awoke in the morn- ing, he found the cottagers were all up, and had breakfast prepared ; that he might not be de- tained by waiting for it, nor depart fasting. When this was over, and they had mutually invoked blessings, he bade farewell to the happy family, and went forward on his botanizing excursion. " My good wife," said the aged cottager, " I do n't know why it is ; but I feel an unusual peace and joy in my heart since our visiter left us. I am not sure that we have not, like Abraham in his tent, entertained an angel unawares." THE STOVE AND GRATE SETTER. Old winter is coming to play off his tricks — To make your ears tingle, your fingers to numb ; So I, with my trowel, new mortar, and bricks, To guard you against him, already am come. An ounce of prevention in time, I have found. Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late. A proof that the sense of my maxim is sound. Will shine where I place a stove, furnace, or grate. The summer leaves, now whirling fast from the trees. On autumn's chill blast are tossed, yellow and sere ; And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze Each thing he can puff at, will winter be here ! But hardly he '11 dare to steal in at the door, Your elbows to sting, with his keen, cutting air, And chill you with ague, where I 've been before. To set the defence I to-day can prepare. 194 THE GOLDEN VASE. And when he comes blustering on from the north, To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin, You '11 find what the craft of your mason was worth, As you, from abroad, to your parlor step in. For all will around be so pleasant and warm ; Your hearth bright and cheering, your coal in a glow ; You '11 not heed the winds whistling up the rude storm. To sift o'er your dwelling its clouds-full of snow. You '11 then think of me, how I handled, to-day. The cold stone and iron, the brick and the lime ; And all, but the surer foundation to lay For comfort to you, in the drear winter time. I lay you, against this old winter, a charm To make him, at least, keep himself out of doors. 'T would melt, should he enter, his cold hand and arm. When, loud for admission, he threatens and roars. THE STOVE AND GRATE SETTER. 195 If gratitude then should come warming your heart, As peaceful you sit by your warm fire-side ; Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart To those where the gifts you enjoy are denied. For He, in whose favor all blessedness is, And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure, Was poor when on earth ; and the poor still are his; His charge to his friends is, " Remember the 'poor !">•> Nor would his disciple be higher than he. Who once on the dwellings of men, for his bread, In lowliness wrought ; but contentedly we Will work by the light our great Master has shed. THE LADDER PIE. " Ho ! what a name ! A ladder pie ! Who ever heard of such a dish ? " cries one. " I 've read mother's cookery-book many a time ; but I never found such a pie as that in it." " And I," says another, " have heard of all sorts of ladders, from the one that the caterpillar makes herself to pass from the tree to the ground, up to that which Jacob saw in his dream, when he slept on his pillow of stone ; but I never knew of one fit to be served up in a pie." No, my young friends, and you will probably never find one, by any of your visits to the kitchen, to inquire into the subject of the dinner elect, when the cook wishes you at school, or in some better employment than peeping under the dish-covers, or scenting out the forth-coming repast in its preparation state. Yet such a dish has really been cooked, and set on a noble gen- tleman's dinner-table. You shall hear when and how it happened. Henri, duke de Montmorenpi, was a young THE LADDER PIE. 197 French nobleman belonging to one of the most illustrious families in all Europe, during the early part of the seventeenth century, and in the reign of Louis XIII. He was a descendant of a celebrated constable of France, Mathieu de Montmorenci ; who married, for his first wife, a daughter of Henry I., of England ; and, for his second, the widow of Louis VI., of France. Henri was a young man of high mental quali- ties and attainments, with strong patriotic senti- ments, and noble virtues. At the early age of eighteen, he was appointed admiral of France. He fulfilled the duties of his office honorably ; and, in a time when France was agitated by strong political and religious differences, defend- ed what he conceived to be the just cause, and thought most for the real welfare of his country, with great valor. But, in so doing, he became necessarily in- volved in a rebellion against the proceedings of Cardinal Richelieu, then prime minister of France, and the most influential character in the kingdom ; though a haughty, unprincipled, and intriguing man. Bent on power, Richelieu cared not what or whom he sacrificed to compass his purpose. A civil war was raging ; and Henri, to inspirit his men, threw himself into the ranks against the forces of Richelieu's adherents. He 198 THE GOLDEN VASE. was wounded and taken prisoner ; and through the influence of the cardinal condemned by the parliament of Toulouse, to suffer death on the scaffold. The place of his confinement was a fortress in Leytoure, a city originally built by a Roman colony, on the summit of a mountain, in a southern province of France. Not many years ago, a traveller through that part of the country, arriving at the base of the mountain on whose top Leytoure stands, occu- pying the space of more than half a mile, left his carriage below, and ascended the mountain on foot. In his walks about this little airy city, he met another gentleman, \vho, perceiving him to be a stranger, politely proffered his services as guide and cicerone, to conduct him about the place, and point out such objects as might be of the greatest interest to a stranger. After giving a brief history of the place, and some of its most remarkable events from the time of its first establishment, he led the visiter to the brow of the mountain, where stood the ruins of an ancient castle. " It was in this castle," said he, " that the amiable and brave, but unfortunate Henri, duke de Montmorenci, was confined under sentence of death through the wicked influence of the THE LADDER PIE. 199 Cardinal Richelieu, after the battle of Castel- naudaci, in 1632. " During his imprisonment in this fortress, the ladies of the place, feeling a just abhorrence of the character of his enemy, and deep commiser- ation for the young captive, resolved, if possible, to break a wire in the cage, and let the bird escape. But this benevolent work was one that brought all their ingenuity and wits into lively exercise. " They met in conclave ; and, after due delib- eration, fixed upon a plan which seemed most likely to succeed. Assembled in secret, they united their forces, and busily employed their fingers in braiding a great many yards of strong silken cord. Tliis they knotted into loops, or bars, so as to form a sort of ladder, long enough to reach from the prisoner's window nearly to the ground, and wide enough for a man's foot to insert itself in the loops. " The silk being strong and soft, the ladder was sufficient to support a great weight, while it was capable of being compressed into a small compass. Having completed it, the ladies coiled it up close and neatly, and laid it between two coats of pastry, in a large dish, and had it baked, so as to look like nothing more or less than a generous pie for the dinner-table. They then 200 THE GOLDEN VASE. asked permission of the keeper to send it as a present to the noble prisoner. The request was granted, and the pie received with many thanks, by the young captive, who thought it contained nothing but the wherewith to gratify his taste and appetite. " But, when it was set before him on his table, and he attempted to help himself, by breaking the crust, he was transfixed with astonishment, which was only equalled by the gratitude he felt towards the ingenious and kind projectors of this plan for his deliverance, on seeing, instead of a piece of savory meat, the loop of a long, silken ladder brought up on the point of his fork. A rarity, indeed, he thought it ; and never had his eye beheld a pie with such delight before, or one so much to his taste, as this. He concealed the ruse of his fair friends between himself and his valet, until a proper hour to try its effect. " In the dead of the night, when silence and darkness brooded over the mountain, the ladder was suspended from the window of the prisoner's apartment ; and Montmorenci and his valet pre- pared themselves to escape. . The servant was to descend first, and his master to follow. " But hardly had the former began to descend, when, excited and agitated by the thought of the daring enterprise, he lost his hold, his foot THE LADDER PIE. 20l slipped, and down he fell on the hard pavement, breaking his thigh bone and injuring other parts of his body by the fall. "His cries alarmed the sentinel, who, hasten- ing to the spot, detected the plot, and had the prisoner placed beyond all hope of escape. Soon after this, the unfortunate Henri was con- ducted to Toulouse, where he ended his days by the execution of the sentence of death on the scaffold." Here the stranger finished his melancholy- recital. The traveller turned from the ruined castle with feelings of sadness, as if the events of the tale to which he had been listening had just taken place. And here our short story must also close. This is a sorrowful termination ; yet as it is but true simple history that I am giving, I cannot, according to the manner of writers of fiction, so order its occurrences as to bring about such results in the end, as the kind feelings and wishes of my readers might lead them to desire and anticipate. I fear they will, some of them, be ready to say, that the dish I have set before them for their entertainment, leaves but a bitter taste behind ; that sadness, misery, and disap- pointment, are associated with the remembrance of the Ladder Pie. The truth of the story, at its close, is indeed 13 202 THE GOLDEN VASE. painful ; but the moral to be drawn from it may be useful. Let none flatter themselves too much from a fair prospect, in any undertaking. And let all remember, that by one false step, or care- less hold, we may involve ourselves, or our friends, and perhaps both, in hopeless ruin, if not by the loss of life or a limb, yet by that of peace or innocence, beyond recovery. Young Montmorengi, with all his moral worth and splendid natural endowments, had been nur- tured under a false system of education, which had led him to employ his talents in an unholy cause ; while it deluded him into the sincere belief that in this he was doing God service. He lived in the time of the cruel oppression and persecution exercised against the Huguenots, or Protestants, in Europe. It was his victorious achievements over them and their cause, that deceived him into the belief that he might come off as valiantly in his enterprises to break up the foundations of the artful Richelieu's power, and thus, at last, fatally betrayed him. The expression of sadness, which I fancy I can see in the faces of some of my young friends, after perusing the last page of the story related to the stranger at Leytoure, makes me unwilling to leave them with such a cloud on their bright THE LADDER PIE. 203 faces, without attempting to remove it. I will, therefore, as a sort of offset to the tale of the unfortunate adventurer, tell them a lighter story of an imagined dialogue which took place be- tween myself and a little winged adventurer, a few minutes ago, as I viewed her on a chimney- top close by, from my window, while sitting at my table, over the concluding lines of the " Lad- der Pie," reluctant to let it end so painfully, and with my pen up, alike loth to let it add any thing fictitious, or come down only to set the period. I hope, too, that by giving this as an enlivener, I shall also give what will be found to embody another moral. THE DOVE ON THE CHIMNEY. I saw a while dove on a black chimney-top ; And I said, " Little dove, shouldst thou happen to drop, By carelessly setting thine innocent foot, Down in the dark region of smoke and of soot, In what an unseemly and pitiful plight, Would that snowy bosom return to the light!" " O, fear not for me ! " said the beautiful dove ; " The black, narrow pit I am walking above Shall not have my bosom to ruffle and soil, Nor these silver pinions to prison and foil. For, while round its mouth my small feet pad about, I 've wings, should they shp, and can soon spread them out. 204 THE GOLDEN VASE. '' I sometimes you know, take a walk in the street, To spy out and pick little morsels to eat ; And oft reconnoitre your door-yard with care, While close to the ground comes my breast smooth and fair. When I rise, then, and light by your clear window-pane, Does e'er my white plumage come rough, or with stain ? " " Ah, no ! " I replied, " and thy virtue innate Preserves thee without in so comely a state ; An eye ever watchful, thy thoughts on alert, Thus keep thy pure vesture unsullied, unhurt; As pureness of soul is the amulet sure, Man'^ life as a robe keeping comely and pure." •' It still," said the bright little dove, " would not do For our careless ways to be copied by you. A spot on my plumes, air and rain would efface; A feather deranged, my own beak could replace ; While man, does he get by one slip but a stain, Will find it a mark that must always remain ! " THE DISOBEDIENT SKATERS. Said William to George, " It is new year's day ! And now for the pond, and the merriest play ! So, on with your cap, and away, away, Off for a frolic and slide ! Be quick, be quick, if you would not be chid For doing what father and mother forbid ; And under your coat let the skates be hid ; Then over the ice we '11 glide ! " They 're up — and they 're off. On their run- away feet They fasten the skates, when, away they fleet, Far over the pond, and beyond retreat. Unconscious of danger near. But, lo ! the ice is beginning to bend. It cracks ! it cracks ! and their feet descend ! To whom can they look as a helper — a friend ? Their faces are pale with fear. 206 THE GOLDEN VASE. In their flight to the pond, they had caught the eye Of a neighboring peasant, who, lingering nigh. Aware of their danger and hearing their cry. Now hastens to give them aid. As home they are brought all dripping and cold, To all, who their piteous plight behold, The worst of the story is plainly told — Their parents were disobeyed ! GARAFILIA. Garafilia was a little Greek girl of uncom- mon beauty and loveliness, a native of the island of Ipsara, in the Mediterranean Sea. Ipsara, or Psara, as it is sometimes spelt, is a small heart-shaped island of the Grecian Archi- pelago, about five miles and a half long, as many- broad, and lying seven miles northwest of Scio. The haughty Turks, who had made themselves lords of Greece, ruled with such cruel despotism, that, to escape their tyranny, and the galling yoke of Mohammedan bondage, a company of Greeks, about a hundred years ago, fled to this island, and colonized it. At the time of the late desperate, but success- ful struggle of Greece for freedom from Mussul- man sway, the history of which is, or may easily be, well-known to every American reader, Ipsara had upwards of six thousand inhabitants. The valiant hero, Canaris, so distinguished for patriotism and bravery in the Greek re vol u- 208 THE GOLDEN VASE. tion, and whose story will be found in that of his country, was an Ipsariot. But the melancholy fate of Ipsara and its in- habitants, cannot be told or heard without melt- ing the heart with pity, and chilling the veins with horror. In the year 1824, the Turks, who in their cruel and barbarous fury seemed determined not to leave a Greek alive ; having plunged their bloody yhattagan (sabre) into thousands of vic- tims, invaded and took the island of Ipsara. None of its six thousand inhabitants escaped death by the yhattagan, but a few females, whom the ^Turks secreted, (here and there one,) from each other, to sell or keep them as slaves ; and about six hundred of the people, who with- drew to a mountain-fortress, and fought, till they finally perished beneath its ruins. In sacking the town, one of the Turkish sol- diers, eager for booty, opened an oven, thinking some valuable treasures might be concealed there. But, to his utter astonishment, instead of gold or gems, he beheld the sweet, cherub-face, and softly-beaming eyes of a little girl ! Her hair fell in luxuriant clusters of curls upon her neck and shoulders ; and by this he seized her, and drew her forth from her hiding-place with one hand, while the other grasped the yhattagan, GARAFILIA. 209 which was already raised to bury its point in her heart. As the light shone fitfully on her countenance, and the singular beauty of the whole appearance of a child apparently ten years old, the assassin was awe-struck ; his arm fell powerless by his side before this little spiritual-looking creature, which for a moment seemed to him a vision ; and he dared not accomplish his murderous design. This lovely child was Garafilia, my young heroine. She had seen her father murdered, and her mother seized and carried off to be sold as a slave. All her friends had perished, or been made captives ; and here, where her un- happy mother had left her concealed, or where she had hidden, was she found alone, to meet her fate. Hard-hearted as the Turk was in other respects, he could not nerve himself to slay this beautiful and innocent little being. He resolved to secrete her from his fellow-soldiers, and to carry her to Smyrna, to be his own slave. Her mother had already been borne away on board a vessel, for the purpose of being sold into slavery. Arriving with his captive in his own city of Smyrna, the Turk strolled slowly along the public business street, where the unhappy Ipsa- 210 THE GOLDEN VASE. riot widow was sold and separated forever from her child. The heart of Garafilia was full to despair, and almost to breaking, with her present sorrows and the prospect of her future destiny. The horror of her situation strengthened her for one mighty effort. Attentively eyeing ihe groups of passengers of every description and nation, as they passed by, in this strange and terrible place, she glanced at one individual who fastened her attention. By his benign countenance and manner, she took him to be a Christian ; while the appearance of his dress, led her to believe that he was a man of wealth, and able to purchase her. In an instant she sprang forth towards him, and clasping his knees, fell upon her own, and fastened him to the spot ; while she turned her full hazel eyes beamimg with light, and swim- ming in tears, up to his ; entreating him to buy her for his slave, and save her from the mur- derer of her family. The story of her sorrows was told in few words ; while the abundant clusters of natural curls in which her bright auburn hair fell shining and playing over her smooth white neck and shoulders, her fair com- plexion, sweet expression, and delicate form, made her seem no less vision-like to the young GARAFILIA. 211 stranger, than she had appeared to the Turk, when he drew her from her covert in her deso- lated island-home. Hazel eyes and bright brown hair, and a complexion like hers, being extremely- rare among the Greeks, are considered as much more beautiful as they are uncommon in that country. The first appeal of the little suppliant was enough. The benevolent stranger needed noth- ing farther to fix his resolution to rescue this tender lamb from the paw of the ruthless lion. The ear of an American, if he is worthy of his country, whatsoever land he may be in, is never deaf to the cry of distress when he has the power to relieve it. This stranger, whom Garafilia had fixed her eye upon in the multitude, as the most humane of all in appearance, was a young American gentleman, a native of Boston, then a resident merchant in Smyrna. He knew that to effect the purchase of the child, he must seem indifferent about it before her owner. He engaged in a careless way with the Turk, in conversing on the subject, conceal- ing his feelings of compassion for the little suf- ferer, and sauntering with a heavy step, till he led them to his counting-room. Here he direct- ed his broker to sccin-e the purchase ; and ihe bargain was soon closed. 212 THE GOLDEN VASE. He now resolved to send the child to his friends in Boston ; that she might enjoy the ben- efit which the best schools and other advantages of education in America could afford. An American merchant-ship being at Sniyrna, and a friend of his about to return in her, he gave his little Ipsariot orphan in charge to him, as her kind guardian till he could yield her safe- ly up to his own family in Boston. This office the friend executed with fidelity. He gave up his charge, at the end of the voyage, to the father of her purchaser, and others of the family who received her as one of them. Her beauty won their admiration, and her love- liness drew and twined the affections of their hearts strongly about her. All who knew her, became her friends. She was placed at school, where the uncommon talents which she display- ed, and the rapid advancement she made in all branches of education to which she applied her- self, were almost as surprising as the story of her life was singular. As she increased in stature and years, the graces of her person and the beauties of her mind unfolded together, to the wonder and delight of all who knew her. But the story of Garafilia's eventful life was soon and abruptly brought to an end. Death fol- lows in all countries, and hurling his arrows, never misses his aim. GARAFILIA. 213 In the beginning of the year 1830, Garafilia took a cold, which brought on a rapid consump- tion. Just as she had entered her fifteenth year, this lovely little foreigner from the far off isle of the sea, closed her beautiful eyes forever to the light of time, and was laid at rest in an Ameri- can tomb ; while her pure, sweet spint, as we trust, had entered that blessed mansion where there is no distinction of nation ; but all are of the kingdom of heaven. Garafilia's looks have been alluded to ; but the graces of her form and motions, the sweetness of expression in her features, the soft, melodious tones of her voice, and the beauty of the thoughts she uttered, can never be described. These were but the outward manifestations of the pure spirit within that fair, but frail tenement of clay, as it was, like the young bird of paradise in the shell, pluming its wings for an early, upward flight. When Garafilia arrived in this country, she was dressed in the style of an American child. This was her usual mode of dress. But she occasionally wore the Turkish costume ; some- times ihe Greek. The former consisted of a loose silk tunic, confined at the waist by a girdle ; the sleeves tight down to the elbow, and loose and open below ; pantaloons of silk gathered in 214 THE GOLDEN VASE. bands above the shoe ; aqd on her head, set a lit- tle on one side, a small red cloth cap, richly em- broidered with gold, with a rich tassel of dark blue silk depending from its side. Around this cap she wound a red silk handkerchief, so that it had the appearance of the turban. Her portrait was taken, I think in each cos- tume, the American and the Turkish. After her decease an engraving from one of them was sent to me, with a request that I would write a poem to accompany it. I wrote the following, supposed to be the words of the speaking Picture : GARAFILIA'S PICTURE. To yon, whose tears could freely flow At Garafilia's tale of wo, I come her living looks to show, And to your hearts to speak. When called from earth, she left behind Her semblance, that it might remind Her friends so generous, good and kind, Of the poor orphan Greek. In me behold the eyes that saw The cruel Turk his sabre draw; When wrung with grief, and chilled with awe, Poor Garafiba stood, Where he, with aspect fierce and dread, In pride held high his lurbaned head; And rushed with savage haste to shed Her father's vital blood. GARAFILIA. 215 This ear has heard the dying groan, The widow's shriek — her helpless moan; And cries of orphans left alone, Mid ruthless foes; who came With barbarous looks in hostile bands, With gleaming blades in blood-stained hands, Their parents slew, o'erran the lands And drove them from their home. This youthful cheek has blanched with fear, And, marble-like, scarce felt the tear Roll down it, as the Turk came near To seize his helplcvss prey; And from the widow's aching heart, Her dear and only child to part; Then bore them off to Smyrna's mart, To wait the market-day. This little head has ached, and found No rest but on the chilling ground, While the sad mother, pale and bound, A hapless slave was sold. These lips, with thirst and hunger dried, One parting kiss were then denied, As she forever turned aside, Forced from her child for gold. But when the good American Had bargained with the Mussulman For Garafilia, then began To dawn a brighter day ; He made the purchase but to be Her friend, her guardian, and to see The little sufferer, blest and free, Wipe all her tears away. 216 THE GOLDEN VASE. Protected by a careful hand, He sent her to this happy land, To let her tender mind expand Beneath Cokinibia's sky. Then on her mild and modest foce, The placid smile resumed its place; Her goodness, gentleness, and grace Delighted ev^ery eye. Then did her little guileless tongue. To which the foreign accent clung, With melting sweetness, spoke or sung, The gratitude make known, Wherewith her tender heart o'erflowed Towards Heaven, and to the friends who showed Such kindness; and to whom ^he owed Her path with blessings strewn. But still, of Garafilia's heart The dearest ties were torn apart ; She thought of Smyrna's awful mart. And of her mother's woes, When sold and driven, she knew not where ! She thought of native land and air, Of her dear, dying father's prayer. And of his cruel foes. And, as a flower the storm has torn Up by the root, when plucked, and borne Beneath the shelter, to be worn Upon its owner's breast, 'T was Garafilia's early doom While yet in freshest morning bloom, To wither for an early tomb, Where now she lies at rest. GARAFILIA. 217 " Ashes to ashes ! " hath been said With reverence, o'er the meek one's head, And the last tear has long been shed From Garafilia's eye. For the pure angels came to bear Her spirit t'loni this world of care To bright and blissful regions, where She lives, no more to die. Thus, while her soul in heaven is blest, Her form within the grave at rest, Me h;is she left as her bequest. The dearest she could make, To those whose kindness she had proved, Till from their tender care removed; And snie the picture will be loved For Garafilia's sake. This affecting and true history of Garafilia is written for the little girls of America ; that they may learn to prize the blessings of their native country, and be grateful to the kind Providence who has given them birth and a home in a land free from the evils that filled the first years of the young and innocent Ipsariot. 14 THE CHILD'S HYMN TO SPRING. Thou lovely and glorious spring, Descended to us from the sky, I praise thee for coming to bring Such beautiful things to my eye ! For, bearing thine arms full of flowers To strew o'er the earth hast thou come, Adorning this low world of ours With brightness like that of thy home. And thou hast brought back the gay birds, Their songs full of gladness to sing — To give in their musical words, Their sweet little anthems to spring. The roots hast thou watered and fed ; The leaves hast thou opened anew ; The violet lifts its fair head, And seems as 't were praising thee too. 219 The hills thou hast made to rejoice, And all the young buds to unfold ; The cowslips spring up at thy voice, And dot the green meadows with gold. The brooks, o'er the pebbles that run, Are sounding thy praise as they go ; The grass points its blades to the sun. And thanks thee for making them grow. The rush and the delicate reed Are waving in honor of thee ; The lambkins are learning to feed ; The honey-cups filled for the bee. The butterfly 's out on the wing ; The odors are out on the breeze ; And sweet is the breath of the spring, That comes through the blossoming trees. The forest, the grove, and the vine, In festival vestures are clad, To show that a presence like thine Is making them grateful and glad. The earth and the waters are bright, The heavens are beaming and mild ; And O ! with unmingled delight Thy charms fill the heart of the child ! 220 THE GOLDEN VASE. Sweet spring ! 't was my Maker made thee, And sent thee to brighten my days ! Thine aim is his glory, I see ; I '11 join thee in giving him praise. SABBATH SCHOOL HYMN. Our Father, who art throned above, As heaven's eternal King, So high, thou still from earth dost love The praise a child may sing. Then, bow and lend a listening ear. While we, an infant throng. Unite our feeble voices here To lift the grateful song. We bless thee for thy goodness known ; We bless thee for our trust. That still thou 'It guard us from thy throne, Though we are in the dust. With thanks for all thy kindness, Lord, We give thee highest praise. That we possess thy sacred Word, And holy Sabbath days. 222 THE GOLDEN VASE. A Saviour by that blessed book We find, who loved us so, He laid his glory by, and took An infant's form below. He died but for the sins of those, Who 'd be through him forgiven ; Then on the Sabbath morn he rose To lead our hearts to heaven ! MY LITTLE BOOK'S NEW YEAR'S WISH TO ITS READERS. Our fleeting days so swiftly fly That you, my gentle friends, and I, In this new morning, see appear The firstling of another year. Now, as I know you wish me well. For songs I sing, for tales I tell, I, too, must wish, and do my best That you may through tliis year be blest. I have no sweetmeats, cakes, or toys, As gifts for hopeful girls and boys ; But look in me, and you shall find Both food and playthings for the mind. You know the present hour alone Is all that you can call your own ; That time, forever on the wing. Is changing every earthly thing. 224 THE GOLDEN VASE. And should His hand who lent you breath, Seal up your childish lips in death, I would not think I e'er had given Aught to unfit the soul for heaven. But if your days to age extend. Regard me as your early friend ; And oft in memory may you look, With fondness on your little book. I then may be abused and torn. My words effaced, my covers worn; But, what I've done to mend the heart Preserve, as my immortal part. Resolve, with every rising sun. That something learnt, or something done Before he sets, shall gild your way. Till years are lost in endless day. 612 .^^;^ .^ .^^ '^rr A^^y>, o .0- X • ■ ,'\^ y^ <^- r ^* "^^ v^^- .^■^ ■'Vi- '.% **. *., o" ^ ^% " v-N' ^ %^ ^ ; / "' my-^ s ^ ' / >. %, ^. ^, ^:^ ,^*- .• -x^ .<^' "-^ v^' . ''-i.